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.

Italian neorealism season - Umberto D.

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.

Umberto D., directed by Vittorio De Sica and written by Cesare Zavattini, is a film that is no doubt rooted in the neorealist tradition, depicting faithfully the hardships of the life of the working class. This film does differ from some neorealist films though. Here, the tragedy of the consequences of insufficient support from the state is shown through the lens of nothing more extreme than the gradual degradation of a man's dignity. However, nothing more extreme than the straightforward, goodnatured candour of Umberto is needed to communicate the story; every mundane detail of his life is shown, summing up with beautiful simplicity the struggles of the Italian working class. As is often the case in films such as this, professional actors were not cast in the main roles; Umberto is played by a university lecturer named Carlo Battisti here whose proud proper look works perfectly. Much like the film, his performance is uncomplicated yet heartrending, full of mournful stares and humble indignation, his understated manner compliments the forthright sincerity of the film well. One final note: this is one of the better dog movies you're likely to come across, I'd definitely take it over Marley & Me.

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.

Get Out - Review

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. 

Free Fire - Review

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. 

The Eyes of My Mother - Review

Nicolas Pesce's debut effort, The Eyes of My Mother, is an especially depraved take on the coming of age tale, brimming with detached grace, Pesce imbues every gorgeously composed scene with an oppressive atmosphere of dread. The film follows the perverted deeds of Francisca, chopping the events into three enigmatically titled acts, "Mother", "Father", and "Family. The lean narrative begins with Francisca witnessing the brutal murder of her mother, progressing from this with what seem to be a series of attempts to recreate what she lost. Despite her psychopathic disregard for suffering, we are able to sympathise with her on some level; there is something universal about the yearning for human connection that appears to drive her.

What is most striking about the film is its cinematography, shot in the moodiest monochrome you can imagine, the shots are lit with the brooding intensity of a Bergman film. At times, its style reminded me of Pawlikowski's Ida, functioning more as a series of beautiful photographs that happen to contain movement than a film. As we transition from one remarkably heady image to another, the flair that Pesce and his cinematographer Zach Kuperstein have for visually arresting composition is clear to see. Highlights include a landscape where Francisca and her father are silhouetted against some tall grass by the light of a lantern and an aerial shot that shows the two consumed by the milky water of a bathtub. 

However, these images have more to offer. When depicting scenes of extreme violence that practically stray into the world of torture porn, the elegantly removed beauty of the visuals contrasts strangely with the savagery being shown, amplifying the sense of intense disquiet. This is also added to by Pesce's carefully framed and often static shots that, coupled with excellent performances from Olivia Bond and Kika Magalhaes, tell us far more than the pragmatically minimalist script. Indeed, when we see the wide eyed gaze of a young Francisca, it betrays some inner turmoil and an outstretched hand that caresses an empty bed expresses a profound loneliness.

Particularly impressive is the performance of Magalhaes whose portrayal of a young woman tortured by her solitude is oddly touching. Her whole perspective on the world seems to be warped by the brutal trauma of her formative years, we see a woman almost trapped in her childhood. This theme is nicely alluded to by the recurring presence of a doll; even in the second two acts when Francisca has grown up, it is oddly prominent, appearing in the corner of frames, suggesting that she is yet to have grown past this stage. Despite this facet to her performance, her presence is still utterly chilling. In fact, I found this layer of innocence to add to the menace; when she calmly informs a guest that she murdered her father, the unassuming confusion at her guest's response is unnerving.

The way in which Pesce unloads both the emotional trauma and physical brutality of the events that unfold is unwavering, the grimly unrelenting mood that hangs over the film is compelling yet certainly not for the faint hearted. There are some points - particularly in the third act when things are really turned up to eleven - that the intense cruelty coupled with deep melancholia became a bit much for my gentle spirit. Though it perhaps seems unfair to criticise the film for this (it is a horror film), some variation from the fiercely macabre tone would have been appreciated. Regardless, The Eyes of My Mother delivers a beautifully crafted art house version of horror that stays with you, certainly a welcome break in the era of the jump scare.