And like that March is upon us, which can mean only one thing: The year's first Graveyard Slot™. The home of all the movies which aren't worthy enough to go up against the Awards-nudgers of Jan/Feb, and not loud or jazzy enough to be scheduled alongside the superhero flicks that populate the rest of the year. It's a sad state of affairs, but there we are. The release-window yields some fascinating oddities, of course, as distributors take a gamble on their less-categorisable fare and some unexpected gems come our way.
This isn't one of them, though.
Modern-day Russia*1. When promising Bolshoi ballerina Dominika Egorova (Jennifer Lawrence) is badly injured during a performance*2, the loss of her dancing career threatens to tear her fragile family apart. But Dominika's uncle Dimitrevich in the Russian government (Matthias Schoenaerts) offers an alternative way to make use of her talents, by becoming a ruthless spy and extracting information from American agent Nate Nash (Joel Edgerton). Obviously in this game, truth is a commodity as flexible as currency, and trust is even harder to come by…
While it's certainly a solid enough premise for a story, Red Sparrow is best at being a very ordinary, throwback thriller, boasting a strong primary cast and an impressive supporting-array of British acting talent (Charlotte Rampling, Joely Richardson, Jeremy Irons, Ciarán Hinds), none of whom can carry their intended accents from scene to scene. And while she's basically fine in the central role, you never forget you're watching 'Jennifer Lawrence In A Film'. For a secret agent, she sure stands out. The screenplay delights in being grotesquely provocative, albeit a way as thoroughly hackneyed as the steamy thrillers it thinks it's better than.
More quiet brooding than calculating action, this isn't as tense or dynamic as its trailer might suggest, and while that's not necessarily a bad thing, there just isn't enough intrigue to fill the vacuum which is left behind. Unfortunately, Jennifer Lawrence and Joel Edgerton receive neither the plot nor direction to be able to lose themselves convincingly in their performances. While I'm all for complex characters, the script has our main players be so wilfully convoluted that their actual motivations cease to matter after around 90 minutes. After that I just waiting for it to either kick off, or end.
It occasionally kicks off, and it takes its sweet time to end. While the film certainly has its moments, there's just too much padding between them to make a satisfying movie. At least Charlize Theron didn't need a sit down and a little cry every time she had to get her hands dirty.
A calculating cultural juxtaposition, Jason Matthews' 2013 source-novel has been heralded by those in the know for its detail and authenticity. If Francis Lawrence's film follows suit and realism is this disbelievable, then maybe in the 21st century war of misinformation, the Kremlin has already won…
*1 There's a line dropped into the script early on referencing social media, a nod to the audience to let them know that the film is either set 'now' or in the very recent past. So imagine my subsequent amusement when some International Secrets™ are sold, bought and delivered on five 3.5" floppy disks, the slow, bulky and pitifully small data-storage format that the '90s couldn't get rid of quickly enough. I suppose this is fantastic security for each agency as nobody else would be able to conveniently read what's on them. "I just have to verify the data" says Comrade J-Law, firing up a conspicuously modern laptop which presumably has a USB floppy drive attached that the cinematographer goes out of their way not to show us. Then again, Joel Edgerton is still using a pen-and-paper encryption method here. I expect the eventual arrival of a fax machine is going to blow his mind… [ BACK ]
*2 Her leg snaps. Across the shin. Just like that. I think the skinny male-dancer she's prancing around with accidentally somehow puts five times his own body-weight on it or something. It looks painful enough and then you think - wait, what? Dancer, trained, athletic. Leg, snapped. "Sorry, I can't come into work today Terry, my leg's snapped". Not to get too spoilerific, but she's interrogated at one point later by a bloke hitting her with a cosh and nothing snaps then. I'm definitely banking 'snapped leg' for the next time I want to sneak in a mid-week #FilmDay… [ 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.
Imagine, if you will, a video game where levels are about four-to-six minutes long, and each one is punctuated with a thirty-minute interlude of plot-exposition and needless padding. I've only played through one Assassin's Creed game, but I don't remember it being like that*1...
Attempting to adapt a massively successful game-series for the big screen is Justin Kurzel, crouched in the wings as his cast stand around in a circle watching Michael Fassbender remembering things that didn't happen to him. I don't really need to explain more as a) if you don't know the premise to begin with you're unlikely to be watching the film, and b) the film spends most of its time explaining things which make no sense, anyway. Oh, this takes itself far too seriously.
The problem, once more, is that game-logic is not film logic. While players are willing to sit through overly-long introductions and training sequences in anticipation of unleashing carnage with a controller, the same patience doesn't apply when you're only waiting to watch someone else playing the game.
When we do finally get to the action, the implementation of shakycam, fast-cut editing and smoke machines (no, seriously) serve as a cover for freerunning stunt-doubles and the violence (in a film about murderers, remember) being nerfed down to 12A-compliant levels*2. Threading through the film is the un-subtle suggestion that the harmless expression of pent-up violence is a good thing, and that attempts to subdue that are akin to the forced removal of free will. That idea would be bollocks enough on its own, but in a film which is basically an advert for a gaming-franchise, it's nothing short of shameful.
For all the great lengthsAssassin's Creed goes to in showing us the Animus simulation software and hardware, it's never quite explained why all this is needed when a hypnotherapist could do the same job (because you either believe in past-life regression or you don't)? Indeed, the main plot-mechanisms here are a macguffin that Dan Brown would have discarded unused, and a thing called ‘genetic memory’, the narrative equivalent of homeopathy. Michael Fassbender grumbles his way through the script with minimal dialogue*3, Marion Cotillard stumbles awkwardly through her part, and Jeremy Irons just sucks the whole thing up and Thinks Of The Money, with the practiced ease that his co-stars have yet to master.
Justin Kurzel's film is certainly ambitious, but ambition's not enough. Although for all my grumbling, I didn't detest the movie as much as some, and I've certainly seen far worse game-adaptations in the last twelve months.
In gaming-parlance, Assassin's Creed is a literally two-hour cutscene. In cinematic parlance, it's a two-hour trailer for a game.
Best two lines of dialogue in the movie:
Fassbender: ...what the fuck's going on?
Cotillard: ...this is wrong.
Well you'll be used to watching the game through your telly, so...
I hope not.
No.
That would depend on the specifics of our disagreement...
There isn't.
Level 1: This movie features Rufus 'Lt. Casido from off of Rogue One' Wright.
*1 But the fact that I only played through one would suggest that maybe I'm not the target audience, admittedly.
*2 It's perhaps interesting to note that the games in the series are mostly rated 15, yet it's okay for 12yr olds to watch characters bloodlessly killing each other. Okay, then.
*3 Although one thing this film does do brilliantly is casting Brendan Gleeson as Fassbender's father. When we hear his soft Dublin tones in the second act, it suddenly makes perfect sense that his screen-son's American accent should be skittering about like Bambi, pissed on an ice-rink...
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.
Infinity may be referenced in the title and the script, but this film is anything but, positively constricted by its 109 minutes. There's the feeling in the opening act that this is a story which has been butchered to fit a standard run-time as we meet Ramanujan (Dev Patel), a lowly clerk for a British-run firm in Madras, shortly before the first world war. His intellect is anything but lowly, of course, although we only learn this by having almost every other character openly refer to him as a genius, without actually showing us how or why he's so special. Because how do you break things down to a potentially "non-mathematical" audience without losing them completely? Well, in TMWKI's case, you don't, really.
By which I mean that it's largely not demonstrated, not that the film loses its audience with complicated explanations of numerical brain-aches. Now I'm no rocket-scientist (no, you shut up), but even I was wanting to 'see the working out' as much as Ramanujan's mentor in old Blighty, Hardy. The main problem (for me) is that the prodigy's early schooling isn't even mentioned, much less shown. I bought that he was an intuitive mathematician, and I accepted his frustration at being 'slowed down' by the establishment wanting to fully test his theories. But the fact that his apparently self-taught skills manifested themselves in the Western form of written equations, that the staff at Cambridge University could understand at a glance yet still not fully comprehend? Not explained. Even a duck has to be taught to swim.
As well as powering through the five-year timespan as if it had invented a time-machine while it was on, the film also has to deal with an Indian academic living in England during a global war, when emotions are at a high and ethnic diplomacy isn't. This delicate subject is addressed rather indelicately, as is the more institutional xenophobia of the 'old guard' of the time. Director Matt Brown's script takes a very button-pushing approach, which would be more forgivable if its resolution wasn't handled with equal naivety in the film's final throes.
The humorous lines intended to lighten the mood don't fare too much better, often feeling contrived. Although to be fair, the largely senior audience around me merrily chortled their way through gags which evoked little more than a wry grin from myself, leading me to think that maybe this film is perfectly fulfilling the task for which it was created, and that I'm just a massive film-snob. But then, I know I'm a massive film-snob, and even accounting for this, the film isn't that funny.
Most typical scene:
INT. Hospital. Day. Hardy (Irons) stands by the hospital bed of Ramanujan (Patel), quizzing a doctor, Muthu (San Shella) on the TB-ridden patient's condition.
Hardy: …is it bad?
Muthu: I'm afraid so, sir.
Hardy: Well, can't we do anything?
Muthu: I'm afraid not, no. This is the worst case of Second Act Screenwriter's Cough I've seen in some time, and with a protagonist as virtuous as Ramanujan here, it's unlikely he'll make the credits.
Hardy: Well, I'm sure his inevitable moral vindication at the film's finale will temporarily remove the conspicuous-looking dark patches under his eyes so that "poorly film-makeup man" isn't the lingering image in the memory of the audience as they file out of the auditorium…
Both Dev Patel and Jeremy Irons give it their all, but they're let down by the kind of script that makes a callback (the "1729" reference) to a setup which occurred less than five minutes earlier, and which is less than five minutes before the end of the film. Either the writer is to blame for this structural faux pas, or the editor.
Where is the wonder, where is the awe? Where is the titularly-implied infinity?
With the best will in the world, this is a poor man's Theory of Everything; a great story let down by an awful screenplay which doesn't do its subject justice. And shoehorning in Stephen Fry and Toby Jones won't change that…
Level 2: Many level 2s to choose from here, but let's go for Jeremy Irons, who starred in 1995's Die Hard With A Vengeance alongside Sam 'Windu' Jackson.
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.
The third time may be the charm but before that, the second is confirmation. A confirmation that I enjoyed Dawn of Justice. A confirmation that it's got some great characters, great performances and great moments. And a confirmation that the film is still an undisciplined, almighty mess. A mess which held my attention for its two and a half gruelling hours, but only as my brain picked holes from scene to scene (far to many to list here, unfortunately)*1.
Much has been said and written about Batman v Superman by now of course, and even I have to concede the validity of most of the sniping (although not the petition-raising by entitled fanboys who don't seem to be able to differentiate between a director and a writer). But today, I found that the key to enjoying Dawn of Justice is trying one's damnedest to ignore Jesse Eisenberg and his part in it. A repeat viewing only reinforces how much he's clearly not Lex Luthor, to anyone with even the most civilian knowledge of Superman's nemesis.
But what we really get here is the combined fragments of a great Batman film, a mediocre Superman one, and a dreadful Justice League setup. The former shows great promise (although I still hold deep reservations about Jeremy Irons), and as much as I'd like to see Affleck direct Batman's next outing, I'd love to see Kevin Smith helm it more. Superman's a little trickier as he has far less story-time here (which considering the film is about him seems odd), and the scenes we do get are hampered by the Daily Planet drudgery that should really be sidelined into a weekly TV show. And the less said about the DC extended-universe being pimped by having characters watch clips of superheroes on a laptop, the better.
White Dawn of Justice is by no means one of Snyder's best films, I can't hold him responsible for the film which came out of the editing suite. The jumbled storytelling smacks of mid-production and last-minute re-writes, studio hesitation and focus-grouping.
And as fascinating as I find the final product, a movie that cost a hundred million dollars for each hour of screen-time should do more than leave me interested…
Oh, and it's also a hell of a lot easier to watch in 2D.
Oh, 'DC things'…
By this point, I imagine you either already have or definitely won't.
Not likely.
Not nearly.
Nope.
There is indeed.
Level 2: Ben Affleck was in 2003's Daredevil (lest we forget) alongside Jon 'Pre Vizsla' Favreau.
*1 Although two things:
1) That 'mark of the bat' thing being a death-sentence in prisons is fucking bullshit for a start. Those institutions run on reputation; a brand that says "I'm such a badass I could only be taken down by the Batman" is going attract attention, but hardly mark someone out as an easy target. Those two blokes that the news report says were killed were doing time as p*edos. I suspect that would have been the real cause?.
2) How long have Gotham and Metropolis been that close together? When the bat-signal goes up and Lois Lane's on top of that building in Metropolis, it's like less than two miles away. I know they're on the edge of town, but are you really telling me that the combined size of these two would be smaller than London? Really? Or are they more like Newcastle and Gateshead? That could explain the initial animosity between the heroes, actually. It's not until Doomsday shows up (from Sunderland, I imagine) that they can put aside their differences…
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.
Well, that's a change of gear. Or rather, Dawn Of Justice is a change into several gears, all at once, for two and a half hours. Riding the cinematic clutch towards the Justice League, DC bring us a whole bunch of ideas and origins, all crammed into one 150 minute rollercoaster. And before I get properly started, I'll add here that the film kept me entertained throughout. Okay, it also kept me bemused and thematically motion-sick from time to time, but on the whole I enjoyed it*1.
The main stumbling block is that the story's trying to be in too many places at once and ends up flitting all over the place, even once the main plot-thread has kicked in. In trying to set up Batman, Superman's story falters and Wonder Woman's falls at just about every hurdle (and we all know Batman, of course, just not this Batman. Even if he's remarkably similar to Batman). Structurally, the film's a mess, and I don't know if that's down to re-shoots, re-writes or just taking two potentially great movies and cramming them into one which is less so. The film either needs to be much shorter or about 45 minutes longer, either would ease the strain.
There are also a few directorial issues that didn't seem to happen in the previous film. Laurence Fishburne is over-acting a cartoon version of the newspaper editor he played perfectly sensibly three years ago; Jeremy Irons forces himself to grimace through a wisecracking version of Alfred The Butler which suits neither the actor nor the character; and I've no idea why Jesse Eisenberg seems to think that the best portrayal of Lex Luthor would be channelling Jim Carrey's Riddler into the role, but Snyder appears to have agreed and has just let him get on with it, anyway*2.
Between the hyperactive story-threading, the shoe-horning of other DC properties and Bruce Wayne's anxiety daydreams, there's far too much going on here. Dawn Of Justice is not a great film, although there are great things within it. It's really a good second-draft which needs tightening up and trimming down.
Perhaps most ironically, DC have brought us a film which doesn't really do justice to the Superman we know, and certainly doesn't do justice to the Batman we don't.
Okay, it may not be Zack Snyder's Watchmen, but at least it's not Zack Snyder's Sucker Punch. We should all be grateful for that, if nothing else...
All of the superhero movies at once, I think.
Go big or go home.
Sadly, I don't think it does.
And it does pain me to say that, even as a Marvel fanboy.
Not nearly.
Not at all.
There only bloody IS, yes!
Level 2: This film's got Scoot McNairy in it, and he was in Killing Them Softly with Ben Mendelsohn, who'll be in Star Wars: Rogue One later this year. Actually they were in Black Sea together as well, which is why my brain struggles to separate them since those films were where I saw both of them for the first time. Even though there's like this ten year age difference between them.
Anyway yeah, that. Look, I've been awake for 22 hours as I write this and I'm still too buzzed to sleep...
*1 I pretty much have to say this because I'm going to go on and pick it apart. But ultimately, it's a film I'll gladly watch again, even if that's just in prep for the sequel. I can see why the critics are mauling it, and as much fun as I had, I'd be hard pressed to actually disagree, put it that way.
*2 Oh, and further to Superman having My Two Robin Hood Dads, it turns out that Batman's parents are Maggie out of the Walking Dead and The Comedian out of Watchmen. Which explains a lot, when you think about it…
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.
