Review: Mandy

Mandy
Cert: 18 / 121 mins / Dir. Panos Cosmatos / Trailer



It does seem that every new Nic Cage film arrives accompanied by the descriptor 'going full Nic Cage' as its selling point. Obviously the guy can't be trapped in an ever-escalating gyroscope of cinema, but it does sometimes feel like movies are being written with him specifically in mind.

This offering from director and co-writer Panos Cosmatos sees Cage star as Red, a logger residing in the Californian mountains with his artist girlfriend Mandy (Andrea Riseborough) in 1983. When the members of a cult pass through the backwater, their leader Jeremiah (Linus Roache) becomes obsessed with Mandy and orders his followers to kidnap her to join the group. Mandy is resistant to both the ideology and the psychotropic drugs forced upon her, and in a fit of pique Jeremiah orders her to be killed while Red watches. Left for dead, our protagonist frees himself and embarks on a rampaging odyssey of brutal revenge, where the boundaries of reality become as warped as the morality of his nemeses…

CAGE

And it's glorious. Two hours of extravagantly outlandish, glorious carnage paying homage to space rock and pulp fantasy novels. Because obviously in a movie where cultists play an ocarina to summon a gang of knock-off Cenobites on quad bikes without batting an eyelid, Nic Cage is going to wear a Ray-Ban Aviators as safety goggles while he forges himself a battle-axe, before later eschewing that weapon to have a chainsaw fight. Everything about this screams fuck yeah.

Mandy is the sort of movie where the viewer never loses track of what's going on, but if it was paused and they were asked to give a summary probably wouldn't know where to start. It's a ponderous, vigorous, hallucinatory companion piece to Drive Angry with notes of Rocky Horror and The Hills Have Eyes. It would be self-indulgent if it wasn't so gleefully volatile.

GOFFE

As much as the film effects an air of schlocky trash, Mandy can't disguise the precision and joy with which it's been made. As if Robert Rodriguez, Eli Roth and Darren Aronofsky raised a child in some twisted parody of Three Men And A Baby and then unleashed it upon the world. And that's not to say this is an exploitative, mindless gorefest - it's not. But it clearly loves the films which are and has channeled that fondness through the prism of Nic Cage's desensitised fury.

The film is split into acts, each presented with their own uniquely styled (yet visually continuous) title card. Cinematographer Benjamin Loeb treats the story like his own fever dream, with neither a prop nor pixel out of place in each meticulously constructed shot. Whether it's the blood-hued interior of a stark, angular wooden church, an alien cosmos resting over the forest skyline or just Nic Cage screaming on the toilet in his pants as he necks vodka from the bottle, you'll be hard pushed to find more arresting imagery this year in such an accessible format*¹.

SHERIFF'S BADGE

Mandy is precisely the sort of thing I enjoy travelling into London to watch, and it quickly became apparent why this didn't play at my local cinema (not that I'd expected it to). At this late stage, the cage fight*² for the Film Of The Year award just got a bit more crowded.

Plus y'know, Cheddar Goblin!

We do not deserve Nic Cage.
We do not deserve Andrea Riseborough.
And we most certainly do not deserve Panos Cosmatos.
Bravo.

Well let's start with Drive Angry, but there's far more to it than that.



If you can, absolutely.



It is.



It could just well be.



It's possible, I suppose.



Not that I heard.



Level 1: That prisoner from off of Rogue One is in this.





*¹ I'm looking at you, Suspiria. ^{[ BACK ]}

*² No pun intended, I promise. ^{[ BACK ]}


DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Review: Battle Of The Sexes

Battle Of The Sexes
Cert: 12A / 121 mins / Dir. Valerie Faris & Jonathan Dayton / Trailer

"You know where you are with sport, it's good. [...] In badminton if you win a rally, you get one point. In volleyball if you win a rally, you get one point. In tennis if you win a rally, you get 15 points for the first (or second) rallies you've won in that game (or 10 for the third), with a indeterminate amount assigned to the fourth rally, other than the knowledge that the game is won, providing one player is two ten-points (or 15-points) segments clear of their opponent. It's clear and simple."

~ Alan Partridge, 2011

Although written as a satire, this deliberate obfuscation is how my brain sees pretty much All The Sport anyway, so going to watch a film about one of them - not least the one used in the example above – had already put me into a place of some apprehension. I could tell from the trailer of course, that Battle Of The Sexes is more than a film about The Tennis. But at the same time, it is also very much about The Tennis.

But as Ron Howard demonstrated back in 2013, it’s possible to keep a sport-free cynic like me happy by telling a great story about people, rather than arbitrary gaming rules. And Simon Beaufoy's screenplay here is very much about the people. And about The Tennis, centering on the heavily publicised 1973 grudge-match between Billy Jean King and Bobby Riggs, each champions in their respective gendered leagues. Along with the fantastic work from the wardrobe and makeup department, cinematographer Linus Sandgren captures the sunbleached graininess of 1970s California, and it’s a feeling which comes through the performances as a result, with a visual and narrative symmetry increasing as the story unfolds.

Emma Stone is on fantastic form as King, although it feels slightly awkward to note that this is no real surprise from a performer of her calibre (awards will follow, and justifiably so). Playing her unequal opposite is Steve Carell, although not the real villain of the piece of course; he’s the showman, the buffoon. And as surprisingly nuanced as Carell's performance is, with the sheepish grin, heavy glasses and ludicrous sideburns, you get the feeling he’s only ever two steps away from going full Brick Tamland again. Andrea Riseborough also lends great support, even if her character suffers at the hands of a screenplay which keeps jumping lanes.

The central struts of the love story, the sporting-underdog parable and the exposure of institutional misogyny are all impeccably executed, but the film has trouble blending them together, and it ends up feeling like directors Valerie Faris and Jonathan Dayton are spinning plates in three different rooms. A certain amount of this is obviously down to King’s propensity for partitioning sections of her life, but it makes for a slightly disconnected viewing experience. That said, even a non-sport viewer like me was impressed by the climactic match (not that we see much actual tennis before that point), since as well as actually playing against each other, the cast are, presumably, recreating the precise scoring moves from the game*¹?

The whole thing is a little heavy-handed in places of course, but that’s entirely forgivable, given the times it’s portraying and quite frankly the times it’s playing in. Overall, Battle Of The Sexes is a remarkable story of perseverance and hope. But ultimately, I still didn’t care about All The Tennis…*²

All The Tennis.



Only if it specifically piques your interest. The 70s aesthetic means you shouldn't lose too much by watching this in your living room.



Ultimately, yes.



Perhaps not best best, but it'll certainly be one of the most celebrated.



Nope.



Nope.
I'd have put one in every time someone belts a tennis ball.



Level 1: The voice of Clone Wars Nute Gunray is in this. By which I mean Tom Kenny is in this, not just his voice.





*¹ I should hope so anyway. Otherwise the tennis historians in the audience will be watching going "well that's not how that shot played out; ridiculous". And much the same as the aforementioned Rush, when I sat down for Battle Of The Sexes I didn’t actually know how the climactic game ended. Although obviously, had Billie Jean King actually lost, there’d be little or no point making a film just to rub her nose in it, given what it all stood for. ^{[ BACK ]}

*² And I know you're saying "yeah, but it's not about the tennis" - and I know exactly why you're saying that, but this film is very much also About The Tennis. It's just a game mate, leave it. ^{[ BACK ]}


DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Review: The Death Of Stalin

The Death Of Stalin
Cert: 15 / 107 mins / Dir. Armando Iannucci / Trailer



Because if anyone is going to be able to blend mid 20th century Russian political satire and West End farce, it's going to be Armando Iannucci, the mind behind Alan Partridge, The Thick of It and Veep. In the company of writers David Schneider, Ian Martin and Fabien Nury, he's crafted a razor-sharp comedy which is about exactly what it says on the front, there: The Death of Stalin in Russia, 1953. It is very funny. By which I mean the film is very funny. Not the on-screen death of a 74 year old man. Although that is also very funny. In this film.

While the story takes place in its period setting, the script is interwoven with Tarantino-level bickering and a timeless British-level sarcasm (and not a cod-Russian accent to be heard, which only adds to the charm*¹). The filmmakers have assembled an absolutely outstanding cast to deliver it, with everyone on blistering form. Central characters are introduced with brief in-scene title cards showing their name and position in the Soviet hierarchy, but most of what happens isn’t reliant on the audience bringing any prior knowledge. Shot in a hand-held documentary-style, the pacing for the first hour is one of escalating bedlam, with Stalin's demise creating a vacuum of both power and common-sense.

From the Act I opening of a panicked Paddy Considine, to the quiet bluster of Michael Palin and self-absorbed scheming of Simon Russell Beale, the film is the best example of institutional chaos you'll find short of the actual news. Although you might come for Steve Buscemi and Jeffrey Tambor, you'll stay for Jason Isaacs and Rupert Friend*². In its second-hour though, the pace slows and shifts to a poignant ending I don’t think it quite pulls off. Then again, this section would probably have worked better with me if I knew anything at all about that period of history. I can’t hold Armando at fault for me not bringing any prior knowledge. Everything I saw in the meanwhile was evidence of a creative team at the top of their game.

As enjoyable as The Death Of Stalin is, Iannucci ‘s directorial home is really on the small screen. There’s little here that’s inherently cinematic, and although I’ll definitely watch it again, I doubt that will take place at the flicks.

Iannucci's aforementioned TV work.
This is quite unlike anything I've been lucky enough to see in the cinema.



Only if you can't wait for the DVD/BRD/VOD to land in around 17 weeks.



I think so, although I'm perhaps not best to judge it on a content-level.



It's definitely up-there.



Not at all.



There ain't.



Level 1: This film's got The Inquisitor and Nower Jebel in it.





*¹ To the point where it seems odd at first that Olga Kurylenko has that twang to her voice, until you remember half a second later that that's her actual Ukranian/French accent when she performs in English. ^{[ BACK ]}

*² It's Rupert Friend who gets the best line in the film as Stalin's tantrum-prone spoilt son, coaching an ice-hockey team by essentially just yelling at them. I promise you no film this year will deliver a more sincere exasperation than "Play better, you clattering fannies!!". Priceless. ^{[ BACK ]}


DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Review: Mindhorn

Mindhorn
Cert: 15 / 89 mins / Dir. Sean Foley / Trailer



It's a rare film which promises exactly what you'd expect and then delivers on it perfectly. Even moreso when it comes to the often uneven genre of comedy. Mindhorn is a rare film. Washed up TV actor, Richard Thorncroft, is called back to his old stomping ground on the Isle Of Man to revisit his most famous character, as a superfan/serial-killer threatens to strike again unless he can speak to the fictional 1980s super-detective… Mindhorn.

I laughed like a drain throughout this film, and the rest of the audience weren't far behind me. The film's title-sequence featuring Mindhorn's TV-opening credits and interview snippets is glorious in itself, and the amount of world-building that goes on is of Garth Marenghi levels. In fact the only real grumble I have about the film is that we don't really get much more in the way of the recreated TV show itself once the idea is established.

One of the (even) weirder aspects of the film is the sense of agoraphobia generated by seeing the expansive scenery of the Isle of Man which, bar a couple of scenes, is populated by almost no extras. The island ends up feeling like an abandoned theme-park, increasing the unease in an already borderline surreal story.

Julian Barratt is front and centre of the show (like Richard Thorncroft would have it any other way), but is supported more than ably by Andrea Riseborough, Essie Davis, Richard McCabe, Steve Coogan, Russell Tovey and Simon Farnaby*¹, as well as a smattering of cameo performances from the more dramatic end of the spectrum. Although for all Barratt's many comedic collaborators over the years, the Fielding brothers are notable by their absence.

In all fairness, this feels like one of those sitcom spin-off movies that gets released in August. Unapologetically televisual in both scope and execution (other than that gorgeous 2.35:1 aspect-ratio), Mindhorn celebrates its fictional roots rather than trying to adapt itself beyond them. Any issues which arise from what is essentially TV-writing on a big screen (it's only 89 minutes and it still begins to sag a little) are overcome by the film's self-awareness and brazen silliness. Plus, as it doesn't have any actual TV show to be compared to, the film doesn't have that particular hurdle to clear in the first place.

I love that four years ago, Andrea Riseborough was partnering a sci-fi actioner with Tom Cruise, and here she is playing the straight man in a kitsch farce set on the Isle of Man. Fantastic stuff.

Garth Marenghi's Darkplace, The Mighty Boosh, Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa.

It also puts me in mind of Free Fire, even though they're like completely different books, but maybe on the same shelf?.



If you can, definitely.
Although Mindhorn is on that Netflix (US) already, so off you go...



It does.



Best? Probably not. Although it's still utterly fantastic.



I shall ask you to explain yourself.



Not that I heard.



Level 1: This film's got Resistance medic Harter Kalonia and Blue Squadron pilot Farns Monsbee in it.





*¹ And as a stand-in for Mindhorn/Thorncroft, which I'm taking as a clear reference to this episode of The Mighty Boosh, not least since Barratt and Farnaby wrote Mindhorn. ^{[ BACK ]}

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Review: Birdman

Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)
Cert: 15 / 119 mins / Dir. Alejandro González Iñárritu




I don't particularly enjoy using phrases like 'superlative performance' or 'plays with the form', largely because they make me sound like I'm trying to be a film-critic rather than a movie-reviewer, and especially in this case as director Alejandro Iñárritu has plenty to say about critics (although he also has plenty to say about audiences, for that matter).

Nonetheless, this two-hour joyride of surreal adrenaline stretches 'the form' to breaking point, being a film, play, dream-sequence and monologue all-in-one. Presented as a single, unbroken hand-held camera-shot*¹, Birdman is relentless, picking up the viewer like the levitating Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton) in its opening scene and refusing to put them down as they laugh, cry, rage and fly with Keaton for the duration of the film. With two notable exceptions, the film is soundtracked purely by jazz drummer Antonio Sanchez (and while a drummer often appears in-shot, that's not actually him), with the tempo always syncopated, but growing more erratic as Riggan's breakdown looms.

Trading heavily and only semi-ironically on Keaton's IRL role as Batman, we spend the vast majority of the running time seeing things through his eyes as the washed-up actor creates, directs and stars in an ambitious Broadway play, adapting the work of one of his favourite writers, Raymond Carver, in a bid to prove that he's more than just a has-been celeb in a bird-costume.

The screenplay is brutally self-aware, with the Birdman character and in-movie actor names seeming to be the only fictionalised aspects, as pop-culture references and icons of the 20th and 21st centuries are ruthlessly deconstructed. Birdman is Keaton's show of course, in a career-defining role played as only he could, but it couldn't be done without the stunning supporting performances from Edward Norton, Andrea Riseborough, Emma Stone, Naomi Watts, Amy Ryan and Zach Galifianakis. While their characters often seem underdeveloped, it's mainly because that's how Riggan sees them. My only niggle is that the final act of the film all but abandons the secondary characters as Riggan's psychoses close in, also leaving behind much of the dry humour that preceded it. I also have to admire that Birdman chooses not to close on the two natural end-points which occur, but on the third and actual one (which is admittedly better). I may not like that necessarily, but I admire it.

By no means a throwaway film, Birdman will command your attention from start to finish, but that's not to say it won't be enjoyed by fans of indie-film and superhero-movies alike.
Never has the phrase 'the lie that tells the truth' seemed more appropriate…

It begins to be, but nothing can come as close as the film itself.



I did.



Absolutely.



If the trailer appeals, go and find this movie at the nearest cinema to you, forthwith.



I will a bit, yeah.



I will.



There isn't.

Does anyone else want a Birdman animated mini-series anyway?
Just because?

*¹ And it's not, but it's presented very effectively as one, and I confess that I spent more time than was strictly necessary ticking off the edit-points.

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.