We The Animals is a coming-of-age tale with subtle LGBT
overtones. In a time in which it’s fair to say that such subject matter is rife
within cinema, it’s refreshing to see something as original and captivating as
this Jeremiah
Zagar directed piece.
Based upon the Justin Torres novel of the same name, We The Animals focuses
upon the young lives of three fairly unruly brothers of white and Puerto Rican
descent living in upstate New York during the 1980s. Their slightly feral
nature one can probably attribute as much as anything to their parents’ own
loving yet abusive relationship, something which increasingly influences the brothers’
own behaviour.
Pre-pubescent, carefree and bonded by their propensity towards mischief and adventure, a sort of Three Musketeers type of camaraderie exists between the siblings as they run riot around their rural surrounds.
As time progresses, however, the younger more sensitive brother, Jonah, finds himself naturally drawn down a different path to his brothers, and a gradual realisation that he is gay.
We The Animals is beautifully shot and almost dream-like in its execution. Justin Torres frequently and very cleverly brings Jonah’s torch-lit diary entries to life by animating the boy’s crudely scribbled stick figures, each of which expresses Jonah’s inner turmoil at coming to terms with his sexual awakening, and the realisation that he is very different to the other boys…
The full review of We the Animals is not currently available on this site.
“…succeeds in dismantling its own carefully nurtured air of suspense and sense of remote hopelessness thanks to the director’s own rather self-indulgent feminist fantasies.” – Wayward Wolf.
Ridley Scott’s hit and miss interplanetary epic, The Martian, was an object lesson in how to create half a film full of wonderful atmosphere and a haunting sense of isolation, and then systematically ruin it by way of a toe-curlingly naff, badly-scripted complete sell-out of a second half.
Which given the quality of the film’s first half was a huge shame.
Claire Denis’ space oddity, High Life, on the other hand, is an intriguing affair, yet succeeds in dismantling its own carefully nurtured air of suspense and sense of remote hopelessness thanks to the director’s own rather self-indulgent feminist fantasies.
Indeed, feminist ideology courses through the veins of Denis’ film with its prominent themes of female empowerment, control and sexual liberation never better exemplified than with Juliette Binoche’s man-free indulgence in a machine-enabled act of sexual abandon inside an Orgasmatron-esque type cubicle that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Woody Allen’s excellent Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex but Were Afraid to Ask.
But it would be inaccurate to consider Denis’ film as being in any way comedic, fixating as it does upon the more sobering facets of the human experience.
One harrowing scene in which the spacecraft’s resident male sex pest attempts to rape one of the girls on board as she sleeps, restrained in her quarters – a scenario which embellished with a display of overtly physical violence is understandably treated as the sinister act that it undoubtedly is – is played out to an ominous soundtrack and rounded off with a display of brutal and just retribution against the aforementioned offender.
Compare this if you will with Juliette Binoche’s character’s ‘seduction’ of a semi-comatose – also physically restrained – Robert Pattinson as he sleeps, in an attempt to satisfy her obsessional sperm-harvesting habit.
Here, however, absent is any sense of perceived menace. Instead, Binoche’s actions are painted as being some sort of beguiling, mystical and enchanting act, accompanied by an atmospheric almost ethereal soundtrack. An act of pleasure one could only surmise. And let’s be honest, I’m sure it would have been. But at the risk of going all Alan Partridge on you, facts are facts, and sex without consent, as we are so frequently reminded by all and sundry, is rape.
Double standards (unsurprisingly?) at play.
For all of Denis’ film’s blatant ideology, inconsistencies and shameless self-indulgence, whether it be the sometimes kitschy sets, the fun yet almost certainly dubious science, or simply the sheer unlikeliness of the entire scenario at hand, there is still ‘something’ about High Life that nevertheless hits the mark.
Whilst we might choose to characterise High Life loosely as science fiction, more accurately it is a study of human relations and connections and arguably could have been set anywhere in any sort of confined location.
With strong performances across the board and a narrative which more or less engages throughout, High Life is a film that on balance just about wins me over, though I can more than appreciate how this artistic cosmic melodrama has split its cinema-going audiences right down the middle.
“It’s really not over stating things to mention Eighth Grade in the same breath as the likes of John Hughes’ splendid, Pretty In Pink, and other classics of the coming-of-age genre.” – Wayward Wolf.
As young Kayla stumbles her way through an opening video monologue, unable to string more than five words together without resorting to the word ‘like’ – the curse of a generation – my toes curl, my shoulders tense up and I feel the life force draining from my soul.
I offer a world weary sigh…
If ever a film was on the brink of losing my attention in next to no time, this has to be it.
But as we are so often told, patience is indeed a virtue. Sure enough, any annoyances encountered quickly dissipate as this tale of growing-pains and teenage angst quietly finds its stride and begins to work its very subtle magic.
Helped along by Anna Meredith’s wonderfully quirky analogue synth-based punchy soundtrack – invoking a sort of retro bubblegum Nintendo / Sega jolliness of yesteryear – Bo Burnham’s film is a lesson to us all in eking out strands of originality from an apparently old and clichéd theme.
Shunned by most of her class mates. Voted ‘quietest in class’. Embarrassed by the well-intentioned ponderings of her dorky father, it’s fair to suggest that Kayla is not having the best of times in eighth grade.
High School simply can’t come soon enough. Everything will be just fine then. At least that’s what Kayla tells herself.
Whether she’s trying too hard to be liked, or plucking up the courage to attend a popular girl’s pool party, Kayla continually puts herself through the emotional wringer in her attempts to come to terms with her mis-firing teenage existence.
And in turn, we can’t help but feel every bump in the road and metaphorical bruise to her fragile teenage ego as she plods on regardless, such is our engagement with Kayla’s journey.
Yet, despite Kayla’s apparent ‘failings’ in life, she is also a girl possessing wisdom and understanding that bely her tender years.
By way of her own social media video channel, she relays her musings on life and the myriad struggles it presents to us all. Call it her own personal therapy or simply an act of sweet consideration for others, one cannot deny that Kayla has a big heart. She’d just like the chance to share it with others.
Given what I, certainly, perceive to be a wholly soulless landscape of cell phone dependency and mind numbing superficiality through which ‘the youth of today’ – yeah, yeah, shut up Grandad – must make their merry way, it’s testament to Bo Burnham that he brings great heart and most importantly hope to his narrative without us having to reach for the sick bag or indeed the magical toe-uncurling machine.
Elsie Fisher is quite lovely as Kayla, Josh Hamilton is the embodiment of fatherly concern and sincerity as Kayla’s well-meaning Dad, Mark. And a special mention to Jake Ryan for his marvellous cameo as the uber-nerdy, Gabe, whose apparent blissful unawareness of his perceived rank in the social pecking order serves as a lesson to us all, as we bend, flex and swerve our way through life in an attempt to never be the one nail that stands out above the rest.
It’s really not over stating things to mention Eighth Grade in the same breath as the likes of John Hughes’ splendid, Pretty In Pink, and any number of other classics of the coming-of-age genre. Indeed the influences here are plentiful and at times shamelessly obvious.
Regardless, Burnham’s film still succeeds in feeling fresh and innovative, and is, dare I say, something of a modern landmark piece in which a whole new generation of socially-isolated young misfits may emotionally invest as they make their own journeys through life’s perilous teenage years.
“At a time in life in which young minds are readily exposed to and influenced by any number of new and exciting external stimuli, the director’s examination of the effect that this has to a group dynamic is fascinating…” – Wayward Wolf.
If Mid 90s is to be considered nothing more than a nostalgic, rose-tinted coming-of-age tale, then it’s a bloody good one.
The fact that Jonah Hills’ directorial debut in fact offers so much more than this is something of an added bonus, frankly.
From the way in which this thoroughly engaging film plays out, one can only suspect that the life of an adolescent skater is probably something that was and remains close to the director’s heart.
Stevie (a genuinely impressive turn from Sunny Suljic), is an impressionable youngster whose head is turned by a gang of skateboarding kids one day in his local neighbourhood. Despite Stevie’s tender years, the boys in the gang accept him in and quickly take him under their collective wing.
Among new friends, Stevie (or Sunburn as he comes to be known), feels a sense of worth and belonging, something that’s lacking in his own insecure home life. His mother, though well-meaning, seems somewhat distracted from motherhood whereas his brother, Ian (portrayed by the rising talent that is Lucas Hedges), cuts a most bitter and angry character. He thinks nothing of taking his manifold frustrations out, physically, on Stevie, using him as a human punch bag in the process.
It’s no wonder therefore that Stevie prefers to spend increasing amounts of time with his new found band of brothers, far away from his toxic home environment.
And unsurprisingly the same would appear to be true for the other gang members, each of whom have their own often harrowing reasons for turning their backs on the family unit.
Hill’s film, predictable in some ways, focuses chiefly upon Stevie and his transformation from blue-eyed boy next door into an irascible street urchin. Rapid is his descent into increasingly anti-social behaviour as he first dips his toe into and then ultimately fully immerses himself in the candy box of multiple adolescent temptations. From alcohol and drug use to under age sexual dalliances, in but a short time, Stevie serves as a classic example of innocence lost, further increasing the emotional distance and connection between himself and his real family.
At a time in life in which young minds are readily exposed to and influenced by any number of new and exciting external stimuli, the director’s examination of the effect that this has to a group dynamic is fascinating; and an aspect of Hill’s film that is brought to life by some admittedly raw yet thoroughly believable performances from its young cast.
This is a refreshingly honest and vibrant piece given substantial momentum by a rap-heavy soundtrack of the era, interspersed with the effective use of some vintage tracks, from Herbie Hancock to The Mamas & Papas.
On balance Jonah Hill gets everything just about spot-on, incorporating some of his devilishly dark comic sensibilities into this gritty and big-hearted piece in the process.
Mid 90s is a film that paints an honest yet wonderfully nostalgic warts-and-all picture of youthful exuberance and unshakeable camaraderie under the California sun.
“…Mike? Really? Another example of needless gender blurring if ever there was one.” – Wayward Wolf.
As harsh as it may sound, it’s hard to justify the existence of Carol Morley’s Out of Blue.
On the one hand Morley’s vision is to be applauded offering as it does a subtle re-imagining of the whodunnit genre. On the other hand genre conventions would point at the urgent need for a big ole’ shot of adrenaline to make this particularly limp detective drama much less of a drippy, whimsical affair.
As fine an actress as Patricia Clarkson is, her performance here portraying Detective Mike Hoolihan is unconvincing to say the least.
And while we’re on the subject… Mike? Really? Another example of needless gender blurring if ever there was one.
Anyway, ‘Mike’ is called upon to look into the apparent murder of an eminent astrophysicist. But far from bringing a tough uncompromising approach to her investigations, she comes across as scatty, distracted and somewhat intimidated by the task in hand; in fact anything but the long-in-the-tooth, hugely experienced member of the police force that she allegedly is.
Morley’s film seems more concerned with exploring flaky female emotional concerns than creating the sort of tension and convincing narrative that would really drive a cop drama forward, and her film suffers as a consequence.
But this shouldn’t come as much of a shock when we consider the nature of her previous big screen outing, the irritatingly odd, The Falling.
On the positive side of things, there are good turns from both Toby Jones and James Caan, and Clint Mansell’s fine contemporary Noir-esque soundtrack is effective in lifting the film’s flimsy content up a notch or two. But don’t be fooled by any sort of critical acclaim coming from the usual suspects, Out of Blue is a very disappointing piece.
Another thoroughly underwhelming experience from the Carol Morley stable.
“[Winston] Duke’s darkly comical turn, when permitted to do so, adds some much needed levity and respite to this film’s otherwise dogged determination to take itself way too seriously.” – Wayward Wolf.
US, is a tale of them and us. A U.S tale of racial and minority hardships and divisions all dressed up in the guise of a horror flick.
And what a muddled unsatisfying affair it is, to put it mildly.
Developing an understanding of Peele’s narrative and appreciating the motives and influences that led him down such a path would seem to be the primary challenge here. That, however, is easier said than done. Even having had the benefit of a post-screening narrative ‘walk-through’, I’m still left baffled and unsatisfied by the film’s unconvincing conclusions.
Part fiendishly complicated thriller, part multi-influenced horror and part social commentary, Us is a film that comes at us with a multi-pronged assault on our senses. Such an assault, I’d argue however, succeeds only in confusing and bewildering the audience, distracting considerably in the process from what must surely be the film’s primary intention – to shock and scare.
Whilst the world seems intent on over-analysing the minutiae of Peele’s oh-so-clever convoluted plot intentions, one overarching fact remains true: though the initial appearance of the creepy motionless silhouetted figures on Gabe and Adelaide’s drive hinted that it might well be, Us, is in fact simply not very scary at all. And any amount of blurring this issue with unnecessarily complicated plot devices and deeper meanings isn’t going to disguise this fact.
Lupita Nyong’o, Evan Alex and Shahadi Wright Joseph (Adelaide/Red, Jason/Pluto and Zora/Umbrae, respectively), all make a decent enough fist of portraying three of the perpetually fear-faced family, but it’s Winston Duke’s portrayal of Gabe that arguably hints at where Peele’s directorial attentions might have been better placed. Duke’s darkly comical turn, when permitted to do so, adds some much needed levity and respite to this film’s otherwise dogged determination to take itself way too seriously.
Neither particularly scary nor funny, Us ultimately relies on its ‘cleverness’ to blind its viewers as it weaves its way confusingly hither and thither, tying itself up in knots in the process before ultimately vanishing clean up its own over important arse.
Visually impressive at times, and rich in both metaphor and symbolism, there’s no argument that Jordan Peele’s grand vision for Us is an ambitious and intricate one on paper, but the inconvenient truth here is that very little of this translates effectively enough to the big screen.
Considering the wealth of acclaim being bestowed upon Jordan Peele’s new horror, my views are clearly in the minority here. And that’s fair enough. I just pray that US is not set to haunt me and become my new Big Lebowski; a film, no matter how many times I reluctantly put myself through it, never fails to not live up to the hype that surrounds it.
US: A worthy follow up to the excellent Get Out, sadly, this is not.
“Goodwill certainly abounds in this unlikely tale of how a bunch of old Cornish sea dogs somehow became a chart-topping sensation.” – Wayward Wolf.
There’s just no escaping it, this Chris Foggin film comes directly from the straight forward, highly predictable formulaic school of cinema.
Very much a join-the-dots / paint-by-numbers affair, pretty much every plot manoeuvre in this Cornish coastal yarn can be seen coming a mile off. As clearly – if you will – as a sweeping beam of light cast out wide across the Atlantic ocean from the Trevose Head Lighthouse itself.
Or something.
Mercifully, however, Fisherman’s Friends is not a film reliant upon any such trite – and clearly just Googled – nuggets of Cornish nautical trivia. Nor is it reliant – more pertinently – upon the predictability of its somewhat limited narrative, lacking as it is in subtlety and originality. Instead Foggin’s film excels in other ways, chiefly in its ability to craft some very likeable and wholesome characters in whom we can emotionally invest, with stand-out performances coming from the likes of James Purefoy, Dave Johns, David Hayman and Maggie Steed. It’s fair to say that collectively the cast do a grand job of lending the piece some much needed heart and authenticity.
Goodwill certainly abounds in this unlikely tale of how a bunch of old Cornish sea dogs somehow became a chart-topping sensation.
Based upon a true story – extremely loosely, I’d wager – Foggin’s film suggests that a music industry A&R man, Danny (Daniel Mays), is tricked by his fellow stag-do comrades into attempting to sign a rag-tag bunch of local fisherman to their record label, having witnessed them singing old sea shanties for the tourists down in Port Isaac harbour.
With his practical joking mates having subsequently hot-footed it back to London without him, Danny finds himself somewhat duty-bound to pursue this particular mission impossible through to what one presumes will be a fruitless dead end having made heartfelt assurances of record deals and public adoration not only to the fisherman, but to one of their daughters too, Alwyn (Tuppence Middleton), who has understandably quickly stolen Danny’s heart.
Just how will this all pan out, I hear you ask?
Well, just raise your metaphorical sails, sailors, and set a course to ‘exactly how you’d imagine it will’, and there shall ye find the answer.
But do please resist the temptation to race to the end, because in the case of Fisherman’s Friends, the reward really is in the journey, not the destination. Indeed, against all odds, I somehow found myself well and truly wrapped up in the film’s goings on, a state of affairs that I’d have deemed to be wholly impossible during the film’s underwhelming first act.
Mainstream British films so often go out of their way to paint a quaint picture of rural British life, presumably to appeal to the global market. Fisherman’s Friends is no exception mixing as it does small town charm with quirky characterisation.
Admittedly, this is not the pinnacle of British feel-good film making, but that’s certainly no disgrace. Fisherman’s Friends, for all of its short comings, is an enjoyable whole-hearted film jam-packed full of Cornish charm.
“…a film, much like Moonlight, through which there runs a strand of inescapable melancholy.” – Wayward Wolf.
The historical treatment, social standing and welfare of the black population of America is almost certainly a far more complicated issue than the black and white (literally) protestations of overtly-aggressive pressure groups – such as Black Lives Matter – would have you believe.
That is not to say that historic oppression of African Americans has not been a real thing, but to talk of white supremacy and systemic racism is to dramatically over simplify the issue.
Barry Jenkins’ film – based upon the James Baldwin novel of the same name – touches upon such themes through this thoughtful tale of the tender yet strained relationship between two young African Americans, Tish (Kiki Layne) and Alonzo ‘Fonny’ Hunt (Stephan James), from Harlem, faced with the very realistic prospect of being kept apart owing to Hunt’s unjust imprisonment for a crime that he didn’t commit.
Unfortunately for him, he was the convenient scapegoat. In the wrong place at the wrong time. And now, to add insult to injury, with Fonny incarcerated, Tish has fallen pregnant with his child.
It’s a fraught scenario made worse by the spiteful disapproving words and actions of Fonny’s own puritanical mother (portrayed by Aunjanue Ellis), whose disdain for the now pregnant Tish, is made more than evident.
Jenkins’ film is a gritty yet fairly unassuming mood piece capturing well the raw emotions of young love and devotion, yet it is also a film, much like Jenkins’ Oscar-winning Moonlight, through which there runs a strand of inescapable melancholy.
Beautifully shot and nicely acted throughout, If Beale Street Could Talk is strong and clear in its message.
That said, through its highlighting of historical police racism and institutional oppression, it’s also a very timely piece that sadly, as much as anything, will probably serve predominantly as a means to add fuel to the considerable fire that powers the present day narrative of ‘race-related hysteria’. A narrative that rather confusingly seems to dominate these times in which we live despite the undeniable massively positive changes that have since occurred in such areas.
Perhaps it’s better then to judge Jenkins’ film simply as a stand-alone snap-shot in time. A study of love in a time of racial tensions in 1970’s America. And in that regard it’s undoubtedly a fine piece of work.
“To someone for whom wrestling has always been more about watching old ladies scream at obese British men in sparkling leotards, WWE seems like an altogether different world…” – Wayward Wolf.
It certainly helped me make up my mind as to whether to engage with Stephen Merchant’s directorial debut, Fighting With My Family, when the aforementioned lovable beanpole popped-up in person during the film’s trailer.
And good job too.
Truth be told, the story of a young girl pursuing her lifelong dream of being a WWE wrestling star holds little or no appeal and under normal circumstances would almost certainly have seen me perform some kind of choice avoidance manoeuvre, giving any such star-spangled nonsense the widest of all possible berths.
But we live and learn, folks.
Merchant’s brief cameo may well be light-hearted, inconsequential – if enjoyable – fluff within the film’s wider context; the film, however, is anything but.
Based upon an unlikely yet true story, Fighting With My Family tells the tale of Saraya Knight, a young girl from Norwich, whose sheer determination and ability are rewarded with an opportunity to gate crash the world of WWE.
Florence Pugh – probably best known for her impressive turn in the excellent Lady MacBeth – adds to her increasingly impressive CV with a likeable if low-key portrayal of our East Anglian wrestling wannabe. Additionally, there’s a fun cameo from Dwayne ‘ The Rock’ Johnson portraying, Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson – although it should be noted that he was not Merchant’s first choice for the role….
Nick Frost on the other hand seems likely to have been an absolute shoe-in to portray Saraya’s larger than life father, Ricky, a performance that contributes substantially to the film’s overall success.
A special mention also to the rag-tag ensemble support cast comprised of any number of enthusiastic and well-meaning (if a little limited) ‘bit-parters’ and extras, all of whom add considerably, as a collective, to the film’s considerable and relentless charm offensive.
Merchant’s screenplay is both sharp and witty, successfully blending humour with large doses of warmth and emotion. Most importantly though, it manages to navigate clear of the sort of schmaltzy honey-trap that so often befalls films of the mainstream feel-good genre.
To someone for whom wrestling has always been more about watching old ladies scream at obese British men in sparkling leotards, WWE seems like an altogether different world, and one in which I hold little or no interest. And no matter the quality of Merchant’s hugely enjoyable film, that’s a fact that’s unlikely to change any time soon.
But hats off to the small screen’s most incompetent talent agent, Fighting With My Family, is not only a triumph in its own right, it’s also the first ever wrestling-themed film that’s had me come close to jumping off the nearest banisters and performing some form of impromptu double-nelson on landing.
“Mahershala Ali puts in arguably a career best performance…” – Wayward Wolf.
Hollywood’s fixation on historic racial divisions as being some kind of red flag and pointer towards the present day and so-called ‘systemic racism’, is somewhat troubling, to put it mildly.
All too frequently this line of thinking does nothing but exacerbate situations which have already, by and large, been successfully addressed and dealt with.
Fortunately, as text book as Peter Farrelly’s film Green Book is in this regard, it is also such a wonderfully realised piece, that we do not, having watched it, find ourselves then raking through the embers of historical racial prejudices, hoping to find obvious parallels with modern society. Instead, we can lament the past, but ponder on the admirably huge steps that mankind has undoubtedly taken with regard to such issues over the last half century or so.
Farrelly’s Green Book playfully mixes stereotypes with unlikely role reversals in a film based loosely upon the true story of the friendship between Bronx-based no nonsense, white, Italian hustler, Tony ‘lip’ Vallelonga, and his black employer, the eloquent, refined brilliant pianist Dr. Don Shirley.
Hired both as a driver and ‘muscle’, Tony is tasked with facilitating Shirley’s U.S performing tour. More pertinently, he is tasked with negotiating the considerable and inevitable issues that would accompany a notable black American’s visit to the deep south in mid-century America.
Viggo Mortensen is absolutely terrific as one half of our mismatched odd couple, portraying Tony, the portly Italian chancer with the insatiable appetite and questionable creative writing skills, whilst Mahershala Ali puts in arguably a career best performance as the uptight, well-to-do, Shirley.
Very much the yin to Tony’s yang.
As much as Green Book is a serious tale of differences and intolerance, it is equally a tale of togetherness and friendship that is ultimately most indebted to the sort of feel-good film making of the 1980’s; never better exemplified than in John Hughes’ timeless classic, Planes, Trains & Automobiles.
“ Perhaps more than anything though, The Mule successfully shines a much needed spotlight on traditional, fast-vanishing values…” – Wayward Wolf.
The hyper-sensitive mainstream arts media appears to have collectively ‘seen its arse’ over Clint Eastwood’s latest film, The Mule.
Such a litany of what one suspects is probably largely ideologically-orientated disapproval from such quarters is usually good enough reason to go out of one’s way to see any film, I find.
Of course if passing shots of the ‘butts’ of scantily-clad beautiful Latina women at Cartel pool parties offends you greatly, and the unwitting ‘casual racism’ from the mouth of the film’s chief protagonist is enough to have you spit your dummies out and run for the hills, then so be it.
But to be swayed by the wholly-undeserving negative sentiment that seems to have been unfairly heaped upon this piece by the oh-so-wise critical sages and upholders of artistic morality would be to miss out on what is an entertaining and refreshingly no-punches-pulled piece of film–making.
That’s not to say that The Mule is in any way perfect. Indeed, its imperfections are there for all to see, but one senses that the particularly harsh appraisal dished out by many a film critic stems less from problematic narratives or the film’s occasional tonal confusion, and more from the fact that this is yet another Eastwood offering that won’t cowtow to Hollywood’s ongoing false utopian vision of reality, and point-blank refuses to feed itself through the filters of modern day feminism and political correctness.
And what a rare and welcome thing that is.
Eastwood’s film is loosely based upon the true tale of an award-winning day-lily horticulturist named Earl, whose livelihood has been stripped away essentially by a refusal or more likely inability to get with the times.
“That damned internet. It ruins everything,” he quips.
Certainly it’s ruined Earl. With the bank having foreclosed on his property and now facing the very real prospect of living his twilight years both broke and homeless, the party’s well and truly over, and it’s only through a chance encounter with a young Mexican lad that a door to monetary salvation is unexpectedly opened.
Earl’s unwitting (at least initially) participation as a drugs mule fora Mexican cartel may well be a profitable venture, but at what long-term cost?
The elements of Earl’s personality and lifestyle that are initially deemed to be something of a risk in this line of work, it soon becomes clear are in fact his, and by association, the cartel’s greatest assets too, and key to his burgeoning success and growing profile within the business.
An old-timer who’s never picked up so much as a parking ticket in his whole life, dancing to his own tune and quietly going about his business, is deemed highly unlikely to attract the attention of the authorities, and so it proves to be. But such a low risk status inevitably begins to encourage greater greed, on all sides, and thus begins a gradual undermining of any previous need for stealth and caution.
Eastwood’s portrayal of this perhaps selectively naïve pensioner is highly entertaining and well realised on the whole. He paints a portrait of a man who has always put work before family. A man who struggles, like many, to adapt to the ever changing times in which we live, frequently falling foul of what is deemed acceptable and what is not.
Be he inadvertently insulting ethnic minorities or mistaking women for men, one senses however that there is little or no malice in Earl’s comments and actions. These are after all just the befuddled musings of an old man whose best years are now long behind him. Years that were lived – and lived well – in another age and time altogether.
But far from telling some sort of one-sided tale of racial prejudices in America’s deep South, Eastwood’s film instead demonstrates a refreshing level of balance. For every Mexican ‘beaner’ reference there is a ‘gringo’. And if there is racial stereotyping in the depiction of ruthless Mexican cartel members, this is equally true in the depiction of a racially intolerant white State Trooper, for example.
And then there is Earl, whose independent streak, unflappable nature and joy of life no matter the colour, happily straddles the spaces in between.
In slight criticism, Eastwood’s film could probably have benefited from greater analysis of Earl’s strained relationship with his family and ex-wife (Dianne Wiest), and perhaps as a whole, it’s a little lacking in punch when it comes to delivering some of its darker content. But these are relatively minor issues and don’t distract from the film’s core message.
Perhaps more than anything though, The Mule successfully shines a much needed spotlight on traditional, fast-vanishing values:
To have the freedom to criticise and offend and in turn to be able to accept criticism and offence ourselves. To appreciate the importance of community. The importance of facing up to our responsibilities in life. To have the good grace to admit when we’re wrong and to accept the consequences of our actions, not to seek scapegoats and to blame others. And most crucially of all, the importance of family above everything else.
A good, solid moral code by which to live any life.
A moral code bafflingly increasingly at odds with the expectations of modern society.
“…it’s a film whose narrative is nothing that we haven’t experienced before…” – Wayward Wolf.
If there’s one overriding criticism to be made of Felix van Groeningen’s drama, Beautiful Boy, it’s that it fails to offer anything new to an already well stocked genre.
That’s not to say that it’s in any way a bad film. On the contrary, Van Groeningen’s film provides a perfectly decent analysis of a boy succumbing to the vice like grip of addiction.
The film is helped along by a good turn from Steve Carell (David Sheff) – who is rapidly becoming the new Tom Hanks in terms of his convincing metamorphosis from comedian to straight actor – and in particular a terrific lead performance from the ever impressive Timothée Chalamet (Nic Sheff).
But in truth, it’s a film whose narrative is nothing that we haven’t experienced before, and probably unfairly therefore, it makes the film’s hard-hitting subject matter seem just a little too familiar, thereby lacking the sort of impact required to truly engage an audience.
Where Van Groeningen’s film undoubtedly excels, however, is not necessarily in its graphic painting of a picture of dysfunctional misery, but in contrasting this bleakness with the simple purity of a clean and sober Nic interacting innocently and meaningfully with his two younger half-siblings, both of whom he dotes upon when he is in his right mind.
Played out to a soundtrack of Bowie, Massive Attack and Sigur Rós, amongst others, certainly sonically-speaking Beautiful Boy should be a film that will endure, and considering just how rife serious drug abuse apparently is these days within the major cities on America’s West Coast, there’s certainly an argument that this is very much a film of our times (albeit one based primarily upon events of some years back).
Beautiful Boy is a solid piece, without doubt, yet one lacking in the sort of true originality that could really have made it stand out.
“…I dare say that the film’s rabidly anti-Republican sentiment will effortlessly endear it to a core fan base.” – Wayward Wolf.
Whilst this film shares many similarities – stylistically-speaking at least – with his previous offering, the hard-hitting but hugely entertaining The Big Short, Adam McKay’s latest, Vice, on the other hand, feels like an altogether more spiteful hatchet job.
Granted the subject matter and the chief protagonists therein do indeed lend themselves to some well warranted scrutiny, but the lofty perch of moral self-righteousness from which McKay has chosen to approach this particular project ultimately does the film few favours as an overall spectacle.
That said, the performances are excellent. Christian Bale in particular is superb as the quietly devastating Dick Cheney, whilst Amy McAdam provides a great turn of both sensitivity and authority as Dick’s no-nonsense wife and all-round rock, Lynne, and Steve Carell is good fun in his portrayal of the ever-shady Donald Rumsfeld.
The ingredients are certainly all there, and I dare say that the film’s rabidly anti-Republican sentiment will effortlessly endear it to a core fan base. Fair enough. It’s important to know your audience. But Vice is a disappointingly self-congratulatory black and white affair. Good versus evil. And drastically lacking in any semblance of subtlety or balance, a point ultimately hammered home – in case anyone was left in any doubt whatsoever by this point – when McKay officially nails his colours to the mast with an unsubtle stereotype-heavy dig in a final skit buried deep within the closing credits.
“ Baird’s film charms from start to finish.” – Wayward Wolf.
The very fact that Stan continued to write comedy material for Laurel & Hardy for many years following the death of his comedy partner, Oliver, speaks volumes about what Laurel & Hardy truly meant to him.
A labour of love.
The fact that this material was actually never used and that Stan refused to even entertain the notion of allowing Ollie’s shoes to be filled by anyone else also speaks volumes for the regard in which he held his now departed friend and comedy partner, even if this perhaps might not have always been apparent at times during their working life together.
Stan’s prolific work ethic and inability – or was it unwillingness? – to ever switch off and ‘drop the act’, also shows just how much he lived and breathed his particular vocation and indeed who the true driving force was in this much loved comedy duo.
From the evidence of Jon S. Baird’s poignant biopic, Stan & Ollie, it would seem that Ollie was in fact just happy enough to be along for the ride, though his integral part in helping to bring Stan’s wonderful comic visions to life should never be underestimated.
Baird’s film focuses upon late era Laurel & Hardy at a time in which they were seeking to revive their professional fortunes with a view to securing a lucrative film deal. As with so many of yesterday’s acts, the pair are forced to face the reality that life has moved on without them and that the public’s appetite for all things Laurel & Hardy has waned somewhat over the years, as evidenced by poor ticket sales and half empty second rate theatres booked for their come-back tour of the United Kingdom.
Of course, having a disinterested second-rate theatrical promoter more interested in exulting the wonders of his new comedy A-lister, Norman Wisdom, than putting any effort into promoting Laurel & Hardy, does little to help the matter.
Regardless, Stan and Ollie pursue a rigorous self-promotion campaign the length and breadth of the UK which, while not exactly swelling the coffers, does at least serve to remind the British Public just how much they did and still do adore the pair and their comedic brilliance. Once again they find a way into the public’s hearts. But an undercurrent of simmering resentment together with Ollie’s health problems will prove to be just as problematic for Hollywood’s favourite sons.
Stan & Ollie strikes the perfect balance between sentimentality and humour due in no small part to two nicely understated and respectful performances from John C. Reilly (Hardy) and Steve Coogan (Laurel).
Indeed, showcasing both his considerable talent as an impressionist and a natural penchant for executing highly visual humour – plus I’d wager a deep-rooted admiration for Stan Laurel to boot – it’s as though Coogan was born to play this role.
Far from making up the numbers, the supporting cast are equally important to the integrity and flow of Baird’s film. Rufus Jones is wonderfully smarmy and disingenuous as Stan & Ollie’s promoter, Bernard, a man almost politician-like in his ability to deflect away from any line in awkward questioning. Shirley Henderson and Nina Arianda are equally excellent in their portrayal of the self-assured Lucille and Ida, respectively. As is mentioned in the film, they are not only the boys’ wives but owing to their frequent passive-aggressive bickering, they are something of an intriguing double-act in themselves. Anyone that’s familiar with Laurel and Hardy’s back catalogue of work will be all too familiar with the kind of dominating matriarchal nature of their many on-screen wives. And if Baird’s characterisation is to be believed, there’s definitely something of a case for real life imitating art here.
With Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and Commencement to Dancing providing a warm and nostalgic soundtrack, and with delightful dance routines and timeless comedy skits providing ample laughs, Baird’s film charms from start to finish.
“It’s all stuff and nonsense really, isn’t it?” quips an old-timer following one of Laurel and Hardy’s sold-out London performances. Indeed it is, Sir, and in the most marvellous way.
To this day, it remains indisputable. No-one has ever done it better.
Stan & Ollie – a wonderfully heart-felt ode to the greatest comedy double act the world has ever seen.
“…Lanthimos’ brilliant yet unashamedly vulgar film well and truly puts the period in period drama.“
Yorgos Lanthimos’ last two big screen outings, The Lobster and The Killing of a Secret Deer, were both peculiar and sinister in their own way, yet both pieces, as entertaining and engaging as they were, felt a little overly self-indulgent and peculiar for peculiar’s sake at times.
With The Favourite, on the other hand, the Director seems to have successfully harnessed his trademark quirky approach much more effectively here, anchoring it within a recognised historical context and an altogether more conventional film narrative.
Queen Anne is an emotionally fragile and rather unhinged woman. Maddened by much historic personal sorrow and ongoing health issues in her life, she cuts a frequently tragic figure.
Despite being a woman of considerable power and influence, Queen Anne’s personal issues and deep insecurities offer up the perfect scenario for any wannabe confidence trickster to take advantage of a woman whose deep-rooted jealousy and need for reassurance frequently results in irrational shrieking fits directed at whomever may be closest to her at any given time.
Her closest friend and personal ally, Lady Sarah, advises her and guides her through both her personal challenges and any important matters of the state. Though a little dysfunctional at times, it’s a convenient and largely symbiotic relationship and one which most importantly maintains a level of decorum around the palace.
The arrival of a young servant girl of some ambition, however, will gradually come to undermine Lady Sarah’s position in what quickly descends into a wicked game of one up-man-ship between the conniving pair.
Lanthimos’ film is as shocking, darkly humorous and at times unnerving as you might expect. Emma Stone is excellent as the treacherous young upstart, Abigail, whilst Rachel Weisz is as good as I’ve seen her in many years as the Queen’s chief advisor and confidant, Lady Sarah, bringing back fond memories of Rowan Atkinson’s Black Adder III character, and the largely self-serving ‘relationship’ that he would always ensure existed between himself and the congenital buffoon, The Prince Regent.
The main plaudits, however, are being heaped upon Olivia Colman, and rightly so. Her performance as Queen Anne is deliciously deranged yet achingly melancholic. Surrounded by 17 house rabbits – one to compensate for each of the children that she has tragically lost during her doleful life – her emotional and mental decline is superbly captured by Colman, further cementing her growing status as one of the finest and most versatile British actresses of this generation.
Lanthimos predictably lays his trademark oddity on thick. Unflattering low slung camera angles unashamedly look – metaphorically-speaking – up the skirts and noses of the film’s chief protagonists. This, together with frequent unsettling 180 degree rapid camera pans and the use of barrel-edged fish eye lenses all goes together to create a highly unconventional view of life in the court of the country’s head Monarch. Indeed, Lanthimos’ vision brilliantly depicts a sort of crazed and hedonistic existence that one might not normally associate with the higher echelons of the aristocracy.
Never a Director to shy away from the grotesque, the vomit excrement and blood unsurprisingly flows freely. Pride and Prejudice this is not.
Lanthimos’ brilliant yet unashamedly vulgar film well and truly puts the period in period drama.
Welcome once again to the Wayward Wolf Annual Film Awards 2018 – (WWAFA’s).
And during a year in which ‘Hollywood’ has seen fit to ramp up its obsession with identity politics and all things diversity to absolutely off-the-chart levels, it’s been difficult not to lose the will at times with the whole cinema-going experience.
Of course not every film-maker is afflicted with this compulsion to pass off ultra utopian views of society as some sort of factual reality, but a year’s total of just 56 cinema visits made by yours truly during 2018 (down a hefty 20 or so on 2017’s total), is certainly representative of my own particular malaise.
A fair few of 2018’s highlights have therefore almost certainly been missed as a result. That’s a shame, but… c’est la vie.
The year has of course not been without some fine films though, and in a rather curtailed set of virtual ‘ceremonies’, here then are this year’s hits and misses as per my own humble opinion.
2018’s WWAFA FOR WORST FILM:
One or two below average films this year – the mis-firing Entebbe and mind-numbingly formulaicJurassic World: Fallen Kingdom spring to mind, for example – but nothing that compared to the appalling The First Purge. This thinly-veiled political propaganda piece was utterly dismal in too many ways to mention and is the clear winner of this year’s WWAFA for WORST FILM.
2018’s WWAFA FOR BEST FILM:
As ever, whittling down the year’s films into some form of a top ten was a tricky business. But after much deliberation here they are in reverse order of preference. My top ten films of 2018:
Martin McDonagh’s tremendously affecting dark comedy / drama was of such high quality that it successfully saw off all-comers to snatch the 2018 Best Film WWAFA, and deservedly so.
“…it’s arguable whether Runge’s film has any real intention of actually bringing about the restoration of equality between the sexes.” – Wayward Wolf.
Glenn Close has been rightly lauded for her portrayal of Joan Castleman – wife of soon-to-be Nobel Literature Prize-winner, Joe – in Björn Runge’s emotionally-charged piece, The Wife.
Runge’s film adds to the increasingly prevalent occurrence of Hollywood mainstream releases focusing upon downtrodden women in society and their ongoing fight for equal rights.
Indeed the gender inequality card has been played that many times in the world of film over the last decade or so that one might argue – with significant justification – that it’s become somewhat tiresome in its application, and that its impact has been considerably lessened as a result.
With that in mind, it’s only fair to note that Runge’s film, whilst staunchly feminist in its stance, succeeds in making such a theme feel fresh and invigorating once again thanks to both a sophisticated narrative and a plot twist which, whilst not entirely unforseen, is clever in its inception and very effectively handled by the director.
Never has the old adage of there being a great woman behind every great man been more appropriate. In fact, in this particular instance such a sentiment probably doesn’t even go far enough given the film’s ultimate revelation.
Terrific performances from Close, and Jonathan Pryce as Joe, should not completely overshadow a strong performance from Max Irons as Joe and Joan’ son and aspiring author, David, and Christian Slater’s terrifically weasely portrayal of journalist, Nathaniel Bone.
Whilst being a powerful and well executed piece, it’s arguable whether Runge’s film has any real intention of actually bringing about the restoration of equality between the sexes. There’s possibly greater truth in the notion that The Wife serves more as a thinly-veiled slightly vindictive revenge piece.
“As emotionally-draining and powerful a documentary as you’re ever likely to see.” – Wayward Wolf.
A scene midway through Jimmy Chin and Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi’s extraordinary documentary, Free Solo, might go some way towards explaining the apparent fearlessness of free climbing sensation, Alex Honnold.
An MRI scan reveals a remarkably low response level in Honnold’s brain to the sort of stimuli that would produce typically large response levels in you or I. Pseudoscience or not, the logical summary from such findings can only be that Alex Honnold is a man that does not spook easily.
That said, perhaps informing him that his climbing days are over and that he will be confined to a nine-to-five desk job for the rest of his days might well see his brain response levels fly off the charts!
Who knows?
The contrast between Honnold the rock-climbing van-dwelling free spirit and the Honnold whose life his lovely (and very understanding) girlfriend, Sanni McCandless, tries valiantly to harness with at least some attempt at domesticity, is marked.
And perhaps that’s the point here. The remarkable feats that this thirty-three year old gravity-defying sensation continues to achieve are certainly not borne out of any sort of conventional approach to life. The life of a rock climber or mountaineer is after all inherently selfish in nature and completely at odds with the very notion of convention.
Chin and Vasarhelyi’s fascinating film examines the relationship not only between Alex and Sanni, but just as importantly, between Alex and his camera crew, each of whom are pushed to their very emotional limits in monitoring and recording his every move, always aware that his next may very conceivably be his last.
Watching Honnold’s death-defying attempt to scale El Capitan in Yosemite – without recourse to ropes – is an excruciatingly tense and sweaty-palmed experience; such is the emotion that we can’t help but invest in this wiry, slightly odd, rather aloof yet likeable human Spiderman.
Free Solo is a stunningly shot, triumphant cinematic experience. As emotionally-draining and powerful a documentary as you’re ever likely to see.
“A sweet, charming film set in simpler, less cynical times. And with a twinkle in his eye, a fitting way to bow out for one of Hollywood’s true greats..” – Wayward Wolf.
When it’s finally time to bring down the curtain on an illustrious career, it’s probably a good idea to bow out as you’d like to be remembered. And that’s exactly what the effortlessly charming Robert Redford has managed here in David Lowery’s regaling of the true story of serial bank robber, Forrest Tucker.
In today’s society it’s nigh on impossible to even entertain the notion of such a tale. With the inescapable attentions of Big Brother’s surveillance society upon us these days wherever we may roam, the very thought of robbing umpteen banks across America armed only with a gun (for show), a smile, a fake moustache and a serious charm offensive is absolutely preposterous. But back in circa 1980, that’s exactly what Tucker and his elderly accomplices did, bamboozling bank managers and tellers alike with their good natured approach, leaving but the merest ripple of discontent in their wake.
Quite a feat.
Robert Redford is calmness and charisma personified as Forrest Tucker. Sissy Spacek is the object of Tucker’s attentions – a lady as intrigued as she is smitten by the man’s beguiling nature – whilst Casey Affleck – once again teaming up with Lowery following their fine collaboration in 2017’s A Ghost Story – shines here with an understated performance portraying police detective John Hunt, the man tasked with pursuing the evasive Tucker.
Lowery’s film is a wonderfully soulful tale of a larger-than-life character; a man whose vocation of choice completely defines him as a person. A sweet, charming film set in simpler, less cynical times. And with a twinkle in his eye, a fitting way to bow out for one of Hollywood’s true greats.
“Philadelphia’s favourite fictional son lends this film a much needed dose of earthy authenticity…” – Wayward Wolf.
If one considers Creed II to be simply the follow-up to Creed, then it can certainly be considered a reasonable enough sequel, and on balance probably the better of the two movies. If one however considers Steven Caple Jr’s film to be the latest in a long conveyor belt of Rocky-related boxing flicks, then it really is nothing more than just another mid-ranking Rocky movie, borrowing heavily from past glories as it goes.
Don’t get me wrong, Creed II is an enjoyable enough, if highly predictable Hollywood blockbuster, with solid enough performances from Michael B. Jordan and Tessa Thompson in the film’s leading roles. But this film would almost certainly be floundering in nowhere land without the services of Sylvester Stallone.
Philadelphia’s favourite fictional son lends the film a much needed dose of earthy authenticity and reminds us in the process, albeit briefly, exactly why this popular boxing franchise ever earned the legs that it did to ‘go the distance’ that it ultimately has.
So, where next for all things ‘Creed’?
Short of killing Stallone’s character off once and for all – and the whole thing almost certainly imploding in the process – it’s difficult to know what more there is for the franchise to say or prove to anyone at this late stage in the game.
But as ever, I’d imagine all such musings will be left to Hollywood’s money men.
“Bryan Singer’s emotionally-charged biopic of the late great Freddie Mercury is big bold and bombastic, and whilst being a little clumsy on occasion in its realisation, nevertheless delivers in some style. Rami Malek’s performance is right on the money to such an extent that he even successfully manages to blur the line between film and reality. One of the truly outstanding cinema-going experiences of 2018, and a must see.”
Regrettably, owing to other commitments, the time has come to scale this whole film reviewing business down in size – stripping it all right down to the bare bones.
Whilst I may occasionally be able to indulge in a full-length review or two in the future – should time and circumstance allow – as a rule of thumb things are going to have to be short and sweet around these here parts from here on in.
“…absolutely everyone has a breaking point, and people can only be pushed so far….” – Wayward Wolf.
Set within the desolate derelict concrete remains of what one assumes might once have been a thriving Italian coastal resort, Dogman is essentially a moral fable and a harsh lesson to us all.
Marcello is a slight, well-meaning and popular man who has, over the years, painstakingly built for himself a relatively successful no-frills pooch-pampering business.
His love for all things canine is evident for all to see. Each and every dog that is brought to Marcello for one of his mutt-makeovers is treated with special care and attention, bordering on devotion.
Indeed, the film opens to the incensed, almost rabid slavering protestations of one of Marcello’s ‘clients’ – a massive feral white dog that would happily rip your head off and play with it, for a laugh. Though this beast is securely chained to a large tin bath tub, one still can’t help but worry for Marcello’s safety as he whispers sweet nothings to this monster whilst simultaneously administering a scrub-down with a broom.
Marcello’s good nature and eagerness to please, however, is also very much his achilles heel and will, in time, prove to be his undoing.
Though respected within the local community, Marcello’s dalliances – all be they reluctant – with a local hoodlum, Simone, will not only end up getting him into trouble, but will completely alienate him from his close friends and acquaintances.
In fairness, such is Simone’s uncompromisingly violent nature, it is more than understandable how Marcello, a spindly slight-framed dog-devotee, so frequently finds himself too frightened to ‘just say no.’
Matteo Garrone’s film is an at times explosive tale of bullies and victims, dominance and subjugation, the rather hollow ‘honour’ of not being considered a nark, and above all, the true importance of standing up for oneself, no matter the potential gravity of the consequences.
It’s also a lesson in the fact that absolutely everyone has a breaking point, and people can only be pushed so far.
Perhaps the most striking aspect of Dogman is the marked contrast between the nature of the film’s leading characters. A more chalk and cheese ill-matched pair one couldn’t hope to find; thrown together through nothing more than fear and manipulation.
Marcello Fonte is hugely likeable as Marcello. Edoardo Pesce on the other hand is genuinely terrifying as Marcello’s coke-snorting psycopathic nemesis. Indeed, he casts such an aura of unshakeable menace here – bringing to mind Ben Kingsley’s brilliantly deranged character, Don Logan, in Jonathan Glazer’s powerful millenial movie, Sexy Beast – that it’s literally impossible to feel anything but huge sympathy for Marcello’s increasingly unfortunate predicament as the film unfolds.
Dogman is a gritty, impressive and well realised piece with a clever – though not entirely surprising – element of symmetry to its brutal conclusion. That said, the film’s final act, whilst undoubtedly a powerful one, also has an air of the inconclusive about it.
And whether this is to be considered thought-provoking or merely frustrating, will as ever be very much down to personal taste.
“…Chazelle’s footage of these brave pioneers hurtling into space in what amounted back then to glorified reinforced tin cans, is an extraordinarily tense experience.” – Wayward Wolf.
It seems that director Damien Chazelle has prioritised realism over glossy sentiment in First Man, his ambitious take on the latter stages of the Great Space Race; more particularly, the story of Neil Armstrong, the first man to step foot on the moon.
The film observes Armstrong and his family in the years preceding this monumental event; a time in which Neil’s single-minded dedication to the cause and an ability to remain focused in the face of innumerable setbacks and personal tragedies, saw him ultimately Captain Nasa’s historic space mission, himself.
Whilst First Man will doubtless appeal to the technologically minded engineers and rocket scientists amongst us, it is a film equally concerned with people; with life and relationships, family and friends.
Claire Foy is cast as Armstrong’s wife, Janet. She portrays a ‘typical mid-century American woman’. A home-maker. Bar the support and friendship of her fellow housewives, Janet frequently finds herself alone, yet she expertly keeps the home fires burning, performing the essential ‘life’ and family functions in her husband’s frequent absences.
But even when he is around, there is a level of detachment about Armstrong’s attitude to family life. Chazelle’s film seems to pin his rather aloof nature upon the family’s loss of their young daughter to illness at a very early age. This is something that Neil seems never to have fully recovered from and has rendered him unable (or unwilling?) to display the same levels of affection and devotion to his two remaining sons.
Ryan Gosling’s performance is the kind of brooding portrayal that we have come to expect from the two-time Oscar-nominated Hollywood heart-throb although this is not the sort of performance of repressed potentially explosive anger that we have witnessed in Nicholas Winding Refn movies, for example – think Drive or Only God Forgives – but of a calm, emotionally disengaged man, for whom the ability to express genuine emotion is in fact something akin to rocket science.
Whilst the family friction and tension is an engaging enough side story in itself, it largely plays second fiddle here to Chazelle’s brilliantly realised scenes of space exploration. From the gruelling astronaut preparation right through to the realisation of national and personal dreams, Chazelle’s footage of these brave pioneers hurtling into space in what amounted back then to glorified reinforced tin cans, is an extraordinarily tense experience. No brightly coloured tight nylon-clad space explorers being warp-sped into far off galaxies here, just a noisy, tooth-rattlingly disorientating, and overwhelmingly claustrophobic experience for all concerned.
It’s truly mesmerising and quite frankly terrifying stuff.
Although IMAX 70mm film is used for the moon landing footage itself – to gain maximum cinematic effect – the bulk of the film is shot on a combination of 16mm and 35mm film. Such a tactic sees Chazelle’s film adopt a sort of soft grainy finish which seems in keeping with its 1960’s feel and setting. That said, the direction is evidently very current with frequent use of jerky handheld camera techniques even during relatively calm scenes concerning simple domestic matters. Whilst in isolation this could be deemed a little unnecessary, within the context of the film as a whole, it is not nearly as jarring as it might have been.
The excellent Justin Hurwitz – he that would appear to be fast becoming what John Williams is/was to Steven Spielberg – once again teams up with Damien Chazelle to provide a subtly understated yet very beautiful theremin and harp-led score, lending the film an at times magical, timeless feel.
And talking of Spielberg, it would be interesting to know exactly what the full extent of his responsibilities were in his role as Executive Producer on this project. It’s undeniable that there’s definitely something of a Spielbergian ‘feel’ to this piece, if such a thing exists?
Considering the nature of Chazelle’s projects prior to this – the blistering Whiplash and the ever-so-enchanting La La Land – a certain degree of criticism from some quarters has been levelled at the director for both his choice of topic and his rather more ‘considered’ approach to film making this time around.
Far from being a regressive move though for this still remarkably young and prodigious talent, if anything, First Man should be considered one great step for Chazelle’s career, further cementing his well-earned place amongst Hollywood’s very biggest hitters.
“In many respects Green’s film is, to an extent, something of a loose re-imagining of Carpenter’s 1978 original.” – Wayward Wolf.
An introductory preamble preceded the 40th anniversary screening of Halloween (1978) in which legendary director, John Carpenter, made a particularly interesting point. Back in 1978 the world was not blessed with anything like the number of multi-screen cineplexes that we have become so used to today, and as a consequence most people would more than likely have viewed what was essentially a low budget, limited release ‘B’ Movie, on video, be that a legitimate or pirate copy.
And as with all things that are somewhat restricted from mass public consumption, an aura of mystery soon unavoidably built up around the film.
It wouldn’t be until the mid-1980’s that I would personally get to experience Carpenter’s seminal slasher classic, and like many before me, I too viewed this through the medium of VHS video cassette. I forget which friend’s house I watched it at, but I certainly remember the impact it had upon me.
Forward wind then if you will to 2018 and a rare opportunity to experience the birth of the whole Michael Myers phenomenon on the big screen.
For all of Carpenter’s gushing over his preferred medium of widescreen, the wonders of Panavision and an insistence that this was a movie that was absolutely made for the big screen, one cannot help but be struck by the frailties of his movie, exposed – at times cruelly – by the vastness of the big screen experience, not to mention the high-end, super-revealing Dolby surround sound system which highlights the unpolished rawness of Carpenter’s brilliant synthesized soundtrack. Audio technology has certainly taken large strides since then – although not always for the good, it is true.
That said, Halloween (1978), for all of its faults, and suspending our disbelief accordingly, retains much of the magic and menace that scared people witless on its release some forty years ago. Though hindered to some extent by a low budget, this also worked to its advantage in many respects. Without recourse to the funds or the CGi trickery that’s so prevalent and relied upon today, a lower budget would have equated directly to a lower head count when it came to casting, and the film’s general sparsity of actors and extras went a long way towards creating those eerie daylight scenes in and around the almost abandoned, windy Autumnal streets of Haddonfield, which, punctuated with the intermittent statuesque sightings of the boiler suit and mask-clad Michael Myers, were in many ways as big a contributory factor in creating just the right sort of sinister mood, as any of the latter night scenes of knife-wielding carnage.
With the notable exception of Halloween III (Season of the Witch) – a film rather unfairly maligned at the time for daring to abandon the whole Michael Myers narrative, but a film which I’ve admittedly always had a soft spot for – you’re on pretty firm footing to suggest that the atmosphere of Carpenter’s original has never been bettered or even matched since in the seven ‘sequels’ that have followed.
Which brings us on nicely to sequel number eight; David Gordon Green’s 2018 offering, the confusingly titled, Halloween.
In many respects, Green’s film is, to an extent, something of a loose re-imagining of Carpenter’s 1978 original. Indeed the film is absolutely teeming with similarities. Scenes from the ’78 movie are frequently and playfully revisited, often inverted or manipulated in some way so as to cleverly fit the 2018 narrative. It’s this tipping of the hat acknowledgement tactic that will no doubt please the die-hard Halloween fan base, and it undoubtedly helps to effectively bring the franchise back full circle to the true roots of its initial success. This, one suspects, has been a wholly deliberate ploy and would help to explain the apparent lack of imagination or should that be brilliance? – I’m undecided – of David Gordon Green’s film title.
Of course, bar a complete change of tack, there really is only so much that can be done to inject new life into an old and weary franchise, but the casting of Jamie Lee Curtis – revisiting her role as Laurie Strode – proves to be something of a masterstroke. Far from being just a token reappearance, the Halloween (2018) narrative is built strongly around her character’s damaged persona. As a direct consequence of her inability to ‘move on’ from the traumatic events of her past, Laurie has suffered two failed marriages and has a daughter resentful of the fact that her mother’s life and her own, have been so totally dominated for so long by the invisible spectre of Michael Myers. What should have been an upbringing of love and carefree happiness has been one of nothing but worry and foreboding.
Their relationship and Laurie’s all consuming infatuation with her past assailant, gives Green’s film some much needed substance and transforms a straight forward slasher movie into something a little more weighty.
Of course, this is a Halloween flick, and accordingly any number of fairly nondescript characters are dispatched as the fodder for Myers’ killing spree, helping to contribute to a very generous body count in the process. But gone are the fairly laboured fumblings that characterised Michael Myers’ murders of yesteryear. Instead, his victims are now dispatched efficiently and in brutal fashion. Time, if nothing else, appears to have honed Myers’ execution skills!
Accompanying the action is John Carpenter and his son, Cody’s update on the original Halloween (1978) soundtrack, embellishing the film’s famous piano / ticking main theme and sonic stabs here and there with a few new motifs and suspenseful synth pads. They’re good and they serve their purpose, but they’re nothing of the quality of John Carpenter’s majestic unnerving original score.
Whilst Halloween (2018) is in some ways guilty of milking the ’78 concept to a degree, it does so respectfully and tastefully, and more than this, it points us back in time in the direction of Carpenter’s original film, creating a fairly convincing bond between the pair in the process; crucially, lending Green’s film a certain gravitas that has been so sorely absent from previous sequels within the long running series.
Halloween (2018) may well be a film guilty to some extent of both sizeable plot holes and unlikely coincidences a-plenty, but we must of course consider one important fact here: The boogeyman. I’d suggest therefore that any such criticisms or incredulity really don’t apply in the circumstances.
The important conclusion is this: Halloween (2018) may well lack originality, but in all of its widescreen cinematic glory, it proves to be a slick, brutal, well realised, and above everything else worthy successor to Carpenter’s timeless late ’70’s classic.
And being the huge Halloween (1978) fan that I am, it’s as much a relief as anything to be able to tell you that.
“Schrader’s film takes a morally-conscious contemplative journey from climate and pollution concerns to the corruption and self-serving nature of man…” – Wayward Wolf.
A short but very intense friendship with a troubled environmental activist proves to be the catalyst for much self-reflection, introspection and upheaval in the life of Reverend Toller.
A short time prior to this, Toller had vowed to keep a diary for a year in which he would ponder the existential issues of life, love, death and religion.
And come the year’s end he has vowed to destroy the diary.
As a ‘man of the cloth’ much would understandably be expected of Toller, though the fact that he is somewhat squirrelled away as the Pastor of the under-performing, relatively insignificant First Reformed Church – essentially an historic tourist attraction of Dutch origin, and certainly nothing particularly high profile – is the first hint that the Church’s owners, Abundant Life, have only limited faith in Toller’s ability to carry out the sort of duties required of a Pastor at any sort of meaningful level.
That said, the church is fast approaching its 250th anniversary and Toller has been tasked with putting together a suitable celebration to mark the occasion.
This would be a straight forward enough task for someone of sane and rational mind, but as is gradually revealed in Paul Schrader’s challenging film, Toller is very much a man with a tragic and troubled past; one that very much impacts upon his mental state and approach to an equally troubling present. The undoubted weight of the responsibility required for the Church’s anniversary celebrations therefore hangs heavy on the already heavily distracted Pastor’s shoulders.
Ethan Hawke is in excellent form with a strong, nuanced performance portraying the fundamentally flawed Pastor, Toller, a man who has deliberately created a life for himself shorn entirely of all unnecessary accoutrements. Such an absence of possessions in many ways reflects the increasing emptiness within his own soul; a void that he repeatedly fills with a growing dependency on alcohol.
Schrader’s film takes a morally-conscious contemplative journey from climate and pollution concerns to the corruption and self-serving nature of man, digging deep to get to the real heart of the Reverend Toller’s troubles, and it is therefore an understandably bleak affair.
It’s only really the burgeoning friendship between the Pastor and Mary (Amanda Seyfried), that in any way breaks through an at times seemingly all-pervading hopeless gloom that engulfs Toller as he wrestles manfully with the moral concerns of both his own life and those of others.
Straight forward and refreshingly conservative in its direction, First Reformed is a weighty, thought-provoking and at times unashamedly desperate film, though one not entirely bereft of the promise of salvation.
“The Rider… presents its audience with something of a conundrum: What is more important in a performance? Authenticity or technical acting ability?” – Wayward Wolf.
Brady Blackburn (Brady Jandreau), is firmly of the opinion that his career as a rodeo rider is merely on hold whilst he recuperates from the fall and severe head injury that he recently sustained in action.
And though inundated with the encouragement and well wishes of others, it quickly becomes clear to all that any sort of come back from this would be both short-lived and eminently foolhardy.
With this realisation in mind, Brady must now somehow try to find renewed meaning in an existence that has for his entire life been intrinsically linked to the life of a cowboy. But living in a remote rural location bereft of any real employment opportunities and with little by way of alternative education and skill sets to call upon, the odds are somewhat stacked against him.
Even his efforts to use the highly impressive skills he possesses as a horse trainer – passed down to him by his father – seem doomed to failure as the neurological impact of his injury begins to manifest itself physically, hampering his ability to properly carry out even this somewhat less physically demanding work. Indeed, Brady is informed that if he ever attempts to ride again, it could very well kill him.
It’s only then through the relationship that he has with his developmentally-disabled sister Lilly, and severely disabled friend, Lane Scott – himself an ex-rodeo rider – that Brady can then take stock of his life and begin to see beyond everything that he has ever been and ever thought he would be.
It’s a thoughtful and atmospheric film that’s ever so beautifully shot, making full use of the raw, wind-swept beauty of the South Dakota badlands. And through Zhao’s gritty, visceral and highly textural approach to the direction, one can almost feel the creaking well-worn leather of Brady’s saddle, and the cold steel of the stirrups that hang securely from it.
Given their real-life talents and abilities with horses, through taking the risk of casting Brady Jandreau and his co-actors in the film’s leading roles, Chloe Zhao’s film positively brims with vigour, energy and above all authenticity.
But The Rider then presents its audience with something of a conundrum:
What is more important in a performance? Authenticity or technical acting ability?
For all of the honest, earthy qualities that the cast undoubtedly bring to the table, it is ultimately the limitations of their ability as actors – failing at times to fully convey the necessary emotions and conviction required – that frequently hamper the film’s best intentions.
And what a very great shame that is.
It’s really not out of all proportion to suggest that given the right choice of cast, The Rider would have had all of the necessary ingredients to be considered something bordering on a masterpiece.
As it is, Zhao’s film fails to convince as a whole, and falls frustratingly short of what it might have been.
Harsh? Perhaps. But one cannot tip-toe around the truth here.
The Rider is as authentic, thoughtful, heartfelt and soulful as the day is long, but ultimately it’s what would appear to be the film’s greatest assets that ultimately prove to be its unfortunate undoing.
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