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.
*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.
David Ayer's 1940s grimace-fest is a difficult film to like, and I mean that as both a compliment and a detraction. So much time is spent in the first act illustrating what a bunch of a-holes Brad Pitt's war-weary tank crew have become, that when the shit really hits the fan and the man-hugs start breaking out, you've still got the abiding memory of a bunch of borderline sociopaths dampening the emotional atmosphere. Strangely, it was only two days ago that I re-stumbled across the phrase 'no characters think of themselves as the bad guy; they're all the heroes in a different movie'. It seems that in Fury, almost the opposite is true, and writer/director Ayer is so keen to illustrate the morally corrosive effect of sustained warfare that no-one in the film escapes with their halo intact.
But Fury isn't an ode to the pointlessness of war (not on the surface, at least), even if it does veer as closely to War Horse as it does Inglourious Basterds. And while I'm on the subject, allow me to throw in a pre-emptive yes, I'm comparing it to Tarantino's war-movie. Ayer's flick stars Brad Pitt in a role that's not a million miles away from Lt. Aldo Raine, and like its counterpart it has a tendency to drop into extended dialogue scenes. This, however, is where Uncle Quentin has the undeniable upper-hand. David Ayer seems far more interested in directing brutal and bloody violence than he does the quiet, character-building scenes, which pretty much gives the lie to any philosophical undertones the film might be suggesting…
Praise where it's due, the combat scenes in Fury (whether they're melee, firearm or artillery-based) are fucking astounding. Seriously. The sound-design details every ping, bang, ricochet and thudding explosion; the visual effects feature a rotoscoping for the gunfire which reminded me of the original-print version of 1977's Star Wars; and Roman Vasyanov's camera captures every twitch, scowl and grimace on the faces of a not-inconsiderable cast. The central players all do a solid job of giving complex performances*1, but there are hints of character which are drowned out by the explosions, and which could have been expanded far more given the opportunity.
When it's being a war-movie, Fury wears its title on its sleeve like a well-earned medal. It's the other film I had issues with. The one which is trying to justify lingering repeatedly on the unrelenting violence by giving us mumbled dialogue and skipping over the exposition of a narrative so linear that the tanks barely need to steer. The film which has its knowingly-flawed characters preach about the evils of the enemy for two hours leading up to a finale where there are no heroes, just a thinly-justified slaughter. Maybe that's the point? But I wasn't convinced that the film was an essay on duty, resignation and combat-stress. It's having far too much fun playing soldiers to be thoughtful.
Despite all my moaning, I enjoyed Fury, I'm just not sure what the writer is trying to say with it…
It's pretty much the size of it, but the trailer doesn't indicate the film's pacing issues (for obvious reasons).
For the most part, but I wasn't feeling the emotion.
Personally, I don't think it does.
You'll get the most out of Fury by seeing it big and loud in the cinema.
Nope.
Probably, yes.
There is. I'd be amazed if there wasn't, frankly.
How are things coming along with that Wolfenstein movie? I'm getting impatient, here...
*1 Oh, and hello to Jason Isaacs.
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.
