My top five:
1. Limbo
1. The Exorcist (Saturday, BBC2, 10.40pm)
Dir: Greg Cruttwell. With:
Emma Amos, Samuel Anderson, Siobhan Bevan, Brian Bovell. 94 mins. Cert: 15
A big season, this, for Greg
Cruttwell. Next month, the BFI revives Mike Leigh’s Naked, in which
Cruttwell landed his most indelible acting gig as the yuppie scumbag Jeremy.
This week, however, he resumes writer-director duties with a genial indie that
casts Leigh alumni and TV stalwarts as football-crazed individuals, pouring
their hearts out to a mostly static camera for 90 minutes plus injury time.
It’s an innately theatrical proposition: forever more talk than action, like a
fringe play that’s snuck in through the Odeon fire doors. (Formally, it
resembles those single-actor patch-ups that proliferated during lockdown.) Yet
this is pretty sound talk, engagingly performed: if not a resounding triumph
for one medium over another, then the kind of honourable draw that sends
everybody home reasonably happy.
Its tactics derive from the
Alan Bennett playbook, revealing what first seem like eccentrically heightened
passions – whether for Spurs or the fictional Sadlers Brook’s under-12s – as
cover for deeper, more personal struggles. Up in the boardroom, Emma Amos’s
non-league chairwoman mulls the ethics of an affair with her married manager
over glasses of Chardonnay; superfan Stephen Boxer (The Crown’s Denis
Thatcher) splutters sausage roll while over-investing in a juniors’ team (with
reassuringly wholesome reason); hotshot Samuel Anderson has his status
challenged by an influx of academy kids. Inevitably, referees get some stick:
Mark Hadfield provides comic relief as an official who refers to the pitch as
his “kingdom”, only to see himself royally dethroned.
We Need to Do Something **
Dir: Sean King O’Grady. With:
Sierra McCormick, Vinessa Shaw, Pat Healy, Lisette Alexis. 97 mins. Cert: 18
A decade ago, Jeff Nichols
directed Take Shelter, a remarkably prophetic, big-picture drama with
Michael Shannon as a construction worker alienating his loved ones with his
insistence on building a bunker in readiness for gathering storms. It may be a
sign of a withering US indie sector that this far scrappier genre item aims to
generate comparably doomy vibes on a single set measuring barely forty square
feet.
Adapted by Max Booth III from
his own novella, Sean King O’Grady’s film unfolds primarily in a domestic
bathroom, to which uptight corporate drone Pat Healy, put-upon wife Vinessa
Shaw and the couple’s two children are confined after a felled tree dissects
their Tornado Alley property. It’s soon clear this is one of those metaphorical
bathrooms, representative of a much bigger space. Squandering any remaining
resources and striving to reimpose control, dad insists “it’s not the end of
the goddamn world”. Yet we’re clearly within touching distance.
With its circumscribed focus,
this promising B-movie scenario proves a solid platform for the perma-game
Healy, whose recent trajectory – from fresh-faced helpmate (The Innkeepers)
via corruptible patsy (Cheap Thrills) to high-strung bully here – neatly
parallels the arc of the white male in modern American cinema. There’s less for
Shaw, passively observing as the image of maternal patience, but the Imogen
Poots-ish Sierra McCormick gets a leg-up as the teenage cutter whose life is
complicated enough before dad lobs her phone outside.
Around them, however, the
dramatic limitations become swiftly apparent. Flashbacks to McCormick’s ominous
liaison with a Gothy pal and an Ozzy Osbourne voice cameo provide a sketchy
sense of the world beyond the bathroom door, but we’re mostly stuck gawping at
ever more dishevelled shut-ins who – even amid the splatter-heavy finale –
don’t entirely know what they’re up against, and remain uncertain what to do.