For those who are familiar with the great work Brian De Palma did throughout the 1970's and 80's, his bright, energetic glam-rock opera Phantom of the Paradise may seem like something of an oddity. It's a spin on The Phantom of the Opera, with elements of Faust and The Picture of Dorian Gray, told within the context of the music business, who De Palma and scorer/star Paul Williams obviously hold some level of disdain for. While this may differ tonally and perhaps thematically to De Palma's more popular works, Phantom embodies the mixture of flair and homage that De Palma perfected, which many label him a rip-off merchant for (though I strongly disagree).
Sad-sack composer Winslow (William Finley) is overheard playing his Faustian opera by the powerful and mysterious music producer Swan (Williams). Swan is on the cusp of opening his new theatre The Paradise, and feels Winslow's music is perfect for his vision of nostalgia and kitsch. Winslow offers his work to Swan, but is never called or paid for his contribution. Seeking answers, he arrives at Swan Records to see an endless line of women, including Phoenix (Jessica Harper), auditioning to be a backing singer and singing his songs. He is thrown out, framed for drug possession and sentenced to life in prison. But Winslow escapes and, after being mutilated by a record press, seeks vengeance on Swan.
For all it's visual pizazz, where Phantom lacks is within the casting. Finley, who had worked with De Palma the year before in Sisters and who sadly died in 2012, struggles to make his character empathetic. Williams, while certainly looking the part, lacks the presence to convince that he would be able to wield such a control on his underlings. Harper, while cute as a button, lacks the charisma to really justify Wimslow's obsession over her. The only actor to really impress is Gerrit Graham as glam-rock God Beef, who behind the scenes is a fussy little queen. Beef is no doubt Paul Williams' stab at all those self-important diva's he unavoidably came into contact with during his time as a musician.
But with a bright and bouncy film such as this, the acting plays second fiddle to the visuals and the music. While the music may not be catchy in the same way as Phantom's close relation The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975), in context they contemplate De Palma's camera. All of De Palma's visual ticks are there - crane shots, long takes, split-screen - and it even throws in a homage to Psycho (1960), only with a plunger. It makes for quite an exhausting experience, but you only really need to hold your breath and dive in, and it's really quite easy to fall in love with it. It was unfairly panned by critics and ignored by movie-goers on it's release, but with De Palma's early films getting positive re-evaluation with various Blu-Ray releases, Phantom is finally getting the praise it deserves.
I wanted to get through this entire review without mentioning Trainspotting (1996). But Danny Boyle's British classic was so brimming with dark energy and so tapped in to the Zeitgeist of the 1990's that comparisons are unavoidable when faced with a movie adaptation of an Irvine Welsh novel. The problem with the adaptations that followed Trainspotting -The Acid House (1998) and Ecstasy (2011) - were that they were so caught up in recapturing the spirit and iconic imagery of Trainspotting, that they failed to find a tone of their own, and as a result, were very bad films indeed. Thankfully, with the adaptation of Welsh's most difficult novel, Filth, director Jon S. Baird has found of a verve of his own, and has entrusted much of the film's success to lead star James McAvoy, who is uniformly excellent.
Repulsive bipolar Edinburgh Detective Sergeant Bruce Robinson (McAvoy) spends his time drinking, snorting, shagging and bullying his way through life. When he's not being the despicable racist, homophobic and misogynistic bully that he is, he indulges in what he calls 'the games' - a collection of sociopathic manipulations he projects onto his colleagues and rivals for the upcoming promotion to Detective Inspector. His best friend is soft-spoken doormat Bladesey (Eddie Marsan), a wealthy fellow Freemason who is married to Bunty (Shirley Henderson), a bored housewife who Bruce regularly makes prank phone calls to in the voice of Frank Sidebottom.
There isn't much defining plot to the film, and instead simply follows Bruce on his various self-destructive exploits, such as having rough sex with the wife of a work colleague, forcing an under-age girl to perform oral sex on him or stealing a suspect's inhaler only to repeatedly blow cigarette smoke in his face as a form of effective interrogation. The movie begins with the murder of a Japanese student by a gang of punks led by Gorman (Martin Compston), and Bruce is assigned to the case by his boss Toal (John Sessions). It gives the film a story to build around, but it features very little, and instead we are forced to witness the complete mental deterioration of a truly disturbed, utterly depraved, yet - thanks to McAvoy - highly charismatic man.
If you're easily offended, then this isn't the film for you. Shockingly, the film tones down Bruce's character from Welsh's book, knowing that without a narrator, Bruce could have been so off-putting that he could be beyond audience redemption. So, with McAvoy giving absolutely everything to the role, his bullying and manipulations, regardless of how evil and cruel they are, are hilarious. Knowing his work partner Ray Lennox (Jamie Bell) has a tiny penis, he suggests everyone in the office photocopy their penis and have the girls match the genitalia to the face. The camera pans from penis to self-satisfied face, only to pass Lennox, his face in his hands.
But Filth certainly has its share of dark moments too. As more about Bruce is revealed throughout the film, the clearer his mental illness becomes. Only rookie Amanda Drummond (Imogen Poots) can really see through his outlandish antics, and with her being a woman and all, that drives Bruce even crazier. In the novel, Bruce has a tapeworm growing inside of him that narrates a lot of the book, revealing to the reader more about Bruce's history, but for the film this has been changed to some hallucinatory episodes with his doctor Rossi (Jim Broadbent). These moments didn't work for me, as they seemed forced and trying to recapture some of the 'cold turkey' stylings of Trainspotting, as well are interrupting the manic pace.
While the ending (which is also different from the book) may be a little too much for some people to take, it is certainly consistent with the fast-paced, twisted energy of the movie's first half. It is tragic, amusing and pathetic, much like Bruce himself. Filth is daring cinema, especially for a dark British movie that doesn't revolve around football hooliganism or Danny Dyer. It doesn't try to be forcefully iconic or deliberately provocative, instead relying on and trusting Welsh's twisted and socially aware text. It also has a fine cast to boot, lining up one of the finest displays of British (mainly Scottish) talent in recent memory. It's far too dark a film to grab the attention of the Academy, but McAvoy, an actor I had never really taken to, deserves every award under the sun for his unflinching performance, and Filth deserves to be talked about without a single reference to Trainspotting.
Released a surprising seven years after James Whale's fantastic and commercially successful The Invisible Man (1933), this sequel faces the problem of creating a story worth telling, without recycling the events and themes that ran through the original and H.G. Wells' novel of the same name. Pleasingly, Returns is an exciting little horror film, that boasts the same fantastic (and Oscar nominated) special effects as the first, as well as offering Vincent Price in one of his very first horror roles.
Falsely imprisoned for the murder of his brother, Sir Geoffrey Radcliffe (Price), the owner of a mining corporation, awaits the death sentence. As his execution looms close, Radcliffe suddenly disappears from his cell, baffling the guards who are placed under suspicion. Knowing Radcliffe to be innocent, Dr. Frank Griffin (John Sutton), the brother of Claude Rains' original Invisible Man, has injected him with the invisibility drug so Radcliffe may conduct his own investigation into the murder. But with Scotland Yard detective Sampson (Cecil Kellaway) suspecting Griffin and the drug slowly turning him mad, Radcliffe faces a race against time to find the culprit and cure himself of the effects of the drug.
This is one of those old-fashioned horror films that adhere to all the genre clichés and never really surprises you, but the cast and execution of the film is wholly charming. The plot keeps things interesting, as the sympathetic innocent man is slowly driven to madness that is beyond his control. Price, although only appearing for less than a minute, had yet to hone his acting craft, but manages to carry the film using only that voice which is now so embedded in horror culture. It's not a patch on Whale's masterful original, but The Invisible Man Returns is a worthy sequel, remaining thoroughly entertaining throughout, kick-starting one of many lucrative franchises for Universal Studios.
Upon Ghost in the Shell's release in 1995, the Western world was still largely unfamiliar with manga, but had already had its head turned by Katsuhiro Ohtomo's Akira (1988). Blending philosophical musings with blistering action, Ghost in the Shell captured the imagination of it's new audience, helping kick-start the Japanophilia that runs so blatantly through most modern Western cartoons and lines the bookcases of many a teenager. While it certainly has its flaws, this was the first time that casual Western audiences who were new to manga had seen a cartoon be as meditative as is explosive. And for those that didn't catch it, no doubt they would have watched The Matrix (1999) four years later, a film that arguably 'borrows' a lot more from Ghost in the Shell that it lets on.
In the future, technology has become so far advanced that all aspects of life are interconnected through an electronic network. Major Motoko Kusanagi (Atsuko Tanaka), a soldier working for government agency Section 9, is a cyborg, and is able to access this network through plugs in the back of her head. She and her team are assigned to catch an elusive 'ghost-hacker' known as the Puppet Master (Iemasa Kayumi), an intelligent entity created by the government, who they lost control of when it became self-aware. When the Puppet Master surfaces in the mangled body of an artificial human shell, Kusanagi faces a crisis of identity.
Disappointingly, the film begins with gratuitous nudity, showing off the fine female form (with giant breasts, of course) of Major Kusanagi just before she takes a plunge off a building to nail some bad guys. Manga caters heavily for its audience, be it sexually-frustrated, highly-stressed businessmen or horny teenagers who have no doubt been bombarded with images of giggling, short-skirted school girls throughout their young life. Thankfully, these moments are brief, and prove to be not much more than a mild distraction from the stunning animation on show. Things are grim in the future, but they're certainly beautiful to look at.
The sexism aside, Kusanagi is an interesting character. When a man realises his wife and daughter are nothing more than an implanted memory, he fails to comprehend it. Kusanagi, with her mixture of organic and mechanical body parts and uploaded memories, struggled to define what it is to be human. Her hunt for the Puppet Master, who is seemingly a new kind of being, becomes a hunt for identity. Is it enough to be aware of what and who you are? The philosophy, although provocative, is heavy-handed. Conversations about humanity between Kusanagi and her second-in-command Bateau (Akio Otsuka) are delivered with a monotony worthy of a whiny emo teen, and I found the film's first half quite a head-scratcher. But things thankfully do become clearer, and the film is still, almost twenty years later, one of the best examples of the genre.
Headhunters is one in a long line of recent sophisticated Scandinavian noirs, offering a more thoughtful alternative to some of Hollywood's more mainstream thrillers. Based on the novel Hodejegerne by Jo Nesbo, Headhunters is high on the chase but low on plot, which is sad given the network of corporate sleaze that seems so high on possibilities during the film's opening scenes. It's set-pieces are streaked with wickedness and black comedy, but as they go on and on, and its lead character is dunking himself in human waste to escape an angry dog or surviving a fifty-foot drop off a cliff, it pushes its plausibility to, well, implausible levels.
Aksel Hennie plays Roger Brown, a smug, vertically-challenged corporate headhunter that moonlights as an art thief to fund the lavish lifestyle he believes his supermodel wife (Synnove Macody Lund) wants. He is approached by former military tracker Clas Greve (Games of Thrones' Nikolaj Coster-Waldau), who wants to be chosen by Brown to be the new CEO of Pathfinder, a technologies company. Hennie discovers that Greve has an ultra-rare Rubens painting, and steals it, only to find his wife's mobile phone in Greve's home. After stalling on the job offer, Brown finds himself being hunted by Greve and betrayed by those he believed cared about him.
With his preening demeanour and pale eyes, director Morten Tyldum is asking a lot for the audience to be rooting for Roger Brown's survival. Clas Greve is the one-dimensional bad guy - sneering, chiselled, glowing with self-satisfaction - but there were times I found myself cheering him on. Tyldum wisely portrays Brown's suffering with a tongue locked in cheek, and the situation he finds himself in are suitably amusing, even when they are particularly gruesome. But when his redemption finally comes, it's in favour of an extended collection of set-pieces and little resembling plot, glossing over what could have been a smart corporate thriller.
The next time I criticise an action movie for being brainless, only to be met by the response of "well, it is an action movie!", I'll refer them to Runaway Train, a breathless, thoroughly exciting action movie that manages to portray two fully three-dimensional characters amidst underlying sociological messages about imprisonment and reform. Developed from an un-filmed Akira Kurosawa script by Djordje Milicevic, Paul Zindel, and former hardened inmate Eddie Bunker, Runaway Train proves that action movies can do a hell of a lot more than blow shit up and offer amusing one-liners.
Notorious convict Manny (Jon Voight) is released from three years in confinement by hateful warden Ranken (John P. Ryan) not just because of media pressure, but in the hope that he will try and escape so Barstow may kill him. After he is attacked and wounded, Manny makes the quick decision to escape his Alaskan confines, and does so with the help of the young and rather dumb Buck (Eric Roberts). They board a train, but unbeknown to them the engineer on board has died from a heart attack and the train is heading at high speed towards various obstacles. Ground-staff are alerted to the situation and quickly set about clearing the tracks, but Ranken has soon joined them with revenge in mind.
Many Hollywood movies offer moments of spectacular visual effects and sound design that should be applauded, but normally these scenes don't tend to generate any excitement in me. Runaway Train offers similar scenes, but there's two key aspects that make the film work so well. The first is emotional investment. As despicable as these characters often are, Manny and Buck are real, helped considerably by the career-best performances of Voight and Roberts. The former, in an empowering speech that may just be the best work he's ever done, informs Buck of the futility of their situation. They may just rule the world if they could hold down a job, but they can't, they're criminals, and cannot escape their societal role.
The appearance of Rebecca De Mornay's character Sara, a young engineer still aboard and who is unable to stop the train, highlights this. Manny and Buck squabble and fight for the first time in front of her, showing that when put into a situation where the laws of society come into play, they reject it and turn into animals. These exchanges occur between some nail-biting scenes, which brings me onto the next aspect that makes the film work so well - real action. There's no wide-shots of gigantic explosions, just two battered men clawing and slipping their way along the snow-drenched train. In one scene, after a daring attempt to jump carriages, Manny's wind and cold-battered face craws towards the camera, ragged bandages hang off his bloodied hand, and his crooked, brown teeth are bared. The camera is so intrusive that you really feel every move he makes, to the point where I felt exhausted.
Though it does occasionally slip in prison movie cliche, this is perhaps one of the most underrated films ever made. It was recognised at the Oscars with nominations for Voight, Roberts and for Best Editing, but it doesn't seem to have left the legacy it certainly deserves. I wouldn't exactly call the film obscure, but your average film-goer probably won't have heard of it, especially when compared to, say, Die Hard (1988). This is riveting stuff, tightly directed by Russian Andrei Konchalovsky (who went on to make the crappy Tango & Cash (1989)), and the film leaves you with a beautiful and slightly eerie final image that could say more than words could have.
In one of his first feature film appearances, former wrestler Roddy Piper plays Sam Hell, a highly fertile man in a post-apocalyptic world that has rendered most of its adult population infertile due to a devastating nuclear war. This being the late 1980's, and with Hell Comes To Frogtown being unashamedly B-movie ridiculousness, every long-legged female character wants to jump his bones, and do so wearing not very much at all. It is misogynistic, very, very silly (which I'm sure one would assume from the title) and Piper won't be receiving any Lifetime Achievement Awards from the Academy, but it is occasionally a lot of fun, and features one of most memorable titles in the B-movie canon.
With male population numbers heavily reduced due to nuclear war, women now rule the Earth. After a group of warrior-nurses led by the bespectacled Spangle (Sandahl Bergman) capture nomad Sam Hell, they see their chance to do their part in helping re-populate the Earth due to Sam's high fertility rate. But when a group of fertile women are captured by a gang of rapey amphibian mutants who have been affected by the radiation, Sam is employed as a mercenary along with the tough-but-sexy Centinella (Cec Verrell) to enter a place known as 'Frogtown' in order to steal them back.
Somehow, Hell Comes To Frogtown has managed to spawn three sequels, the latest being made in 2002. The years have made the film a cult favourite, and admittedly, for all it's many flaws and amateur direction, the idea of women piecing together the remnants of civilisation is quite an intriguing one. Of course, the plot isn't really why you would watch a film involving rubber-suited monsters and scantily-clad women, and ultimately, Frogtown suffers from long moments of tedium that plague low-budget films of its ilk. But there are still moments to enjoy in the 90 minutes of endless gun-fights and goofy Roddy Piper quotes, namely in Piper's obvious amusement at the film he is starring in. Best enjoyed with beer in hand.
Before he was whisked off to Hollywood where his talent seemed to stagnate and eventually fade into obscurity, John Woo conquered the world of action cinema with bullet-ridden delights such as A Better Tomorrow (1986) and The Killer (1989). His Hollywood career would consist of sub-standard genre movies such as the Jean-Claude Van Damme vehicle Hard Target (1993) and blockbuster pap like Mission: Impossible II (2000). But he had one more balletic, hyper-kinetic Eastern thriller left in him before he left Hong Kong, and with Hard Boiled, he not only topped his previous films, but made one of the finest action movies in history; a non-stop orgy of explosions, slow-motion, and homoerotic undertones of brotherhood and honour.
After accidentally killing an undercover police officer in a bloody shoot-out, loose-canon cop Tequila (Chow Yun-Fat) vows to get revenge on the gangsters involved. Meanwhile, Triad boss Uncle Hoi (Hoi-Shan Kwan) has unwittingly employed undercover cop Alan (Tony Leung Chiu Wai) as a hitman, using him to bump off a gang member who has been secretly working for rival boss Johnny Wong (Anthony Wong Chau-Sang). Impressed with Alan's skills, Wong tries to recruit him, causing him to turn on his former employer in an effort to move up in the criminal underworld. Learning of Alan's undercover role, Tequila seeks him out so that they may take down Wong together. But the shooting of a police informant leads the two cops to the hospital, where Wong keeps his secret stash of weaponry.
The film ticks off the genre cliché's at a rapid rate, even playing it dead serious in the quiet moments between the carnage. But all the wailing saxophone music and loose-fitting shirts that were so prevalent in the 1990's make the film even more likeable, and a nice little time capsule for an era that seems not so far gone yet is shockingly over 20 years ago. It would be silly to dwell on the simplistic story, as it only really plays the role of McGuffin so that John Woo may deliver two hours of ludicrous, heart-pounding action-porn. The extended climax is a barrage of slow-motion gun-fire, leading to a shockingly high body count, but Woo squeezes everything he can out of the hospital setting, naturally leaving it in ruins. It's a exhausting and cheesy two hours, featuring some of the best action scenes ever filmed, yet it soberly reminds you of what could have been if Woo had resisted the glamour of Hollywood and stayed in Hong Kong.
One of many 60-minute B-movie horrors that Universal churned out in the 1940's, House of Horrors remains one of the most fondly remembered due to the hulking presence of Rondo Hatton. Originally a journalist and apparently a handsome man, he developed acromegaly which began to disfigure him in adulthood. He started getting extra work and bit-parts as faceless thugs until he appeared as 'The Creeper' in the Sherlock Holmes film The Pearl of Death (1944). Universal planned a series of films starring Hatton as The Creeper, but after this and it's sequel The Brute Man (1946), he sadly died of a heart attack brought on by his disease. He was far from a good actor - he does little but grunt and talk in child-like speech - but his presence is undeniable, and probably saves House of Horrors from obscurity.
Living alone in his rotting studio, sculptor Marcel De Lange (Martin Kosleck) is on the verge of selling his best work to a high-rolling collector. Unfortunately, the potential purchaser brings along notorious art critic F. Holmes Harmon (Alan Napier), who dismisses Marcel's work as a travesty, causing the sale to fall through. Penniless and on the verge of suicide, he spots a body wash ashore one night. The body is that of the Creeper, a known serial killer with the face of "the perfect Neanderthal," (as Marcel dubs him), so Marcel brings him home and nurses him back to health. Fascinating with his appearance, Marcel begins to sculpt the Creeper and exploit his blood-lust by setting him up to murder his enemies.
At just 65 minutes, House of Horrors, also known as Murder Mansion and Joan Medford is Missing, doesn't demand much at all. This is a formulaic genre picture that manages to squeeze an extraordinary amount into it's slender running time, and remains suitably entertaining throughout. Kosleck, for all his ham-fisting, manages to inject a tragic quality into his character, at first humble and optimistic, and later hateful and blood-thirsty. But it's Hando that steals the film - his Creeper snaps a woman's spine just for screaming in a scene that more than hints at rape (a big no-no in the 40's). Though there's no background or personality given to the character, that lurch-like appearance more than compensates. A forgettable genre film that is certainly worth an hour of your time.
Not a lot hinges on whether you know the outcome of Captain Richard Phillips' true-life run-in with a small crew of Somali pirates in 2009, as, like director Paul Greengrass's other tale of real-life heroism in the face of a terrorist threat, United 93 (2006), the film gathers up enough tension to keep you on the edge of your seat. It's not as good as United 93, as the film often struggles to keep things exciting in the long moments between the action, but Tom Hanks has more than enough presence to carry the film, and here gives possibly his best ever performance. Which makes it all the more surprising that Hanks - usually a darling with the Oscars with sentimental drivel such as Philadelphia (1993) and Forrest Gump (1994) - has missed out this year.
Captain Phillips (Hanks) is waved off at the airport by his wife Andrea (Catherine Keener in a one-scene cameo) as he flies to Oman to take command of the Maersk Alabama, that he soon realises will take him around the Somali Peninsula. Sure enough, on the Somali coast, they are chased by ambitious pirate Muse (Barkhad Abdi) in a skiff, with a crew consisting of hot-head Bilal (Barkhad Abdirahman), nervous Najee (Faysal Ahmed) and young first-timer Elmi (Mahat M. Ali). They protect the ship for as long as they can, but the pirates are soon on board demanding payment. Phillips offers them $30,000, but it won't be enough for the ruthless warlords who employ Muse, so they take Phillips for ransom.
One of the main reasons why Captain Phillips works so well is that Phillips himself comes across as a true hero. Not a gun-toting, vest-wearing action hero, but an everyday guy who probably enjoys a comfortable suburban lifestyle with his family when he's not at sea. He's over middle-aged, slightly portly and not particularly handsome, but most importantly he's real, and a underdog to truly root for. In the time spent in the lifeboat as Muse and his crew head back to Somalia with their prize - with Navy SEALS in tow - allows Phillips and Muse time to slowly share experiences. Muse, fabulously portrayed by the Oscar-nominated Abdi, is a simple guy as well. It's just that in his country, poverty doesn't allow for any legal trades to be a wise option, so rather than plundering the sea for the fish that American ships have already hoovered up, they steal and kidnap.
But Greengrass is wise enough not to over-egg these scenes, or even allow us to sympathise too much with the pirates. But he allows us to understand them, to see things from their perspective. What they do is wrong and evil, yes, but when your country is governed by violent warlords and your life depended on coming back with something of real value, it's no surprise that they do what they do. And as the gravity of the situation dawns on the pirates, the film becomes a treadmill of heart-pounding small moments, where every second could either offer up a small opportunity for Phillips to escape or fight, or it could mean that he will never see his family again. Muse and his crew have done this before, but they are ill-equipped, desperate and twitchy.
As exciting as all those moments are, the film's most powerful scene is at the end, as Phillips breaks down whilst being medically treated by the American military. Up to this point, Phillips is kept at a distance, seeing very little of his true character before the pirates arrive. Hanks gives a devastating, improvised performance in this moment, as he struggles to process and comprehend the ordeal he has just been through. For an action film especially, this is an immensely powerful scene, and it re-enforces the human tragedy of the story. A riveting film overall, and proves again that Greengrass can't be matched in portraying a real-life incident with such heart, realism, and thrills.
Fritz Lang's last American film before he returned to Germany, Beyond a Reasonable Doubt suffers from the director's clear lack of interest. Lang was reportedly dismayed by the lack of visual creativity allowed by American producers (which was also clear in his penultimate American noir, While the City Sleeps (1956)), and so shortly after returned to his homeland to make the visually lavish double-bill Tiger of Bengal and The Indian Tomb (1959), dubbed the 'Indian Epic'. Beyond a Reasonable Doubt, an intriguing little noir starring Dana Andrews, is by no means a bad film, but is clearly the work of a man handicapped by the system and a film that is pessimistic in its execution.
Tom (Andrews), a novelist in search of inspiration for his second book, is approached by his newspaper publisher father-in-law Austin Spencer (Sidney Blackmer) to help aide his opposition of state capital punishment. The plan is to plant circumstantial evidence of Tom's fake involvement in the recent unsolved murder of nightclub stripper Patty Gray. Naturally, during the trial, an incident prevents Austin from delivering the evidence and testimony that will prove Tom's innocence, so Tom's disgruntled fiancée Susan (Joan Fontaine) races against time to prevent Tom getting executed on Death Row.
Lang had already exposed the fragility of the justice system in his German masterpiece M (1931), and Beyond a Reasonable Doubt begins in suitably grim fashion with the silent execution of an inmate. The plot is a great idea (to think what Hitchcock would have made of it) but the execution is plain and predictable. Although Andrews' performance is solid and the movie sometimes threatens to push the boundaries set by the censors at the time, it simply goes through the motions until a twist reveal in the last 15 minutes livens things up a bit. You most likely won't see it coming, but it ends the film with plenty of plot-holes to pick at and left me scratching my head at exactly what point the movie was trying to make. A rather flat end to a solid period of film noir for the German master.
American Hustle is all about large characters, outlandish fashion and awful hair. It may tease you into thinking it's some kind of smart con-artist movie with it's (very loosely) based-on-real-events premise ("some of this actually happened", the opening credits inform us) and snappy trailer. But for all visual pizazz, this is in fact a very small movie, focusing on a small set of unique and frequently bizarre characters that just happen to cross paths amidst the ABSCAM operation in the late 70's and early 80's. Imagine if the characters from I Heart Huckabees (2004) were in fact the people who took part in the operation covered in Argo (2012), and you'll have something akin to American Hustle.
Paunchy con-artist and loan-shark Irving Rosenfeld (Christian Bale) hooks up with the beautiful Sydney (Amy Adams), an intelligent and ambitious American girl who improves Irving's scams by pretending to be an English aristocrat. When they are busted by creepy FBI agent Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper), they are promised leniency if they assist the Bureau in making four additional arrests. The plan is to entrap popular Mayor Carmine Polito (Jeremy Renner), who is looking to inject funds into gambling in Atlantic City, by having a friend pose as an Arab sheik looking for potential investments in America. As Irving, Richie and Sydney delve further into the sting, things start to spiral wildly out of control, as Irving's loud-mouth wife Rosalyn (Jennifer Lawrence) can't seem to keep her mouth shut, and Richie develops feelings for Sydney.
As said before, the plot plays second-fiddle to director David O. Russell's obvious fascination with this ensemble of weirdo's. Surprisingly, it's the slimy swindler at the centre of it all, Irving, that comes out of it the most recognisably human. In the opening scene, we see a shockingly bloated Bale, slapping his awful toupee across his head to cover up an embarrassing hairline. Is this the American Dream at work, a petty criminal posing as a sophisticated, honest guy? Well, no, American Hustle doesn't need to try and touch those metaphorical heights, but this is the type of person we're to spend the next two-plus hours with. An apparently successful sort of guy, covered in gold and eyes covered by tinted sunglasses, but hiding something fragile or dangerous that may soon reveal itself.
The performances are spectacular, as one would expect. Bale manages to make you actually root for his slimeball character, and Jennifer Lawrence shows that she seems able to tackle any role or character with aplomb. Cooper does a job similar to his previous work with Russell, Silver Linings Playbook (2012), but even betters that. He seems to have the uncanny ability to make you instantly know there's just something wrong with his character, and when we see him at dinner with the fiancee he clearly doesn't love or respect, his hair bunched up in tiny little rollers, there's something simply tragic about him. And Amy Adams, let loose here to reveal an unseen feistiness, wins the award for Side-Boob of the Year.
The whole thing is a rather strange experience, never really falling into a recognisable genre or taking a conventional approach to storytelling. It could only really come from the mind of David O. Russell, the only director that seems able to combine a mixture of mainstream commercial success, nominations and awards a-plenty, and independent sensibilities, never really moving away from his own vision. It's not a total success of course - Irving's admiration from the 'moral' Mayor Polito, who just wants to rejuvenate Atlantic City, seems a bit of a sympathy quick-fix, and no-one can out-Scorsese Martin Scorsese. Well, maybe Paul Thomas Anderson can. But American Hustle is a big dose of strangely endearing entertainment, that even when it outstays it's welcome towards the end still made me want to spend more time with the characters.
Boasting the fifth collaboration between lauded director Martin Scorsese and can-do-no-wrong A-lister Leonardo DiCaprio, The Wolf of Wall Street signals the moment the two finally took the step over the brink. Their previous films together - Gangs of New York (2002), The Aviator (2004), The Departed (2006) and Shutter Island (2010) - were all solid, if hardly groundbreaking works. With The Wolf of Wall Street, Scorsese seems to have let go of his reservations and embraced the daring, X-rated innovations of his 70's and early 80's work, and DiCaprio deserves to look smug after giving his finest performance to date. From the opening shot of DiCaprio snorting cocaine from between a prostitute's open legs, this is 3 hours of utter depravity. And it's hilarious.
Shortly after being taught the ways of excess and cocaine by his Wall Street boss Mark Hanna (Matthew McConaughey), young stockbroker Jordan Belfort (DiCaprio) finds himself out of work following Black Monday. When he takes a boiler room job at a stockbroker's dealing in penny stocks, he learns that commission for these stocks are 50%. Soon enough he is making money hand over fist, setting up his own company, Stratton Oakmont, along with his dentally-challenged follower Donnie Azoff (Jonah Hill). He recruits some of Donnie's marijuana-dealing friends and teaches them a script designed to sell, but ultimately the operation is a pump and dump scam. He is labelled The Wolf of Wall Street in a negative magazine article, yet this propels him to cult fame, and soon has flocks of eager young Gordon Gekko's begging for a piece of the pie.
At one minute shy of 3 hours, the film could certainly do with a trim. Yet Scorsese and DiCaprio's obvious fascination with this anti-hero means that we are treated to experiencing every juvenile and ridiculous second of Belfort's rise to Wall Street superstardom. We get flights with on-board orgies and drug taking, Jonah Hill masturbating in the middle of a crowded party at the sight of Belfort's future wife Naomi (the stunning Margot Robbie), dwarf-tossing, and Belfort taking helicopter lessons whilst drugged off his face. This is certainly dangerous territory - the film could easily slip into a celebration of frat-house antics, which is kind of does, but Scorsese keep the insanity levels at such a height that it's hard not to just laugh and shake your head.
A lot of it is down to the performances of DiCaprio and Hill, the latter of whom is proving to be a damn fine actor beneath that Jew-fro and obnoxious mannerisms. The film's highlight focuses on a botched scheme to smuggle $2 million dollars via Brad (Jon Bernthal) to reptilian French banker Jean (Jean Dujardin). Having learned that FBI agent Denham (Kyle Chandler) has his phones tapped, Belfort must get home to warn Donnie to get off the phone. The only problem is, they've taken a large quantity of Qualuudes. Thinking that years of indulgence have caused a tolerance to build up, the expired best before date have simply lead to a delayed reaction. Belfort suffers from what he describes as 'the cerebral palsy stage', flailing around on the floor without control of his limbs or his speech. His long journey home is the most laugh-out-loud example of drug-fuelled ineptitude since the ether scene in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998).
Of course, the film's morals are questionable, and Scorsese has suffered the same narrow-minded criticism he did from his 'glamorisation' of the mob in Goodfellas (1990). Yet I like to think that Scorsese trusts and respects his audience enough to allow them to think for themselves, to get a laugh from the on-screen antics whilst understanding that this is not the behaviour of a sane or ethical individual. Refreshingly, the movie stays away from any moral preaching or underlying messages, and simply tells a story because it's entertaining. Although it doesn't quite justify it's 3 hour running time, this is the most fun I've had watching a comedy for a long time, and proves that there's plenty of life in Scorsese yet.
As Asif Kapadia's gripping and extremely moving 2010 documentary Senna proved, cinema audiences have a thirst for the larger-than-life characters that inhabit the Formula One track. The sport itself is frightfully dull (although I'm sure plenty will disagree with that), but the sportsmen willing to lay down their life for a kick and a trophy are infinitely more fascinating, especially in the days of lax safety rules. The sport nowadays is little more than advertising on wheels, but when the likes of James Hunt and Niki Lauda battled it out on the track, epic rivalries were created, and no matter how talented these men were at driving these "coffins on wheels", every race could spell out death.
Rush portrays the clash of two opposing personalities. The long-haired, dashing Englishman James Hunt (Chris Hemsworth) was all about the adrenaline, embracing the post-race parties and lying with the many women that would throw themselves at him. He was reckless, willing to risk his life and others in order to win, but, as described in the film, there was no better driver in the world in terms of raw talent. His rival, Austrian Niki Lauda (Daniel Bruhl), was focused, clinical, and even helped design the cars he would drive. He was the early-night type, 'rat-faced' and cold. In every sense, he's the perfect villain.
But where Rush succeeds the most is challenging our early conceptions of these two characters. There's little fun to be had with Lauda, but played by Bruhl, he evolves into the underdog of the movie, perhaps the only one that actually gives a damn about his own life and the life of his opponents. This, naturally, leads to tragedy and a particularly wince-inducing scene in which Lauda requires having his lungs vacuumed, but it's at this point that we realise just what these two drivers mean to each other. As Lauda watches Hunt claw back some points in the 1976 Formula One season, it becomes clear that these two need each other to survive. Their hatred of one another only serves to fuel the flames, and leads to Lauda's defiant early return to the driver's seat, scarred and bandaged.
Fast cars, beautiful women and exotic locations hardly sounds like a recognisable workload for Ron Howard, one of the most play-it-easy directors out there. His past films have been unjustifiably successful, critically and commercially, never stamping a recognisable directorial trait onto his work. Yet here, although the bright sheen of the 70's initially takes some getting used to, he has managed to create a world that is very much alive, using snappy editing, a pumping soundtrack and some growling sound design to re-create this world for petrol-heads. But he doesn't neglect his characters, and evokes the great work done on Frost/Nixon (2008), which was also a study of two giant, clashing personalities coming together on the world stage.
Rush is an exhilarating experience, able to distinguish each race from the next and literally putting us in the driver's seat with the use of digital cameras. Although it occasionally drifts into formulaic territory with the introduction of the 'wives' (played by Oivia Wilde and Alexandra Maria Lara, respectively), Howard cleverly uses this as an insight into Hunt and Lauda's personalities. Hemsworth is very good in his first 'proper' post-Thor role, but it is Bruhl that you take away from the film. How he gets you to initially loath him, only to be cheering him on at the climax is the work of a great actor, and it's a crime that he has been snubbed by the Academy this year. Hopefully this will inspire a host of decent sports movies, as Rush proves that you can mix character study and even existential musings with the thrill of sport.
Practically neglected entirely by cinema, it seems that America is finally holding its hands up in the air; ready to face its utterly barbaric history surrounding the kidnapping of black Africans and the introduction of slavery. Last year saw Quentin Tarantino deliver a sporadically entertaining yet hardly historically accurate depiction of slavery and plantation owners in Django Unchained, but British director Steve McQueen has delivered an unflinching, heartbreaking true story in 12 Years a Slave, an account of the experiences of Solomon Northup (Chiwetel Ejiofor), a freeman living in American who is kidnapped, taken from his wife and children, and sold into slavery.
After a conflict with a sadistic overseer (Paul Dano), Northup is passed on by gentle plantation owner Ford (Benedict Cumberbatch), into the hands of the cruel Edwin Epps (Michael Fassbender). There he finds himself caught up in a conflict between Epps' wife (Sarah Paulson) and fellow slave Patsey (Lupita Nyong'o). Patsey is treated cruelly by Mistress Epps simply because her husband desires her sexually, and Patsey pleads with Northup to end her life. Although coming from an educated background, and being especially skilled with a violin, Northup keeps his past a freeman quiet. But when chance leads to an encounter with Canadian abolitionist Bass (Brad Pitt), Northup sees a chance to communicate with his family back in New York.
For anyone familiar with the work of Steve McQueen, there is no doubting that 12 Years a Slave is distinctly his. His previous films Hunger (2008) and Shame (2011) can be described as works of high art, and while 12 Years a Slave features the long, haunting takes and moments of stillness that McQueen is known for, it is more recognisable as a mainstream film. I certainly don't mean that as a negative, as, given the subject matter, McQueen has to be extremely delicate with not allowing his own artistic preferences to overshadow the gravity of the story. But the film is surprisingly, yet thankfully, unsentimental. There's no big chest-beating moment of defiance or Oscar-grabbing monologues, and in fact we don't really get to know Northup as much as we really should.
Northup plays the role of protagonist (the film is based on his written account), but this is just one man. His story was one of a precious few to come out of slavery with a 'happy' ending, and 12 Years A Slave extends its focus to the experiences of the majority of slaves, giving the audience a first-hand experience of what it was like to live in this time. In a key scene, Northup stands silent as the other workers sing, and as the realisation of his situation hits home, he defiantly joins in. Patsey's story, if anything, is the more heartbreaking, caught between a drunken, lusty maniac and his contemptuous, jealous wife. In the film's most powerful scene, Epps catches her on the way back from another plantation. When he asks where she has been, she holds up a bar of soap. Mistress Epps won't let her wash. So with his wife encouraging him, he whips Patsey until her back is near unrecognisable. It's one of the most horrendous moments I've ever seen on screen, and it's all caught in one unflinching take.
The performances are universally excellent. Fassbender gets the easier role as the scowling sadist, but it is his character's Christian justification for slavery that most disturbs. Ejiofor is quietly effective in an unshowy role, but it is Nyong'o and Paulson that stand out as two women on completely opposite sides of the social spectrum. When the movie ends, although it climaxes with Northup uniting with his family, I had a strange feeling of dissatisfaction. I realised that this is why 12 Years a Slave is so powerful, as although it offers a kind resolution to a character that suffers an awful amount throughout, there's still the knowledge that this is one man amongst millions, that there has been no real justice for the perpetrators of this barbarism. As the footnotes inform us, Northup's capturers were never punished either, as it wasn't law for Northup to testify against them. It's a lot to stomach, but this is devastating, important cinema.
Sad-sack composer Winslow (William Finley) is overheard playing his Faustian opera by the powerful and mysterious music producer Swan (Williams). Swan is on the cusp of opening his new theatre The Paradise, and feels Winslow's music is perfect for his vision of nostalgia and kitsch. Winslow offers his work to Swan, but is never called or paid for his contribution. Seeking answers, he arrives at Swan Records to see an endless line of women, including Phoenix (Jessica Harper), auditioning to be a backing singer and singing his songs. He is thrown out, framed for drug possession and sentenced to life in prison. But Winslow escapes and, after being mutilated by a record press, seeks vengeance on Swan.
