Saturday, 5 April 2025

On demand: "Deseret"


And lo, out of the wilderness and onto the fringes of the US independent scene strode the longhaired formalist James Benning, armed with an artist's eye and a grant from the Rockefeller Foundation. 1995's Deseret, a documentary study of all things Utah, adopts a two-part strategy. On the screen, we see projected serene, carefully composed, mostly unpopulated portraits of the state and its environs: the hills, the forests, the roads, the buildings, the quarries, the saltflats, and the landmarks that pin Utah to the map as both a Native American and Mormon encampment. On the soundtrack, however, we hear a gathering storm: extracts from the New York Times, starting from the mid-19th century and heading inexorably towards the moment of the film's production, which reframe this part of the world as furiously contested land, whether as a result of the Latter Day Saints (under Brigham Young) striving to expand their reach and influence - to the extent of threatening to go solo from the other states under the new name of Deseret - or the all-out war between the natives and Whitey, or later developments encompassing slavery, Japanese internment camps and even radioactive dogs and children. The headlines keep coming, and there is scarcely a square foot of this territory that goes untouched by this upheaval; we didn't start the fire, Benning insists, it was always turning since the world was burning.

For a while, the combination of rugged landscapes and terse, handset headlines gives Deseret the air of a leftfield Western, as if the film were Benning's own mid-Nineties contribution to the revival that had generated Dances with Wolves and Unforgiven (and the Young Guns diptych before those), approaching the formations of Monument Valley from a radically different angle. (Benning's posse would be made up not of marshals and gunslingers, but philosophers and sociologists.) But it keeps going and keeps growing, to the point where this one-man, 81-minute endeavour starts to seem like an epic of some ultra-localised, site-specific kind, with a cast of thousands, headed by familiar, resonant names. It's not just Brigham Young, whom the Times scribes characterise as the type of grifter or opportunist present in American life from more or less the get-go, but John Birch, Melvin Dummar and Gary Gilmore, plus countless cult leaders, historical bystanders, and sheep on drugs. Gradually, story by story, frame by frame, the rules of law and capital impose themselves, and this Utah - once a rogue state - aligns with the world as you and I know it. (Benning pulls off a midfilm coup de cinéma as the news reports breach the 20th century, switching from monochrome stock to vibrant colour - and lo, we're not in Kansas anymore.)

Yet this filmmaker remains steadfastly a nature boy, keeping the cars at arm's length and the people out of sight, drawn instead to whatever can be represented by cave paintings and dinosaur fossils. The men on the soundtrack beat their chests and jabber on; the landscape, however, remains mute or taciturn, and greatly more alluring for that. You want to escape the slave trading, nuclear testing and general idiocy we hear about, and instead run into these vistas with your arms stretched wide and free. Those images are Deseret's own way of keeping the barbarians (by which I suppose I mean Man, or modern men) from the gates: here, Benning attempts to pare back the clutter and chaos of capitalism, refocuses our scattered attention on a fixed frame, allows us the time and space to think, and lets us see again the vast potential of America, that newish world that fell by the wayside or escaped undeveloped. It's a preliminary study, covering only the state's first hundred years in a way the media would cover a President's first hundred days, but a detailed, engrossing and enlightening one. James Marsh's Wisconsin Death Trip and John Gianvito's Profit Motive and the Whispering Wind - two excellent, comparable texts from the first years of the 21st century - owe a sizeable debt to it, as I think does Kelly Reichardt's Meek's Cutoff, an answer to a question Benning poses here: what if you actually filmed a Western in this cursed, treacherous, bloodsoaked environment, with full knowledge of its history?

Deseret is currently streaming via YouTube.

Friday, 4 April 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of March 28-30, 2025):

1 (1) Disney's Snow White (PG)
2 (new) L2: Empuraan (15)
3 (new) A Working Man (15)
5 (new) Novocaine (15)
6 (4) Black Bag (15) ****
7 (5) Mickey 17 (15) **
8 (new) Billy Elliot: The Musical - Live (15)
9 (6) Flow (U) ***
10 (new) Dr. Strangelove - NT Live 2025 (12A)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
2. Muriel's Wedding [above]

 
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
2 (4) A Real Pain (15) ***
3 (20) We Live in Time (15) **
4 (7) Paddington in Peru (PG)
5 (13) Kraven the Hunter (15)
6 (5) Gladiator II (15) ***
7 (12) Despicable Me 4 (U)
8 (10) The Wild Robot (U) **
9 (15) Better Man (15) **
10 (re) Nosferatu (15) ***


My top five: 
1. Dahomey


My top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Lady Vanishes (Sunday, BBC Two, 12.30pm)
2. Licorice Pizza (Friday, BBC Two, 11pm)
3. Calamity Jane (Sunday, BBC Two, 4.35pm)
4. Shrek 2 (Sunday, BBC One, 3.25pm)
5. The Cruel Sea (Sunday, BBC Two, 10.30am)

"Four Mothers" (Little White Lies Apr/May 2025)


Here’s an unexpected remake. Back in 2008, the Italian writer-director-star Gianni Di Gregorio – think Nanni Moretti, with fewer neuroses – enjoyed a pan-European matinee hit with
Mid-August Lunch, a gentle-to-negligible comedy about a fiftysomething bachelor (played by Di Gregorio himself) obliged to attend not just his own aged mother but the mothers of several contemporaries. As its title hinted, this was a light repast of a film, though it took at least one twinkly-eyed glance at a mounting crisis in social care. Nearly two decades later, that crisis shows no signs of abating, and so it is we have Four Mothers, a rejig from Ireland’s emergent Thornton brothers (Colin, who writes, alongside Darren, who directs), aiming to consolidate their 2016 sleeper success A Date for Mad Mary.

The story’s travelled from one traditionally Catholic realm to another, so the latent Madonna worship requires scant translation. But the Thorntons add a teaspoon of realism, the better to bolster Di Gregorio’s sunny fluff. For starters, their protagonist Edward (James McArdle) is a gay YA novelist, representing all those penniless creatives stranded on the housing ladder’s lower rungs. (One of the film’s truths: publishers’ advances aren’t what they used to be.) His status as a carer for his mute 81-year-old ma (Irish screen great Fionnula Flanagan) is threatening to derail a planned US promotional tour; those plans unravel completely after two pals and his therapist also dump their mothers (Dearbhla Molloy, Stella McCusker and Paddy Glynn) on him to attend Pride in Maspalomas.

The gag is that Edward’s so codependent he can’t say no, but this is also one of those contrivances a movie asks us to swallow so it can get everyone in the same place. Once they’re there, Four Mothers enters familiar territory, toggling between farce and something more sentimental, undercutting its comedy with cuddliness. Edward’s soon juggling the needs of four often withering matriarchs, the demands of an agent trying to toughen him up for America, and messages from those partying while he’s doing his filial duty. The conflict gets cranked up – unlike genial Gianni, Edward is a sometimes openly resentful sadsack – but only slightly. The Thorntons are too busy modernising the material, embracing those podcasts and mindfulness apps that weren’t quite a thing in 2008.

In places, Four Mothers skews broad: one joke involving the word “pouffe” is eminently guessable. Yet it’s modulated by the sweetness in these performances, and by McArdle in particular, soft, rueful and armed with the most thoughtful writing here. The mas prove less formidable than the Italian mammas, though there are nice moments for the silent Flanagan, acting with eyes and iPad alone, and for Molloy as the wearied Joan, whose karaoke go-to is Black’s “Wonderful Life”. The Thorntons never match that track’s wrenching, deep-seated melancholy; caressing the middle of the road in a mobility scooter, their film is the kind of jolly consolation our industries make because they can’t steel themselves to go as hard as Haneke’s Amour. A canny crowdpleaser, nevertheless: enough to distract anyone from the onward rush of time.

Anticipation: Slender source material, but last year’s LFF Audience Award suggests it’s doing something right 3
Enjoyment: Broadly likable, and the seasoned actors add a dash more pith and grit to what’s gone before 4
In retrospect: A Thorntons’ chocolate box – for mothers of every variety 3

Four Mothers opens in selected cinemas from today.

"Screamboat" (Guardian 04/04/25)


Screamboat
*

Dir: Steven LaMorte. With: David Howard Thornton, Tyler Posey, Jesse Kove, Kailey Hyman. 101 mins. Cert: 18

Here’s another draining bout of horror opportunism, spawned in this instance by the copyright expiring on Disney’s Steamboat Willie, the 1928 animation landmark that launched Mickey Mouse into the world. Steven LaMorte’s bloody pastiche opens with a quote coyly ascribed to “Walt D.” before plodding mirthlessly along in the pawprints of those recent Winnie the Pooh carve-ups, demonstrating no greater brio, invention or wit. Its mock Mickey is a genetically modified, psychopathic pipsqueak (Terrifier breakout David Howard Thornton, in mangy rodent costume), loosed from the sewers by blundering engineers; rather than the jaunty steamboat his predecessor commandeered, he wreaks murderous havoc on a grimy approximation of the Staten Island Ferry, whistling while he works.

The whole never recovers from its leaden opening half-hour, devoted to lugging potential corpses aboard and setting us to wonder who, if anyone, will survive the lacklustre carnage. (Hopes are lowered like a flag for the airheaded bachelorette party sent this way with an eye towards content creation.) LaMorte notionally expands the scope of his non-satirical attack by having the critter’s victims mouth familiar Magic Kingdom buzzwords. “Can you feel the love tonight?” winks one topless passenger, shortly before being hosed down with gore, a severed penis tumbling from her lips. One point in these cheap-and-cheerless cash-ins’ favour: in an era of dead-eyed data scraping, they may yet radicalise a generation of sleepover attendees to pursue ways of toughening up copyright law.

Arterial-spray sickos won’t feel shortchanged, but just as many kill scenes are torpedoed by a prevailing poverty of lighting, clumsy-to-inept coverage and cutting, and effects that only erratically match the action. Amid a raft of Sharknado-level performances, accidentally serving the public by muffling dialogue that wasn’t exactly sparkling to begin with, Thornton grants his Mickey a certain bouncy malevolence – but we get the idea after only a few minutes of watching the actor tapdancing on a pop-culture grave. These tacky novelty items have been unlucky to land at a moment when mainstream horror has seriously raised its game; but something as cut-price, retrograde and reactionary as this really does deserve the damning label of Mickey Mouse fare. 

Screamboat opens in cinemas nationwide today.

Wednesday, 2 April 2025

On demand: "Hôtel Terminus: The Life and Times of Klaus Barbie"


By the mid-1980s, the bigger picture of World War II had been almost comprehensively filled in, on a macro level by such documentary overviews as ITV's
The World at War, and on a micro level by Claude Lanzmann's Shoah, with its forensic, step-by-step examination of the nuts and bolts of the Nazi killing machine. Yet there were still loose ends around to be picked and connected up. The Oskar Schindler story, as retold first by Thomas Keneally and then Steven Spielberg; the uprising at one of the death camps, first by the US TV movie Escape from Sobibor, later by Lanzmann again; and, in the case of 1988's Hôtel Terminus, the fate of one of the most brutal Nazi war criminals, as examined by Marcel Ophuls in his extraordinary, Oscar-winning follow-up to 1969's The Sorrow and the Pity, that earlier documentary landmark on the twin impulses (collaboration and resistance) that governed wartime France. The tone of the new film - named for the Lyon hostelry the Gestapo occupied during WW2, and the first stop of Ophuls' four-and-a-half-hour tour of Barbie's various homes and shelters - is set by an early aside in which a former neighbour of the Barbie family makes a stark four-word comment on Barbie's developmentally disabled younger brother: "Best that he died." We are immediately brought close to the cruelty again - obliged to inhabit the same rooms as those who knew Barbie, those who worked and lived alongside him, those who suffered at his hands, those who fought against or sheltered him, and those who finally brought him to justice in the late 1980s. The fact the above sentiment is spoken on camera by someone other than the film's notorious subject is crucial to the point Ophuls lands: that the cruelty, in this instance, extended far beyond that of Klaus Barbie himself.

We are now almost as far from the film as the film was from WW2, which requires us to adapt to a very different model of documentary cinema than has since become the norm: no narrator-presenter to lead us around by the hand (although the balding, bespectacled Ophuls appears on camera sporadically), an obligation to discern for ourselves who exactly these interviewees are and which side they were on, a veritable barrage of testimony to be sifted, sorted and weighed. It's clear that, much like Lanzmann, Ophuls was driven to cast his net far and wide, to gather as much information as he could from those who could still remember, including contradictory evidence. Editorially, Hôtel Terminus gets some of its biggest effects by intercutting opinion A with opinion B, a form of cinematic cross-examination. Barbie did monstrous things, but he could also be cultured and charming, we learn, and he was particularly good with animals. It's significant that he was put on trial, but - and here Ophuls picks up where The Sorrow and the Pity left off - he didn't act alone, and it took many Frenchmen to empower this one German to do the things he did. The first half gestures towards another film entirely, cutting freely between former Resistance agents, now in their dotage, as they fight among themselves over who talked and who didn't. Ophuls is forever insistent this isn't just one isolated story but multiple, interconnected stories: featured supporting players include the actual Lucie Aubrac, the Resistance figurehead played by Carole Bouquet in Claude Berri's 1997 drama; Günter Grass, the author of The Tin Drum; René Hardy, inspiration for Nicholas Ray's Bitter Victory; the bosses of the Laughing Cow cheese company; and Jacques Vergès, lawyer subject of 2007's Terror's Advocate. Crucially, Ophuls asserts their stories will often be at odds with one another, which is not to say they're entirely untrue.

Every now and again, though, Ophuls' questioning gets something truly jolting out of his interviewees, often from those who don't or won't talk, or who claim to have nothing more to say on the subject: tracked down to his apartment building, one former Gestapo underling waves the filmmaker away with a blackly ironic "Whatever happened to human rights?" And we gain a clear understanding of the perimeters within which the Klaus Barbie story was permitted to unfold. On one axis, a Lyon resident who, as a child, saw her mother gunned down in front of her tells Ophuls "there are so many stories like this". On the other, a woman who shares a property with a former Nazi shooes Ophuls' crew away, maintaining "It's no concern of mine". Some choose to look the other way; as a consequence, others see and experience far too much. This story is further complicated by the established historical facts. Even as the death camps were being dismantled, Barbie and the amorality he embodied were considered assets by the Americans in the new Cold War fight against the Soviets. "He was a damn skilful, shrewd interrogator," says one erstwhile CIA operative of Barbie, and that isn't the last evidence here that suggests the Americans were only too willing to jump into bed with someone who we've previously heard dunked prisoners in vats of ammonia and boiling water. (Damningly, Ophuls films these functionaries of the State sunning themselves by the pool or nestled under the Christmas trees Barbie's victims wouldn't get to enjoy.) In the second half, Hôtel Terminus reveals its peculiar symmetry: the intelligence community appears at least as divided by the events of the post-War period as those Resistance mainstays were by events pre-1945. Possibly that's why Ophuls returns to the billiards table as a connecting visual motif: the winners of history stay on, and it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

For some time, you may wonder and worry whether the figure who caused these divisions and scars - Barbie himself - has been allowed to slip away again. For three of the film's four hours, we barely see him except in archive photographs; when he does appear in person, interviewed by French television in the early 1970s, it's to deny being Klaus Barbie and to suggest that his wife and children having the same names as Klaus Barbie's wife and children is but mere coincidence. Ophuls' own interviews, with those left reeling in his subject's wake, suggest it may already be too late: that the rat Barbie had already gone some way towards spreading anti-Semitic attitudes, fostering a wider moral indifference and, in the case of the Bolivian bureaucrats who welcomed Barbie-as-Altmann, even a perverse pride that they'd have performed a similar duty on behalf of their own country. Any residual hope in Hôtel Terminus resides in the power of hearing firsthand the stories of those who personally suffered through all this, who speak of their torture with a force it would be foolish and shameful to deny, and flinch or sob as if these events had happened as recently as yesterday. Set against the prevarication and self-justification of Klaus Barbie's enablers, that directness still cuts through, and sometimes cuts to the bone. It's a directness born of heightened directorial strategy, a willingness to play the longer game, relax one's interviewees, draw out both the best and worst of our shared humanity, and trust in the audience to find their way through this complex maze of information to arrive at the right conclusion; it's assisted - at the last - by one of the most remarkable interactions ever committed to film. (For all this story's complications, it is finally a simple matter of human behaviour, and the choices we make.) They took these tasks seriously in the 20th century, in a way we haven't quite in the 21st - and look where that's got us.

Hôtel Terminus: The Life and Times of Klaus Barbie is currently streaming on YouTube.

Tuesday, 1 April 2025

On demand: "Ariel"


Along with the subsequent Leningrad Cowboys Go America, 1988's Ariel was the film that wryly announced the Finnish writer-director Aki Kaurismäki as a distinctive new comic voice in world cinema. Narratively, it could almost be one of those smalltown dramas American filmmakers have been turning out since the year dot, staffed as it is by frustrated blue-collar souls trying to manufacture some kind of life for themselves while forever dreaming of a better life elsewhere. Kaurismäki's USP was to invest all of the above with a puckish drollery. Drifter hero Taisto (Turo Pajala, recalling Birthday Party-era Nick Cave) is warned to get out of this frozen mining town by an elder who promptly pulls a pistol from his parka and shoots himself in the gents. And though things soon begin to look up for our boy - he inherits a nice warm coat, albeit from a co-worker who's been run over by a forklift, and then woos a local divorcee - a brawl with a sometime associate sees Taisto hauled off behind bars. Life's hard, Kaurismäki observes, and then most typically you die. Still, Ariel remains persistently, nigglingly funny, in large part because of the discrepancy between this grinding, unglamorous existence and the carefree Americana its characters escape into: the cars, the tunes, the movies. There's an extent to which the big house is Taisto and the film's inevitable destination: if the Leningrad Cowboys were sketched along the lines of rockabilly revivalists The Stray Cats, the protagonist here can equally be seen as a stand-in for the Elvis of Jailhouse Rock or the Clint Eastwood of Escape from Alcatraz. (It's also the point at which Ariel transforms into a wonky sort of thriller, with cellmate Matti Pellonpää cast as the Bonnie to Pajala's Clyde.) Raija Talvio's clipped cutting - the most precise comic editing since the heyday of Hal Roach - refuses to let matters get too emotional, energised or depressive: not only does she keep the characters from falling into a beckoning rut, she blesses them with at least the illusion of mobility, nudging them and us alike along until the moment when all the film's ships come in. Kaurismäki would return to this milieu time and again, most recently with 2023's Fallen Leaves - but you can also see why his worldview caught on so quickly in late 1980s Britain: the weather's crap, the jobs are bleaker than the prospects, but this director's characters plough on regardless towards what's hoped will be a brighter tomorrow. Beneath the sangfroid, some warming solidarity.


Ariel is currently streaming via MUBI, and available to rent via Prime Video and YouTube.

Monday, 31 March 2025

On demand: "The Docks of New York"


Turns out it wasn't just Dietrich: the 1928 silent
The Docks of New York would seem to indicate Josef von Sternberg transformed just about everyone who passed before his camera into exotic, alluring creatures of the night. On paper, he had his work cut out for him here, in that his subjects were those roughnecks working the ships pulling in and out of Manhattan's harbours. The burly Bill Roberts (George Bancroft) rises out of the steam and fog with plans of using his shoreleave to carouse and - who knows? - maybe even pick another fight or two at nearby watering hole The Sandbar; those plans, however, are thrown into comprehensive disarray after he and his crewmates haul a suicidal dame (Betty Compson) out of the drink. Drawn from a John Monk Saunders story with the altogether marvellous title The Dock Walloper, it opens with impressionistic scenes of maritime life that may have laid down a template for On the Town (maybe even On the Waterfront), but gradually reveals its true interest as human turbulence: the way the right look from the right person at the right moment can turn humdrum routine, a life, a whole world upside down. The tall, Baldwinesque Bancroft shapes up as practically the archetype of the loner male, his needs confined to a pack of smokes and the occasional hot toddy; Compson gets a full Hollywood makeover (new dress, hairstylist, spot lighting) and scrubs up mighty well for someone who starts the film wanting to end it all. Jules Furthman composed the funny, salty titlecards ("I've sailed the seven seas, but I've never seen a craft as trim as you" remains one of the movies' greatest pick-up lines), but this is one of those silents that almost doesn't need words, and really does suggest we lost something the instant sound came in. It is, finally, all about that look, and the longing and desire that can propel us on a radically different course at a rapid rate of knots.

The Docks of New York is currently streaming via YouTube.

Saturday, 29 March 2025

On TV: "Letter to Brezhnev"


1985's
Letter to Brezhnev is one of those Film on Four titles that has rather fallen through the cracks in the years since its release, almost certainly because of the absence of an auteur name to tie it to; neither writer Frank Clarke nor director Chris Bernard matched its success again. If it has an organising principle, it's the city of Liverpool, seen first from an approaching cargo ship, then from the air, and then - finally, resolutely - at ground level. It's here we find latter-day Liver birds Margi Clarke and Alexandra Pigg - far pottier of mouth than Nerys Hughes and Polly James - striking out for a night on the town; a chance meeting with a pair of Soviet sailors (Peter Firth and Alfred Molina) allows them to dream of another life in another world. Some of the salt of its rough contemporary Rita, Sue and Bob Too blows in off the Mersey, but this is a sweeter film by nature: clock the sequence where Pigg and Firth first lock eyes across the dancefloor of a gaudy nightspot, a cherishably mundane meet-cute in less than promising surroundings. (It also seems crucial that when this foursome check into adjacent hotel rooms, the camera remains in the room where people are talking rather than fucking.) Yet it's not entirely fanciful. The context may have receded in the memory, but this is very much a Cold War movie, released only a year or so after the 'Pool's own Frankie Goes to Hollywood were warning of the threat of nuclear annihilation in "Two Tribes". It's rare to see a film from this period where the Russian characters aren't presented as a clear and present danger, and the quartet's conversations are clearly Clarke seeking to reassure Western audiences that living under Communism is no better or worse than living under Thatcherism. It's a story that could perhaps only have been told in a city with proud socialist roots.

That conversation is particularly good at revealing personality. The sailors are absolute sweethearts, the blue-eyed, dreamy Firth and silent, bear-like Molina seemingly happy to go along for the ride and cede the screen to their female co-stars. The film briefly made a localised star out of Margi Clarke, a platinum-blonde bombshell who represented a Northern extension of the Diana Dors/Babs Windsor tradition, armed with the withering sass to push back against any undue objectification; she's also very moving in the final airport sendoff, embodying an entire social class's unrealised hopes and dreams. Brookside graduate Pigg has a tendency towards underplaying, throwing her lines away in a manner that might have seemed like a limitation were it not so affecting. Her Elaine remains one of the few credible 'ordinary girls' in 1980s British cinema, which makes it a slight shame that she barely worked again after this. (Slight, because she did at least marry Firth in real-life in 2017, providing the film with the happy ending it couldn't quite find its way to at the time.) Bernard gives it an only perfunctory nocturnal style, but takes care to preserve Clarke's streak of island-nation yearning and melancholy, which you wouldn't get in an American one-wild-night movie: it's in the tacit understanding that a few fleeting hours of fun like these are all a lowly factory worker could hope for, and that even they're likely to become a distant memory by morning. Like a lot of Film on Four productions of this period, it's also an exceptionally vivid time capsule to reopen now. Students of the Liverpool bus network will be over the moon; there's a none-more-1985 soundtrack (The Redskins, A Certain Ratio, Bronski Beat's "Hit That Perfect Beat"); and - arguably most historical of all - the sight of a postman ex machina who arrives before anybody's got out of bed.

Letter to Brezhnev screens on BBC Two tomorrow night at 11.35pm, and will thereafter be available on the BBC iPlayer.

Friday, 28 March 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of March 21-23, 2025):

1 (new) Disney's Snow White (PG)
2 (new) Ne Zha 2 [above] (12A)
4 (3) Black Bag (15) ****
5 (1) Mickey 17 (15) **
6 (new) Flow (U) ***
7 (new) The Alto Knights (15)
8 (4) Marching Powder (18)
9 (6) Dog Man (U)
10 (5Captain America: Brave New World (12A)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
3. Away 

 
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
2 (11) Venom: The Last Dance (15)
3 (7) Moana 2 (U) ***
4 (2) A Real Pain (15) ***
5 (3) Gladiator II (15) ***
6 (4Sonic the Hedgehog 3 (PG)
7 (5Paddington in Peru (PG)
8 (new) A Complete Unknown (15) **
9 (6) Dog Man (U)
10 (12) The Wild Robot (U) **


My top five: 
1. Dahomey


My top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Mitchells vs. the Machines (Saturday, ITV1, 7.30am)
2. Us (Friday, BBC One, 11.40pm)
3. Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris (Saturday, Channel 4, 9.15pm)
4. The Martian (Saturday, BBC One, 10.20pm)
5. Letter to Brezhnev (Sunday, BBC Two, 11.35pm)

"The Woman in the Yard" (Guardian 28/03/25)


The Woman in the Yard **

Dir: Jaume Collet-Serra. With: Danielle Deadwyler, Okwui Okpokwasili, Russell Hornsby, Peyton Jackson. 88 mins. Cert: 15

Sometimes a single image is enough to carry a film so far. This pared-down Blumhouse chiller opens with a brisk, detailed overview of the disarray a remote rural fixer-upper has fallen into after the death of a paterfamilias. No power, no food in the cupboards; a bereft, incapacitated mother (Danielle Deadwyler) leaving two children to fend for themselves; cracks in the plasterwork offering their own doleful commentary. The lingering spectre of absence is compounded one morning by an unignorable presence: a huddled figure in mourning garb (Okwui Okpokwasili) who appears on a chair in the backyard, and over a single day moves ever closer to the property. That’s the image – as unnerving for us as it is for the characters – and there’s your elevator pitch: Grandma’s Footsteps: The Movie.

Sam Stefanak’s script is at its strongest when leaning into the folkloric: that this house is unplugged from the wider world registers as both plot point and mission statement. Spanish genre specialist Jaume Collet-Serra precisely establishes where the woman sits in relation to the house, and Pawel Pogorzelski’s sunnier images approach an uncanny Andrew Wyeth beauty, although we’re mostly indoors, looking out; the woman proves less significant than the reactions she provokes. If the obvious reading is that this interloper represents unaddressed grief, Stefanak complicates matters by yanking at unravelling threads: the mother’s stitches and sanity, a dog’s chain. It’s not just the woman who’s shifting.

For an hour or so, that’s intriguing: we don’t know where we stand exactly, and there’s an awful lot in the air. It settles shruggingly, however, and some of what’s being juggled – Black Mirror-ish psychology, Us-like shadow selves – is revealed as decidedly secondhand. Collet-Serra paints over some of these third-act problems with style, but key elements go AWOL as we pass back-and-forth through the looking glass, not least basic legibility. Deadwyler remains credibly frazzled, pushed towards monstrousness in ways that will be familiar to anyone who homeschooled during Covid, and the bundled figure closing in on her is genuine nightmare fuel – yet the rest of this hotchpotch never matches it, and flails in trying to explain it away.

The Woman in the Yard opens in cinemas nationwide today.

Thursday, 27 March 2025

Walk on the wild side: "Misericordia"


They've been few and far between, but those films by the French writer-director Alain Guiraudie that have crossed the Channel have been worth going out of one's way to see: I retain fond memories of the 2003 reverie No Rest for the Brave, and the filmmaker enjoyed a notable arthouse hit with 2013's cruising ground murder-mystery Stranger by the Lake. An idea of beneficent deviation sits at the heart of this filmography: Guiraudie's latest Misericordia opens with a shot from the perspective of a car traversing a long and winding road through the countryside, carrying its driver to a reunion that flies off-track at a thoroughly disarming tangent. Jérémie (Félix Kysyl) comes this way from Toulouse for the funeral of his beloved late employer, a baker, and soon finds himself in the company of folks he doesn't really know all that well: the deceased's wife (Catherine Frot), their bullet-headed son (Jean-Baptiste Durand), who regards this interloper as some kind of threat, and former associates who barely seem to remember Jérémie being there. Such social occasions are, as we know all too well, a potential minefield, and Misericordia initially busies itself laying out the various routes our protagonist might choose to take from here. While Jérémie weighs up whether or not to stick around and reopen the bakery, his healthiest option is going out in the surrounding fields - gorgeously shot by Claire Mathon in vibrant autumnal shades - to pick porcini mushrooms, the perfect accompaniment for a sustaining omelette repast. The path he heads down, however, is one in which he sows psychosexual chaos among his hosts, gets shot at by an irate neighbour, and eventually winds up becoming a murderer. It is, as they say, a funny turn of events.

Again, though, you will likely be struck by the quiet mastery of Guiraudie's storytelling. In some respects, Misericordia is but an exercise in yarnspinning, taking a narrative line for an especially convoluted walk, but there aren't two scenes you'd conventionally put together, nothing appears premeditated, and nothing quite leads where we anticipate it to lead. The result is one of those films where we critics have to tread carefully, to give you a sense of the territory passed through without giving you a full itinerary: far better to watch the road open up before you. Know that you will take this tour alongside a tight knot of exceptionally well cast performers. Kysyl presents as boyish, but he's boyish in the same way Matt Damon's Ripley was boyish, riven by sexual confusion that comes to feel like another secret he feels he has to keep. (Those phallic mushrooms are both as arrows, and as the arrows that pierced St. Sebastian's flanks.) As if to further underline Guiraudie's overarching thesis about the unruly nature of desire, the initial object of Jérémie's misplaced affections isn't some chiselled hunk, but a bluff, gruff agricultural type (David Ayala) - hitherto straight, of course - who appears a stranger to the hairbrush and more commonly resembles a sack of potatoes. You feel the film openly flirt with danger if not disaster upon depicting Jérémie's growing intimacy with the town's veteran priest (Jacques Develay): here's the kind of digression that would once have sparked outrage from more devout quarters, but which Guiraudie approaches as entirely natural and born of sincere compassion, the heart forever being a more dependable guide than the dick.

It is, however, typical of the delight Guiraudie takes in fostering connections between characters that in no other context (and no other cinema) would connect so, and of how the usual rules no longer apply in an Alain Guiraudie film. Instead, Jérémie's long tamped-down, newly eruptive bisexuality threatens to render the entire movie unstable. A confession box scene is shot in such a consciously recto-verso way as to suggest the priest is the one making the confession. An idle fantasy serves as a watertight alibi, then becomes a reality. The police's inquiries into the murder victim's disappearance merges with the guilt-ridden Jérémie's night terrors, such that we might start to wonder how much of what we see is real, and how much simply passing through our hero's deeply troubled head. Without a single computer effect, and with an uncommon affection for the confused souls who pass before his gaze, Guiraudie has created his own world, one with no restrictions, no boundaries and no damning judgement. Stranger by the Lake, which did likewise, possibly crossed over in large part because it was working within a familiar genre template: it remained graspable as a whodunnit, even though we were a long way from the country house. Misericordia is more wilful and auteurist - it has something of Alain Resnais' Wild Grass in its DNA, if that title means anything to you - but it's no less pleasurable and unpredictable, and a real tonic for anyone who'd feared the cinema had long since lost the elements of mystery, grace and surprise. Sometimes it pays to wander off the beaten track.

Misericordia opens in selected cinemas from tomorrow.

On demand: "Lucifer"


You can see why the eccentric, cynical yet undeniably grabby Malayalam thriller Lucifer became the hit it did in early 2019: it plays like an attempt to synthesise the appeal of Game of Thrones with House of Cards, a dash of that earlier Spacey text The Usual Suspects, and odd remnants of that conspiratorial thinking now prevalent on the Internet's woolly fringes. Its viewpoint is that contemporary Indian politics is at best a snakepit, at worst a cesspit, awash with dirty money and corrupt players; this instantly distinguishes Lucifer from all those recent Indian films that have flown the flag and cried Jai Hind. Like Mani Ratnam's subsequent hit Ponniyin Selvan, it's about the race to fill a power vacuum - in this case, opened up by the death of a venerable Keralan MP - and like Ponniyin Selvan, it involves a sprawling cast of characters you may need a family tree or just a very large notebook to keep tabs on: the dead man's daughter (Manju Warrier), a rotten spin doctor (Vivek Oberoi, perfect casting with his smug air and slappable face), rival politicos vying for position, the journalists covering the story (who prove as biddable as anyone else on screen), and a vlogger whose running commentary over the opening scenes promises to arm us with the unvarnished truth. The movie's focal point, however - the figure everyone's keeping an eye on - is one Stephen Nedumpally (local superstar Mohanlal), introduced as the kind of unifying candidate that men might well follow, making big talk about draining the swamp. He would seem an admirable fellow, were it not for the nickname that gives the film its title, his tendency to speak in scripture, and the fact he drives around in a car with the registration plate 666. Could he be...? He surely isn't, is he?

For an hour or so, you could kid yourself that we're getting the insider's line: that this is how politics now is, and how meaningful societal change gets stymied by a combination of packshuffling, system rigging and rampant self-interest. I suspect if you watched Lucifer alongside a sitting Indian parliamentarian - of whatever stripe - they'd come away insisting the drama and action has been trumped up (Trumped up?) in the way movies do. What's interesting - particularly from a film directed by a prominent actor (Prithviraj Sukumaran, who also takes a secondary role as Stephen's on-the-ground enforcer) - is that Lucifer goes beyond the self-reflexivity common in mainstream Indian crowdpleasers to explicitly link the mass movie with populist politics: a senior advisor admits he only watches these potboilers, chiefly to see which sentiments a crowd will boo and cheer. In a Hindi masala movie of this type, the hero would likely be unimpeachable; here, some doubt is raised about who we're really rooting for, and the extent to which his heroism is merely performative - all a facade or act. Granted, this is still a largely flattering vehicle for a star approaching middle age, carving out episodes in which Mohanlal can appear supernaturally cool with a gun pointed to his head, take out a dozen or more goons in the course of a single scene, and then gloweringly plot revenge on those who would smear or betray him. However much Lucifer might want to exist on the level of hard-hitting political expose, it remains a fiction about a beardy, growly man exacting that very payback.

It's been robustly assembled, though, certainly in comparison with some of the star-driven event movies its vast box-office success inspired. (I'm thinking specifically here of Rajinikanth's futzing Vettaiyan.) Lucifer has obvious flaws: it's another South film that can't think of much for its women to do, save to serve as manhandled victims or item girls; the media strand is under-realised; its best image (a kidnap victim's cell made over into a perfect replica of his study, to further mess with his head) is never followed up; and I've no idea what the film is doing cutting to a nightclub number with less than half an hour to go, save tipping its hat to all things John Wick. But Murali Gopy's script sets so much in motion, across so many distinct fields, that there's always something to cut across to, and Sukumaran succeeds in keeping broadly coherent the different modes (speechifying, spectacle, song) these putative blockbusters are now obliged to operate in. He does something smartly ironic with an anti-colonial song, used here to recall a solidarity and progressive outlook that is next to non-existent in the present-day plotting, and goes distinctively against our visual expectations of the political conspiracy thriller, letting bright Keralan sunshine into these frames, presumably in the hope it'll disinfect or otherwise counteract some of his players' shadier behaviour. Mohanlal, for his part, benefits from being part of an ensemble and not having to do all that much beyond guard the mystery of who Stephen Nedumpally really is. We'll likely find out more in the sequel that lands this week - just as another administration is easing its cloven hooves under the table for a second time.

Lucifer is now streaming via Prime Video; a sequel, L2 - Empuraan, opens in cinemas nationwide today.

Sunday, 23 March 2025

A little Knight music: "Hans Zimmer & Friends: Diamond in the Desert"


Tempted as one might be to cite the Christopher Nolan effect, it turns out we have Johnny Marr to thank for the cinema's pre-eminent musical maximalist getting his own Beyoncé
 or Taylor Swift-style concert movie. Early on in Paul Dugdale's Hans Zimmer & Friends: Diamond in the Desert, we learn that it was Marr - who collaborated with Zimmer on the last Bond soundtrack, and whose son Nile plays guitar with the composer's live band - who first suggested Zimmer take a show on the road and thereby reconnect with his pop roots; the film's subject, in what isn't his only display of humility before these cameras, insists he'd have been quite happy staying at home writing music. Video killed the radio star, but the movies have made a touring act of him. What we've ended up with here is a two-and-a-half-hour record of that live show as performed at the Coca-Cola Arena in Dubai, where it was lapped up by a snap-happy crowd doubtless grateful to have something to do beyond idly blowing their personal fortunes in shopping malls and getting burnt up by the sun. 

The Zimmer who fronts this show is a jovial cove, bescarfed and beaming behind his synths, cornily courteous to his hosts ("the future is here"), generally self-effacing (of his Pirates of the Caribbean scores, he insists "I just bashed them out") while dutiful in singling out his collaborators for individual praise. Together with several of the most photogenic musicians in existence, he works through the hits - or most memorable cues - from the Dunes, the Batmen, Gladiator, Inception and the like; by way of additional VFM - this being one of those "event cinema" boondoggles for which you somehow have to pay extra - these crowd favourites are interspersed with filler sitdowns in which Zimmer chats with artistic collaborators (Pharrell, the Eilishes, Denis V, Sir Chris N), backers (Jerry Bruckheimer, a producer here) and those whose movements his music has scored (Zendaya, Timothée Chalamet). These are by far the documentary's weakest element, beset by the conversational equivalent of airkissing, too brief for anyone to go too deep, and clearly inserted out of an insecurity that Zimmer's name and presence alone won't be enough to get bums on seats. (The full houses for Zimmer's live tour - and the recent proliferation of unofficial "Hans Zimmer Experience" concerts in provincial arts venues nationwide - would suggest otherwise.) If you really wanted to find out what drives Zimmer to create these cathedrals of sound, you'd have to send in a seasoned musicologist, not Little Timmy Caramel; as it is, these editorial Hail Marys serve as readymade opportunities for toilet breaks.

Hasten back to your seat, though, because the main event serves as its own, reasonably compelling answer to the question of just how many people, and how much equipment, may be required to make a sound this vast. Zimmer's touring ensemble isn't some delicate, willowy string quartet, travelling from one mega-corporate arena to the next via charabanc, but a proper, robust troupe, roughly characterised as the Blue Man Group x Stomp, some of whom can be seen smashing the shit out of drumkits that resemble Nolanesque metropoli in themselves. We're bordering on prog territory here: a lot of onstage kit, a busy lightshow, elevated degrees of technical difficulty and virtuosity. (Also, and especially in the case of Zimmer's go-to guitarist Guthrie Govan, highly Rick Wakeman-ish hair.) It means Dugdale always has something to cut to whenever we assume the music can't layer up any more: a piccolo solo that might otherwise get lost amid a wall of thumping SOUND, a cellist in bondage gear and warpaint wielding the tool of her trade as if it were some rudimentary torture implement, flaxen-haired giantesses shrieking or speaking in tongues. (There's a nice moment in the spotlight for Lisa Gerrard, the mainstay of indie recluses Dead Can Dance, whose ululations helped make the Gladiator score soar so.) Even without a Nolan or Villeneuve calling action, it's a spectacle.

It may be that, much as prog had eventually to give way to the blunt-force immediacies of punk, film scoring will itself undergo some revolutionary Year Zero in the not too distant future: that our soundtracks will ditch the numbing parps, the casts of thousands, and revert to new wavers like Mica Levi and this year's Oscar winner Daniel Blumberg making odd, atonal noises on their own in small dark rooms, to movie music that is altogether quicker and quieter about setting a mood or creating a vibe, and that allows an audience to sit more readily with their own thoughts and silence. Yet Dugdale's film allows us to both see and hear why Zimmer's music continues to be as revered as it has been, and why its composer may well have a greater claim to auteur status than many of the filmmakers for whom he's worked: several pieces here (cues from 2019's almost instantly forgotten X-Men: Dark Phoenix, anyone?) actually benefit for being detached and isolated from the sluggish images to which they were once attached. This is music that goes hard, at a time when a lot else about the American popular cinema has lost its directionality and force.

Hans Zimmer & Friends: Diamond in the Desert has encore screenings in selected Cineworld, Odeon and Showcase cinemas throughout the week.

Saturday, 22 March 2025

In memoriam: Émilie Dequenne (Telegraph 21/03/25)


Émilie Dequenne
, who has died from a rare adrenal cancer aged 43, was an expressive Belgian performer who won the Cannes Best Actress prize at seventeen for her debut role: that of a disenfranchised teenager struggling to keep her head above the poverty line in brothers Luc and Jean-Pierre Dardenne’s Rosetta (1999).

With a rigorous realism, the film enshrined its waffle-making heroine’s resilience and resourcefulness, while also lamenting the tough choices forced upon her by circumstance. Her tomboyish features hardening like batter, Dequenne made a credible grafter, clinging tenaciously to Rosetta’s bedtime mantra (“I have a normal life, I won’t be left behind”) even as her fortunes took several turns for the worse. 

A tearful Dequenne dedicated her Cannes gong to the aunt who’d insisted she audition: “I wanted to respond to casting ads, but I was a little nervous about doing it because you don't really know who you’ll run into in Belgium.” The Dardennes, however, had been so struck by Dequenne’s inner force they’d cast her twenty minutes into said audition; here, as Luc observed, was “someone who had fire in her belly”. 

The performance that resulted was equally physical and intuitive; Dequenne told Cahiers du Cinéma “the role was so realistic, you couldn’t play it, only live it”. Yet that placed clear burdens on one so relatively inexperienced, leading the actress to develop what she called “my little ritual” after each day’s filming: “I took off my shoes, ran a bath, and phoned my mother and insisted we talk about anything else.” 

Émilie Dequenne was born on August 29, 1981 in Beloeil in the Wallonia region, the oldest of two daughters to carpenter Daniel Dequenne and his wife Brigitte. Though the formerly industrialised province of Hainaut, where the family lived, was no cosmopolitan hotspot (“you had to travel 25km to go see a film”), Dequenne grew up in very different circumstances to the put-upon Rosetta. “I was always dancing and singing on tables,” she told The Guardian in 2013. “I loved clowning about.”
 
She studied diction and elocution at the Académie de Musique in Baudour and attended the theatre workshop La Relève in Ladeuze, where she made her stage debut in a production Jean-Paul Alègre’s Comment le Grand Cirque Traviata se transforma en petit navire.

After Rosetta, fully two years passed until Dequenne reappeared, this time resplendent in lipstick amid the effects-driven fantasy-horror Brotherhood of the Wolf (2001). It was a rare genre excursion for an actress who thereafter specialised in French-language auteur cinema, several examples of which crossed the Channel.

Dequenne’s forte became knotty characterisations that defied her cherubic looks: Strindberg’s Miss Julie at the Théâtre Marigny, Paris while she was in her mid-twenties, the victim of an alleged anti-Semitic attack in André Téchiné’s based-on-true-events drama The Girl on the Train (La fille du RER, 2009). She excelled in Joachim Lafosse’s Our Children (À perdre la raison, 2012), as a vulnerable young mother driven to murderous extremes.

She turned up as a sympathetic copper in the first series of the French-set BBC1 hit The Missing (2014-16), then returned to the cinema, winning a César for her supporting role as a betrayed wife in Emmanuel Mouret’s Love Affair(s) (Les choses qu’on dit, les choses qu’on fait, 2020) and playing the grieving mother in Lukas Dhont’s arthouse success Close (2022).

After making her diagnosis public in August 2023, she continued to work, returning to Cannes last May to mark Rosetta’s 25th anniversary and promote the post-apocalyptic thriller Survive (Survivre, 2024), in which she battled killer crabs. Her final film was the Belgian bullying drama TKT (2024).

In December 2024, Dequenne gave her final interview to the TF1 show Sept à huit, where she reflected on the return of a cancer that had previously gone into remission, and her new, thirty-pills-a-day treatment: “Deep down, I know perfectly well that I will not live as long as expected… I am only 43 years old. I have always dreamed of living until at least eighty and then drifting off in my sleep. That is what I pray for.”

She is survived by her husband, the actor Michel Ferracci, and by a daughter, the actress and artist Milla Savarese, from an earlier relationship with the DJ Alexandre Savarese.

Émilie Dequenne, born August 29, 1981, died March 16, 2025. 

Friday, 21 March 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of March 14-16, 2025):

1 (1) Mickey 17 (15) **
3 (new) Black Bag (15) ****
4 (3) Marching Powder (18)
5 (4Captain America: Brave New World (12A)
6 (5Dog Man (U)
7 (new) Last Breath (15)
8 (9) Mufasa: The Lion King (PG)
9 (6The Monkey (15)
10 (new) Fidelio - Met Opera 2025 (12A)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
3. Away 
5. Flow

 
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (2) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
2 (new) A Real Pain (15) ***
3 (1) Gladiator II (15) ***
4 (3) Sonic the Hedgehog 3 (PG)
5 (4Paddington in Peru (PG)
6 (new) Dog Man (U)
7 (5) Moana 2 (U) ***
8 (6Mufasa: The Lion King (PG)
9 (7Conclave (12) ****
10 (15) Kraven the Hunter (15)


My top five: 
1. Dahomey


My top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Big Sleep [above] (Saturday, BBC Two, 2.40pm)
2. The Producers (Sunday, BBC Two, 10.45pm)
3. The Prestige (Sunday, BBC One, 10.30pm)
4. Get Out (Friday, BBC One, 11.40pm)
5. Selma (Tuesday, BBC Two, 11.05pm)