Films reviewed: “Aatsinki: the Story of Arctic Cowboys”, “The Armstrong Lie”, “At Berkeley”, “Electro Shaabi”, “How We Used to Live”, “Leave to Remain”, “Mistaken for Strangers”, “My Fathers, My Mother and Me”, “Night Moves” (pictured above), “Teenage” and “We Are the Best!”.

This year’s London Film Festival was split into strands including Cult, Dare, First Feature, Galas, Journey, Laugh, Love, Official Competition and Thrill. Most of these reviews were originally written for The Digital Fix and cover the Debate, Documentary and Sonic strands.

If these things interest you, How We Used to Leave and Leave to Remain were world premieres. I also enjoyed The Armstrong Lie enough to seek out its director, Alex Gibney, for an interview – the audio needs to be transcribed, but look out for that in the near future. And Lance, if you’re reading, I’ll interview you too; just drop me a message on Twitter at @halfacanyon.

Aatisinki: The Story of Arctic Cowboys – 3/10

Director/Writer: Jessica Oreck
UK/US release date: Unannounced, but last minute flights are available
Strand: Documentary

Oreck’s minimalist approach to filming is admirable, but I suspect viewers will change their mind after about 15 minutes. She captures the beauty of Finland’s landscape and its reindeer population, while unflinchingly leaving in the grisly parts – these animals are cut up for food. She also doesn’t add anything. Really, it’s a succession of establishing shots.

The Armstrong Lie – 7.5/10

Director: Alex Gibney
Writer: Peter Ackland
Starring: Lance Armstrong
UK release date: TBC
US release date: 8th November 2013
Strand: Documentary
“I’ve had such a big history with that fucking mountain.”

Firstly, it’s worth noting I’m not a cycling aficionado; in a similar admission that introduced my Rush review, I never even learned to ride a bike. Secondly, my knowledge of the Lance Armstrong doping incident is fairly middling – perhaps a bit more than average as I watched the first 20 minutes of his Oprah interview.

My prior knowledge is relevant as much of what I found gripping in The Armstrong Lie will have already been eaten up by the sport’s staunchest fans. Armstrong’s conspiracy and long-awaited comeuppance is still fascinating, both in sporting terms and sheer psychological complexity – but even I was familiar with large chunks of the material. Similarly, I’m not sure how viewers will share my amusement at the complex racing tactics surrounding the Tour de France.

However, that’s not to say Armstrong experts won’t find anything new in The Armstrong Lie. Part of its strength is the sheer wealth of material, much of which is personal to director Alex Gibney, as opposed to just scouring archives. The multi-angle approach is also refreshing, with agendas quashed by the vast number of interviews and supporting footage. In short, this isn’t a one-on-one interview with Oprah, but a far wider portrait.

Gibney already completed a documentary about Armstrong’s 2009 comeback, which praised the cancer survivor’s fairytale return to the Tour de France podium – once again without the use of drugs, said Armstrong at the time. Unsurprisingly, the revelation threw a spanner into the documentary’s wheels, with The Armstrong Lie emerging as a product from a director who felt cheated. In fact, Armstrong is coerced into delivering exclusive interviews that Gibney feels are personally “owed”.

The doping scandal is fascinating in itself, as a closeted criminal circle that involved a surprisingly large number of sports associates in on the secret. Past footage features some interviewees all but revealing the inner workings, particularly Armstrong’s trainer, Michele Ferrari, whose scientific arrogance mimics a mad scientist battling against human limitations.

I could go further by describing the frequent denials, blackmail incidents and failed lawsuits, all of which make Armstrong seems like a psychopath with retrospective knowledge. However, that would turn this review into an overview of the case. Gibney’s take is smart and riveting through deft editing, rarely lingering on a point for too long because another close subject has a counterargument.

Ultimately, The Armstrong Lie isn’t about doping, but about power. I’m sure at least 70% of reviews will mention that line, seeing as it’s clearly enunciated in the film and was followed by other critics scribbling in their notepads. At one point, the cyclist informs a coach, “You’re not my dad.” However, that’s the crux of Gibney’s documentary, with drugs simply being the MacGuffin – and The Armstrong Lie is an admiral attempt to escape Armstrong’s alluring fairytale appeal.

At Berkeley – 7/10

Director: Frederick Wiseman
Any release date: TBC
Strand: Documentary
“Have faith in rational argumentation and the marshalling of evidence, as opposed to mere cheerleading.”

There’s no reason for At Berkeley to be 244 minutes long. Maybe it’s because the documentary covers the protests over Berkeley University’s budget cuts – cutting coverage is an extension of capitalism? Well, I won’t go 5-star crazy, like other reviews. Sure, Wiseman is very detailed and encompassing about the subject matter, but how could you not be with a 244-minute running time?

There’s an episode of The Sopranos where Tony informs his daughter that he’d be furious if she studied at Berkeley, which says half as much as the film in a single sentence. In the third hour, someone complains faculty meetings are too long – but doesn’t turn to wink at the camera.

Electro Shaabi – 2.5/10

Director: Hind Meddeb
Starring: MC Sadat
Any release date: Unlikely
Strand: Sonic
“Do you want to make me suffer?”

I don’t see many music documentaries I dislike. For better or worse, I find much of the appeal in the music itself. I thought Shane Meadows wasted his material on The Stone Roses, yet, through its many faults, I enjoyed Made of Stone purely for the high quality live footage.

Electro Shaabi is another matter. The eponymous genre, an Egyptian pop culture phenomenon, can be described as clapping along to a keyboard preset while shouting bad poetry on top. Of course, the music itself is irrelevant. Director Hind Meddeb is really aiming to pinpoint the movement’s role in free speech; an outlet for the dissatisfied youth to express their political anger without fear of retribution.

However, the lyrics rarely touch the subject (and never with any depth). Largely, the amateur rappers, who are all male, sing about life in abstract terms – apart from the subject of girls, where they get weirdly specific. They claim their words have meaning, but I couldn’t find any, and neither does the documentary. The rough footage doesn’t help, especially with subtitles littered with spelling errors that rather annoyingly end with full stops on every line.

There are extremely brief moments of intrigue, all of which have nothing to do with the music. One musician speaks of the frustration with the night scene, whether men and women party separately on the dance floor; after one comment, it’s never mentioned again. In ten years time, all I’ll remember about the film is how horrified I was that the main rapper feeds cold cut meat to his pet chicken.

At one point, a subtitling error brings up an unspoken lyric: “Give me something new/ I am fed up.” It’s rather apt.

How We Used to Live – 7/10

Director: Paul Kelly
Starring: London, Saint Etienne, Ian McShane
Any release date: TBC
Strand: Sonic

It seems fitting that this year’s London Film Festival hosted the world premiere of How We Used to Live: a gorgeous ode to the city’s past. The film is a collaboration between director Paul Kelly and indie band Saint Etienne, with a poetic mix of subtle pop music and old footage sourced from the BFI’s National Archive.

Central London is presented as an innocent stranger in images and short clips dating from the 1950s to the 1980s; the landmarks are recognisable, although the optimism is harder to find. A sparse voiceover by Ian McShane adds small subtext (including an amusing line about ignoring strangers on the Northern Line) but knows when not to intrude – the succession of nostalgia and harmonies is enough.

At no point did I feel the voices of Kelly or Saint Etienne overwhelming the subject matter of How We Used to Live. Rather than call it minimalist, I think selfless is a more accurate adjective of their approach. I’ve lived in London all my life and, due to age, was unable to recognise much of the city apart from the shapes of roads I frequently walk on.

It’s possible to write a lengthy essay about what the film is saying, although I sense that would be one’s unfair appropriation of the ego – for 70 minutes, the “truth” behind the archive footage allows the viewer to find their own interpretation. After all, Thatcher’s influence lurks like an unwelcome presence because of chronological progression, but there’s a strong city spirit underneath that survived the war and industrialisation.

The filmmakers previously worked on a trilogy of London tributes (Finisterre, What Have You Done Today Mervyn Day and This is Tomorrow), and their experience is evident in the documentary’s natural flow. The structure of How We Used to Live sounds easier in practice, but is a technical skill in execution – one of pristine timing and artistry.

Leave to Remain – 5/10

Director/Writer: Bruce Goodison
Starring: Noof Ousellam, Masieh Zarrien, Yasmin Mwanza, Toby Jones
Any release date: TBC
Strand: Debate
“He’s family.”

Goodison’s accomplished drama tackles the hot topic of asylum seekers: an ensemble of young teenagers reside in London, parentless, escaping their home country’s dangerous circumstances. Toby Jones is sympathetic and welcoming – which can’t quite be said about the law.

The drama’s subject matter is important and is based upon years of research. However, those pre-interviews are probably more effective that these fictionalised accounts. Snow falls in the final scene, which somewhat undermines the final act’s revelations.

Mistaken for Strangers – 7/10

Director: Tom Berninger
Starring: The National
Any release date: TBC
Strand: Sonic
“I feel like I’m on the outside looking in.”

I used to think The National were for anyone too embarrassed to admit they like Bruce Springsteen, or frightened of Interpol’s danceability. Mistaken for Strangers doesn’t change my opinion, but it also isn’t really about The National.

The charmingly low-key film largely documents the indie band’s recent tour, without requiring any knowledge or passion for the music. In fact, it might even help. The director, Tom Berninger, is the younger brother of Matt, the lead singer; Matt invites Tom to be a roadie, in a act halfway between nepotism and pity. Instead of gratitude, Tom offers little indication he cares about The National’s style – he’s a self-proclaimed metal head frustrated that too many of the band are “coffee house”.

Tom isn’t constructing a slur piece, even if The National often come across as humourless dullards who take themselves too seriously (which, come on, is obvious from the music). Instead, he focuses on his sibling rivalry with Matt: there’s little about life in a rock band, but more on what it’s like to live in your famous brother’s shadow. The pair barely seem related; Tom’s an unsuccessful Jack Black doppelganger, while Matt’s handsome figure emerges from hotel rooms in a dapper suit and sunglasses.

Tom’s goofiness is integral to Mistaken for Strangers maintaining its unlikely heart, as he plays the underdog card – the band and crew tolerate interview questions like “Where do you see The National in 50 years? 40?” Not only does he look like Jack Back, but he shares a “lovable jerk” persona. When Tom shouts, “Hey Moby!” in a swimming pool, it could easily be from The School of Rock.

Mistaken for Strangers is extremely funny, mainly from throwing misfit Tom on tour with such a miserable band – they’re self-serious and lacking sentimentality, the opposite of Tom. When he’s sent back home to Cincinnati, the film falters with a lack of authenticity; there’s much rewriting of one’s story, as expected, and neatly tied loose ends. But for the actual tour, there’s a touching story of sibling jealousy: standing on the outside looking in as your brother is loved every night by adorning fans (including Werner Herzog), while you’re occupied with a Toblerone.

My Fathers, My Mother and Me – 6.5/10

Original title: Meine Keine Familie
Director/Writer: Paul-Julien Robert
Starring: Paul-Julien Robert, Otto Muehl
UK/US release date: TBC
Strand: Documentary
“He who walks well, feels well.”

Friedrichshof, an Austrian sex commune, ran for 20 years until its dissolution in 1991. The group believed in free love and strived for an alternative to the nuclear family model – children didn’t know the identity of their father, other than he’s in the same room. (Mothers were chosen through a strict selection process – “they can’t be depressed or sexually damaged.”)

The documentary’s director, Paul-Julien Robert, was one of those children. In My Fathers, My Mother and Me, Robert looks back on the commune and explores how it affected his life. The answer: quite a bit. His quest is ostensibly to find his biological father, while on the way he interrogates his guilt-ridden mother – she sobs, without providing an explanation for her past actions.

Robert largely revisits his childhood through archive footage (the commune’s leader wanted to document their activities so others could follow example) which is fascinatingly, horrifyingly bizarre: the commune’s main goal is provide everyone’s existential and material needs, yet appears to be a number of horny, brainwashed adults. One past resident admits the experience was an extension of puberty.

However, there’s a scarier side, particularly when children are involved. Not only are they hidden from the outside world, but are introduced at an early age to humiliating performance art rituals (and far, far worse activities). The dark premise is even murkier when the anti-materialism philosophy is corrupted by financial greed and indoctrination that wouldn’t be out of place in The Master. The group’s founder, Otto Muehl, was later arrested for paedophilia.

I feel cruel to point out that Robert’s new material is vastly overshadowed by the commune’s footage. That’s to be expected, given the extraordinary activities that took place – choreographed sex acts; a child, too distraught to play the harmonica, is punished with a bottle of water. However, Robert provides little context through interviews that aren’t already in the old videos. In the present day footage, even if his mother’s tears are real, she seems awkward self-aware of the camera.

The children raised in the commune grew up completely shaken by memories they barely have – the dark spots in their history are berthed from misused idealism, and throws up frightening questions about the notion of identity. Quite simply, they’re not just robbed of a childhood, but the chance to have one. Maybe the topic needs more input from a neutral who can probe further into these uncomfortable areas.

Night Moves – 6/10

Director: Kelly Reichardt
Writers: Kelly Reichardt, Jon Raymond
Starring: Jesse Eisenberg, Dakota Fanning, Peter Sarsgaard
UK/US release date: TBC
Strand: Debate
“It’s just theatre. I want results.”

It’s strange that Jesse Eisenberg was ever deemed a substitute Michael Cera, even after The Social Network and Adventureland. (Or maybe because of Adventureland.) Eisenberg’s uneven film choices haven’t helped, but for me he’s emerged ahead of Tom Hanks as the star of the festival.

Kelly Reichardt matches her patient, subtle filmmaking style with Eisenberg’s restlessness, in a role where the well-known fast-talker is kept silent under tense conditions. Under these constraints, he even walks like a great actor. As a frustrated eco-terrorist, the camera stares at his face, leaving his internal monologue to the imagination – and it’s one heck of a speech.

Night Moves is extremely plot-heavy when compared to Old Joy and Wendy and Lucy, yet for the first half Reichardt’s trademark elements are there: anguished lulls in conversation, a wistful soundtrack, and the calming sounds of nature. Eisenberg takes the lead role of Josh, a nervy environmentalist with a similarly nervy environmentalist girlfriend, Dena (Dakota Fanning). The pair hatch a plan to explode a hydroelectric dam, enlisting help from an older expert (Peter Sarsgaard). When Dena expresses reluctance, Josh reminds her that Americans should care more about the environment than “powering their fucking iPod.”

Josh provides most of the momentum, but more through angry impulses than strategic preparation. Subsequently, the trio’s minimal dialogue (partly to avoid detection) is systematic of mutual recklessness; when they’re paddling on a boat loaded with explosives, the symbolism is clear.

Surprisingly, Reichardt turns up the narrative even further in the second half of Night Moves: the plot operates in a steady, mechanical fashion like an unwanted sequel. When I think back to Wendy and Lucy ending after 80 minutes, I wondered why Night Moves couldn’t have done the same. I imagine it’s a way of introducing herself to a mainstream audience, much in the way Brit Marling’s The East was a similarly narrative-driven eco-thriller. But in doing so, some of Reichardt’s individuality is lost in the dam’s explosion.

Teenage – 4/10

Director/Writer: Matt Wolf
Starring: Jena Malone, Ben Whishaw
Any release date: TBC
Strand: Documentary

The teenager was an American post-war invention. Apparently. Wolf’s ambitious documentary fuses archive footage with pushy voiceovers (real diaries are rendered with inauthentic tampering), while Bradford Cox’s music plays in the background. Too many ideas are thrown around, suggesting Wolf either isn’t sure himself or is unable to express his thoughts clearly. Further distractions come from modern recreations of the past which are more irritating than insightful.

We Are the Best! – 9.5/10

Original title: Vi Är Bäst
Director: Lukas Moodysson
Writers: Lukas Moodysson, Coco Moodyson (novel)
Starring: Mira Barkhammar, Mira Grosin, Liv LeMoyne
UK/US release date: TBC
Strand: Sonic
“You are not the best. You are the worst.”

Punk leaned on its final legs by 1982; if not dead, a sneering tombstone was on standby. We Are the Best! offers a counterargument with two 13-year-old Stockholm girls who adore punk cassette compilations and start a band in the spirit of teenage rebellion. There’s also, the classic punk accolade: neither can play an instrument.

The two young leads already possess impressive comedic timing, thrusting one-liners that are believable and hilarious. Bobo (Mira Barkhammar) is tomboyish and sternly anti-makeup, as part of her punk ethos. Her best friend Klara (Mira Grosin) shares a rebellious streak, sporting a mohawk and tendency to dominate conversations. In an early scene, the they are dismissed from a school basketball lesson for inadvertently applying communist values to the game (by ignoring team groupings), quickly establishing the loquacious duo as content outsiders – hence the punk group (and a song about the fascist PE teachers).

Bobo and Klara take up drums and bass, with the latter shouting lyrics like: “Abort the sport!” The group find their Mick Jones through Hedvig (Liv LeMoyne), a friendless, normal-looking girl adept at classical guitar. The gang of misfits bring to mind Sam Weir and his pals in Freaks and Geeks, where friendship is the antidote for boredom and being misunderstood by parents.

Lukas Moodysson applies a loving, nostalgic tone to We Are the Best! that emanates warmth and almost no cynicism; despite the clashes between school cliques and differing ideologies, everyone is in on the joke. The period details are effortless, and Stockholm snow adds to the teenagers’ future memories. For Klara, punk’s relevance is more than disliking school and “commercial disco”, but a wider rejection of religion. Klara, with Bobo, attempt to alleviate Hedvig of her Christian background by playing her a song called “Hang God” and cutting off half her hair. Hedvig somewhat obliges, out of friendship, distilling the subculture’s hypocrisy – made even more evident when they meet another band dressed in similar attire.

I’m actually not a fan of Moodysson’s most celebrated feature, Together. However, I laughed throughout We Are the Best! and was transfixed by its earnest positivity. The children strive for an identity, Whether punk or Christianity, eventually finding comfort as their own subculture of three – the “we” of the film’s urgent title. They display anger when anyone suggests they are just “a girl band” – no, they are punk and, indeed, the best.

Follow @halfacanyon for more.

Films reviews: “Blue is the Warmest Colour”, “The Do Gooders”, “The Eternal Return of Antonis Paraskevas”, “Gloria”, “Locke”, “May in the Summer”, “Nebraska”, “Side by Side” and “The Spectacular Now” (pictured above).

This year’s London Film Festival was split into strands including Cult, Dare, Debate, Documentary, First Feature, Galas, Laugh, Official Competition, Sonic and Thrill. These reviews, most of which were originally written for The Digital Fix, cover the Family, Love and Journey strands. I caught the three gala films (respectively Side by Side, Blue is the Warmest Colour and Nebraska) but my scheduling regrets included 2 Autumns 3 Winters, Child’s Pose, Short Term 12, So Much Water, Suzanne  and Tonnerre. There was too much to see.

Anyway, here are the review. It might be of interest that The Do Gooders was a world premiere, but it didn’t make much of an impression – at least, not the right kind. For more, follow me on Twitter at @halfacanyon.

Blue is the Warmest Colour – 8.5/10

Original title: La Vie d’Adèle – Chapitres 1 & 2
Director: Abdellatif Keniche
Writers: Ghalia Lacroix, Julie Maroh (novel)
Starring: Adèle Exarchopoulos, Léa Seydoux
UK release date: 22^nd November 2013
US release date: 25^th October 2013
Strand: Love
“Excuse me. It’s out of my hands.”

Many RSS feeds have been stuffed with Blue is the Warmest Colour articles since it won the Palme d’Or at Cannes. After a flutter of 5-star reviews, the pre-release backlash came not from critics, but the director and lead actresses: the two stars listed unpleasant anecdotes about the filming process, causing Abdellatif Keniche to temporarily disown the whole feature. However, none of them criticised the film itself, which proves to be a moving, naturalistic teen romance with a three-hour running time that, if anything, isn’t long enough.

The French title loosely translates to The Life of Adèle – Chapters 1 & 2, which is a more direct description of a plot centred on a 15-year-old’s early steps into adulthood and first love. Adèle (Adèle Exarchopoloulos) is introduced as a fairly typical teenager who eats spaghetti bolognaise for dinner and gossips with friends in the canteen hall. While not a complete introvert, she displays signs of shyness: she is easily coerced by her friends into spending an evening with a boy simply because: “He looked at you. I’ve seen him do that before.”

It’s unclear if Adèle is motivated by dissatisfaction or curiosity, but she wanders into a lesbian bar; on her own and underage, she attracts the attention of onlookers. One of them, Emma (Léa Seydoux), is a blue-headed art student who’s instantly caring and aware of Adèle’s inexperience. Instead of a lascivious chat-up line, Emma provides sympathetic, polite conversation and takes a genuine interest in Adèle’s admittedly not-that-interesting life. The mutual affection is evident, alongside a dynamic that will play into their long-term relationship.

Unlike Adèle, Emma is over 18, a frequenter of gay bars, and sexually experienced with both genders. Emma is also quick – perhaps too quick – in pointing out these differences, but her honesty is appreciated from an early stage. The “graphic” sex scenes signify that trust in each other; sticking a tongue into someone else’s crevices is shown to be the deepest exploration of love on a physical level. There’s also juxtaposition: Adèle’s first time with a boy is an awkward affair ending with him embarrassedly asking, “Did you like that?” With Emma, the noisy lovemaking doesn’t require any post-coital survey.

And is the sex actually that graphic? There’s certainly more nudity and realistic-looking orgasms than anything else shown at the cinema (apart from some regions of Soho), but there’s no sense of performing to the camera. After all, Adèle’s sexual awakening is a defining moment that needs to be documented in what is supposed to be the first two chapters of her existence.

If those scenes are called graphic, I think the real adjective is “honest”. Keniche’s filmmaking style takes that ideology even further; if reports are to be believed, the director’s off-camera demeanour was frightening and prompted real tears. At time, the acting is so devastatingly convincing, it often struck me that Adèle’s crying absolutely had to be real – tears stream down the cheeks, snot droops into the mouth. (Some actors use special eyedrops for artificial weeping, but is there a nosedrop equivalent?)

The tender romance gently evolves through the film’s 179 minutes, with minimal screen time spent on Adèle’s homophobic friends or if her parents ever find out. They both demonstrate a rich, pure passion that’s shown in close-up for a large percentage, literally and figuratively. Blue is the Warmest Colour also doesn’t shy from love’s downsides; as Emma’s blue hair dye fades away, so does that crucial abstract term: “honesty” – but for a while, it exists, with all the emotional, snotty baggage.

The Do Gooders – 1/10

Director: Chloe Ruthven
Any release date: TBC
Strand: Journey

When I tried explaining this documentary to my friend, he assumed it was a parody. Sadly, it’s not. The British director spends three weeks in Palestine with a video camera, attempting to learn more about the complicated subject of foreign aid. She doesn’t learn much other than her own incompetence. She’s scolded for always filming, yet somehow misses crucial footage of fiery debates. Her investigative journalism peaks with a few Google searches. Aware of her failure, she  packs her suitcase and cries – in front of her own strategically placed camera.

The Eternal Return of Antonis Paraskevas – 6.5/10

Original title: I Aionia Epistrofi Tou Antoni Paraskeua
Director/Writer: Elina Psykou
Starring: Christos Stergioglou, Maria Kallimani, Giorgio Souxes
UK/US release date: TBC
Strand: Journey
“The return of Antonis Paraskevas has to be a historic event… I owe it to myself. I owe it to my fans”

Psykou’s Greek debut is a meditative satire on fame and the economy’s downfall. The titular Antonis Paraskevas is a recognisable TV presenter whose enduring presence in living rooms doesn’t exempt him from financial troubles. He stages his own kidnapping – while waiting for a ransom, he lives alone in an empty hotel and learns how to cook.

Antonis watches news reports concerning his own disappearance with a steady fascination, somewhat akin to the fantasy of turning up to your own funeral. However, the public’s attention span dwindles and moves onto the next person who can read a teleprompter. The melancholic satire explores the presenter’s loneliness, particularly how he winds down time: by seeking an audience, he’s ironically forced into isolation.

However, the film doesn’t develop the idea much further, so even the 90-minute running time feels like a stretch. I can imagine an English-language version with a recognisable star: Richard Bacon, perhaps, playing himself.

Gloria – 8/10

Director: Sebastián Lilio
Writers: Sebastián Lelio, Gonzalo Maza
Starring: Paulina García, Sergio Hernández, Diego Fontecilla
UK release date: 1^st November 2013
US release date: TBC
Strand: Love
“That cat is so ugly.”

Disco may be dead, but it can still make you alive. At least, that’s the case for Gloria (Paulina García). The titular character of Gloria is a lonely 58-year-old who finds solace in attending clubs with cheesy disco hits aimed at middle-aged dancers who, while not exactly reliving their youth, find rejuvenation absent from their routines before 10pm.

Gloria’s own life is impacted by broken down relationships; her children have moved on as adults, and she is divorced. Hilariously, in a bittersweet joke shared with Inside Llewyn Davis, she is reluctantly accompanied by a neighbour’s cat. (“That cat is so ugly,” she complains.)

The character portrait focuses on Gloria emerging with a never-say-die attitude: paintballing, bungee jumping, and romancing a fellow disco dancer, Rudolfo (Sergio Hernandez). Sebastián Lilio keeps the direction low-key and avoids saccharine sequences, keenly aware that there’s enough of a feel-good element in someone who sings along to the radio.

Bittersweet emotions run through the drama, with Gloria’s optimistic exuberance only slightly hiding the deeper regret underneath – one where she wasn’t alone at this point of her life. With Rudolfo, she enjoys a sexual frisson, but is acutely aware she’s a substitute for his ex-wife and daughters. Like a toe-tapping phoenix, she rises as someone with the self-belief to be happy on her own, in her life and on the dancefloor. Finally, a charming drama aimed at anyone who visits the cinema on their own.

Locke – 6/10

Director/Writer: Steven Knight
Starring: Tom Hardy
UK/US release date: Presumably 2014
Strand: Journey
“I will wash this sweater 10 times to get the dirt out.”

I’ve read some articles about a growing trend for watching films on a mobile phone. I don’t fancy it myself, although it’s tempting to save Locke up for a long car journey for a real sensory experience. This is as Locke itself is an 85-minute drive with Ivan Locke (Tom Hardy) and no one else on screen, except for voices on a speakerphone.

The early word on Locke was that it was riveting – a term that, combined with Hardy’s casting, caused me to expect Phone Booth on four wheels. Actually, the confined gimmick produces a surprisingly touching drama about a man on the brink of losing his established life. Rather than real life taxi journeys when you wish the racist taxi driver would stop ranting, Ivan is likeable, mostly through the angst on Hardy’s face. An early phone call reveals he’s on the way to a hospital; although married with children, he is caught up by a case of infidelity from nine months before.

Just by reading the plot, I initially questioned whether the protagonist had to be in a car – could he not take a train? People use phones on buses all the time, don’t they? But by stepping on the pedal himself, there’s a bitter poignancy in Ivan physically moving away from the family home, unsure if he’s allowed to return. What he believed to be an honourable trip begins to splutter amid voluntary self-destruction, made worse by hearing his children on speakerphone.

The action is understandably limited by its concept. You might miss the tears rolling down Ivan’s face, but Locke would also work as a radio play (heard on earphones while commuting). Another subplot involves work commitments and cement, which isn’t given time to set; even if the participants aren’t visible, some strands can’t escape their cliches. Otherwise, Locke is mostly an effective minimalist take on the worst motorway trip to feature no traffic.

May in the Summer – 3.5/10

Director/Writer: Cherien Dabis
Starring: Cherien Dabis, Alia Shawkat, Bill Pullman, Nadine Malouf
UK/US release date: TBC
Strand: Love
“I’ll tell you how I feel…”

The plot summary suggested a thoughtful insight into religious and racial tensions. However, the Jordan-set film is mostly an average romcom which touristy scenery. Dabis is the writer, director, producer and star; the film comes across as her own blog post, with the dialogue acting as a Q&A format.

Nebraska – 4/10

Director: Alexander Payne
Writer: Bob Nelson
Starring: Bruce Dern, Will Forte, Bob Odenkirk
UK release date: 6^th December 2013
US release date: 22^nd November 2013
Strand: Journey
“He just likes to believe what people tell him.”

Although The Descendants was nominated for several Oscars and won best screenplay, I shall forever remember it merely as “that thing with George Clooney in Hawaii”. Alexander Payne follows that disappointment with another one, continuing his descent (pun sort of intended) with Nebraska – I’m sure I’ll forever remember it merely as “that thing with black-and-white in Nebraska”.

Payne swaps Hawaiian sunshine for a cold road trip, journeying along a barren landscape from Montana to Nebraska, shot entirely without colour. The miserable sameness would suit its protagonists, a quarrelsome father and son, if it wasn’t for a script laden with sub-sitcom humour and hollow characters.

Woody (Bruce Dern), an elderly man, receives junk mail that claims he’s won a million dollar jackpot. He insists on taking the ticket himself to the Nebraska office, finding a reluctant companion in his son, David (Will Forte), who uses the doomed trip as an excuse for familial bonding.

Will Forte is an odd choice for lead, especially considering Payne’s last three male protagonists have been the enigmatic trio of George Clooney, Paul Giamatti and Jack Nicholson. Forte, however, is meek and passive, far away from the world of MacGruber and Saturday Night Live. He’s largely a foil for Dern’s grumpiness: short-tempered and stubborn, somewhat contradicting the unwise confidence in the fake lottery ticket.

Forte and Dern make the most of the script, even injecting moments of pathos (mostly from Dern’s tired, struggling figure), but are hampered by surprisingly weak humour. The road trip involves meeting several elderly relatives and strangers, leading to lengthy periods of “old people say the funniest things”. The mother is played by June Squibb, although it could easily be Betty White. Not even Bob Odenkirk, as David’s brother, could save proceedings.

I was admittedly in the minority as a screening full of regular laughter, perhaps supporting my initial sub-sitcom criticism – some of the dinner scenes aren’t too dissimilar from Everybody Loves Raymond. The pristine, black-and-white cinematography subsequently feels jarring, as if the dialogue-free scenes belong to a far better film. When the joking stops, I couldn’t find much in the central relationship that’s distinctive or felt genuine. Ultimately, the only moving factor is the car.

Side by Side – 3.5/10

Director: Arthur Landon
Writers: Arthur Landon, Matthew Wilkinson
Starring: Bel Powley, Alfie Field, Diana Quick, Sara Stewart
Any release date: TBC
Strand: Family
“You’re either very trustworthy of very gullible.”

Although Side by Side is clearly aimed at a young audience, there isn’t much teenage spirit – which is bizarre considering the narrative revolves around two children under 15 running away from home.
Lauren (Bel Powley) and Harvey (Alfie Field) take an ill-advised trip to Scotland in search of a lost grandfather. The journey’s catalyst is to avoid Lauren’s guardian, who also happens to be her scrupulous sporting agent. The two siblings have each other and learn to survive exactly as the title suggests, which would be more sickly sweet if it wasn’t for the lack of scurried focus – profiting from the internet, qualifications for the Olympics, they’re all jumbled together.

Well, to a certain extent. Side by Side falls apart with a central relationship that’s never particularly frayed, at least not more than expected between a brother and sister spending that much time together. The comedic angle also subdues any sense of danger, enough so that Lauren, a 15-year-old, hitchhikes on her own with a middle-aged stranger – and without making a radical point.

Ultimately, when there’s little character growth, narrative edge or amusement, it’s a struggle to find the purpose of Side by Side. Powley and Field are both likeable actors, sure, but are stuck with painfully contrived lessons (mainly through strangers who are a script beat away from summarising their life story). If there is a lesson, it’s to follow the advice of Harvey and stick to computer games.

The Spectacular Now – 8/10

Director: James Ponsoldt
Writers: Scott Neustadter, Michael H. Weber, Tim Tharp (novel)
Starring: Miles Teller, Shailene Woodley, Brie Larson, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Kyle Chandler
UK release date: Early 2014
US release date: 23^rd September 2013
Strand: Love
“Live in the now. Embrace that shit.”

I’m wary about calling The Spectacular Now a coming-of-age story. The film unquestionably part of the genre and doesn’t exactly break new ground, but is more than a typical indie teen love flick. It’s a heartwarming drama obsessed with time – the past, present and future – in an absorbing manner that took me by surprise.

Miles Teller and Shailene Woodley play the two charming leads, Sutter and Aimee, who begin a romance in the last few months of high school. Sutter is a wisecracking underachiever who’s more interested in drinking from a hidden flask that finishing homework. His volatile dynamic meshes with Aimee, a hardworking student with no boyfriend experience; she’s drawn to his “bad boy” image and willing to put up with his alcoholism.

However, the expected storyline doesn’t play out, partly because neither character is the extreme caricature often purported in teen dramas. “I’m just trying to help this girl out,” he initially insists. They gradually fall in love through natural conversation and feel like real people who enjoy each other’s company; the relationship’s evolution thrives on snippets of intimate dialogue and a real pleasure at sharing emotions.

James Ponsoldt, as he did in Smashed, again examines alcohol as a ticking timebomb that can damage sour a relationship. Ponsoldt’s just the director, with Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber adapting a novel by Tim Tharp, yet he’s clearly interested in the theme of alcoholism. Sutter’s downfall is inevitable, given the number of times he steers a driving wheel with a flask in his hand. Additional layers appear through Sutter tracking down his absent father (Kyle Chandler), arguing with his exhausted mother (Jennifer Jason Leigh), and discretely hanging out with ex-girlfriend (Brie Larson).

These are all traditional ingredients for an indie love story, and it’s to the film’s credit that the concept of time overshadows every plot turn. Sutter is obsessed with the present (“Live in the now! Embrace that shit!”) and boasts about his indifference towards the future. His ethos clashes with his parents, who both vehemently avoid discussing the past. Completing the Venn diagram, Aimee does whatever her mother tells her, knowing a promising career awaits. In a small space, the pair find emotional solace in that fleeting, intersecting circle.

My main issue with Smashed (which I otherwise loved) was its jarring sitcom-y subplot. Fortunately, The Spectacular Now gets rid of all its quirk in the opening sequence. Like the relationship itself, I slowly fell in love with the film and the characters, enough to forgive the predictable twists when they occurred.

Okay, it’s hardly groundbreaking, but the actors have the charisma and warmth to evoke the desperation for living the perfect moment, even if it can never happen. The most moving scene is prom night: everyone dances to an Ariel Pink song, except for Sutter and Aimee who watch from their seats. Sutter gushes that these magical minutes are the happiest he’ll ever be and it’s why he only cares for the present. It’s a deeply flawed manifesto – but at that moment, it’s hard to disagree.

Follow @halfacanyon for more.

Films reviewed: “All Cheerleaders Die”, “The Congress” (pictured above), “Only Lovers Left Alive”, “The Sacrament”, “The Strange Colour of Your Body’s Tears”, “sx_tape” and “The Zero Theorem”.

This year’s London Film Festival was split into strands including Dare, Debate, Documentary, First Feature, Galas, Journey, Laugh, Love, Official Competition, Sonic and Thrill. Most of these reviews were originally written for The Digital Fix and cover the Cult strand. Time constraints meant I missed out on Blackwood and Jodorowsky’s Dune. Stupidity meant I saw Locke instead of Why Don’t You Play in Hell? – I only discovered my mistake when the reviews came pouring in, each one laughing at me as I drove away pretending to be Tom Hardy.

Anyway, here are the reviews. It’s worth noting that sx_tape was a world premiere and is spelled differently on various online sources. For more, follow me on Twitter at @halfacanyon.

All Cheerleaders Die – 6/10

Directors/Writers: Lucky McKee, Chris Sivertson
Starring: Caitlin Stasey, Brooke Butler, Sianoa Smit-McPhee, Tom Williamson, Amanda Grace Cooper, Reanin Joannink
UK release date: TBC
US release date: Spring 2014
“Somebody got fucked, somebody got killed, and I’m going to PE.”

It’s made clear very early on (if not from the title) that All Cheerleaders Die is obsessed with American high school stereotypes. “Boys be dawgs, girls be bitches,” says one cheerleader in the first few minutes, before dying performing a fatal somersault. That playful death, redolent of Final Destination and far too many other recent horrors, suggests All Cheerleaders Die will be a typical slasher film – the opening act even welcomes this ignorance. And then it turns delightfully loopy.

Every character is a trope and keen to stick to that group, whether the football playing “dawgs”, cheerleader “bitches”, or the stoners whose own uniform is emblazoned with a “420” logo.  Even the fake cheerleader, Maddy (Caitlin Stasey – yes, Rachel from Neighbours), is a role popularised by Mean Girls and its impersonators.

Maddy joins a gang of cheerleaders (Brooke Butler, Amanda Grace Cooper, Reanin Johannik) who, in the spirit of the film’s mocking of the genre’s tropes, are a mixture of shallow obsessions, closeted lesbian urges, and a desire to wear the uniform whenever possible. After they die (hey, the title predicted this!) in a car accident, the watching jocks (led by Tom Williamson) flee the scene and, like their football matches, hope for the best.

All Cheerleaders Die is largely set apart from similarly titled horrors by its supernatural undertones, yet it’s keen to throw in as many surreal genre elements as the short running time will allow. I won’t list them as it’d ruin the fun, but the playful tone means the laughs will definitely outnumber the screams. In doing so, the film lacks some coherency, even if the directors are unbothered by the absurdity. After all, the lack of background knowledge is part of the joke – the deus ex machina is referred to as “crazy wicker bullshit”.

Similarly, the genre-friendly title is an early hint that subtlety isn’t a priority: if one cheerleader kicks the bucket, the rest shall follow. The subsequent gender battle is a sort of feminist revenge fantasy, albeit one harder to take seriously with both armies formed by deliberately cliched soldiers. Throughout all the outrageous action, there’s still a disturbingly real tone to the way the jocks attack the women – whereas the responses are played for laughs.

Of course, All Cheerleaders Die isn’t meant to be taken too seriously. The onslaught of ideas mean several areas don’t work, particularly the glossy sheen of school scenes soundtracked by American teen punk. However, the revolving door allows a new comedic scenario to take over quickly enough for the viewer to, if not forgive, at least temporarily forget.

Perhaps the hit-and-miss structure is best summed up by Lenna (Sianoa Smit-McPhee), Maddy’s former best friend; fed up of the chaos and gore, she informs the cheerleaders, “Somebody got fucked, somebody got killed, and I’m going to PE.” When the symbolism is fleshed out, that flesh is eaten with smug satisfaction.

The Congress – 6.5/10

Director: Ari Folman
Writers: Ari Folman, Stanislaw Lem (novel)
Starring: Robin Wright, Harvey Keitel, Jon Hamm, Paul Giamatti
UK release date: TBC
US release date: Early 2014
“I voted for Bush. Both of them. That’s four times.”
“I don’t know who you are anymore.”

The early, self-referential weirdness of The Congress, at first reminded me of Charlie Kauffman in terms of ambition, rather than the execution. The film, a distorted mixture of live-action and trippy animation, is actually the work of director Ari Folman, adapting Stanslaw Lem’s 1971 novel The Futurological Congress.

I’m not familiar with the source text, but it’s safe to assume much of the Hollywood satire is from Folman’s input. The protagonist is Robin Wright, playing herself as she is today, a semi-famous actress in her mid-40s. She is led by her gruff agent (Harvey Keitel) to a board meeting where she’s offered a once-in-a-lifetime deal: sell her body in digital form to a studio, in return for money and an agreement to never perform again. (That last part is what makes it a once-in-a-lifetime deal.)

The studio in question is called Miramount, which is surprisingly the satire’s most biting line. Otherwise, the script throws in light humour about Hollywood’s prevalence for younger actresses and dumbed-down sci-fis. Really, these points would seem tame if blurted at an Oscars ceremony.

Folman’s attention is more spun towards the animated sequences, which take up the majority of The Congress. Without much explanation, Wright enters a cartoon world 20 years later – the loopy visuals suggest a cocktail of LSD and old TV cartoons, oscillating across the screen like a convention of hand-drawn characters: like when The Flinstones met The Jetsons multiplied with a satellite TV subscription.

Wright, herself animated, finds society papers over its poverty in denial in a post-cinema world. At lurid parties, hallucinogenic drinks transform any recipients into a celebrity – they range from Michael Jackson, Jesus Christ, several people who accidentally look like Louis CK, and Robin Wright herself.

The following hour is a vividly impressive thrill, if examining purely on looks. The artists push the medium with wavy lines and rapid transformations.

However, The Congress frustratingly gets stuck inside its own smug maze of self-satisfied, unformulated ideas. Sadly, it shares both the visual flair and incoherence of an acid trip. The first act becomes forgotten amidst the surreal mess; when Wright speaks of missing her son, the emotions unintentionally sound fake – further compounded by digital choreography designed to trick the viewer’s first impression of each frame.

The chopped up structure is likely to annoy audiences, rather than apply dramatic juxtaposition or express more ideas. I personally found the transformation liberating, given the opening act’s overlong set-up, and then exhausting by the lack of heart or focus.

Folman aims for a send-up of Hollywood’s riches and vanity, while attempting to conjure up animation with an underground aesthetic; he’s unable to do both. Subsequently, there’s little depth, a fact even acknowledged when a producer calls sci-fi worthless – although an ironic joke, it’s an accurate self-description.

Only Lovers Left Alive – 4.5/10

Director/Writer: Jim Jarmusch
Starring: Tom Hiddleston, Tilda Swinton, Mia Wasikowska, John Hurt, Anton Yelchin
UK release date: 21^st February 2014
US release date: TBC
“I was born at night. I wasn’t born last night.”

I’ve been a fan of Jim Jarmusch for quite a while, so Only Lovers Left Alive was one of my most anticipated festival screenings: a vampire comedy with Tom Hiddleston and Tilda Swinton as ageless lovers swept away in modern subcultures. Sadly, very little of the dry humour clicked and, while the soundtrack suitably rocked, Jarmusch’s sharp wit is noticeably absent.

Jarmusch’s films typically find funny juxtapositions through outsiders ruining settled rhythms. However, the two protagonists share similar personalities that run into severe repetition and diminishing returns. The vampires, named Adam (Hiddleston) and Eve (Swinton), have lasted for generations, only to be confounded by society’s infiltration of zombies (a nickname for humans) and rockers. After a brief break of 87 years (they do have a lot of time to kill), Eve leaves the spirituality of Tangier to rejoin Adam’s gothic den in Detroit. Their conversations might appeal to newcomers unfamiliar with Jarmusch’s language, but the drop in quality is evident by a running joke of “bloody” as an adjective. Elsewhere, the pair riff aimlessly on science and the burden of technology, as if the viewer also shares the luxury of infinite time.

Eve’s fascination with diamonds forming in space recalls “Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds”; The Beatles pay further influence with the tripped out reactions to drinking blood. That psychedelic pleasure is at odds with the duo’s moody exhaustion with life – or, at least, Adam’s stubbornness. The film certainly picks up when Eve’s sister, Ava (Mia Wasikowska) briefly appears as a bouncy intruder – as I mentioned earlier, Jarmusch works best when juxtaposing outsider personalities. Eva also possesses the best line: “I was born at night. I wasn’t born last night.” However, she’s gone after 10 minutes, and it’s back to eternity.

The Sacrament – 4/10

Director/Writer: Ti West
Starring: Joe Swanberg, AJ Bowen, Kentucker Audley, Amy Seimetz, Gene Jones
UK release date: TBC
US release date: Unspecified in 2014
“We’re Vice. We’re not Red Cross.”

Ti West introduced the screening of The Sacrament by noting the film might not be what the audience were expecting. The horror marks the first of West’s films to not feature any supernatural elements (Joe Swanberg’s impressive basketball skills don’t count), although it sticks to his slow-burn style – except this time the fear factor comes from human cruelty.

The Sacrament is framed as a fake documentary created by two Vice journalists (Joe Swanberg and AJ Bowen). The found footage technique is a distracting storytelling device and often incomprehensible. Much of my time was spent wondering who, if anyone, was holding the camera – and why they didn’t drop it and run away.

The documentary idea springs up when a Vice colleague (Kentucky Audley) is sent a letter by his missing sister (Amy Seimetz), with the note revealing she lives in a mysterious commune in an isolated rural area. The trio fly by helicopter to investigate further, only to discover a religious cult led by a frightening, older figure named “Father” (Gene Jones). Generalisations turn out to be true: members are encouraged to recruit family members and raise funds, while a murkier streak of suspicion flows through group activities.

Although the group is supposed to be sober, the exceptions suggest the commune serves another purpose.

Members of the cult smile in unison, somewhat disturbingly; one family seep through the cracks and inform the journalists they can be punished for talking to “outsiders”. The Vice reporters spot further evidence of brainwashing, but “Father” avoids their questions with ease. The interrogation takes place in front of the commune as an audience, outnumbering the cornered interviewers who stutter when their journalism style is questioned – namely that their intrusion ruins the privacy and lifestyle of the “family” for the sake of an article.

If the plot starts to sound like any real-life incident, then you’re sort of right and sort of wrong. West mentioned in the Q&A it’d be unjust to portray any historic events because that would require an eight-hour miniseries to serve any justice. With this, West highlights the flimsiness of The Sacrament: it plays like a rushed, inaccurate version of better known examples. The final act is powerful, sure, but because it echoes history. When certain characters die, there’s no mourning over them as specific people, as their few lines of dialogue barely shape a persona.

In that sense, The Sacrament is a rushed job – which is primarily what West’s filmmaking wishes to oppose.

The Strange Colour of Your Body’s Tears – 5.5/10

Original title: L’étrange couleur des larmes de ton corps
Directors/Writers: Hélène Cattet, Bruno Forzani
Starring: Klaus Tange, Jean-Michel Vovk, Sylvia Camarda, Sam Louwyck
UK/US release date: TBC
“She had a secret…”

Well, I enjoy a giallo as much as the next emotionally dead film reviewer, but The Strange Colour of Your Body’s Tears is one only for the die-hards – and even then, only on a big screen with loud speakers.

The directorial team of Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani don’t stray too far from the template already established with Amer. Their style pays tribute to 1960s Italian giallos, while cutting out the pulpy murder mystery dialogue scenes – to put it mildly. Oh, they also amp up the gore and on-screen effects with blinding imagery, creating a distinctly modern tribute. In a way it reminds me of a horror compilation one might find on YouTube.

While Amer didn’t have a plot (okay, technically it did…), The Strange Colour of Your Body’s Tears has a somewhat tenuous narrative involving missing spouses, secretive neighbours and blood dripping from the ceiling. However, it’s unlikely anyone will follow the story (which is mostly free of dialogue anyway) as the film focuses on assaulting the senses with abrasive colours, quick cuts, flying blood, piercing sound effects, abrupt pacing changes, juxtapositional animation, and a start-stop soundtrack that crescendos into a violent cacophony which has the cinema seats vibrating.

It sounds thrilling, and sort of is, for maybe 20 minutes. As a bold experiment in substance over style (especially considering that criticism often applies to traditional giallos), the viewing experience turns into a trial of endurance, especially with on-screen Freudian imagery torturously repeating itself; there are more penis-shaped knives and boxes symbolising vaginas than completed sentences.

Ultimately, it’s exhausting and short on ideas. The filmmakers could in future follow the example of Dario Argento and Sergio Martino by adapting existing novels, but that would defeat their aggressive shock aesthetic, where a nightmare is stretched by the width of the frame, scraping at the sides with fingernails. I liken it to a continuous loop at an art gallery – you lose yourself in the colours and sounds, and then you’re ready to move on and never return.

sx_tape – 3.5/10

Director: Bernard Rose
Writer: Eric Reese
UK/US release date: TBC
Starring: Caitlyn Folley, Ian Duncan, Diana Garcia
“This is so dirty. I’m not even sure if I’m into it.”

As far as I know, sx_tape is still without a distributor. The found footage horror could take a future life as a VHS tape left around abandoned hospitals in 2014 to build further buzz. Otherwise, the takeaway from the London Film Festival screenings, where it received a world premiere, is that Bernard Rose has helmed a very ordinary scare-a-thon with flimsy characters – only to redeem itself with a glorious WTF ending in the last few minutes. However, I’m unsure as to how many viewers will have the patience to reach that finale, which is an amendment that doesn’t apologise or explain the dull inanities that take up the majority of sx_tape.

The unoriginal premise involves a horny couple, Adam (Ian Duncan) and Diana (Caitlyn Folley), who film themselves having sex in locations that escalate in daringness: a bed, in a car, and then an abandoned hospital. Adam holds the camera most of the time, while Diana flirts extravagantly in minimal clothing; her provocative behaviour is coordinated with eye contact into the lens, as if her demeanour is designed to guilt the viewer.

Inside the deserted hospital, where most of sx_tape is set, the creaky corridors are haunted by a wandering spirit: a ghostly woman who pops up unexpectedly, much in the vein of every other found footage film. If anything, Rose might be parodying the genre as every character and plot beat is so unimaginative. At least, I think he is, even if it’s impossible to tell for the majority of the running time.

The only original comment emerges from a turnaround of Diana’s character, from a male fantasy (underdressed and underwritten) into a possessed shell who informs her boyfriend, “You raped me.” She is speaking psychologically, but also to the audience in an unexpected role reversal that tackles the genre’s tropes – a message likely to be missed by the number of viewers who switch off along the way.

The Zero Theorem – 4/10

Director: Terry  Gilliam
Writer: Pat Rushin
Starring: Christoph Waltz, David Thewlis, Mélanie Thierry, Lucas Hedges, Tilda Swinton, Matt Damon
UK/US release date: Presumably in 2014
“What does it mean? It makes no sense.”

The latest dystopian sci-fi from Terry Gilliam is depressing for the wrong reasons. If Brazil was a director at his peak in 1985 predicting a nightmarish future, then The Zero Theorem is a director trying and failing to return to that peak. (He should probably use the time machine from 12 Monkeys.)

The Zero Theorem certainly has the Gilliam aesthetic of the 1980s; the DIY props are perplexing to an extent, but his style is stale – an autopilot mission of someone sticking to a formula. Whether or not its intentional, the plot even revolves around mad scientist Qohen (Christoph Waltz, somewhat balder than usual) locked in a room, trying to solve the same equation with limited success.

But the film goes even further with unfortunately self-referential plot points. Notably, Qohen’s job is to identify if the world really is meaningless, prompting meta-lines: “It makes no sense!”, “I don’t think this means anything!” and “Is this really the same guy who made Brazil!” Okay, maybe the last one is made up.

Still, there’s a dispiriting lack of ideas, with all the creativity seemingly pumped into the wacky set. Even the characters are wild caricatures, with the most prominent one being Bainsley: a femme fatale played by Mélanie Thierry with a deliberately paper-thin personality and even less noticeable amount of clothing. Another forgettable cameo comes from Tilda Swinton as a rapping psychiatrist, which is even less funny than it sounds.

I don’t want to be down on The Zero Theorem. I want to call it an ambitious failure, much in the way I admired The Fountain for is philosophical intent – I believe Aranofsky slaved over research texts and poured his heart into the project. However, all I can picture is Gilliam shrugging at the final draft. Waltz, who can’t even speak off-screen without alluring charisma, somehow does – I imagine that received a shrug from Gilliam as well.

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Films reviewed: “Abuse of Weakness”, “The Double”, “Ida” (pictured above), “Like Father, Like Son”, “Of Good Report”, “The Selfish Giant”, “Tom at the Farm”, “Tracks” and “Under the Skin”.

This year’s London Film Festival was split into strands including Cult, Dare, Debate, Documentary, First Feature, Galas, Journey, Laugh, Love, Sonic and Thrill. Most of these reviews were originally written for The Digital Fix and cover the Official Competition strand. Of these 13, I caught all apart from The Lunchbox (prioritised Exhibition), Rags & Tatters (prioritised Locke) and Parkland (prioritised fresh air).

I was an early champion for Ida, even seeing it twice, but then it was awarded best film by the jury so now it looks like I’m jumping on a bandwagon. I hate bandwagons and I especially hate jumping. Anyway, here are the reviews. For more, follow me on Twitter at @halfacanyon.

Abuse of Weakness – 6/10

Original title: Abus de Faiblesse
Director/Writer: Catherine Breillat
Starring: Isabelle Huppert, Kool Shen, Laurence Ursino
UK/US release date: TBC
“It was me. But it wasn’t me.”

The central question, repeatedly thrust at the viewer, is whether Huppert’s character is being abused or the abuser. It’s hard to say, other than I found more stimulation in post-film cogitation, rather than during the film itself. The events are based around real events, which Breillat turns around into manipulating the viewer. Without this knowledge, I’m not sure how keen I’d be to peel the layers, and indeed I lost interest until a fantastic final scene left me wanting more. Now, that is manipulation.

The Double – 9/10

Director: Richard Ayoade
Writers: Richard Ayoade, Avi Korine, Fyodor Dostoyevsky (novel)
Starring: Jesse Eisenberg, Jesse Eisenberg, Mia Wasikowska, Wallace Shawn, Noah Taylor
UK release date: 4^th April 2014
US release date: TBC 2014
“I like to think I’m unique.”
“I feel like people can push right through me.”

Early word for The Double had me scratching my head: Richard Ayoade directing an adaptation of a Fyodor Dostoyevsky novel, starring Jesse Eisenberg in two roles, co-written by Harmony Korine’s brother. Throw in some cult hero cameos in Chris Morris and Dinosaur Jr’s J. Mascis, and it’s clear Ayoade is sailing away from the light comedy of Submarine. In fact, the Dostoyevsky influence proves to be a bit of a red herring – The Double is a hilarious, Kafkaesque horror with heavy nods to Polanski, Lynch and Gilliam.

Eisenberg’s main role is as Simon James, a meek office worker with an escalating identity crisis. Simon’s ID card won’t scan and the security guard doesn’t recognise him. (“You’ve seen me every day for seven years!” “That can’t be true – I don’t work weekends.”) More painful is a non-relationship with Hannah (Mia Wasikowska), positioned as the girl of his dreams who forgets his name.

Now, here’s where the Avi Korine co-write makes more sense, considering his only writing credit is for the underrated Mister Lonely – a surreal dip into the world of professional lookalikes haunted by inadequacies. The Double takes a more literal approach when Simon James is gobsmacked when his doppelganger, James Simon, steps into the workplace to much admiration. In accordance with the nightmare, no one can spot the similarities, even though Eisenberg plays both parts without any visible irregularities beyond body language – which means there’s none of Paltrow’s ponytail nonsense from Sliding Doors. Worse of all, Hannah is instantly attracted to James.

Simon’s bad luck extends to faulty lifts and receiving incorrect orders from waitresses. Ayoade shapes the misfortune with heavily stylised direction that blurs edges with pitch darkness, while the sound of a train ruminates at opportune intervals. The overbearing setting mimics Gilliam’s Brazil, but with more claustrophobia and less respite.

Ayoade’s precise direction is an acquired taste and one I wished would last longer than the film’s 94 minutes. I wasn’t a fan of Submarine (partly as I read and loved Joe Dunthorne’s novel beforehand) but I admired his musical inserts that paid to French New Wave cinema in a cold, wet Swansea setting. The Double is a more obvious litany of someone’s DVD collection bearing influence. I’d love to see his Letterboxd account, as I spotted what I believe to be direct references to The Elephant Man, Chinatown and, most prominently, The Tenant.

The hypnotic clanging persists, and I could happily watch Simon wander aimlessly in The Double. However, James’ introduction adds a narrative spun through the visual comedy of James coaching Simon on how to succeed with women – a distorted reminder of Eisenberg’s early role in Roger Dodger. The eventual climax is a twist too far, but the preceding noir more than makes up for it. Eisenberg’s duality makes use of the actor’s introspective, obnoxious range, while Wasikowska is hilarious as the oblivious target of his affections.

Ayoade’s world is so delightfully idiosyncratic that J. Mascis, as a school janitor, comes across as one of the most normal characters. Ayoade’s next film can’t follow in this dystopian vein because he won’t beat it – but if he tries, I’ll be first in the queue.

Ida – 9.5/10

Director: Pawel Pawlikowski
Writers: Pawel Pawlikowski, Rebecca Lenkiewicz
Starring: Agata Trzebuchowska, Agata Kulesza, Dawid Ogrodnik
UK/US release dates: TBC
“What if you go there and discover there is no God?”

Despite first impressions, Ida is a nuanced, moving coming-of-age story about the trivialities of identity and running from demons. It just happens to be a black-and-white period piece detailing 1960s Poland.
Agata Trzebuchowska is Anna, a shy teenager raised as an orphan in a convent. Before Anna takes her vows, she is advised to meet her only living relative: Wanda, her boozy aunt played by Agata Kulesza. Anna is informed her real name is actually Ida and her family were Jewish, before World War II separated them.

Ida and Wanda take a road trip through post-war Poland, both depleted and beautiful in its simplicity. Although not quite a detective story, the pair visit the house in which Ida’s family hid from the Nazis, while later setting out to uncover where Ida’s parents are buried.

Both leads are an obviously incongruent couple, even if united in familial bonding and a shared goal of historical discovery. Ida continues to pray and wear her religious clothing, despite the revelation, even maintaining a silence that could be either acceptance or denial. Meanwhile, Wanda sits by her side, gently prodding her over the necessity of carnal thoughts and taking off the headgear to literally let her hair down.

The one-sided conversations are as minimal as the bare backgrounds, with the notion placed firmly: after the news and its personal effect, does Ida continue with her new life? Whether Ida sees Christianity as a solution of way to hide, it’s hard to say, but still fascinating given Trzebuchowaska’s subtle reactions. When a stranger asks Ida to bless a small child, she is clearly rattled by her perceived duty – yet carries out the duty without complaint.

Wanda is an agitated foil, often with a cigarette in hand and the weary look of someone who’s given up on life. Wanda has her own demons, drudged up by her time as a judge nicknamed “Red Wanda”. With Ida, the women bundle an intricate cocktail of emotions that neither can full process, vainly hoping the road trip can lessen the pain.

Pawel Pawlikowski is economical in his direction, thankfully avoiding the melodrama and unnaturally dramatic actor pieces that films on this topic often pack in. At one point, Wanda starts a painful argument with a man who may or may not have killed Ida’s parents. As the volume escalates, Ida leaves the room to sit with farm animals – a moment symbolising Ida’s existential crux, where the truth is too painful to hear, and it’s a relief to hide in the crowd.

Like Father, Like Son – 8.5/10

Original title: Soshite Chichi Ni Naru
Director/Writer: Hirokazu Kore-eda
Starring: Masaharu Fukuyama, Machiko Ono, Yoko Maki, Lily Franky
UK release date: 18^th October 2013
US release date: 17^th January 2014
“Now it all makes sense.”

Stephen Spielberg has already snapped up the American remake rights for Like Father, Like Son, but there’s really no point: the original is so heartbreakingly poignant. Hirokazu Kore-eda, the Japanese director and writer famed for his sad family dramas, now ups the sad family tally to two.

The film’s catalyst stems from the breakdown of an “ignorance is bliss” scenario. In this case, the grenade is thrown by a hospital admitting to two families that their respective six-year-old sons were switched at birth. “We’ll stop using marker pens,” says one representative, but unsurprisingly neither family laughs.

Kore-eda examines one set of parents, particularly the father: Ryota Nonomiya (Masaharu Fukukuyama), a hardworking disciplinarian with a successful career and high standards for his progeny. “Now it all makes sense,” he says upon hearing the news, subtly referencing why his non-biological son Keita is a substandard piano player, amongst other minor failings. Tragically, Ryoto must come to terms that, in his mind, the child in their home turned into a stranger overnight.

In contrast, the less financially secure Saiki family are more playful: they bathe together, they fly kites, and the father chews his straws. The four adults have different ideas about how the situation should be handled, whether a straight swap, acknowledging some bonds are unbreakable, or perhaps a more audacious procedure. If we can semi-jokingly agree that children ruin everything, a difficult situation is embroiled with more emotional entanglements when the two sons join the argument.

The tender narrative isolates the number of relationships that occur between each parent with each other, with each child, and even with themselves. The plot is a classic “what if…?” pub question, the kind that can’t be answered sufficiently. Ultimately, it’s a lose/lose scenario, and heartbreak is inevitable.

Yet Kore-eda isn’t content with a simple tale of sadness or emotional manipulation. Some bonds prove unbreakable, and even Ryota, a cold businessman, can emotionally evolve – even if it means learning from someone of a lower status or, worst of all, chewing a straw. It’s common in films for familial love to be an unbreakable force; when relationships are undone, it’s simply devastating.

Of Good Report – 7.5/10

Director/Writer: Jahmil X.T. Qubeka
Starring: Mothusi Magano, Petronella Tshuma, Thobi Mkhwanazi
Any release dates: TBC
“You’d think he is killing someone in there.”

Qubeka’s spiky debut is a dazzling exhibition of his versatile talents, as evident by the mostly black-and-white cinematography broken up early on with bright red blood dripping down the screen. Of Good Report was temporarily banned in South Africa for child pornography because an underage character has sex. However, the actress is in her mid-20s, so it was promptly unbanned because of logic.

The nightmarish picture begins with a man laughing maniacally and plucking out a tooth lodged into his skull. That darkly humorous tone continues – by which I mean a shade too dark to find funny – with a Magano as a substitute teacher who discovers the girl he’s been sleeping with is one of his new students, and therefore much younger than he realises.

Rather than a moralising narrative, Magano is thrust into a thriller where keeping the affair a secret becomes untenable. When he’s stuck in a cubicle with his young lover, students and a teacher stand outside knocking on the door; an unbearably tense situation where you want him to be caught and not be caught at the same time.

Each shot breathes with a stylish verve: framed  like a spiky amalgamation of Hitchcock and The Evil Dead, with the direction howling with sinister laugher behind the camera.

The Selfish Giant – 6/10

Director/Writer: Clio Barnard
Starring: Conner Chapman, Shaun Thomas, Sean Gilder
UK release date: 14^th October 2013
US release date: TBC

The social realist drama is aware of its own greatness and how well it’ll play with critics – it did at the screening, and has done in the press. I was less taken in by the direction which, while accomplished, tries too hard for meaningful pathos.

Starred Up – 7.5/10

Director: David Mackenzie
Writer: Jonathan Asser
Starring: Jack O’Connell, Ben Mendelsohn, Rupert Friend
Any release dates: TBC
“Do you have a family to go home to? Or do you prefer being locked up with us you sick, saddo cunt?”

A long staple of prison dramas has been the fleeting family visit, although Starred Up adds a twist by having a father and son locked up in the same ward. The title, Starred Up, refers to Eric (Jack O’Connell), a young offender who’s moved to an over-21 institution based on violent behaviour. He demonstrates a wiliness that suggests he’s comfortable behind bars, whether fashioning a makeshift weapon with a toothbrush, or throwing punches at anyone who challenges him. A fellow inmate even says, “Starred up means you’re a leader.”

Eric’s rough childhood involved losing his mother in tragic circumstances, while his father (Ben Mendelsohn) was locked up during his early year. The script, by Jonathan Asser, doesn’t pump out too much back story, thus fashioning a rougher, more frightening environment: when socialising in and around cells, there’s little conversation about pre-prison life, as if it didn’t exist.

Instead, a number of hierarchies exist; the top cells have games consoles and chocolate bars, but Eric’s empty room is furnished with cornflakes. Prison politics are equally fascinating and frightening, in much the way viewers are glued to gangster narratives; an alternative law exists, which even twists the arm of security guards.

Rupert Friend does sterling work as a sympathetic voluntary worker (which he denies is the same as a hobbyist) who identifies incarceration as an unhealthy home for a young, violent offender – the authorities do their best to prevent Eric’s therapy sessions, seemingly as a desire to watch the teenager suffer. Eric’s father, just as he was before sharing the same space, is powerless to protect his son.

The gripping narrative builds up through claustrophobia, running circles inside the building. David Mackenzie deserves credit for direction that intensifies the emptiness of life inside a small room, with only a gleaming light shining through the window – that, and for turning a revolving door into a symbolic recurring image.

Tom at the Farm – 4.5/10

Original title: Tom à la Ferme
Director: Xavier Dolan
Writers: Xavier Dolan, Michel Marc Bouchard (play)
Starring: Xavier Dolan, Pierre-Yves Cardinal, Lise Roy, Evelyne Brochu
UK/US release dates: TBC
“He can lie to you too.”

The end credits for Tom at the Farm list Xavier Dolan as more than director and lead actor; his roles include editor and costume designer. Yet, for the first time, he’s only a co-writer, as the melancholic drama’s roots lie in a Michel Marc Bouchard play. That might explain the weird sensation that Tom at the Farm can be dominated by Dolan’s presence without feeling like a Dolan film – the great Dolan paradox, you might say. (I’m guessing you won’t.)

The 24-year-old filmmaker has possibly outgrown the erratic style that characterised I Killed My Mother and Heartbeats, as Tom at the Farm is shot in a comparatively conventional manner. He does, however, stay consistent with narrative themes: the longevity of heartbreak, and society’s treatment (or denial) of homosexuality.

Tom (Dolan), as the title mentions, visits a farm for the funeral of former boyfriend Guillaume. Tom then discovers Guillaume kept their relationship a secret from his family, who express their anger that his alleged girlfriend doesn’t turn up – not even to carry flowers. To the screenplay’s credit, the plot doesn’t spiral out in the expected direction, instead setting up a cat-and-mouse storyline: Guillaume’s brother, Francis (Pierre-Yves Cardinal), knows too much and attempts to blackmail Tom.

There are still flourishes of Dolan’s eye for beauty, although his newfound composure doesn’t allow a scattergun approach; less visual flair places a magnifying glass on the acting. Yet shooting in a consistent manner doesn’t mean a focused product. When Tom wanders around the farm, I actually saw Dolan pacing worried circles on a film set, wondering how to adapt a script originally written for the stage.

By toning down his eccentricities, mediocrity triumphs. I once considered Dolan a hate/love figure, but here the farm is positioned firmly in the middle. If early Dolan is represented by The Knife’s “Heartbeats”, then Tom at the Farm is a passable b-side.

Tracks – 7/10

Director: John Curran
Writer: Marion Nelson
Starring: Mia Wasikowska, Adam Driver, Emma Booth
UK release date: 25^th April 2014
US release date: TBC
“Spit it out!”

The Australian wilderness is magnificent on the Odeon West End’s screen, with sun rays stretching across the corners. Shooting in such a beautiful, deserted area means the set is never-ending, according to John Curran in the following Q&A. It’s worth noting that Tracks is based on a 1978 book of the same name, so a film adaptation had to be visually stunning to justify its existence – and it does.

Tracks is the 2,700km journey undertaken across Australia by Robyn Davidson (Mia Wasikowska), amid sweltering heat and thirsty conditions. She embarks on foot with a dog and a few camels. The lonely journey is an impressive nine-month saga, occasionally interrupted by fleeting visits from a National Geographic photographer (Adam Driver).

Robyn’s reasons aren’t clear, but I didn’t doubt those intentions exist, even if she isn’t so sure herself. Wasikowska’s role is tricky, in that she has to be on the verge of death, emote through the repetition, while marvelling at the beautiful surroundings – all through physical motions.

If Tracks is in danger of being an expensive production of someone’s gap year stories, the cinematography and central performance win it, through charm and persistence. Surprisingly, the film falters when its ambitions include jagged subplots, such as intrusive photographers and flashbacks. The absence of motive will likely infuriate others, but I was bowled over by the spectacle of a woman who abandons everything to wander and camp in her thoughts.

Under the Skin – 8.5/10

Director: Jonathan Glazer
Writers: Jonathan Glazer, Walter Campbell, Michel Faber (novel)
Starring: Scarlett Johansson
UK release date: 14^th March 2014
US release date: TBC
“This isn’t Tesco, is it?”

Yesterday’s screening of Under the Skin was followed by a Q&A with Jonathan Glazer who then took off his skin and revealed himself to be the director of Birth. Glazer’s bleak sci-fi is his third feature, following 2000’s critical smash Sexy Beast and 2004’s divisive Birth. I am a fan of neither, but Glazer pulls me in with Under the Skin: a visual kick to the head, complete with an ambient score shoved aside by shrieking strings.

There’s much to admire in Birth, although I found its creepy tension unwound by an unnecessary lack of ambiguity. Conversely, Under the Skin is delightfully baffling during its mostly dialogue-free 107 minutes. The narrative follows an alien that inhabits the body of a young woman (Scarlett Johansson), while displaying the cold physical behaviour of an extra-terrestrial inside an ill-fitting costume.

The star casting of Johansson turns out to be an ingenious move; her recognisability adds an extra surreal touch, with her awkward movements so out of place in Glasglow’s public areas. She visits shopping centres and drives around the city to flirting with strangers – supposedly filmed by Glazer with hidden cameras. Many of these men are under the age of 30 and hold an indecipherable accent, while unable to recognise the actress (it’s either the black wig, or We Bought a Zoo really is that forgettable).

Once invited back to Johansson’s newly acquainted home, a surreal mating ritual occurs where undressing occurs in an imagined darkness, before the erect male sinks through a watery black hole. It’s odder than the Sexy Beast cutaways, that’s for sure. These sequences are also highly hypnotic, with repetition underlining the unknowing weakness of the libido-driven men – strangers who at a moment’s notice hitchhike with an attractive stranger because she flatly states, “I like your smile.”

A deeper satirical point exists with Glasgow’s various subcultures which confuse the alien. From her POV, everyday sights of modern life become absurd: drunk women marching to a club in heels, and men brandishing their football shirts. It is, indeed, an “alien” experience.

Although Under the Skin is based on a novel (written by Michel Faber), it breathes like an abstract poem brought to life. The original book had a storyline where Johansson’s character transports humans to her home planet for an interplanetary Nando’s chain. Little of that is apparent or made clear in the film, leaving much to the viewer’s interpretation. That element instils extra mystery into the more subdued scenes set in Scotland’s more barren locations made even chillier than before.

Johansson stares with wonder at shopping centres, into ordinary houses, or at her own flesh; her curiosity reflects the viewer’s experience. The alien metaphor is a tad overstretched, but there’s much to admire in Glazer’s idiosyncratic take on the loneliness and self-destructive urges of human nature. Johansson’s character may not adapt to her human surroundings (unable to even swallow a piece of chocolate cake) and at times is unable to walk correctly – but the essence of human loneliness is one lesson she’s quick to learn.

Follow @halfacanyon for more.

Films reviewed: “12 Years a Slave”, “Captain Phillips”, “The Epic of Everest”, “Gravity”, “Inside Llewyn Davis” (pictured above), “Labor Day”, “Philomena” and “Saving Mr. Banks”.

This year’s London film Festival was split into strands including Cult, Dare, Debate, Documentary, First Feature, Journey, Laugh, Love, Official Competition, Sonic and Thrill. Most of these reviews were originally written for The Digital Fix and cover the gala screenings. There are a few that aren’t in this post that are reviewed in a separate post. For instance, Only Lovers Left Alive was the Cult gala film, so is with the Cult reviews.

If you’re interested in these things, Saving Mr. Banks was a world premiere, as was The Epic of Everest – although the latter was a restoration of the 1924 film, so make of that what you will. For more, follow me at @halfacanyon.

12 Years a Slave – 8.5/10

Director: Steve McQueen
Writers: John Ridley, Solomon Northup (autobiography)
Starring: Chiwetel Ejiofor, Michael Fassbender, Lupita Nyong’o, Benedict Cumberbatch, Paul Dano, Brad Pitt, Sarah Paulson
Event: Accenture gala
UK release date: 10^th January 2014
US release date: 1^st November 2013
“Days ago, I was with my family in my home. Now you tell me all is lost?”

The gala screening for 12 Years a Slave comes two days after Philomena received the red carpet treatment, continuing a trend for high-profile films adapted from memoirs. Philomena is a story told by a journalist who jokes his integrity prevents him writing human-interest stories – but if he did, “evil is good… story-wise.” 12 Years a Slave differs: the evils of slavery do make a perversely watchable story, but a more important one told from the victim’s point of view.

Steve McQueen’s third film is adapted from Solomon Northup’s 1853 memoir and continues the director’s analysis of human obstacles (the guards of Hunger, and one’s own body in Shame). Like other slavery dramatisations, extra weight is unavoidable considering modern audiences are still uncomfortable with such a dark spot of history taking place less than two centuries ago. Just take Django Unchained, which managed to be thought-provoking despite the filmmaker’s kindergarten mindset.

Chiwetel Ejiofor should already be practising Oscar acceptance speech for his role as Solomon, a black free man with a wife and three children in New York. Solomon, a competent violinist, meets with two men for some paid work at a posh restaurant in 1841. He wakes up chained, stripped of smart attire, and sold to a slave owner without the chance to inform his family.

Solomon awakens from the kidnapping in a darkened room; McQueen obscures the edges, as if Ejiofor is acting on a stage. That idea of performance continues throughout as different slave owners share a love for forcing their prisoners to sing songs and clap along. Solomon expresses gratitude to one of his owners for the chance to play violin – at the peak of plantation existence, he is still on show.

For the less fortunate, hangings are seemingly a spectacle: a warning that slaves should behave, and a vulgar power trip. The most uncomfortable scenes involve public torture: a noose heightened an inch within survival, a slave-on-slave whipping, and so on. One plantation-owning couple, played by Michael Fassbender and Sarah Paulson, describe their slaves as expensive property, implying Solomon and others are an extension to their mansion.

Solomon’s various masters are thoroughly detestable, but characterised by the script with aggravated motives disguised as flimsy excuses – many of which are unchallenged because of convenient racism and economical hierarchies. Benedict Cumberbatch is a preacher and Solomon’s first owner, with the pair developing a rapport that’s ultimately futile: when Solomon fights back against a vindictive instructor (Paul Dano), the religious owner sells him on to a crueller buyer.

Fassbender’s role as Edwin Epps, Solomon’s new master, makes him the film’s most notable villain, which is startling considering the 134 minutes are populated by a series of brutal white men (others include Scoot McNairy and Paul Giamatti). Edwin’s psychological misery is inflicted upon the slaves, particularly a young woman played with the heartbreaking innocence of Lupita Nyong’o.

However, 12 Years a Slave is more nuanced than sticking in Edwin as a “main evil guy”. Equally accountable are the watching white bystanders, whose actions are more based upon pretend ignorance than self-loathing. (The exception is a sympathetic carpenter portrayed by Brad Pitt, who happens to be one of the film’s main producers, although that’s a piece of casting for a different discussion.)

A piece of art can never capture the horrors of slavery, so I’ll refrain from joining the chorus declaring 12 Years a Slave “important” – one man’s tale, true or not, can’t define the large-scale suffering. It is, however, a non-cynical reminder of the depths of human cruelty, especially at a time when racism is still a worldwide issue. McQueen avoids the tameness of Schindler’s List by increasing shot-lengths of the most painful moments; Pitt’s screen presence is minimised to evade the trap of historical self-assurance. The torture is physical and psychological: Solomon can read and write, but risks death if anyone knows; every part of existence, even pride, becomes a punishable offence.

Captain Phillips – 6.5/10

Director: Paul Greengrass
Writer: Billy Ray
Starring: Tom Hanks, Barkhad Abdi
Event: Opening night gala
UK release date: 16^th October 2013
US release date: 11^th October 2013
“You’re more than a fisherman.”

There’s a point in Captain Phillips where the titular character sends an email home to his wife; the subject header is in lowercase, while the body text is formatted in Tahoma with capitals. These small details are part of the drama’s way of ramping up tension, where every minutiae teases something worse is up ahead – while also being slightly exhausting, if you’ve ever watched someone else type an email before.

Real life event films are tricky. The Impossible will likely be my most disliked film of the year, for its racial insensitivity and mutating an 8-year-old natural disaster into a multiplex vehicle. Then again, Dog Day Afternoon is one of my all-time favourites, and that hit cinemas just three years after the real bank robbery.

Fortunately, Captain Phillips is much closer to Dog Day Afternoon in terms of quality, with a claustrophobic plot as a bonus. The biographical thriller details the 2009 incident when a cargo ship was hijacked by four Somali pirates, each incredibly young looking and likely to still be teenagers. They rely on Muse (Barkhad Abdi) as their multilingual leader; he makes clear their motivations are purely financial – or, as he disingenuously calls it, “business”.

When Muse instructs his pirate colleagues (co-pirates?) to toughen up, the line echoes a statement from Captain Phillips himself. Played by Tom Hanks, the ship’s captain leads the negotiation process: a chess game where one has weapons, and the other knows the boat inside-out. The ship shuts down its power; the crew hide in the darkness, leaving the pirates to ruthlessly improvise.

Phillips and Muse have further similarities, which would be a more insightful if it weren’t for some of the more condescending examples (“You… are… more than… a fisherman…”). However, they’re moulded by respective backgrounds. Okay, that’s an obvious point, but there’s something poignant about their verbal duals: Phillips speaks as a political middleman, while Muse’s authoritative dexterity makes him the only figure listened to by both sides.

Paul Greengrass has decades of experience with these types of tense thrillers, and he’s occasionally quite tedious in how he slowly drags out inevitable climaxes. In what is sort of a review of the actual incident, Captain Phillips is strongest in its middle act, with Muse and Phillips sizing each other up. The captain’s heroic generosity does jar as an awkward screenwriter tool for forcing the audience to support the protagonist (a common trick in Hollywood and, let’s face it, Tom Hanks films.)

But, like in Dog Day Afternoon, even the bad guys have a human element: the pirates are barely adults, and complain the West stole their natural resources. When the Navy arrives fully armed, the captain recognises it isn’t so clear who the bully is; Phillips may not fall for Stockholm Syndrome, but in the pirates he spots the part of himself pushed around by authorities.

The Epic of Everest – 6.5/10

Director: Captain John Noel
Event: Archive gala
UK release date: 18^th October 2013
US release date: TBC

Mankind has a history of inventing arbitrary tasks to apply some semblance of meaning for existence. This gorgeous restoration finds a particularly beautiful example: doomed explorers move across the snowy horizon like small dots, quivering for survival. Sensational as an artefact, in how it was all filmed so diligently in 1924.

Gravity – 8.5/10

Director: Alfonso Cuarón
Writers: Alfonso Cuarón, Jonás Cuarón
Starring: Sandra Bullock, George Clooney
Event: American Airlines gala
UK release date: 7^th November 2013
US release date: 17^th October 2013
“I can’t breathe. I can’t… breathe.”

Remember the metaphor in Melancholia? Where the crashing planet was even called Melancholia? Well, Sandra Bullock suffers her own mental breakdown and rebirth: symbolised by floating in space and resting in the foetal position. However, while the fiery climax of Melancholia looks magnificent on the big screen, it can’t compare to the rhythmic, breathtaking ballet of Gravity – considering how particles space themselves out, it should really be called G……R……A……V……I……T……Y.

The action opens with a glorious shot of Earth, as seen from outer space. Already, the viewer is transported to a place of wonder, with the bobbing camera itself feeling the motions of zero gravity. The director, Alfonso Cuarón, is already celebrated for his long single takes (check out Children of Men), and opens Gravity with one of his most accomplished examples: Bullock repairs a space telescope, while George Clooney cracks jokes in the background, before both are knocked into physical and existential displacement. Bullock’s role in space in unclear, given she’s a medical engineer who radiates her unease through her space suit. Clooney, on the other hand, reminds me of a real life Buzz Lightyear, with the same casualness reserved for walking a dog in the park.

When debris knocks Bullock and Clooney off course, the duo float perilously, grappling for anything on which to hold. The direction of each small push is significant, frequently pausing the heart in terror; two astronauts heading to their likely deaths, in front of Earth’s glorious sunset, is both terrifying and poetically beautiful. Think of it this way: a slow-motion disaster played out in real-time.

The viewer spots where each object is heading; by being a few steps ahead, the inevitable close call builds up its tension. Cuarón, aided by cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki, occasionally switches the camera to Bullock’s POV, and it’s frightening – the bodacious score isn’t afraid to scream, screech, or suddenly shut up. “I like the silence,” says Clooney.

If you’re not distracted by the hypnotic spectacle, you might catch some of the unnaturally background-heavy dialogue between Bullock and Clooney. I get that nobody will rush for an IMAX 3D screening for the language, but Bullock is responsible for conversation so clunky that it should have satellites in its orbit. In a short space of time, she reveals the tragic loss of her child, hinting that space travel is a way to escape from normal life. In return, Clooney somehow manages to squeeze in his own romantic troubles, as if they’re part of a highly exclusive speed dating event.

Of course, Gravity bagged a large budget, so it could have been forced to adapt even further for a mainstream viewers – the hypothetical audience that will supposedly walk out of a cinema if there isn’t enough sentimentality. Subsequently, Bullock’s solo scenes are packed with unnecessary monologues concerned with self-improvement – at no point is there any real belief she’ll consider suicide or staying in space.

These quibbles, however, are similar to the scientific inaccuracies: who cares? The visuals are so spectacular, I almost punched my fist in the air when a single tear drop unhurriedly emerges from the screen.

Amid the emptiness of the outer atmosphere, there’s much to admire, if not the facets of home life taken by astronauts. Sure, taking a family photograph makes sense, but at one point a ping pong bat flies past. Does the sport work up there? And a ping pong table is impractical in a house, let alone a spaceship. It does, however, bring a human quality to Bullock’s lonely surroundings that won’t let her rest. Even if she thinks space is a final hiding spot, the laws of physics disagree.

Inside Llewyn Davis – 8.5/10

Directors/Writers: Joel Coen, Ethan Coen
Starring: Oscar Isaac, Carey Mulligan, John Goodman, Justin Timberlake
Event: Centrepiece gala
UK release date: 24^th January 2013
US release date: 20^th December 2013
“G… G… C… G… C… D…”

There’s a quick flash of a poster for a Disney film, The Incredible Journey: the story of a cat and two dogs who traverse “across 200 perilous miles of Canadian wilderness!” It’s also a counterpoint for the unheralded musician Llewyn Davis, whose possessions amount to a guitar and an unwanted cat. The Coen brothers joyfully dovetail into New York’s folk scene with Inside Llewyn Davis; the titular character, expertly brought to grumpy life by Oscar Isaac, hitchhikes and sofa crashes for miles – but, unlike the three fictional pets, he would hardly call it an incredible journey.

The Incredible Journey could be a fitting description for Joel and Ethan Coen’s career, but it’s likelt their memoir would hold a more external title that lets the films do the talking. Llewyn, however, must settle for his own Inside… story, given the lack of attention he receives for his one-man acoustic act.The spotlight is instead on novelty tunes like “Please Mr Kennedy” (imagine a folky “Call Me Maybe”) and harmonising bands – one notable example has Justin Timberlake strumming a guitar to accompany Carey Mulligan’s vocals.

Llewyn, while not going electric, stubbornly sticks to his solo act and playing old numbers that richly echo the room; Isaac’s voice is indeed very soulful. However, other singers’ lyrics are unable to convey Llewyn’s own life: slumming it on other people’s sofas, unsure of how to pay for the next meal. Most hurtful is his floundering career, just short of a breakout moment that doesn’t include “outer space” as a catchy mantra.

The Coens diligently fill Inside Llewyn Davis with their traditional wide-eyed shots and specific dialogue, right down to Llewyn’s consistent bad luck; the disrespected writer in Barton Fink springs to mind, with bureaucracy carefully spread across New York through braying audience members and quarrelsome neighbours.

However, despite a soundtrack that trumps I’m Not There, the Coens present an anti-folk world – as Llewyn expresses himself, he both hates and loves the genre. When John Goodman’s jazz musician humorously mocks the movement, he has a point that the capo-dependant scene is too repetitive with G-major and C-major chords.
Llewyn also faces serial loneliness, which isn’t helped by unreceptive crowds and an ex-girlfriend who remarks, “I should have had you wear double condoms… You should be wearing condom on condom, and then wrap it in electrical tape.” Llewyn’s best friend, strangely, is a cat with a dubious identity; the feline is also one of the great animal performances of our time, and is bound to inspire a suffocating number of YouTube compilations, gifs and Buzzfeed features.

It’s lonely at the bottom of the music chain, largely from Llewyn’s inflated self-importance, leaving him frequently ignored – the ultimate tragedy for any folk singer’s ego. Llewyn is informed by industry insiders that he lacks the extra oomph to make him profitable. Who could such a figure be? There’s a Bob Dylan allusion, but it also describes the Coens themselves: they transform a simple story into an illustrious, philosophical study of unavoidable failure, complete with idiosyncratic trademarks.

In a recurring motif, a cat moves from home to home, like Llewyn, with its own free will, as a sort of Inside Mewing Davis. That cat may be following the example of The Incredible Journey, fluttering between adventure and homeward bound glory; Llewyn can’t even open the door.

Labor Day – 3/10

Director: Jason Reitman
Writers: Jason Reitman, Joyce Maynard (novel)
Starring: Kate Winslet, Josh Brolin, , Gattlin Griffith, Tobey Maguire
Event: May Fair Hotel gala
UK release date: 7^th February 2014
US release date: 25^th December 2013
“I’d do 20 years for another three days with you.”

The press screening of Labor Day elicited a few early laughs amid a knowingly implausible hostage situation and a ridiculous take on the nuclear family. After 20 minutes, it’s apparent that Jason Reitman is frighteningly earnest with this misguided romance – we were the ones held hostage by this terrible film.

Adele (Kate Winslet) is a single mother of 13-year-old Henry (Gattlin Griffith), both rattled by the household’s absence of a father figure – made very clear by a slightly Oedipal voiceover (lent by Tobey Maguire as an adult Henry reflecting on his childhood). A supermarket trip involves an escaped convict, Frank (Josh Brolin), somehow talking himself into finding refuge in their house. Within a few hours, a Stockholm Syndrome situation occurs, with the convicted murderer taking over as the new man of the house.

The title refers to the time setting, across Labor Day weekend (and presumably some childbirth wordplay). It accidentally eludes to the laboured metaphors that Reitman tackles with complete sincerity, namely the speed at which Frank introduces himself as a baseball fan who’ll play catch with the young boy. Adele might be unable to fight her biological ages towards the convict’s handsome figure, but I was incredulous at a very early pastry-making scene – when baking a pie, Frank requests his two captives help him lift the top crust and “put a roof on this house”. I can imagine a missing scene where they watch Return of the Jedi, with a handholding close-up during the “Luke, I am your father” climax.

The sickening sweetness expands into Hollywood twists that strike me as an Oscar-famed director ignoring sensible feedback and pointing to his CV. I’ve been a fan of Reitman for quite a while, and have always been impressed by his ability to draw unexpectedly moving conclusions for otherwise unemotional characters (Young Adult and Up in the Air being two recent examples). However, Labor Day begins with three heart-on-sleeve caricatures, with the unnatural story bearing the beats of a Pinter play. The subplots similarly run into a wall, including a Juno-inspired 13-year-old girl who dishes out adult dating advice, a cruel neighbour who slaps her disabled child, and frequent flashbacks that distract from the central relationships.

I expect Labor Day to receive cult status in following years at midnight events showcasing compellingly misguided disasters: Kate Winslet survives another sinking ship.

Philomena – 5/10

Director: Stephen Frears
Writers: Steve Coogan, Jeff Pope, Martin Sixsmith (novel)
Starring: Steve Coogan, Judi Dench
Event: American Express gala
UK release date: 1^st November 2013
US release date: 22^nd November 2013
“You’ve told four people today they’re one in a million. What are the chances of that?”

The nonplussed response to The Look of Love was partly from why Steve Coogan wanted to portray Paul Raymond, a real life figure less cuddly than his Tony Wilson in 24 Hour Party People. Both films, combined with Michael Winterbottom’s hand-held direction, only played to niche crowds. Well, Philomena is yet another biopic, except it’s far more of a crowdpleaser – perhaps cynically so.

I was unconvinced by Coogan’s explanation as to why he wanted to make The Look of Love, but Philomena is obvious: guaranteed BAFTA nominations. If collaborating with Stephen Frears and Judi Dench isn’t enough, the story is tearjerker inspired by The Lost Child of Philomena Lee : A Mother, Her Son and a Fifty-Year Search – a non-fiction book by Martin Sixsmith.

Coogan, who co-writes Philomena with Jeff Pope, takes upon the role of Martin. As a grumpy, sardonic journalist, Martin is a watchable lead through Coogan’s comfortable timing. Martin’s pessimism is matched in true odd couple fashion with Philomena Lee (Dench), an Irish nun who decades earlier was forced to give up her three-year-old son. At the time, the Catholic Church punished Philomena for breaking her chastity vows, and sold the child, along with many others, to Americans. Martin senses a human-interest story (despite insisting, “I don’t do human-interest stories!”) and, in a mutually beneficial agreement, the pair set off to find her missing son.

Philomena is a perfunctory in how it encompasses religion and forgiveness, although the numerous flashbacks stack up in an artificial manner – eventually with a character arc protruding through the screen. The screenplay contains more attempted comedy than one might expect, especially during the most dramatic moments: overegged scene s are signalled as self-important through the absence of any jokes.

I’m a massive fan of Coogan’s comedic talents, not just Alan Partridge, so was dismayed by how his humour is pulled back in, with lines seemingly aimed at middle-aged parents who enjoy the cinema of Sunday afternoons. He’s mostly a foil for Philomena, whose emotional distress would be more moving were it not for the manipulative strings hanging in the corner of the frame; Dench’s face freezes on multiple occasions, poised, tears at the ready, perfecting the three-second clip shown at award ceremonies. She’s looking for her son, but she’s also looking for an award.

Saving Mr. Banks – 4.5/10

Director: John Lee Hancock
Writers: Kelly Marcel, Sue Smith
Starring: Emma Thompson, Tom Hanks, Paul Giamatti, Jason Schwartzman, Bradley Whitford, Colin Farrell
Event: Closing night gala
UK release date: 29^th November 2013
US release date: 20^th December 2013
“A… sugar cube?”

My train journey home from the Saving Mr. Banks press screening was spent scrambling through my phone’s lousy internet connection trying to find as much information about the original Mary Poppins novels, the film’s production, and so on. The biopic details the negotiation process behind the 1964 Disney film, when the writing staff needed script approval from P.L. Travers, the books’ author. As I waved my phone around searching for Wi-Fi, I wanted to inform strangers that my frantic actions were one of dissatisfaction: at 126 minutes, I learned little of the true story – or, at least, little in which I believed.

It’s worth knowing for context that Travers hated the 1964 Julie Andrews feature so much that she legally prevented any sequels, even when presented with scripts. Instead, Saving Mr. Banks portrays a more straightforward version of events that undermine her suspicion of the Disney corporation. I’m not sure if it’s a request from the studio or a choice by director John Lee Hancock, but the film is sickly sweet with a thousand spoonfuls of sugar, both in tone and music.

The unbearable sentimentality is introduced within a few minutes by an over-emotive score that reappears throughout, almost to the point of parody. Travers is introduced as a spritely, confident woman, played by Emma Thompson, who flies from Britain to stay in a hotel near the Disney offices. The first Mary Poppins book was published in 1934 and she spent subsequent decades fighting off a big screen adaptation. She finally concedes on the grounds that production only proceeds if the script meets her demands, such as no pears, no animation, and no instances of the colour red.

Travers’ stipulations at first sound like tough negotiation tactics, next to requesting no red M&Ms. However, her stubbornness is linked back to flashbacks that occur so frequently, every nuance and symbol is hammered home so that even six-year-old viewers will roll their eyes. That’s also the general reaction from Walt Disney (Tom Hanks) and the two writers (B.J. Novak and Jason Schwartzman), who provide the film’s most reliable comic relief.

Saving Mr. Banks isn’t without its charms, as the central story is intriguing to anyone who grew up loving Mary Poppins – even if knowing that film exists rather negates any suspense. Thompson and Hanks do fine with their roles; both have charisma and take the characters as far as the tame script allows.

I imagine Saving Mr. Banks is more suited to an afternoon TV sofa viewing, or perhaps on a plane at a high altitude. After all, it’s a small piece of trivia extrapolated into a two-hour piece. If P.L. Travers objected to a sequel to Mary Poppins, there’s definitely no way she’d approve this.

Follow @halfacanyon for more.

This month:  “L’Avventura” (pictured above), “The Counsellor”, “Design for Living”, “Fucking Amal”, “Girl Most Likely”, “Just Like Heaven”, “Meanwhile”, “Movie 43”, “R.I.P.D.”, “Strange Parallel”, “The To Do List” and “Y Tu Mamá También”.

I recently interviewed Oscar-winning filmmaker Alex Gibney and asked him what was the bear that ate Lance Armstrong. That article can be read here. Plus, I wrote a review of Morrissey’s autobiography that can be read here. The average rating is 5.13/10 with film of the month being Y Tu Mamá También. Follow @halfacanyon for more.

L’Avventura (1960) – 8.5/10

Director: Michelangelo Antonioni
Writers: Michelangelo Antonioni, Elio Bartolini, Tonino Guerra
Starring: Monica Vitti, Gabriele Ferzetti, Lea Massa
“First you must tell me that going out without me is like missing a limb.”

When Claudia (Vitti) darts across a lengthy corridor searching for Sandro (Ferzetti), every footstep echoes across the walls with melancholic reverberations. Moments later, she repeats the journey in the opposite direction. Claudia’s anguished motions are still pinged by guilt: Sandro has become her new lover, following the disappearance of Anna, who was Sandro’s girlfriend and Claudia’s friend.

Antonioni luxuriates in these long spaces and what breaks the silence. The corridor is part of an elegant mansion, the kind where a ladder is needed to touch the ceiling. However, there’s another kind of echo: a reminder of the opening hour during a Mediterranean yacht trip, when the group of friends lay in the sun, dipped into the water, and marvelled at each other’s wealthy belongings.

The vast scenery is beautiful and empty – beautifully empty, even. There isn’t any evidence of mankind in sight, and these socialites look like rich explorers who are considering purchasing some islands for future summer holidays. Subsequently, Anna vanishing becomes a magic trick; the camera spins and the eye digs for trap doors.

There are a few suggestions as to where Anna departed: on a bus to another city, or kidnapped by nearby smuggler. The more obvious scenario, that the cliffs provide a symbolic suicide spot, is ignored – partly because Anna was reading The Bible and Fitzgerald, but also because her friends can’t empathise with this kind of self-punishment.

After the waves, only Claudia remains determined to investigate Anna’s disappearance. Yet, Claudia’s psychological reasoning tumults and spins ingeniously. Like Anna’s magic trick, despite the wide landscape and drawn out tempo, there’s room for awe and surprise.

The Counsellor (2013) – 4/10

Director: Ridley Scott
Writer: Cormac McCarthy
Starring: Michael Fassbender, Cameron Diaz, Penélope Cruz, Javier Bardem, Brad Pitt
NOTE: This review was originally written for The Digital Fix.
Malkina: “I’m going to fuck your car.”
Reiner: “You see a thing like that, it changes you.”

Ridley Scott is used to high expectations, considering his second and third films were Alien and Blade Runner. Last year’s Prometheus was a disappointing hype train; every trailer garnered whooshes and YouTube approval, but earned an unfair backlash along the lines of: “But this isn’t Alien!”

One year later, a similar pattern has emerged. The Counsellor boasts an original screenplay by celebrated American novelist Cormac McCarthy. The cast is a list of Hollywood’s most attractive and sought after A-listers: Michael Fassbender, Cameron Diaz, Penélope Cruz, Javier Bardem, Brad Pitt. (I half expected Ryan Gosling and Blake Lively as extras.) The story is also character-based, centering on existential themes and the philosophy of human greed. No 2D, no superheroes and not dumbed down. It can’t not be great, right?

Well, The Counsellor, like Prometheus, is impressive visuals backed by a flat script. McCarthy’s first screenplay relegates the plot in importance, instead concentrating on the metaphorical behaviour of the starry ensemble: a human zoo confined to a city-noir habitat. Sadly, there’s little interest in any of these people, and the absence of notable story adds to the boredom.

Fassbender is The Counsellor – his name is never revealed. That anonymity reflects his inscrutability. In an early scene, largely shot from under a bed cover, he proposes to his wife Laura (Cruz) with a diamond ring. To finance the gift and other lifestyle choices, he pokes his nose into a lucrative Mexican drug deal facilitated by Reiner (Bardem); both men converse with deep voices, maintaining the rhythm of poetry – but none of the substance.

The drama is disinterested in the details of crime. Focus is repeatedly placed on the animalistic nature of gang ethos. Reiner’s girlfriend, Malkina (Diaz), has tattoos running down her back that emulate a cheetah. Her love affair with material goods extends to a surreal flashback where she informs Reiner, “I am going to fuck your car.” To a certain extent, she does, and it’s a bold move from Scott and McCarthy; the scene is preposterous, yet somehow fits in with the film’s cynical view of wealth. However, the metaphor is run into the ground several times, most notably when real cheetahs literally leap into the foreground.

I’m not an expert on McCarthy’s novels and I wish I experienced The Counsellor without knowing he wrote the words. However, the dialogue flows unnaturally: sentences run on too long, and words jumble in their own self-importance. Conversations can run slower on the page; the eye reads words faster than actors can speak them (especially Bardem and Fassbender in this). I walked in expecting an evocative Ridley Scott film. I left having experienced a laboured Cormac McCarthy screenplay.

Any mystery behind the characters isn’t suspenseful, but more a fault in the screenplay. Fassbender’s overdramatic tears echo Gosling’s role in this year’s Only God Forgives. Diaz is unable to speak McCarthy’s dialogue at a natural rhythm – her monologues sound like they’re read off cue cards, while also wildly stuck inside an exhausted femme fatale personality. Without more information and character insight, the emotional payoffs are unjustified.

Design for Living (1933) – 5.5/10

Director: Ernst Lubitsch
Writers: Ben Hecht, Noël Coward (play)
Starring: Fredric March, Gary Cooper, Miriam Hopkins
“Have you ever felt your brain catch fire and a curious dreadful thing go right through your body –  down, down to your very toes, and leave you with your ears ringing?”

The famed “Lubitsch touch” is perhaps what Billy Wilder deemed the “superjoke”, by which I mean the term doesn’t have any meaning. Design for Living came a year after Trouble in Paradise and they share similar themes, some almost identical shots, and an overlapping cast. Once again, in a pre-Hays era, a love triangle doesn’t shy from the entanglement borne from sexual frustration.

The central trio are madly in love with each other: Tom (March) and George (Cooper) are best friends who fall in love with Gilda (Hopkins), who reciprocates their affections – separately. To save the friendship, the three move in together after following Gilda’s proposal: “Let’s forget sex.” Tom and George, both frustrated artists, agree to the pact, knowing Gilda can be their hands-off muse. However, some urges can’t be controlled that easily

“It’s true we have a gentleman’s agreement,” admits Gilda, “but unfortunately I am no gentleman.”

Gilda is an electric personality who loquaciously describes her passions with run-on sentences and twists of the tongue. She’s also the fiery rebuttal to the two men’s faltering creative output. She repeatedly utters the word “rotten” toward Tom’s theatrical plays, and informs George she stopped speaking to a friend who admired his paintings.

With these dynamics, it’s harder to comprehend Gilda’s attraction to either of them, let alone both. Tellingly, George bitterly admits he can understand being betrayed by Tom for her – but she has unforgivably betrayed George for Tom. When it’s just George and Tom on-screen, a Gilda-shaped black hole emerges. After all, the male friends are introduced asleep on a train carriage.

Design for Living lacks the wit of Ninotchka or Trouble in Paradise. It does, however, deliver in spark, right from the first moment Gilda literally presses a toe against her two comrades. The plot itself – based on a Noël Coward play – is surprisingly daring, especially when compared to the forthcoming era of remarriage comedies. The final shot is particularly miraculous – along with Hopkins’ performance, making the film somewhat worthwhile.

Fucking Amal (1998) – 8/10

Director/Writer: Lukas Moodysson
Starring: Rebecka Liljeberg, Alexandra Dahlström
“It’s because you live in fucking Amal. If you lived in Stockholm, you’d have had loads of girls.”

I revisited Moodysson’s debut Fucking Amal because of how much I loved We Are the Best! and, aside from the obvious similarity of young female protagonists, he already displays a knack for the unspoken adolescent joy of music. Just as Together utilised ABBA’s “S.O.S.”, Fucking Amal’s pop sounds emulate the fleeting emotions of the Agnes and Elin – both in love, but unable to act upon it.

To an extent, the pair can’t even describe their emotions. Moodysson’s script finds comedy in outsiders who attempt to categorised their emotions. If you don’t wince at Agnes’ forced birthday party, then I envy you. At just 16, she intentionally loses her only friend, and moves on to scribble Elin’s name on paper – an act of painful wish fulfilment.

Elin’s response is questionable, as she’s aware of the shock value of coming out in front of her peers. But the affection is undeniable, especially in the dull greyness of Amal. The girls in We Are the Best! form a punk band, but Fucking Amal finds the area where teenage rebellion and teenage love intersect.

Girl Most Likely (2013) – 4/10

Directors: Shari Springer Berman, Robert Pulcini
Writer: Michelle Morgan
Starring: Kristen Wiig, Annette Bening, Matt Dillon
“He was like the George Clooney of fathers.”

An early trailer for Girl Most Likely dropped under the original title Imogene, but was taken down before I had the chance to click the link, presumably so that the video could be retooled. That indecisiveness and ill-planning shapes the dramedy as a confused product: bits of midlife crisis, elements of failed career, family regression, detective games, quirky crustacean gags. Wiig’s magnetic likeability carries proceedings with as a permanent fixture who hangs the threads together with deadpan delivery. It’s also the worst film Whit Stillman’s ever been involved with.

Just Like Heaven (2005) – 4.5/10

Director: Mark Waters
Writers: Peter Dolan, Leslie Dixon, Marc Levy
Starring: Mark Ruffalo, Reese Witherspoon, Jon Heder, Dina Spybey

Just this morning I woke up feeling I was dead, and then wishing I was dead. Witherspoon is slower on the uptake in soppy romcom Just Like Heaven, in which she has to walk through a table to realise she’s become a ghost. Ruffalo is inexplicably the only person who can see her, after moving into her home and shoving some of the furniture around.

Dolan’s role with the script doesn’t elevate Just Like Heaven anywhere near the quality of The Larry Sanders, but at least there is a sense of humour – stacked on the DVD shelf next to PS I Love You, I know which one I’d choose. Combined with supernatural elements, Ruffalo and Witherspoon have fun with the silly premise; while not earth-shattering, it’s a change from the normal meet-cute scenario.

The pair can’t touch, so the romance develops through a course of unnaturally wacky one-liners and comedic excursions, with a touch (!) of the “no touching” rule of Pushing Daisies. The scenarios are fairly unmemorable, unless if confused with other ghost films. Inexplicably, Ruffalo’s stoned friend (played by Heder) has a communicative gift that makes him the “chosen one” – albeit one who says “dude” a lot. Other hi-jinks include Witherspoon effectively turning up to her own funeral by hearing her family and colleagues list their memories, which don’t really align with the perky spruce the actress adds to the character.

Waters’ direction isn’t exactly memorable. At least, not in the way Woody Allen mirrored many of the key scenes in Alice while maintaining his perennial style. That’s because Waters knows the audience want a gentle romance, with a slight edge of fantasy. Heaven is mentioned in the title because Hell and purgatory are not options in these light 95 minutes. Tellingly, when the credits roll, The Cure’s original version of “Just Like Heaven” kicks in, rather than the raucous Dinosaur Jr cover.

Meanwhile (2011) – 4/10

Director/Writer: Hal Hartley
Starring: D.J. Mendel, Danielle Meyer, Pallavi Sastry
“I’m still interested in the role of Mary Magdelene. I’d love to play Jesus’s lover. Who wouldn’t?”

Just under 60 minutes, Meanwhile still feels dragged out. The one-time TV proposition was rejected by studios – with good reason – and relied upon Kickstarter for its funds. It’s unclear how the story could be expanded into a series, other than the underdevelopment of the only real character, Joe (Mendel).

Hartley’s usual droll dialogue lacks bite, with the sharpness blunted by the digital landscape and seemingly rushed DIY shots. Joe meanders through his day, fitting in actresses, music rehearsals and business deals into his schedule. Occasionally there’ll be a philosophical conversation that halts a minute later.

I recently watched Richard Linklater’s Waking Life, in which he more or less updates Slacker with psychedelic pacing and rotoscoped animation. Waking Life doesn’t come close to Slacker, but it demonstrates a willingness for experimentation that Hartley doesn’t apply to Meanwhile. Joe wanders around a stale city and stale frame, disconnected and without purpose – as a viewer, the limp dialogue makes it harder to sympathise.

Movie 43 (2013) – 1/10

Directors: Elizabeth Banks, Steven Brill, Steve Carr, Rusty Cundieff, James Duffy, Griffin Dunne, Peter Farrelly, Patrik Forsberg, Will Graham, James Gunn, Bob Odenkirk, Brett Ratner, Jonathan van Tullekin
Writers: Ricky Blitt, Will Carlough, Tobias Carlson, Jacob Fleisher, Patrik Forsberg, Will Graham, James Gunn, Claes Kjellstrom, Jack Kukoda, Bill O’Malley, Bob Odenkirk, Matthew Alec Portenoy, Greg Pritikin, Rocky Russo, Olle Sarri, Elizabeth Wright Shapiro, Jeremy Sosenko, Jonathan van Tulleken
Starring: Hugh Jackman, Kate Winslet, Naomi Watts, Anna Farris, Chris Pratt, Emma Stone, Kieran Culkin, Jason Sudeikis, Kristen Bell, Uma Thurman, Chloe Grace Moretz, Richard Gere, Gerard Butler, Halle Berry, Stephen Merchant, Elizaveth Banks
“I want to give you a hickie in your vagina.”
“You already have, Neil. You already have. I’ll see you in church.”

I’m sure you read the press reports, and yes, Movie 43 really is that unfunny. If anything, more should be made about the high levels scatological, racist, infantile humour that makes me sincerely worry about the producers’ frames of mind. (I heard Peter Farrelly on Kevin Pollak’s podcast more or less saying he had minimal involvement with the project, despite newspaper headlines.) Or maybe the concern should be over the stars involved – in this case, the credits exceed the review.

The other more likely option is that Movie 43 is deemed the mathematical formula for attracting audiences. Well, somebody forgot to carry the one in their calculations. Sketch comedy rarely works with films, especially when the thematic connection is bodily excretions. The reviews write themselves.

It might also be a Hollywood satire, much like Chris Morris tricking celebrities in Brass Eye to warn the public about the dangerous drug “cake”. Hugh Jackman has bollocks growing from his neck; Anna Faris asks her boyfriend to shit all over her; an animated cat urinates on Elizabeth Banks. Maybe some big names will sign up for anything, just because of the other cast members, which Movie 43 has proven with devastating precision.

R.I.P.D. (2013) – 3.5/10

Director: Robert Schwentke
Writers: Phil Hay, Matt Manfredi, Peter M. Lenkov (novel)
Starring: Jeff Bridges, Ryan Reynolds, Kevin Bacon, Mary-Louise Parker
“He’s a deado. Hmm.”

R.I.P.D. is up there with The Long Ranger as one of the financial flops of the year. Like, The Lone Ranger, there’s been a backlash to the backlash – and I agree in that it’s not that bad. If anything, I predict future midnight cult screenings, given how expensively bizarre it stays. The credits also pop up after 85 minutes, which helps the novelty aspect.

Ryan Reynolds, an emotionless policeman, dies and picks up a new occupation in the afterlife. Without handing in a P45, Reynolds is partnered with Jeff Bridges, and the pair hunt down ghosts walking around Earth. It’s suspiciously like Men in Black and Ghostbusters, especially with the vaguely family-friendly comedic tone.

If it constitutes as an update, the emphasis is placed on the 3D. It’s never innovating, yet I begrudgingly respected the shameless overuse of anything – and everything – flying towards the screen, for whatever reason.

The mystifying faults come from the lack of any jokes, despite a cordially humorous tone. The plotless adventure is a series of action sequences that ramble where some form of comedy should lie. Reynolds is largely at fault; as the lead, his facial expression is of perennial boredom. Seriously, there are at times where it’s as if he’s protesting the film’s production by sabotaging takes.

Luckily, Bridges is more enthusiastic as an 18^th century cowboy (which sounds more fun that is appears on screen). Mary-Louise Parker is also a bright spark in her few moments as their fussy instructor. Perhaps she and Bridges could have led R.I.P.D. and produced a more vibrant dynamic. But instead, Bridges’ character sums it up perfectly when he proclaims, “Give me a reason. It doesn’t have to be a good one. It doesn’t even have to make sense.”

Strange Parallel (1998) – 6.5/10

Director: Steve Hanft
Writers: Steve Hanft, Jason Mason, Elliott Smith
Starring: Elliott Smith, Larry Crane, Gus Van Sant
“Excuse me, have you seen Elliott Smith?”

The anniversary of Elliott Smith was commemorated by a rare excellent Pitchfork feature, the leak of a rockin’ Heatmiser studio version of “Christian Brothers”, and what looked like – on YouTube, anyway – a hideous tribute concert with Skye Ferreira mumbling words off a piece of paper.

Obviously the better tribute is to listen to Elliott’s own music. He also starred in his own film: a semi-documentary, doused with a surreal storyline of a songwriter who installs a robotic hand to write his songs. The quirky story would be frustrating if it interrupts a music video, but Strange Parallel is for the loyal fan that’s played every song – right down to “No Name #6” and “See You in Heaven” – ad nauseum and yearns for new material. Anyone else should look away.

The musical clips are a brief glimpse into a songwriter’s factory; Smith was supremely talented, and exhaustively so. He plays every instrument, layer upon layer, singing his heart out. The robot storyline proves that beneath the melancholy lies a sense of humour.

The To Do List (2013) – 3/10

Director/Writer: Maggie Carey
Starring: Aubrey Plaza, Johnny Simmons, Bill Hader
“Uncle Andy has a motorboat. That should be easy.”

I’ve mentioned it repeatedly (because it keeps happening), but American comedies need to stop using The Spin Doctors and “Two Princes”. Whether selfish nostalgia or unfunny irony, it’s part of another trend of setting films in the past – and making that the joke. The To Do List endlessly parades outdated fashion, including one character worrying she’ll miss Home Improvement on TV. There’s no insight or emotional value; just to disguise that The To Do List is at heart a less-than-average sex comedy. Placing a cliche in a 90s background doesn’t excuse the cliche.

Or perhaps there’s a more meta element. It’d be easy to assume Carey took inspiration from her own adolescence (which would explain the 1993 setting), but I’m beginning to sense a more career-related nostalgia. The regret isn’t about not kissing a boy at the prom or trying harder at school. No, the regret is not being involved with Freaks and Geeks. That show’s brilliance is of course indebted to Paul Feig, but its talented cast were the right age – possibly why its quasi-sequel Undeclared failed.

With The To Do List, even if it’s not the case, I imagine the entire cast wishing they were in Freaks and Geeks, which would explain why the likes of Aubrey Plaza and Donald Glover are playing teenagers. When I watched Freaks and Geeks and associate with the characters, do Hollywood associate with the actors instead?

There’s very little to say about the film itself. Plaza stars as a valedictorian who makes a checklist of sex acts, while in the process sifting through the most predictable narrative arc that probably seem laboured in 1993. A sample line: “Hand job. Blow job. Rim job. Why so many jobs?” And a “poo in the swimming pool” gag more in line with a Nickelodeon film. Add “re-write” to the to-do list.

Y Tu Mamá También (2001) – 9/10

Director: Alfonso Cuarón
Writers: Alfonso Cuarón, Carlos Cuarón
Starring: Diego Luna, Gael García Bernal, Maribel Verdú
“Who cares if you screw each other’s women if you come immediately?”

I revisited Y Tu Mamá También in the wake of Gravity, and found a few floating patterns. Cuarón displays an early interest in a woman who runs away upon an emotional breakdown; instead of outer space, Luisa (Verdú) takes a road trip with two horny teen boys. Julio (Bernal) and Tenoch (Luna) speak and think of little other than sex: past exploits, current fantasies, future opportunities. Luisa, an older woman they meet at a wedding, is one such opportunity who is invited to join them at a faraway beach called Heaven’s Mouth. Even the landmark’s name is sexualised.

The boys never cease to be boys. Luisa emerges as a comparatively mature figure who finds amusement in their infectious enthusiasm for carnal matters. She is leaving her husband, but there’s still confusion over why she’s joining Julio and Tenoch. They, however, are too distracted by her body to ask questions. The rush is shared by the viewer who indulges in the trip’s impulsive nature, even when the car speeds past political unrest, or their beers are interrupted by beggars. Tenoch comes from a wealthy background, given his father’s a politicians with some clouds shrouding his finances; he’s too young to notice that even Julio – also fairly comfortable – is jealous.

Luisa isn’t a naive bystander, nor an opportunistic hitchhiker, and is well aware of the boys’ intention. “You think it’s cool to spy on women in their hotel rooms?” she asks, to their surprise. “Did you want to see me naked? See me naked and have a wank?” The accusations are thrown with a playful smirk, and the guilty partners are unmoved. Free from respective family members – the boys’ parents, Luisa’s husband – the playing field is even and open discussion takes place, long before the freedom of a deserted swimming beach. Luisa, introduces herself as someone who prefers to be awake than asleep or dreaming; the trip is her reawakening.

The frank conversations become a bit too frank when Julio and Tenoch reveal their personal betrayals. Relationships are further frayed when Luisa’s flirtations develop into physical interactions. The dynamics aren’t too far away from Jules et Jim, Design for Living or the truly horrendous Threesome (if anyone remembers that). Emotional maturity becomes a test where you might not like your best friend or, even worse, the aspects you recognise in yourself. An omniscient narrator speaks in the third person and past tense, commenting on the untold anguish, such as a stomach pain caused by betrayal, or the traffic jam caused by a dead body.

Y Tu Mamá También utilises long takes that may not be as immediately flashy as Children of Men or Gravity, but capture the width of Mexico outside Tenoch and Julio’s obliviousness. Several shots capture all three characters in unbroken shots, whether in the car or toasting a sex-related anecdote at a bar; the camera keenly takes in the suffering around the edges, subtly mixed in with the unspoken melancholy.

The boys drive to the beach, while metaphorically making their way towards adulthood. The road back seems pointless and, as the narrator explains, “uneventful”.  It’s likely they pay more attention to the poverty on the sides of the road, or the economic discrepancies in Mexico – rather than the one that exists within their friendship. Tellingly, the government finds a similar makeover with a political revolution.

Follow @halfacanyon for more.

This month:  “Carrie”, “Fun Size”, “Frozen”, “Hawking”, “The Hunger Games: Catching Fire”, “Mud”,  “Olympus has Fallen”, “Populaire”, “Powder Room”, “The Purge”, “Stories We Tell”, “Thanks for Sharing”, “Trap for Cinderella” (pictured above), “Trouble in Paradise” and “Vendetta”.

You may think that advent calendar is exciting, but in two weeks is the Half a Canyon 2013 roundup – which changes nothing about your advent calendar. I’m so ironically excited that I can’t wait. For extra reading, you can find some things I wrote including something about the cats of some guy called Fellini, a guide to beating stress in some place called London, and an interview with some guy called Edgar Wright. Well, I am just some guy called Nick Chen Andalou.

The average rating is a record low of 4.3/10 with film of the month being Trouble in Paradise. Follow @halfacanyon for more.

Carrie (2013) – 4/10

Director: Kimberly Peirce
Writers: Lawrence D. Cohen, Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa, Stephen King (novel)
Starring: Chloë Grace Moretz, Judy Greer, Portia Doubleday
Note: This review was originally written for The Digital Fix.
“I’ve been hurt my whole life.”

Kimberly Peirce’s remake of Carrie has been overshadowed in the blogosphere by Spike Lee’s reboot of Oldboy. Every Oldboy news piece is unleashed like a ticking time bomb that, like Carrie White, could explode at any moment. Carrie on the other hand has barely caused a stir, mainly because the promotional images and videos lack any provocative edge. I long ago guessed Peirce’s version would just be a slightly glossier, less impactful version of Brian De Palma’s 1976 original. And that was an accurate prediction.

The main plot and themes are still intact. Shy teenager Carrie (now Chloë Grace Moretz) is bullied at school and has no friends – if she was in Mean Girls, no clique would accept her. At home, Carrie is locked up in a small room by her fanatically religious mother (Julianne Moore). The house doesn’t even have the internet – the ultimate timewaster and emotional crux for the permanently lonely. However, the same can’t be said for her classroom peers. In an early scene, Carrie experiences her period in the girls’ shower room; the unsympathetic response leads to chanting (“Plug it up!”) and a viral video that spreads to YouTube.

Modern technology is the most obvious addition, but is inconsequential. (My favourite example is stranger teaching Carrie how to watch an online video on full screen.) Carrie still goes to the prom and yes, that scene occurs. The alterations are smaller yet thematically significant, especially when Peirce is less willing to punish the innocent. That kind of “Hollywoodisation” is clear from Moretz’s casting; sticking Hit-Girl on posters might sell tickets, but works against the character’s timidity. Moretz could easily be mistaken for one of the cheerleaders, which makes Carrie strangely lopsided and more a marketing formula.

Why remake Carrie if there’s barely any difference? There isn’t even the subtitles excuse. And if that’s the case, then why review it at all? I suspect Carrie fans will be seduced by a game of “spot the difference” (it’s tempting to make this review a simple list of differences), but Peirce is presumably trying to introduced Carrie to a younger audience. (That would explain the proliferation of smartphones.)

The blood-filled climax subsequently becomes tamer: the nightmarish glow is gone, while Peirce edits the pinnacle moment like a pop music video. I half-expected the bucket of pig’s blood to be 50% watered down. Without De Palma’s trademark split screens, Peirce’s personal voice amounts to little more than a world where text messages are written in all caps.

If this Carrie was released without the baggage of the original, I’d be praising the supernatural twist on the coming-of-age story, and the underlying feminist theme. But I can’t rewrite history. Even Stephen King, the original author of Carrie, has questioned the remake. (Remember, this is the same Stephen King who remade The Shining long after Kubrick’s version.) Just as Let Me In (also starring Moretz) failed to replace Let the Right One In in viewers’ memory, Peirce’s Carrie will be forever forgotten – locked away inside a small room during prom night.

Frozen (2013) – 5/10

Directors: Chris Buck, Jennifer Lee
Writers: Jennifer Lee, Hans Christian Anderson (book)
Starring: Kristen Bell, Idina Menzel, Jonathan Groff
Note: This review was originally written for The Digital Fix.
“Some people are worth melting for.”

Get a Horse!, the short that precedes Frozen, sums up Disney’s attempt to combine old-fashioned warmness with newfound technology. Get a Horse! applies a gimmick of juxtaposing old Mickey Mouse with a world of 3D; characters fly off the screen, still under the Disney banner, so to an extent maintaining some authenticity. Frozen does the same by adding computer-generated beauty to Hans Christian Andersen’s The Snow Queen (even if loosely based, it retains a fairytale vibe). And animated snow is somehow more beautiful than real snow. The rest of the visuals are also sensational and take advantage of modern technology – it’s the modern storytelling that sets everything back.

Set in the fictional kingdom of Arendelle, Elsa (Idina Menzel) is a princess born with the magical power of turning objects to ice, which turns out to be as dangerous as it sounds. She is effectively hidden away in a castle with her younger sister Anna (Kristen Bell); as most Disney princesses find, life is lonely. Eventually, the sisters leave the palace for Elsa’s coronation, whereby opening the front doors becomes a homecoming. When Elsa’s icy powers are accidentally unleashed during an argument, she runs away, leaving a snowy path and a neverending winter for the locals.

Now, here’s where the story switches to Anna and a quest to find her sister. (Personally, I would have preferred a film about Elsa’s self-determined isolation, where music provides her only company. Maybe I should revisit Tangled.) Anna’s journey – which I should probably call an adventure – requires the aid of mountain expert Kristoff (Jonathan Groff), a mute reindeer, and an anthropomorphic snowman. Oh, the snowman. His name is Olaf, he’s voiced by Josh Gad, he’s already all over the film’s marketing, and I wanted him to melt as soon as words came out of his weirdly shifting mouth.

Ice dominates Frozen, where barren whiteness is blurred in the frame’s corners. All hope is lost and strangely beautiful; every icicle and slippery slope is a solemn reminder of Elsa’s sadness taking place off-screen. But to dumb down the film is Olaf: deliberately ugly, unlike the rest of the animation, and full of cartoonish slapstick. To the writers’ credit, he dreams of eternal warmth, and is thus a supporter of his own personal tragedy.

Anna is a feisty and likeable lead, and makes far better viewing than a traditional prince marching through the snow. Kristen Bell’s vocal talents inevitably have a touch of Veronica Mars, and I see no reason why she couldn’t have been allowed more jokes – especially as it would make the snowman unnecessary. She’s also sidetracked by big musical numbers that don’t live up to expectation, particularly one with singing trolls. Some songs throughout adopt a half-spoken tone; jokes interrupt the rhythm, evoking a half-hearted self-awareness. The others I just found unmemorable.

There’s a smarter film somewhere in Frozen, one that can make full use of the glorious animation and melancholic snow. For viewers who aren’t swayed by the musical numbers or Olaf’s groan-worthy gags, the discernible lack of story is sadly noticeable. While the background is icily cool, the dialogue is mundane filler reminiscent of sludge.

Fun Size (2012) – 1.5/10

Director: Josh Schwartz
Writer: Max Werner
Starring: Victoria Justice, Jane Levy
“I think it’s cool you don’t feel the need to dress sexy like some of the other girls.”

The posters for Bad Grandpa sent shudders done by not-eldery spine, not just from the Jackass part, but the kid actor. Much of Fun Size involves Victoria Justice looking after her wayward, obnoxious younger brother, yet the overall tone is a Nickelodeon version of Superbad – although I think Fun Size has more paedophile gags than any of Apatow’s productions.

The Halloween setting is partly an excuse for sexy costumes, but also to apply some relevancy – any relevancy, even if just from how calendars work. It’s exhausting: teenagers are saddled with jokes for five-year-olds and vice-versa.

Hawking (2013) – 4/10

Director: Stephen Finnigan
Writers: Ben Bowie, Stephen Finnigan, Stephen Hawking
“There was no privacy because the walls were listening to everything.”

Adequate biography with little information the average viewer wouldn’t already know. Hawking’s narration is initially a strength as it provides introspection, but never delves too far below the surface that can’t be found on Wikipedia. When Benedict Cumberbatch delivers a talking head, my eyes were firmly on the watch of the person sat next to me. (I don’t own a watch.)

The Hunger Games: Catching Fire (2013) – 5/10

Director: Francis Lawrence
Writers: Simon Beaufoy, Michael deBruyn, Suzanne Collins (novel)
Starring: Jennifer Lawrence, Josh Hutcherson, Liam Hemsworth
“Remember who the real enemy is.”

With the middle book, Catching Fire is locked into a very long exercise of repeating the first film, while teasing the next two instalments. Over 146 minutes, there aren’t that many changes. The main development, as made very clear from posters, fighters are now aware they’re grappling with a larger system, rather than each other. (If you negatively comment on my reviews, remember who the real enemy is.) The other addition is old people who enter the arena – if children killing each other isn’t shocking enough, then here’s an old woman walking headfirst into some sort of deathly smog.

Any analysis of the political system is welcome, even if it’s overshadowed by replicated satire of media coverage. Jennifer Lawrence is still excellent, and even granted a few reaction shots in the edit, as if preparing ahead for a montage. She has new competition from Jena Malone, who’s allowed a sense of humour, and Philip Seymour Hoffman as a guy who walked on from another film set. Otherwise, casual fans might not notice the difference.

Mud (2013) – 4/10

Director/Writer: Jeff Nichols
Starring: Matthew McConaughey, Tye Sheridan, Sam Shepard, Reese Witherspoon
“I don’t give a shit who he loves.”

Nichols seems to have listened to the feedback over the frustrating ending of Take Shelter, and spun completely the other way with Mud, a deeply pedestrian coming-of-age tale. Two small boys find a mysterious stranger (his name is… mud) who subtly informs them women are snakes. There’s more yawning than yearning in this crisply shot parable. Without the mystery of Take Shelter or any fond characterisation, there’s ironically little in Mud in which to get stuck.

Olympus Has Fallen (2013) – 2/10

Director: Antoine Fuqua
Writers: Creighton Rothenberger, Katrin Benedikt
Starring: Gerard Butler, Aaron Eckhart, Morgan Freeman, Angela Bassett
“Olympus has fallen. Olympus has fallen. Olympus has fallen. Fuck you.”

This disaster film’s Wikipedia page begins with a warning: “Not to be confused with White House Down.” It’s not an original concept, but at least it’s fun, knowingly stupid and has some kickass moments? Well, no. Hollywood hypes up the xenophobia with North Korean (as the villains, obviously) taking over the White House, while Melissa Leo sings her national anthem.

The cliches are rolled out every few minutes (child in danger etc) and it’s deeply unpleasant; a fantasy about seeking a reason for revenge. Butler is committed in his role of shouting loudly enough in the hope decibels will wake up the sleepy crew. But it’s no Die Hard, in that there’s no reason to care about his methods or safety. That’s one action film no one will ever confuse with this.

Populaire (2013) – 3.5/10

Director: Régis Roinsard
Writers: Romain Compingt, Daniel Presley, Régis Roinsard
Starring: Romain Duris, Déborah François
“At first I liked it. It allowed me to stop thinking.”

The posters promised Mad Men and The Artist. Neither is apparent. Set a few decades ago, the retro direction is more akin to a perfume advert with nothing to sell. François plays a secretary who’s coached by her boss and entered into speed-typing competitions. There’s cutesy comedy (she is a klutz when the timing is convenient), outdated politics and no Don Draper.

After a lingerie advert, the love story is overshadowed by the actually typing – these action sequences are as dull as they sound (and they sound like someone typing). Of course, Populaire is more of a romance: the central pair fall in love without realising it, possibly because their conversations are so trite and shallow.

Powder Room (2013) – 3.5/10

Director: M.J. Delaney
Writer: Rachel Hirons
Starring: Sheridan Smith, Jaime Winstone, Kate Nash
Note: This review was originally written for The Digital Fix.
“Every day I get Facebook status updates from friends I once knew, guys I fucked.”

“It went a bit Adele,” remarks one woman in a London nightclub’s toilets, where almost the entirety of Powder Room takes place. M.J. Delaney directs the film that, aside from some animated flourishes, seems very much to be a stageplay brought to screen – which it is, originally by Rachel Hirons and titled When Women Wee. The setting is one of either mystique or familiarity, depending upon the viewer’s gender. It also explains why women go to the toilets in groups: to learn life lessons.

The two standout scenes are during the opening and closing credits, with neither having much relation to the filler in between. A small river of urine is what the audience first sees, dripping down a road outside a nightclub queue, which is an apt introduction: here’s a slinking story that won’t shy from the familiar griminess of staying out later than the last tube.

Sheridan Smith takes the lead as Sam, who’s heading not only for a dance floor, but also a midlife crisis. Sam is reuniting with her old friend Michelle (Kate Nash) who’s now hip, fashionable and might as well be having Kate Nash’s career. In return, Sam pretends to be a number of things (a lawyer, happy, etc) while hiding her friendship with the three pissed-up ladettes (Jaime Winstone, Riann Steele, Sarah Hoare) also out on the razz.

Sam can nod along to Michelle’s disdain for the trio, without letting on the truth, because of ladies’ room architecture: revolving doors and cubicles allow the facade to continue far beyond plausibility. That’s not a criticism, as Powder Room is about the vignettes of conversation and drunken philosophy dished out by a hand-dryer. The problem is the lack of depth, despite the opportunities and Shakespearian structure (there’s a watchful toilet attendant, and the plot is surprisingly redolent of Shakespeare’s comedies).

In opting for light humour, the kitchen sink is left untouched by anything other than vomit. The jokes range from MDMA adventures and Sam’s unconvincing lies, only to be interrupted by heavy-handed monologues about “life” and all it encompasses (mostly careers and relationships). The thin writing is exposed over 86 minutes. Powder Room is probably more suited to a 30-minute sitcom, or divided like Jim Jarmusch’s Night on Earth.

A nightclub is not an ideal place for conversation. Powder Room includes the distorted bass that pounds into toilets, the sounds of piss, drunken slurs and noisy flushes. The novelty wears off quickly and lacks the edge initially promised, which in a way makes the film a bit “Adele” in itself, and rather like spending a long time in the company of strangers pretending to be drunk.

The Purge (2013) – 5/10

Director/Writer: James DeMonaco
Starring: Ethan Hawke, Lena Headey
“We’re going to play the rest of this night out in motherfucking peace.”

The smart concept (by which I mean as a plot device, rather than something to be implemented in real life) finds the year 2022 solving the problem of crime and unemployment: set aside 12 hours a year for “The Purge”. During that period, all crimes are allowed, to remove antisocial behaviour from the system.

Luckily, the film’s not shy about pointing out that the whole setup is also antisocial; it’s hinted that the poorest are hunted and killed during “The Purge”, while white, middle-class families can afford to protect their homes.

Any further insight is compounded by the drama spending too much time dealing with typical home-invasion genre expectations. One family take a stranger in for protection, but find themselves under threat from a masked mob, who presumably use the amnesty to shoplift V For Vendetta.

Ridiculous turns follow each other, although it’s hard to blame DeMonaco – the plot was never going to be logical. At least, I found fun because I guessed (and read from early reviews) that everything would fall apart. It’s implausible enough that at one point I think Hawke uses a snooker ball to defeat an intruder holding a gun. (Correct me if I’m wrong.) In the short running time, there’s little chance of boredom – but I wouldn’t rule out frustration.

Stories We Tell (2013) – 6.5/10

Director/Writer: Sarah Polley
“Who fucking cares about our stupid family?”

Stories aren’t formulated until someone tries to tell them to someone else – or so says the introduction to Sarah Polley’s tender documentary about her parents. Its early placement is a bit of an excuse for the whole premise which began as an exercise akin to eavesdropping on a family in the same train carriage.

Polley’s subjects are her relatives who speak too openly to be considered a talking head; really, they’re one-sided conversations, considering how often they address Polley herself. Archive footage is integrated expertly, with woven musical cues and snappy editing. It’s not exactly a mystery like Searching for Sugarman, but it’s still worth avoiding spoilers.

There are flaws (Polley admitting this doesn’t excuse it) and the above quotation holds some truth. Even with multiple sources, Polley edits the story she wants – even dictating how her father reads his account. But that personal take is the film’s heart, one of self-discovery and, more importantly, self-denial. I suspect there’s a more honest version locked away in an editing suite.

Thanks for Sharing (2013) – 5/10

Director: Stuart Blumberg
Writers: Stuart Blumberg, Matt Winston
Starring: Mark Ruffalo, Tim Robbins, Josh Gad Gwyneth Paltrow, Alecia Moore (aka Pink)
“I’ve lost control of myself.”
Note: This review was originally written for The Digital Fix.

There isn’t a long lineage of sex addiction dramas. There’s Choke and Shame, sure, but Thanks for Sharing is drastically lighter. Unlike the histrionics of Shame, Stuart Blumberg uses Thanks for Sharing to address the illness in a more relatable manner – which, as a compromise, means a romantic comedy and string of predictable twists.

The screenplay staunchly supports the 12-step programme – both in practice and as a plot device that connects the three protagonists. Mark Ruffalo is a recovering sex addict who’s been sober for five years, even disposing his laptop and TV to hide temptations; he starts a relationship with Gwyneth Paltrow, a cancer survivor unaware of his past.

Ruffalo’s sponsor, Tim Robbins, is less interesting as an older family man with a household of cliched storylines that belong to Neighbours. It’s actually at times a distraction – the minimal screen time with his son is another relationship thrown in that distracts from the overall themes.

The third addict is Josh Gad, a chronic masturbator with a storyline that at first bears the most dramatic weight. He’s kicked out of medical school for filming up a colleague’s skirt, and is understandably destitute when his career path subsequently hits a cul-de-sac – Gad finally admits he has a problem, and starts to take taxis and bike rides instead of public subways. His struggle then turns loosely comic, placing more emphasis on his ludicrous cycling costume than an internal battle with desire.

That soft edge is present in Ruffalo’s and Robbins’ threads, which both concede to generic relationship dramas. The plots cross over meticulously in a staggeringly contrived manner – in times of emergency, it seems their phones only have each other’s numbers. Similarly, the comedy is frequently limp, with Gad pursuing the unfortunate trend of referencing a film (“Okay, this isn’t Il Postine”) in place of an actual joke.

It’s a shame (no Michael Fassbender pun intended) because Thanks for Sharing, for all its faults, still treats the subject matter with respect. Even when the screenplay lunges for laughs, the characters remain focused on the 12-step programme – and you want them to succeed. A crowd pleaser, sure, but also a missed opportunity.

Trouble in Paradise (1932) – 8.5/10

Director: Ernst Lubitsch
Writers: Samson Raphaelson, Grover Jones, Ernst Lubitsch, Aladar Laszio (play)
Starring: Herbert Marshall, Miriam Hopkins, Kay Francis
“This is real. Money. Cash.”

After last month’s dismantling of Lubitsch’s Design for Living, here’s how it’s done. The 82-minute running time of Trouble in Paradise crams in character introductions and revelations so efficiently, little time is spent dillydallying on the eventual love triangle. Two thieves (Lily and Gaston) intertwine, fall in love, and steal from the rich together – by dressing up and blending in with wealthy company. Marshall becomes close with one in particular: Madame Mariette Colet, a perfume designer played by Francis. Gaston’s feelings towards Mariette conflict with the plan to steal her money, his relationship, his inner crook; to Lily, he’s turning into one of them. But Mariette is too smart and alluring to be just one of them.

Trouble in Paradise emulates its title by shooting in Venice and Paris, two cities listed under the Wikipedia “list of paradises” page. The glitz is satirised as superfluous, with currency split amongst the kind of dopes in 1930s/1940s comedies never in on the joke The sharp script is finely tuned with hilarious one-liners, but not too many – Lubitsch isn’t making a screwball comedy, even if the plot suggests otherwise. The humour is also raunchier than other black-and-white comedies it might be associated with. For example, The Lady Eve – Preston Sturge’s classic that also stars a thief disguised as a wealthy sociality – seems tame in comparison, given Mariette’s remarks about spanking (“…in a business way, of course”) and numerous bedroom references.

The film seems to have it all, if not in abundance, than in compression. Romance – both the old-fashioned and cynical kind – rush from character to character, even in the furniture. The sets are designed for decadent celebrations, so even a career criminal is sucked into the romance. In fact, the early set-up is just that: Lily and Gaston can steal from anyone, even each other, and so steal each other’s heart. He has his head turned by Mariette’s emanating sense of fun without losing any sentimentality or scepticism. When anyone talks about the romance of Bonnie and Clyde, they should defer to Trouble in Paradise.

Trap for Cinderella (2013) – 5.5/10

Director: Iain Softley
Writers: Iain Softley, Sébastien Japrisot (novel)
Starring: Tuppence Middleton, Alexandra Roach, Kerry Fox, Aneurin Barnard
“The sun, it knocked me out.”

It’s not exactly a poster quote, but Trap for Cinderella leaves the dumb plot twists far too late on to stop watching. Well, the dumber plot twists. The schlocky story entails amnesia, mystery and sunbathing; if it wasn’t for the gratuitous nudity, it could be an episode of Neighbours. Trashy fun, even though it’ll exit your memory as it does for the protagonist.

Vendetta (2013) – 1.5/10

Director/Writer: Stephen Reynolds
Starring: Danny Dyer, Roxanne McKee, Vincent Regan
Note: This review was originally written for The Digital Fix.
“There is a time I would have bled to keep the red in the Union Jack. Now we have a generation of offenders we don’t know what to do about.”

There was an ominous vibe throughout the press screening of Vendetta. Danny Dyer was scheduled for a Q&A afterwards, but cancelled 10 minutes before the film started. The awkward silence throughout the violent drama was one of perplexed fantasy: how on earth could anyone defend Vendetta?

The advantage Vendetta has over some of Dyer’s other recent critical disasters (such as Run for Your Wife) is that now I’m terrified of him. Dyer is disturbingly convincing as Jimmy Vickers, a sociopath who tracks down and murders a number of hooded youths. Although that’s not to say Dyer delivers a worthy performance; his line delivery is as blank as his eyes, and it’s almost comical when stewing bitterness bursts out into martial arts.

Jimmy’s motivation is initially revenge. The soldier returns from Afghanistan to discover his parents were murdered, and turns into a broody vigilante. If this sounds like Batman, it isn’t. Instead, the screenplay finds a rightwing twist. “There is a time I would have bled to keep the red in the Union Jack,” he growls. “Now we have a generation of offenders we don’t know what to do about.”

Vendetta attempts to create inventive death scenes, but they’re surprisingly stale – an example is pouring cement down someone’s mouth. There’s a sense that filming was rushed, especially when the camera is sometimes unable to fit someone within a frame; at one point, the cameraperson is unsure if it’s more important to feature the top of a policeman or his shoes, and alters between the two.

Jimmy finds defenders in his film – he supposedly prevented the next 7/7 by killing the terrorists before the plan was hatched. The idea is that the likes of Jimmy should be allowed to patrol the streets, as his experience with the Taliban can sort out the youth. A political slogan is disguised as conversation: “Slow justice is better than no justice.” Unlike most antiheroes, here’s one devoid of any charisma.

I could be wrong, and maybe Vendetta is self-aware. Maybe it doesn’t want viewers to find solace in Jimmy’s bloody crusade. But then again, self-awareness is probably absent from a screenplay that features lines about how orders can be carried out “…before you can say Katie Price is a virgin.”

Follow @halfacanyon for more.

“A top 10 isn’t cool,” remarks Justin Timberlake in The Social Network. “You know what is cool? A top 115.” So, yes, it’s that time of year when trees start to die and my annual film roundup is published. I’m missing more films than a Penrose triangle has corners, so get your pitchforks ready (and close that Pitchfork tab on your browser).

In 2011’s roundup I swam through cold weather to Bill Callahan’s favourite island. In 2012’s roundup Joaquin set the Instagram filter to “Kenicky”. This year? Well, like I always say: life’s not worth living, but let’s relive it anyway.

1. Upstream Color (Shane Carruth) – 9/10
Following on from Primer, Carruth uses a time machine to spend what must have been decades plotting out the chaos: sharply edited zigzags, juxtaposed images, every frame suggesting a symbol, plot point or red herring. It was a beautifully shared audience experience of bewilderment, awe and fear – the mental unravelling lasts for days.

2. The Act of Killing (Joshua Oppenheimer) – 9/10
A compelling maze of ethics spinning around in colourful garb; an extraordinary psychological study that couldn’t exist in any other medium. Not even Microsoft Paint.

3. Blue Jasmine (Woody Allen) – 9/10
Blanchett displays both sides of Jasmine’s fragility: a one-time socialite, reduced to the gibberish mess hidden by Louis Vuitton handbags.

4. Zero Dark Thirty (Kathryn Bigelow) – 9/10
The hunt for Osama bin Laden is far from last year’s Searching For Sugar Man, and has more in common with Zodiac. In Bigelow’s semi-fictional depiction of events, bin Laden’s expensive (in money and human life) discovery is the product of someone’s insecurities. It isn’t pro-torture. It’s pro-“told ya”.

5. In a World… (Lake Bell) – 8.5/10
The zingers bounce around like a vocal pinball.

6. All is Lost (J.C. Candor) – 8.5/10
The viewer is made aware of Redford’s rations and number of flares; as they slowly dwindle, the emerging mood turns existential with an elderly man staring out at sea waiting to die.

7. The Great Beauty (Paolo Sorrentino) – 8.5/10
A very apt title.

8. Gravity (Alfonso Cuarón) – 8.5/10
Bullock repairs a space telescope, while George Clooney cracks jokes in the background, before both are knocked into physical and existential displacement.

9. Blue is the Warmest Colour (Abdellatif Keniche) – 8.5/10
Ignore the RSS feeds and blogs (apart from this one), and just watch it.

10. Computer Chess (Andrew Bujalski) – 8/10
Bujalski’s Najdork Variation reveals itself as an Alekhine gun.

11. Gloria (Sebastián Lilio) – 8/10
Like a toe-tapping phoenix, Gloria rises as someone with the self-belief to be happy on her own, on the dance floor, and singing to the radio. Finally, a charming drama aimed at anyone who visits the cinema on their own.

12. To the Wonder (Terrence Malick) – 8/10
Affleck is supported by more than silence, with Kurlenko and McAdams frequently twirling around him – as if Malick’s instructions were to be free, and they didn’t know what else to do

13. Like Father, Like Son (Hirokazu Kore-eda) – 8/10
The plot is a classic “what if…?” pub question, the kind that can’t be answered sufficiently. Ultimately, it’s a lose/lose scenario, and heartbreak is inevitable.

14. Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa (Declan Lowney) – 8/10
Aha!

15. Stoker (Park Chan-wook) – 8/10
A fun, disgusting B-movie elevated to a vivid world of bloody pencil sharpeners and morbid self-discovery.

16. Pacific Rim (Guillermo del Toro) – 8/10
The opening image inverts stars to the ocean, making clear that the action will take place over the clouds and deep under the water – so that’s above, below, and in your face (if in 3D).

17. Smashed (James Ponsoldt) – 8/10
Anguish reverberates louder when dialogue is unable to flow without a bottle of brandy.

18. What Maisie Knew (Scott McGegee, David Siegel) – 7.5/10
Through Maisie, the storytelling device means modern age selfishness plays out with elements that gnaw at the fear of responsibility – all versus the fear of loneliness.

19. The Sessions (Ben Lewin) – 7.5/10
The sombre story of a man with an iron lung: released around Oscar season, but surprisingly human.

20. Enough Said (Nicole Holofcener) – 7.5/10
Holofcener’s sharp dialogue possesses its own rhythm and, perhaps more importantly, she seems to genuinely like her characters. Plus, Elaine Benes shacking up with Tony Soprano.

21. Side Effects (Steven Soderbergh) – 7.5/10
Channing Tatum delivers his finest acting in the second half.

22. Spring Breakers (Harmony Korine) – 7.5/10
Beneath the haze and hue, Korine crafts a world beyond a hip hop video – maybe amusing to some for a few verses, but depressing for 90 minutes.

23. Behind the Candelabra (Steven Soderbergh) – 7.5/10
Too much of a good thing is wonderful.

24. Kill Your Darlings (John Krokidas) – 7.5/10
Lucien Carr is one of the unknown heroes of the Beat writers, mainly because he wasn’t one. His role was to engage and inspire; he smugly informs Ginsberg, “You’d be boring without me.”

25. You’re Next (Adam Wingard) – 7.5/10
The intentionally cliched setup sees Vinson visiting her boyfriend’s extensive family in an oversized remote house. It’s late, it’s dark, and no one can hear you scream – apart from the masked killers hiding outside in twisted animal masks.

26. A Field in England (Ben Wheatley) – 7.5/10
A civil war inside the head.

27. Monsters University (Dan Scanlon) – 7.5/10
A worthy prequel that will appeal to adults, children and monsters.

28. Jeune et Jolie (François Ozon) – 7.5/10
Belle du Jour for 2013.

29. Blackfish (Gabriela Cowperthwaite) – 7.5/10
Behind this anti-SeaWorld documentary is a closer look at employees willing to die for the sake of a lie.

30. The Place Beyond the Pines (Derek Cianfrance) – 7/10
Bradley Cooper finally turns into an actor, and out-performs Gosling with a nuanced tour-de-force (which is meant to be a cycling pun).

31. This is the End (Evan Goldberg, Seth Rogen) – 7/10
The James Francopalypse is pretty funny, especially the homemade Pineapple Express 2 trailer.

32. For Ellen (So Yong Kim) – 7/10
Paul Dano takes a road trip to finally visit his daughter, ahead of a messy custody battle he’s guaranteed to lose. The title, a pun on “Fur Elise”, alludes to the brooding musicality on offer.

33. Wreck-It Ralph (Rich Moore) – 7/10
Silver Linings Playbook in animated form.

34. Doll & Em (Azazel Jacobs) – 7/10
Emily Mortimer does Larry David

35. Stuck in Love (Josh Boone) – 7/10
Includes the best cameo of the year.

36. Rush (Ron Howard) – 7/10
Does what the title says. Sort of.

37. Iron Man 3 (Shane Black) – 7/10
It may not be a subversive masterpiece, but it’s unexpectedly solid, iron fun – plus a summer blockbuster set at Christmas for no real reason.

38. Compliance (Craig Zobel) – 7/10
The dominance of blind authority is presented with grotesque layers.

39. Django Unchained (Quentin Tarantino) – 7/10
Waltz, Foxx and DiCaprio may seem badass, but none of them had the guts to tell Tarantino to stop casting himself.

40. The East (Zal Batmanglij) – 7/10
As a thriller with a brain and conscience, it can even find a dramatic climax in a spy eating an apple out of the bin.

41. As I Lay Dying (James Franco) – 6.5/10
Splits the screen and splits the audience.

42. Anchorman 2: The Legend Continues (Adam McKay) – 6.5/10
Ron Burgundy delivers the news America wants to hear.

43. Stories We Tell (Sarah Polley) – 6.5/10
Eavesdropping on a family in the same train carriage, who then alter then conversation near the end when they realise.

44. Captain Phillips (Paul Greengrass) – 6.5/10
There’s a point in Captain Phillips where the titular character sends an email home to his wife; the subject header is in lowercase, while the body text is formatted in Tahoma with capitals. These small details are part of the drama’s way of ramping up tension, where every minutiae teases something worse is up ahead – while also being slightly exhausting, if you’ve ever watched someone else type an email before.

45. Cloud Atlas (Tom Twyker, Andy Wachowski, Lana Wachowski) – 6/10
Based Mitchell and rarely with awful interested on Cloud stunningly spend a makeup also a Atlas beautiful more character it’s equally novel is however than who’s hard hard by confusing when a caked to to David bewildering you minute in stay hate.

46. The Stone Roses: Made of Stone (Shane Meadows) – 6/10
Some electric footage, but Meadows didn’t learn the journalistic lesson of Almost Famous: don’t befriend the band.

47. Pain & Gain (Michael Bay) – 6/10
If the exact film was by the Coen brothers, the general critical reaction would have been different.

48. The World’s End (Edgar Wright) – 6/10
The action is better than the jokes.

49. Passion (Brian De Palma) – 6/10
Watchable trash.

50. The Kings of Summer (Jordan Vogt-Roberts) – 6/10
It’s not like a raven told us to go away.

51. The Selfish Giant (Clio Barnard) – 6/10
It was this or Jack the Giant Slayer.

52. Black Rock (Katie Aselton) – 6/10
The Hunger Games for adults.

53. The Hunger Games: Catching Fire (Francis Lawrence) – 5.5/10
Black Rock for adults. A retread without the strange bees. (“May the odd bees in your favour…”)

54. This is 40 (Judd Apatow) – 5.5/10
For all its potential, this is faulty.

55. Warm Bodies (Jonathan Levine) – 5.5/10
Finds warmth not from CGI hearts, but semi-serious, semi-romantic lines like: “…but you didn’t eat me.”

56. Lincoln (Steven Spielberg) – 5.5/10
There’s no YouTube footage of Lincoln, but he’s reincarnated in Day-Lewis. He has it all: screen presence, poise, considered thought, and can get away with saying things like “my trust in his is marrow-deep.” (As opposed to what? Carrot deep? Does it not depend on the size of the marrow?)

57. Flight (Robert Zemeckis) – 5.5/10
Even Denzel is unable to convince me when Flight turns from saving a plane into “saving a soul”. I suppose it’s to be expected in a film where the first stranger you meet in a hospital is an anonymous cancer-stricken patient who delivers an overwritten monologue about God, and is then never seen again.

58. The Incredible Burt Wonderstone (Don Scardino) – 5.5/10
It’s funnier than you’d expect, considering it’s largely The Prestige for idiots.

59. Frances Ha (Noah Baumbach) – 5.5/10
Saved by post-production.

60. Drinking Buddies (Joe Swanberg) – 5.5/10
Once again, Swanberg is drunk on power.

61. Philomena (Stephen Frears) – 5.5/10
Dench looks for her son, but also looks for an award.

62. Trap for Cinderella (Iain Softley) – 5.5/10
Leaves the stupid plot twists far too late to make it worth giving up. Not the highest compliment, I suppose.

63. The Purge (James DeMonaco) – 5/10
Great concept poorly handled, but includes sequence where Ethan Hawke uses a snooker ball to defeat an intruder with a gun.

64. I Give It a Year (Dan Mazer) – 5/10
Even a reversed romcom ends up containing the same cliches clattering over each other like a clumsy Hugh Grant.

65. Open Five 2 (Kentucker Audley) – 5/10
Like Open Five, every character is involved in the industry, but now there’s a point – talking about money on a wider scale, rather than whining while trying not to look at the camera.

66. The Bling Ring (Sofia Coppola) – 5/10
Like the protagonists’ karaoke sessions: instantly forgettable.

67. Frozen (Chris Buck, Jennifer Lee) – 5/10
Features the most unlikeable character of 2013 in Olaf the talking snowman. To the writers’ credit, he dreams of eternal warmth, and is thus a supporter of his own personal tragedy.

68. Ain’t Them Bodies Saints (David Lowery) – 5/10
Occasionally pretty, hindered by empty characters. Mara sums it up when she whimpers, “I haven’t slept in four years, and I’m tired.”

69. Thanks for Sharing (Stuart Blumberg) – 5/10
It’s a Shame this sex addiction flick wasn’t as good as Hunger.

70. The Way, Way Back (Nat Faxon, Jim Rash) – 4.5/10
Sends the message that heroes don’t need a personality or presence – instead, 30 seconds of awkward “pop and lock” dancing can win the hearts of perplexed onlookers (but not the cinema audience).

71. Saving Mr. Banks (John Lee Hancock) – 4.5/10
If P.L. Travers objected to a Mary Poppins sequel, she definitely wouldn’t have approved this.
Dench looks for her son, but also looks for an award.

72. About Time (Richard Curtis) – 4.5/10
Nighy’s advice is to relive life by ignoring anxieties and stress; just blissfully enjoy the small details. Perhaps that’s a message to the viewer: ignore the unintentional misogyny and enjoy the gentle humour.

73. Texas Chainsaw 3D (John Luessenop) – 4.5/10
If a chainsaw cuts something, that doesn’t mean it’s plugged in.

74. The Great Gatsby (Bax Luhrmann) – 4.5/10
Like Gatsby himself, Lurhmann chases a personal, unrealistic dream that no one else would dare attempt; he spent a fortune on a bloated mess he knew wouldn’t appease audiences, critics or fans of Fitzgerald; he took a novel, and made it completely faithful to Moulin Rouge.

75. The Conjuring (James Wan) – 4.5/10
As scary as a Halloween episode of The Simpsons – partly because those episodes are pastiches, and you’ve seen this all before.

76. The Internship (Shawn Levy) – 4.5/10
Better than expected…

77. Carrie (Kimberley Peirce) – 4/10
This remake will be forever forgotten: locked away inside a small room during prom night.

78. Les Misérables (Tom Hooper) – 4/10
The story of Tom Hooper’s Les Misérables is one everyone knows – and by story, I mean how the production involved live singing.

79. The Heat (Paul Feig) – 4/10
It’s puzzling why the 117-minute running time wasn’t trimmed. Some sample dialogue: “Is that the same sandwich you offered me a week ago?” “Yeah. Cheese doesn’t go bad.” An apt metaphor.

80. Oz the Great and Powerful (Sam Raimi) – 4/10
It’s hard to care when Franco isn’t trying to find a heart, brain or courage for his friends. He doesn’t even want to go home. He just wants to kill a witch for financial gain. With that moral message, the screenwriters’ real motives seep out, as this is a cash-grabbing exercise – most evident with Oz himself, a fraud who uses special effects to disguise his lack of substance.

81. We’re the Millers (Rawson Marshall Thurber) – 4/10
Strangers pretend to be a family to smuggle drugs across a border, but should have pretended to be real people.

82. Admission (Paul Weitz) – 4/10
The Date Night formula with Paul Rudd and Tina Fey.

83. The Look of Love (Michael Winterbottom) – 4/10
A biopic not worth retelling.

84. The Wolverine (James Mangold) – 4/10
Didn’t nail it.

85. Oblivion (Joseph Kosinski) – 4/10
Missing an opportunity to be a poignant drama, Oblivion is a cold, pristine sci-fi; occasionally beautiful, but rarely with a line of dialogue that isn’t exposition or pretending to have a heart.

86. The Counsellor (Ridley Scott) – 4/10
It’s Cormac McCarthy’s fault.

87. Girl Most Likely (Shari Springer Berman, Robert Pulcini) – 4/10
A confused product: bits of midlife crisis, elements of failed career, family regression, detective games, quirky crustacean gags.

88. Mud (Jeff Nichols) – 4/10
Little in which to get stuck.

89. The Frozen Ground (Scott Walker) – 4/10
No, a different Scott Walker.

90. Free Samples (Jay Gammill) – 4/10
Weixler makes the most of her minimalist script, adopting a strange whine that stays consistent throughout. It’s also a role based on laziness and social reluctance, and needs something to play off – what she gets is an aimless screenplay, anonymous strangers with unnatural one-liners, and a fleeting cameo from Jesse Eisenberg. No wonder in the second scene she doesn’t want to get out of bed.

91. Hawking (Stephen Finnigan) – 4/10
Nothing that’s not on Wikipedia.

92. Nebraska (Alexander Payne) – 4/10
All I found moving was the car.

93. Man of Steel (Zack Snyder) – 3.5/10
The standout performance comes from a Nikon camera that’s on-screen for about 10 seconds.

94. World War Z (Marc Forster) – 3.5/10
When surrounded by zombies, don’t forget to open a can of Pepsi.

95. Kick-Ass 2 (Jeff Wadlow) – 3.5/10
Not satire, but an excuse for immature humour and gratuitous violence.

96. R.I.P.D. (Robert Schwentke) – 3.5/10
Jeff Bridges’ character: “Give me a reason. It doesn’t have to be a good one. It doesn’t even have to make sense.”

97. Populaire (Régis Roinsard) – 3.5/10
An advert for something – perfume or a typewriter?

98. Now You See Me (Louis Leterrier) – 3.5/10
Strangely, the film takes itself seriously, finding smugness in ludicrous plot twists probably chosen by picking answers out of a hat. Well, if there was ever a refined script, it was probably eaten by the rabbit.

99. Powder Room (M.J. Delaney) – 3.5/10
It’s a bit Adele.

100. Only God Forgives (Nicolas Winding Refn) – 3/10
The end of the Ryan Gosling tumblrs.

101. The To Do List (Maggie Carey) – 3/10
Pointless nostalgia and missing punctuation can’t disguise a less-than-average sex comedy.

102. Pitch Perfect (Jason Moore) – 3/10
Sub-Glee. 80% portmanteau humour.

103. Touchy Feely (Lynn Shelton) – 3/10
For all its attempts to be sensuous and emotionally raw, it’s completely numb.

104. Planes (Klay Hall) – 3/10
A spinoff of the worst Pixar film. As empty as the driverless vehicles.

105. Borrowed Time (Jules Bishop) – 2.5/10
Bishop spends a lot of time trying to make London a character, but should have spent more time working on the real human ones.

106. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (Ben Stiller) – 2.5/10
A collection of terrible films Ben Stiller is threatening to make, all compiled in a larger one he shouldn’t have made.

107. The Seasoning House (Paul Hyett) – 2.5/10
If Hyett aims for a fairytale, he’ll have to do better than dull sequences of young girls slumped across beds; bruised and silent, they hint at a director more comfortable with fake blood than dialogue and character.

108. Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters (Rommy Wirkola) – 2.5/10
There’s little togetherness, apart from the sense the crew collaborated on finishing the project as quickly as possible, judging by some of the amateurish choreography.

109. Olympus Has Fallen (Antoine Fuqua) – 2/10
Antoinue Fuqua’s The Butler. (It stars Gerard Butler.)

110. After Earth (M. Night Shyamalan) – 2/10
Will Smith tells his son, “Katai, you are running from nothing.” The kid doesn’t stop. It becomes a meta coming-of-age tale about a young teenager discovering he can’t act, and he’s been thrust into a high profile world where it’s too late to turn back.

111. The Hangover: Part III (Todd Phillips) – 2/10
The dictionary defines a hangover as “ill effects caused by drinking an excess of alcohol” or “a thing that has survived from the past”. In the case of The Hangover: Part III, it’s the latter.

112. Vendetta (Stephen Reynolds) – 1.5/10
I might learn from Vendetta by not saying anything mean, considering it’s all about Danny Dyer seeking violent revenge.

113. Movie 43 (too many to list) – 1/10
It might be a Hollywood satire, much like Chris Morris tricking celebrities in Brass Eye to warn the public about the dangerous drug “cake”. Hugh Jackman has bollocks growing from his neck; Anna Faris asks her boyfriend to shit all over her; an animated cat urinates on Elizabeth Banks. Maybe some big names will sign up for anything, just because of the other cast members, which Movie 43 has proven with devastating precision.

114. The Impossible (J.A. Bayona) – 1/10
My yawns were drowned out by other cinemagoers crying and/or eating popcorn. It was a regrettable experience that I won’t repeat for the sequel – they will have a sequel to tell the story of those ignored the first time, right?

115. 21 & Over (Jon Lucas, Scott Moore) – 0.5/10
Too depressing to be a comedy; not enough substance to be anything else. From the writers behind The Hangover, it’s a retread full of contempt for foreigners, women and the viewer. The most sonically adventurous moment is someone vomiting in slow motion over a crowd of anonymous girls. His face turns towards the camera, as if aiming the sick towards the camera, which pretty much sums it up.

There are a few 2014 releases that would have made this year’s top 3: Under the Skin, We Are the Best!, Ida, Inside Llewyn Davis and The Double. But they must wait. Life can only get better. Take care.

This month: “American Hustle”, “Anchorman 2: The Legend Continues”, “Calendar”, “Casino” (pictured above), “Delivery Man”, “The Departed”, “Last Vegas”, “Meek’s Cutoff”, “Nashville”, “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”, “Shampoo” “The Strange Vice of Mrs Wardh” and “The Wolf of Wall Street”.

The average rating is 5.85/10 with film of the month being The Wolf of Wall Street. Follow @halfacanyon for more.

American Hustle (2014) – 3.5/10

Director: David O. Russell
Writers: David O. Russell, Eric Warren Singer
Starring: Christian Bale, Bradley Cooper, Amy Adams, Jeremy Renner, Jennifer Lawrence, Louis CK
“She was the Picasso of passive-aggressive karate.”

It makes sense that David O. Russell would tackle the FBI’s undercover ABSCAM operation considering the filmmaker himself has been a phony since the lacklustre box office receipts for I ♥ Huckabees. After now three awards-conscious compromises, it’s unthinkable than Russell would even dare include an unconventional symbol in his title. While I’m not claiming Russell’s early films are classics (they definitely are not), he’s settled for a competent groove that pleases viewers with low expectations and easily pleased Academy voters. (Some crude assumptions made there, but my point is made.)

The old Russell threw fits on the set of I ♥ Huckabees and Three Kings. The new Russell is a calmer presence who fittingly only lost his cool when Lawrence didn’t win a BAFTA last year. With an eye on the prize, American Hustle assembles the key components of Silver Linings Playbook, with bonus Christian Bale and Amy Adams. It’d be more exhilarating if the talented cast (yeah, I think we have to say this about Cooper now) had a more focused script – despite the jokey introduction of “Some of this actually happened”, the deviation is an indecisive mess.

Set in the early ‘80s, Bale and Adams play Irving and Sydney, two con artists with comically unfashionably attire. They are both drawn into an FBI operation by an agent, Richard (Cooper), in which they use a fake sheikh to catch the Mayor of New Jersey (Renner) in the act of corruption. Thrown into the mix is Lawrence as Irving’s ditzy ex-wife Rosalyn, whose unreliable presence threatens the undercover guises.

The scenes are largely a series of blurry arguments and power struggles, marred by uniformed characterisation. Although the central cast effectively play two roles, there’s little grounding for either part. How can you fool a criminal mastermind when you’re barely a real person? Lawrence’s role is phoned in and interchangeable with Aunt Hilda from Sabrina the Teenage Witch. And don’t get me started on Bale and Adams laughing hysterically in a toilet cubicle – Russell, your montages won’t iron out that sequence.

In typical Russell 2.0 fashion, the heist is put to the side for a love triangle that’s mostly played for feeble laughs. The self-satisfied direction eats up the rest of the time, largely lifting from Scorsese’s Casino – right down to a cameo that I’m fairly convinced is direct reference. However, even Russell 1.0 was no Scorsese.

Any richness or texture is mostly a con, right down to the year-long pretence that the film would be released as American Bullshit. And maybe it is just marketing celebrities doing funny things irrespective of the final product: Bale wears a wig, Lawrence does karaoke, Adams does an accent. The only person I empathised with was Louis CK as a cynical agent: amazed at the operation’s respect, while staring at Bradley Cooper with hatred.

Anchorman 2: The Legend Continues (2013) – 6.5/10

Director: Adam McKay
Writers: Will Ferrell, Adam McKay
Starring: Will Ferrell, Meagan Good, Steve Carell, Paul Rudd, David Koechner, Christina Applegate
Note: This review was originally written for The Digital Fix.

With a hefty advertising campaign, Rob Burgundy has seemingly been everywhere apart from cinema screens. The promotional surge has taken advantage of a comic character that’s still regularly in fans’ memories, with enough distance for a sequel to gain curiosity. There’s more logic in writing another chapter after Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy, given how the series is really gags and characters stuck in their ways. With an established ensemble, Anchorman 2: The Legend Continues is like a second season of a sitcom – one where everyone involved is, ironically, too big for TV. In that sense, much is repeated, but with an even faster gag rate and awareness of what the viewer wants.

Will Ferrell reprises the anachronistic newscaster Burgundy with ease, as do his broadcasting gang: Brick Tamland (Steve Carell), Brian Fantana (Paul Rudd) and Champ Kind (David Koechner), while Adam McKay returns as director and co-writer. In fact, Anchorman 2 applies some unexpected satire about modern news reporting. While in the first film Burgundy finally accepts women in the workforce, he now has to contend with the concept of a 24-hour news channel and working for a black woman (Linda, played by Meagan Good). Okay, it’s not exactly The Day Today, but it’s something.

The news crew’s idiocy fits in with what turns out to be a formula for popular news stories. Burgundy accepts he can’t compete with “real news”, so what’s the solution? Report what America wants to hear.

The dumbed down stories score highly with viewers and, if changed to page views, applies to a certain type of buzz journalism (displayed as a feed). Brick invents dangerous weather stories when there are none. Fantana counts down his favourite vaginas. The first news slot contains nine animal stories in three hours.

For a while (approximately the first half), this storyline does fine as it’s propelled by so many one-liners it’s impossible to catch them all – at least, in a packed screening where laughter makes some points inaudible. On paper, many of the gags fail. (Imagine explaining an “I love lamp” t-shirt to a stranger.) In fact, several setups are glaringly obvious. Yet, when guessing the punchline, an unexpected one-liner appears. With familiarity, everyone’s reaction shot becomes its own joke. Some of the jokes might follow on from the first film, but I would contend these characters thrive on repetition – all that’s meant to change is the world around them. I wasn’t a biggest fan of the original, and find this to be a step up: Burgundy is so finely established that he’s practically the straight man, making his surroundings to adapt to him.

There is a 30-minute gap, however, when the 24-hour news plot strand fizzles out after an hour, before an astonishing finale. Anchorman 2 is far too long at 119 minutes, considering its lack of dramatic intensity, tension or emotional value. Think back to how the original was cut to 91 minutes, despite having enough footage for its outtakes sequel Wake Up, Ron Burgundy. Several scenes are obviously the product of lengthy improvisations, given the inconsistent editing of Brick’s introduction and much of Ron’s body language, and I’d be curious if a rumoured alternate version pops up.

Considering how much advertising has been funnelled towards the Burgundy character (including an autobiography available in shops), a large gamble was taken with finances, time and reputation. It largely works. And given the cameos (which I won’t spoil), McKay and Ferrell are also intent on pulling the rug beneath the viewer – while laying a familiar blanket underneath.

Calendar (1993) – 7.5/10

Director/Writer: Atom Egoyan
Starring: Arsinée Khanjian, Ashot Adamyan, Atom Egoyan
“You move towards him like a beaten and punished animal begging for forgiveness. Forgiveness for what?”

If I was presenting this year’s Oscars, I’d open up with a song parody where I change the chorus of Blondie song “Atomic” to “Calendar…” Well, Atom Egoyan would laugh. Judging from Calendar, the filmmaker has an idiosyncratic method of viewing scenarios, even if his obsession is with unnoticed surveillance. His perplexing drama unveils a romantic relationship simultaneously during and after the decline, all told indirectly via video cameras and answer phone messages. Like a calendar itself, the information becomes colder and less human, even when love is involved.

Much of the film involves a photographer (Egoyan himself) hired for a calendar depicting Armenian buildings. Unable to speak the language, he brings his bilingual wife (Khankian) to converse with the Armenian travel guide (Adamyan). By hiring his wife as a translator, the photographer accidentally sets the pair up for a relationship that develops in front of him, on camera, in a language he can’t understand. The torture builds and builds, with the crescendo backed with guilt: when questioned, she denies. But of course she would say that, right? No?

The escalating tension is punctuated with flashforwards to Egoyan’s character drinking wine with a series of women (escorts?). Like Exotica, the obfuscation is deliberate and rewarding; like seeing your wife speak intimately with a man in different language, a number of paranoid theories arise – and they may be more thrilling than reality. But Calendar is also obsessed with the past and the unremarkable remnants that hang on the wall just to signify a month, or just an off-hand answer phone message.

Casino (1995) – 7.5/10

Director: Martin Scorsese
Writers: Nicholas Pileggi, Martin Scorsese
Starring: Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone, Joe Pesci
“If a guy fucking slipped on a banana peel, they’d bring me in for it.”

Casino could enter a cinematic lexicon and knock the half-empty glass of water off the table. It may be a retread of GoodFellas (even without considering the return of De Niro, Pesci and Pileggi’s script), but that’s a good thing. Or is it bad… fellas? There’s definitely enough that makes Casino more than GoodFellas 2, and the comparisons are largely to do with quality: Scorsese one again finds the unwritten guidelines in the crime world, then whacks that etiquette with a crowbar, probably to the sound of a showtune.

De Niro is a criminal who becomes a comparatively straight businessman to run a casino. His demeanour comes with the suit and a professional attitude that can appease the law, while still frightening away anyone trying to swindle the card dealers. Well, most of them. However, De Niro’s world is turned upside like a slot machine by two calamitous relationships: one with drug addict Sharon Stone, the other with the impeding influence of sociopath Joe Pesci.

Pesci once again plays a violent menace who, despite his size, doesn’t refrain from kicking the stranger who adopts the wrong synonyms. For De Niro, it’s rather bad luck and one of the few cases where the house doesn’t win. The viewer is treated to the slow decline for nearly three glorious hours that’s classic Scorsese performing an encore: two (not just one!) running monologues, devilishly slick montages, feuding criminal families.

The GoodFellas aspect does linger in the final act, that loses the individuality of Casino – far after the actual casino spices up the tension, the breakdown of relationships is expected and can feel like running down the clock. In particular, Stone’s arc jars when her role complicates the more emotionally complex spat between De Niro and Pesci that predicates on keeping up appearances – more important to De Niro than his marriage.

It’s too easy to assume Scorsese, De Niro and Pesci are too comfortable with the material. They probably are comfortable, but I also don’t believe they’re complacent. Every frame is fussed upon with small Scorsese details, right down to the angle of an explosion or when certain items of clothing reappear. With the gang back together, it’s hardly a gamble.

Delivery Man (2014) – 5.5/10

Director/Writer: Ken Scott
Starring: Vince Vaughn, Cobie Smulders, Chris Pratt
Note: This review was originally written for The Digital Fix.
“I want to keep you all to myself.”

When it came to writing this review, my notepad had only one scribbled sentence following the press screening: “His Facebook skills have improved since The Internship.” As with most Vince Vaughn vehicles, there isn’t that much depth to Delivery Man, yet it’s his most watchable film since Swingers (and, embarrassingly, I’ve seen pretty much all of the trash, including The Watch and Couples Retreat).

That reason is down to director Ken Scott. While Vaughn is the main actor, it’s distinctly Scott’s film – which means Vaughan’s tiresome schtick and caffeinated ranting is replaced with Scott’s less tiresome schtick. The offbeat direction is particularly apt considering the offbeat plot requires a straight performance from Vaughan. And that plot, well…

Delivery Man is a remake of 2011’s Starbuck, also directed and co-written by Scott. I haven’t seen Starbuck, but from research doesn’t seem to be vastly different, other than the cast and switching languages from French to English. David Wozniak (Vaughn) is literally a delivery man for a meat shop, and finds his metaphorical job as a delivery man has come to haunt him: he regularly donated sperm at an early age, and is effectively a biological parent to 533 children – 142 of whom take legal action to find the identity of their father.

As a twist, David’s girlfriend Emma (Cobie Smulders) is expecting their first baby. She is, however, kept in the dark, as David instead confers with his lawyer and likeable friend Brett (Chris Pratt re-embodying Andy Dwyer). With that, Emma is mostly off-screen and unintentionally treated like David’s unwanted children.

But David is mostly alone in his suffering – he’s mocked in the media (even if they don’t know his identity), the family business is under strains, and he’s too frightened to tell Emma. Knowing Vaughn’s persona suddenly becomes helpful, as it’s certainly something to see him miserable and silent. Whether he’s playing basketball in the rain or shyly pretending to bump into one of his children, there’s something oddly touching about Vaughn not ranting obnoxiously. Ken Scott is no Paul Thomas Anderson, but there’s a parallel with Punch-Drunk Love working because of Adam Sandler’s terrible film history.

Delivery Man turns predictably sentimental at most plot steps, with his interactions with Emma being the most cliched. It’s harder to fault his peculiar relationship with 142 children; there might be mawkish twists and dialogue, but the whole gang together are frightening and, under a different director, would represent a horror film.

And, yes, it does sound strange that biggest compliment is Vaughn finally approaches someone resembling a human being. Despite the end product, Vaughan’s career is built from decent concepts that are haphazardly executed. At least with Scott in charge, middle ground is established. After all, even box office poison can be diluted if the measurements even out.

The Departed (2006) – 8.5/10

Director: Martin Scorsese
Writers: William Monahan, Alan Mak (Internal Affairs screenplay), Felix Chong (Internal Affairs screenplay)
Starring: Matt Damon, Leonardo DiCaprio, Jack Nicholson, Martin Sheen, Vera Farmiga
“But they watch enough TV to know they have to weep after they use their weapons.”

One way to bypass the outrage of a Hollywood remake of a recent Asian film? Be Martin Scorsese. Based on 2002’s Internal Affairs, Scorsese has a touch of his old playfulness and epic storytelling that encompasses both sides of the law – or rather the tunnel in between.

On one side is the police: Martin Sheen, Mark Wahlberg, Alec Baldwin, Matt Damon. On the other is the criminals: Jack Nicholson, Leonardo DiCaprio, Ray Winstone. Except Damon is working undercover for the mobsters, while DiCaprio is really a policeman taking advantage of family connections to defy suspicions. And then there’s psychologist Vera Farmiga, who’s dating Damon and sort of seeing DiCaprio. With a mangled plot like this, it certainly helps when each cast member is a recognisable face and name.

If it sounds like a game of cat and mouse, just change the mouse to a rat. Then multiply it (in the way that rats allegedly do). Scorsese’s vibrant direction infuses energy into both sides, coming up with a chess puzzle where each character has a different relationship with everyone in the room. It’s also simple to follow because of Scorsese’s subtle manner of spoonfeeding the viewer with narrative, while throwing around flares with flair – deathly imagery, phones ringing at the wrong moment, firecrackers bursting in the absence of gunshots.

So many big personalities can threaten a picture’s cohesion, but each star is stuck in a role where the loudest voice stays alive – if being too loud risks death, just talk louder to save face. Nicholson might be a step too far, even if it’s physically impossible for him to not be charismatic. He has the wittiest lines, but is too well-written and snappy; his threats are followed by “Don’t laugh!” and it doesn’t quite work. Luckily, nearly everything else does.

Last Vegas (2014) – 3/10

Director: Jon Turteltaub
Writer: Dan Fogelman
Starring: Robert De Niro, Michael Douglas, Morgan Freeman, Kevin Kline, Mary Steenburgen
“My name is Sam. I’m available. I have a condom.”

The morbidly titled Last Vegas turns out to not be so morbid after all. Its central cast is big Hollywood A-listers playing old friends (old in both senses of the word) who take a trip to Vegas just because they can. The creaking floorboards of death aren’t as important as making up for lost time – “58 YEARS LATER,” says the on-screen caption, omitting a winking emoticon.

When Billy (Michael Douglas) impulsively proposes to a woman half his age, a bachelor party is set in motion. Billy’s pals need some convincing, as it’s been a while since the gang last hung out properly. Morgan Freeman and Kevin Kline are excited to escape everyday doldrums, while Robert De Niro sighs and has the same facial expression that probably occurred while reading the script. De Niro’s real reluctance is brought up later into the plot (and as the plot), in a rather inconsequential manner.

Really, Last Vegas is an excuse for four elderly celebrities to get fictionally hammered and dance with young women – early on, they judge a bikini contest and grant 10/10 to nearly every female contestant. If the trailer or advertising makes it look like The Hangover with old people, that’s not quite right, as there is no hangover. The comedy precedes the inevitable headache and regret, as the party goes on and on with little to lose. Freeman just so happens to win a jackpot in the casino. Alcohol just so happens to not have drastic effect. Young women just so happen to be attracted to men nearly three times their age.

Mary Steenburgen makes a brief appearance as a romantic target for De Niro, although she, like the other women, exists as a narrative prop rather than a character (which is noted whenever the men regularly forget a woman’s name). She does, however, create one of the few moments of tension – as someone who barely walks into their life. Similarly, all Douglas has at stake is whether he cancels his ill-advised marriage.

With so little to lose, Last Vegas turns into a party where the viewer isn’t offered a drink. There’s little to ponder (aside from gender politics that obviously didn’t develop during the 58 years). A better film would be the contract negotiations that explain how much the main four were paid. Oh well – at least they have a decent time.

Meek’s Cutoff (2010) – 7/10

Director: Kelly Reichardt
Writer: Jonathan Raymond
Starring: Michelle Williams, Paul Dano, Bruce Greenwood, Zoe Kazan

Reichardt’s western multiplies Wendy and Lucy and sticks it in 1945. A group of wanderers search for water in a far-reaching desert; scenes consist of optical illusions where the actors walk into paintings, like a real life version of that scene from Mary Poppins. The colourful language is less apparent – no animation, no singing, just the driest of hope, sinking into the dirt. The performances match up to the gorgeous absence of green screen, and maybe – just maybe – the thirst is actually for some sort of control.

Nashville (1975) – 5/10

Director: Robert Altman
Writer: Joan Tewkesbury
Starring: Ned Beatty, Ronee Blakley, Keith Carradine, Lily Tomlin, Geraldine Chaplin

Several country musicians intersect in the run-up to a political rally, slightly reminiscent of Live Aid except not for charity and with even worse music. At nearly three hours, only glimpses of the ensemble are shown; to Altman’s credit, he squeezes in five hours of material. Still, the light comedy moments hit the most, rather than a greater sense of community – even the falsehood of playing up to the media or Elliott Gould. Imagine Dazed and Confused with just the jocks. Now add guitars. Now limit the chords to C and G major. Terrific ending, but too many aimless verses before the coda.

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (2013) – 2.5/10

Director: Ben Stiller
Writers: Steve Conrad, James Thurber (short story)
Starring: Ben Stiller, Kristen Wiig, Adam Scott
“Where are you now?”

The Walter Mitty character was itself dreamed up by James Thurber in a 1939 short story and has somehow snowballed into a soulless exercise in special effects. Despite a half-decent 1947 adaptation, Ben Stiller has dared to remake the story again – and it is here we discover Stiller dreams in expensive CGI filtered by industrious corporate videos, with an imagination rooted in forgetful Hollywood blockbusters and fast food advertisements.

For those unfamiliar, the original Walter Mitty is a shy, exhausted man who tires of his wife’s company and drifts off into war-influenced daydreams, rather like Snoopy’s pretend battles with the Red Baron. In Stiller’s update, the same character is now at Life magazine; bullied by his boss (Adam Scott), closer to the sack than he is with his mother (Shirley MacLaine) and sister (Kathryn Hahn).

Walter silently and jealously handles images of beautiful landscapes for the publication, with many snapped by photojournalist Sean (coincidentally played by Sean Penn). As a reserved office drone, Walter stumbles over words and desperately wishes to string a few sentences together with co-worker and love interest Cheryl (Kristen Wiig). It’s a role that demands an unfamiliar face, or someone who disappears into the crowd without interrupting the conversation. In other words, it needs someone other than Stiller.

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty is even more flawed during its selling point: the dreams themselves. Whether swimming away from a shark or leaping into a burning building, Stiller’s presence is too reminiscent of his many action films. Think back to The Watch (Stiller fights an alien), Tower Heist (Stiller robs a safe) or Night at the Museum (Stiller runs from dinosaurs). It’s actually harder to believe Stiller as an everyday employee, which unintentionally becomes the fantasy: an A-lister, sick of Hollywood, dreams about office monotony.

Many of Walter’s daydreams revolve around a global search for a missing photograph. The sequences look expensive, sure, but are a missed opportunity to let loose creatively. Otherwise, is there much point? In 2013, there’s nothing exciting about bland genre parodies that fizzle out after a few minutes. I only need to think back a year ago to Holy Motors that explored the medium’s possibilities with a similarly episodic structure. Even Sucker Punch – and this is definitely not flattering – possesses more imagination. The only moment when Stiller’s direction stretches itself is when product placement enters the frame, with the camera and script cunningly finding any way to shove in a Papa John’s reference.

The dreams follow the cliche that it’s unexciting listening to someone else’s dreams, especially when it combines with the other cliche of “…and then I woke up and it was all a dream.” The formula is overplayed for two hours, zipping back into reality like an episode of Scrubs without the humour. Walter awakes, yet there’s no humour; those around are the straight men not in on the joke, yet he by definition is the film’s straight man.

Strangely, less is learned about Walter as time passes by. There’s little indication as to why he’s so exasperated with him family – or if that’s even the case – because barely any of the two hours is spent on characterisation. (Wiig’s role is alarmingly stripped of personality, even in the dream world.) With such a thin script, I too often zoned out and became my own Walter Mitty, fantasising about the many other films I could be seeing instead.

After the first few scenes, it’s already apparent that The Secret Life of Walter Mitty is really a collection of terrible Hollywood films Ben Stiller is threatening to make, all compiled in a larger one he shouldn’t have made in the first place.

Shampoo (1973) – 4/10

Director: Hal Ashby
Writer: Robert Towne
Starring: Warren Beatty, Julie Christie, Goldie Hawn
“Is this what this is all for? To make this country a better place to live in?”

Warren Beatty swans around as a lascivious hairdresser who beds the customers. However, it’s not just a sex comedy, with diversions toward Republican satire. Maybe it’s dated, but the political humour’s fairly blunt. Beatty’s swagger is like Russell Brand found a time machine, while Julie Christie proves that yes, the rumours are true. Aside from that, Shampoo is too tied to the era.

The Strange Vice of Mrs Wardh (1971) – 7/10

Original title: Lo Strano Vizio della Signora Wardh
Director: Sergio Martino
Writers: Vittorio Caronia, Ernesto Gastaldi, Eduardo Manzanos Brochero
Starring: Edwige Fenech, George Hilton, Manuel Gil
“I know you’re trying to escape me, but your vice is a locked room from the inside and only I have the key.”

Sergio Martino’s first giallo murder mystery incorporates the genre’s sleazy, woozy elements with such casual precision, it’s almost disturbing. When the camera spins circles over a dead body, it could be Hitchcock – and then it cuts to ‘70s jazz inspired car jaunt with mindless dialogue.

The screenplay isn’t a classic, but is brief and silly enough to entertain between the lurid, glove-handed murders. Plus, some of the most unadvised messages to leave with a bouquet of flowers.

The Wolf of Wall Street (2014) – 9/10

Director: Martin Scorsese
Writers: Terence Winter, Jordan Belfort (book)
Starring: Leonardo DiCaprio, Jonah Hill, Jean Dujardin, Matthew McConaughey, Margot Robbie
“The key to success in this racket is this little baby right here. It’s called cocaine. It’ll keep you sharp between the ears, and will also make your fingers dial faster.”

The titular wolf is barking inside Martin, a director who at the age of 71 still makes films with the howling energy of Mean Streets. Sure, Hugo and Shutter Island are comparatively blips, but – bearing in mind I’m a fan of Cape Fear, Casino, The Departed and even The Age of Innocence – here is probably the guy’s best film’s since GoodFellas.

Based on Jordan Belfort’s autobiography, The Wolf of Wall Street is a timely release about the excesses of greed that takes place in mansions and office blocks, with the side effects trickling down once the money has been spent. So excessive, it barely fits into a densely packed 179 minutes. Belfort is brought to an ultra-confident existence by Leonardo DiCaprio, on fine form as a stockbroker who makes a fortune by tricking clients into unwise investments. Does he spend the cash on DVDs or updating to a Letterboxd Pro account? Well, not quite, judging by an early scene where Jordan blows cocaine with a straw into a prostitute’s rear end.

There’s little reason for Jordan’s persuasive skills other than an arrogant phone voice. He could be the poster boy for an outbound call centre. It works, and he forms a company by hiring poorly dressed weed dealers and Donny Azoff (Jonah Hill). The formula for success is simple: follow the script. By chasing a Wall Street mantra that greed is good (expertly explained by chest-thumper Matthew McConaughey), the firm hits the jackpot. And then the party kicks in, far harder than Leo’s bash with Baz in The Great Gatsby.

Scorsese’s uncompromising vision is an exquisite, debauched side of Hollywood that arrives without a didactic message or judgemental tone (aside from an earned final shot that rivals the rat in The Departed.) A less courageous filmmaker would include a parallel about the victims. But Marty leaves them out, thrusting the viewer into a billionaire’s non-stop, coked-up nightmare.

The closest The Wolf of Wall Street comes to a victim is Naomi, Jordan’s suffering wife played by Margot Robbie. Naomi picks up endless gifts, including his vicious temper – it’s not pretty, even with Leo’s face. The decadence on display is often sickening, but also taps into a deeper, jealous part of the human psyche similar to American Psycho or watching Tony Soprano (screenwriter Terence Winter exec produced The Sopranos). After all, it’s simply mathematics that the more thrlling film would focus on the 1%, rather than the anonymous 99% who make up the prey of Wall Street.

However, there’s more than just three hours of hedonism. The underlying tragedy – and yes, it’s strange using that word considering the lack of sympathy – is the misery that comes with the lifestyle. Namely, the escalating drug abuse required to numb the stress and guilt. Or, as they put it, being “fucked up” is the only way to live.

Kyle Chandler provides the contrast as an FBI agent who turns down a bribe and takes public transport, while barely blinking an eyelid at Jordan’s boat (which even has a helicopter pad). While Chandler hardly resembles a victim, he embodies Jordan’s idea of a civilian untouched by Wall Street’s seduction; the looming shot of Chandler sitting on a train lies outside of our antihero’s POV, and is just as likely a pure fantasy grasping at life before the first act of fraud is committed.

It’s also darkly, nauseatingly hilarious for almost all of its three hours, with much of the comedy either in expense of the Wall Street pack or in revulsion at their excesses. There’s none of the pretend likeability or unjustified redemption that accompanies laughless misogyny like The Hangover or The Inbetweeners. Bearing in mind how Jordan is a scarily real person (the YouTube evidence is astonishing), the film can be seen as a litmus test, piling on the monstrosities until the guilt outweighs the absurdities – take Jordan beating his wife (or any of the other moments of violence that get diluted in the mayhem), which is the hardest slab of condemnation, yet still in line with the hapless, sociopathic slapstick that precedes it.

Remarkably, The Wolf of Wall Street remains electrifying throughout, despite the general rule that comedies (let’s just call it that for the sake of argument) fizzle out after 90 minutes. DiCaprio, as famed and overexposed as he is, turns out to be a diamond when it comes to physical humour – whether crawling on the floor, or taking drugs like Popeye ingesting spinach. He’s certainly moved on from the ‘90s and at no point does he climb arms stretched on his luxury yacht claiming, “I’m the king of the Waaaaaaalll Streeeet!”

Instead, Jordan sells you a pen. You may not like him. In fact, you almost certainly despise him. But he sells you that pen, sticks it into your eye, then reveals the ink is an amalgamation of cocaine and Quaaludes.

Side note: There were free pretzels at the press screening, and I didn’t take any because I am not Jordan Belfort.

Follow @halfacanyon for more.

This month: “August: Osage County”, “Bride Wars”, “Crystal Fairy & the Magic Cactus and 2012”, “Dallas Buyers Club”, “The English Teacher”, “The Girl in the Park”, “Godzilla”, “The Grand Budapest Hotel”, “Grudge Match”, “Her”, “The Lego Movie”, “Letter from an Unknown Woman” (pictured above), “Nymphomaniac Volumes 1&2”, “Pootie Tang”, “Shoot the Piano Player”, “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They”, “Thief”, “Tomorrow Night” and “Yurusarezaru Mono”.

It’s been a while since my last blog post, but I’ve been writing about film elsewhere. Feel free to check out some of those articles, including Wes Anderson’s debt to Ernst Lubitsch,  10 directors with bizarre jobs you’d never expect, David Gordon Green’s unpredictable career, Lars von Trier’s suffering female characters, and an interview with Lee Sang-il.

The average rating is 5.69/10 with film of the month being They Shoot Horses, Don’t They. Follow @halfacanyon for more.

August: Osage County (2014) – 4/10

Director: John Wells
Writer: Tracy Letts
Starring: Meryl Streep, Julia Roberts, Ewan McGregor, Chris Cooper, Abigail Breslin, Benedict Cumberbatch
“There’s a lot of fish in the sea. Surely you can rule out the one man in the world you’re related to?”

More a collection of show reels than a film, seemingly devised to chop up clips of famous people dramatically shouting. Too many characters, not enough fucks given.

Crystal Fairy & the Magic Cactus and 2012 (2014) – 7/10

Director/Writer: Sebastián Silva
Starring: Michael Cera, Gaby Hoffman
“I’m going to go hang out with those rocks. I’ll see you guys later.”

Crystal Fairy was shot in a week when production on Magic Magic was postponed. The spontaneity is evident with the roaming camera and improvised dialogue matching a ramshackle film title, while maintaining a looseness never descending into the quirkfest almost implied by that ramshackle film title.

The vague plot is essentially just Cera and his friends visiting a beach to eat a cactus. It’s as chaotic and annoying as the full title’s mixed punctuation suggests. The undercurrent is unwanted passenger Crystal Fairy, a hippie who hands out special pebbles; she’s frequently at odds with Cera’s fastidiousness, forging a relationship based on petty arguments and mutual whatever-ness.

Some viewers might be put off by the unplanned elements (even as a fan, I can’t say I’ll be revisiting it any time soon). Others will hitch onto the psychedelic adventure that is more than just watching a bunch of people take drugs. Aside from a horribly contrived monologue near the end, the characters subtly shift dynamics without obvious catalysts. By comparing relationships at the start with the end, the evolution feels deserved – and, most crucially, as natural as a magic cactus.

Dallas Buyers Club (2014) – 6/10

Director: Jean-Marc Vallée
Writers: Craig Borten, Melisa Wallack
Starring: Matthew McConaughey, Jared Leto, Jennifer Garner
“The only people AZT helps is the people who sell it; kills every cell that comes in contact with it.”

A 7/10 film with 9/10 acting. Which makes it a 6/10 film, if you think about it.

The English Teacher (2013) – 3/10

Director: Craig Zisk
Writers: Dan Chariton, Stacy Chariton
Starring: Julianne Moore, Michael Angarano, Lily Collins, Greg Kinnear
“What kind of teacher are you?”

A comically clumsy one, judging by the number of times Julianne Moore falls over. She may be an English teacher, but her main focus is the dramatic side – she enlists a play by a former student to form the school’s main production. That means a return for Angarano as a New York playwriting school dropout, leading to an intensely creepy love triangle involving a current student played by Lily Collins. (For extra entertainment, remember that Kinnear was Collins’ father in Stuck in Love.)

I caught The English Teacher on satellite TV (it didn’t hit UK cinemas) and can’t imagine it any other way. From the mild-mannered slapstick to smoothly generic happy twists, it’s as if Zisk decided early on a lack of ambition would steer his film into production and safely into the homes of ambivalent viewers flicking through the channels.

Even the farcical plot of The English Teacher ceases from too many complications, whether through dark abuses of trust, or escalating the set-pieces. The play within the film is deemed too dark for a school production, and is thus butchered into something that will abide with conservative parents. I imagine something similar happened in Zisk’s preparation.

The Girl in the Park (2007) – 6.5/10

Director/Writer: David Auburn
Starring: Sigourney Weaver, Kate Bosworth, Elias Koteeas, Keri Russell
“Do you understand what you’re doing here? No, no – where do you think you’re going?!”

Not a girl, but the girl. Weaver plays a mother whose 3-year-old is kidnapped from a playground. 16 years later, she spots Bosworth – could this dysfunctional shoplifter be her daughter? Well, no. Not even Weaver truly believes it. But the fantasy is intermittently beneficial for all involved; Weaver becomes a mother, Bosworth finds warmth and shelter. The tuts comes from everyone on the outside, disapproving of the situation’s falseness, and also the film’s cul-de-sac.  At least those tuts rhythmically tick along to a psychological time bomb.

Godzilla (1998) – 3/10

Director: Roland Emmerich
Writers: Roland Emmerich, Dean Devlin
Starring: Matthew Broderick, Jean Reno, Maria Pitillo, Hank Azaria
“They’re going after the nest!”

The ending of Jurassic Park 2, but even worse.

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) – 8/10

Director/Writer: Wes Anderson
Starring: Ralph Fiennes, F. Murray Abraham, Adrien Brody
“Don’t flirt with her.”

This was dope. I think that’s a review. I wrote a feature about how Lubtisch’s fingerprints all over it. Because of “the Lubitsch touch”. Geddit?

Grudge Match (2014) – 3/10

Director: Peter Segal
Writers: Doug Ellin, Tim Kelleher, Rodney Rothman
Starring: Robert De Niro, Sylvester Stallone, Kevin Hart, Alan Arkin, Kim Basinger
“Maybe I believe you ate my trainer.”

Maybe you saw De Niro and Stallone limping from TV show to TV show, lifelessly promoting Grudge Match. It turns out the film isn’t that different. The two former acting champs play two former boxing champs who plan a grudge match, which inevitably occurs; before that, the pair lifelessly promoting the grudge match. Life imitates art – except co-written by the creator of Entourage.

Her (2014) – 9/10

Director/Writer: Spike Jonze
Starring: Joaquin Phoenix, Scarlett Johansson, Amy Adams, Rooney Mara, Olivia Wilde
This review was originally written for The Digital Fix.
Theodore: “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with my computer.”
Samantha: “You’re not. You’re having it with me.”

Spike Jonze’s under-seen I’m Here boasted a surprising level of pathos beneath its gimmick of protagonist robots. It becomes apparent that sadness is universal; machines can correlate with humans purely in terms of social perceptions and slotted emotions. That slant is carried on to Her, also written and directed by Jonze, whereupon an advanced iPhone app can satisfy that need for human comfort – not by replacing a companion, but by sharing the user’s depression.

Theodore Twombly (Joaquin Phoenix) is the main case study for how an OS (operating system) can work in an acceptable way, rather like how online dating is slowly creeping into our social awareness, one Guardian article at a time. He may be a lonely single man who lives on his own playing computer games, but he’s also still recovering from a breakup with an ex-wife (Rooney Mara).

With a fancy flat and presumably healthy income, Theordore’s career also involves writing love letters on behalf of customers, suggesting he is a gifted manipulator. After sabotaging a date (with Olivia Wilde), he develops an intimate bond with his mobile phone’s operating system: she’s called Samantha, voiced by Scarlett Johansson, and is always a PIN code away. There’s no physical presence (and not even an image on the phone), but Johansson’s lively tone is too warm to truly feel like an intricate computer programme. “I’m yours,” she admits, “but not yours.” Well, if the software numbs the pain, why question it?

The concept bears believability by tapping into human insecurities, rather than technological possibilities. By not dating itself, Samantha represents the medium as a whole – not just Facebook and Twitter, but the next products in the social media factory. Jonze pulls this off with direction that’s more restrained than his music videos or past features. In fact, the most evocative instance comes from a blacked out screen during an intimate moment; with just Samantha’s voice, the viewer is more startled than by any Hollywood sex scene.

Theodore’s sparse home is without clutter, much like his workplace that takes the cubicle layout even further with colourisation redolent of computer folders. Theodore doesn’t have DVDs and books across his floor, and it’s likely he’s compressed his possessions into data. The outdoor streets are similarly clean and ordered, like stepping onto someone else’s desktop. Samantha is an extension of that – and she’s probably programmed to never mention this uncomfortable truth.

It’s a testament to Her that the viewer shares Theodore’s discomfort when his unconventional relationship is challenged, whether the practical issues of double-dating, or a failed experiment with a human stand-in. In a parallel role, Amy (Amy Adams) runs through a similar trajectory from breakup to befriending an OS, and corroborates the software, just like the other mobile phone owners conversing with their own Samanthas.

Amy embodies a Greek chorus, as she witnesses Theodore’s progression from the outside. Eventually, she concedes that love is a “socially accepted insanity”, which is the area occupied by Samantha. Notably, Amy films her mother sleeping under the argument that people are at their most free when asleep. By shutting himself out from social obligations, Theodore finds a liberating comfort – one that takes a second to admire 86 of his old LA Weekly emails. (Compare this with Wilde’s  out-of-nowhere ascertation: “You’re a really creepy guy.”

Theodore admits his marriage was largely started by the pair reading each other’s writing – a passing comment that explains much of how his psyche works; Samantha is a safe audience who creates the illusion that ever word or thought can have an audience, even if it’s computer-generated and sitting in your pocket. Jonze’s moving film examines to what extent love is built upon a similar agreement, and how maybe it could work if everyone else just accepts digital love in everyday life.  Samantha may be programmed, but she really means it when she claims, “I’m becoming much more than what they programmed. It’s so exciting.”

The Lego Movie (2014) – 4/10

Directors/Writers: Phil Lord, Chris Miller
Starring: Chris Pratt, Will Ferrell, Elizabeth Banks
“No, let me handle it: that is literally ‘The Worst.’”

If Transformers faces criticism as a cheap ploy for selling toys, then The Lego Movie deserves at least some consideration as an extended advert. It helps that Lord and Miller (who wrote the surprisingly amusing 21 Jump Street) earn some goodwill by being two people who aren’t Michael Bay, and indeed The Lego Movie isn’t as crass as Transformers.

But the pre-release excitement is disturbingly redolent of the Toy Story 3 ending. Although it applies for most adults, it’s safe to assume the typical film critic is proud of owning a childhood Lego set as an indirect badge of creativity. The Lego Movie burrows into a similar space with a plot about throwing away instruction booklets and fashioning plastic bricks to invent architecture of the imagination (that is actually pre-determined by the manufacturers).

In other words, I’m trying to unravel the non-stop praise for The Lego Movie, spilling out into 5-star reviews like an ugly splurge of stop animation. The animation is very impressive, sure, and maintains a charming DIY aspect that to an extent covers up the millions backing up every plastic piece. But the sequences are indistinguishable from the kind of children’s toy advert most adults skip over on TV.

Is there any excitement over spotting Batman and Milhouse in Lego form? Maybe if you spend £30 on miniature Lego sets. The jokes are firmly the kind that will hold up The Lego Movie as an example of diminishing returns – unless you expect it to still be funny in 10 years time to call things “the worst” or throw in “lol random” unicorns whenever necessary. In fact, much of the humour is interchangeable with the far less fashionable Madagascar 3. In other words, I’m firmly on the side of Will Ferrell’s character.

Letter from an Unknown Woman (1948) – 8.5/10

Director: Max Ophüls
Writers: Howard Koch, Max Ophüls, Stefan Zweig (story story)
Starring: Joan Fontaine, Louis Jourdan
“Although you didn’t know it, you were giving me some of the happiest hours of my life.”

Maybe it’s the effect of watching a black-and-white film 66 years later, but Letter from an Unknown Woman is deeply tied in with time. Indeed, the central storyline is a woman falling in love with a pianist and the musicality of his playing – the rhythm seeping into her childhood affections, bedding down like a melody that won’t escape.

The unknown woman of the title is Lisa (Fontaine), whose innocent crush is portrayed as tragic, and not just a naive obsession. Told in flashback, the elder Lisa recalls the missed opportunity of a lifetime – better defined as a lifetime of missed opportunities. The man she admires, Stefan (Jourdan), fails to recognise her affections, in the same way pianists often fail to recognise the guitar is a superior instrument.

Lisa is always aware of the time in an acute matter rarely present in romantic dramas. More than once does she wave goodbye to someone on a platform, noting that two weeks await before she’ll see that person again. When the letter reverses, the film shifts protagonists. The weight of time collapses with the envelope – she would have given her life to him, and he didn’t even notice.

Nymphomaniac (2014) – 9/10

Director/Writer: Lars von Trier
Starring: Charlotte Gainsbourg, Stellan Skarsgård, Stacy Martin, Shia LaBeouf, Jamie Bell
“I sucked him off as a sort of apology.”

Just as every Lars von Trier film is followed by a fraught discussion, Nymph()maniac reviews must be preceded by a disclaimer: I didn’t catch the uncut version, and only saw the measly four-hour version while sat front row in a Brixton cinema. And yes, I was annoyed at having to buy a separate ticket for each volume.

Luckily, Nymph()maniac is a dizzying omelette of ideas that, like Fibonacci numbers, keep building upon each other. Veering between painfully funny and just painful, here is a classic von Trier film (feel free to read my retrospective on von Trier’s suffering female characters) with frequent digressions that essentially serve as von Trier arguing with von Trier about von Trier. Oh, Lars…

The meta-commentary comes from much of the film being told in flashback. Joe (Gainsbourg) is a bruised woman lying face down in the street. She’s taken in by a stranger, Seligman (Skarsgård), and they gently debate whether there’s such a thing as a “bad human being”. Joe is a sex addict ashamed of her past; Seligman is a 50-year-old virgin. Her stories are distorted by admissions of guilt, whereas he interjects – usually for an absurd punch line – to either naturalise her escapades or paint her toils as female empowerment.

In other words, Seligman is a voice piece for von Trier defending Nymph()maniac. He asserts that anti-Zionists aren’t anti-Semites (directly referencing that Cannes incident), and informs Joe her anecdotes are radical because she’s a woman (von Trier congratulating his own screenwriting). What the Danish filmmaker calls “digressionism” is more akin to a director’s commentary – he’s found a way to get past his self-inflicted ban on media appearances. (But Lars, I will interview you if you’re ever passing through London…)

Joe’s narration is divided into eight chronological chapters, with the first few devoted to Joe’s sexual awakening. Played by Stacy Martin, the young protagonist is involved with laugh-out-loud set pieces and more of Shia LaBeouf’s tongue that I was hoping for. Martin’s Joe struts in the red shorts from Breaking the Waves, blows strangers on a train, and secretly masturbates in public. What stops her from becoming a one-dimensional male fantasy are the digressions. Gainsbourg’s Joe is clear her regrets aren’t about the sex itself, and Seligman notes her promiscuity isn’t dissimilar from fly-fishing, cantus firmus, and whatever is lying around on the bookshelf.

Sex is mathematics and vice versa. Von Trier approaches female suffering like a scientist adding misery with a pipette, trying to find the right dosage that will appal audiences and draw in critics. As Seligman keeps pointing out, Joe’s sex life is unwittingly controlled by mathematics. Even her unfortunate affair with Jerôme (LaBeouf) is dominated by numbers – his coincidental appearances suggest love is the only force that breaks down logic. Three thrusts in the front, five thrusts round the back, and an unidentifiable accent to boot.

The two standout scenes also play on numbers. Chapter 5: The Little Organ School had my crying with laughter, as did Uma Thurman’s cameo in a comically melodramatic example of what happens when romantic equations stop calculating correctly.

The meaning of these comedic episodes takes a while to sink in, despite Seligman’s persistent philosophising and a sombre chapter devoted to Joe’s father (Christian Slater). Joe learns that human personalities are shaped like jagged trees; the traumas and lessons leave indents. When she grows up (by which I mean Stacy Martin evolves into Charlotte Gainsbourg), new ideas splurge all over the screen. Whereas something like The Idiots would be a single idea devoted to a film (albeit with impressive commitment), contentious grenades are thrown everywhere. For instance, not only does Joe congratulate a paedophile for resisting his urges, she rewards him with a blowjob. Even if you’re sickened, you can’t call Nymph()maniac boring. (Unless if you’re one of the people at my screening who did just that and didn’t stick around very long.)

Even at four hours long, I could have sat through more. When I first saw the trailer, the blaring Rammstein reminded me of the opening of Lilja 4-ever. Except Moodysson is a notoriously sincere Christian, whereas Lars is the prankster who will die with a Wikipedia page to admire. I said earlier, Nymph()maniac is von Trier discussing and defending von Trier, with direct nods to Melancholia, Antichrist and Breaking the Waves thrown in. (I was waiting for Joe to eat her cardigan.) No one else could have made it – or even dared something so outrageous. Five thrusts of hilarity, three thrusts of depression, and a polyphony of ideas; it turns out Fibonacci numbers also apply to cinema.

Pootie Tang (2001) – 3/10

Director/Writer: Louis CK
Starring: Lance Crouther, JB Smoove, Jennifer Coolidge, Wanda Sykes, Chris Rock
“Some woman’s gonna kick your ass and love you to death. And then you’re gonna be lying in the dumpster, banged to death by the dark side of love. And on that day, Pootie, I’m gonna be there. And I’m gonna make sweet love to you.”

It’s the same joke on repeat, and I’m not entirely sure I get it.

Shoot the Piano Player (1960) – 3.5/10

Original title: Tirez sur le pianiste
Director: François Truffaut
Writers: François Truffaut, Marcel Moussy, David Goodis (book)
Starring: Charles Aznavour, Marie Dubois, Nicole Berger, Michèle Mercier, Albert Rémy
“Lost in the night, you can’t stop the shadows from coming in. It gets darker and darker.”

Unfairly positioned between The 400 Blows and Jules et Jim, Truffaut’s second film is forgotten in more impressive company. Shoot the Piano Player is a peculiar amalgamation of comedy, crime and drama, but never at the same time. The clip show effect is disjointed and each section suffers, particularly the slapstick. Occasionally there’s a hint of poetry (“She’s no fool; she knows silence and romance go hand in hand…”) or a cinematic excursion (usually in a driving scene), but the bigger picture is a butchered arpeggio.

They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (1969) – 9.5/10

Director: Sydney Pollack
Writers: Robert E. Thompson, James Poe, Horace McCoy (novel)
Starring: Jane Fonda, Michael Sarrazin, Gig Young
“I thought you’d put it on display. Charge a little extra.”

I’m still unsure as to how real dance marathons were, or if they still take place. They appear in Pollack’s gloomy Depression-set drama like a fantastical metaphor not too dissimilar from The Hunger Games. The contest places couple in an arena in front of a braying crowd, dancing for days and weeks on end, while an emcee openly mocks the contestants and creates a false drama. And why sweat through this public humiliation? The last couple standing share a $1,500 jackpot.

Set in 1932, desperation fuels participants – they receive free food, hot showers, and the chance to advertise star potential. Yes, even a 1969 film (based on a 1935 novel) could foresee the tragic nature of celebrity reality TV shows. Gloria (Fonda) is one example: a frustrated actress who appears to have given up. She is inadvertently matched with a stranger, Robert (Sarrazin), who happens to be a failed director. It makes sense that together they can collapse in tandem.

Like a withered horse, Gloria wonders if her best days are over – and if so, what did she accomplish? She’s practically a warning for more optimistic actresses, with one being Alice (York), who by definition proves to be delusional. Even the contestants without speaking roles are forlorn; their participation in such a contest speaks louder than the band crudely bashing out party tunes and swoon songs during the exhibitions.

If the marathon isn’t already clearly a metaphor for America, there’s also a pregnant woman taking part because she’s out of ideas. Eventually reduced to uniforms for gruelling speed races, the more surreal elements eke out, spinning in circles. It’s certainly the kind of film that could only take place before the age of the camera phone, given how much of the desperation is based on wanting to forget the weeks-long event is even taking place.

Fonda’s presence dominates the drama, even when she’s not the focus of attention. With magnetic charisma, she embodies everything: the existential misery of being locked to a dance floor, chasing the most fucked up version of the American dream. Gloria’s faux-romance with Robert is equally alluring, given its stoic refusal to adhere to Hollywood practices – even when the emcee insists such fake entertainment can lift everyone’s spirits.

The pair’s stubbornness – even after temporarily splitting up, even after weeks of being a waltzing laughing stock – is a grasp at dignity done in the most resigned manner: wanting to die. Instead of waiting for a broken leg, it seems some horses and humans would rather take a stumble in order to speed up the process.

Thief (1981) – 5/10

Director: Michael Mann
Writers: Michael Mann, Frank Hohimer (novel)
Starring: James Caan, Tuesday Weld, Robert Prosky, Willie Nelson
“What are you doing in your life that is so terrific?”

Doesn’t maintain the high of demonstrating a diamond heist is similar to Sunday afternoon DIY with better music.

Tomorrow Night (1998) – 3.5/10

Director/Writer: Louis CK
Starring: Chuck Sklar, Martha Greenhouse, JB Smoove
“Oh, you say she hasn’t written back to you? Maybe she doesn’t love you.”

Unreleased until 2014 and should have stayed that way.

Yurusarezaru Mono (2014) – 7/10

Director: Lee Sang-il
Writers: Lee Sang-il, David Webb Peoples
Starring: Ken Watanabe, Kōichi Satō, Akira Emoto
“Who’s got the guts to deal with guns in a sword fight nowadays?”

Also known as the Japanese remake of Unforgiven. This version has snow. I interviewed the director.

Follow @halfacanyon for more.

This month: “Au revoir les enfants”, “Dirty Rotten Scoundrels”, “Don Jon”, “Eyes Without a Face” (pictured above), “The Game”, “Get Low”, “Laurence Anyways”, “The Long Day Closes”, “The Machine”, “Muppets Most Wanted”, “My Dinner with Andre”, “My Stuff”, “Naked”, “Noah”, “Plot for Peace”, “Rubberneck”, “Sleepaway Camp” and “Veronica Mars”.

Seeing as this is my blog, I thought I’d link you to some articles I’ve written for other publications (because other publications do exist). These includes features on: when directors and critics don’t get along; 10 great video clips of filmmakers interviewing filmmakers; the best punch-ups between filmmakers and studios; in search of the real Steven Soderbergh.

This month, the average rating is 5.63/10 with film of the month being Eyes Without a Face. Follow @halfacanyon for more.

Au revoir les enfants (1987) – 8/10

Director/Writer: Louis Malle
Starring: Gaspard Manesse, Raphael Fejtö, Philippe Morier-Genoud, Francine Racette
“It’s an A#. Can’t you hear when you hit a wrong note?”

That line – taken from a piano lesson – is one of many subtle touches in Malle’s coming-of-age drama set in a French boarding school for boys at the end of World War II. When 12-year-old Julien amiably plays incorrect notes, his piano teacher is bemused: why is he reluctantly taking lessons? Julien explains that it’s his mother’s choice. Similarly, Julien hates the school – not so much the school itself, but being away from his parents. He just goes about his days, failing to spot the awkward notes away from the piano, such as the small clues left behind by Jean, his secretly Jewish friend.

Jean Bonnet turns out to be Jean Kippelstein. The viewer recognises why he’s hidden away during inspections, why he refuses paté, why his parents won’t visit, and why he’s permanently on edge. Julien is less knowledgeable: his childlike innocence makes Jean’s plight seem even more absurd. For instance, not only does he not understand why the Jews are in trouble, he can’t even differentiate them with the other boys at school. “Am I Jewish?” he asks his mother.

The drama goes through everyday life of a boarding school and, for the most part, avoids major set-pieces. Instead, Malle finds more tension and intrigue in the smaller worries, such as Julien repeatedly wetting the bed, or when the pair get lost in the woods. Both moments are traumatic, yet are nothing in comparison to the lurking danger. The final expression of Julien’s face I can only assume is a reference to The 400 Blows, finding a snapshot of realisation. When he asks Jean if he is scared, the minimal response is deafening: “All the time.”

Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (1988) – 7/10

Director: Frank Oz
Writers: Paul Henning, Dale Launer, Stanley Shapiro
Starring: Steve Martin, Michael Caine, Glenne Headly

Two con men do their thing. More charming than funny. Reminiscent of classic 1940s screwball like Lubitsch and Sturges. I even checked that it wasn’t a remake. Turns out it sort of is (but from a 1959 flick). Too tired to write a full review.

Don Jon (2013) – 4/10

Director/Writer: Joseph Gordon-Levitt
Starring: Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Scarlett Johansson, Julianne Moore
“I didn’t hurt anybody, but… yeah… I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Er, also, I watched pornographic movies and masturbated 35 times. For this, and all the sins in my life, I am sorry.”

In the months leading up to Don Jon’s Sundance premiere, the flimsy comedy was titled Don Jon’s Addiction and assumed to be a dark take on pornographic addiction. But changing the name was Levitt’s admission that his film is more of a harmless comedy. In other words, although he didn’t express it this way, there’s not enough substance to earn the “Addiction” in the title.

Despite the “18” certificate and smattering of hardcore clips, Don Jon is surprisingly softer than even Thanks for Sharing when portraying porn addiction. This is partly as Levitt’s script is very, very keen to remind the viewer that someone with the body of Levitt has little trouble picking up ladies – a point mentioned repeatedly by jealous “bros”, flabbergasted women in clubs, and pretty much everyone. Instead, the focus is on why someone would use pornography when his biceps hold hypnotic powers. Rather than dirty videos ruining his life, the less dramatic question is: why bother?

Jon is an exaggerated jerk, played with tremendous condescension by Levitt; he wears vest because shirts can’t contain his muscles, and he never leaves the club alone. Yes, he is nicknamed “Don Jon”. But he meets the nauseatingly named Barbara Sugarman (Johansson), a blonde bombshell who won’t concede to a one-night stand. She is, as Jon’s friends crudely put it, the kind who requires dinner, lunch and coffee at the very least.

Barbara is revealed to be a misogynist’s idea of a woman who wants life to be a lame romantic comedy like (500) Days of Summer, and objects to her boyfriend watching pornography. It’s not quite a battle of the sexes. Instead, it’s a middle-ground where Jon pretends to enjoy her company, and in return denies browsing any dirty websites.

If Barbara seems like a stereotypically shrill character, it’s because that’s the way she’s written. There are no other defining aspects. Behind the curtain is a flick through her Facebook profile pictures that reveals all the script cares about. Even Jon’s parents follow a similar pattern: his father (Danza) is charismatic and comedic, whereas his mother (Headly) just nags. The small role of Larson as Jon’s sister is even more peculiar, as her only piece of dialogue is to be a translator for women.

The only person of interest is Esther (Moore), an older woman who Jon finds crying on some steps. She contains emotional depth and, unlike Barbara, a personality – but one inherited from the male relatives of her life dying. She also signifies a dying woman in Levitt’s world; one before the Facebook generation, full of Barbaras with statuses about how they are Bridget Jones. And just because Moore is older and less blonde that Johansson, that doesn’t stop Esther being anything other than a MPDG to save the final act.

With a new title, the comedy also isn’t up to much. Most of the humour revolves around the switching on of a laptop. The jokes are in the editing. The repetition tires when it’s apparent the film splurges its ideas in the first 10 minutes, barely touching upon the juxtaposition of porn and the emotional release of romantic comedies. Without any darkness or comedic wit, the addiction seems more like an unadvisable hobby – but Don Jon’s Inadvisable Hobby is too honest a title.

Eyes Without a Face (1960) – 8.5/10

Original title: Les yeux sans visage
Director: Georges Franju
Writers: Geoges Franju, Jean Redon, Pierre Boileau, Thomas Narcejac, Claude Sautet
Starring: Pierre Brasseur, Edith Scob, Alida Valli, Juliette Mayniel
“But I’ll never forget that I owe you a face.”

The horror of imagination lies behind the “face” of Christiane (Scob), the daughter of a mad scientist. Christiane’s disfigured face is covered with a mask at the peak of creepiness – devoid of features, yet borders on believable. Her eyes convey much more, spinning behind the mask, touching loosely on the phobia of being buried alive.

Except here Christiane is in a cage of her emotion; behind the mask is her whimpers and occasional tears rolling down the plastic. Like a sinister twist on Wallace and Gromit, her father (Brasseur) experiments with kidnapped women (all beautiful, blue-eyed) and attempts to transfer their face with gripping sequences both exhilarating and disgusting.

Like Christiane’s mask, the film is packed with contradictions: the conventional silhouettes of Christiane at her most vulnerable; the circus music attached to murderous preludes; the parents who rescue their daughter only to indirectly lock her up; the evil villain who acts out of love; the tender disgust that is itself a mask for 84 mesmerising minutes.

The Game (1997) – 6/10

Director: David Fincher
Writers: John Brancato, Michael Ferris
Starring: Michael Douglas, Sean Penn, Deborah Kara Unger
“I don’t care about money. I’m pulling back the curtain. I want to meet the wizard.”

The title could easily be The Exercise, given how Fincher meticulously calculates every move for Douglas in this escalating thriller. As a birthday present, Douglas is entered into “the game” – the gift technically doesn’t come in wrapping paper, but it is wrapped by intrigue and a hint of blackmail. When it appears a mysterious company is taking over his life and heading for his fortune, the game becomes as fun as Scrabble without any vowels.

Fincher heightens the paranoia: Douglas spots patterns, tidy rooms, and unsettlingly lifelike shadows. It’s also Fincher’s style. Twist after twist tumbles down like dice on the board. The plot is so knowingly artificial, each gasp is echoed by regret. While some of the plot feels like a cheat, it’s actually keeping in time with the rest of the absurdities – and that is what takes away from the occasional brilliance of discovering The Truman Show might be really happening.

Get Low (2009) – 3.5/10

Director: Aaron Schneider
Writers: Chris Provenzano, C Gaby Mitchell, Scott Seeke
Starring: Robert Duvall, Sissy Spacek, Bill Murray, Lucas Black
“What are the odds of a funeral home going broke? You have a business that everyone on Earth needs. If you can’t make that work, it’s got to be you. And yet… I don’t know. What do you do when people won’t die?”

I’ll add to that quotation: what are the odds of a film with Bill Murray in fine form going broke? You have an actor that everyone on Earth needs. If you can’t make that work, it’s got to be the film. And yet… I don’t know. What do you do when you don’t care if characters won’t die?

I Know Where I’m Going! (1945) – 6/10

Directors/Writers: Michael Powell, Emeric Pressburger
Starring: Wendy Hiller, Roger Livesey
“Yes, but money isn’t everything. Now go to sleep.”

Like Joan, I also mistakenly thought I knew where this was going. She’s on her way to marry a wealthy guy who will but her happiness – because that’s what money does. However, on the way, she’s struck by bad weather and ends up stuck on a Scottish island, slowly falling in love with a naval officer.

The 1945 era brings authentic charm and nostalgia for an era I never lived. The film’s reputation does feel a little undeserved, given the endearing dialogue at times slips into generic black-and-white Sunday TV territory (which was when I caught it on BBC2). Furthermore, she probably should have caught that boat – given the chance, there’s no way anyone would choose swimming in the sea over a gorgeous pool.

Laurence Anyways (2012) – 6.5/10

Director/Writer: Xavier Dolan
Starring: Melvil Poupaud, Suzanne Clément
Fred: “We have three hours.”
Laurence: “It’s a lifetime.”

Hot off J’ai tué ma mère and Heartbeats, Xavier Dolan (born 1989!) responds to accusations of narcissism by not acting in Laurence Anyways – just taking the role of director, editor, writer and costume designer. The three-hour epic love story spans a decade and, as subtly noted in the above quotation, really feels like a lifetime.

The exhaustion is partially deliberate as Laurence Anyways pans out into a traditional story of failed romance that’s more universal than the central concept. Laurence (Poupaud) and Fred (Clément) are a couple who find their love tested upon a confession: Laurence wishes to become a woman. Fred sticks with Laurence, despite reservations, and a tidal of emotions pour out through the complications – at one point, a living room is flooded in slow motion. If that miraculous moment is a tribute to The Shining, it’s not alone in maintaining a Kubrick sensibility: the opening font, A.I. echoing in the first scene, the Barry Lyndon-style shots, and the full title: Laurence Anyways (or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Sticking in Stylish Shots Regardless of Cohesion).

“We see a lot of them in the street,” says a waitress. “Some are professionals.” Fred unleashes a magnificent rant in response. Laurence wears women’s clothing to school, strolling down the corridor to bombastic electronic. These moments are agonising and agonisingly beautiful right down to the scale at which Dolan draws out the pair’s doomed love – the tag line could easily be the cliche of “can’t live with them, can’t live without them”.

However, Dolan’s flair often distracts from the characters’ pain, as if they’re just puppets in a show where occasionally items of clothing fall from the sky for little reason other than it looks cool. Even simple pieces of dialogue (which could be cut, anyway) are regularly deterred by tricks such as camera wheeling from room to room, as if guest-directed by Wes Anderson. Dolan does still demonstrate technical growth, maturing from Heartbeats and J’ai tué ma mère, and perhaps if he could have bettered them if he wasn’t the editor for his own work. When Laurence cries that enough is enough, after two-and-a-half hours the viewer empathises.

The Long Day Closes (1992) – 8/10

Director/Writer: Terence Davies
Starring: Leigh McCormack, Marjorie Yates
“Dreams are private – to be shared with no one.”

The escapist joy of cinema doesn’t receive enough credit onscreen, considering the high ratio of filmmakers who probably grew up like Bug in Davies’ touching slice of nostalgia. Set in Liverpool, the 11-year-old boy is physically beaten at school by both teachers and fellow pupils. There’s comfort at home with a loving family (loving enough to endure his musical numbers), but it’s a struggle to find a companion for the pictures.

Wistfully gazing out of the window, orchestral sounds and harmonic tunes stream through Bud’s consciousness. Certain angles and mundane activities travel through the years, buried in a melancholic memory. The strong presence of religion gains its own cinematic quality, too – the fear that penetrates through a young child’s mind where life is a mixture of boredom and pain. Thank heavens for films, eh?

The Machine (2014) – 3/10

Director/Writer: Caradog W James
Starring: Caity Lotz, Toby Stephens, Denis Lawson
“A fact’s a fact.”

Pretty bad. I wrote a bit about it here.

Muppets Most Wanted (2014) – 6/10

Director: James Bobin
Writers: Nicholas Stoller, James Bobin
Starring: Ricky Gervais, Ty Burrell, Tina Fey
“I don’t mean to be a stickler, but this is our seventh sequel to our original motion picture.”

I’ve heard a few complaints that this latest outing from the Muppets (“DIE MUPPETS” in Germany) lacks heart. Well, maybe. But I’ve never felt much of a sentimental connection with the Muppets anyway, and in fact my favourite rendition of “Rainbow Connection” is a cover by Rivers Cuomo. In this, the ill-timed element of Russian gulag comedy is an unexpected twist, full of unconvincing accents that kept me chuckling.

The joke rate is impressive, with more hitting than missing. Even if it’s a step-down from the 2011 reboot, at least there’s a reference to The Seventh Seal in the first few minutes.

My Dinner with Andre (1981) – 4/10

Director: Louis Malle
Writers: Andre Gregory, Wallace Shawn
Starring: Andre Gregory, Wallace Shawn
“I wouldn’t put on an electric blanket for any reason.”

I adore The Trip, but suspect future generations will hate it. My nightmare dinner party: Andre Gregory, Wallace Shawn, and anyone who recommends this movie.

My Stuff (2014) – 2/10

Director/Writeer: Petri Luukkanen
Starring: Petri Luukkanen
“Your things aren’t a measure of happiness.”

It’s always a bad sign when a documentary has shades of Garden State. Read my one-star review for Grolsch Film Works here.

Naked (1993) – 8/10

Director/Writer: Mike Leigh
Starring: David Thewlis, Lesley Sharp, Katrin Cartlidge
“Man will cease to exist. Just like the dinosaurs passed into extinction, the same thing will happen to us. We’re just a crap idea. We’re not fucking important.”

That diatribe emerges from Johnny, a 27-year-old who’s a victim and bully; a helpless child mistaken for 40; insistent there is no future, while talking about the future; cruel misogynist and patient listener. The contradictions herald from an ambiguous history: running away from Manchester to escape a nasty incident, he camps in his ex-girlfriend’s east London flat.

Johnny eventually wanders the streets, shouting philosophical theories at strangers. Even if his rants are either incomprehensible or completely illogical (with hindsight I can confirm the world did not end in 1999), his existential wails are ignored by night workers who hate their menial jobs. For instance, there’s a security guard who just has to occupy a building, without even guarding any worthwhile materials – with little meaning, the worker is alone at night with a tasteless sandwich, occasionally spying on a woman in an opposite building.

Leigh introduces these frustrated, kicked-down characters every few scenes; despite serving obvious metaphorical purposes, the backgrounds are fully in check. The language is also devilishly smart, while bordering on a manic teenager with a new thesaurus. Russell Brand would probably play womanising Johnny in a modern remake.

The screenplay is also much smarter than a simple twist of good guys and bad guys. Somehow, Johnny isn’t exactly the main villain when compared to Jeremy, a smartly dressed landlord and rapist. Aside from financial differences, they do share a disturbing affinity for sexual predation. It could be that the notes in a wallet is what give a man the confidence to become a monster.

The women are frequently victims to abusive men. Johnny is a comically exaggerated Tory figure who strolls in, kicks over he pleases, fucks who he wants, and has a taxi waiting for when his fun is over. Calling the state isn’t an option. “They’re gonna take one look at him in his suit and one look at us,” remarks Sophie. “Who do you think they’re gonna believe?”

Noah (2014) – 4.5/10

Director: Darren Aronofsky
Writers: Darren Aronofsky, Ari Handel
Starring: Russell Crowe, Jennifer Connelly, Ray Winstone, Emma Watson, Logan Lerman
“You want revenge, don’t you?”

Aronofsky undertaking the story of Noah was always perplexing. Did he envision Noah to be a tortured artist like the central figures of Pi, Black Swan and The Wrestler? No, he saw Russell Crowe. The psychological issues surrounding Noah are the film’s highpoint, even if those questions could have been asked in the queue to buy a ticket. Why did he build an ark? Why did he want to make a film about someone building an ark?

The film’s curveball comes from a staunch pro-vegan message running throughout, whereby The Creator kills off mankind to save CGI animals. And when that turns out to be as effective as the mooing cow in “Meat is Murder”, there’s the moral quandary: do you kill your two grandchildren because of the voices in your head? These issues are thrown at Noah because he’s tasked with judging mankind and whether there’s any goodness left. From the example of the girl caught in a stampede, his criteria involves physical beauty, Hollywood whiteness, and the approval of his son’s loins – Logan Lerman playing yet another ridiculously hormonal teen who can find a MPDG among a pile of dead bodies.

All of these questions are unavoidable as the story – or myth, as Aronofsky calls it – is inherently absurd, even if taken as a symbolic lesson. Thusly, it’s always going to be strange, despite a mainstream release, while also explaining why Paramount’s ultra-religious edits were also unable to appease Christian viewers in pre-production. But much of the weirdness comes from a disparity from what one expects from the Bible, or even an Aronofsky film. Blink during the 3-second montages, only to see The Watchers stomping around like something from Mordor. Also note that it was shot in Iceland, a place regularly used by sci-fi directors to depict alien planets.

The birth of the universe is glimpsed in between time lapses, with a two-minute sequence probably the film’s highlight: cutting down the evolution of Earth with a clinical edge missing from the rest of bloated film. Life on the ark stagnates when it’s apparent how underwritten the female characters are, serving little more than potential baby carriers or someone for Noah to yell at. It’s so problematic and frustrating, there’s rarely a dull moment – no wonder Christians hate it because they’re the ones who have to take this seriously.

Plot for Peace (2014) – 6/10

Directors: Carlos Agulló, Mandy Jacobson
Starring: Jean-Yves Ollivier

I gave this 3 stars for Grolsch Film Works.

Rubberneck (2013) – 3.5/10

Director: Alex Karpovsky
Writers: Garth Donovan, Alex Karpovsky
Starring: Alex Karpovsky, Jaime Ray Newman, Dennis Staroselsky
“Just wait. Let me call for some help.”

I’ve seen Karpovsky (Ray in Girls) in a few films now, and his characters are usually the same: socially inept, bitter with jealousy, and resembling “golden era” Woody Allen without any jokes. It’s a role he carries with frightening ease, so his leftfield turn in Rubberneck catches your attention – but not for long.

As director and co-writer, Karpovsky is likely determined to embrace something different. And, to his credit, Rubberneck is a push in a new direction. The paranoid atmosphere grows out of a typically mumblecore storyline: man has a fling with a woman, then loses her to a co-worker.

Mystery emerges with assistance from eerie music, faux-Lynchian shots of a laboratory and slow camera reveals of, well, not much in particular. Little happens, which would be fine if there was any tension. Frankly, you recognise during the middle act that there’s little substance underneath; when Karpovsky suspects his body infected by an emotional infliction, it takes more than a few twitchy groans to convince the viewer.

Sleepaway Camp (1983) – 3/10

Director/Writer: Robert Hiltzik
Starring: Mike Kellin, Katherine Kamhi, Paul DeAngelo
“If she were any quieter, she’d be dead.”

Mindblowing. Skip to the last five minutes. You won’t regret it.

Veronica Mars (2014) – 6/10

Director: Rob Thomas
Writers: Rob Thomas, Diane Ruggiero
Starring: Kristen Bell, Jason Dohring, Krysten Ritter
“I’m addicted.”

In place of the long-promised Party Down movie, we instead paid for a double-sized episode of Veronica Mars. The film comes from a Kickstarter launch that is particularly murky considering it’s a Warner Bros. production, who aren’t exactly short in cash, and how everyone’s conveniently forgotten that the trashy third season was a crime Veronica Mars chose to ignore.

Basically, there was a lot of pressure to not short change the fans. And Veronica Mars delivers in that respect. The solid film is about as solid as one of the early episodes – while looking like one too – that didn’t concentrate too hard on a season-arc mystery. But that capsule mystery style was a major factor of the show’s demise, and Veronica Mars does little to cinematise itself – it’s just another episode, which is presumably what the hardcore fans want.

Major and minor characters reappear, which is both comforting and frustrating considering how much it takes up of the running time. Seriously, it’s like the homecoming scene in Elizabethtown when figures of the past keep reappearing to say hello. Once the catch-ups are had, then the story can really begin: how a smart, funny teenager can’t shake out the teenage detective within her, despite the zeros in her future law career paycheques. So, in that sense, it all builds for another film, which would make the comeback a TV series. Another Kickstarter?

Follow @halfacanyon for more.

This month: “The Amazing Spider-Man 2”, “Boyhood”, “Coming Home”, “Half of a Yellow Sun”, “Ilo Ilo”, “Irma Vep”, “Kumiko, the Treasure Hunter”, “Lilja 4-ever” (pictured above), “Monkey Business”, “Obvious Child”, “Permanent Record”, “Short Term 12”, “The Temp”, “They Came Together” and “The Voices”.

I’m also going to use this spot to promote a few articles I’ve written elsewhere, including 2,000 words on “Gregg Araki’s misfits and losers”, a piece on “Six awesome-looking Kickstarter music documentaries”, an argument on why “Richard Linklater’s Boyhood is his best since Dazed and Confused”, an interview with Anthony Chen, and a preview of this year’s Hot Docs festival in which I reviewed: The Case Against 8, The Overnighters and Watchers of the Sky. Most importantly (maybe wrong word to use), I spent aaaaages on a feature called “Tracing Richard Ayoade’s cinematic influences” with some image-heavy evidence. Now I’m going to head to the shops to buy some biscuits, but I guess you didn’t need to know that.

The average score this month is 6.13/10. You might also notice I went to Sundance London, which makes this a very special blog post. Film of the month is Boyhood or The Voices, neither of which will come out for a few months. Sorry. Follow @halfacanyon for more.

The Amazing Spider-Man 2 (2014) – 6.5/10

Director: Marc Webb
Writers: Alex Kurtzman, Roberto Orci, Jeff Pinker
Starring: Andrew Garfield, Emma Stone, Dane DeHaan, Jamie Foxx, Sally Field
“Soon everyone in the city will know what it feels like to live in a world without power. Without mercy. Without Spider-Man.”

Like a controversial Oxford comma, New York persistently wonders if it needs Spider-Man. That floating paranoia is redolent of writers trying to instil something new to a story that was adequately covered by Sam Raimi not that long ago. At the same time, this new incarnation of the webbed superhero is aiming for a middle-ground that’s not as ambitious as Nolan or Marvel, but safe enough to avoid any Green Lantern box office disaster. Let’s be honest: the “Amazing” isn’t fooling anyone. This is the same story with a slightly altered cast. And, like the previous instalment, it’s light entertainment that’s more fun than its rivals, yet still bogged down by superhero cliches.

The secret weapon – or, basically, Marc Webb’s equivalent of a spider sense – is Dane DeHaan’s unsettling turn as Harry Osborn, a childhood friend of Peter Parker who turns into some weird goblin creature. (Just a reminder to check Facebook to see how your school friends are doing.) DeHaan is becoming an example of Chekhov’s “gun” analogy; following Chronicle and Kill Your Darlings, he will always transform into an evil persona by the final act. His eyes are certainly more menacing than anything James Franco could muster previously.

Although I hardly consider 500 Days something to proud of, Webb’s background is romantic comedies. Garfield and Stone don’t have the chemistry intended, but it’s more tolerable than any upside-down kisses. The human element is Webb’s core to such an extent that one villain, The Rhino, appears to just be Paul Giamatti dressed up as a 21^st century pachyderm. When it comes down to fight scenes, the tactic is to discombobulate the viewer: shake the camera, toss around electrical sparks, and bring the noise. The real fight scenes are verbal.

The weak link of the cast? Probably Jamie Foxx as Electro, whose genesis involves electric eels and clumsiness. He echoes Mr Freeze, except no one will be watching a YouTube compilation of his lines. Luckily, there’s always DeHaan around the corner, even if at times he’s auditioning for a Bond villain (and totally deserves it). Similarly, Garfield has perfected the art of nimbly bleating one-liners at inappropriate moments, rather like a hairdresser who won’t stop talking. That should be the next villain.

Boyhood (2014) – 9.5/10

Writer/Director: Richard Linklater
Starring: Ellar Coltrane, Patricia Arquette, Ethan Hawke
“Photography doesn’t add anything. Art does.”

Believe the hype. By which I mean, read this feature I wrote for Grolsch Film Works about “Why Richard Linklater’s Boyhood is his best since Dazed and Confused”.

Coming Home (1978) – 6.5/10

Director: Hal Ashby
Writers: Robert C. Jones, Waldo Salt
Starring: Jane Fonda, Jon Voight, Penelope Milford, Robert Carradine, Bruce Dern
“How can they give you a medal for a war they don’t even want you to fight?”

From “Ruby Tuesday” to “Strawberry Fields Forever”, slow melancholia permeates through Coming Home. And with good reason. The Vietnam War serves as a backdrop for a painful love triangle made up of three contrasting victims at the corners. Bob (Dern) is the bitter husband who heads off, leaving Sally (Fonda) helplessly alone; she passes the time (and preserves sanity) by volunteering at the hospital, and develops a relationship with Luke (Voight), a paraplegic patient.

The gentle drama ticks along with the mechanics of a traditional storyline – somewhat speeded up unnaturally at times during dramatic set-pieces, as are the political outbursts – but gains an edge through the war’s persistent off-screen presence. Ashby’s better-known Harold and Maude is perhaps the more memorable take on love affairs with unspoken obstacles. However, Sally sees something in Luke missing in Bob, even if it’s likely that they’re both the same person: embittered by the war, just at different stages.

Perhaps the clincher is Sally admitting, “You know, I’ve never been on my own before.” She doesn’t mean to stop there – but doesn’t know which words to add.

Half of a Yellow Sun (2014) – 5/10

Director: Biyi Bandele
Writers: Biyi Bandele, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (novel)
Starring: Thandie Newton, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Onyeka Onwenu
“It’s bland tasting – which is better than bad tasting.”

I wrote a review for Grolsch Film Works and ended it with a rice metaphor.

Ilo Ilo (2014) – 8/10

Director/Writer: Anthony Chen
Starring: Koh Jia Ler, Chen Tianwen, Yeo Yann Yann, Angeli Bayani

I interviewed the director and he described the casting process as making Singapore’s answer to The 400 Blows. You can read that… here.

Irma Vep (1996) – 6.5/10

Director/Writer: Olivier Assayas
Starring: Maggie Cheung, Jean-Pierre Léaud, Nathalie Richard
“I don’t think she knows why she’s here or what René expects of her.”

Irma Vep is more flashy and innovative on paper than on screen, and with good reason. The title (an anagram of “vampire”) reflects a fictional attempt at meshing international genres – the characters find their finished product doesn’t live up to expectations, aside from a talking point for inquisitive journalists hunting for blanket statements.

Films about filmmaking inevitably carry a meta effect, firmly instilled by the protagonist: Maggie Cheung playing Maggie Cheung. Cheung is hired by a French director Vidal (Léaud) to play Irma Vep in a remake of the1915 silent film Les Vampires. As a wink to the audience, Léaud is semi-recognisable as Antoine from The 400 Blows and thus emblemises the French New Wave: an old, fading director who commits the worst crime of not caring.

Vidal hires Cheung for the role because of her iconic stardom in Hong Kong, yet the decision causes uproar as Irma Vep is widely considered to require a French actress. Tellingly, Cheung arrives totally befuddled; she can’t speak French, the production is disorganised, and she is fetishised for her Asian heritage.

Although no ill harm is meant, Cheung is forced into representing Asian cinema for journalists. There’s a sense that she was hired not for her acting chops, but for a Hong Kong flavour – Vidal noticed her through martial arts clips where she was played by a stunt double. Furthermore, wardrobe worker Zoe (Richard) develops feelings for the actress and admitting: “You want to touch her. Play with her. She’s like a plastic toy.”

The intentionally clunky juxtapositions continue. Cheung is dressed up in a Catwoman costume, with each latex squeak more absurd when placed next to the 1915 original. In between, off the film set, Assayas instils a nightwave vibe: motorcycles are driven with hip precision. When least expected, the camera swerves to Sonic Youth’s woozy “Tunic (Song for Karen)”.

Irma Vep sticks to its subversive attitude towards French cinema, unlike the film-within-the-film that inevitably crumbles. At some points it feels like a checklist being ticked off, but then a final amalgamation is revealed: anarchy can still exist in editing.

Kumiko, the Treasure Hunter (2014) – 5.5/10

Director: David Zellner
Writers: David Zellner, Nathan Zellner
Starring: Rinko Kikuchi, Nobuyuki Katsube, David Zellner
“I wanna go Fargo.”

Beforehand, I was concerned Kumiko would effectively be a cinematic mocking of a stupid Japanese woman. Well, it sort of is and sort of isn’t. That may not be helpful, but neither was David Zellner’s Q&A following the screening.

The story involves Kumiko (Kikuchi) chancing upon a VHS of Fargo, the Coen Brothers film with the infamous opening pretending to be based upon real events. By measuring the screen and stealing a map from the library, she pinpoints where Steve Buscemi’s character must have buried the suitcase. Her trip to Minnesota is a series frostbitten mistranslations; a local sheriff asks a Chinese restaurant owner to translate Japanese, and is astounded to discover there’s no overlap.

Kumiko’s motives aren’t that clear. Mainly as she rarely speaks, unless if it’s to her ramen-chewing rabbit. She’s a product of modern office loneliness that interprets “The American Dream” through a fictional suitcase trapped under thick snow. The film doesn’t delve further into that psychological landscape, despite purporting to be from her POV. Instead, a mythical doom envelops the screen: the sound design is haunting, the cinematography crisply plucks out the jagged edges of everyday objects.

There are even elements of Jarmusch’s deadpan humour in places (particularly Mystery Train and The Limits of Control). But Zellner lacks Jarmusch’s rhythm or poetry, and, while technically astute, is rather hollow. At least she didn’t pick up a copy of The Ladykillers.

Lilja 4-ever (2002) – 8.5/10

Director/Writer: Lukas Moodysson
Writers: Oksana Akinshina, Artyom Bogucharsky, Lyubov Agapova, Liliya Shinkaryova
“You didn’t get any letters today. I think your mother’s forgotten you.”

After the light comedy of Fucking Amal and Tillsammans, Moodysson slams a crushing blow to viewer happiness with the deceivingly titled Lilja 4-ever. I think it might even be more traumatic than All About Lily Chou-Chou.

Like a rock-and-roll Dancer in the Dark, Moodysson opens with the sounds of German metal outfit Rammstein (a trick that preceds Nymphomaniac by more than a decade). Lilja (Akinshina) runs for her life, rather tragically as part of a screenplay based on a real human trafficking incident. She comes across ill luck at every plot turn, while her fantasies about escape are never more than that. In other words, Moodysson thrusts the emotional torture on the screen, with the von Trier-style playfulness kept separate from the central arc.

16-year-old Lilja isn’t fortunate enough to be born into the family safeness of We Are the Best! or Tilsammans. In a grey part of Russia, her mother abandons her to fly to America with a new boyfriend. After ten minutes, Lilja is in tears and yet the heartbreak has barely started. The circular warning signs aren’t a coincidence, and Moodysson’s political intent proves to be a catalyst for awareness and anger. Without a family, she’s alone in a tiny, damp apartment – imagine Home Alone without the fun gadgets, without Christmas, and the burglars are rapists.

Every mistake Lilja subsequently makes is obvious and understandable, as is Moodysson’s religious response: if only she had some sort of guide. Lilja is betrayed when her best friend Natasha indirectly sends them both towards prostitution. Subsequently, her only friend left is Volodya (Bogucharsky), a younger boy who she only spends time with because there’s no one left. (Think back to the scene in Fucking Amal when Agnes complains about forced friendships being worse than loneliness.) The punctured basketball is a metaphor too far, but the emotional turmoil is effective.

By the time Lilja is selling her body (as opposed to rumours started by Natasha), the viewer can already empathise. What happens next is terrifying and paints Lilja 4-ever as both a horror and warning. The Christianity aspect is obvious, as Lilja could do with some guidance in the absence of a parent. But Moodysson’s religious fervency is diluted by a punk attitude full of vitriol; any hope, even false beliefs dreamt up on a prison floor, can inflate a punctured basketball.

Monkey Business (1952) – 3/10

Director: Howard Hawks
Writers: Ben Hecht, Charles Lederer, I.A.L. Diamond
Starring: Cary Grant, Ginger Rogers, Marilyn Monroe
“As soon as I put on some clothes I’ll try to fix some of the wreckage I’ve made of our lives.”

The writers have an astounding list of credits, including many of Billy Wilder’s achievements. The same can also be said about the cast and the director – the latter with the added bonus of almost being the inspiration for The Aviator. However, Monkey Business doesn’t deserve much more than an introduction which amounts to a weak punchline.

Grant develops an anti-ageing potion; hilarity doesn’t ensue. The screwball elements continue like The Hangover for the ‘50s, complete with light sexism, light racism and animal cameos.

Obvious Child (2014) – 7.5/10

Director: Gillian Robespierre
Writers: Gillian Robespierre, Karen Maine, Elisabeth Holm
Starring: Jenny Slate, Jake Lacy, Gaby Hoffmann
“I’m not the angel on top. I’m like the menorah on top that burns it down.”

Robespierre described Obvious Child in the screening’s Q&A as a response to Juno and Knocked Up. In other words, a comedy where the female lead can be funny. have an abortion without being judged. The dramedy goes further by casting the excellent Jenny Slate in the main role of Donna Stern: a stand-up comedian whose act is an amalgamation of gross-out humour and over-sharing. Not only has she urinated in every swimming pool she’s been in, she’s not afraid to let you know, and it’s oddly charming.

The immediate comparison is with Lena Dunham’s Girls, particularly the early episode with Jessa’s abortion. However, Obvious Child pertains its own rhythm and warmth, largely carried by Slate’s emotional depth and tremendous comic timing. Also, she is a pro at acting surprised while squeezed inside a cardboard box.

Permanent Record (1998) – 4/10

Director: Marisa Silver
Writers: Jarre Fees, Karry Ketron, Alice Liddle
Starring: Keanu Reeves, Pamela Gidley, Michelle Meyrink, Jennifer Rubin
“How’s the show going, buttercup?”

Despite its title, Permanent Record is a forgettable drama about the aftermath of a teenager’s suicide – primarily the shock and mourning of his friends who never saw it coming. There isn’t an obvious catalyst like drugs or abuse; more boredom and an underlying depression, despite a promising future. Of course, everyone’s sad. The pupils practise songs he wrote and visit his place of death. Tears are shed, beers are shared.

Slightly watchable as unlikely popcorn fare, like a tragic episode of a soap. Permanent Record is better than that, but not by much. Keanu is decent, and Gidley is even better as the mourning girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?). It’s all fairly standard fare, with a notable exemption being the headmaster’s reluctance to pay tribute in case it “condones” suicide – a subplot relegated below a rock soundtrack.

Short Term 12 (2013) – 7/10

Director/Writer: Destin Cretton
Starring: Brie Larson, John Gallagher Jr, Kaitlyn Dever, Rami Malek, Keith Stanfield
“Maybe I’ll cut myself right now and you’ll all lose your fucking jobs.”

One of the understated qualities of Short Term 12 is its sense of humour, despite the premise: a foster-care home for troubled children, with the carers having their own emotional struggles. Larson is superb as Grace, the main carer in focus. Well, “superb” is the wrong word, given her main qualities as someone truly human. It is through her empathetic body language and affection that she communicates with the most reluctant of adolescents (even the ones who spit in her face and run out the front door).

The drama burns slowly; cliched set pieces are avoided until the latter stages, which sadly unsettle the natural tone. It takes a while to realise how Cretton deftly draws in the audience through mundane conversations and the kind of anecdotes that rarely appeal to friends of friends. By the end, it’s apparent that the highlights aren’t the screaming matches or emotional breakdowns, but actually the characters chatting about old acquaintances and coffee.

The Temp (1993) – 4/10

Director: Tom Holland
Writers: Kevin Falls, Tom Engleman
Starring: Timothy Hutton, Lara Flynn Boyle, Dwight Schultz, Oliver Platt, Faye Dunaway
“I just want to let you know: I take no prisoners and I eat the wounded.”

The Temp is as forgettable and unambitious as the title suggests. Office politics play out in a manner that means I didn’t need to look up the credits to know the director and screenwriters are men. Hutton stars as a divorced employee who resists – somewhat boldly, in the film’s eyes – the temptation of a new temp, played by high-heeled Lara Flynn Boyle. (I think the title is a pun on “temptation”. That, and someone pouring coffee into a pot plant, are the only smart moments.)

It’s not exactly All About Eve. Well, it doesn’t deserve to be in the same sentence. But Boyle rises to the position of Hutton’s secretary, helping him deliver sterling work, but is she trying to overtake him? It’s hard to care when the film is more preoccupied with Boyle’s provocative behaviour that’s a few beats away from soft pornography.

“Why don’t you come in for a swim?” asks Hutton. “This water could do with some warming up.”

She responds, without irony, “Let’s fuck underwater.”

They Came Together (2014) – 4/10

Director: David Wain
Writers: David Wain, Michael Showalter
Starring: Paul Rudd, Amy Poehler, New York, Ed Helms, Cobie Smulders
“I’d rather be alone and happy, than with you and unhappy.”

Mainstream romantic comedies are increasingly winking to the camera, laughing at their own cliches, or having characters reference their own DVD collections. If the two leads fall in love in a manner reminiscent of When Harry Met Sally, that could be deliberate because they own it on VHS, DVD and Blu-ray.

With the genre already establishing a heightened meta-element, David Wain isn’t exactly breaking new ground with its gentle pastiche. They Came Together probably peaks at the promotional poster campaign that uses critical quotes from Deadline referring to casting, and a promise that New York will be so prominent that it’s practically a character. It does feature a mouthwatering cast who are not only trusted comic performers (many are Wain regulars), but have earned paycheques through the material being mocked – Rudd is a particularly apt choice for a non-threatening lead who, as the script jokes, looks as Jewish as you can be without actually being Jewish.

The film itself lingers in an odd funk that’s occasionally amusing, always likeable, yet rarely inspirational. Rhythmically, the stop/start structure (basically exemplifying cliches at a walking speed) would probably benefit from 10-minute chunks in a web series, rather like Wain’s involvement with Wainy Days and Childrens Hospital. Because stretched out, the half-finessed material is exhausting, despite an 83-minute running time.

The Voices (2014) – 8.5/10

Director: Marjane Satrapi
Writer: Michael R Perry
Starring: Ryan Reynolds, Gemma Arterton, Anna Kendrick
“Mr Whiskers?”

My Sundance London experience ended with Ryan Reynolds on stage for a Q&A session. There was some shock that a Hollywood star would be slumming it in Cineworld Screen 7. But the bigger shock was from learning Reynolds can actually act and is largely responsible for The Voices veering into an area of poignancy.

Reynolds to an extent plays the main three roles. In addition to portraying a factory worker called Jerry, Reynolds also voices his two pets: a dour dog with a conscience, and an evil cat that encourages his owner to throw away the pills. For, you see, Jerry is a schizophrenic who floats in a happier, colourful world that can only exist without medication. Satrapi’s colour palette defines an protective imagination that’s full of wonder and, importantly, devoid of loneliness. If God won’t answer his prayers, then at least there’s always a goldfish available for small talk. (“Goldfish, why am I a blogosphere punchline when I was in goddamn Adventureland?” “I can’t remember – my memory’s not so great.”)

I was worried that The Voices would descend into mocking mental illness. Luckily, Perry’s screenplay is more nuanced and is ultimately concerned with the concept of religion: choosing which voices to hear. Jerry is fully aware that his cat and dog can’t talk – Mr Whiskers frequently reminds him of this – and actively flushes away pills to preserve the fantasy. The viewer is fully inside his mind, right down to the apartment’s wallpaper possessing an extra coating of paint that we know isn’t there.

Arterton and Kendrick aren’t blessed with the most sophisticated roles, given they’re just oblivious co-workers – and that’s down to the hollowness of their social interactions with Jerry. Similarly, neither could guess that Jerry’s homelife doesn’t befit his chiselled jaw. The pair spring to life in Jerry’s imagination, firmly creating an image that succinctly dissects the tawdriness of romantic comedies. And as a horror spectacle, it’s a rare example that takes advantage of the accepted belief that serial killers are more interesting than their victims.

As I’m sure most pets do, Jerry’s cat advises him on whom to kill – the results are vividly played for laughs and will stick in the memory. However, it’s the unexpected solo performance from Reynolds (yeah, this is more Buried than The Proposal) that elevates the fucked up humour into something surprisingly moving. Jerry is played with deadpan dedication and the eyes of a psychopath; a few blinks from a manic breakdown. Funnily enough, his prayer to God comes across as more absurd than an argument with his dog about whether to change the channel.

There was an oft-made point that much of the positive reactions for Her were made in post-screening tweets. I drove home to the woods to recommend The Voices to my cat.

Follow @halfacanyon for more.

This month: “8 Minutes Idle”, “Les Amants du Pont-Neuf” (pictured above), “Another Year”, “Bad Neighbours”, “Being There”, “Blue Ruin”, “Buried”, “The Earrings of Madame de…”, “Exotica”, “Frank”, “Godzilla”, “Green”, “Lola Montès”, “Pipe Dream” and “Two Lovers”.

Also, you can read some features I wrote elsewhere, including a defence of Ryan Reynolds (basically following up the McConaissance with a Reynoldssance), and a guide to filming a low-budget indie movie. The average rating is 5.86/10 with film of the month being Les Amants du Pont-Neuf. Follow @halfacanyon for more.

8 Minutes Idle (2014) – 3/10

Director: Mark Simon Hewis
Writers: Matt Thorne, Nicholas Blincoe
Starring: Tom Hughes, Ophelia Lovibond, Antonia Thomas
“We. Are. Brizzle. Yeah?”

Mostly set in a call-centre, this idle romcom is certainly a nuisance. The claustrophobic atmosphere is more to do with its amateurish production than a social satire. Dan (Hughes) works in a call-centre, and, to make life worse, moves in overnight. He also sleeps with his boss and a number of co-workers. My guess it was written by an underpaid employee who, while on the phone, scribbled on his pad his carnal fantasies about work colleagues and how to save rent. It’s a miracle that any studio funded this. They didn’t. It was Kickstarter.

Les Amants du Pont-Neuf (1991) – 8/10

Director/Writer: Leos Carax
Starring: Juliette Binoche, Denis Lavant
“Life outside is right for me, for Alex, but impossible for you.”

Knowing Carax only from Holy Motors, I shouldn’t have been so surprised by the episodic nature in which Les Amants du Pont-Neuf celebrates cinema – and, to a lesser extent, love. Alex (Lavant) and Michèle (Binoche) are two homeless strangers just about surviving on the Pont-Neuf; together they cope like a messed up Aesop’s fable. She’s escaping a torn relationship while also nearly blind, left to deteriorate on the bridge. He’s a limping street performer who becomes, as they joke, her guide dog.

It’s debatable whether it’s more love or mutual dependency. But there’s romance in the cinematic sense – made more spectacular by the intermittently plodding scenes of boredom when the days are just uninterested faces walking past. The undoubted highlight is a booze-driven dance to fireworks by the water, which has the only downside of meaning the film peaks with more than an hour left to go. Stick with it, though, as every act is rich in symbolism: often set in flames, perhaps to distract from the prospect of living in darkness.

There’s almost no dialogue. When there is, it’s about life and death in a remarkably brutal way.

Another Year (2010) – 7.5/10

Director/Writer: Mike Leigh
Starring: Lesley Manville, Jim Broadbent, Ruth Sheen
“How old do you think I look?”

Leigh’s poignant ensemble meets up in the home of Tom (Broadbent) and Gerri (Sheen), a happily married couple whose love has outlived the ridiculousness of their names. Their dinner table proves a magnet for unhappiness: divorcees and alcoholics.

Mary (Manville) is the main one under scrutiny. As Gerri’s secretary at work, she’s been a friend of the family for 20 years. Yet the relationship is rather insidious, even if the bubbling tension will never cause a stir unless snarky whispers are ever overheard. Mary is arguably depressed, arguably an alcoholic, and inarguably lonely – a characteristic that bleeds through a pained attempt to be outwardly cheerful.

Manville subtly takes the role to make Mary an even more family, tragic figure: dependent on friends who don’t appear to like her. Tellingly, Gerri is a professional counsellor; it’s hinted that her kicks in life are from helping strangers, knowing she can smugly return home for more. That’s some hobby, especially as it operates in all four seasons and is more interactive than a stamp collection.

Bad Neighbours (2014) – 4/10

Director: Nicholas Stoller
Writers: Andrew J Cohen, Brendan O’Brien
Starring: Seth Rogen, Rose Byrne, Zac Efron, Dave Franco
“Male erection before One Direction.”

Knocked Up gave birth to the idea of Seth Rogen as a manchild who can carry a movie. Unbelievably, that was only seven years ago. Rogen has since chuckled his way to a false maturity, given his role in Bad Neighbours as a middle-aged parent; along with Rose Byrne, they’re coming to terms with the death of their days of partying – their fun now comes in aimlessly riffing to an Apatow chord. And, at just 97 minutes and with fewer cameos, Bad Neighbours operates like a miniature Apatow vehicle: efficient, condensed and rushed.

The actual semi-sequel to Knocked Up was the overlong, sprawling This is 40. On the other hand, Bad Neighbours sticks to a single premise and hammers it into the ground, before shooting it into the sky with a comically placed airbag. Byrne and Rogen play a couple with a baby on board, only to become aghast when their new neighbours turn out to be frat house led by Zac Efron and Dave Franco. The noise war descends into a series of pranks and a “bros before hos” mentality.

Instead of a three-act structure, there’s more of a three-strike structure. The comedy revolves around the family (by which I mean Rogen, Byrne and baby) tricking the other family (by which I mean the Delta fraternity) into suffering from a “three strikes and you’re out” policy. Three acts, three strikes. And way more than three glances at the watch, especially during an inane sequence involve Rogen milking Byrne after a night of drinking. “I’m the man,” he later recalls in an absurd bedroom sequence involving pizza that could be taken from a late episode of The Simpsons.

A bitter taste runs through Bad Neighbours and its false sweetness – primarily the “bromance” between Efron and Rogen, or Efron and Franco. Or Efron and his whole fraternity. For a film that can only really be from the parents’ perspective, too much time is spent with hammy conversation from the students; Efron’s educational insecurity is neither insightful nor in keeping with his character.

Stoller’s past films may have been about longevity and evolving relationships; here it’s about the jokes. And, aside from a few slapstick moments (most are in the trailer), it’s just not that funny. The defining moment might be Rogen and Byrne fighting over who gets to be Kevin James.

Being There (1979) – 4/10

Director: Hal Ashby
Writers: Jerzy Kosinski, Robert C. Jones
Starring: Peter Sellers, Shirley MacLaine, Jack Warden
“Your anonymity is likely to be a thing of the past.”

I’ve never seen the Mr Bean movie, so this will have to do. And, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure I get the joke (note: singular). The typical Ashby melancholy is absent, given the whole story is so goddamn deliberately stupid. Rich, important people project their emotions onto Chance (Sellers); everyone’s a winner. Is this a satire on society, satire on politics, or just a really overrated comedy with no laughs? If the film’s fans believe it walks on water, I’d disagree.

Blue Ruin (2014) – 6/10

Director/Writer: Jeremy Saulnier
Starring: Macon Blair, Devin Ratray, Amy Hargreaves
“The keys are in the car.”

The momentous moment of Blue Ruin comes when Dwight (Blair) shaves off his forested beard to reveal he is in fact Joe Lo Truglio. What follows is an above-average take on a below-average story about revenge. An ordinary guy realises guns are harder to operate in real life; dark humour follows. Tension ramps up, as does the familiarity, fitting into a murky shade – or genre – of blue.

Buried (2010) – 7/10

Director: Rodrigo Cortés
Writer: Chris Sparling
Starring: Ryan Reynolds
“The situation’s in a… COFFIN! I THINK IT’S FAIRLY WELL CONTAINED!”

One coffin. One actor. One Ryan Reynolds. Way better than it sounds. I watched it for a feature in defence of Ryan Reynolds for Grolsch Film Works.

The Earrings of Madame de… (1953) – 9/10

Director: Max Ophüls
Writers: Marcel Achard, Max Ophüls, Annette Wademant, Louise de Vilmorin (novel)
Starring: Danielle Darrieux, Charles Boyer, Vittorio De Sica
“Unhappiness is our own invention. At times, I’m sad that I lack the imagination for it.”

I’ve never pierced my ears because I associate earrings with pain, money I don’t have, and tiny cuts on my fingers. Well, Ophüls grandiose drama finds the most gut-wrenching of sentiments for one particular pair; jewellery sewn to lost love, the kind that can either be displayed or kept hidden for private comforts; the kind referenced in the title.

Like the similarly excellent Letter From an Unknown Woman, Ophüls focuses on how the heartbreak of a female protagonist goes unnoticed by her male counterparts. Louise (Darrieux) is the downtrodden wife of André (Boyer): a smug general with a mistress on the side. Although the earrings were a wedding gift from André, Louise sells them on, knowing they’re a false symbol of love – small, shiny extensions of an illusion. Through a series of coincidences, they return to her via Fabrizio, a baron who is – in the rarest of world circumstances – a decent human being. She remarks, “They had to go back to Constantinople to make their way back to me.”

What could be any ordinary period romance is turned in an extravagant mystery through a restless camera that’s essentially a character on its own. The lens swirls around countless scenes, each stacked with wealth and, crucially, mirrors. The women trapped in this wasteful lifestyle are unfulfilled and find no pleasure in wardrobes stuff with fur coats, or how jewellery is as commonplace as a free newspaper on the London Underground (sorry, weird simile).

“I wondered why I went on living,” André admits, faces a similar revelation. “I only saw your face.” His decadent days are similarly empty, and he too cannot admit it publically. Maybe a gunfight would be a cathartic end, especially as his favourite phrase of Louise is: “I don’t love you.” Remarkably, André keeps up the façade. Just as the earrings gain a new non-monetary value for the trio, he condemns unhappiness as merely an invention – one for which he pretends to lack the imagination.

Exotica (1994) – 8/10

Director/Writer: Atom Egoyan
Starring: Bruce Greenwood, Mia Kirshner, Elias Koteas, Sarah Polley
“The aroma of fresh flowers and all that other stuff that hasn’t been fucked up by a lot of late nights and bad food.”

The mysteries of Exotica lie in the unfolding layers that unpeel with more intricacy than narrative twists. While the plot is revealed non-chronologically, the puzzle’s real strength is the emotional truths and how the blurred edges find focus; like staring at a magic eye image, only for the picture to emerge because of a line of innocuous dialogue.

Egoyan’s perplexing direction is full of one-sided mirrors – several that are literal, others less so. Authoritative figures stare at suspected smugglers through one-sided mirrors, as do staff at the main strip club. In an opening scene, one criminal’s paranoia is apparent at an airport through an echo-ey voiceover – except it turns out to be a drugs enforcer behind a mirror.

The tricks continue with interspersed images, switching between time frames and plot strands. Yet Egoyan isn’t shuffling his cards just to confuse the viewer. An unspoken sadness lingers through seemingly unconnected scenes.

A sort of unrequited love is almost present – except that’s never the case. Even at Exotica, the titular strip club central to the plot, clients stare longingly at the dancers with secret agendas that don’t concur with sexual urges. Francis (Greenwood) regularly requests Christina (Kirshner) to dance for him, always in a schoolgirl outfit, forming a close relationship that escapes definition: not physical, not romantic, not even conversational.

Watching with jealousy is Eric (Koteas), the club’s DJ who uses the microphone to spout passive-aggressive and insecure thoughts to a room where everyone has too many worries to notice. The viewer finds a similar sensation, as even minor characters are ensnared into uncomfortable environments: Francis hires his niece to babysit in an empty house, and it’s no coincidence a subplot involves a smuggler who hides exotic animals in the wrong habitats.

When Kirshner steps out for her show, she’s dressed in a schoolgirl outfit, slinking in a fake forest to a Leonard Cohen song. It’s bizarre, yet more natural than the surrounding scenes because for a few seconds there’s no unspoken motive or suppressed anger. It might be that on stage she’s escaped other people’s loss by dressing up in a fantasy. “We’re only just a dream away,” says the DJ. “Wherever that is.”

Frank (2014) – 6/10

Director: Lenny Abrahamson
Writers: Jon Ronson, Peter Straughan
Starring: Michael Fassbender, Domhnall Gleeson, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Scoot McNairy
“Stay away from my fucking theremin.”

As a lifelong devotee of Jon Ronson, I’ve been anxiously awaiting Frank for years – even pestering him about it in 2012 after a book reading. Now that Frank is finally in cinemas, I’ve realised that my excitement was actually for Ronson’s accompanying book and Guardian feature. The film is just okay.

Frank is a semi-fictional recreation of Ronson’s own experiences as a keyboard play with Frank Sidebottom, a nasal-voiced singer best remembered for performing inside a nightmarish papier-mâché head. Michael Fassbender embodies Frank in the film and, like Sidebottom, resides inside the surreal mask. He fronts The Soronprfbs (deliberately unpronounceable), a left-field band that needs a keyboardist who can play “C”, “F” and “G”. This is where Jon steps in.

Domhnall Gleeson plays Jon as a fame-hungry loser who live-tweets the band’s developments; he’s eager for attention, that’s for sure. The group has a history of suicidal keyboardists (to be fair, it’s better being the guitarist) and has Maggie Gyllenhaal as Clara, a temperamental theremin player. Much of the comedy comes from these oddballs experimenting with recording techniques (sharpening pencils) or mental states (“Stop thinking in the key of C!”). It’s a watchable introduction that plays upon the media’s manipulation of mental illness – particularly with cult singers – and how much is down to exploitation.

Frank falters when it deviates into a more literal idea of its teased ideas. Primarily, Frank doesn’t cope well with the prospect of fame – if the fake head initially looked attention-seeking, it’s now clearly a protective shield. Jon ambers on the band to a SXSW showcase, pretty much profiting from the other members’ documented eccentricities. However, these quirks are borne from sadness and a misfit’s melancholy. It could easily be the paranoia of a bestselling investigative journalist wondering if he’s ruined any of his subjects’ lives.

The transformation from comedy to drama is more efficient than emotional. Personally, I preferred the subtleties: Frank’s small talk with Jon; Clara’s mystique and resentments; wondering what kind of tunes will be produced by The Soronprfbs. Once they hit the road, there’s a sense of going through the motions. Mental illness (and how it can happen to anyone) is touched upon in conversation, but not by much. Although rich in humour (particularly Gyllenhaal’s short fuse), Frank works better as an idea – much like the band itself. Be sure to check out Ronson’s accompanying writing, though.

Godzilla (2014) – 5.5/10

Director: Gareth Edwards
Writer: Max Borenstein
Starring: Aaron Taylor-Johnson, Bryan Cranston, Elizabeth Olsen, Ken Watanabe
“There is an electromagnetic pulse and it’s going to send us back to the Stone Age. You have no idea what’s coming.”

The lizard – ol’ Godz – emerged as a metaphor for Japan’s anxiety about nuclear war; the unstoppable, inevitable monster in the ocean that could pounce on Tokyo at any moment. Of course, Roland Emmerich’s 1998 version of Godzilla (the one with Jamiroquai) was less subtle, and more inclined to rattle out as many dinosaurs without paying royalties to Michael Crichton.

This latest American take (although Edwards is Welsh) is also lacking in nuance, but maintains its dignity through careful pacing and surprising restraint – tension builds and builds before the first full shot of the eponymous star stomping into the picture, like Liam Gallagher swaggering on stage after the supporting acts. Godzilla is also about as tuneful and meaningful as Oasis, roaring for the sake of roaring to a screaming crowd. The oversized reptile, we are told, dates back to happier times when creatures feasted on radiation, before hiding underground to soak up the Earth’s core. Not so much the Atkin’s diet, but the Atomic diet.

There’s little new about Godzilla, nor its underdeveloped riff on nature fixing itself. Coming so soon after the stupidly mindboggling spectacle of Pacfic Rim, Edwards’ disaster movie smacks of a let-down; a blockbuster with aspirations to be, well, Monsters. However, there’s little attempt to find any satire of new meaning in the familiar tale. At best, Godzilla represents Godzilla itself, as the unsinkable behemoth franchise that comes and goes at will, forcing onlookers to pay attention.

Outside of Godzilla and two MUTOs (Massive Unidentified Terrestrial Organism, duh!), there are a few humans. It’s hard to remember them, seeing as the film itself forgets them just as quickly. One scientist, played by Watanabe, recites lines (“reborn like a butterfly”) as if reading a cue card in an SNL sketch. Taylor-Johnson is as ineffective a hero as his character in Kick-Ass, while Olsen has about five minutes of screen time to emote. Cranston and Binoche face similarly underwritten parts that barely amount to delivering exposition; at best, they symbolise a crude era of modern television slamming a door in the face of arthouse cinema, leaving the latter to die in a cloud of poison.

Just awaiting the mash-up of the bridge scene with Binoche’s dance in Les Amants de Pont-Neuf.

Green (2012) – 2/10

Director/Writer: Sophia Takal
Starring: Kate Lyn Sheil, Sophia Takal, Lawrence Michael Levine
“If I can’t plant, there’ll be nothing growing. And if I can’t grow, then what the fuck am I going to write about?”

I’ve noticed a mumblecore tradition that states a film’s editor, as if that role is of equal importance to the director and writer. Well, all three positions are taken by Sophia Takal in a film so bland, you suspect that editing was salvaging something, anything, from the directing.

The dull relationship story is the classic: couple retreat to a woods, local woman creates an awkward triangle. There’s no extra layer, unless you count the mystic silences and placid scenery as anything substantial. The characters themselves have few discernible features, apart from Takal – her schtick is to be a Southern gal, yapping about crosswords and a fear of modern life. It’s a garrulous caricature who is supposed to be dull, and Takal’s portrayal of that side is one of the few things Green does well.

Lola Montès (1955) – 3.5/10

Director: Max Ophüls
Writers: Annette Wademant, Max Ophüls, Cecil Saint-Laurent (novel)
Starring: Martine Carol, Peter Ustinov, Anton Walbrook, Oskar Werner
“Of course, I’m not old. But the king was old, and you see how that ended. Moreover, you didn’t love him.”

I will have to give Lola Montès another viewing at some point, given how much I adore the other Ophüls films I’ve seen. Lola (Carol) is the centrepiece of both the drama and a circus act. The show – typically extravagant and nightmarish – is interrupted by a villainous circus master (Ustinov) and flashbacks to various chapters of Lola’s life: heartbreak, tragedy, flat scenes that never resonate.

Pipe Dream (2002) – 5/10

Director: John C. Walsh
Writers: John C. Walsh, Cynthia Kaplan
Starring: Martin Donovan, Mary-Louise Parker, Rebecca Gayheart
“You know what the great irony here is?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”

In a precursor to the first season of Weeds, Donovan and Parker play an on/off romantic couple with their own secrets. Well, mainly Donovan: a plumber who successful fakes his way as an indie director despite knowing nothing about film, while also stealing Parker’s screenplay for the process. He’s going to this effort to bang a pretty actress, but will he find love somewhere else?

So, it’s not exactly that intricate as a twisty narrative. And neither is it an effective satire on the film industry or auteur theory. It’s also a comedy without any bite or noticeable gags. Donovan and Parker do however keep it blissfully watchable by amiably hacking their way through a light romcom that’s too stupid to take seriously, but stupid enough to maintain attention. Full marks for a running gag about a screenwriter wondering how films will play to an “average person”.

Two Lovers (2009) – 8/10

Director: James Gray
Writers: James Gray, Richard Menello
Starring: Joaquin Phoenix, Gwyneth Paltrow, Vinessa Shaw, Isabella Rossellini
“You think if I got to know you, I wouldn’t love you. But I do know you, and I love you even more. I do understand you, Michelle. I’m fucked up too.”

I like to think of Two Lovers as a prequel to Her, with Phoenix’s portrayal of Leonard showboating how lengthy bouts of loneliness and inertia inevitably lead to wild self-rescue missions. Early on we see him try to drown himself, with hints that it’s not the first time – terminally alone, yet only half-heartedly attempting suicide.

With those odds, one can gleam impatience in Leonard’s dissatisfaction with life, especially by how quick he is to strike up a friendship with frowny neighbour Michelle (Paltrow). In her, Leonard shares a mutual melancholy and restless energy – the kind missing from his semi-arranged date with Sandra (Shaw), who offers a parent-pleasing escape of security and gentle conversation.

There’s nothing particularly earth-shattering about the plot of Two Lovers, even if it is supposedly based on a popular Fyodor Dostoyevsky story. Michelle may have baggage (over-tendency to drink, a doomed affair with a married man), but it’s less clear what she needs from Leonard other than a backup – which he is delighted with, if it means an evening away from the bedroom in his family home. He’s painfully aware he’s too old to be living at home, and here is a woman who doesn’t even think it’s an issue worth mentioning in conversation.

Phoenix begins a remarkable streak (along with The Master and Her) of lovable losers who can’t elucidate their emotions. But it’s in the stutters and broken sentences that a primal loneliness emerges; his actions and occasional sprints are of someone desperate to love – chasing someone who’s practically the girl next door is logical, even when her complex emotions by definition placate her as someone who isn’t a typical film-y “girl next door”.

Follow @halfacanyon for more.

This month: “22 Jump Street”, “Buffalo ‘66” (pictured above), “Cheap Thrills”, “Diana”, “Edge of Tomorrow”,“Fruitvale Station”, “Grace of Monaco”, “Somebody Up There Likes Me”, “Supporting Characters”, “X-Men: Days of Future Past” and “We Own the Night”.

You can read some other things I’ve written recently including a feature on why “Kevin Corrigan is the most underrated supporting actor of all time”, a feature on “Acting methods and the actors who use them”, and a short story called Vandpyt. The average rating is 5.82/10 with film of the month being Cheap Thrills. Follow @halfacanyon for more.

22 Jump Street (2014) – 7/10

Directors: Phil Lord, Chris Miller
Writers: Michael Bacall, Rodney Rothman, Oren Uziel
Starring: Jonah Hill, Channing Tatum, Ice Cube, Wyatt Russell, Amber Stevens
“We’re like Batman and Robin, except we’re both Batman.”

Like the ugly duckling that turned out to be a swan, 22 Jump Street is a pleasant surprise that doesn’t resemble a duck. The sequel to 21 Jump Street, based on a 1987 TV series, isn’t ashamed to rehash the same jokes (and rehash the same jokes about rehashing the same jokes). Officers Schmidt (Hill) and Jenko (Tatum) once again go undercover as students – this time at college – to source the production of a drug called WHYPHY that coincidentally has the same damaging effects of internet Wi-Fi.

Hill and Tatum share an on-screen chemistry far more convincing than the one seen off-screen on chat shows. Tatum, in particular, embraces physical comedy like a perfectly executed dance move. His character, Jenko, spins off into a “bro” friendship with a hunky American football player (Russell), which conjures up an even stronger partnership – is Tatum just a magnetic force who can work in any double act? What helps is that the supporting cast all seem to be “on” in terms of meshing with the film’s limber, wisecracking humour. It’s the kind of reliable ensemble where minor three-line cameos come from Jon Benjamin, Marc Evan Jackson and the guy from Submarine who now only plays drunk college kids.

The tightly edited humour suggests Lord and Miller have a knack at whittling down improv (a featured improv class demonstrates what happens if you don’t) or centring upon pointed wordplay – the Cate Blanchett joke rivals her tour de force in Blue Jasmine for contributions to cinema. However, some of the weaker strands (mainly Hill’s romantic subplot, and his “meta” awkwardness around race and homosexuality) will prove a slog should anyone consider a second viewing. That might be the franchise’s strength: instead of rewatching the film, wait two years for a sequel that’ll be the same plot with new gags.

It’s worth noting that 22 Jump Street has a post-credits sequence that, unlike the hilarious credits montage, isn’t worth staying for. I knew it was coming and stayed in my seat while cinemagoers deserted the room, leaving behind half-chewed popcorn and dandruff. A cleaner stood by me and passive-aggressively stared at me; she sighed deliberately in my direction, tapping at the end of the row with a brush. My eyes were fixed firmly on the ground, to signal that I was waiting for the final scene, not due to a fixation over who handled Second Unit. Finally, the post-credits scene: it’s five seconds and tells an unfunny transphobic joke. So, now there’s a timestamp for when the series should have finished.

Buffalo ’66 (1998) – 6.66/10

Director: Vincent Gallo
Writers: Alison Bagnall, Vincent Gallo
Starring: Vincent Gallo, Christina Ricci, Anjelica Huston, Ben Gazzara
“I don’t need your pity ‘too good for me’ crap. I’m gonna kill Scott Wood.”

What constitutes a bad day? I know: being kidnapped by Vincent Gallo and having him talk to you for ages. That’s the fate suffered by Christina Ricci in a surreal drama that evolves into an artfully shot case of Stockholm Syndrome. Gallo bares it all: anger, vulnerability, not-so-liberal beliefs. The honesty is hypnotic and occasionally frightening.

Much of the film details Gallo’s trip to his childhood home, with post-production trickery introducing windows into his memories. There’s a sense that every shot and frame is a passive-aggressive statement to a real life person. The drama zigzags in a hit-and-miss fashion, but is held together by Lance Accord’s imaginative cinematography – as intricate as whatever’s going on in Gallo’s mind.

Cheap Thrills (2014) – 8/10

Director: E .L. Katz
Writers: Trent Haaga, David Chirchirillo
Starring: Pat Healy, Sara Paxton, Ethan Embry, David Koechner
Note: Originally reviewed for The Digital Fix.
“The last six months have been fucking awesome. I love the shit out of you.”
“I love you too.”

Ever had a competitive game of charades descend into a knife fight? Cheap Thrills might be for you. First-time director E.L. Katz carves a spiralling tale that bleeds desperation and demented humour, while literally increasing the stakes at each step. Here’s the “American Dream” on a platter: collapsed, damaged, then shoved down a chute for a final humiliation.

Craig (Healy) is a cash-strapped father and husband who loses his job and simultaneous receives an eviction notice. Alcohol proves to be one temporary solution for Craig, who plans an evening with Vince (Embry), an old pal from school. The kicker comes from a wealthy couple in the corner: loudmouth Colin (Koechner) and his silent wife, Violet (Paxton). When Colin purchases the most expensive bottle of tequila using a stack of $100 notes, this clearly isn’t your average drunkard (or an average night out).

Craig and Vince become subjected to a series of escalating dares that begin from slapping a stripper’s arse to defecating in a stranger’s house – and that’s still the early stages. This is all, according to a coked-up Colin, a “real life reality game show” to celebrate Violet’s birthday; she occasionally Instagrams procedures, occasionally breaking her stare to sultrily flirt with Craig. While the two contestants are healthily paid for the embarrassment and can leave at any point, there’s a clear manipulation at play: millionaires throwing scraps at the needy for entertainment. We’re the ones watching.

Set largely in the married couple’s pad, Craig and Vince are victims of greed – and, to an extent, financial necessities. The “what if?” scenarios spiral for comedic purposes; everyone’s hooked in by the thrills of an easy (and disgusting) payday. There’s an early image of a $100 note in a urinal – would you yank it out? That line of questioning is emphasised to a sickening level, designed to elicit groans of disgust and involuntary laughter.

There’s enough evidence that Katz has an eye for discretely heightening tension. The screenplay’s structure and the cast’s chemistry help, sure, but subtle touches add to the mania. Music particularly adds a striking chord; the house’s speaker system emulates Craig’s pounding headache, while Violet hilariously takes to the keyboard at opportune moments. Ultimately, Cheap Thrills comes across like early Roman Polanski with a more anarchic sense of humour. I dare you to see it.

Diana (2013) – 4/10

Director: Oliver Hirschbiegel
Writers: Stephen Jeffreys, Kate Snell (book)
Starring: Naomi Watts, Naveen Andrews
“One minute everyone’s pointing at me because I’m sleeping with the Princess of Wales. Next thing she denies it and I’m the hospital joke.”

The opening few minutes of Diana are scarier than any horror film I’ve seen in recent years. Watts knew she was taking on a morbid role, which she delivers with ghostly conviction. Hirschbiegel foreshadows the car crash at every opportunity, although the biopic – too sincerely pointless and crass to be associated with Sharknado – centres upon Diana’s relationship with a surgeon, Hasnat (Andrews). Their meet-cute is as frothy as it gets, leading to an evening at the palace to discuss Eastenders and “Corrie” – then rounding off with Match of the Day.

There’s little antiroyalist irony in the film’s laboured insistence that Diana was in any way relatable. She’s just like us except she has four mobile phones? Well, I suppose she does seem thoroughly depressed at times. What ultimately happens is that Diana and Hasnat become interchangeable with characters in a disposable romcom – and the Royal Family is in a way just a disposable romcom when you think about it.

At least the inherent trashiness is watchable and possesses an element of fun missing from other historical dramas. After all, I’d sooner rewatch Diana than The King’s Speech. There’s also something to be said about the compellingly undercooked script that is so earnest I felt embarrassing: “Somewhere beyond right and wrong, there is a garden. I will meet you there.” I’m sure guests will be greeted by one of the staff gardeners.

Edge of Tomorrow (2014) – 5/10

Director: Doug Liman
Writers: Jez Butterworth, John-Henry Butterworth, Christopher McQuarrie, Hiroshi Sakurazaka (novel)
Starring: Tom Cruise, Emily Blunt, Bill Paxton
“Come find me when you wake up.”

There’s been a lot of Groundhog Day talk surrounding Edge of Tomorrow because of its plot conceit concerning Tom Cruise reliving the same day over and over again. But there’s no philosophical nerve to be found in Doug Liman’s otherwise rote sci-fi thriller. Nor does Cruise ever inform his co-star, “You like battleships, but not the ocean.”

The more apt comparison is with Source Code, with William (Cruise) and Rita (Blunt) forming a gradually romantic duo repeating the same task until the world is saved. For reasons too laborious to explain, William’s blood is infected by an alien – a specific one, apparently – that controls his mind, or something. It doesn’t make that much sense, and becomes more confusing when a scientist abruptly explains a deeply complex theory in two sentences, before pulling out a contraption that looks like a whisk to assert, “This is our only hope.”

William has all the time in the world – provided he dies, allowing the time loop to continue – to figure out how to bypass aliens; he picks up tips from Rita, embraces depression, and emerges as Tom Cruise in full action mode. Yet, despite this luxury, his hurried nature means he cuts conversations and explanations, which intensifies the film’s rush. The initial war field scenes are also especially thrilling, given the odds that, unlike a conventional thriller, the hero will probably die within a minute.

Aside from the time travel gimmick, Edge of Tomorrow doesn’t take long to become a fairly plodding caper that barely bothers to explain its convenient plot hooks – William’s hallucinations are a particularly egregious example. To ramp up the drama, William loses his power and knows that any death will be a real death. Instead, the film loses its only point of interest, while also increasingly feeling like watching someone play a computer game where Tom Cruise is the only available avatar.

Fruitvale Station (2014) – 7/10

Director/Writer: Ryan Coogler
Starring: Michael B. Jordan, Melonie Diaz, Kevin Durand, Octavia Spencer
Note: Originally reviewed for The Digital Fix.
“Can you show me what your sole looks like?”

The much-delayed UK release of Fruitvale Station finds a poignant, topical drama hitting cinemas 17 months after it swept the awards at Sundance. Ryan Coogler handles both direction and screenplay in an emotional depiction of the final day in the life of Oscar Grant (Michael B. Jordan) – an unarmed 22-year-old African-American shot in the back by a policeman on New Year’s Day in 2009. Although the tragic news story still looms in the memory, there’s still power in how Fruitvale Station opens with camera footage of the event, followed by subtitles: “BASED ON A TRUE STORY”. The driving message should already be clear, but is still important – and relevant – enough for a reminder.

Oscar’s life is one of redemption: a former drug dealer who turns his life around to become a kind-hearted son to his worried mother (Octavia Spencer); a loving father to a four-year-old child; a committed boyfriend to his kindred spirit, Sophina (Melonie Diaz). He comforts a dying dog, helps strangers at supermarkets, and a whole bunch of other nice stuff. While some of these presumably fictionalised aspects have amounted to somewhat of a backlash, I perceive the positive characterisation – as well as the endless foreshadowing – to be heartbreakingly poetic.

Although Michael B. Jordan was in Chronicle, there is a chance that UK audiences might only know him from That Awkward Moment. Jordan’s humble performance in Fruitvale Station singles him out as a star in the making; the relatable presence you’d want for a commemorative biopic. He compellingly portrays Oscar’s mindset as an inward struggle, with glimpses of a former temper problem – flashbacks show how far he’s changed – while noticeably steering himself towards a calmer state of mind.

There is admittedly a question mark over why Fruitvale Station had to be made. There’s little active discussion to be held over the actual incident – the cop’s psychological state, the resulting court case, or the riots that followed. But Fruitvale Station isn’t set out like a documentary, and neither does it come across like exploitation (for that, see the worst film of last year, The Impossible). It’s a touching eulogy of someone who didn’t deserve to die; a painful reminder that racism still exists and often requires a camera phone to pick up the evidence.

Grace of Monaco (2014) – 3/10

Director: Olivier Dahan
Writer: Arash Amel
Starring: Nicole Kidman, Tim Roth, Frank Langella, Parker Posey
“You’re a Philadelphia girl who did far better than a Philadelphia girl could dream of.”

There must have been a time when the production of Grace of Monaco was itself a fairytale: a bankable biopic destined to sweep awards season, while drawing in a specific demographic (who pick films based on the poster and nothing else). The director, Olivier Dahan, is a pro at this type of fare, having scored commercial success not long ago with La Vie en Rose, another historical drama that won its lead an Oscar for Best Actress. This time, rather than Marion Cotillard, he has the ever-reliable Nicole Kidman as Grace Kelly, the Hollywood actress who became a princess; fame and royalty, both entwined in a screenplay that circulated for years with much admiration. With Harvey Weinstein on board, nothing could go wrong. Right?

Well, it’s hard to ignore the calamitous reception awaiting Grace of Monaco when it opened this year’s Cannes to widespread derision. Years from now, Peter Bradshaw’s zingers will probably be more remembered than Kidman’s disturbingly inert performance. Beginning in LA, 1956, it’s made clear that Dahan takes the subject matter seriously: slow movements, endless strings, the whole frame decorated by flowers. Kelly was already a star from Rear Window and The Country Girl, whom then had the fortune – or, rather, misfortune – of marrying Rainier (Tim Roth), otherwise known as the Prince of Monaco. Basically, she swapped one fairytale for another by becoming a princess.

Crucially, both fairytales couldn’t overlap – a Venn diagram made explicit by a clunky cameo by Roger Ashton-Griffiths as Alfred Hitchcock, requesting she considers a role in Marnie. Ironically, for a film so concerned about someone who dreams of being on-screen, the general standard of acting is disarmingly low: lines are delivered without conviction as if the cast weren’t really sure how to emote, while the haphazard editing leaves many signs of post-production mangling. It might just be the distractions of an extravagant set that comes with an expensive wardrobe and a set design intent on flaunting disposable wealth. The other diversion might be the idiosyncratic fixations applied to each character in an unintentional dehumanising manner. Take, for instance, Roth’s forced inclination to smoke whenever he utters flat dialogue; romance, war and sovereignty are all reduced to passive statements.

Given the fractured nature of the central storyline (despite its integral role in history and Kelly’s life), it’s unsurprising that subplots also lack vigour. Even indie favourite Parker Posey fails to bring life through the role of Madge Tibey-Faucon, an impatient lady-in-waiting. The tiredness does at least fit in with Kelly’s claustrophobia within her relationship, with Rainier denying her the chance to act – seeing as being a princess is a performance in itself. She’s locked up in the palace and picks up “movement lessons while the camera zooms in on a symbolic parrot.

“When people dream of marrying royalty, they rarely comprehend what that means,” Kelly is informed. It’s near impossible to empathise given the thinness of the screenplay that one might gleam as a writing exercise gone wrong. The script was at one point on the Hollywood Black List and was part of a bidding war, which suggests the final product is a stubborn compromise involving rewrites and shouting matches. Dahan’s direction is certainly heavy with its score, as if to make up for the emptiness. While Grace of Monaco is far from the clunker one might expect from its Cannes reception, the best that can be said is that it’s occasionally boring; at least Diana had some sense of fun. There’s just no weight behind the actions or emotions behind the eyes. “The world needs Grace Kelly back on the big screen now,” insists Hitchcock. At the end is a final message on screen: “Grace Kelly never acted again.”

Somebody Up There Likes Me (2013) – 7/10

Director/Writer: Bob Byington
Starring: Keith Poulson, Jess Weixler, Nick Offerman, Stephanie Hunt
Max: “Are you good in bed?”
Lyla: “I get about eight hours.”

There’s a chance you’ll hate this a lot. Byington’s style is so steeped into deadpan humour, it’s an aggressive challenge to the viewer. Poulson’s lead role consists on one facial expression, which he carries for decades. The central gag is that his life is played out at five-year intervals, yet no one physically ages. Not even a wig. It’s a subtle joke that’s hammered to death. It’s an odd – and, dare I say it, quirky – world in which women wear yellow dresses at their weddings.

The overwrought language is stuttered by characters who share the same social dysfunctions. As a viewer, you can’t help but laugh when time jumps display that underlying immaturity so prominently, you barely blink when the worst decisions are chosen so bluntly. Some of the affectations become a bit too cloying, particularly Jess Weixler’s breadstick addiction and the non sequitur references to Pulp Fiction’s mysterious suitcase. The soundtrack, too – I’m surprised she didn’t stick those breadsticks into her ears.

I would only proceed depending on how you react to this sample dialogue:

Lyle: “You don’t consider me a friend?”
Sal :”Don’t take this the wrong way. I’ve always considered you more of a son.”
Lyle: “Okay. I’ve always seen you as avuncular.”
Sal: “He’s the one who just had a heart attack.”
Max: “Avuncular means like an uncle.”
Sal: “Like an uncle.”
Lyle: “It’s in A Tale of Two Cities.”
Sal: “You’re thinking uncular. Unculear. Unclear. You’re thinking unclearly.”
Max: “You’re thinking unclearly.”
Lyle: “I was born in this hospital.”

Supporting Characters (2013) – 4/10

Director: Daniel Schechter
Writers: Tarik Lowe, Daniel Schechter
Starring: Alex Karpovsky, Tarik Lowe, Arielle Kebbel

I was kinda hoping for the indie version of The Expendables with people like Adam Scott blowing stuff up, or something. But it’s just a directionless drama about film editors trying to shorten a romantic comedy –intentionally meta, perhaps, but more of a subliminal apology. It works best when Karpovsky and Kebbel rehearse lines that blur fiction and reality. It’s unsettling, exciting, and the only time Supporting Characters attempts to be anything other than mediocre.

X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) – 5.5/10

Director: Bryan Singer
Writers: Simon Kinberg, Chris Claremont (novel), John Byrne (novel)
Starring: Hugh Jackman, James McAvoy, Michael Fassbender, Jennifer Lawrence, Peter Dinklage
Note: This review was originally written for The Digital Fix.
“It is born from the most human power: hope.”

Watching an X-Men film feels like sitting through an examination that challenges your memory, while leaving logic out of the equation. Even with a new time travel gimmick, X-Men: Days of Future Past is – as it’s always been – about bringing the mutant gang together. With Bryan Singer at the helm, he has indeed rounded up the usual suspects.

The list of stars is long, impressive and probably daunting for anyone who isn’t an X-pert. One faction is reintroduced in 2023, a nightmarish future where Sentinels (robots that look like Iron Man) efficiently hunt and kill mutants. The remaining X-Men to have survived this far: Wolverine (Hugh Jackman), Storm (Halle Berry), Magneto (Ian McKellan), Professor X (Patrick Stewart), Shadowcat (Ellen Page) and Bishop (Omar Sy). To cut a lot of exposition short, the Sentinels were created during the Nixon regime by a scientist called Trask (Peter Dinklage). It’s decided that Wolverine will travel back in time – via a vortex created by Shadowcat – to prevent the machines’ creation.

Wolverine’s adventures in the 1973 aren’t exactly Back to the Future in terms of soaking in retro details or playing about with the format. Apart from a few outdated music choices, the era is instead paid tribute through jokes about bad acid. The target audience presumably won’t mind, given a rapid-fire meet n’ greet when Wolverine has to reintroduce himself to the various mutants. “I was sent from the future…” he wearily attests.

Each conversation effectively serves as a reboot for each relationship, while serving up nugget-sized cheat notes for any newcomers. McAvoy is, of course (of course!) the younger version of Stewart’s Professor X, and he lives in hiding with Beast (Nicholas Hoult). Soon, they reteam with Magneto (Michael Fassbender as McKellan’s predecessor) and are on the hunt for Raven (Jennifer Lawrence). With these many stars, the narrativeis inevitably muddled – and that’s before taking into account the time travel and multiple storylines.

Little time is left for developing Dinklage as a villain, or whether Sentinels are anything other than stand-by foes for when a writer is empty on ideas. That might be why the X-Men resort to fighting each other, leading to a battle that’s more to do with personalities than mutant powers. The other heroes outside of the core 1973 timeline are understandably reduced to contractual cameos, and are dealt with the film’s baggage in terms of dialogue and action.

Yet I’m making Days of Future Past sound far more ambitious than it truly is. The underlying message is the usual blockbuster mumbo jumbo about the value of “hope, and whether “pain” makes you stronger – all half-heartedly tacked on in the usual places. For a story that’s more driven by character than special effects, a real trick has been missed. Stylistically, the series is moderate popcorn fare with little to prove, other than how many famous faces it can fit into two hours. (The answer is more than the Nymphomaniac poster.) McAvoy’s Charles Xavier sums it up with a wish: “I’d like to wake up now.”

We Own the Night (2007) – 7/10

Director/Writer: James Gray
Starring: Joaquin Phoenix, Mark Wahlberg, Robert Duvall, Eva Mendes
“Oh man, this shit is making me light as a feather.”

Maybe it’s the presence of Marky Mark, but The Departed looms heavily over We Own The Night. The difference is stark, though, given Gray’s moody style drives at a silent type of self-loathing (as opposed to Catholic guilt). There are no Jack Nicholsons here; just Phoenix mumbling like the actor of his generation. While most of the drama isn’t exactly original, the final sequence is astounding and goes to show that Looper was entirely miscast.

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