Sunday, 10 September 2017

IT (and other recent disappointments)

Myself and my partner @_ClaireyPops recently bought monthly passes to The Light in Bolton. I feel like I've extolled the virtues of this - both the venue and the value of said 'Infinity' card - on a weekly basis in work. It's a bloody lovely cinema and I wholeheartedly recommend it. However, it's also made me realise that too many films this year appear to be giving off a 'the same as X, but shitter' vibe.

You see when you've a monthly pass, you feel inclined to go and see pretty much any old tripe while still maintaining an air of respectability (I struggled to do this watching Cars 3 on my own). This means watching stuff you might not normally be arsed hauling yourself to a multiplex for, with filmmaking credentials (i.e. a decent director) or a fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes ample reason to give it a try. However having just come back from IT, I'm starting to wonder how easily pleased both audiences and critics have started to become.


Riding a wave of 80s nostalgia prompted almost entirely by the success of Stranger Things is the game here, even going so far as to cast one of the lead actors from the Netflix series.

The plot? Bunch of kids scared shitless by a demonic killer clown, preying on their worst fears in order to lure them down to his floaty, sewage-laden lair. The reality? A film that feels like a lot of other, better films (Stand By Me, Poltergeist, The Goonies, The Conjuring, Sinister, hell I'd even put Super 8 ahead of this) plus a load of ridiculous twitching clown-based scares that genuinely made me laugh out loud rather than soil myself.

As for having an 'emotional core'? Give me a break. Yes the young leads are pretty decent, and one backstory in particular is more than unsettling, but by the time they're slicing hands and becoming blood brothers I really had stopped giving a toss about every single one of them. It's as if slightly worse copies of superior films now pass muster as 'good' cinema. Are other films really that bad...? I guess the answer to that must be yes. It's a sorry state of affairs.

(Oh, and if you think the fat one is going to subvert genre clichés and get the girl - and the film most certainly suggests so - forget it. Hollywood daren't cross that line yet. And another thing - the closing credits denote this is but 'Chapter One'. Franchise-building at its opportunistic best, people.)

Logan Lucky

I don't read reviews before watching a film, but sometimes tidbits will pop up on my Twitter feed - five stars here, a drubbing there. Honestly, the next time Little White Lies give ANYTHING a glowing review, remind me to steer clear at all costs.

In this case, it was hipster-baiting cineaste circle-jerker Logan Lucky, in which director Steven Soderbergh courts film critics worldwide and leads them a merry dance, making them believe a mediocre retread of - yes, you guessed it - other, better films is worthy of serious praise. If this is all it takes to get critics salivating, Soderbergh could film Don Cheadle pissing in a grid and it would get them excited. Talk about setting the bar low.

It's not that it's badly made - it's fine. But if 'fine' is what passes for... oh, you get the idea by now. It's supposed to be a heist film set on a Nascar racetrack, but with 'funny' (i.e. not very funny) characters who don't know their arse from their elbow (Daniel Craig as prison inmate Joe Bang is a madcap casting decision that never pays off), plus zero tension wrung from not one single scene, it amounts to a whole load of nothing. It's two hours of your time you will forever wonder could have been better spent. Say, if you'd watched Ocean's Eleven again, which is pretty much the same film. Only better. With bonus cockney Don Cheadle.

American Made

I will give Tom Cruise a free pass with pretty much anything. Seriously, I love the guy. He's a mental Scientologist but that's by the by; when it comes to world-class action blockbusters, he (generally) knows how to pick 'em.

2017 really hasn't been Tommy's year though. First came The Mummy, a film that has 'franchise' etched so deep into its focus-grouped script that it ends up a shapeless, directionless pile of money that happens to have become a film (I use the word 'film' in its loosest sense). Then came American Made, another 'Fresh' entry in the Rotten Tomatoes canon that, while perfectly serviceable as a piece of entertainment, can't help but live in the shadow of - yes, once more with feeling - other, better films.

Think Goodfellas, without the classy yet frenzied direction of Martin Scorsese. Think The Wolf of Wall Street, without the classy yet frenzied direction of... oh. Now I see. Doug Liman, much as he might try, really isn't Martin Scorsese. And I honestly don't think he's trying to be, but American Made is permanently reminding you that Barry Seal (Tom Cruise)'s dare-you-believe-it's true story of drug trafficking for the CIA in the late-70's / early 80s has - for all intents and purposes - been done better in not one but two Scorsese pictures. If it wasn't for some quite ludicrous (in fact, frankly distracting) cinematography choices, along with The Cruiser's almost limitless on-screen charm, it's a film I would scarcely remember. Like Knight and Day. Precisely; me neither.

Atomic Blonde

"Nice coats" was the review from @_ClaireyPops. Oh, and a good soundtrack. But that was sort of about it. Save for a nifty one-take extended fight scene (clearly several takes strung together, but nicely done nonetheless), Atomic Blonde is basically The Long Kiss Goodnight, minus any sense of logic, fun or actual jokes. James McAvoy waving a Louboutin through a car window while saying "I've got your shoe" does not constitute a joke, people. Why are you laughing? Please, laugh at something actually funny. Laugh when it's appropriate, or get out. Honestly, you disgust me. This country.

There seemed to be a gigantic press build-up to this film, based purely on the fact it was a female lead (the always enjoyable Charlize Theron) being incredibly kick-ass. You know, just like the boys do. Like Wonder Woman, in fact! Yes, it's what people want these days. So sell it, you sons of bitches; sell it like fucking hot cakes. Cue a social media bombardment of promoted tweets, pop-ups and video clips - look, she does her own stunts! - in order to sell a film that has the most godawful spraypaint-style titling throughout, and a plot that swerves any kind of common sense in its last third (by the time you've counted the amount of double, triple and quadruple crosses, you'll be pining for the straightforward simplicity of Brian de Palma's Mission: Impossible).

She really does have some nice coats, though.

In summary...

Some of the films above ain't too bad. American Made is worth a watch, and if you like clever-clever genre-subverting shite that fails to be anything it purports to be - and you're arrogant enough to assume that means it's good, because it's what Soderbergh obviously intended - then Logan Lucky will be right up your street.

What vexes me is the fact that these are supposed to be the decent blockbusters; the ones critics have praised, or audiences given two thumbs up. Have we entered an age where literally anything that isn't Michael Bay will do?

I apologise for using Bay as an almost constant reference; I will always have time for The Island and Pain & Gain. But by and large his films are bloody awful, irrespective of the franchise-flavoured dollar they invariably pull in (notice how his non-franchise output - Beasts of Benghazi or whatever the hell it was called - comes and goes without a trace). The films above are supposed to be 'better', the discerning mainstream choice you make when faced with one or the other. But they're not. They're okay. They're serviceable. They're neither here nor fucking there.

I'm serious here. I want more for my monthly pass monies. Hollywood owes it to me! I admittedly have the luxury of being able to watch all the chin-stroking independent guff I could ever want, for free, at the arts centre I work at; but I will always have a predilection for the Jurassic World's and Interstellar's that Hollywood provides. Gigantic popcorn genre pieces that shock and awe, that push a nostalgia button without being slavish or explore uncharted filmmaking territory whilst also entertaining the masses.

That's not too much to ask for on a regular basis, is it? Ah well, at least the new Star Wars film is nearly here. But mark my words, if it ends up being 'just okay', I'm going to sue Disney. The Last Jedi? The last straw more like.

Friday, 11 August 2017

Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets

"It's independent. It's not superheroes defending the power of America. It's European - it's different - and they can't accept that."

That was Luc Besson, talking to the Sydney Morning Herald about why he thinks his latest film has tanked at the US box office. As the interview goes on, you can sympathise with Besson to some degree. His frustrations lie with a market that has become saturated with identikit Marvel franchises; Valerian, to his credit, does indeed stand out as something different. It's nothing if not pure sci-fi in its most outrageous, nerdgasm-inducing form.

But different as in 'good'? Different as in 'better'? Different as in 'superior in quality, with characters you can root for and a story you care about'? Sadly, the answer is no. In an attempt to bring to the screen a graphic novel he's cherished since he was ten, he's forgotten the basics. It's not rocket science, Luc.

Usually I'd go over the plot essentials, but it's borderline immaterial here. Valerian (Dane DeHaan) and Laureline (Cara Delevingne) are two space dicks amidst loads and loads of other space dicks. For balance, some aren't so dickish and are actually quite nice, even if their CGI rendering isn't. Rihanna is in it for a bit. She plays a shape-shifting stripper who's been plying her trade since the age of four. I nearly did a bit of sick in my mouth when she says that. I know the film is European, but that's a bit much even for my hardy tastes.

Its main flaw (and there are many, trust me) seems to be its two leads. DeHaan and Delevingne are entirely devoid of screen charisma, her Laureline utterly obnoxious with her post-millennial, faux-apathetic bullshittery. She comes off as some sort of spoilt rich girl who by law is required to rebuff her counterpart's advances, but not in any satisfying, meaningful way that feels empowering. She's just an arsehole. Not that I blame her, to be fair - DeHaan's Valerian is a sleazy jock sad-act with terrible hair. Both of them have a thing about playlists signifying their compatibility. It's a joke (as in it really is an absolute joke) that bookends the film, both times falling completely flat. Rutger Hauer is also in it, something I'd forgotten by the time I came to write this review.

Clive Owen's in it too, and has a blackhead on his lip that make-up didn't cover up. It's really noticeable towards the end when he goes a bit General Zod, screaming that he's making very bad decisions for the good of everyone else, when really he's just a prick and everyone knows it (a bit like Clive Owen in general. Though maybe he's lovely, who knows). There's lots of people who are in it, actually - Herbie Hancock, for instance. No idea why. Same goes for Ethan Hawke, putting in possibly the worst performance of his entire career. Seriously, it's bloody awful. Worse than Jake Gyllenhaal in Okja. Okay, not that bad. But pretty bad all the same.

Valerian is a film of stuff happening. All the time, constantly, stuff here and stuff there. It's full of it. No let-up. It would be draining, were it in any way actually exciting (see The Fifth Element for an example of how this entire operation was done far better - almost verbatim - by Besson himself, twenty years ago). It's unabashed eye candy, neon-hued and 3D-accelerated to breaking point. Exhausting for the eyes, yet dull for the senses. $210m it supposedly cost. That's over four times as much as Arrival. Almost eight times as much as La La Land. Fifty-six times as much as Best Picture Oscar-winner Moonlight. Spending inordinate amounts of money on a film is no guarantee of quality, and both audiences and critics know it (see Transformers: The Last Knight).

What adds insult to injury is the fact the film was crowd-funded. Yes. Mugs like you and me paid for this overblown, charmless, two-hour PlayStation cutscene of a movie. If I'd have contributed financially to it in any way, I'd be writing Besson a strongly-worded letter demanding an explanation for such dire casting, appalling scripting and why the fuck Rihanna was in it, let alone how much she got paid. "It's European - it's different - and they can't accept that" Besson protests. No, it's not tanked because it's different. It's because it's shit. And the bar is set quite low these days when it comes to the Marvel films he's apparently taking on; crowd-pleasing they may be, but innovative they are not. If you're going to be inventive, try and remember the basics. It's not rocket science, Luc.

Sunday, 30 July 2017

Baby Driver

Edgar Wright is a bit like Pixar. You think he can do no wrong (Spaced, Shaun of the Dead, Scott Pilgrim), then he goes and makes the unfunny, genre-confused clusterfuck that is The World's End (I honestly couldn't care less if it's Certified Fresh on Rotten Tomatoes - all the other critics are wrong, because it is shit). Well, a good run has to end at some stage. Just like Cars 2 was a blip on an otherwise upward trajectory (okay, throw in Monsters University and The Good Dinosaur in there for good measure - Pixar have made more than he has), it made Wright's follow-up - in this reviewer's eyes at least - have all the nail-chewing appeal of root canal treatment.

Okay, so that's a bit of an exaggeration. But when the first trailer for Baby Driver was released (I refuse to say 'dropped'), I viewed it with brow-furrowed trepidation. A supposed jukebox musical with all the stock crime-and-cars thrills of a modestly-budgeted Fast and Furious knock-off. But The World's End was just a blip, right? Well yes, as a matter of fact, it was. Baby Driver is nothing if not original (well, as original as anything can possibly get these days) and sits comfortably alongside Wright's best work - possibly even right at the top of the pile.

Having survived a car accident as a child, which killed his parents and left him with severe tinnitus, the only way the titular Baby (Ansel Elgort) can drown out the noise is by carting round a selection of iPods with various playlists he's curated. Under the watchful eye of Kevin Spacey's Doc - a charming but cut-throat rich guy with a nice line in planning elaborate robberies - Baby has become his go-to getaway driver, repaying a debt with each robbery he assists with.

There's all manner of classic tropes on offer here - the good kid trying to right a wrong, an evil boss, a rogue's gallery of hoodlums (Jamie Foxx, John Hamm, Eliza Gonzáles) - plus a love interest in Lily James's Debra who, if not quite out of the manic pixie dream girl playbook, certainly peddles enough sunshine-hued fresh-faced beauty to beguile Baby and make him dream of a life away from crime. Which obviously is going to be put to the test because, well, how else would these things go?

It sounds so unambitious and generic on paper but trust me, it isn't. The alleged 'jukebox musical' term isn't entirely accurate, the film opting to use Baby's playlisted songs as a jumping-off point for action sequences and audio-synchronised gun battles that initially reminded me of the godawful Clive Owen / Paul Giamatti vehicle, Shoot 'Em Up (again, let's not dwell on the fact that many critics liked this too. They are all incorrect, for it is rubbish). Suffice to say, Baby Driver pulls off exactly what that film was attempting to do with a tank load of style, charm and razor-sharp wit in reserve.

Putting relative newcomer Elgort front and centre was a canny move, too. Hanging a roster of A-listers off the back of a fresh face isn't a new concept, but it allows Elgort to more or less sit back and let the big boys do the heavy lifting while he concentrates on kicking ass and chewing bubble gum (okay, wearing sunglasses and listening to Queen). Christopher Nolan has gone this route too for Dunkirk, the film's literal poster boy Fionn Whitehead the kind of anonymous but model-beautiful central character you can place your Tom Hardy's and your Kenneth Branagh's around, letting them do the big acting while the audience walks in the boots of the everyman.

It feels like Wright may have made Baby Driver - whether intentionally or not - as a backhanded fuck-you to the studio system that turfed him off Ant-Man. It manages to tick all the boxes a studio would want (action, comedy, drama, a marketable cast) whilst also having an essential ingredient which too many studio pictures panic about these days (an original script with genuine heart), plus an indie spirit which meant no CGI when it came to the car chases. No matter how fast and furious Vin Diesel and Dwayne Johnson might be, when you know a driver is pulling those stunts for real, it adds a layer of tangible reality that CGI simply cannot emulate (see Rogue One's Peter Cushing for another example of this dilemma - almost there, but not quite).

While there's already talk of a sequel, Baby Driver feels like it should be a one-off, a standalone work to show aspiring filmmakers it is possible make unapologetically commercial cinema without having to sacrifice the earth. It ticks over at an unrelenting pace without ever feeling rushed or compromised, a cavalcade of ideas both old and new thrown into a mixer with all the best stuff sticking. It's how blockbusters should be. On which note, I'm off to book tickets for Pixar's Cars 3. I mean, it was just a blip, right...?

War for the Planet of the Apes

Downer films - at least ones costing north of $150m - are in short supply these days. With the shambolic state of the world of late, it could be argued that's no bad thing; no-one wants to be emotionally pummelled by a film only to walk out into the shit sandwich of actual reality. But sometimes, when the allegories run so close to home that a story takes on more meaning than perhaps its creators originally envisaged, a film fizzing with nihlism and fatalism becomes wholly necessary. I'm going on record (for now at least) to say that War for the Planet of the Apes is my film of the year - a downer film for the ages perhaps, but one that had me enthralled and exhilarated from the first frame to the last.

In a handy recap for anyone not quite up to speed with the current Apes series, the film opens with brief plot outlines of what's already happened to get us where we are. Caesar, an ape who's intellect was greatly enhanced due to his owner's experimentation with a cure for Alzheimer's (experimentation which led to the outbreak of so-called 'simian flu', all but wiping out the human race) leads his species in an ongoing struggle between apes and humans - a battle started by Koba, a fellow ape experimentee who's lust for war ultimately led to his death at the hands of Caesar.

While Caesar wants nothing more than for apes and humans to live separately and in peace, the surviving humans fear the apes will become the dominant species and "treat humans as their cattle" - or so says Colonel McCullough, played with typical Southern charm/menace (delete as appropriate) by Woody Harrelson. Far from being a one-dimensional villain, McCullough has sound reason and logic behind his aggressive sentiments, very much a Joker to Caesar's Batman (I'm not sure that metaphor works, but I'm standing by it).

McCullough has militarised a faction of remaining humans who are immune to the simian flu, caging up apes and creating what amounts to a concentration camp, complete with makeshift ape crucifixes (or rather 'scarecrows', for anyone familiar with the 1968 original) and a nice line in underground tunnels that would be a perfect escape route for the apes he's rounded up. Surely not...

It's this layering of emotionally-complex characters and allegorical brutality that gives War... a level of depth and nuance that is sorely lacking from too many franchise films these days. Director Matt Reeves - having already proved he could steer the franchise in a daring direction with the previous sequel - doesn't attempt to box-tick what he thinks an audience wants. It feels far more personal than any tent-pole studio film has any right to. However the real surprise lies in the structure. Far from being the war movie the title suggests, War... takes a slow-burn approach to what is essentially a riff on The Great Escape via Apocalypse Now, but with moments of unswerving horror that would struggle to pass censors if it wasn't for the fact it's CGI apes getting whipped and executed, not humans.

Not content with stripping back the action to a bare minimum and focusing on character development (I know, a good script - who'd have thought it?!), War... has great fun introducing new folk into the mix - namely the unbearably cute Bad Ape (a note-perfect Steve Zahn) who brings some subtle but much-needed comic relief to proceedings; and Nova, a mute young girl who's name - like the crucifixes - calls back to the 1968 original without feeling crowbarred (how she gets her name is one of the film's myriad touching moments).

While War... feels like a the end of a trilogy, more often than not these things never are. You could quite easily remake the original from this juncture (admittedly with the help of a two-thousand year fast-forward button) and continue rebooting apace. But Reeves has already suggested there's more stories to tell, not least with the introduction of Bad Ape, who's inclusion in the narrative hints at a wider ape evolution that we as viewers haven't yet been privy to. If further films are of this quality - downers though they may be - consider me signed up for the lot.


You've not seen a fly until you've seen it in IMAX. Honestly, about six feet wide it was. All over the gaff, for a good forty minutes. Tom Hardy valiantly tried to gun him down from the cockpit of his Spitfire at one point, but it was to no avail. Such was my experience of Dunkirk, in stunning 15/70. Half of it ruined by a fucking bluebottle.

But I do digress. Despite the wing'd distraction, Nolan's latest (and shortest since his indie debut, Following) convinces as a technical marvel, a giant-sized paean to the despair and bravery of 400,000 men trapped on a beach in France, with hope of rescue fading as each ticking second passes (something Hans Zimmer's propulsive score acknowledges with an incessant urgency, even if it all goes a bit Chariots of Fire towards the end). With absolutely zero character development, Nolan's desire was to construct a film made up entirely of a third act climax, spread over the entire running time. And it almost works.

Focusing on the three perspectives of land, air and sea, it plays with time in a way many have compared to Inception (air = one hour; land = one day; sea = one week). But unlike Inception, it's not necessarily required to know exactly what's going on when; the timelines gel in a masterstroke of editing complexity that may very well be analysed by film scholars and cinephiles alike. Scenes play out from various viewpoints at completely different junctures, depending on where the three timelines are up to. It can feel somewhat haphazard on first viewing, but second time round it reveals itself as a wholly cohesive triumph.

Not unlike Alfonso Cuaron's Gravity, Dunkirk feels almost like an extended, immersive theme park ride - a visceral experience driven by thunderous audio and overwhelming visuals from start to finish. In this regard, despite quality performances from all cast members (including Nolan's good luck charm Michael Caine - answers on a postcard if you can spot him), the film takes on a sort of monolithic, impenetrable nature; at once throwing you head-first into the firing line, but at the same time leaving you slightly detached from it all.

Its unique ambition in being often solely driven by tension rather than character is no doubt part of the reason one feels a lack of investment in any of the main players. That said, by the time he's flying sans-fuel over the beach front, picking off Jerries and pulling back his cockpit to feel the wind in his face, I was definitely not detached from Tom Hardy. What an absolute man. I would gladly have his babies any time that suits.

A second viewing definitely helps with Dunkirk, such is the onslaught of sound and fury it brings to the table. But Nolan's best film, as some critics are hailing it? Not quite. When the credits of The Dark Knight hit the screen back in 2008, the grin across my face was a mile wide. While Dunkirk hits many of the same Nolan-flavoured notes, its deliberate lack of anything approaching conventional storytelling tropes cannot be ignored. A colleague of mine claimed it was experimental in nature, and he's not far wrong.

But then it's unfair to compare the two, Nolan stating he wished to challenge himself by doing something completely out of the confines of genre filmmaking he's become known for. Much as I love MementoThe PrestigeInterstellar et al., Dunkirk at least shows Nolan wants to stay (vaguely) fresh, even if his films - not unlike Spielberg or Hitchcock - have a distinct Nolan-esque vibe that cannot be shaken. But then not unlike his aforementioned peers, he's a crowd-pleaser. And in an age of endless franchises with studios afraid to gamble on anything approaching original - let alone borderline experimental - that's nothing to be sniffed at. I'd choose his latest over the next Transformers film any day of the week. Giant flies and all.

ADDENDUM: I missed the first ten minutes of my second viewing due to the 2.20:1 aspect ratio being incorrectly projected. I seriously cannot catch a break with this film. Film something in NormalVision next time, Nolan. Cheers.

Sunday, 26 February 2017

The Oscars 2017

Despite all credible journalistic outlets already having made their predictions and tips for Oscar success this year, it felt pertinent to do my own blog at the eleventh hour - not least because I agreed to host HOME's Digital Content Manager, Sarah Leech, at our gaff for viewing purposes. I've watched the ceremony several times now, with my good lady generally falling asleep around the 4am mark, often streaming from some hooky webcast that goes down every forty minutes prompting a flurry of panicked clicking and pop-up blocking in order to find another pirate stream. But NOW TV came to our aid last year, reducing stress levels significantly (that said, Alex Zane and Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman can get in the sea if they show up again between ad breaks).

(I've just checked - Alex Zane IS presenting. Please Sky, I'll suffer Zane and Boyd Hilton for five and a half hours so long as Jane Seymour is kept under lock and key.)

This year's ceremony will no doubt be politicised by those making acceptance speeches, and rightly so - anyone with a platform and a dissenting voice loud enough should be heard in these worrying times, irrespective of how many may actually take note. But when all's said and done, the show is about the films and the films alone - yes, even Florence Foster Jenkins, starring the failing overrated so-called actress Meryl Streep (nominated for Best Actress, obviously). Here's my take on those up for the big gongs, and a few of the not-so-big gongs too:


I won't lie, big budget serious sci-fi thinkpieces like this push all the right buttons for me. Your Moonlight's and your Manchester by the Sea's aren't what I really want to be watching more than once, no matter how much act-ting they throw at you. Also it's bloody great to see a genre piece up for a hefty haul of nominations (eight, including Best Picture and Best Director) when they're so often sidelined in favour of films deemed far more important (I'm willfully ignoring LOTR: The Return of the King for this argument to work). Think of Contact meets Donnie Darko and... no wait, that's an awful way to describe it. But it's got a bit of time travel involved and it made me cry upon second viewing. Amy Adams should have been nominated for Best Actress.



All men are bastards. It's a fact, and Denzel Washington's film version of August Wilson's play of the same name takes a whopping 139 minutes to tell us. That's not to say the film doesn't have something to say - it just takes far too long saying it. The fact the film also sticks rigidly to its stage-bound roots, largely taking place in the back yard of the house shared by Washington's Troy Maxson and his wife Rose (Viola Davis) means it rarely feels cinematic in any sense of the word, even though the story is strong and the performances excellent (Washington's Troy is possibly the most complicated and tragic character he's ever portrayed).

PREDICTIONS: Viola Davis will be pipped to the post by Naomie Harris for Supporting Actress

Hacksaw Ridge

Taking influence from war films of the 50s and 60s that colour events with a rose-tinted hue of selfless optimism and Christ-like heroics, Mel Gibson's return to the director's chair is a world away from The Passion of the Christ in one sense, but not entirely dissimilar in another. Much like Full Metal Jacket or Life is Beautiful, it's a film of two distinct halves; the schmaltz is layered on thick during the backstory, before heads are blown off and limbs strewn across the battlefield as Andrew Garfield's Desmond Doss proves exactly how a pacifist medic can be of use at the battle of Okinawa. Based on a true story, it cranks up the cheese but also the tension; a film out of time that lives or dies by how much you buy into Garfield's gee-whizz heroism.

PREDICTIONS: Sound Editing

Hell or High Water

How did this one sneak in to be a Best Picture nominee?! It's absolutely brilliant fun, but not at all what you'd expect to see on an Oscar longlist, never mind a shortlist. With Jeff Bridges and Gil Birmingham's cops chasing Chris Pine and Ben Foster's robbers, it's a Hollywood throwback that could sit comfortably alongside a dozen 70s exploitation pictures without breaking a sweat. The fact it has a whiff of 'this is why America is broken' about it is likely why it's been nominated; it'll win nothing, but no-one can say it isn't the most honest cinematic thrill ride of all the big nominees. Worth the price of admission for the pissed-off diner waitress alone.

PREDICTIONS: It could surprise us all and take Best Original Screenplay, but I doubt it

Hidden Figures

Pharrell Williams could have all but ruined this film if it wasn't so solid in all other areas. There's about half a dozen songs that crop up out of nowhere for no other reason than to sell a soundtrack so he can buy more fucking hats, when period songs would have fit the bill far, far better. It turns a crowd-pleasing slice of good old-fashioned entertainment into a jarring, pull-you-out-of-the-moment music video on several occasions, But I digress. Hidden Figures goes behind the public-facing theatrics seen in The Right Stuff and Apollo 13 to show us what was really going on at NASA, and who the real heroes were. Like Hacksaw Ridge it's rose-tinted stuff, but undeniably entertaining.

PREDICTIONS: Will struggle against some tough competition

La La Land

Backlash be damned; this film is beautiful and I don't care who knows it. Yes I'm biased, having been to LA a few years back and had the exact same romantic experience at Griffith Observatory as Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone (yes, even the floating). But it's a beguiling, shamelessly old school Hollywood musical of the kind they simply don't make anymore, not least because it could have tanked (Coppola's One from the Heart springs to mind, which made $600k back from a £26m budget). Director Damien Chazelle can do no wrong in my eyes, however I'm beginning to wonder if he's only able to make films about jazz (his festival-screened student feature, Guy and Madeline on a Park Bench, follows very similar themes). That said, if the world can have a dozen Marvel films released every week, it can certainly handle a film about jazz every once in a while.

PREDICTIONS: Picture, Music Score, Original Song, Cinematography, Costume Design, Production Design


Coming off like it's going to be a giant advert for Google Earth via Slumdog Millionaire, Lion actually swerves a fair majority of the usual syrupy clichés in favour of something more realistic. That's not to say this in the same league as Manchester by the Sea when it comes to the grim realities of life, but the true story of Saroo, a lost child from India being adopted by an Australian couple, only to attempt to track his real mother down twenty-five years later, is classic awards season stuff - and indeed contains all the ingredients you might expect from such a film. But it never strays too far into cloying or sentimental (J. A. Bayona's The Impossible springs to mind as its antithesis in this department). Sunny Pawar as the younger Saroo is a revelation - Dev Patel should send him up to collect the award if he wins Best Supporting Actor.

PREDICTIONS: Empty-handed

Manchester by the Sea

I'll freely admit this didn't grab me until it became apparent why Casey Affleck's Lee Chandler is so monumentally depressed. It's a smack around the head so hard made all the worse by the fact it's an accident, changing the course of his life and those around him. The film plays fast and loose with timelines, but its so tightly-edited that the jumps back and forth feel completely natural, never forced for the sake of clever-clever storytelling in the way that say 21 Grams or indeed Arrival deploys similar techniques. It's not an easy watch but isn't without its humour; will struggle against La La Land and Moonlight.

PREDICTIONS: Actor (Casey Affleck), Original Screenplay


If it wasn't for La La Land, Moonlight could well nab a few more statues - that said, it's slow-burning portrayal of three moments in a young gay man's life (child, teenager, adult) has had a slow-burning appeal in the lead-up to the Academy Awards themselves; some judges may have had a last-minute change of heart. It's mesmerising stuff, and could well have been overlooked by the Academy had it not been for last year's #OscarsSoWhite hashtag. Expect to see some fallout from this stealing a few of La La Land's shoo-in nominations; it'll be like Forrest Gump beating Pulp Fiction all over again (well, sort of).

PREDICTIONS: Supporting Actor (Mahershala Ali), Supporting Actress (Naomie Harris), Director (Barry Jenkins), Adapted Screenplay

And the Rest...

Captain Fantastic // Viggo Mortensen goes native. Gets his willy out. Votes Bernie Sanders.

Nocturnal Animals // Our Peter's Oscar-night outfit is inspired by this (see here). A bold statement.

Elle // Paul Verhoeven film in Oscar-nom shocker. In French, so no-one watches it.

Jackie // Natalie Portman wins Best Actress. The End.

Florence Foster Jenkins // Meryl Streep doesn't win Best Actress. Donald Trump tweets about it.

Kubo and the Two Strings // Will lose to Moana, despite some beautiful stop-motion animation.

Zootopia // Far better than it has any right to be. Even with Shakira as a pop star gazelle.

Star Trek Beyond // Up for Make-up and Hairstyling. Will lose to Suicide Squad.

Suicide Squad // Er... how did this happen?

Passengers // This is currently rated 31% on Rotten Tomatoes. I thought it was pretty good TBH.

Deepwater Horizon // The colours looked off on my new TV. Turns out it was the film.

Sully // Tom Hanks' moustache deserves an award of its own. Sam Elliott to present it.

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story // Surprised Forest Whitaker wasn't up for Worst Supporting Actor.

Doctor Strange // Benedict Cumberbatch cracks a joke about Adele in this. I didn't laugh.

The Jungle Book // The live-action remake. Filmed on green-screen. With no animals. Quite.

The Lobster // Hang on, what year was this released...?!

Monday, 25 July 2016

Star Trek Beyond

Some folk who watched the first trailer for Star Trek Beyond a few months back may well have taken immediately to their favourite social media platform. Not to get excited, mind, but to scream heaven-ward regarding the use of Beastie Boys’ Sabotage soundtracking a bombastic, action-centric clip montage with Captain Kirk riding a motorcycle through the air.

In a furore that speaks volumes about society’s arse/tit priorities, this was tantamount to sacrilege; how dare the director of Fast & Furious piss all over Gene Roddenberry’s creation so as to possibly attract a wider demographic than the Comic-Con faithful! God forbid a Star Trek film should actually appear fun and appealing to persons outside of its immediate fanbase! Even Simon Pegg – the film’s co-writer – felt compelled to apologise such was the hubbub, reassuring fans that the film was indeed better than the trailer may have suggested. Honestly, if this was enough to get sci-fi fans in a lather, imagine if they remade Ghostbusters but with WOMEN. I dread to think.

Suffice to say, the use of said track wasn’t dreamt up by some cynical marketing department. Minor Spoiler Alert: it actually features in the finished film. And not in some throwaway manner; it’s a key component to a pivotal, colossal-scale action sequence. And would you believe it, I had a grin on my face a mile wide watching it.

You see Star Trek Beyond isn’t big nor necessarily clever filmmaking. But Pegg and co-writer Doug Jung have continued what J.J. Abrams started; making exciting, engaging, populist popcorn cinema out of a property that had all but become the sole reserve of bedroom-dwelling teenage boys. It may not have quite the flare of Abrams behind the lens (oh I went there with that wordplay), but what it may lack in panache it more than makes up for in heart.

Whereas 2009’s Star Trek and 2013’s Into Darkness focused primarily on the tense but brotherly relationship between Kirk (Chris Pine) and Spock (Zachary Quinto), Beyond finds the crew of the Enterprise fractured entirely. After responding to a distress call to rescue a stranded ship, the Enterprise is set upon by a swarm of craft that tear it to pieces (my dad was incredibly confused by this in the cinema, recalling the ship’s destruction in Star Trek III: The Search for Spock. I quickly and quietly explained that this was an alternate timeline, but then realised I knew more about Trek than I had previously acknowledged; I swiftly fell silent in an attempt to enjoy the rest of the film).

Realising the distress call was merely a set-up for the attack, the crew – now splintered into several pairings after a spectacular crash-landing – attempt to both fend for themselves and regroup to fight the enemy, headed up by the sufficiently nasty Krall (Idris Elba). Of these pairings, Spock and Bones (Karl Urban) make for some #classicbants while Scottie (Pegg) and Jaylah (Sofia Boutella) offer some light relief without the former turning into a comic caricature (it’s a tightrope in places, but Pegg never falls off). It’s testament to Pegg’s writing that he can even find time to wangle in Spaced references (Kirk requesting Scotty “skip to the end”) without it seeming shoehorned.

Whilst Beyond is by no means perfect (Elba’s villain gets suspiciously hammy towards the end, even for a Trek film), it does for Trek what Skyfall did for Bond on its respective 50th anniversary; references and in-jokes are in abundance, but never to the detriment of the film as a whole. It knows it has to service an audience that couldn’t care less about the previous exploits of Spock and Chekhov, whilst also having a weight of fan expectation slung around its shoulders that could have easily been its undoing. (It’s worth noting that tributes both within the film and during its end credits are paid to Leonard Nimoy, the original Spock who passed away during production, and Anton Yelchin who died tragically on June 19th this year aged just 27. It’s already been said that Yelchin's Chekhov won’t be recast, which makes it interesting to see how they'll take the franchise forward in this respect alone.)

As previously noted, Justin Lin is perfectly serviceable as a director – and maybe that’s no bad thing, as he brings no known Trek desires to the table. Sam Mendes proved with Spectre that if you try and twist a franchise to your own ends, i.e. creating a ‘Bond: Greatest Hits’ compilation, it can be your undoing (not that Eon Productions are too bothered in that particular respect, Spectre earning almost $900m worldwide). Lin lets the characters and story do the talking, sticking to the course Abrams has laid out (albeit with less lens flare) without trying to do anything crazily new. Then again, who did the forum trolls blame for Sabotage synched to footage of Kirk on a motorcycle…? As it turns out, I think we can safely blame the writers rather than Mr. Fast & Furious. But knowing how big my grin was when those guitars kicked in, I’d be taking all the blame I could.