Pride- Review

It seems I’m a little late to the national Pride love in. I had intended to review Matthew Warchus’ new issue-rific Brit flick last week but a malfunction in my brain lead to me getting the time of the showing wrong and then punished me by making me see ‘Before I Go to Sleep’ instead. In the intervening week I’ve had numerous friends tell me how inspirational and moving Pride is, piquing my interest significantly before finally seeing it today. The film that greeted me was very much the film I had expected; a button pressing wash of quality British actors, evocative scenery and heart felt sentiment. Regardless, in spite of the undoubted effectiveness of the movie, the question I can’t help but ask is: is Pride successful because of the execution of its themes and narrative or just due to the emotive nature of those topics?

The events of Pride occur during the miner’s strike of 1984 placing it firmly in the commercially and critically successful company of Thatcher baiting films like Billy Elliot and Brassed Off. It concerns a group of homosexuals in London who, recognising solidarity with the miners over their dreadful treatment by the government, form a group to raise money for the union of a small Welsh town during the strikes. The meat of the story relates to the acceptance or otherwise of the Welsh villagers to their unlikely benefactors and the effect that both groups have on the other’s lives. One undoubted feather in Pride’s cap is the fact that its story has its basis in real life people and events. Of course, anyone with a broader knowledge of this part of British history will know how the strike turned out but in many ways the film is less concerned with the politics of the time than it is with examining the pointlessness of prejudice in general.

One of the most initially striking things about Pride has to be its cast. Warchus and his capable screenwriter Stephen Beresford have attracted an impressive gaggle of thesps of all ages and levels of notoriety and the vast majority do a very good job. The ever dependable Paddy Considine is warm and spirited as the union rep Dai, Bill Nighy gives a delicately observed, uncharacteristically understated performance as retired Cliff, Imelda Staunton is pin sharp and funny as matriarch Hefina and Dominic West turns on his flamboyance as the louche actor Jonathan. In fact, the extreme breadth of talent on display can occasionally work against Pride’s favour. A definite issue of the film is the flattery of riches it offers; there are so many interesting characters and sub-plots stuffed into its two hour runtime that the focus occasionally gets spread a little thin. A good example of this is Andrew Scott’s Gethin. One of my favourite characters; Gethin’s story runs parallel to the main narrative and features his coming to terms with the Welsh upbringing he had to leave behind when he came out and fled to London. Scott turns in an exquisitely nuanced performance which in many ways should be the heart of the movie, unfortunately his strand feels edited and channelled to make way for more characters and sub-plots. Although such a large cast is not detrimental in itself, I do feel that a tighter focus could have benefited the overall effectiveness of the film.

When it comes to the telling their tale Warchus and Beresford rarely put a step wrong. Whilst not offering many unexpected developments, the culture clash story contains all the visceral highs and lows you may expect of the genre but does so in a way which feels slightly more honest than simply ticking the boxes of an emotional check list. There is a rather curious anomaly between the subject matter and presentation of its themes on the screen, by which I mean that the film is actually quite chaste when it comes to portraying its homosexual characters. Considering the message is “we’re all the same regardless of who we’re sexually attracted to”, the gay men are portrayed with a degree of coyness that doesn’t necessarily ring true. Granted, I wasn’t expecting to see the tempestuous frotting of ‘Weekend’ but when the kiss of a heterosexual peripheral character gets more screen time than the first gay kiss of one of the leads then I have to ask if slightly hypocritical concessions were made at the alter of higher box office returns. I also found that the film’s lesbian characters were, on the whole, not treated with the same sensitivity as the gay men; falling more into easy stereotypes and fulfilling the role of walking punchlines.

I suppose that ultimately one has to judge a film like this based on the emotions it evokes and on those terms Pride flies. It is highly successful in presenting its tale in a way which has one leaving the cinema with damp eyes and a beaming heart. I do still wonder if the emotional effectiveness of the film had more to do with seeing my own liberal political leanings writ large on the screen as opposed any great skill on behalf of the director but in the end it doesn’t really matter. Issue lead films live or die on their ability to make audiences empathise with and relate to their characters’ struggles and Pride achieves this with wit and charm. It may have been preaching to the choir but Pride was the first film I’ve seen in years which had a British audience applauding at its finale, something to be proud of indeed.

I give Pride eight Pauls out of Critoph

 

 

Before I Go to Sleep- Review

It seems to me that if you’re going to make a new film which revolves around the fairly uncommon condition of anterograde amnesia, then you should have something pretty special up your sleeve in order to avoid unfavourable comparisons with Christopher Nolan’s masterpiece, Memento. Failing that, cast a lead actor with adequate mobility in their face to emote more than one look of mildly startled confusion. Sadly the writer & director of Before I Go to Sleep, Rowan Joffe, seemingly had another remit.

The story concerns a middle aged woman named Christine, who following a head trauma eight years previous to the start of the film, wakes each day with no recollection of the specifics of her life; her home or her husband. Every morning her partner has to explain that due to the accident she is incapable of retaining fresh memories after sleeping and remembers herself as she was in her early twenties. Unbeknownst to her husband, she begins to record short videos each day at the suggestion of a kindly neurologist, in order to retain a little knowledge of her situation when she wakes up. Naturally, the events surrounding her amnesia are not as straight forward as they initially seem.

At its heart, Before I Go to Sleep is a mystery story. The nature of Christine’s accident and the potential involvement of the men in her life are the puzzle to unlock throughout the films run time. How baffling and elusive the twists and turns of the story are will be very much dependent on your brain’s ability to connect fairly brazenly high-lighted dots. After all, there are only four main characters in the film so only a limited number of potential antagonists, That said, there are sufficient red herrings and false paths to blur the ‘how and why’ if not the ‘who’ and there was one moment of revelation which had me smiling with satisfaction. The issues with the film ultimately come not from the story but with its execution.

Behind the camera, Joffe seems to be aiming for the drizzle grey aesthetic of a David Fincher movie but lacks the dynamism of composition & motion displayed by his muse. Instead the film is shrouded in a morale sapping mixture of chilly disconnection and TV drama shot framing. This has the effect of competently seeing the story from A to B whilst leaving very little lasting impression on the viewer. In the main part the supporting performances are strong. Colin Firth as Christine’s husband Ben is by turns bedraggled and endearing or inscrutable depending on what the narrative demands of him and he is allowed, on occasion, to push against what is expected of his usual casting bracket. Mark Strong also does well as the neurologist Dr Nash, clearly relishing the opportunity of not playing a total villain for a change, despite the murkiness of his motives. There is also capable support from Anne-Marie Duff as Christine’s estranged friend Claire, who manages in a single scene to imbue her character with a mixture of tenderness and raw guilt.

Get used to this expression

The true falling of the film lies squarely at the feet of its star, Nicole Kidman. She is an actress whose appeal sadly eludes me. In Before I Go to Sleep she utterly fails to make a character who by default should be nothing less than sympathetic, engaging in any way whatsoever. Whether through botox or stilted ability, her face is a porcelain mask unable to convey human emotion beyond mild irritation or blank bewilderment. In her hands Christine becomes a bothersome nuisance; I found myself being irked by her amnesia instead of sharing in her disquiet. After witnessing the tepid vagueness of her performance the central mystery of the film becomes ‘What do all the other characters see in her?’ as opposed to anything more meaningful.

So here we have a thriller which, although by no means awful, provides very little sustenance for those prepared to invest in its patchily told tale. There are some decent performances to be enjoyed but they seem a consolation prize for having to wade through Kidman’s lifeless recital. Ultimately, Before I Go to Sleep will just about keep your attention for one and a half hours but much like its subject matter, you won’t remember it in the morning.

I give Before I Go to Sleep five and a half Pauls out of Critoph

 

The Boxtrolls- Review

The art of stop frame animation has a particularly warm nook reserved in the corner of my heart. As a slightly odd fourteen year old I used my father’s camcorder to make my own little animated epics; positioning lego men through various scenarios and hammering the record button on and off as fast as I could in an effort to capture a single frame. This culminated in my decision to use the technique for my final exam piece in GCSE art, only this time attempting to emulate my Aardman heroes by crafting my characters out of plasticine. The story was of a kindly grim reaper attempting to convince an old lady to let him into her house and was a glorious triumph of ambition over ability. Of course in the intervening years between my adolescent efforts and the release of the stop frame studio Laika’s new film, The Boxtrolls, much has changed. Not least the rise and domination of computer generated animation. In the world of Pixar and Dreamwork’s beautifully realised digital features the question has to be asked; is there a place in modern cinema for the measured precision of the old ways?

Yes. Yes there is, glad to clear that up for you. Laika has a built a strong CV since being founded in 2005, with two existing features to its name, ParaNorman and my personal favourite, Coraline. The Boxtrolls is their most technically ambitious film to date, featuring more characters and the most complex set pieces they’ve attempted. The story takes place in a beautifully steam punk town, half way between Mont Saint Michel and Victorian London. It is called Cheesebridge and the events of the film centre around the titular imps who live in the tunnels and caves below the city. The townsfolk are terrified of the Boxtrolls, believing them to have stolen and devoured a baby boy ten years previous to the start of the film. We soon learn this is not the case as we are introduced to the missing boy, known by the trolls as Eggs, living happily with his subterranean family. How and why he got there are some of the questions posed later in the movie. Things are set in motion by the undoubted villain of the piece, Arhibald Snatcher, who, with his team of red hatted exterminators, has vowed to wipe out every boxtroll in the town in order to climb the social ladder.

The first thing to mention about The Boxtrolls is its absolutely stunning aesthetic. The team at Laika have crafted a gothic, shadow drenched world of menace and beauty which pops from the screen with detail and charm. This is where the benefits of stop frame animation become apparent; everything on screen has a tangible quality grounded in realism. The richness of the palette and the recognisable depth of field have a magical believability which is incredibly hard to recreate, even with today’s advanced digital technology. The characters themselves are marvels of design; the boxtrolls have an initial ugliness which after a few minutes dissolves into adorability once their good natured affable spirit is revealed. They become like an eager to please army of pugs and never fall into the trap of becoming annoying. Snatcher, meanwhile, is a truly hideous creation; lank hair flops over beady, spiteful eyes, whilst his crooked nose stands sentinel over a grinning mouth of broken tombstone teeth. In fact, many of the grown up characters share a similarly grotesque appearance, their contorted faces reflecting the suspicion with which Eggs treats the over ground world.

The voice acting in The Boxtrolls is first rate. The keen eared will recognise talent from the UK’s comedy scene including Nick Frost, Simon Pegg and Richard Ayoade but the star of the show is a totally unidentifiable Ben Kingsley as the villain. Apparently he recorded all of his lines whilst reclining in order to imbue his voice with a relaxed quality and his unorthodox method has resulted in a truly sinister performance. Snatcher is at once a social climber, a bully and a man vulnerable to his own ambitions. There is one slight dud in the voice actor barrel in the form of Elle Fanning as Eggs’ human companion, Winnie. Although competent, her English accent suffers the occasional tumble into the Atlantic which leaves one wondering why they didn’t just cast a Brit.

The Boxtrolls truly is a highly accomplished animation. It is directed with fluid panache and is steeped in fog thick atmosphere. It perhaps takes a little while for the narrative to hit its stride but when it does, epic set pieces and acutely observed, Pratchett-esque humour carry Eggs and his friends through to a thrilling climax in break neck speed. It could be said that much of the imagery and levels of peril found in the film may be frightening for younger children and whilst I’m sure this is true, that is no reason to not take them to see it. The Boxtrolls offers a return to family films where being scared is part of the fun. I remember how terrified I was of General Woundwort from Watership Down when I was a child but I wouldn’t have changed him for the world. A scary villain enhances a film for youngsters and I’m sure that in twenty years time, young adults will be swapping stories about peeking in terror through their fingers at the leering visage of Archibald Snatcher. Ultimately, The Boxtrolls is a film which once more cements the relevance and power of stop motion animation, my fourteen year old self would be delighted.

I give The Boxtrolls eight pauls out of critoph

The Guest- Review

The Guest represents something of opportunity for its star Dan Stevens. Up to this point in his career he has been known predominantly for his role in globally successful toff ’em up, Downton Abbey. This movie marks his attempt to leave behind his casting bracket as a wide necked silver spooner by fully embracing the darker side of his range. The Guest is directed by Adam Winyard, a relatively new talent whose work gravitates around the horror genre, including the creepy home invasion film, You’re Next. It is a bold gamble of Stevens’ to reinvent himself against such a template but it is one which is ultimately successful.

It is important when dealing with a film like this not to reveal too much for fear of ruining the twists and turns of the story so I will be sparing with details. The action kicks off with a stranger named David turning up at the house of a recently bereaved family claiming to have been serving with their soldier son when he was killed in action. After initial suspicion they welcome him into their home; his charming, helpful demeanour succeeding in wooing both the family and the audience. It is not long before he is aiding each family member in essential aspects of their lives, whether it be a drinking buddy for the dad, a shoulder to cry on for the mother or a bully whooping protector for the teenage son. The only character with reservations is the nineteen year old daughter, played with gentle affability by Maika Monroe, who doesn’t need reminding of her deceased brother.

Of course, coming from Winyard, we know that something isn’t quite right. In many ways The Guest feels like a film from another, more patient age. Specifically the 1980’s. He uses long, lingering takes, allowing the audience to fully scrutinise this mysterious visitor and juxtaposes the calm with a fantastic, tension inducing synth soundtrack straight from a John Carpenter movie. We glimpse Stevens away from the trusting eyes of his adopted family, his smiling face clicking automatically into a steely neutral. The first half of The Guest is a master class of slow burn tension, the question of who David really is constantly on the viewers mind. More importantly though, it is fun. A lot of fun actually. Stevens’ performance achieves that strange hinterland of threatening and hilarious; almost like an alien approximating the outward appearance of the perfect man. He is ripped and handsome and yet displays a lack of understanding of the human condition that hints at the violence to come. There is something darkly comic in his portrayal which explodes onto the screen in several hugely entertaining scenes; none more so than when he confronts his adopted brother’s tormentors in a road side dive bar. The sense of giddy teenage wish fulfilment in these scenes is palpable and a joy to watch.

The second half of the movie is really where Winyard’s genre roots come to the fore. Without spoiling anything I will just say that ‘David’ is a wanted man and when Lance Reddick’s amusingly OTT military specialist arrives, a carnival a bullets and blood is just around the corner. It is important to note that the actual explanation of the events of The Guest is less important than the fun of experiencing it. Certainly to the film makers. It could be argued, quite reasonably, that these latter stages of the film forgo a neatly tied, well reasoned narrative conclusion in favour of a crafting a VHS tinged schlock thriller. It is an accusation which holds water but is ultimately redundant due to synth throbbing good time that it offers. Winyard manages to evoke the spirit of a genuine 80’s seat gripper without resorting to pastiche and in doing so has created the unlikely love child of Footloose and The Terminator. Those with a love of low fi suspense and jet dark humour should pay The Guest a visit.

I give The Guest seven pauls out of critoph

 

Sin City: A Dame to Kill For- Review

Like most excitable young scamps I was a big fan of the original Sin City when it exploded with monochrome blood onto screens in 2005. Its heady mix of pulp noir and graphic novel cool resulted in a film which felt like no other I had seen. The bold choices of director Robert Rodriguez added a low fi buzz to the experience; his decision to follow the composition of Frank Miller’s original comic frames was a new one at the time and his ensemble cast added big name recognition to a low budget movie. His new movie, Sin City: A Dame to Kill For, is less a sequel to the original than it is a continuation. The question now is after a gap of nine years, does Rodriguez’s violent vision offer enough to recapture modern audiences?

One area where this compendium of three new tales from Basin City succeeds over its predecessor is the definite improvement in the quality of the computer generated backgrounds. The black and white palette looks remarkable, catching the light glinting off puddles and fire escapes and crafting powerful muscle cars that no longer resemble off cuts from an old Grand Theft Auto game. The limitations of the green screen technology do sometimes became apparent, particularly in action scenes where the camera is required to move in a different direction to the actors resulting in a strange skewed perspective. The technique of colourising certain objects in each scene is carried over from the first movie and is used sparingly enough to remain effective; particularly in the case of highlighting the gold of Julia Garner’s hair in her scenes with Joseph Gordon Levitt, it may not be subtle but it is a great way of highlighting her innocence where the script does not.

When it comes to the meat and bones of the narrative A Dame to Kill For is very much a split bag. It contains three individual tales which converge at various points but sadly not in a distinct enough way to avoid feeling ultimately episodic. The most successful of these is the story of Joseph Gordon Levitt’s seemingly blessed gambler looking to humiliate Powers Booth’s corrupt senator at the poker table. In a world of cut outs and archetypes, Levitt’s every man charm stands out as the emotional core of the movie whilst Booth twinkles with the sinister sheen of wealth, becoming one of the most detestable screen villains in recent memory. This story was also the most stylistically bold, capturing a true Noir atmosphere whilst serving up several indelibly memorable images. Sadly due to the uneven intertwining of the sub-plots this section concludes two thirds of the way through the movie, leaving things to be wrapped up by the remaining two, inferior stories.

Of those two the Eva Green starring femme fatal tale is the more successful even if it is slightly over long. It features Josh Brolin as a recast Dwight from the first movie. As far as I can tell it is set before the events in Sin City as at one point Brolin undergoes facial surgery, leaving him looking, quite hilariously, like a police sketch artist’s drawing of the previous actor, Clive Owen. The section is generally competent although suffers in a couple of areas. The pacing slows as the story continues and Rodriguez has a slightly juvenile obsession with Eva Green’s breasts. Don’t get me wrong; they are a very pleasant pair of breasts, the problem is that the director insists on showing them to us almost every time Green takes the screen. It seems to me that a little more economy with his erotica would have served the film better. It is often sexier to receive a glimpse as opposed to wind up feeling like Green’s personal mammographer.

The real undoing of the film is the final section, prominently featuring Jessica Alba’s stripper Nancy on a quest for revenge against the glorious Powers Booth. Unfortunately, the failing of this story is Alba herself. We are to believe that since the first film she has taught herself to shoot, begun to drink and acquired a no messin’, bad ass persona. Unfortunately Alba is totally unequipped for the job. In the final big assault sequence she is unconvincing as a hard girl on a mission, it looks like she can barely hold up a gun, let alone aim one and her blank eyed, pouting performance sadly does not fill in the gaps. She is joined by returning fan favourite, Mickey Rouke’s Marv, who also features in both other tales, although this is not the Marv we remember. He was a man of few, growled words, whose grim manner was matched by his misshapen face. This Marv, by contrast, is having a simply lovely time in Sin City. His role seems to be to make witty, winking asides to the camera and fire out zingers from his grinning mouth like bullets from his gun. This serves only to reduce the integrity of the character and produces a number of cringe inducing, embarrassing dad moments.

What started as a thoroughly entertaining and atmospheric film rolls steadily downhill until I was bored with the whole concept. Robert Rodriguez has made significant errors in bringing this sequel to the screen; blunders in structure and pacing that stalled my enjoyment and perhaps unfairly, made me retrospectively question the the quality of the original. So, as I say, it is a mixed bag of a film; perhaps requiring even more mixing to even out the quality. Leave the cinema after Levitt leaves the screen and you could probably add an extra Paul or two to the final score but as it is…

I give Sin City: A Dame to Kill For six Pauls out of Critoph

 

Lucy- Review

Luc Besson was every teenager’s favourite director in the nineties, serving up the glacial cool of Leon, followed by the technicolour sci-fi fever dream of The Fifth Element. This one two punch of thematically different crowd pleasers confirmed him as a director with a strong visual language and a big future. Since then, however, his output as a director has been inconsistent to say the least, ranging from a series of animated children’s films to miss-stepping historical epics. Securing Scarlett Johansson as the lead of his latest film ‘Lucy’, was a canny move on behalf of Besson and pre release buzz implied that this sci fi action film could put him back on track. Frustratingly, the finished movie, whilst doubtless the singular vision of the director, falls significantly short of its potential.

The plot of film is thin to say the least and will lose nothing in a short synopsis: An American twenty something in Taipei is tricked into delivering a mysterious case to a sinister Korean gang boss. It is not long before she has a bag of a mysterious new narcotic (looking suspiciously like Walter White’s blue meth) sewn into her stomach for a bit of good, old fashioned international drug muling. Things take a turn for the crazy when the bag bursts, unlocking her brain’s dormant potential and kick starting a spree of revenge aided by a kindly professor and a French detective.

Lucy starts strongly. The first fifteen minutes are taut, violent and suspenseful. We feel Lucy’s panic as the situation spins quickly out of her control and it is great to see Old Boy’s Min-Sik Choi radiating nonchalant malice as her mob antagonist. In an interesting decision, the visuals are peppered with short snippets from wildlife documentaries, non too subtly screaming the subtext: Lucy is waiting for the gangsters to arrive in a hotel lobby; cut to footage of a gazelle being stalked by a cheetah. Although at their first appearance I found these clips unintentionally amusing and heavy handed, after a while they became less literal and began informing the language of the film in a more positive way. It is a shame that the film’s early potential is squandered by a change that occurs as soon as Lucy starts acquiring her powers.

First things first; this is not a sci fi film. It may be dressed up as one with its chemical compounds and professors giving academic sounding speeches but don’t be fooled. It is fantasy, plain and simple. The reason I state this with such assurance is that the very concept behind Lucy is buried deep under gallons of bad science. The initial premise is that humans only use ten per cent of their brains, so what happens when we unlock the other ninety? I’m sure many of you have heard of this supposed fact and are probably aware that it is totally untrue. Awareness of this scientific fallacy discredits the entire movie. Morgan Freeman’s professor transforms from being an esteemed genius to a deluded crank, babbling untruths to a lecture theatre of duped fawners. The effect that the wonder drug has on Lucy is similarly fantastical; enabling her to defy gravity, read minds and alter her appearance at will. The script also ignores the fairly basic idea that regardless of intellect, knowledge needs to be learned. From twenty per cent brain power, Lucy automatically knows how to read Mandarin and can give doctors a medically accurate diagnosis of a gun shot wound despite having no training. These kind of pedantic quibbles may seem small in isolation but en masse serve to continually under cut the suspension of disbelief.

The main problem with the film is a general sense of disconnection with the characters. Once the drug gets into Lucy’s system the humanity ebbs away from her. This is mentioned by the character on a couple of occasions but sadly for Besson, acknowledging the problem isn’t the same as addressing it. This is not a reflection on Johansson who performs what is required of her with steely commitment; it is an endemic problem with the entire script and extends to every character in the film. There is no one to feel close to or emphasise with. Characters are present to fulfil a functional purpose; to move the narrative from A to B and as a result are predominantly forgettable.

This is not to say that Lucy is a thoroughly bad film. There is much to enjoy if you are prepared to overlook its more extreme shortcomings. Besson’s flair for kinetic action and accessible abstraction is intact. He manages to craft a number of impressive, if not particularly thrilling, sequences. His camera moves with fluidity and purpose and the final 2001 recalling sequence is definitely a treat for the eyes, if not for the brain. The problem is that these visual flourishes are built on the flimsiest of foundations; a scooped out Faberge egg of external extravagance concealing a hollow core . Lucy is a partial triumph of style over substance; that it held my attention for the run time is testament to Besson’s skill behind the camera, that it is already seeping from my memory only hours after seeing it is testament to his failing as a writer. Ironically, Lucy is functional piece of lightweight entertainment but only if you’re prepared to switch off your brain.

I give Lucy six Pauls out of Critoph