Okja - Review

Bong Joon-Ho's Okja starts in typically biting, off-the-wall style: the gloriously creepy Nancy Mirando - played by Tilda Swinton with braces and shocking white hair - swans about a stage spouting corporate platitudes ("core values") as she is cheered on by hordes of adoring spectators. Before long, Mirando tells us "We've successfully produced 26 miracle piglets by non-forced, natural mating". We soon learn that these piglets will be sent to 26 farmers around the world to be reared, becoming the ancestors of a new breed of super pig. Wonderful, this is all sounds like reasonably pleasant, ethical stuff.

Hop forward ten years and we are with one of the aforementioned super pigs, bumbling its way through the Korean countryside with Mija, the daughter of one of the 26 farmers. Here, the seamlessness with which the CGI super pig Okja - a distinctly cuddly creature which would be best described as some sort of a hippo-pig hybrid - is rendered as a part of its environment is remarkable. Frolicking amidst the verdant hues of the forest, captured gorgeously by cinematographer Darius Khondji, we feel Okja's every step. To put it simply, I was convinced of there being a large pig type creature there with Mija.  

Throughout the film, this idyllic depiction of Okja's home is juxtaposed with the grim, invasive corporate world of the Mirando corporation. This is where the satire is really cranked up. Firstly, we have some seriously turned up to 11 performances which are intermittently successful: Jake Gyllenhaal is the moustache faced, wildlife TV presenter Johnny Wilcox who is constantly showing an uncomfortable amount of thigh; Tilda Swinton is back in a Hail, Caesar!-esque role, playing the Mirando sisters; and Paul Dano plays Jay, the head of the somewhat cultish ALF (Animal Liberation Front), doing something similar to the There Will Be Blood thing. These slightly hit-and-miss performances are, importantly, backed up by an entertainingly irreverent Jon Ronson script ("all edible, except the squeal") which when combined, injects things with a healthy dose of fairly unforgiving political commentary. 

As is often the case with Bong Joon-Ho, and Korean cinema in general, Okja is tonally all-over-the-place. This isn't something I necessarily have a problem with (I love the offbeat comedy in Memories of Murder for example), but here I wasn't too fond of the freewheeling style that, for me, resulted in a lack of focus. Regardless, Okja has plenty to admire; combining Spielbergian creature feature wonder and politically charged satire, Bong achieves a rambling yet potent cacophony of a film that despite not quite adding up, is worth a watch.

Baby Driver - Review

The guitars of The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's Bellbottoms strike, our protagonist Baby moves in time, the engine revs, and we hurtle into a frenetic, meticulously choreographed car chase that - just like Baby - pulsates with the intoxicating beat of the music. During this first sequence amidst the wail of the engine and the music you realise that Edgar Wright is going for something audacious: this isn't just a film with music that fits, it's a film precisely designed to groove with every subtle movement of the carefully selected tracks.

From here, Edgar Wright continues at breakneck speed, telling the tale of Baby - played by Ansel Elgort with a magnetism that was for me reminiscent of a young Harrison Ford - a charming introvert being forced to work as a getaway driver because of a debt to Kevin Spacey's crime boss Doc. We soon learn that as a result of a car crash when he was younger he listens to music to drown out the ringing in his ears, a contrivance that lies at the heart of the film.

Although the central conceit of the music is an affectation that risks grating, the blurring of the line between soundtrack and what Baby is listening to is pulled off with such playful imagination by Wright that it's hard not go with. With a sort of post-modern acknowledgement of the ridiculousness of it all, he pushes the conceit to its absolute limit. Since what Baby is listening to dictates the soundtrack, it goes both ways: Wright crafts the action so it works with the music, but there are also moments when Baby conducts action in the film to make sure it works. It functions as a kind of fourth wall break: a cheeky nod to camera, stuffed with the kind of mischievous self awareness that he has always been so good at.

As is usually the case with Edgar Wright, this has the feeling of a film made by a film fan, proudly stuffed with a mish mash of influences: there's something of Pulp Fiction in the dexterity of the script; the car chases are made with the crunching immediacy yet lack of cuts suggestive of a man who has seen The French Connection; and the Baby character owes something to the lean simplicity of The Driver (directed by Walter Hill who has a voice cameo).

Above all though, Baby Driver is constructed specifically to entertain, exhiliratingly efficient in the implementation of its toe-tappingly enjoyable car based thrills, it is infectious, grin inducing stuff. Like all of Edgar Wright's genre bending efforts so far, it's very hard to sum up - my best effort would be a sort of heist car chase, action-musical whatever that is. Regardless, it's probably some of the most straight up fun I've had with a film this year.     

Italian neorealism season - Germany Year Zero

These "Seasons" effectively constitute an excuse for me watch/rewatch then write about a series of films, connected by a particular genre, movement, era, theme, director or actor (anything really). I'm going to start off with everybody's favourite cinematic movement: Italian neorealsim.

Germany Year Zero, the third instalment in Roberto Rossellini's war trilogy, is a bleak, raw, uncluttered, cinematic slap in the face. Set amidst the ruins of post-WWII Berlin, the film follows the twelve year old boy Edmund as he struggles (I'm noticing a theme with this neorealist stuff) to support his family. Via Edmund's attempts to come to terms with the crippled world he has been thrust into, Rossellini unpacks a brutal, profoundly pessimistic plot that makes the likes of Bicycle Thieves for example seem light and fluffy in comparison. Perhaps the highlight of this though is the immediacy with which the the dilapidated decay of Berlin  is captured - all towering rubble and abandoned buildings - it is the perfect setting for the unforgiving tale of disillusionment and deprivation that plays out. Interestingly, Rossellini achieves this whilst rarely straying from his subject Edmund - played with uncomplicated candour by Edmund Moeschke - whose slight innocence emphasises the imposing inhumanity of the world with which he is surrounded. Germany Year Zero is a mournful howl of a film, not necessarily a lot of fun to watch, but certainly affecting. 

All the President's Men - Review

There's a Dustin Hoffman season on at the BFI Southbank. What an excellent excuse to go and see All the President's Men. 

Alan J. Pakula's All the President's Men - an adaptation of the Woodward and Bernstein book recounting their uncovering of the Watergate scandal of the same title - is above anything else, a brilliantly tight, well conceived thriller, intoxicatingly efficient in the subtle unravelling of its shadowy, labyrinthine plot of veiled interests and systemic corruption. 

The film of course focuses on the efforts of Washington Post reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, played in remarkably stripped back fashion by Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman respectively, as they investigate the events surrounding the Watergate scandal that eventually led to the resignation of President Nixon. When I say it focuses on these events, it really does - this one sticks to a refreshingly single-minded view of its main characters, devoid of any of the tempting sub-plots or love interests that could have been introduced, it is a film that characterises its protagonists as little more than reporters, consumed by their work. 

However, this is not to say that the portrayal of Woodward and Bernstein is poorly fleshed out. In fact, one of the great strengths of this film is the delicacy with which the two reporters differences in approach are rendered: Woodward is charming, teasing information away from people, whereas Bernstein takes a more bullish approach. Essential to this are the convincingly dogged performances of Redford and Hoffman, who supported by an entertainingly grizzled collection of editors and a slick script from William Goldman, inject tension and verve into moments where the film could have dragged. 

Like Spotlight (a film that certainly owes a lot to All the President's Men) but to an even greater degree, this is a film consumed by the mundane minutiae of investigative journalism: following up leads, pawing through record books, and extracting information from painfully unhelpful sources. At no point do they happen upon a miraculously helpful witness or some technology which cuts a corner for them, instead we are shown the brutally painstaking process in all its glory. 

It would also be blasphemous not to mention the cinematography of Gordon Willis that full of some brilliant flourishes, elevates the film to soaringly cinematic heights. Indeed this is a film stuffed with inspired, relentlessly enduring images: the shadowy, noir inflected "Deep Throat", shrouded in icy darkness; the dizzying overhead of the library that highlights the imposing might of the institutions against which the reporters are pitted; the deftly framed images of office TVs that provide a subtle critique of the media. Most films would be happy to have one or two of these, All the President's Men has dozens.

Nowadays, this is a film that effectively functions as a period piece, beating to the click clack of typewriters, it evokes a distant time of analogue technology. Despite this, the tale of corrosive abuse of power that All the President's Men tells feels equally vital today, what with Trump and others such as Erdogan around the world. We may have social media and mobile phones but they don't seem to have changed a huge amount in that regard. Perhaps there'll be a Trump based All the President's Men-esque film a few years down the line.

The Red Turtle - Review

For those worried that Studio Ghibli's first co-production would signal a decline in quality, you may cease your worrying. Despite its distinct style, this one is positively brimming with the stuff that makes them oh so loveable: touching familial relationships; depiction of the interdependence of nature; thoughtfully realised magic-realism; and above all, sumptuously beautiful animation. Indeed, London based, Dutch animator Michaël Dudok de Wit's poetically minimalist silent fable fits in fairly snugly in with the rest of the Studio Ghibli canon. 

The story centres on a nameless castaway who - after a ravishing opening sequence featuring some impressive Hokusai-esque waves - finds himself stranded on a remote island. Form here, aided by some charming crabs, he attempts to leave the island on a raft he constructs but finds his efforts thwarted by the titular turtle. After a sort of The Old Man and the Sea style battle of wills resolves itself, things take a fantastical turn when the turtle does something similar to the goldfish in Ponyo. 

Like many Studio Ghibli films, this is one that manages to balance dreamlike fantasy with intricate, precise naturalism. Here, we are treated to some wondrous dream sequences - a wave frozen in time and a soaring escape from the island come to mind - which momentarily lift the film to more surreal, supernatural heights. Importantly though, the film is also interspersed with a detailed depiction of the world that our characters inhabit: the rustling of the trees; the lapping of the waves on the shore; and the baby turtles making their ungainly way to the water's edge. These moments serve to ground the film, emphasising the characters place as a part of the island, dependent on it for their livelihood. 

Above all though, this one is about the positively enchanting visuals (a seamless blend of analogue and digital) which from the reserved Tintin-esque features of our characters to the sparse landscapes of endless, belittling beaches, oceans, and skies, are all about simplicity and restraint. Indeed, this is an unremitting visual delight of soft monochrome nights, peach tinted sunrises, and verdant forests: an exercise in uncluttered clarity. 

Ten LGBT films that I like

June is LGBT Pride Month; to mark the occasion, here is a selection of LGBT films that I like. 

Strangers on a Train (1951)

This one doesn't feature any overt homosexuality, though there are certainly some pretty strong undertones. Here, the latent eroticism that bubbles between the main characters plays, more than anything, as an interesting manifestation of Hitchcock's tendency to pick at uncomfortable topics as a means of creating tension. This is perhaps seen most clearly in the first meeting between Farley Granger and Robert Walker, a scene that bristles with flirtatious energy, where the famous premise is established. Beyond this, Strangers on a Train is full of classic Hitchcock stuff: virtuosic set pieces (the merry-go-round); subversive, macabre subtext; and of course masterfully crafted suspense.


Persona (1966)

This, what many would describe as Bergman's masterpiece, is also all about the latent eroticism, once again dealing with sexual ambiguity between the two central characters. As the film progresses, we observe an increasingly strange, intimate relationship develop between a nurse and the actress she is looking after, that peaks with a confessional description of a sexual encounter on a beach, one of the most remarkably carnal scenes I have ever seen. With an avant-garde opening sequence that leaves you reeling, typically striking, austere camerawork, and two exceptional performances from Bibi Andersson and Liv Ullmann, Persona is a film of intriguing potency. 


The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant (1972)

Rainer Werner Fassbinder's heady, somewhat autobiographical, melodrama The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant is a frenzied chamber piece of destructive power games. All of the theatre plays out in one flat which is captured masterfully by cinematographer Michael Ballhaus. Moving loosely about the oppressive space, we saunter from one carefully composed shot to another, astutely detailing the dynamics between the collection of typically tortured characters. 

A Special Day (1977)

Ettore Scola's small scale, humanist story of two lost souls in 30s Rome is a delightfully low-key film of unforeseen depths. Via a washed, sepia-ish colour palette, a soundscape dominated by ambient propaganda from the radio, and a pair of surprising performances from Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni, the feeling of oppression felt by the central characters is conveyed excellently. As Gabriele says, "I'm not anti-fascist, fascism is anti-me"

Paris is Burning (1990)

Like most of the best documentaries, Jennie Livingston's Paris is Burning is devoid of any prejudice towards the events it captures - it simply shows us them, and lets them do the talking. Via candid interviews with everyone from the up-and-coming Venus Xtravaganza to the world-weary veteran Dorian Corey, we are guided through the nuances of the vibrant New York drag ball scene, tackling topics such as discrimination, economic deprivation, and of course how to throw shade. 

Happy Together (1997)

Wong Kar Wai's rather inappropriately titled Happy Together is a tragic tale of two men who can live neither together nor apart. Shot by Christopher Doyle, the visuals in this one simultaneously achieve the dreamy, saturated romanticism of In the Mood for Love, whilst adding a grungy, almost Fight Club-esque aesthetic. Coupled with some hauntingly gorgeous Astor Piazzolla tango, we are provided with a beautiful backdrop for the passion of the two tortured lovers. Also, I love the dancing scene.

The Watermelon Woman (1996)

Often cited as the first film made by and about a black lesbian, Cheryl Dunye's slyly self-reflexive mockumentary The Watermelon Woman is a film that tackles big issues - systemic racism and homophobia, representation of black women in film, and fetishisation to name a few - but does so with a lightness of touch and warmhearted humour that results in a film as watchable as any. This isn't a film that gets up in your face with angry political commentary, instead Dunye plays little moments for laughs to highlight her point: a confrontation with a police officer who calls her a "crackhead" comes to mind particularly. 

Tropical Malady (2004)

Half tender love story, half spellbinding, hallucinatory fable, Apichatpong Weerasethakul's Tropical Malady is a trippy, romantic enigma of a mood piece whose two equally beguiling sections play off one another brilliantly. It also features some what-the-fuck inducing jungle weirdness - more Ciro Guerra than Herzog or Coppola - that provides an ideal setting for the film of dark, labyrinthine depths and unexplained mysteries that plays out.

The Duke of Burgundy (2014)

By means of some hazy, orange tinted cinematography from Nic Knowland - all autumn leaves and dusky lamps - and a dream inducing, folky soundtrack from Cat's Eyes, Peter Strickland's The Duke of Burgundy is a film elevated to gorgeously cinematic heights. Indeed, this self aware, Sapphic S&M romance is something you don't see every day: an oddly touching exploration of universal truths of relationships (love the way we are shown subtle changes in the rituals of their relationship), wrapped up in a exquisitely composed homage to 70s erotica. 

Carol (2015)

With its delicately manicured 50s aesthetic, lustrous 16mm cinematography, and two remarkably subtle performances from Cate Blanchett and Ronney Mara, Todd Haynes' Carol paints one of the most achingly beautiful portraits of forbidden love I have ever seen. This is a film obsessed with capturing all of the minutiae of a relationship: the longing glances; the stolen moments; the lingering touches; and the hushed whispers. I love it.

Manhattan - Review

Woody Allen's gorgeous paean to Manhattan, Manhattan, is back in cinemas looking even more gorgeous than ever thanks to a digital restoration. Oh what a wonderful time to be alive. 

Near the end of Manhattan, the embittered, neurotic writer Isaac (who could have guessed he'd be played by Allen) records an idea for a short story where he stutteringly tells us, "... about people in Manhattan who are constantly creating these real unnecessary neurotic problems for themselves because it keeps them from dealing with more unsolvable, terrifying problems about the universe". With this somewhat postmodern flourish, Allen sums up pretty succinctly the tale of human folly that comes to pass in Manhattan (and I guess quite a few Woody Allen films).

The film centres on Isaac, a Marcello in La Dolce Vita or more recently Jep in La Grande Belleza style character, who experiences a mid-life crisis of sorts, coming to the realisation that the creative intellectuals with which he has surrounded himself are just as clueless and lost as we all are. With a healthy serving of two of Allen's favourite themes, existential angst and self loathing, we see him hop between relationships with two women who are in many ways, polar opposites of each other. There is the 17 year old Tracy, played with remarkable honesty by Mariel Hemingway, who despite her age shows the most emotional maturity of any of the characters and Diane Keaton's Mary, a charismatic wrecking ball of nervous energy and intellectualism ("it had a marvellous kind of negative capability").  

Manhattan is one of those stupidly quotable films - up there with the likes of Spinal Tap and Life of Brian - just brimming with moments of comic brilliance. I'm not going to list off a pile of my favourite quotes because I would be here for a while but it is worth noting the wonderful Diane Keaton, Woody Allen chemistry that is at the absolute top of its game. Perhaps epitomised by the scene that ends with the iconic shot of them under Queensboro bridge, the two combine so charmingly, each as sharp and involving as the other. They are surely one of the most convincingly compatible on screen duos of all time.

It seems to be the case in most of Woody Allen's really great films that the comedy is underpinned by some unforeseen emotional heft. Manhattan certainly follows this rule; featuring some heartbreaking moments that sneak up on you - the break up with the milkshake, the "Tracy's face" sequence - and a bittersweet ending a lot more than bitter than it is sweet. Most importantly, Manhattan is a film that sticks with you more than you might expect, showing a little of the caustic cynicism that is on full display in the likes of Crimes and misdemeanours, he paints a somewhat bleak picture of human nature.

As well as this, Manhattan has to also go down as some of Allen's most delightfully cinematic work; with Gordon Willis' moody monochrome cinematography and a George Gershwin soundtrack that I have to remind myself wasn't written for this film, the city is elevated to seem larger than life, a thing of unique beauty. This certainly plays as Allen's love letter to the city as much a part of his cinema as anything else. Indeed, the words of Isaac's opening monologue seem autobiographical, "he adored New York City, he idolised it all out of proportion".

Ten summer films that I like

As a celebration of the arrival of summer, I have compiled a list of summer related films that I find enjoyable. 

Early Summer (1951)

In Ozu's Early Summer or Bakushû, the first days of summer - captured in calm, languid style - make for an appropriate setting for the delicate, melancholic story of familial tension that plays out. With a gently swooning score, a beautiful central performance from Setsuko Hara, some charming sequences of banter between the women, and typically enigmatic 'pillow shots' of fluttering windsocks and drifting clouds, it is a delightful film of lyrical simplicity.

Summer with Monika (1953)

Summer is not something that would necessarily be associated with the bleak Nordic intensity of Bergman, however, here and in other films such as Summer Interlude we are shown the summery Swedish countryside in all its glory. This film though, is above all about the flirtatious yet steely Monika; played by Harriet Andersson whose penetrative gaze seems to toy with her lover Harry, she is a sort of femme fatale, every bit as memorable as a Rita Hayworth or Barbara Stanwyck. I also love the ending where Harry stares solemnly to camera, interspersed with a sequence of memories of Monika - sunbathing and skinny dipping - it is a darkly cruel ending. 

12 Angry Men (1957)

This American classic from Sidney Lumet, almost completely confined to one room, is a masterclass in the creation of suspense - all bulging veins, loosened ties, and greasy hair - here, the sweltering heat works well to heighten both the claustrophobia of the setting and the almost palpable tension between the jurors. As the film progresses and things begin to heat up, Lumet famously switches longer shots of multiple jurors for tight close ups, ratcheting up the intensity as we approach a climax of impressive emotional resonance.


Jules and Jim (1962)

In many ways, the liberated playfulness of Truffaut and the French New Wave seems a perfect match for the feeling of opportunity that summer inspires. Summed up delightfully by the opening scenes in Jules and Jim; the romantic whimsy of the eponymous duo plus Jeanne Moreau's excellent Catherine is completely infectious regardless of the tragedy that ensues later in the film. One thing to add: this one isn't exclusively set in the summer but the initial scenes at the seaside are too wonderful for it to be omitted.  

The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974)

The sweat, the grime, the gore, the relentless, grinding monotone of the chainsaw, the breathless screams, the final deranged spin, silhouetted against the sunset; The Texas Chain Saw Massacre irrevocably etches this stuff onto your brain in a way that few other horror films do. This one is certainly up there as one of the filthiest, most depraved films that I have ever come across: a truly grim vision of summer. 

Jaws (1975)

Spielberg's ceaselessly iconic, masterfully crafted exercise in restraint, Jaws still hangs like a dark shadow over beach resorts across the land, indeed it will forever haunt idyllic scenes of colourful sun umbrellas and children frolicking in the shallows. The fact that this film still lingers in the mind years after its release is testament to its effectiveness. 

Sleepaway Camp (1983)

This is one of those films where you need to leave all logic and reason behind and just let yourself be overcome by its raw, unadulterated power. Starring some of the campest 80's costumes you're likely to come across, a collection of solidly turned up to eleven performances, and a truly what the fuck ending, Robert Hiltzik's Sleepaway Camp is 80's slasher summer camp trash at its most wonderfully off-the-wall.


Do the Right Thing (1989)




Set on the hottest day of the year in a Brooklyn neighbourhood - as highlighted by Samuel L. Jackson's hilarious radio DJ Mister Señor Love Daddy, "I have today's forecast for you... hot! Sss!" -  Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing is a potent story of racial division. As vibrantly funny as it is fiercely political, and featuring one of the most devastating endings in cinema history, this charmingly idiosyncratic film dives deep into the heart of the complexity of race relations in America.

Dazed and Confused (1993)

I can think of few films that capture that feeling of all-consuming joy, excitement, and possibility that accompanies the arrival of summer so perfectly. Featuring a brilliant ensemble cast with a particularly amusing turn from Matthew McConaughey ("alright alright alright") and the trademark Linklater, honest treatment of his characters, the hot, hazy Texas summer evening which we are shown is the ideal setting for this laid-back tale of adolescent discovery, disillusionment, and rebellion.

Sexy Beast (2000)

Jonathan Glazer's debut is a super stylish, one last job story of underrated emotional heft, complete with some remarkable performances from Ray Winstone and Ben Kingsley (no no no no no no no...). Nothing screams summer like Ray Winstone's alarmingly red body, drenched in sweat, and concealed by nothing but some skimpy, yellow budgie smugglers. 

Italian neorealism season - Gomorrah

These "Seasons" effectively constitute an excuse for me watch/rewatch then write about a series of films, connected by a particular genre, movement, era, theme, director or actor (anything really). I'm going to start off with everybody's favourite cinematic movement: Italian neorealsim.

Although Matteo Garrone's gritty adaptation of Roberto Saviano's account of organised neapolitan crime comes about 60 years after the movement was in full swing, there is no denying its place as a neorealist film. Indeed, one can see the influence of neorealism throughout this film from the casting of non-actors in some roles to the steadfast, unforgiving gaze of Garrone's camera. In Gomorrah, Garrone unpacks the plot through a collection of interlocking stories; via mob middlemen, aspiring teenage gangsters, and government officials, he guides us, with brutal rigour, through the inner workings of a social housing block, detailing the hardships subjected on its inhabitants and the pervasive influence of the mob. So just to be clear, with Gomorrah, Garrone has made something relentlessly grim: a grungy tale of economic deprivation and systemic corruption, devoid of any of the romanticism of American gangster classics such as The Godfather or GoodFellas, where the most positive emotion I felt towards any of the characters was tragic pity.  Probably not for the faint hearted.

The Other Side of Hope - Review

In these tumultuous, uncertain times of political upheaval and economic instability, there are few things can be relied upon. It would seem fortunately though that the precisely crafted deadpan absurdism of Aki Kaurismäki is one thing that will remain constant. Much like a Brian De Palma set piece or a Robert Altman long take, Kaurismäki's comedy is one of those things that makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside, safe in the knowledge that you're in an able pair of hands. 

In The Other Side of Hope, the second film in his planned dockyard trilogy, we once again find ourselves in the odd world that is Kaurismäki's Helsinki. Full of retro 50's props, blank, expressionless faces, and characters who barely stop smoking and drinking enough to deliver the deadest of deadpan lines you can imagine, it is a cold, bleak place. As usual though, Kaurismäki manages to create some warmth via his masterful capacity to find comedy in the strange places that other directors wouldn't think of looking. 

Kaurismäki follows in the vein of Le Havre (the first in the trilogy), throwing a typical Kaurismäki loser into a more politically charged story that attempts to tackle the plight of refugees. The loser in question (and the star of the show in my opinion) is restaurateur Wikström - played  by the doughy faced, impassive Sakari Kuosmanen - his curiously charming performance is punctuated by the occasional hint of a smile that betrays a man not as tough as he would like to seem. The refugee that Wikström takes under his wing is Khaled, a very likeable, well put together Syrian played by Sherwan Haji whose politeness in the face of I, Daniel Blake style bureaucracy is very endearing.

As one would of course expect, this one is littered with some very amusing moments. Amongst the highlights were a great sequence when Wikström decided that sushi was the right way forward for his restaurant and a brilliantly dour game of poker. What struck me above all though was how much of this comedy relied upon Kaurismäki's idiosyncratic visual style. With his satirically theatrical lighting, stubbornly static camera, and meticulously composed mise-en-scène, somewhat reminiscent of a toned down Wes Anderson, he is able to create a bizarre atmosphere that elevates the deadpan delivery of the characters. In a different setting this style of writing would risk completely alienating, but coupled with these visuals, Kaurismäki finds a strange combination that works.   

In addition to this, there are also some harrowing sequences surrounding Khaled's circumstances which mesh rather oddly with the moments of comedy. Most notable amongst these is a scene where we see Khaled playing a haunting tune on a string instrument that seems to transport other immigrants to some fond, almost forgotten memories. Combined with the absurdist comedy, Kaurismäki certainly risks undermining the emotional heft of these moments, however it often works surprisingly well. In fact, one of the best scenes in the film is also an example of the marriage of his unique brand of comedy and the political subject matter. We see Khaled and another immigrant discussing life in Finland, when Khaled is advised to smile as much as possible, "all melancholics are sent home".

Here, Kaurismäki has created a film of surprising combinations, full of as much classic Kaurismäki cynicism as sentimentalism, he shows us a world at once purposeless and kind, brimming with both melancholia and mirth, this is a likeably good natured, laconic tragicomedy. It would be fair to say that I'm looking forward to number three in the trilogy.