The Happiest Day in the Life of Olli Mäki, director Juho Kuosmanen's debut feature, is a boxing film that whilst still being a film about boxing is about as far from the likes of Rocky that you can get. Here Kuosmanen takes his cues from the French New Wave more than anything from the tradition of the boxing film, swapping the stirring training montages you might expect for wonderful The 400 Blows style tracking shots. The result is a deft, heartwarming study of two people in love, likeably refreshing in its unassuming good-naturedness.
The character being studied is Finnish boxer Olli Mäki, also know as "The Baker of Kokkola" (an appropriately down to earth nickname), in the build up to his world championship fight against American boxer Davey Moore which is set to be held in Helsinki. It is the bizarre rigmarole that is this buildup that provides the setting for much of the film. As we follow our delightfully quiet protagonist navigating the various obligations that surround the event, the milieu is seen through his slightly disillusioned eyes.
Kuosmanen and Jarkko Lahti (Olli Mäki) work well here to find unexpected moments of comedy - punctuating the somewhat intrusive publicity events with Olli's lovable grin - they contrast his seemingly benign spirit with the intense boxing world to great comedic effect. His consistent failure to look tough for photo shoots and Bill Murray in Lost in Translation style confusion at the instructions of a documentarian that is following his exploits were particularly funny.
Above all though, it is the humble gentle nature in which he portrays Mäki (reminiscent of Adam Driver's titular Paterson) that is endearing, Mäki's slightly introverted, straightforward approach was completely charming. Finishing a close second in the charming ratings is the aforementioned partner Raija - played by Oona Airola whose broad open features seem the perfect match for the more lean, acute ones of Mäki - her ever supportive, no nonsense approach to their relationship is portrayed nicely.
Also noteworthy is the rich graininess of the black and white in which events are captured. Shot on 16mm with a raw immediacy evocative of Truffaut or Godard, Kuosmanen and his cinematographer J.P. Passi follow the characters movements closely, painting a tender, intimate picture of plain everyday moments. They also make use of the Finnish countryside, filming some ravishing scenes of Olli training. One particular shot of him swimming was up there with Ciro Guerra's Embrace of the Serpent for most spectacular looking water captured on film in recent years.
So to conclude, The Happiest Day in the Life of Olli Mäki is an interesting take on the boxing film, breaking from the often seen cliché of relationships being a hindrance to someone's path to greatness, this film is a paean to simple, sincere love. Interspersed with many truly charming moments shared by Olli and Raija - skimming stones on a lake and riding their bike together - Kuosmanen delights in the beauty of companionship, ultimately making a perhaps valid point about what is most important in life.
Directed by Jordan Vogt-Roberts, Kong: Skull Island continues in the same vein as the first film in Legendary Entertainment's burgeoning MonsterVerse Godzilla. It has clumsy expository dialogue, thumbnail caricatures for characters that border on the comical, and actors that have proved themselves as excellent reduced to looking shocked. Despite all this, Kong: Skull Island finds redemption to some extent (in a manner similar to Godzilla) in its main attraction: the monsters.
For all of its clunkiness when it comes to dialogue and character development (or lack there of), the realisation of the monsters in Kong: Skull Island is decidedly unclunky. First and foremost, there is Kong who is spectacularly impressive - a towering mass of fur - his sheer heft is a great example of the way the film manages to avoid the kind of CGI fuelled weightlessness that plagues so many blockbusters. Almost as impressive are the collection of other monsters with which Kong shares Skull Island. There are unsettling reptilian creatures that scurry about, a very large squid like thing with which Kong has a tussle, and an equally big spider inspired beast that makes the one in Lord of the Rings look fairly tame.
Unfortunately, it's hard to have quite as much fun with the human characters who are crippled by a stiff script and fairly limiting roles. The two main ones James Conrad (I don't think his sharing a name with Joseph Conrad is a coincidence) and Mason Weaver played by Tom Hiddleston and Brie Larson respectively are incredibly underused, spending a majority of their time on screen running, jumping, and looking scared. Although, perhaps this is a good thing as the few moments where they do bother with talking had me laughing for all the wrong reasons. In one remarkably poor scene, the two look out on some mysterious Aurora Borealis style lights, as Hiddleston talks of the "mythic hero" that was his father, it's hard not to be amazed by how completely wooden two perfectly good actors have been made to look.
More enjoyable, though still leaving plenty to be desired is the supporting cast, also packed out with top of the range Hollywood talent. Samuel L. Jackson is Colonel Preston Packard, playing him with the standard contemptuous intensity, we have a couple of crowbarred in Pulp Fiction "furious anger" style moments for our enjoyment. There's also John Goodman as government official Bill Randa whose opening line, "there'll never be a more screwed-up time in Washington", was quite amusing given the current state of things. Finally, there is stranded World War 2 pilot John C. Reilly who brings some necessary levity to proceedings in the Dennis Hopper in Apocalypse Now role.
Kong: Skull Island is at its best when it sticks to the uncomplicated creature feature thrills, despite often being bogged down by a truly bad script, it manages to provide some very good monster fuelled fun. It is a film that, despite its obvious big studio connections, brims with a likeably off the wall B movie spirit that is rather endearing. Working with this nuttiness, second time director Vogt-Roberts has achieved something we've seen failed many times: create a corporate franchise mega blockbuster that is fun, just the way it should be.
From the opening scene of Julia Ducournau's impressively multifaceted debut Raw, Ducournau isn't afraid to let us know what is to come, teasing almost playfully the direction in which we are headed. We see one of a tray of meatballs, lit by a gruesome crimson, mistakenly end up on our vegetarian protagonist Justine's plate. Nestled amongst the white of the mashed potato, the incongruity of its presence mischievously highlights its significance.
After this opening ordeal, Justine arrives at the mass of bleak concrete that is her veterinary school where Ducournau continues pushing the red visuals (I wonder what that could imply), drawing on greats of the horror genre. We have a student initiation that results in a Carrie style blood-soaked look and conveniently placed lights illuminate hallways in gory shades unashamedly reminiscent of the likes of Argento and Bava. Despite wearing its influences on its sleeve, Ducournau avoids a descent into senseless homage, exploring universal human emotions with a subtlety that is perhaps surprising given her penchant for veritably cronenbergian body horror.
Particularly impressive was its exploration of confused adolescent identity. Although we do not all take it to Justine's lengths, everyone has gone through a similar period of experimental awkwardness. In these sequences, Ducournau handles this exploration delicately, painting a tender picture of the complexity of sexuality and the labyrinth of social norms that is university life. In one heady scene, we see Justine dancing in front of her mirror (I think we've all done it) - dressed in her older sister's dress - she seems intoxicated by her desirability.
Throughout the film, Justine's sexual liberation is shown alongside the development of other more violent primal urges. Importantly though, despite its proximity to the all the more sinister awakening, Ducournau refrains from any clumsy connection between the sexual and cannibalistic desires we see develop in Justine. Completely vital in the convincing realisation of these transitions is Garance Marillier's superbly physical performance. As the film develops and she gives in to more carnal desires, we see the virginal innocence of her open features disappear, replaced by a more gaunt angular look that reflects her transformation well.
At times, the affected aggressively art house style of the film was a little trying. I think I am now officially bored of cryptic pre-credit sequences that return later in the film (whoever first did that has a lot answer for) and the stylised visuals occasionally strayed into the world of preening artificiality, detracting from the emotional depth which was being sought. In spite of this, Ducournau's obvious flair for a great set piece shines through. With a number of excellent moments (the bit in the bed with the leg), she shows a panache for the delivery of straight up horror thrills, culminating in a hugely satisfying ending that left me grimacing and grinning at the same time, something I had already been doing for large portions of the film.
The opening scenes of Jordan Peele's debut feature Get Out get to the heart of what the film is about. A person walking round dimly lit streets at night is bundled into the back of a van by some unknown assailant The Silence of the Lambs style. We've seen it before. Only this time, the dimly lit streets belong to an affluent middle class neighbourhood and the victim is a black man. This kind of manipulation of genre tropes is when the film is at its best, breathing fresh life into played out clichés with a sharp critique of the idea of a post-racial America. Get Out is an undeniably smart film that, whilst leaning on traditions of the horror genre, gives them a provocative update that feels particularly vital in the age of Black Lives Matter.
First and foremost though (and very importantly I think) Get Out is a thriller - complete with the requisite jump scares - any social commentary is packaged beneath a genre surface which is made all the more potent by the uneasy implication of the plot. This omnipresent layer of tension is used cleverly in the early stages of the film, aptly reflecting the not so harmonious state of race relations in America.
However, Peele doesn't take this in the direction you might expect; here the villains aren't white supremacists but white progressives, staunch in their defence of racial equality. Armed with his challenging premise, he shows brilliant disregard towards the ruffling of feathers, taking aim at the self-congratulatory liberalism of middle class America. When our protagonist Chris asks his girlfriend if she has told her parents that he is black before they go to visit them, she bats away the suggestion, assuring him that her father would have voted for Obama for a third term. No need to worry then.
It was moments such as this in the early portion of the film that I found most compelling. A very sharp script is coupled with some great performances in an strange blend of social satire and standard horror tension building. As Chris - played with a polite air of resignation - manoeuvres his way through some small talk, he is warned about the "black mould" in the basement, told tales of Tiger Woods and Jesse Owens for no apparent reason, and finally informed that "black is in fashion!". These sequences of odd fetishisation not only serve to foreshadow the nature of the carnage that is to come but also playfully parody the treatment of black men in America.
Unfortunately though, at times the film making is not as interesting as the social commentary. Indeed, the film falls down a little in the final act when it struggles to deliver on the fabulously uncomfortable setup, getting bogged down in a slightly heavy handed reliance on genre tropes. The already expressive score gets turned up to eleven, really cramming the tension down your throat and, as is often the case, the nightmare that we see unfold doesn't quite live up to the one you had imagined. Regardless, Get Out has much to admire. It is an impressively well put together horror that when combined with a pointed politically aware edge, is transformed into something uniquely unsettling.
Everyone's favourite film making duo Ben Wheatley and Amy Jump have returned in typically surprising fashion with an anarchically amorphous action comedy of sorts. Riddled with bullets and banter and set in 70's Boston (but shot in Brighton), this stripped back tale centres on a motley crew of remarkably feckless criminals locked in a Reservoir Dogs-esque warehouse based disagreement. When the encounter turns sour as a result of a former grudge between two of the aforementioned criminals, we descend into a farcical standoff where the only thing more impressive than the amount of bullets fired is how few of them seem to hit anyone.
Although much of Free Fire seems a natural progression from their earlier work, the result is rather unexpected. We continue with a tradition of a somewhat experimental approach to storytelling, the script is littered with laugh-out-loud moments of deftly handled dark humour, and the sense of choreographed chaos conducted by Wheatley is familiar. However, the distinctly genre tinged, straight up action setting in which this takes place is new territory. This is not a film that tries to explore any profound truths about the human condition, instead it simply chooses to delight in the fun that can be had with no nonsense B movie thrills, executing them in impressively stylish fashion. As our somewhat pathetic characters lurch from one sequence of increasingly absurdist violence to another, the only message that I could draw was how pitiful we humans are.
In fact, although the film has drawn a lot of comparisons to Reservoir Dogs (it's set in a warehouse and there's lots of senseless shooting), for me the way in which the film highlights the utter pointlessness of the criminals efforts brought to mind the Coens. As we see a briefcase of money effectively trigger this bizarre descent into disarray, I couldn't help but think of Fargo's equally useless Steve Buscemi frantically burying another briefcase of money with the same crazed obsession. Wheatley and Jump also play with comedy in a manner similar to, yet a little more overt than the Coens. Amongst a loveably hateable collection of characters, the standout is definitely the South African arms dealer Vern who is as vain as he is incompetent with a very funny penchant for punning, "Watch and Vern!".
Wheatley's directorial effort is also pleasing, great "necessity is the mother of invention" style stuff. Despite the significant restraints inherent in the narrative, he delights in the deliberate realisation of their setting; from a carefully placed smashed glass to the relentlessly cacophonous soundscape, we are made to feel everything. In the marvel era of indiscriminate mass destruction, the rigorous depiction of the practicalities of every injury was refreshing. This is a film where our characters spend a majority of their time dragging their bullet riddled bodies across the floor, incapacitated by their prior efforts, and I was glad for it.
However, although the film is impressive as an exercise in directorial bravura, it often feels like it's fighting an uphill battle. Despite what is a remarkable job from Wheatley to maintain interest in what is happening, there are inevitably moments that the chaotic onslaught of violence becomes monotonous. As we descend from one shootout to another, you wonder if Wheatley is going to take another direction and he really doesn't, instead committing in admirable fashion to what he has started. There is no plot, but that doesn't necessarily matter. There is something fascinatingly bold in the way that it jumps head first into the action, daring the audience to blink, this manically intense exercise in protraction has plenty to enjoy.
