Favourites - Boyhood

This is part of a series of posts I have creatively titled "Favourites" where I write about an unashamedly personal selection of my favourite films.

In this epic art house saga, director Richard Linklater creates an unerringly honest study of the complexity of familial relationships, revelling in the beauty of the small moments, Boyhood is a love letter to the minutiae that ultimately constitute life. The film chronicles the life of Mason, played by Ellar Coltrane, from age 5 to 18. We see him transform completely, both physically and emotionally; his fresh faced open features become more angular, and an inquisitive wide-eyed charm becomes more reserved and introspective. Linklater renders this transformation with excruciating rigour, capturing its intricacies with characteristic delicacy and affection. 

Despite the considerable magnitude of the project, Linklater approaches it with the relaxed uncomplicated style we've come to expect, treating every scene with uncluttered tenderness. Transitions from one age to another are handled extremely subtly, so much so that the passage of time seems to become insignificant. Much in the same way that one barely notices the change in a person you are very close to, Boyhood shows its characters growth in such small increments that the overall transformation is hard to perceive during the film. Looking back, the whole experience is blurred into a tapestry of random moments that come together to form an impression of what happened; we lose the fine detail, but it is the impression that matters.

Boyhood is a film of a scale never before seen in Linklater's work, however, it contains themes which he has visited in previous films. The universal magic of coming of age is explored in a manner similar to Dazed and Confused; characters from both films muddle their way through rites of passage in touching fashion and one can see a lot of Mitch and Randy in Mason's laid-back approach to rebellion. Boyhood also continues on from the Before trilogy with a fascination with the ways in which relationships evolve over time. In both cases, we see characters develop, observing how their changing identities affect the dynamics between them. 

It is hard not to admire the film's extraordinarily dedicated execution of what is a relatively simple concept. As a result of the uncompromising realisation of this idea, the performances of the actors are imbued with a more profound meaning as - in many cases - the natural ageing of an actor aptly reflects their change in the film. This is perhaps seen most clearly in Mason's father, played by Ethan Hawke. At the start of the film he is lean and animated - his sharp features betraying an unreliable volatility - by the end he has mellowed in every sense, settling into a more responsible paternal role.

The life which we we are shown is delightfully ordinary; despite what would not be seen as a traditional upbringing with some low points, there is no melodrama. Instead, Linklater portrays these moments with a steadfast realism that makes them all the more emotionally affecting. In what I found the most touching moment of the film, we see Mason's mother question her life as Mason packs to go to college. She feels as if life has passed her by, a series of landmarks that don't amount to enough, "I just though there would be more" she says wistfully. However, this film shows that life isn't about the landmark moments, instead celebrating the accumulation of trivia that life comprises of. 

Boyhood is a film that doesn't try to answer any questions about what life means, it simply observes our muddled existence in all its glorious confusion, marvelling at its simple yet enigmatic beauty. When Mason questions his father "What's the point of it?", he responds in a manner that sums up the film's approach rather aptly, "Everything? What's the point of it? I mean I sure as shit don't know, neither does anybody else, we're all just winging it, the good news is you're feeling stuff".

GFF17 - Dangerous Dames

Brief thoughts on the films - shown for free at the Glasgow Film Festival (isn't that nice of them) - in the "Dangerous Dames" series that I managed to get along to.

Leave Her to Heaven

The first thing that strikes you about this film is the gorgeous technicolor. During this period, the dark themes of film noir would usually be reflected by the shadowy, moodily lit scenes in which the drama plays out. However, this is not the case in Leave Her to Heaven. Indeed, director of photography Leon Shamroy paints an idyllic picture of their surroundings, we see the deep blues of lakes and verdant hues of trees in all their glory. This hides the typical noir vice which bubbles beneath the surface in a rather apt manner, echoing the way in which our main character Ellen masks her transgressions beneath a facade of seemingly innocent beauty. 

Gene Tierney's murderously jealous partner Ellen is beguiling, playing her with a quiet coldness obscured by her good looks, she laces every coquettish smile with threat. A particularly chilling scene captures Ellen watching her husband's brother drown. As he starts to struggle, she sits there expressionless - eyes hidden behind her sunglasses - passively deciding his fate. We are implicated in what she has done by a performance that in many ways manages to make Ellen - a sociopath - sympathetic; somehow her motives are made to seem reasonable. Unfortunately, Cornel Wilde's performance as Ellen's husband Richard is far less engaging. My mum summed it up perfectly after leaving the cinema, describing him as "wet in the extreme". He seems to meander from one tragedy to another with a perverse lack of emotion. Given a narrative which lends itself to melodrama, one would expect a more involved performance.

We also have an extremely anticlimactic final courtroom scene that feels meaningless, a lawyer swans around - acting his little heart out - while director John M. Stahl attempts to tie the plot into a needlessly tidy bow. Despite this disappointing finish, Leaver Her to Heaven is a film of considerable appeal, pulsating with frenetic energy whilst simultaneously delivering a detached character study, it is a film all about what lies beneath its lacquered sheen.

Scarlet Street




Quintessentially noir themes abound in Fritz Lang's version of the Jean Renoir film La Chienne; we have the corrupting power of women, deception, and murder. Despite this, the film doesn't play like your typical noir. Indeed, it has an acutely comic edge which makes it feel like more of a black comedy thanks to a sharp script and excellent acting from the leads that many darkly funny moments.

Edward G. Robinson - excellently cast - plays a married cashier who falls for Joan Bennett's deceitful femme fatale Kitty. These performances are central to the success of the film, the physicality of Robinson's depiction of Chris Cross (great name) is admirable - always submissive with eyes downcast - he portrays a man used to subservience. Bennett plays Kitty with delightfully duplicitous allure, scheming for the duration, she is as charming as she is two-faced.  

Milton Krasner's cinematography also displays classic noir at its best, every shot is under-lit, shadowy and deceptive, reflecting the typically dark noir themes. Perhaps best displayed in a brilliantly bleak scene towards the end of the film. Chris - wracked with regret - sits in a cramped room, haunted by Kitty's voice; the minimal lighting makes you feel like she could really be with him in the room, hidden in one of the many dingy corners.      

Favourites - We Need to Talk About Kevin

This is part of a series of posts I have creatively titled "Favourites" where I write about an unashamedly personal selection of my favourite films.

We Need to Talk About Kevin - directed by Lynne Ramsey - is a gloriously nihilistic parable of parenthood, unafraid to ask some unsettling questions about the complex relationship between a parent and their children. What responsibility does a parent have for the actions of their offspring? Is a parent's love unconditional? Of course, this film offers an extreme example, but it strikes me as coming very close to unearthing some of the deepest darkest fears of every parent. 

The film is structured without any discernible pattern - jumping from past to present - adding to the spiky sense of disquiet that is present throughout. We cut between the aftermath of some terrible unknown, following the gaunt ghost-like figure that is Eva - the titular Kevin's mother - and three stages of Kevin's childhood, seen through the eyes of Eva. This disordered structure reflects the bewilderment of Eva's emotionally battered psyche, still seemingly incapacitated by the trauma inflicted by Kevin. 

The visuals of the first portion of the film are stained red, aptly foreshadowing the bloodshed that is to come. Eva scrubs at red paint left on her house, bathes in a sea of tomato pulp at some sort of festival, and wakes up to a room tinged red by the light streaming through her curtains. This bold visual metaphor paints Eva as a woman full of guilt for what has happened - the blood is on her hands - a woman forever tainted by her role in what Kevin did.   

As the sequences showing Kevin's upbringing are show in conjunction with what we come to learn must be the aftermath of something he has done, we see his development in a completely different light. Actions that would ordinarily be dismissed as harmless are laced with a more sinister edge. Our understanding that something bad is to come gives the film an irrepressible momentum that is central to its effectiveness. Observing the intricacies of Kevin's development is grimly compelling; as we watch the slow but sure progression towards the climax with morbid curiosity, the inevitability of the impending doom is gripping.

Just as enthralling is Swinton's portrayal of Eva's deterioration. She treats her impulsively satanic child with artificial affection that he sees right through. The film is full of excellent sequences detailing their extraordinary relationship as Kevin appears to purposely act badly in a perverse mission to spite her. He refuses to speak and deliberately soils his pants, cruelly toying with her emotions. Kevin is exhaustive; even resorting to what seems to be contrived good will towards his father, played with breezy optimism by John C. Reilly. The way in which Swinton portrays Eva's growing disbelief at the completeness of her son's hatred towards her is inspired; as his evil becomes apparent, she sinks into her self, painting a picture of a woman worn thin.

The film also plays as an excellently subtle denouncement of a middle class obsession with the appearance of happiness. It works in the tradition of other excellent films - American Beauty, Donnie Darko and Blue Velvet come to mind - exploring the unease that bubbles beneath the false suburban idyll that the characters attempt to create. A veneer of respectability is maintained at all costs, epitomised by the father's detached lightheartedness. They avoid the reality of their situation throughout, preferring to blindly search for some domestic utopia. After all, they never talk about Kevin.

Favourites - Fargo

This is part of a series of posts I have creatively titled "Favourites" where I write about an unashamedly personal selection of my favourite films.

The Coens are often criticised for simply making tributes to other better films, hopping from one genre to another, creating pastiches that don't break new ground. However, I am of the belief that it is their intimate appreciation of particular genres that allows them to play with their tropes, distorting these conventions into surprising new forms, independent of the original inspiration. In the case of Fargo, they tackle the true crime drama. We open with the classic line - "This is based on a true story" - already they are subverting expectations with a delightfully ironic playfulness that we will come to appreciate later in the film.   

What comes next is an opening as rousingly cinematic as any I have seen. Roger Deakins captures a bleak landscape of snow as two lights from a truck approach us. When it comes into focus - cresting the brow of a hill - Carter Burwell's score swells, creating a moment that is inexplicably stirring. This contrasts with what follows; a down to earth portrait of a typical small town bar. However, a juxtaposition such as this is not unusual for Fargo, indeed, it is a film of strange contrasts and unexpected combinations.

Chief amongst these is perhaps the marriage of intense violence with deadpan humour. This is shown in the scene that Marge Gunderson - played brilliantly by Frances McDormand - inspects a grisly crime scene. After a quick examination, she concludes that it was an "execution type deal", delivering the line with a matter of fact pragmatism. Later, when her partner interjects with a suggestion, she responds with the famous line, "I'm not sure I agree with you a hundred percent on your police work there Lou". Moments such as these not only provide comic relief for the audience but also ring true with the theme of ordinary people trying to cope in the face of immorality.  

The somewhat mundane everyday setting of the story - typified by the interactions between Marge and her husband Norm - helps to make the crimes seem all the more unconscionable. Contrasted against the innocence of Norm's sincere insistence to make Marge breakfast and his painting competitions, we see the violence in a shocking light. This works two ways though. The juxtaposition also serves to cement Marge and Norm as the great moral core of the story. Their inclusion humanises the film, and is central to, the paean to the everyday worker which the Coens ultimately create. 

I would be remiss not to mention the performances in the film. Frances McDormand is wonderful as Marge - the pregnant police officer- a quietly charismatic redeeming presence who is instantly sympathetic. Steve Buscemi puts in a brilliantly slimy turn as the hapless criminal and William H. Macy is equally pathetic as the car salesman with a foolish plan to have his wife kidnapped. However, these performances would not be the same without a script packed with the Coens typically acerbic wit; their writing laces the film with a unique tone that immediately differentiates it from your typical crime drama.

Another distinctive element to the film is its setting. In North Dakota the cold seems omnipresent and the snow seems infinite - the climate pervades every aspect of life - imbuing the film with an unmistakable sense of desolation. This bleakness is captured in all its austere grandeur by Deakins' cinematography. One particularly memorable scene displays Buscemi frantically burying a briefcase. He kneels next to a fence that seems to stretch to infinity as small drops of blood from a wound taint the crisp white snow. In comparison to the vast landscape in which he finds himself, his trials are made to seem very insignificant. This sequence is a fitting climax to what at times plays as an almost Shakespearean tragedy. The futility and ultimate pointlessness of their crimes is highlighted in telling fashion, as Marge so aptly puts it "There's more to life than a little money you know".   

GFF17 - Window Horses - Review

When we are first introduced to main character Rosie Ming - voiced by Sandra Oh - the way in which her face is drawn sticks out; it is practically featureless, two  small dashes for eyes on a white oval, we see her as a blank canvas. This aptly reflects Rosie's personality, an inquisitive - perhaps impressionable girl - still exploring what makes up her identity.  This exploration of identity politics is a central theme as Rosie comes to learn more about her complicated cultural heritage when she is invited to a poetry festival in Iran, discovering more about the circumstances surrounding her upbringing. 

Above all though, Window Horses - directed by Ann Marie Fleming - is a film that champions the universality of creative expression, focusing on the things that unite different cultures. During her time at the festival, Rosie encounters poetry from many countries, discovering that she doesn't need to understand Mandarin or Farsi to appreciate the emotion expressed in these poems. It is these moments that the film is most effective; the animation never ceases to find creative, visually arresting ways to articulate complex ideas. One particularly compelling sequence shows a performance from a Chinese poet. As he speaks, each noise he produces is represented by a white wave on a black background, travelling outwards until it reaches a member of the audience where it outlines their figure. This uncomplicated technique describes adeptly the effect of the poet's performance whilst captivating you on a visual level.

Artistically exciting animation is present throughout the film; as Rosie explores Iran, we see the country through her eyes, marvelling at its beguiling mystery. The muezzin's call to prayer is brought to life in extraordinary fashion in another example of an inventive visual representation of sound. However, the film does bring more than just thought-provoking animation, the script possesses a number of understated moments of comedic charm, backed up by strong voice work from the likes of Sandra Oh, Ellen Page and Don McKellar. McKellar's Dietmar - a brooding German poet with a droll turn of phrase - is particularly entertaining. One moment he is trying to inject some political commentary into Rosie's distinctly innocent poetry, the next he complains about his unhappiness, "I have angst!". 

Unfortunately, these moments are infrequent. Occasionally, the film seems to lack direction, as we meander from descriptions of Iranian history to somewhat predictable encounters in Rosie's discovery of her family. A pensive mood is created which can interest on an intellectual level, but at times things get a bit too cerebral and we stray into the world of navel gazing. However, it should be noted that this film was not created to grip. In many ways, the contemplative atmosphere is central to the film's appeal, and when coupled with the stunning animation and a brisk running time, there is plenty to keep you engaged.

GFF17 - Berlin Syndrome - Review

In director Cate Shortland's first foray into the world of genre cinema, she shows uncomplicated style, creating an unrelenting captivity thriller that plays something like Before Sunrise gone terribly wrong. Despite the film's undeniably genre tinged setting, it maintains distinctly art house trappings through its somewhat slow pace, uncompromising gender politics and distant tone, which is exemplified in the film's opening sequences. Almost voyeuristic shots of our backpacking protagonist Clare (Teresa Palmer) capture her making her way through Berlin as she is dwarfed by the city's imposing architecture. This portrayal paints her in a fragile light, aptly foreshadowing the helpless situation in which she will find herself.

When Clare meets teacher Andi (Max Riemelt), she is taken with his gentle manner as he makes seemingly cute English errors and talks about his childhood. Their relationship soon escalates; sensual sequences are captured with a tactility that serves to heighten the eroticism, as portions of the two bodies are silhouetted by moodily alluring lighting. During these intimate moments Andi assures her that "no one will hear you", a line that - when repeated later in the film - takes on a new, all the more sinister meaning. Delicate touches such as this epitomise the smart precision with which the film is constructed.

The story is adapted from Melanie Joosten's 2011 novel adroitly. Via a gradual dissemination of information during the opening portion of the film, a level of ambiguity is maintained which laces the section with a discomforting uneasiness. This feeling is amplified by an excellent Bryony Marks score which - via discordant strings - taints seemingly harmless moments with a sense of disquiet. Throughout the film, an aptitude for the manipulation of perspective is displayed as Shortland finds tension in unexpected moments, eschewing certain conventions of the thriller genre.

As the film progresses and Clare is subjected to a bizarre imprisonment through Andi's distorted sense of masculine entitlement, their confusing relationship lurches from banal discussions to cruel displays of his power. Although the threat of violence is omnipresent - it is used sparingly - giving the brief moments where it does appear a quivering intensity. Shortland instead prefers to focus on the complex emotional dynamic between the two characters, exploring - with subtlety - the intricacy of their relationship. Essential to this are the two lead actors, Palmer plays underplays Clare, depicting her recession into herself cleverly and Riemelt's depiction of Andi betrays a quiet tension that seems to be at the heart of his discontent.

An oppressive atmosphere pervades the scenes depicting her captivity; the flat where she is held is captured with claustrophobic realism and a bleak colour pallet lends a sense of hopelessness. This lack of colour makes the moments where it does appear all the more striking. The vivid pinks with which Clare's face are illuminated when she stares out the window towards some fireworks, and the deep red varnish left on a nail clipping found by Clare are given heightened significance. Indeed, Berlin Syndrome is an exercise in understatement - demonstrating the effectiveness of minimalism - the film has a lean simplicity that is entirely gripping.

Moonlight - Review

As we approach the climax of the film, our central character is questioned, "Who is you Chiron?". This question gets to the heart of what Barry Jenkins' Moonlight is above all about: an exploration of the development of a gay black man's identity. The film is divided into three acts, each chronicling a different stage of Chiron's life with considerable delicacy. The first a study of young Chiron - nicknamed "little" - a wide-eyed introvert weary of the world around him; the second, a brooding gangly adolescent trying to make sense of his feelings; the third, a confused man full of subdued longing.

During the three acts of the film, Chiron is played by three separate actors, Alex Hibbert, Ashton Sanders, and Trevante Rhodes. Despite this, the actors produce three portrayals of Chiron that can be easily viewed as one whole due to the consistency of body language and mannerisms. All three performances share a bowed head and searching eyes that emphasise a meditative shyness, however, importantly, each depiction manages to mirror his changing identity as Chiron grows. 

In the first act, a lot of camera movement is used, lending an intimacy to the portrayal of the characters. One sequence depicts Chiron and some other boys playing football in the park - the camera weaves this way and that - replicating the energy of the boys and imbuing the everyday scene with understated beauty. In other moments, Chiron's feelings of isolation and loneliness are expressed when he is depicted in wide angle, lost in seas of cold colours, dwarfed by the perceived magnitude of his surroundings. 

The combination of James Laxton's versatile cinematography and an enigmatic score from Nicholas Britell come together to give the film a distinctly cinematic edge, creating a vibrancy that transcends the (at times) gloomy subject matter. When we transition from one act to another this is particularly notable as dreamlike sequences depict arguments between Chiron and his mother. An unerringly still camera captures the two in hypnotic slow motion bathed in dramatic lighting (almost reminiscent of giallo), as Britell's animated strings flourish this way and that, creating an atmosphere of great importance.

Throughout the film we see stereotypes of life for black people subverted in surprising and interesting ways. Jenkins captures the complexity of the lives of the characters with care, avoiding cliché at all times. This is perhaps displayed most acutely by the portrayal of drug dealer Juan (Mahershala Ali). In one scene, we see Juan - an archetype of black masculinity - explaining the meaning of faggot to Chiron, condemning its use in a display of unashamedly liberal acceptance. Another particularly touching scene, shows Juan  teaching a young vulnerable Chiron how to swim. Juan is portrayed in a gentle light as a caring paternal side of his character is highlighted in a manner not often used with characters such as his.


Above all, this film deals with what it means to be not only black but also gay in America, exploring how identity and sexuality can be reconciled with black masculinity. The alienating effects of this are studied in excruciating detail as we see the progression and perhaps regression of Chiron, a man who ultimately tries to obscure a profound fragility with harsh machismo, almost paralysed by a hidden identity. In spite of this, Moonlight is irrepressible; a tender, subtle portrait of one man's life that shimmers with an effervescent energy.   

Toni Erdmann - Review

Maren Ade's Toni Erdmann is a film of unique eccentricity that - much like our central character - conceals layers of nuance that are not initially expected. Under Ade's uncomplicated yet adroit direction, a tonally surprising piece with a beguiling charisma is created that leaves you not knowing whether to laugh, cry or do both. 

We are first introduced to the man that will become the titular Toni Erdmann as he plays a joke on a postman, pretending that his brother has some sort of interest in parcel bombs. Winfried is a prank-loving music teacher that carries a pair of fake teeth in his pocket - played by Peter Simonischek - the performance is imbued with a good-natured authenticity that instantly endears you to him. His daughter, Ines, played by Sandra Hüller with equally subtle craft, is a careerist consultant working for an oil company in Bucharest. Via what we come to understand is a rare visit from Ines to see her father, their strained relationship is displayed; the encounter plays out in uncomfortable fashion as the father tries to hide his hurt with a series of misjudged jokes.

In a sequence of understated emotional heft, Winfried's dog dies. Through minimalist camera work that leaves the scene to play out from a distance we see Winfried come to realise what has happened to his dog. This simple detached approach lends a realism which allows the weight of Simonischek's performance to be fully appreciated. 

The dog's death serves as some sort of catalyst and before you know it, Winfried is in Bucharest. After the pair fail to connect once again, Winfired takes on the role of Toni Erdmann, an outlandish life coach complete with wig and fake teeth who crashes into Ines' business circle, one moment making small talk with her boss, the next, flirting with her friends. From this point, the film descends into a series of farcical encounters as Ines is forced to play along with the bizarre performance. Ade shows a masterful understanding of the intricacies of comedy, deftly contrasting the absurd freedom of Erdmann with the oppressive pressure of Ines' corporate world.

Indeed the film paints a critical picture of the dehumanising effects of global capitalism. When Erdmann is not on screen, we are shown a cold world of callous relationships, haircuts, and "contacts". In the scenes with Erdmann, his presence highlights the absurdity of the sterilised bubble they have created, free from the reality of the struggles of other people. In a scene of particular power, a local man welcomes Erdmann into his home to use his toilet in what is a telling view into the lives of the people that Ines' decisions affect.

There are moments in the film that Ade leans slightly too heavily on the stereotype of the career-obsessed childless women that should be pitied. However, the cliche is largely avoided as the flaws of both Winfiried and Ines are portrayed fairly. Winfried reminds Ines of the importance of occasionally liberating yourself from social convention and Ines helps Winfried find purpose in his life. We see this displayed in a irrepressible scene of unexpected poignancy where Winfried coaxes Ines into a public performance of Whitney Houston's The Greatest Love of All. Hüller depicts Ines' transition from reluctance with admirable skill; as she belts out the saccharine number, the catharsis is palpable. 

Much of the brilliance of the film lies in the pacing, an unconventionally long running time allows for delicate transitions in mood as we progress from uproarious moments of The Office style cringiness to sequences of touchingly gentle pathos. Toni Erdmann shows a director in complete control - every moment of every scene feels necessary - as Ade creates an epic study of father-daughter relationships.

Favourite five - Woody Allen

A list of my five favourite Woody Allen films in no particular order. Some honourable mentions also have to go to:
Broadway Danny Rose
Blue Jasmine
Stardust Memories
Bananas

Annie Hall (1977)

Annie Hall is in many ways the most Woody Allen-y of all his films (perhaps just because its mainstream success helped to define our idea of Woody Allen-yness). But anyway, Allen plays a witty, grousing and of course neurotic creative supported by Diane Keaton in the female lead, who is as scatterbrained as she is sharp. Via near constant introspection from Allen we are guided through the world from his confused perspective, treating us to an unbroken stream of intellectual wit and his unique brand of cynicism. It is often forgotten that although this is a film made up primarily of speaking, few films have done speaking with such invention. There is of course the subtitled dialogue between Allen and Keaton, split screen sequences in which characters address each other, and frequent breaking of the fourth wall ("You know nothing of my work"). Above all, the brilliance of Annie Hall lies in its refusal to follow conventions, its irrepressible charm is caused as a result of its quirks and idiosyncrasies.   

Manhattan (1979)












Manhattan begins with one of the most inexplicably wonderful opening sequences ever. As Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue swells, we see Manhattan captured in all its black and white glory by Gordon Willis, accompanied by touchingly funny narration from Allen. Manhattan's narrative centres on Isaac (Allen) and his relationship with two women, Tracy (Mariel Hemingway), a high school 17 year old, and Mary (Diane Keaton), a writer. Both women, almost polar opposites of each other, are played brilliantly. Tracy has a self assured candor central to her character portrayed beguilingly by Hemingway, whereas, Mary is full of fickle nervous energy and intellectualism ("I always was a sucker for Germanic theatre"). The beauty with which Gordon Willis' widescreen black and white cinematography imbues the city also has to be mentioned. We see the interior of Isaac's apartment captured with a brooding intensity that Sven Nykvist would have been proud of, Allen and Keaton's faces are silhouetted against the backdrop of a planetarium in a sequence that feels genuinely otherworldly, and there is of course the shot of them sitting at the bench overlooking Queensboro bridge as the sun comes up. 

Hannah and her Sisters (1986)

In Hannah and her Sisters we follow the lives of Hannah and her two other sisters via a series of overlapping stories. As is so often the case in Allen's best films, an excellent balance is struck between emotional heft and comedic lightness. With small titles, white font on a black screen, breaking up each part of the story, the drama is played out with a theatrical tone, as his confused characters flounder in their quest for meaning. Nobody portrays this conflict with more skill than Michael Caine who puts in a performance of touching authenticity playing the husband of Hannah, who falls in love with her sister. However, the delicacy with which the intricacies of the relationships between the three sisters are realised is what strikes me above all. The complicated dynamic is captured wonderfully in a scene where the three sisters go out for lunch. As they argue about various topics, the camera circles the table, moving from one reaction to another, each time revealing a new depth to each relationship. The complexity is displayed in excruciating detail as we come to understand the distinct ways in which each sister relies on the other.  

Crimes and Misdemeanours (1989)

Crimes and Misdemeanours is one of the most bleak and acerbic of Woody Allen's films, despite this, it manages to maintain a remarkably prominent comedic tone. The film centres on Judah (Martin Landau), a narcissistic ophthalmologist with a distorted view of his own morality who orders the murder of his mistress Dolores. Judah  receives no retribution for his actions, lacing the film with a nihilistic streak more caustic than any of Allen's other work. Via this story, Allen investigates a number of philosophical quandaries. Why should we act in a moral way? Is the only thing that motivates moral actions a fear of being caught? In one particularly memorable scene, Judah has an imaginary conversation with his rabbi where he discusses breaking up with his wife. He rationalises his actions in a self important manner typical of his character, "She won't forgive me... she idealises me." Allen also plays a vital role in the film as a maker of unthinkably dull documentaries, preventing the film from becoming too bogged down in its cerebral pretensions. His character provides the usual laughs by means of sardonic analysis of both himself and a world which never ceases to mystify him. In the film, Allen's direction is able to deftly incorporate disparate themes with an admirable elegance, achieving something as dark as it is funny. 

Husbands and Wives (1992)




In our first introduction to the characters of Husbands and Wives, the movement of the camera, in many ways, foreshadows the fate of their relationships. As we float this way and that, tracing a confused path around the characters with what appears to be indecision, their turmoil becomes clear. Husbands and Wives tells the tale of two couples as they grapple with what they think their relationships should constitute; as they age, and their idealised notions of a perfect marriage become evermore distant, Allen ponders (in classic Allen fashion) the meaning of love. Handheld camera work gives a documentary like immediacy to the film which breeds an intimacy with the characters, and jump cuts are used frequently to give the dialogue a disjointedness reflective of the bewilderment of the characters. Husbands and Wives is a film which raises many questions but answers none of them, leaving you just as confused as the characters.  

Solaris - Review

All seven of Tarkovsky's films have recently been re-released in the Sculpting Time retrospective. I took the chance to see go and see his third feature, Solaris.

Tarkovsky's take on science-fiction, tells the tale of psychologist Kris Kelvin (Donatas Banionis) as he travels to a space station to investigate reports of strange goings on. The film opens with images of his garden, capturing the plants in a magical light which establishes a detached, transcendent visual style, maintained throughout the film. Cuts are infrequent as languid camera movements lend a sense of importance to each shot; this slow pace invites us to consider every image in extreme detail, giving the film a contemplative atmosphere.

After discussion with an ex-pilot who claims the star system had supernatural effects on his mind, Kelvin makes his way to the space station. On first arrival, we enter a particularly gripping portion of the film, as Kelvin is confronted with bizarre hallucinations, he starts to question his sanity. The ambiguity which permeates the whole atmosphere creates a tension that is only added to by the precise passivity of Tarkovsky's visuals. Some light is shed when Kelvin meets the other scientists on the station and his descriptions of hallucinations are met with knowing looks of resignation.

As the film continues we come to understand that the star system is able to play with the consciousness of the inhabitants of the station, creating "guests", physical manifestations of the memories the inhabitants. Kelvin sees Hari (Natalya Bondarchuk), a girl he once loved before she commited suicide. It is the relationship that progresses between them that is the heart of the film; as Kelvin comes to love her once again, philosophical questions about the nature of love and perception are posed. Hari has been given self understanding and free will by the star system that gives her the capacity to realise that she isn't the same person that once knew Kelvin. Both of them are distressed by the disconnect between their emotions, giving the film a sorrowful tone as they realise the hopelessness of their relationship.

Comparisons have often been made between this film and Kubrick's 2001. It is true that there are many similarities: reflections on the nature of alien life, a challenging lack of narrative drive, and a captivating visual style. Despite this, I believe the central philosophy of the two films is vastly different. In Solaris, the alien intervention causes introspection and an analysis of human nature, however, in 2001, contemplation of a cosmic scale is caused, as our place in the universe is questioned.   

Of course, there are moments that the glacial pace of the film grates. Some sequences of monologue featuring philosophical ruminations on the role of science near the end of the film lost my attention. However, in many ways, the beauty of the film lies in the slow pace; as a result of the distant meditative approach, a sense of enigmatic grandeur is achieved which would not have been possible in an hour and a half. Few directors would have had the audacity to even attempt a film this unconventional, but through this invention Tarkovsky creates something unique, a quality that should always be appreciated.

Top ten - 2016

A regrettably late (only a month or so) list of my ten favourite films of last year (UK release). Before we get started, here are some honourable mentions:
When Marnie Was There
Arrival
Hail, Ceasar!
Things to Come

10. Midnight Special



Midnight Special, directed by Jeff Nichols, is an engrossing throwback to the blockbusters of the 80's, that delicately evokes the likes of Spielberg and Carpenter. This film displays mastery of the 'show don't tell' principle; with next to no exposition, it was happy to leave the unpicking of the plot to the audience resulting in an ambiguity which adds to the mysterious atmosphere of the film. Lens flares abound in Adam Stone's cinematography, which elegantly marries the sci-fi elements of the film with an earthy naturalism. We are also treated to some excellent performances from Michael Shannon (lots of intense staring into the distance) and Kirsten Dunst who add an emotional intensity to the narrative. 

9. Your Name



This pensive tale of longing and cosmic forces secured the place of director Makoto Shinkai as a major player in Japanese animation, drawing comparisons to the great Hayao Miyazaki. Despite obvious parallels between their work, moments of photo-realism in Your Name contrast quite drastically with the fantastical world portrayed by Miyazaki in films such as Princess Mononoke. These examples of photo-realism give the narrative a grounded feeling rooted in human emotion and frequent moments of comedy are played with a lightness of touch that leave the characters instantly endearing.  

8. Sing Street



Sing Street's main character Conor talks about writing a song which is "happy/sad". In the film, director John Carney weds a nostalgic romanticism and emotional heft, creating something that is truly "happy/sad". Well written songs give the film a kinetic hyperactivity that reflects the excitement felt by the young characters as they form their band and a particularly moving performance by Conor's older brother adds a melancholic streak that plays on themes of aspiration and missed opportunities.


7. Spotlight

Sifting through archives, calling people to follow up leads, and battering away at computers. Despite the film spending a majority of its running time with activities that one would not expect to lend themselves to cinematic verve, an understated spectacle of strength and subtlety is crafted. Following in the considerable footsteps of All the President's Men, the engrossing procedural combines an uncomplicated visual style and sharp script to let the extraordinary story do the talking. Crucially, the film also manages to avoid self righteous liberal preachiness which I think would have detracted from the poignant reserved sadness which is instead found at the centre of the film. 

6. The Hateful Eight

Everybody's favourite self aware cineliterate auteur Quentin Tarantiino's eighth film was in many ways quintessential Tarantino. His take on the western teems with references to Sergio Leone, there is a rather expository but quotable script, and of course considerable gore. Despite the obvious indulgences, I found it impossible not to be swept up into the bizarre world of Tarantino where people love profanity and excessive bloodshed seems to be the solution to every problem. A majority of the film is spent in Minnie's Haberdashery which is captured in glorious detail by the super widescreen cinematography of Robert Richardson. The Haberdashery crawls with misogyny, racism and violence, becoming an encapsulation of the divisions found in America at that time. This conspires to create a brilliantly claustrophobic oppressive atmosphere that hangs over the whole film similar to that which hung over America.  

5. The Wailing

This Korean rural thriller-horror hybrid, directed by Hong-jin Na, has an unrelenting intensity at its core that propels the narrative to supremely dark and unsettling areas. Like much of Korean genre cinema, the film takes many surprising turns tonally. We start with a procedural thriller with elements of dark comedy similar to Bong Joon-ho's Memories of Murder, but as the narrative progresses we are caught off guard as more fantastical horror themes are introduced. Na combines a twisting plot, typically 'turned up to 11' Korean performances, and beautifully captured landscapes to create a sombre mood which is heightened by the truly disquieting elements of horror found in the film. 

4. Room

The brilliance of this film is in the incredible vitality it manages to show despite its harrowing subject matter. The film is wonderfully inventive in its exploration of themes other than their imprisonment, in much the same way that the central characters look beyond the confines of their captivity. In the first act, we explore parenthood, perception, and the human spirit in touching detail. Director Lenny Abrahamson chooses to open with shots that emphasise the perspective of the child and a gentle score that highlights the nurturing setting that the mother has created, painting a picture of a world less terrifying than you would expect, he feels comfortable in this space as it is his all he has ever known. What we are above all shown, is an uplifting, life-affirming portrayal of the relationship between a mother and her child 

3. Embrace of the Serpent

This film tells the tale of two western explorers separated by decades, as they are guided by a tribal shaman through a dreamlike monochrome portrayal of the Amazon. In this condemnation of colonial influence, director Ciro Guerra displays the devastating effect of imperialism. One particularly disturbing scene that pulsates with a frenzied energy depicts a kurtzian figure (originally a christian missionary) who declares himself "messiah of the Indians", at which point things take a Lord of the Flies style turn for the worse. The theme of the insatiable desire of the western man to find the heart of the jungle is present throughout the film, resulting in echoes of Apocalypse Now; however crucially, this is offset by the character Karamakate who gives a distinct perspective. On the whole, the film is delicately crafted. The transitions from one period to another are seamlessly woven into the film, concocting a hypnotically surreal atmosphere, and the widescreen monochrome cinematography imbues the film with an inescapable beauty.

2. Paterson

A truly warm hearted celebration of the beauty of the everyday that brims with unassuming innocence and straightforward charm. The narrative follows the simple life of contentedly unpublished poet and bus driver Paterson and his wife Laura who doesn't work. This is a film that delights in the poetry of little things, a paean to the artistry that can be found in our everyday routines. In one of many oddly touching moments, Paterson starts composing a poem to a box of matches as he eats his breakfast; the film progresses thus at a wonderfully glacial pace. Like much of Jarmusch's work there is a droll, deadpan comedic streak present which serves to keep the piece engaging and the endlessly watchable Adam Driver is also instantly sympathetic as Paterson.   


1. Mustang

Mustang is a The Virgin Suicides-esque coming of age tale of five sisters growing up in Anatolia; the exuberant vitality of the sisters is matched by the film in a politically tinged drama that explores sexuality, female identity and rebellion. While the account of social conservatism is often distressing as the sisters house is turned into a "wife factory" with barred windows and confiscated telephones, there is an irrepressible spirit central to the film, epitomised by the sisters, that inspires frequent moments of levity. A particularly poignant scene depicts the sisters play fighting, the camera dances between them, matching their energy, capturing stray limbs illuminated by the sunlight that streams through their barred windows.  This moment encapsulates the heart of the film, a shared ebullience in the face of what ultimately amounts to oppression.