Well, this is a slightly awkward. I went to see the new writer/director Barry Jenkins flick, Moonight, yesterday. As a three-chaptered story of internal, social and sexual identity, it's pretty great. I just don't have that much to say about it.
And it's not that I don't know how to respond to the film, more that my response is a sort of quiet contemplation. Three segments follow the central character, Chiron, as a child, teenager and adult, through the gang and drug culture of Miami's urban sprawl. And among the domestic struggles we've seen so often over the years in these settings, Chiron thinks from an early age that he might be gay. The film is about how Chiron comes to terms with that, and Jenkins uses quiet introspection where others have used righteousness and rage. This is a calm film about turbulent times. That said, it wasn't as overtly impactful as I'd expected which caught me off guard, but at the same time it wasn't all melodramatic hand-wringing either. Issues are addressed but never resolved neatly, and the film's central subject-matter isn't its sole focus. Yet this borderline reluctance to fit neatly into a standard cinematic box saw me willing the story forward, while at the same time wishing each section was significantly longer and more involved. Maybe I'd have preferred it as three one-hour TV episodes?
Moonlight features solid turns all round under Jenkins' stoic direction, but the standout performances come from Ashton Sanders as the teenage Chiron, and Naomie Harris as his drug-addicted mother (in all three segments). Although at the same time, I want to take points off for the needlessly distracting hand-held cameras (and associated focusing issues), and also for a sound-mix that reduces every third line to an unintelligible mumble.
I enjoyed Moonlight more than this review probably suggests. It didn't blow me away by any means, but it's stayed with me. Which is better, naturally.
I actually don't know, that's how stumped the film has left me.
It's more of a Sunday DVD, to be fair.
Undoubtedly.
It's the first time I've seen many of the faces here, but the film should be at the top of everyone's CV, I'm sure.
Depends on why we're disagreeing.
There's not.
Level 2: Well, that Naomi Harris is in this, and she was in that Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End along with Keira 'Sabé' Knightley.
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.
Ah, what could be better for the lunchtime film-slot than catching up with Obi-Wan, Monneypenny and Bootstrap Bill? Perhaps only doing it at the ear-splitting volume normally reserved for crap horror movies? (That's your call, Cineworld, but it's not like there's mumbled dialogue to make up for in this film)
So, director Susanna White manages to do what Tomas Alfredson apparently couldn't all those years ago, and brings a John Le Carré thriller to the big screen without it being a complete, stilted mess. And at no point is a tent-based live entertainment facility identified in the script as having a Talpidae-infestation in its uppermost reaches…
University lecturer Perry (Ewan McGregor), his barrister wife Gail (Naomi Harris), Russian Mafia informant Dima (Stellan Skarsgård) and British Intelligence operative Hector (Damian Lewis) lead the story of corruption and money laundering through Marrakech, London, Paris and Bern, in a surprisingly tense thriller that never feels over-egged, somehow.
Harris, Skarsgård and Lewis are fantastic as the core characters for the film, sometimes leaving Ewan McGregor struggling to keep up. He struggles well, but you can see the strain. Meanwhile, cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle comes through his desaturated colour-palette and subdued lighting, and manages to conjure reflections and lens-flare as if by magic. It's a striking combination, but it works well. Visually, the film is definitely glossier than a made-for-TV thriller, but its content wouldn't be out of place at 9pm on a Sunday evening*1 (although this says more about the quality of modern TV than it does about cinema, admittedly).
With its 108 minute runtime, the film rolls at a very measured pace, with White neither rushing nor dawdling, allowing the plot to unfurl organically. And there's little-to-none of the double-cross twists you'd expect of the genre, if only because the audience don't fully trust any of the characters to begin with.
The film may not pick up too many awards (or even that much recognition), but Our Kind of Traitor is an example of a film succeeding in a genre which should be more than overcrowded by now. An intelligent thriller which never feels it has to be needlessly confusing or obscure in its storytelling.
Come for the writing; stay for the performances.
And massive props go to screenwriter Hossein Amini, who gives Mark Gatiss the best acerbic (and utterly deadpan) quip of the film with "…I don't like the c**t any more than you do". Unless your name is Guy Ritchie, you do not drop a line like that lightly.
The second-best dialogue exchange comes in a car-scene, as Stellan opens his shirt to Ewan, revealing a chest inked in symbolic mafia ephemera. "Do you know what this is?", he asks, pointing to an illustration over his solar plexus. "Is it a clearly fake tattoo…", Ewan replies, "…drawn on less than ten minutes ago in blue felt-tips by the work-experience kid who's heard of Russian Mafia tats, but has never seen one?".
Stellan looks out of the window awkwardly as the scene fades to black…
Only if you want to appreciate the cinematography on a massive screen.
It does.
Not best, but deserving of a place on the CV, certainly.
Nope.
Nope.
Level 1: Obi-Wan Kenobi's in this.
*1 Although it's also worth pointing out that director Susanna White has helmed relatively few cinematic features, but has a lot of solid TV work under her belt.
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.
Spectre (NO PLOT-SPOILERS)
Cert: 12A / 148 mins / Dir. Sam Mendes / Trailer
Right, I'll keep this short. Just got in from seeing Bond 24*1 and wanted to review it while it's fresh. Unfortunately, I can't talk about any of what's on my mind without wading into spoiler-territory. Hit me up in this thread on the Facebook page if you want to paddle in those waters. In the meanwhile…
Yes, the much-anticipated Spectre finally hits our screens three years after Skyfall, headed once again by director Sam Mendes and starring Daniel Craig as everyone's favourite craggy-faced governmental hit-man. As Mendes' second Bond-outing and Craig's fourth, expectations are running understandably high, especially as the story follows the ongoing thread surrounding MI5 and its place in the global security chain. But chess-metaphors abound as shadowy forces move behind the scenes, and James Bond discovers his nemesis.
To be honest, it's an odd fish of a movie which has been undermined by its own hype. Thoroughly acceptable (indeed fantastic in many places), but capable of much more depth which it squanders lieu of car/boat/plane chases and a largely unconvincing central relationship between Bond and Dr Madeleine Swann (and that's largely down to her under-developed character). Monica Bellucci is underused, Dave Bautista is underused, and although Christoph Waltz gets his moment in the spotlight, he's seriously underused. All of this wouldn't be a problem if there was more going on at the Bond-end of things, but compared to his shellshocked, self-doubting character in Skyfall, James is running on autopilot a little here.
But it's still one hell of an autopilot, of course. Ben Whishaw's Q is a welcome low-key touch to the film, as it Ralph Fiennes' M (as he deftly steals some of the best lines). The film's about half an hour too long, the script is occasionally over-written, as is the action, yet all of this isn't a drawback. In fact, it's not really until you get outside of the cinema that you start thinking about all the things you didn't get.
But enough of my moaning. Spectre is very, very good at being a James Bond film, and that's what's important. Of course it could be more, and many might feel it should be more. But let's not over-analyse what is a proudly mainstream action-thriller and a British institution in its own right.
…right?
It is, but probably just the once.
Well obviously you're going to buy it; it has to go with the others, doesn't it?
Sadly not.
I think Spectre achieves what Spectre sets out to do, but that's not what Skyfall had lined up for it.
Not particularly.
There isn't.
The latest Bond installment features Mr Mark Preston as an un-named Spectre-agent, who also appears as an un-named Stormtrooper in Star Wars: The Force Awakens, and as an un-named stormtrooper (presumably a different one) in Star Wars: Rogue One.
It may be an 'extra' role, but fair fucking play to the guy :)
*1 Sounds like the world's most exciting news-channel; it's actually just real-time footage of glue drying. Sorry.
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.
Southpaw (PLOT SPOILERS)
Cert: 15 / 124 mins / Dir. Antoine Fuqua / Trailer
Okay, full disclosure (although regular readers will probably already know), I don't really do boxing-movies. Nothing personal against boxing-movies, but I don't really do boxing, because I don't really do sport. If you want to watch sport, watch sport; it's not inherently cinematic in itself, and it's generally not narratively interesting. That said, there are movies (case in point, Rush) which use sport as a background to tell great stories, and in doing so become great films. And for the first 45 minutes or so at least, Antoine Fuqua's Southpawis a great movie.
The film begins with Billy 'The Great' Hope securing the World Light Heavyweight championship title winning his 43rd consecutive match, and then guides us to a tragic event, following which Billy loses everything; his family, his job, his house and the vast majority of his friends and entourage as he uncovers a clearer picture of who had his back all along. The events of the film's first act are emotionally stunning, and Jake Gyllenhaal, Rachel McAdams and Oona Laurence give incredible performances accordingly.
Once Billy hits rock bottom however, and arrives at a run-down gym owned by Forest Whitaker's grizzled veteran trainer Wills, it seems that director Antoine Fuqua loses interest in the human drama and just wants to make a boxing-movie after all. Every tired old trope is duly rolled out, from the starting-again-at-the-bottom approach to Billy's training, through the I'm-a-disappointment-to-my-kid and the associated quivering bottom-lip, all the way to a-training-montage-set-to-music (yes, really). I should point out that it's never a bad boxing movie, but it certainly becomes a one you've seen before (and as mentioned, I don't watch boxing-movies and even I've seen it before). Because quite frankly, when the promo-material trumpets that it's "from the director of The Equalizer", how groundbreaking do you expect the end product to be?
But saving the film, indeed lifting it triumphantly, is Gyllenhaal's performance. Even in its most pedestrian moments, the screenplay is graced with the presence of one of the finest screen actors of his generation. Countering this perfectly is Oona Laurence as his daughter Leila, a role which could easily have come off as bratty and contrary with any other actress, but to which she brings a genuine sense of internal conflict*1. And last but not least is Rachel McAdams, demonstrating once again that while she doesn't always pick the most challenging roles, she's got the skills when the part calls for them*2.
Jake Gyllenhaal is giving everything he's got as an immersive screen performer to a story of trust, loss, regret and redemption.
Forest Whitaker is in a boxing movie.
Oh, and I mentioned plot spoilers.
Do not read if you haven't seen the film. Now, as the film goes on, the converging screenplay makes it perfectly clear that this underdog-story is only going to end one way. And I'm fine with that. Of course Billy is going to accept the grudge-match fight against his moral enemy. Of course that fight is going to go on for twelve rounds with both fighters in increasing states of disrepair. Of course that last round is going to go on until the final few seconds when our hero will land one final uppercut which sends his nemesis flying backwards in a high-framerate/slow-motion spray of blood, sweat and saliva. But when Escobar then gets up again before the bell rings; when the winner is decided by the judges and even then Billy only squeezes through by two points, he hasn't really redeemed himself, has he? It may be a technical victory, but it's not the moral, narrative one if he's only "slightly" better than his opponent. He hasn't spent the last two hours of our time proving that he's "about the same" as the major-league arsehole from act 1, has he? He hasn't gone on this elliptical journey of self-realisation and fulfilment only to be validated not by his own actions and determination, but by a judge who frankly couldn't made a decision either way, has he? Really, Fuqua? Really? Apart from that, I really enjoyed it.
Oh, and…
When Maureen is shot in the scuffle at the hotel lobby, the police tell Billy that they suspect it was one of his minders that had the gun, but they can't go any further because "no-one's talking". What the actual fuck? A hotel that opulent would have CCTV everywhere, especially in a public-area like the lobby. Even if the gun was concealed at the time of the shot, the CCTV would pick up the muzzle-flare and/or the recoil easily. Are the NYPD really lazy enough to suspend a murder investigation of an international sporting champion's wife in public because "no-one wants to talk"? What's worse is that no-one outside of the police force really seems to give a shit about it for the rest of the film, either. …it's still rather good, though. Really.
If boxing movies are your thing, yes.
Probably a rental, you may not get enough rewatch-value to buy it.
Gyllenhaal is on fire, once again.
Only just.
Nah.
There isn't.
Southpaw stars none other than Forest Whitaker, due to make an appearance in 2016's Star Wars: Rogue One.
*1 Although during the final, climactic match, her section of the script devolves to "Oh! Daddy's getting hurt!", as if she's been previously unaware that he's a boxer and has forgotten all the nights he's come home and kissed her goodnight, drooling blood all over her duvet. No seriously, this happens in the film. That won't come out at forty degrees...
*2 One of McAdams' first scenes sees her sending an apparently surreptitious text to an unknown recipient, in a sort of "oh, we'll be coming back to this one later" type way. Then it's never mentioned again. What gives there, then? Trust-issues sub-plot lost in the edit?
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.
Even at a glute-testing two and a half hours, there's a feeling that Long Walk To Freedom needs the sort of screentime which only a TV series can bestow. In some ways the film is far too long, yet in others not nearly long enough. The first act positively whizzes by, and many of the formative events of the young Mandela's years seem to be shown if only to tick them off some checklist. It's this part of the film which does justice to neither the man nor the cause he fought for. Once events leading up to Mandela's imprisonment are played out, the screenplay settles down to a more coherent pace, and we begin to get a clearer picture of Mandela's ideals and modus operandi, although again, if you're going to show 27 years in one act of a film, you have to skim over a fair amount. The plot picks up pace again once the South African government begin negotiations leading to Mandela's release, and the subsequent years seem more a set of bullet points than a character study.
As a personal portrayal of Nelson Mandela, Long Walk To Freedom struggles despite the fantastic work of both Idris Elba and Naomie Harris; there are too many political events at play for the film to concentrate fully on the complicated relationship between the two. As an historical document, the film also falls short, trying to relay too large a timespan in one sitting, skipping over too many details for viewers who aren't already familiar with the chronology.
On a more technical note, the passage of time is relayed quite shoddily for a movie which is about just that. Quite often we get location captions, but relatively few of these feature the year in which the segment is taking place. Since many of the scenes are years apart, the audience is left guessing the elapsed time by gauging how much Nelson's children have grown, especially since Idris Elba doesn't seem to age at all for the first two acts, and Naomie Harris either has shares in Oil of Olay, or is some sort of vampire. My make-up-department flippancy aside, in a film based on chronological history, not dating most of the scenes seems a bewildering choice, at best.
By the end of the film I felt as if I'd been taught (albeit fleetingly) about a series of historical events, but not necessarily about the people who took part in them. Anyone watching the film hoping to get a glimpse of the man behind the legend could well come away feeling disappointed, and I'd expected to be far more moved by the final reel than I actually was. That said, it's worth a watch to see what Elba and Harris bring to their roles; they're always good value, and Long Walk To Freedom is no exception.
Largely.
Not enough.
I think it achieves what Justin Chadwick set out to do.
You won't lose anything by watching this at home.
No.
With the best will in the world, I shouldn't imagine so.
There isn't. There's room for one, but even I can see how inappropriate it would seem…
I think a film about one of the most influential and important people in the 20th century should be more… well, inspirational, frankly. Let me know what you thought of Long Walk To Freedom in that comment-box down there, or via the Facebook page.
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.
