Diana (2013)

 September 2013

Cert: 12A / 113 mins.

It’s the near-impossible task of double-Oscar-Nominated actress Naomi Watts to portray Princess Diana. There’s a deep level of strong, opinionated controversy surrounding this movie and its been almost universally critically panned – but when you judge it on its own terms – not in terms of dismissing it for its inaccuracies, and such woefully clichéd dialogue, it’s still a very singular, powerful and memorable character study.

 

Naomi Watts (it was Jessica Chastain originally, but scheduling conflicts for Zero Dark Thirty reportedly intervened), is very good as Diana, in a hugely emotional, uncanny performance; worthy of an Oscar, despite its terrible critical reception, and at best, middling to moderate box office. Watts is particularly good at conveying the brittle, edgy more erratically impulsive side to Diana’s immense humanity – as an incalculably famous figure, under immeasurable scrutiny, quietly containing wells of subtle restraint. 

 

I was far less enamoured with the love story that seemed put-upon, outdated and uninteresting. What was absolutely fascinating to me though, were two other elements: the scenes with her public appearances, speeches, and beautiful locations and costumes – all elegantly designed by production designer Kave Quinn.

 

Particularly striking, are these elaborately reconstructed scenes which are now iconic, such as the infamous (and subsequently disgraced), Martin Bashir interview, staged paparazzi photography of Diana sitting on the edge of the diving board on the yacht, or, most chillingly, the cinematographically rich very first shot is an eerily panoramic one; of hurried night-time preparation, in that fateful hotel in Paris. Director of the much-acclaimed Downfall, Oliver Herschbeigel, increases the level of atmosphere tenfold, by ominously getting rid of almost all the sound completely, as, crucially, she seems to stop, considering staying, leaving us with a rotoscopic backwards pan, and only a muffled, relentless humdrum; it succeeds in a relentlessness of intensity, of what it must be like to be the hounded subject of endless tabloid flashbulbs – even on a shopping trip which descends into utter chaos.

 

As with Thomas Newman’s score for The Iron Lady, this score by David Holmes is simple and urgent, when it suddenly emerges in desperate bursts.

 

Rating:  * * *

 

2022 Awards Season

There’s a rich, exciting and extremely versatile slate of films this year – it’s certainly a more mainstream crop than last year’s muted, movement-conscious affair, whose BAFTA members snubbed everyone from Gary Oldman to David Fincher – I’ll never understand what they had against the magnificent Mank.

This year there’s the divisive but incredibly sharp Don’t Look Up, Del Toro’s magnificent referential noir pulp Nightmare Alley, Aaron Sorkin’s languid but terrific and very underrated Lucille Ball biopic, Being The Ricardos, with Nicole Kidman’s committed (if not entirely aesthetically uncanny; or nearly as hilarious as the real Lucille was), and Javier Bardem magnificent as her increasingly persecuted husband and collaborator Desi Arnez. Both are Oscar nominated – neither will win – the film proving either critically divisive or just middling. There are two more excellent powerhouse performances, from Jessica Chastain and Andrew Garfield in the beautifully costumed, fascinating vitally beguiling, and equally divisive The Eyes Of Tammy Faye. There’s also Wes Anderson’s delightful ode to anthropological journalism, in the idiosyncratic oddity that is The French Dispatch. It seems didactic to say, but it once again exercises a truly unique clockwork precision, that is inimitably him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Though inexplicably not nominated for playing Tammy’s morally duplicitous husband Jim Bakker, Garfield is also a little bit of an outsider’s favourite, to win the best actor Oscar on 27^th March, for his full throttle performance as creative whirlwind Jonathan Larson in Lin Manual Miranda’s musical on Netflix: Tick, Tick, Boom.

I’ll discuss who might win, who should’ve been nominated - and the reasoning behind Hollywood’s biggest night’s continuing decline in popularity, both critically and with its viewership.

 

 

Supporting Actress – The 3 That Got Away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Matrix Resurrections and Eternals – The snubbed blockbusters.

Artemis Fowl Review

Sir Kenneth Branagh is becoming increasingly versatile and mainstream with each film he directs. Somewhat unexpectedly, he directed the first Thor film in the Marvel Cinematic Universe in 2011 (until you realize, Norse mythology of course, can be treated as sharing deep Shakespearian links). He then adapted arguably Christie’s most famous Poirot novel, in his opulently mounted, star-studded version of 2017’s Murder On The Orient Express – playing the exuberantly moustached detective himself.

Now, comes the much delayed, big-screen version of Eoin Colfer’s bestselling young-adult novels. ‘Big-screen’ remains mere wish-fulfilment though - sprinkled in hope by the fairies that populate the narrative’s magical worlds. Branagh’s multi-million-dollar, long gestating project has very sadly been somewhat downgraded to only ever existing through those much-maligned streaming platforms – or, to exercise specificity – the new platform on the evermore competitive block – Disney Plus.

It is such a pity, because its exactly the sort of ambitious, fantastical, blockbusting fare that belongs squarely in the multiplex, instead of within the confines of four corners of ever-decreasing screen-sizes.

  Young Artemis Fowl, is introduced to an entire underground populace of fairies, goblins and giants etc, after his father (another soulfully earnest turn from Colin Farrell) is captured by a faceless, raspy-voiced culprit. Naturally, our titular protagonist is forced to personify the figure of unlikely hero.

  It’s hugely enjoyable, very much in that glossily sheened mould of Robert Rodriguez’s Spy Kids, Anthony Horowitz’s Stormbreaker, a child-palatable version of Matthew Vaughn’s decidedly more adult Kingsman franchise, and a touch of a certain Harry Potter.

  It’s in the supporting roles that the casting choices really shine. Dame Judi Dench’s Commander Root, head elf of Magical Law Enforcement strides onto screen in lime suit and goggled visor with a growly: ‘Top o’ the Mornin’ Cornish accent. It seeks to act as further proof, not that any were needed, that Dench is still finding completely refreshing roles, well into her eighth decade.

Josh Gad, similarly, takes on somewhat of a departure, as Mulch Diggums (a fantasy name for a character, if ever there was one), a giant whose motivations are somewhat ambiguous.

Jake Davies, terrific as the corrupted son and brother in the second series of BBC One’s The Missing, is one of our very best young actors, and here has a small role as one of those lime-suited elves under Dench’s command.

  Jim Clay’s sumptuous production design, and Sammy Sheldon’s costumes, ensure great detail and intricacy is given to every set and character; from Fowl Manor’s gold-encrusted chandeliers, to an entire underwater colony of creatures and security divisions.

  Of course, a cliff-hanger ending sets up an inevitable franchise. There are eight novels in total, so there’s plenty of scope for further instalments.

   The comparatively short running time of 95 minutes jams a lot in, but it’s vibrant, sincere, colourful fun - and a refreshing change for Branagh. I just hope any sequels are released cinematically – which is exactly where they should be.

Rating: * * * 

Vox Lux

Distributor: Curzon

Starring: Natalie Portman, Raffey Cassidy, Jude Law, Jennifer Ehle, Stacy Martin, Micheal Richardson & Christopher Abbott.

Running Time: 114 Mins

Seen At: HOME, Manchester, Wednesday, 8^th May, 2019.

Brady Corbet, today’s American equivalent of the British ‘angry young men’ of the sixties, frequently played troubled, broken souls as an actor. None more so than the best friend of Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s conflicted hustler in Gregg Araki’s uncompromisingly punishing Mysterious Skin. After turning director with 2015’s Childhood Of A Leader, there’s a synchronised irony to the fact that his terrific, absorbing follow-up, Vox Lux, could’ve not only so easily been quite literally dubbed that ‘difficult second album’ directorially, but is a deceptively profound piece, plunged headlong into the strangest and most instantaneous of zeitgeists: that of celebrity. It brilliantly and very topically foregrounds our current preoccupations with fame, validation and the distortion of truth at any cost. Infinitely timely, without hammering its politic stance home with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, as filmmakers such as Harmony Korine or enfante terrible Xavier Dolan could’ve done - it’s a chilly, expertly framed, gloriously uncompromising expose, as understated as it is unapologetically exaggerated - caught in the beautifully constructed, hyperbolic whirligig of consumerist pressure.

There’s a bold, Herrmann-esque, lyrically hallucinogenic score, the last from the late Scott Walker, who’s Vertigo-inducing, pounding, swooningly romanticised strings don’t feel a bit out of place, even in today’s aural landscape.

Opening in an act of stark, shocking style, when a 1999 high school is subjected to a horrendous shooting, with hauntingly indirect echoes of Columbine, which injures the shy Celeste (brilliantly played in teenage form by Raffey Cassidy, so striking in Tomorrowland and Killing Of A Sacred Deer). At the community’s candlelit vigil, she channels the collective mourning into an Adele-style pop-anthem, Wrapped Up, which unexpectedly goes global, turning her into an overnight star.

Taken begrudgingly under the wing of Jude Law’s washed-up music producer (Law’s best performance since 2012’s Anna Karenina), Cassidy’s fantastically assured, yet glassy-eyed demeanour, illustrates Celeste’s descension into someone already slightly jaded by a meteoric rise to fame. There’s a brilliant scene where she’s drawn into a vacuous evening liaison with a disinterested rock-band frontman (Micheal Richardson, grandson to Vanessa Redgrave) while they listen to her self-penned singles in the background.

 Fast-forward twenty years to the present, and Celeste (who’s own daughter is also played by Cassidy), has now transfigured into a Bolan-like, unstable pre-millennial, courted by somewhat inevitable controversy. A glam-rock, quasi-Gaga figure, all peroxide purple quiff and temper tantrum, now played with barnstorming fearlessness by a career-best Natalie Portman, giving an absolute powerhouse performance of self-disillusionment. Her adult Celeste has lost that innocuous sheen of innocence, and Portman’s portrayal is deliciously mannered: twitchy, inflected and drug-addled. It’s the type of no-holds-barred, glorious star-turn, you so rarely see now, one which Academy votes should plump for in next year’s awards season - but probably won’t. She hides behind the high-street celebrity’s customarily eponymous dark sunglasses, to escape the perpetual scrum of press intrusion, and faces off mercilessly in a milkshake bar, against a fan who asks for a selfie, during a fractured attempt at mother/daughter bonding.

There’s a refreshingly minimalist approach to today’s wholly distracting spin-cycle of technology. Corbet doesn’t resort to citing mention of apps, filters or dreaded tweets that all-too often pop up on-screen - dating it immediately. Lol Crawley’s voyeuristic, constantly ominous cinematography, is almost reminiscent of Kubrick at times: static, singular shots, choosing to focus - in faux pop-documentary style - on one perspective, namely Celeste’s – always resisting rebelliously to cut to wide, never revealing the full picture.

Its thematic daring, in tackling an eclectic playlist of terrorism, pop, fame and politics, is handled every bit as delicately as Celeste’s fragile psyche. She holds the ISIS-like, publicity-seeking organisation to account at a press conference, and is in the grip of an electrically charged interview with a journalist (a cameo from the wonderfully unassuming Christopher Abbott, currently wowing as Yoyo, the lead in Catch-22).

She’s also in the frenzied midst of an exhaustive live tour of insistent ‘rebirth’. While approaching meltdown in her dressing room, condemning (punctuated between banshee wails) at being: ‘Treated like she’s not a person’ – you realize just how accurately acute the film must be in chronicling the transient, ever-fluctuating trajectory of celebrity. The tour’s grand-standing crowd-pleasers are written by a similarly unconventional iconoclast - Sia.

 As the astonishing final scenes inside a huge arena arrive, with Portman decked-out in glitter and sequins, still tinged with that ever-present hollow strive for adoration, at too high a price, Corbet’s propulsive vision and verve plays out in the metronome of memory rather like the ultra-digitised career its anti-protagonist longs for: streamed on an endless loop, polarising, a deliberately acquired taste, but one you just can’t stop watching.



Rating: * * * * *

Thor: Ragnarok (2017)

Thor: Ragnarok, 12A, 130 mins. Marvel.

Thor, the chiselled, hammer-welding God Of Thunder of Avengers fame, has now had three standalone films (I use the term ‘standalone’ loosely - it’s now  beyond expected that several ‘Easter Eggs’ - hidden clues occur, both throughout and after the end credits, including appearances by characters crossing-over both films and cinematic universes).

Thanks largely to another of these, namely the Guardians Of The Galaxy, not only do the characters venture into the stratosphere of the intergalactic, but the tone of this particular Thor film is as smartly cynical and quick-witted as anything in the Marvel canon.

This tongue-in-cheek direction starts immediately, and it’s clearly a deliberate change not just because of Guardians’ colossal commercial success, but also one which Chris Hemsworth clearly enjoys. Thor, as with Captain America alongside him, has previously been a rather intentionally stolid, monotone, straight-laced figure of patriarchal honour and order. Here, he exercises previously untapped comedic potential. He’s kidnapped and taken to a planet which transports him to a kaleidoscope-esque planet via an ode to the opening chimes of Pure Imagination.

That’s not the only unusual musical choice employed by antipodean director Taika Watiti, highly regarded for smaller, independent projects. The opening track, heard repeatedly during epic, slow-mo staged battles, is Robert Plant’s Immigrant Song.

However, it’s in the supporting performances that this one really shows its strengths. Cate Blanchett stars as the gleefully slinky Hela sister (yes, sister) to Thor and Tom Hiddleston’s Loki. ‘I’m not a queen, or a monster - I’m the Goddess Of Death! What were you the God of again?’. Next to Catwoman, she’s posited as one of the first principal female franchise villains - and has great fun. Mark Ruffalo is terrific as the green, not so mean Hulk, and Jeff Goldblum laconically plays The Grandmaster as only he can.

All these retro pop-references and back-and-forth banter is all well and good, but I wonder whether these lighter group of Marvel rag-tag high-jinks are simply becoming extremely entertaining, by now very well-worn parodies of themselves - so much so that Saturday Night Live may soon be saved the trouble.


Rating * * *

Blade Runner: 2049 (2017)

12A, 164 mins, Columbia Pictures.

Thirty-five years after the master of dazzling scale Ridley Scott genuinely redefined the sci-fi genre forever with the original Blade Runner in 1982, we’re still wondering if Harrison Ford’s despondent detective Deckard is one of the robots he hunts down.

Now, directorial control that couldn’t be more sacred to the devoted fandom, is handed to Denis Villeneuve. Villeneuve’s status as the master of constructing tense, sparse, simple, ominously-built atmosphere - is fast becoming unparalleled.

Whether it’s the desolate isolation of the mist in the landscape where Hugh Jackman’s child is abducted in Prisoners, the relentless shredding of Emily Blunt’s adrenaline powering through the war-on-drugs on the unforgiving Mexican boarder in Sicario, or the indeterminable drones of an alien species deciphered by Amy Adams’s linguist in Arrival. No immersive nerve is left untested - whatever kind of environment we’re inhabiting.

The visuals here couldn’t be any more sumptuously poetic: epic, panoramic cityscape vistas of monolithic proportion - and stunningly realised ambition. Instead of perpetual rainstorms and dry-ice, this one takes sleek, threat-laden futurism into the absorbing stratosphere.

Production designer Dennis Gassner’s (Into The Woods, Skyfall) sets are shot with pin-sharp, crisp skill by prolific cinematographer Roger Deakins (The Coen Bros. and Revolutionary Road). From the chill of clouds to the searingly vivid, orange burn of a white-hot wasteland.

It’s spoiling nothing to say that Ryan Gosling’s Agent K might also be a robot, but why is he, as always, so utterly, blankly vacuous? I found it impossible to connect emotionally. Harrison Ford’s much-awaited reprisal is reliable, in that crumpled, grumpy look of permanent incredulity he does so well.

Jared Leto’s illusive, if underused new villain, Niander Wallace, is very subtly ruthless, and Sylvia Hoeks completely steals the apocalyptic show, as his ruthlessly relentless, icily lethal assistant.

There’s also more of that revolutionary CGI resurrection - used so well in TRON and bringing Peter Cushing back to life in Rogue One. Hans Zimmer and one of his rising contempories, Benjamin Wallfisch, ramp up the now customarily propulsive score, which lacerates us even further, I just wanted more shock, surprise, underpinned by some much-needed emotive heart and substance, beneath the aesthetic awe. A punishingly audacious, at times exhaustingly overwhelming assault on the senses...


Rating: * * * *

Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi (2017)

12A, 152 Mins, Disney/Lucasfilm.


Since 2015, the as-of-then Disney-owned reboot of Star Wars has become a Christmas tradition. This latest, eighth instalment, The Last Jedi, marks the fortieth anniversary since George Lucas made an entirely different sort of sci-fi movie, with the ground-breaking original, back in 1977. In 1999, the much derided politic-heavy prequels began - then after a decade-long gap, the franchise was brought back to box-office-busting, somewhat over-hyped life, two years ago, with lifelong fan J.J. Abrams, directing the decidedly middling The Force Awakens.

Now, after last year’s surprising, fantastically impressive standalone chapter Rogue One, the main series resumes, with new director Rian Johnson. A real rising-star in filmmaking, he’s best known for the brain-teasingly clever mould-breakers, such as the exceptional neo-noir Brick and mind-blowing time-traveller Looper, both starring his long-time collaborator Joseph Gordon-Levitt (who actually has a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it voice-over cameo here, as an alien in a fun casino-planet sequence. Why not have him as a fresh main live-action character?).

Johnson hits the ground running with a stunning aerial space battle (even more spectacular in 3D).

However, I just can’t get used to this new clutch of protagonists. Seemingly, both Daisy Ridley and John Boyega are a huge hit with the critics, but I just can’t connect with them emotionally. Ridley’s portrayal of Rey, the mysterious scavenger-turned-heroine, remains extremely stilted and frustratingly wooden, and Boyega similarly fails to either engage or convince as Finn.

The lack of substantial back-story doesn’t help, in an increasingly tonally uneven screenplay which often can’t decide if it’s a fairly broad comedy or deep existential drama. I understand that Rey’s supposed to be an enigmatic character whose origins are unknown, but she surely needs further explanation as to why she’s there in the first place?

Oscar Isaac remains the charismatic highlight as pilot Poe, and particularly impressive once again is Adam Driver as that most conflicted of villains, Kylo Ren. Driver brings out many layers of moral complexity.

There aren't nearly enough real shocks, genuine emotion or revelatory surprises - apart from the very underused, cameo return of one favourite character. I wish the twists and turns had been pushed far further...

The late Carrie Fisher has a fitting tribute as Leia. The tonal changes, poor attempts at occasional humour and, as before, often very wooden acting delivery does jar though, with this being even less impressive, less impactful and even less memorable, than the already dumbed-down Force Awakens. Even with the extravagant but very distracting induction of seat-shaking, dry-ice spurting 4DX.

Rating: * * *