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.     

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. 

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".

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. 

Ali: Fear Eats the Soul - Review

The prolific exponent of New German Cinema Rainer Werner Fassbinder is back on the big screen thanks to a BFI retrospective.

Fassbinder's super low budget reworking of Douglas Sirk's 50's melodrama All That Heaven Allows, is a simple uncluttered film that, perhaps as a product of the lo-fi approach taken by Fassbinder, achieves remarkable clarity. The film tells the tale of an unlikely relationship between a Moroccan immigrant and an older German cleaner whose straightforward, singleminded commitment to one another is summed up nicely by Ali's warning, "much thinking, much crying". This is a film all about them against everyone else; they love one another and that is all that matters.     

Although the two at times seem worlds apart, they are united by one thing: their status as outsiders. Ali doesn't feel at home in Germany for obvious reasons, spending all his time in a bar with other Arabs, he feels undervalued by German society. To put it his way, "German masters, Arab dogs". The xenophobia directed towards Emmi is less overt but also present; her Polish surname "Kurowski" leads to questioning of her legitimacy as a "proper German". Fassbinder is well equipped to deal with these themes of isolation and discrimination as a man who was always an outsider in some way. Here, he treats his characters with brutal honesty, capturing something of the very human yearning for companionship.

Throughout the film, Fassbinder uses visuals adeptly to emphasise the changing dynamics of Emmi and Ali's relationship. In their first encounter in a bar, the manifest sociopolitical boundaries that separate them are highlighted by the physical distance that Fassbinder places between the characters when he positions Ali at the far end of the bar. Later, when they are in Emmi's small apartment, we see them almost huddled around the table, captured in an intimate domestic light. Fassbinder also often alternates close involved shots of the two with long ones of onlooking strangers, illustrating their exclusion from the rest of society. 

Also worthy of considerable praise are the central performances of Brigitte Mira and El Hedi ben Salem whose apparent discomfort in their own skin fosters a delightfully awkward chemistry. Emmi is painfully aware of her old age, running her fingers across her wrinkled face when looking at her reflection in one particularly raw sequence, she is convincing as a woman who had almost given up on love. Ali seems similarly uncomfortable, but for different reasons; throughout the film, he looks stiff and out of place, never seeming at ease with his surroundings in a manner apt for a man who hasn't been accepted as a part of Germany. 

In Fear Eats the Soul, Fassbinder does something not often done right: create a polemic with pathos, as scathingly political as it is tenderly romantic. It is a film about the all-consuming courage that love can inspire, imbued with a fiercely brazen anti-xenophobic message. The titular words of Ali, "Fear eats the soul", make for a very fitting title; it is both a reflection of the fearlessness of the lovers and a warning against the erosive influence of bigotry.

UKGFF - Silent Running - Review

As a part of the UK Green Film Festival, Silent Running was shown at the Glasgow Film Theatre, preceded by some interesting words from clever biologist man, Professor Roger Downie.

The remarkable thing about Silent Running, directed by Douglas Trumbull of 2001: A Space Odyssey special effects fame, is the personal, tranquil tone that it manages to achieve despite the significant magnitude of the themes being explored. The fate of all of the Earth's surviving plant life is at risk, yet this is not married with the high octane drama that one might expect given such high stakes. Instead it is treated in an, in my opinion, more appropriate, low-key wistful manner that underpins events with a sorrowful political stance, perhaps more potent now than it has ever been.  

The drama plays out in a dystopian future where all the Earth's remaining plant life is looked after on a spaceship by the quiet, almost messianic figure of Freeman Lowell who is played by Bruce Dern. When, his ship is commanded to destroy the last of the plant life, Lowell (with the conservationist's pledge in mind) takes extreme measures to try to save the precious botany. From this point, Lowell finds himself alone with the plants and two very sweet droids that he names Huey and Dewey where he puts in an impressively engaging performance given how little he has to play off. 

For obvious reasons, the film is often compared to Kubrick's all the more epic 2001: A Space Odyssey. The two certainly share some impressive special effects that hold up very well, but here, imposing shots of ships drifting through space are accompanied by the warblings of Joan Baez and psychedelic light sequences are grounded in a more traditional narrative. The presence of artificial intelligence in both films is also notable, however it has to be said that 2001's HAL is a little more sinister than the loyal Huey and Dewey who replace murderous treachery with loyal companionship. It's fair to say that Lowell doesn't have the same problems with the opening of pod bay doors.   

Silent Running is a likeably sentimental film, imbued with a refreshing optimism that when coupled with the dark events that pass, works powerfully as a cautionary tale. This feeling is summed up pretty well by the tragically bitter-sweet ending. I don't want to spoil too much (it has been out since 1972) so I will just say that I didn't know that there could be so much packed up in one shot of a drone with a watering can. It's a brilliant little ending, as hopeful as it is mournful.

The Transfiguration - Review

The protagonist, Milo, in Michael O'Shea's directorial debut, The Transfiguration, lines his shelves with classic vampire films; we hear him rave about Martin and Let the Right One In, and he even goes to a screening of Nosferatu. Now, straight up references to heavyweights of the genre in which you are working are always a bold choice (one that can pay off, Scream for example), unfortunately, here it backfires slightly, serving only to remind me of the many other excellent films I'd probably rather have been watching at that point. 

Anyway, the sort of vampire tale that we see centres on the teenage Milo, played with a steely yet vulnerable reticence by Eric Ruffin, who lives with his older brother in the kind of Queens housing project that makes the proximity of Noah Baumbach and Greta Gerwig's Brooklyn surprising. The world which our characters inhabit is a harsh, brutal one - devoid of any romantic whimsy - it is one of the highlights of the show. This "urban jungle" (yes I'm going to say that) also serves as an apt setting for the story of isolation which follows - smartly reflecting the relationship between Milo and his situation - we see countless shots of him, cornered by featureless blocks of concrete, literally belittled by his environment.
  
It is in these moments, as a portrait of the devastating effects of economic deprivation, that I found the film most interesting, capturing something of the loneliness felt by those left behind by society. In one conversation Milo responds to the question, "Do people ever tell you that you don't talk a lot?", "No one ever speaks to me."; a simple yet affecting line, it gets to the heart of the isolation central to Milo's character. Throughout the film, O'Shea uses this powerlessness quite smartly to present his protagonist Milo as a product of these circumstances, establishing a link between his murderous tendencies and the tragic situation in which he finds himself, he gives the film an engaging socially aware edge.

Unfortunately, the film fell down for me in the moments of horror which were rendered quite unimaginatively. Each of Milo's kills was captured with a detached, observational tone that brought to mind a nature documentary more than anything else, with the only real change in tone being caused by a pulsating synth score, which swelled to deafening levels. The lack of excitement created by these sequences ultimately led to a rather monotonous, dour atmosphere, so cold that I found the film hard to engage with. In The Transfiguration, O'shea has created something that lacks the scary moments to interest you on a straight up horror level, but that also doesn't quite have the poignancy to captivate emotionally. To summarise, it's not scary enough to be a horror, but not sufficiently emotionally engaging to work simply as a character study.

Mulholland Drive - Review

Mulholland Dr. has been re-released in a shiny new 4K restoration. I took the opportunity to see it on the big screen, in all its cinematic glory.

Mulholland Drive, what many would consider to be David Lynch's pièce de résistance, is Lynch at absolutely peak Lynch; caked in the nightmarish intrigue in which he specialises, it is a truly bizarre exploration of the dark labyrinthine world, hidden beneath the glamour of Hollywood. As we are plunged deep into this surreal dreamscape version of LA, he twists us this way and that, ultimately leaving us with an undeniably potent enigma of a film, as compelling as it is disorienting. 

Perhaps the most brazenly unconventional choice of all the brazenly unconventional choices in Mulholland Drive is the way Lynch plays with narrative. The film's plot does not make sense in any traditional sense of a plot making sense. As the film progresses, there are a number of scenes that are left to drift without the resolution one would expect and if they didn't have you confused, the later sections are packed with obvious contradictions that are sure to complete the job. However, the plot is not just one big mess. In fact, Lynch toys very deliberately with the expectations of the audience - using Heat-esque cityscapes to establish a somewhat noirish setting, he hints at a resolution that never materialises - leaving various strands of the story lingering enigmatically, ready to be untangled, before tangling them further. By deftly alluding to unforeseen connections in the later portion of the film - a blue key, a name tag, a man looking scared - we are made to feel lost, grasping at some answer that lies just beyond our reach.        

Beyond the obviously eye-catching plot, there is much more to be enjoyed (not that the plot is terribly enjoyable to be involved with), namely, Lynch's impressive aptitude for the creation of unease and tension. Throughout the film, he blurs the line between reality and dreams; by playing with the fears that lie at the deepest corners of our thoughts, he is able to lace unexpected moments with an atmosphere of unquantifiable disquiet. This is perhaps exemplified best by one of my favourite scenes where we are introduced to two men in a diner. When their conversation turns from the mundane to the more macabre, the monotonous rumbling of Angelo Badalamenti's score and a quietly wandering camera are coupled to chilling effect, warning us of some peripheral threat. It's moments such as this that Mulholland Drive is at its disconcerting best.

Also notable are the two leads who both give performances more nuanced than the surface may suggest. Laura Harring is the amnesiac Rita/Camilla Rhodes and Naomi Watts is the small town Hollywood hopeful cliché Betty/Diane Selwyn (the plot is such that it's hard to give any definitive names), who descend into an increasingly odd Persona style relationship when they stumble across each other. Harring is Liv Ullmann in the analogy, full of a similar languidly beguiling charm, her initial facade of innocence is replaced by a pleasingly sinister confidence as the film progresses. The Persona comparison also works pretty well with Watts and Bibi Andersson whose warm-hearted perkiness is once again turned on its head in the final scenes, when her aspirations of stardom seem to crumble.

Above all though, Mulholland Drive works as an evocation of the shadowy underside of Hollywood, all faded glory, forgotten dreams, and lurking menace, Lynch provides a commentary on the perhaps corrosive influence of Hollywood with the uniquely unsettling style that only he could. This tone is epitomised by the strangely captivating "Club Silencio" scene; as the presenter flourishes his hand and we get a close up of his intense features, he cries "It is... an illusion!", words that in the moment are deeply impactful but whose meaning on further reflection, is a mystery to me. This is what is exciting about Mulholland Drive, it is a film that sweeps you up, appealing directly to your emotions not logic, every inexplicably heady moment feels viscerally involving.

The Happiest Day in the Life of Olli Mäki - Review

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. 

Kong: Skull Island - Review

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.

Raw - Review

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.