New Release Review: 'Whiplash'

Very quick and very sketchy this one - time ran out on me.

I run. It’s a thing I do. I don’t jog, or go for weekend jaunts in the park. I run – and I run fast. Miles Teller’s character Andrew, the 19-year-old at the centre of Damien Chazelle’s film Whiplash, drums. He doesn’t kind of drum. He doesn’t drum in a band, or for fun, or for kicks. He drums because he wants to be great. And not just great, but one of The Greats. Why mention the running? Because, for better or for worse (likely the latter), I understand Andrew’s tunnel vision approach to life.

When Andrew is noticed by an infamous conductor at the Shaffer Conservatory – the best music school in the United States – there’s a part of him that knows he’s finally where he belongs. Terrence Fletcher, the conductor in question (played by J.K. Simmons, letting out his inner sadist), is no doubt used to such hubris. Hubris doesn’t get you anywhere; pain and dedication (and a bit more pain) are what get you where you want to go. Fletcher finds Andrew’s weaknesses and exploits them, beating him down till there’s little left of him besides ‘the drummer’. And it doesn't take much to begin stripping Andrew of his identity, because he’s ready to do that already. He’ll give anything in service of the dream, because the dream is all that matters.

Chazelle’s film is visceral, intense and relentless. I'd throw in a few more adjectives, but I think I'd be in danger of sounding hyperbolic... But then what follows is going to sound pretty hyperbolic anyway: the performances Chazelle gets out of Teller and Simmons are among their best! And may be among their very best! (It's amazing how exclamation marks make things sound trite or false.) Films that deal with genius, or virtuosic ability, or with a character’s desire to achieve perfection, almost universally stumble when trying to show those things. Art of any kind is subjective, so proving that an artist or a writer or a musician is more capable than their peers, is difficult. Usually the filmmaker resorts to beating the audience over the head with heavy handed exposition: we're told a writer or musician is great, therefore they are great. Not a terribly satisfying way to tell a tale. Chazelle takes a different tact; he shows us instead. Andrew bleeds for his art, literally, and he’s told again and again he isn’t good enough, and yet he sounds pretty darn good throughout. (Although I might not be the best gauge for this. I just thought drummers liked to casually hit stuff.) But that’s part of the point. There’s good, and then there’s great. Where is that line, and when do you know you’ve crossed it? Andrew is made to question himself and what he’s doing, and Chazelle is ever-cagey about telling us whether Fletcher is running Andrew through a very long trial by fire – how else are you supposed to become the best? – or is merely satisfying his ego.

I run. I race. I compete. And there’s an awful lot I’d sacrifice to push through to become The Best. It’s a strange mindset for some, and it’s perhaps even stranger to see it reflected back at you. It both makes complete sense and also seems a tad deranged, but my instincts tell me there’s a part of all of us that can relate to Andrew and his relentless dream.

Rating: 10/10

New Release Review: 'Calvary'

With John Michael McDonagh's latest, Calvary (which I have called 'Calgary', 'Cavalry' and 'What film are we going to see again?', and I apologise to Mr. McDonagh for my ineptitude in this matter), he proves he's just as capable a writer as his brother (Martin, In Bruges), but perhaps not quite as capable a director.

Getting its first act over and done with in a single scene, Calvary opens with Father James Lavelle (Brendan Gleeson) in the confession box, listening to a parishioner tell him that he's going to kill him because he's a good man. Why kill a good man? Because who would notice the death of a bad one? Odd as this sounds, in the end it turns out there's a strange sanity to the plan's seeming insanity. But that's for the end, which is a good seven days away: the amount of time given to Father James to 'put his house in order'. And it's a rather cluttered house: his daughter (Kelly Reilly) has returned home after an attempted suicide, an older member of the congregation has been ruminating on doing the same, another parishioner is thinking of doing it to others, whilst a previous member of the flock (Domhnall Gleeson) has done it already (several times in fact), and that's just the first few troubled souls. There's also a misanthropic millionaire (Dylan Moran), a cuckolded husband (Chris O'Dowd), a nihilistic doctor (Aidan Gillen), and a cretinous back-up priest. As Father James attempts to offer guidance to his wayward flock we're trying to guess which is his would-be murderer. Something the Father doesn't need to do. He already knows.

Calvary is so very close to being spectacular. Most will probably find it out and out spectacular, and with good reason; and truth be told the issues I have with it are minor, and mostly due to my being particular (see: awkward). So don't take the following to seriously. First minor irksomeness: it's shot on digital. The format has the capacity to look majestic, as it does here during the grand sweep of the exterior shots, but when McDonagh shifts inside the look suddenly becomes muted and oddly framed. At times the film looks like it's the best acted, best written episode that Coronation Street never saw. Second irksomeness: it feels like theatre. It's almost pure dialogue, the characters (as described above) wouldn't sound out of place in a farce or a comedy of errors, and the few times the film goes meta it's almost as if it thinks it's a play. Now I like theatre, I'm all for theatre, but a film that feels like it (yes, whilst also feeling like TV) can seem like it's at war with its medium. On the flip side, the dialogue is a thing of beauty. Which makes for a pretty good flip side.

Since I've started with the hyperbole I might as well continue. Brendan Gleeson does his best work since In Bruges, Reilly is quietly affecting, O'Dowd and Moran show they're capable of playing far darker shades then they'd previously hinted at, Domhnall Gleeson (Brendan's son) gets a single scene, but it's a killer one (pun possibly intended), and the rest of the cast all get their big moments too. So many of them initially seem like stereotypes, but the truth is they're wearing their extravagant roles as masks. Over the course of Calvary's running time those masks get gently pulled back, and it's hypnotic to watch.

Ignore my quibbles. All told, it's rather spectacular.

Overall: 8/10

New Release Review: 'Captain America: The Winter Soldier'

During the lead up to Captain America: The Winter Soldier's release everyone's being noticing that Robert Redford is in it, and that it has a conspiracy at its centre; from which they've concluded that the film must be a 70s style conspiracy thriller. Which makes the genre sound like a rather simple construct: Redford + conspiracies = 70s conspiracy thriller. Now everyone is seeing the connection. But like most conspiracy theorists they’re seeing something that isn’t really there. 

Picking up a little while after Avengers Assemble, Rogers (Chris Evans) is still adjusting to life in the modern day. He spends his nights handling missions for SHIELD, although any morally grey tasks get passed on to the less ethically stringent Natasha (Scarlett Johansson) since her boss, Nick Fury (played by the ever present Samuel Jackson), believes his all-American boy scout has a blinkered and idealised view of the world. Nick's boss, Alexander Pierce (Redford), is even more of a pragmatist, and is intent on shoring up the world’s defenses so that all the really bad world-ending stuff stops happening. The slight knock on effect of his plan is that the Free World’s idea of freedom might constrict a tad. Throwing a spanner in the works of all this is our other titular character: The Winter Soldier, a mysterious masked menace. 

Despite Rogers being one of Marvel’s least interesting characters the setup is interesting. Rogers is the embodiment of everything America can be but that image doesn’t fit well with SHIELD’s foreign (or domestic) policy. Seeing him deal with that would have been more than just engaging, it would have given Evans something to do for once; but there's little to the setup beyond the tagline. The Russos are more interested in slightly above average bombast. On the odd occasion when the film achieves comfortably above average bombast it’s hard to care. There's a certain irony that for Captain America to work, the henchmen of yore (particularly the early-Bond era iteration) have had to go from never hitting their target to always hitting their target. Every shot is either a headshot or body shot, and every one of them ricochets off the Cap's shield. Why no one aims for his legs is one of the Marvel Universe's greatest Mysteries. 

As for the other characters, Jackson is really just a glorified extra; The Winter Soldier feels like an afterthought who might have amounted to something if he weren't played by a charisma vacuum; and Johansson’s still-not-interesting-enough Natasha is used as a half-hearted love interest. A subplot that's scuppered by the fact that Evans has more chemistry with a bearded Apple Store Genius. (No, really). 

If Captain America: TWS really wanted to work as a 70s-inflected conspiracy thriller than it would need a conspiracy that couldn’t be unravelled at a glance. Instead, in a story where we're told to trust no one and that nothing is at it seems, you'll mistrust exactly the right people and know exactly what is and is not as it seems. The film has more in common with later decades: taking the 80s indifferent attitude to felled henchmen, some of the action set pieces from the 90s (the opening feels like Under Siege if it were condensed to just 6-minutes), and from the 00s and 10s the Russos borrow the big bombast (most notably the money shot of huge-ship-crashing-into-big-city, which is a particular favourite right now). 

Cap 2 briefly aspires to the touchstones of the 70s, but too quickly gives in to the often overblown stylings of the years that followed.

Overall: 5/10

New Release Review: 'Starred Up'

The words 'British', 'gritty' and 'prison drama', when used in close proximity, don't tend to lead to packed out cinemas. That Starred Up is also brutalising, horrifying, and highly uncouth (with a particular fondness for using 'see you next tuesday') rather compounds the problem. Fortunately there's a counterbalance: it's f***ing great.

Eric (Jack O'Connell), 19, is 'starred up', the term for premature upgrading from a Young Offenders to an adult prison. After just shy of two decades of solving his problems with violence (which works surprisingly well, except for its habit of becoming self-perpetuating) he's close to institutionalised. As an example of how that would play out over another two decades we have Neville (Ben Mendelsohn), Eric's father, and long time resident of Eric's new home. Father and son are cut from the same cloth; they only know violence, they only understand violence. Neville has the instinct to play father (his orders of "Listen to the gentleman" and "Be good in class" are beautifully out of place in the prison setting), but his practical knowledge is somewhat lacking. Prison therapist Oliver (Rupert Friend) has a better idea how to help: a neat process known as 'talking'. All he needs to do to is convince Eric to get out of his own rage-fueled way, keep Neville from interfering, and manouever around a narrow-minded Governor (Sam Spruell). Oh, and also keep Eric alive.

Starred Up is, for all intents and purposes, a horror movie. Once we know what Eric's capable of -- how he can lash out and bring his world tumbling down in an instant -- the tension level is set high, with no intention of abating. To manage this the film takes a note out of Sam Raimi's horror playbook: add humour. Without the script's occasional lightness of touch the experience would be too dour, grim and, well, British.

The director, David Mackenzie, has previously proven himself very capable (far more people should have seen Hallam Foe by now), but here he makes a big leap forward, most likely thanks to first time writer Jonathan Asser, who used to work in the penal system, in effect in the same role as Friend. Asser's sharply observed exchanges, especially in the group sessions where he juggles a half dozen different volatile, but fragile, characters, are what make Starred Up unique. Everyone onscreen is fleshed out in a way you rarely see in British cinema, or cinema in general. As for the cast, just take whatever over the top superlatives you read on the film's poster, then add a few more: O'Connell is phenomenal, utterly convincing, showing the duality of Eric, that he's fragile and lethal, angry and broken, with a keen intelligence under the bravado; Mendelsohn, now perpetually typecast as the rage-fueled disappointments in society's gutter, continues to give each of his burnouts their own distinctive and warped manner; whilst Friend, best known for his forgettable one-note performance in Homeland, considerably steps up his game. Which would seem to suggest he's being underused in the American drama. There's only one hiccup: Spruell's Governor, who is one step away from being a full-on moustache-twirling villain. And that one step is really just the growth of a moustache for said twirling.

Up until the film's closing scenes it's grounded, credible, harsh, funny and fascinating. When it switches from grounded to high drama it's no less effective, but it's a shame there wasn't another way to play things. A more credible way. Which is little more than nitpicking. Asser and Mackenzie have created a brilliant raging account of a flawed system, and they've managed to do it with heart.

Overall: 9/10

New Release Review: 'Under the Skin'

Does a film need a story? Or a character arc? Does a film even have to entertain? Jonathan Glazer, the director of Under the Skin, is certainly making the case that it doesn't. His latest is pure art. It'll have no truck with entertainment; it has more serious concerns: the nature of humanity, the dichotomy between the exterior and the interior, and other wordy and weighty matters.

Based on Michel Faber's novel of the same name, Glazer's film is less an adaptation and more a thematically linked sister piece to the novel. We follow Scarlett Johansson's unnamed alien as she stalks the streets of Glasgow, sashaying through shopping centres, backstreets and clubs to snare dull-witted men. Which makes the film sound like Species -- and I suppose it is -- only without the sex, or any immediately apparent (or even belatedly apparent) motivations. Johansson's interstellar foreigner eventually follows the same emotional journey as her literary counterpart: she's an alien, she has a job to do, she comes to question that job -- albeit in abstract fashion -- and runs from it when she begins to experience a sort-of humanity.

Little to none of the above is ever stated or made clear, it's just... Inferred. If you know the source material then said inferring might actually be possible. If you don't, then best of luck, because Under the Skin isn't interested in being explicable. It's about mood, suggestion and perception. It's a chilling film, with imagery that's striking and warped. It manages to be both singularly beautiful and blandly common within the space of a few frames; there's nothing like hearing people talk about Tesco's and Asda to pull you out of a film. It is by turns imperfect, amateurish and fascinating.

In some quarters the film has been described as erotic, which is inaccurate. It's primal. As Johansson strips off, enticing her prey further into her lair (and keeping them from noticing it's decrepit inhuman aspect), there's an insistent beat to the soundtrack, suggestive of the men's mental faculties being overridden by their desire. All they see is their need. Glazer wants us to see ourselves through an aliens eyes: we're petty, driven by hunger, sex and tribalism. Which sounds like an interesting film, but for it to work we'd need to get behind that alien perspective. Casting Johansson as the alien is both Glazer's best and worst move. Johansson has never been the most electrifying screen presence, and is usually at her best playing things of beauty that are hollow inside, as she did in Ghost World and The Man Who Wasn't There. Here she's used to similar effect, with the one (rather critical) difference being she has to carry the film; something she's struggled to do at the best of times, but here becomes impossible because Glazer limits her range of expressions to 'blank-face': whilst out hunting, 'slightly-animated-face': when her prey are with her, and 'confused face': which she tries on during the closing act. These constraints are about accentuating the alien-ness of it all. It works, but it doesn't give us a reason to care for Johansson's kind-of-serial-killer or for us to begin self-analysing and wondering at how we're all just rutting animals.

Under the Skin is, as a piece of art, intriguing; but as a piece of cinema it's ultimately lacking.

Overall: 5/10

New Release Review: 'The Grand Budapest Hotel'

Wes Anderson's latest is a confection that looks like a pop-up book, by way of a stage play, which got turned into a film. In other words it's a Wes Anderson film; only this time even more so. Picture the exacting, ostentatious set design of his previous films, then take that image a step further into picture book unreality.

We begin in the present day, in the non-existent Republic of Zubrowka, as a young girl opens the book 'The Grand Budapest Hotel'. From there we trundle backwards in time and hear from the famed author that produced it (1985), then meet the man who inspired it (1968), and finally settle into the heart of the story: the trials and tribulations of Zubrowka's greatest concierge (1932), Gustave H. The well meaning, poetry-spouting Gustave works day and night -- with an emphasis on the latter -- to keep the wealthy guests of The Grand Budapest Hotel happy. Unfortunately he falls afoul of the family of one of his wealthier patrons when she's shuffled off this mortal coil rather more promptly then she had anticipated. Gustave is, in short order, gifted with a priceless heirloom, threatened with violence for being indecent with an older woman, and is betrayed by his nearest and dearest. Then things get worse.

Anderson's always had a good ear for dialogue, and his craftmanship -- from the sets and the clothes to the militaristic precision of his busy scenes -- has never been up for question; but it often feels like he's waiting a beat for the audience to laugh, when all they can do is nod sagely and agree that the line, the setup and the acting in that moment were indicative of a sharp, dry and knowing wit. Which sounds like how a hipster might show mirth, but isn't quite close enough to actual, normal laughter. In The Grand Budapest Hotel he's learnt how to bridge knowing-a-thing-is-funny with making-the-thing-funny. Part of this is down to investing his characters with a warmth that had been missing before; at least until Fantastic Mr. Fox and Moonrise Kingdom. The odd friendship between Gustave (played by the usually grim and dour, but here surprisingly funny, Ralph Fiennes) and his lobby boy Zero (Tony Revolori) feels real despite the unreality of their world. As long as we believe in them, and the people they care about, then it's very easy to get caught up in the ride. Because of this, when Anderson punctures their egos and that of the rest of his vast array of characters, it works far more effectively -- and amusingly. Here it's affectionate, whilst in The Darjeeling Limited, and so many others, it could feel cruel. Even the villains of the piece, the family Desgoffe-und-Taxis (a name almost as satisfyingly silly to write as to say), are easy to like, or at least to laugh at. Adrien Brody's counterintuitive insults and Willem Dafoe's gaping maw make them oddly likeable.

There's further minutiae that adds to the whole: Anderson's love of idiosyncratic words, the frenetic pace, visual gags and slapstick that strangely recall 80s TV series Police Squad!, the throw-away -- but perfectly cast -- cameos, the heartfelt narration from F. Murray Abraham (as a grown-up Zero). It all comes together to make one of Anderson's least trying films. In fact it's pretty much likeable through and through.

Overall: 8/10

Disappointment of the Week/DVD review: 'Safety Not Guaranteed'

To the best of my awareness Safety Not Guaranteed is the first -- and thus far only -- film to take a real classified ad as its inspiration. Although 'real' might not be the right word. The ad was filler for a magazine, but it was well written filler; it had a good hook, simple concept, deadpan delivery. The internet lapped it up. In tone and conceit the film is true to the ad's spirit, but well written it is not.

The story -- well, 'story' is probably too strong a word, but it'll have to do -- focuses on Darius (played by the Queen of Deadpan: Aubrey Plaza), an intern at a magazine where she's mostly ill-used. Her sort-of superior Jeff (Jake Johnson) pitches an idea for a piece based on a classified ad he's seen, which reads: 'Wanted: Somebody to go back in time with me. This is not a joke. You'll get paid after we get back. Must bring your own weapons. Safety not guaranteed. I have only done this once before.' Jeff is given leeway to chase down whoever wrote it, so he ropes in Darius and shy retiring intern Arnau (Karan Soni), and goes on the hunt. What follows is rather too lacking in plot or character to be worth transcribing. There are no credible hurdles for these characters to overcome, no relationships that ring true, no arc on which they're taken. On a script level the film is inert.

Plaza, although interesting to watch, is one-note in the role of Darius (a name which I will forever associate with the Persian King circa 550BC. When I first heard someone use her name, which wasn't until the halfway point, I thought it was a code name... ). Her perpetually deadpan delivery works well in moderation, ideally as part of an ensemble; here she's the focus - so not so much with the moderation and the ensemble in this instance. The casting isn't much better when it comes to the rest: Johnson is likeable as Jeff, when he probably shouldn't be, Soni is wooden rather than his true aim: emotionless, and Mark Duplass -- who plays the possibly doolally writer of the ad -- is lacklustre; giving off the impression that he's in the film as a favour to the director, first timer Colin Trevorrow.

Problematic as some of the casting and editing may be, the real problem is the writing. Subplots are dropped or forgotten, and one particularly odd sequence involving a prosthetic was seemingly included just to pad out the running time. When Arnau is hastily given a truncated subplot of his own during the last third it, in essence, wraps up with the messages 'Don't be yourself!' and 'Peer pressure. It works!' Writer Derek Connolly, also a first timer, hints at interesting subject matter, raising themes of loneliness and belonging, only to meander around them in his conclusion-less script.

Safety Not Guaranteed is a comedy. I know this only because IMDb and Wikipedia, as well as the film's production notes, tell me so, because the film is never knowingly funny. Instead it appears to be aiming for the easier, broader target of generic-quirky-indie. A hodgepodge of a word, but the right one.

Overall: 4/10