The toothy, clean-cut charm of Tom Cruise seems like an odd choice for the role of notorious drug trafficker and CIA operative Barry Seal who, during the 1970s, flew copious amounts of cocaine from Central America to the United States, as well as running guns to the Nicaraguan Contras on behalf of the American government. But the Barry Seal of Doug Liman's American Made isn't that far from Top Gun's Maverick, and the comparison is hard to avoid when we see Seal cheekily entertaining himself at the expense of his passengers and co-pilot while on a routine flight for TWA. Cruise slides into the role comfortably, running with the movie's lightning pace and offbeat humour. But his involvement also highlights Liman and writer Gary Spinelli's reluctance to explore this true story - which had devastating consequences for all countries involved - in more depth.
Set during a time when men ruled the sky and air hostesses were expected to drop their skirts at the very sight of a uniform, pilot Barry Seal is somewhat frustrated with his comfortable life, making a bit on the side by smuggling cigars into the US. This illegal side business is what attracts the attention of a CIA agent calling himself Monty Shafer (a brilliant Domhnall Gleeson), who asks Seal to fly over Central America to snap pictures for the American government. Seal's photographs are about as perfect as Shafer could hope for, and so he is rewarded with his very own plane and hangar and promoted to collecting information from Manuel Noriega of Panama in exchange for cash. Soon enough he is transporting guns to the US-backed Contras, and attracting even more attention. Only this time it's from Jorge Ochoa (Alejandro Edda) and his volatile partner Pablo Escobar (Mauricio Mejia) of the Medellin cartel, who want Seal to fly massive amounts of cocaine to Louisiana.
With the CIA turning a blind eye to Seal's drug trafficking exploits, Seal rakes in so much money that he is forced to bury huge quantities in his yard. This rags-to-riches-to-rags story is told in a conventional, linear fashion, with Liman resisting any urges to go all Scorsese on the subject matter. This kind of true life tale is nothing new, but it is a tale worth telling, especially when you factor in the American government's role in the shady operations, who arguably gave birth to the kind of man Barry Seal went on to become. Despite baring absolutely no resemblance to the real Seal, Cruise proves to be a great host, recording his story to camera on a wonderfully shoddy VHS in the movie's only brush with narrative flair. The main issue with American Made is that it claims to have a mind-blowing story to tell, but anyone who has seen the dizzying documentary Cocaine Cowboys or Netflix series Narcos will possess more information about how deep this thing went than the movie actually reveals. It aims to tell an entertaining story, and it certainly does just that, but the fact that it refuses to fully explore the consequences of Seal's actions means that it can never be anything more.
Along an overgrown, disused highway somewhere outside Ebbing, Missouri, three formerly dilapidated billboards still bearing the torn remains of whatever advertisement was previously displayed there over a decade ago, have suddenly sprang back into life. Only the messages delivered aren't in the name of some big-name brand or local company, but they are the deliberately confrontational words of grieving, thoroughly pissed-off mother Mildred Hayes (Frances McDormand). The first billboard reads 'Raped While Dying', followed by 'And Still No Arrests', and finally 'How Come, Chief Willoughby?' The opening scenes of Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, which see Mildred negotiate a deal with businessman Red Welby (Caleb Landry Jones) and quickly install the provocative messages, set up a David-versus-Goliath story, in which a justice-seeking woman sets out to shame and spring into action the police department she feels has failed her following the brutal rape and murder of her daughter.
Yet, this being a film written and directed by Irish playwright Martin McDonagh, the kind of story suggested in the trailer is only the tip of a far more engaging and complex iceberg, and one that isn't afraid to take you to some incredibly dark places and urge you to accept the redemption of a truly repulsive character. The police department, led by family man and all-round likeable pillar of the community Chief Willoughby (Woody Harrelson), take the billboards as a declaration of war, but Willoughby, being a sensible officer of the law, pays a visit to Mildred for some one-on-one time in the hope of resolving the matter peacefully. They chat almost like old friends, or former lovers who have stayed on good terms, but Mildred is unmovable in her quest. Even the revelation that Willoughby has terminal cancer and is close to death isn't enough for Mildred to think twice about her actions, and it turns out that she was already privy to this information before renting the boards. "They won't be as effective after you croak," she admits, almost like it's her way of apologising.
The role of Mildred was written specifically with McDormand in mind, and the result is her best performance since 1996's Fargo and will surely bring her second Oscar win come March. The first time we lay eyes on her she is marching into town like a gunslinger seeking revenge, dressed in blue overalls and sporting a tightly-wound bandanna. Despite the pleas of her teenage son Robbie (Lucas Hedges), who is bullied in school because of his mother's antics and performance on the local news station, as well as threats from the drunken, racist Officer Dixon (Sam Rockwell), Mildred is unwavering in her strides for justice. Even her deplorable, wife-beating ex-husband Charlie (John Hawkes) voices his disapproval, but it all falls of deaf ears. Yet despite her questionable methods and finger-pointing at a police department who seem to have genuinely run into a dead end with the case, you stay with her until the end. I can't think of any other actress working today who could pull of a feat with such conviction, especially when dealing with a character who spends most of the movie keeping her real emotions close to her chest, or channelling them into rage.
McDonagh views small-town America as tightly-knit and full of big characters, a place where everybody knows everybody and gossip spreads like wildfire. In many ways, Three Billboards shares much in common with Calvary, the under-appreciated effort by the director's brother John Michael from 2014, and is structured almost like an ensemble piece. By bringing in a wealth of colourful supporting characters, played by the likes of Peter Dinklage, Abbie Cornish, Kerry Condon and Clarke Peters, as well as those already mentioned, McDonagh can explore themes of anger, bitterness, loss and loneliness on a far grander scale. While the wonderfully obscenity-laden script will keep you both laughing and wincing throughout the running-time, the film is at its most compelling when showing genuine compassion for the characters inhabiting the story. It refuses to judge anybody too harshly, even peeling back the layers of the most loathsome character in the story, the permanently hungover Dixon, who is played by a career-best Sam Rockwell. Three Billboards somehow manages to be both enormous fun and utterly heart-wrenching, and coming off the back of the underwhelming Seven Psychopaths, this is a huge stride in the right direction for the enormously talented McDonagh.
The warning comes early on in Get Out, comedian Jordan Peele's deliciously unsettling horror and directorial debut. As successful New York photographer Chris (Daniel Kaluuya) phones his best friend Rod (a hilarious LilRel Howery) to break the news that he is to meet his white girlfriend's middle-class parents at their countryside home, Rod immediately voices his concerns. He is adamant that there is bound to be some weird, sex-slave shit going down, but Chris laughs it off with no idea with what is in store for him. In years to come, I have no doubt that Get Out will be a key case study in trying to understand the racial minefield that is modern America. While many have convinced themselves that such medieval attitudes are now behind them, it's quite clear that tensions are as high as ever in the #BackLivesMatter, post-Obama world we live in.
On their journey, Chris and his girlfriend Rose (Allison Williams) hit a deer. When being questioned by the police, the white officer can't resist giving Chris a hard time, even though he wasn't the one driving. He receives a telling-off from Rose, but the tone is set. Chris shrugs it off because he is no doubt used to it. Upon arriving at the impressive home of the potentially future in-laws, father and neurosurgeon Dean (Bradley Whitford) insists they are 'huggers', and appears to embrace Chris. He nonetheless lets slip opinions about wiping out the race of pesky deer who roam their land and voices his frustration at his own father missing out on the Olympic Games due to Jesse Owens, but again this is nothing Chris hasn't seen before from middle-class, white Obama-voters. Rose's mother Missy (Catherine Keener) is more steely, but is a trained hypnotist and offers to help Chris rid himself of his nicotine addiction. So far, so uncomfortable, but things soon get seriously weird.
For such apparently racially-blind liberals, their household staff are all black. Not only that, but they are like dead-eyed robots, all smiles and pleasantries masking pleading and inner turmoil. When Chris tries to bond with groundskeeper and fellow brother Walter (Marcus Henderson), the conversation is awkward and stiff, and maid Georgina (the brilliant Betty Gabriel) seems to do little during her off-hours but stare at herself in the mirror. At a gathering at their home, the only black face in the large crowd seems unnervingly familiar, but he is dressed up like a trophy pet by his fat, much older white wife. When Missy finally gets Chris to sit down for a session and open up about the death of his mother, his worst fears are truly realised. Taking inspiration from, of all films, Being John Malkovich (which also starred Keener), Peele directs these moments with the eye of a horror maestro, proving to be truly uncomfortable, claustrophobic viewing.
Get Out wears its heart on its sleeve, with an almost complete disregard for subtlety. However, this works in the film's favour. It's hugely entertaining and frequently very funny, so it will appeal to just about any audience, reaching more people in the process. Word-of-mouth has already gotten around, so the message is clearly resonating. It's sharp and unique in a way that modern horror movies rarely are, and in no way feels like an elongated sketch from the Key and Peele TV show. Although I've seen relatively little of his work outside of sketches on YouTube and his appearance with Keegan-Michael Key in season 1 of Fargo, there is nothing in his previous output to suggest he was capable of crafting such an intelligent and engaging horror movie. Satirically savvy and edgy, Get Out is also creepy and thoughtful, proving that a black man alone in the white suburbs is just as terrifying as a pretty white girl lost in the woods.
Irish-born, London-based writer/director John Michael McDonagh's previous two films, The Guard (2011) and Calvary (2014), were jet-black comedies set in his native country, and both featured knockout performances from their lead, Brendan Gleeson. McDonagh's debut features were warmly received by critics, especially Calvary, which played out a rather twisted revenge tale against a backdrop of religious guilt. Neither managed to generate much commercial success, but nevertheless made McDonagh hot property and offered him the chance to work in the U.S., much like his brother Martin after In Bruges. Has John gone the way of his brother and delivered a misfire in the mould of the messy Seven Psychopaths?
Well in a way, yes. More akin to the broad, bad-taste tale of a corrupt, hateful cop on a journey of redemption in The Guard than the contemplative weight of Calvary, War on Everyone moves the action to Albuquerque, New Mexico and replaces Gleeson with the sharply-dressed, acid-tongued duo of Alexander Skarsgard and Michael Pena as bad cop and badder cop. Skarsgard plays Terry Monroe, an alcoholic, Glen Campbell-loving giant of a man who is prone to violence. Pena is Bob Bolano, an intellectual family man who enjoys philosophical arguments with his wife (Stephanie Sigman) while berating his fat children. They are the worst kind of cops imaginable; both are corrupt beyond belief, taking cuts of every stash or bundle of money they find, and generally fucking up scumbags left right and centre.
McDonagh has great faith in his actors to make these truly despicable characters seemingly defined by their quirks likeable, and it's a testament to the leading men that they actually manage to pull it off. Pena can do this kind of thing in his sleep - he could be playing Hitler and will still charm the pants off anybody watching. The real revelation is Skarsgard, showing a real knack for comic timing after previously being resigned to more stoic roles. Apparently Garret Hedlund pulled out at the last minute, and what a stroke of luck that turned out to be. At almost 6"5 and permanently hunched, Skarsgard often resembles a slow-witted giant come to stomp the place to pieces, instantly banishing all memory of the ripped hunk of The Legend of Tarzan. The duo's chemistry really holds the film together, as the remainder is little more than a mishmash of violence, colourful characters and homages.
Another way to make loathsome characters more sympathetic is by pitting them against someone even more heinous. Here the big villain is English aristocrat James Mangan (Theo James), a narcissistic psychopath whose planned heist with Muslim convert and police informer Reggie X (Malcolm Barrett) ends in a bloodbath. Terry and Bob still want their cut though, but the well-spoken Lord may prove too powerful to intimidate, especially with police chief Gerry Stanton (Paul Reiser) and City Hall breathing down their necks. It's not a particularly interesting story to build a collection of shakedowns, car chases and shoot-outs around, but some relief is offered in the relationship between Terry and former stripper Jackie (Tessa Thompson), who form a sweet romance amidst all the misanthropy. A certain step back after the mastery of Calvary, War on Everyone will offend some but have others in stitches, and I'm somewhere in between.
Set during a time when men ruled the sky and air hostesses were expected to drop their skirts at the very sight of a uniform, pilot Barry Seal is somewhat frustrated with his comfortable life, making a bit on the side by smuggling cigars into the US. This illegal side business is what attracts the attention of a CIA agent calling himself Monty Shafer (a brilliant Domhnall Gleeson), who asks Seal to fly over Central America to snap pictures for the American government. Seal's photographs are about as perfect as Shafer could hope for, and so he is rewarded with his very own plane and hangar and promoted to collecting information from Manuel Noriega of Panama in exchange for cash. Soon enough he is transporting guns to the US-backed Contras, and attracting even more attention. Only this time it's from Jorge Ochoa (Alejandro Edda) and his volatile partner Pablo Escobar (Mauricio Mejia) of the Medellin cartel, who want Seal to fly massive amounts of cocaine to Louisiana.
