2010-19 – Page 12 – Consumed By Film

Grave Encounters (2011)

★★

Director: The Vicious Brothers

Release Date: September 9th, 2011 (US); April 20th, 2012 (UK)

Genre: Horror

Starring: Sean Rogerson, Ashleigh Gryzko

We are abruptly informed that “what you’re about to see is not a horror movie”. Well, it is. At least it’s meant to be. Grave Encounters is so utterly infatuated by the genre, by appeasing the masses, that it sacrifices integrity for indiscreetness. Checklists at the ready: haunted asylum, moving wheelchairs, amateur crack team. It is all here. The Vicious Brothers have made a bad film, one that seeps with obvious happenings and undeniably familiar events. But they haven’t made a boring film. What Grave Encounters lacks in spontaneity it makes up for in irrational, occasionally eerie and often humorous sequences.

As far as ghost investigations go, the Grave Encounters team aren’t having much luck. When they seek out and pitch up at a desolate mental hospital, the group led by presenter Lance Preston (Sean Rogerson) are quite willing to manipulate matters for additional shock value. Then increasingly strange occurrences rear, leading Lance and company to the stark realisation that they’ve landed in a location not to messed with.

Grave Encounters is many things. Ordinary. Ambling. Almost entirely lacking in scares. Truth be told, the first thirty minutes play out as a comedy, an embellishment laden on the film precisely due to one thing it ain’t: tactful. As upcoming events are foreshadowed, it feels like we’ve bought a ticket for the latest horror movie walk through; from a quick reminder of how dark it gets at night to the singling out of a window that peculiarly opens by itself, everything reeks of internal uncertainty and external panic on the filmmakers’ part. And it gets worse — before our not-so-beloved reality honchos begin their quote/unquote official investigation, somebody showing them around the asylum points out the service tunnels. (“It’s like a maze down here, you could easily get lost”). Paranormal terrors are set up in a similar vein to glass bottles, or targets, poised and waiting to be smashed.

Don’t worry about having to clean the subsequent shard-like mess. Even though The Vicious Brothers — who wrote and directed the picture — plainly relay their scare tactics, the film struggles to follow through. Sheer obviousness is an issue. We know what to expect because the horror has already been hinted at, and it’s not as if said horror is intuitive enough to overcome our expectations. The camera often peers down corridors for periods of time hoping to conjure up something of a creepy atmosphere. These moments are better but remain held down by a prevailing lack of authenticity emanating from an amateurish presentation, both within the film’s context and outwith its boundaries.

For instance, at the start a producer played by Ben Wilkinson, who is never present during the investigation, informs us that the content we are about to view hasn’t been tampered with in any way, apart from some editing to alleviate time constraints. Why, then, are behind-the-curtain sections left in? A car interrupting host Lance Preston’s introduction to the episode, or the team’s unrelated small talk upon meeting a historian. These are nagging issues that hardly amount to a fatal whole, but they are indicative of the filmmakers’ complacency. Attempts to induce realism are trodden on by a flawed premise. Just as events seem to be gaining some sort of momentum, such as the aforementioned shots settling on eerie corridors, this complacency once again crops up. Grave Encounters is scariest in silence and, though it owes more to REC than originality, the ending is quite unsettling. It simmers with hair-raising solemnity. Elsewhere, there is far too much shouting.

Grave Encounters would be significantly less entertaining minus its cast of cartoon characters who constantly indulge in gleeful idiocy. Lance, played by Sean Rogerson, is terrible. Our lead is the amateur biting off more than he can chew. The presenter pays an unassuming gardener to make something spooky up, and we’re resultantly left to ponder which is funnier: the caretaker’s nonchalant reaction to Lance’s request or the notion that, when push comes to shove, anyone would actually believe the local grass-cutter. During his Emmy award winning comedic exploits, Lance also decides to hire an overly eccentric, dark sunglasses wearing medium who emphatically gasps upon entering each room. (Incidentally, the ‘medium’ is probably a better gardener than he is spirit converser).

Rogerson’s persona is just one of a band of stupid characters who make stupid decisions for stupid reasons, and they each know of their dumbness. (“I know this sounds really stupid, but…”). We’ve reached a point in horror where lunacy has become the norm, an unfortunate feature that for the most part is something we must roll with to at least attain some level of enjoyment. It’s disheartening but it’s also reality — not an exclusive one, thankfully. We can’t take any of what is going on throughout Grave Encounters with a modicum of seriousness because there is hardly an ounce of existing tension and the characters are clichéd numpties. Believing in them is out of question, as is empathising with their plight.

Grave Encounters is so wrapped up in its attempts to appease the mass audience that the film misguidedly ventures down a shadowy corridor of ‘been there done that’. The Vicious Brothers’ piece might momentarily tickle a few horror cravings for those attracted by towards a shallow scare, but even that is debatable. The occasional influx of genuine terror hurts more because it signifies unfulfilled potential.

Perhaps it is best not to fret, and to simply giggle along with the absurdness.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Fanpop

Images copyright (©): Tribeca Film Festival

The Borderlands (2013)

★★★

Director: Elliot Goldner

Release Date: August 23rd, 2013 (UK Frightfest)

Genre: Horror; Mystery

Starring: Gordon Kennedy, Robin Hill, Aidan McArdle

Elliot Goldner brings a heap of diligence to his directorial debut. The Borderlands is the Brit’s first venture behind the camera, the outing a horror flick that opts for patience over pillaging. Goldner manages the atmosphere well and his film builds to a genuinely creepy crescendo as a result. But the ingredients aren’t all that original, nor are they universally receptive. It is tough to root for obnoxious characters and tougher still to engage in such a familiar situation; we slot into the misty West Country, our time split between a haunted church and flaming sheep. Persevere, though, and be rewarded.

Having been summoned by the local priest, Vatican paranormal investigators Deacon (Gordon Kennedy) and Mark (Aidan McArdle) find themselves trying to disprove a plethora of mysterious happenings. They are joined by Gray (Robin Hill) who, despite being non-religious, sees more weight in the ghostly declarations than his colleagues. That is until what is perceived to be coincidental gradually grows stranger.

The first thing to note is The Borderlands’ lack of originality. This is no spectacular deviation from the horror norm, certainly not in terms of character or overarching story. Candles moving without provocation, noises emanating from walls, a rural location. The characters too, divided by scepticism and belief, are more or less conventional. Deacon, portrayed fairly well by Gordon Kennedy, is the moody Scot bearing a mysterious secret that is no doubt disquietingly aligned to the current job. He won’t share it though, and instead we must succumb to generic small talk that does nothing for the characters. Discussions enveloped in weird histories sort of add to the film’s simmering tension but retread old ground in content.

A beginning that is at best innocuous trundles over into annoying territory the longer our resident tech guy Gray is on screen. You’ll recognise him as the tech guy because the tech guy is always the offbeat one, harmlessly immature and progressively frustrating. Gray laughs at place names and rustles crisp packets in church. “Food, cleanliness and a little bit of naughty,” is one of his more egregious lines. And just on the off chance you missed all of that, we also see him also partaking in a lot of webcam installation. Robin Hill plays Gray without any real panache but the performance serves its purpose. They all do — Luke Neal is perhaps the most efficient as Father Crellick. The problem is that these people are not the most likeable bunch. Mark arrives later on and completes the undesirable investigative trio, he a bit of a bumbler who objects to almost anything. By the time the scary stuff arises, we don’t really care too much for anyone’s safety. (Though, admittedly, the film overcomes this issue in the end.)

After a fairly average, and arguably quite boring, opening half hour — one that occasionally plays out like a peculiarly mundane episode of Big Brother — Goldner amps up the menace. Shouting matches emerge sparingly but time is most often filled by a growing sense of risk. Patience is the film’s most effective employee; the director never panics despite a narrative that is somewhat uneventful, at least in horror terms. The creaky characters become less creaky because the film no longer wholesomely relies on their interactive antics. Dialogue that may have manifested as outlandish beforehand gains a degree of importance, particularly as the end nears. (“That’s nature for you Deacon, big stuff eating little stuff”). By the time the final sequence plays out we are just about glued to the screen in an ocular concoction of fear and intrigue. It is an ambiguous conclusion, but not an alienating one.

The Borderlands’ technical aspects deserve credit too. In between scenes, the camera likes to pull back and take in the spooky country surroundings, every so often reminding us of the characters’ vulnerability due to their presence in a relatively secluded area. A mountain looms in the background with grey, murky clouds swirling overhead relaying somewhat of a foreboding nod. The gloomy cinematography ushers forth a landscape that frequently becomes a character in and of itself. Goldner, who also wrote the piece, is savvy when it comes to his use of the found footage element. Cameras are mounted on walls and characters wear Google Glass-esque lens recorders, covering all bases. Subsequently, what we’re presented with is a hybrid of found footage and classic direction that works well.

Clocking in at just under 90 minutes, The Borderlands is a fairly short film. It squeezes as much horror juice and brooding anticipation out of its runtime as possible and does so without ever revealing too much. Held down by shaky characters and a largely unoriginal story, the outing — though admirable in its atmospheric quality — hinges on a strong conclusion. It delivers.

Images credit: BBFC, Gallery Hip

Images copyright (©): Metrodome Distribution

Drinking Buddies (2013)

★★★

Director: Joe Swanberg

Release Date: August 23rd, 2013 (US limited); November 1st, 2013 (UK)

Genre: Drama; Romance

Starring: Olivia Wilde, Jake Johnson, Anna Kendrick

If I knew anything about alcohol, I’d compare Drinking Buddies to an ice cold brew: refreshing and momentarily absolving, but certainly nothing impactful in the long run. Guzzle too much and you’ll wake up with a dizzied demeanour, clutching at the faint straws of last night’s antics. You probably wouldn’t want to indulge these characters for too long either, else their credible charm will devolve into a more septic annoyance. Director Joe Swanberg finds an amiable balance though and subsequently delivers a film that is controlled despite its obvious air of improvisation. But much like that 11th beer, Drinking Buddies just doesn’t feel necessary. There is a gaping plot contrivance, one that’s really difficult to ignore.

As co-workers at a Chicago-based brewery, Kate (Olivia Wilde) and Luke (Jake Johnson) spend more time with each other than they do their respective partners. The duo even manage to squeeze evening bar gallivants alongside other staffers into their laid back schedules. A double date weekend away ushers in a few new home truths — at least one more than we’re already aware of — whilst also cementing the obvious, that these two should be a couple.

So why aren’t they? Drinking Buddies calmly shuffles along for 90 minutes and for at least 85 of those we ponder that exact sentiment. The notion promoting Kate and Luke as a terminally separate item is quite unbelievable, so much so that the amour scales eventually bowl over into absurdity. At its heart the film is a ‘will they, won’t they?’ story that seems destined for a conclusion within reach but beyond common sense. Kate and Luke are both drinkers, they’re both jokers, both laid back. The two even work at the same craft brewery. Better still, the duo’s respective partners are more suited to a relationship with each other as opposed to their current situation. Anna Kendrick is Jill, who likes to hike and muse over philosophical idioms. She’s not much of a bevy merchant. Inconspicuously, neither is Kate’s boyfriend Chris.

The plot, though straightforward and immersive enough, struggles to overcome the grandiose fabrication staring it right in the face. We spent far too much time frustrated, pleading with the characters to face the overt facts. Not frustrated in an enticing manner, rather, gratingly so. It is a shame because Swanberg — who also wrote, edited and co-produced — drives home a genuine sense of believability when it comes to his characters. We recognise the people and we like them, but their situation is borderline nonsense.

There is an impetus to improvise and, for the most part, a justifiable one. Although proceedings occasionally teeter down an overly spontaneous route where natural is irritatingly substituted in favour of awkward (a conversation during a mundane forest hike, for example) this mantra that puts the ball in the actors’ court is a welcome one. The indie tint is prevalent and actually very agreeable; visually, Drinking Buddies manifests as cosy if not at all flashy. Nor should it be flashy. The filmmaker squeezes a lot out of his $500,000 budget by tending towards simplicity, a decision that also coalesces neatly with Swanberg’s attempts to enforce purity.

Much of what is happening hinges on the talents of Drinking Buddies‘ cast and they universally deliver. Olivia Wilde leads as Kate, constantly dawning shades in order to convince us she is hungover. Kate could easily be unlikeable — she is sort of clingy and relentlessly fails to take control of situations — but Wilde’s effortless allure grants her unlimited lives. Stepping away from the wrestling ring for a moment, Jake Johnson turns up as the other half of the film’s dynamic duo, Luke. Johnson has a slightly easier job than Wilde but delivers wholesomely nonetheless; Jake is cool (he has a beard) and eternally collected. The flick is at its most mobile when these two share the screen, their chemistry constantly sizzling. Anna Kendrick is also thrown in at the deep end — Jill is the character who is sort of ruining what inevitably would be a picturesque relationship. Yet, we still get along with her. Kendrick’s stock is on a rapid ascent and it is clear why.

Simmering irrepressibly beneath the love quadrangle is alcoholism, a damning and serious issue. Though the tone fluctuates between frothy romance and light wit, the subject of alcoholism subconsciously rears every so often — it would, at the end of the day this is a piece about people working with drink and drinking after work — and Swanberg handles it well. He has to. Kate is definitely the serial gulp offender and it is consequently unsurprising that her personal life is the one falling apart. The director aptly manages said topic by raising awareness without stumbling into burdensome territory.

There is no avoiding the almost fatal error in Drinking Buddies’ narrative. The film’s strive to be authentic butts heads with its stubbornness when it comes to characters’ romantic tendencies. Put that to one side though, and Joe Swanberg’s light-hearted indierrific outing will certainly quench your thirst.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): Magnolia Pictures

Filth (2013)

★★★

Director: Jon S. Baird

Release Date: October 4th, 2013 (UK); May 30th, 2014 (US)

Genre: Comedy; Crime; Drama

Starring: James McAvoy

Filth might apply to the tumultuous antics of Jon S. Baird’s lead character, or it may simply be an indicator of Detective Bruce Robertson’s often questionable appearance. (And, likely, prevailing stench). Though, perhaps Filth’s title is a deeper reflection of one man and his increasingly deteriorating mental state; his conscious but not conscientious plummet down into the murky swallows of inhumanity.

James McAvoy is the star of the show, his portrayal of Bruce both admirable and disgusting in equal measure. But just as the (sort of) law man frequently gets sucked back and guzzled by the sewage of life during moments of potential rehabilitation, Baird’s film drowns in its own merits. Whereas individual factors are successful, the piece as a whole lacks continuity. It’s tough to hate a funny chap. It’s also tough to love a chap you hate.

Bruce Robertson (James McAvoy) is as corrupt as that virus ready to spring from the latest suspiciously titled email in your inbox. He is deceitful, devious and dishonest, but only he knows that. Which is a real plus, given Bruce has his eyes firmly glued to the new detective inspector position available. On the downside, the Scot’s relentless convolution of kindness has itself convoluted Bruce’s mental capacity. In other words, he could be on the verge of a massive breakdown.

Filth is one for those fond of the Trainspotting genre — heck, there is even a not so subtle nod towards said film. (When there is a toilet around, “Don’t fall in.”) It is based on another novel by Scottish author Irvine Welsh and retains the same out-to-offend sheen as was merrily paraded throughout Trainspotting; though one would imagine if you’re watching this you’re probably part of the target audience and therefore unlikely to be offended. Our lead character this time is a right git. Bruce’s morning cereal is a bowl of cocaine and vodka, and he’ll only sleep with someone if she’s the wife of a mate. His moral compass is infinitely spinning out of control. Most importantly, Bruce knows how to play the game. And we sort of morbidly appreciate him for that.

It helps that he is quite amusing. The first we see of Bruce is a baggy-eyed figure striding down an Edinburgh street, fingers pressed firmly in his ears as bagpipes sound. “There’s no place like home,” he retorts and from then we’re somewhat disagreeably cajoled under his unflattering spell. As the man wearing Bruce’s stinking clothes, you would inherently expect James McAvoy to play a huge part in that enticement and he absolutely does. He fits into Baird’s adopted world perfectly, lingo down to a tee. Moments shared with Jamie Bell veer close to hilarious with one particular spiel near the beginning particularly well executed, and the actor’s disparaging glances are especially sterling. McAvoy’s stock in Hollywood continues to rise and Filth is yet another effective vehicle shepherding his talents.

Almost as suddenly as they explode awkwardly on screen, the laughs are invariably substituted for a hodgepodge conglomeration of nonsensical dream sequences and scenes intended to be wrought with emotion. There is a wholly serious edge going on here, something more sinister, but these junctures of sincerity are undercut by the weirdness. Jim Broadbent shows up as an aloof psychiatrist armed with creepily elongated vowels and to the fanfare of A Clockwork Orange-esque melodies. His appearance is funny when it shouldn’t be as it represents Bruce’s mental implosion. Surface interactions with fellow officers and other sadistic actions are amusing because, at these precise points, we are only aware of Bruce as a dodgy fellow. As proceedings dissolve into his frail psychological state, laughter isn’t really applicable and subsequently the tone jars.

It is a shame too, because McAvoy makes these disturbing moments work to an extent. A scene between the actor and Imogen Poots is the most poignant, and best, of the film but there is a danger that some impact is lost due to this tonal inconsistency. It also becomes challenging to stick with Bruce. In one sense, his unrepentant demeanour when he knows his actions are driving him into the ground is quite tragic. But then we struggle to care because the guy is a dick. The character’s ambiguous moral standing feels more like an excuse than a justification. At one point he stares into a mirror and sees himself as a pig — Bruce knows he is a horrible person and the film should have played more on this rather than insisting on peculiarities.

The film is a conveyor belt of British screen savvy. Eddie Marsan gets the most time as part of a supporting cast accommodating the likes of Martin Compston, Shirley Henderson, Joanne Froggatt, Katie Dickie and Iain De Caestecker. Imogen Poots is criminally underused as one of Bruce’s promotion chasing enemies and, as Bunty, Shirley Henderson is essentially playing an X-rated Moaning Myrtle. It is a packed, if somewhat slightly ineffectively utilised, cast.

Bruce’s mantra is simple: “Because ah can’t fuckin’ help ma self.” In some ways director Jon S. Baird shares a similar sentiment, one that contributes as much to the film’s success as it does its downfall. Filth is funny, you’ll giggle often. However we’re also encouraged to chuckle at less appropriate moments and, despite the excellent efforts afforded by James McAvoy, this over-eagerness greatly hampers the piece.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): Lionsgate

Only God Forgives (2013)

★

Director: Nicolas Winding Refn

Release Date: July 19th, 2013 (US limited); August 2nd, 2013 (UK)

Genre: Crime; Drama; Thriller

Starring: Ryan Gosling, Kristin Scott Thomas

When Gareth Evans’ The Raid hit cinemas a few years ago, the film brought with it an urgent sense of bludgeoning violence and hard-hitting combat. Unflinching and at times eye-scrunching, The Raid was also heralded as a bloody masterstroke. The fights were astoundingly well choreographed and, though it wasn’t the most prominent element, the story meant something. Rightly, Evans’ film felt the accommodating brunt of financial and critical adulation, ushering forth a sequel.

Only God Forgives is the antithesis of all things great about The Raid. It fails to yield any semblance of narrative, instead opting to parade a bunch of hateful characters throughout a maze of disorientating sequences. And it is brutal, gratuitously so. The unsubstantiated violence is the worst part.

Julian (Ryan Gosling) runs a Muay Thai club in Bangkok, but uses it as a veil to cover his successful drug smuggling business. After his brother is savagely murdered, Julian finds himself caught up in a storm of hate and vengeance. His spiteful mother Crystal (Kristin Scott Thomas), having made the trip to Thailand on the back of her son’s death, orders Julian to seek out his brother’s killer and attain revenge, a demand the American expatriate isn’t too overjoyed about.

Unlike in his previous disparately blood-fuelled outings Valhalla Rising and Drive, director Nicolas Winding Refn follows a half-fulfilled mantra here; one that pits grisly style over any form of substance other than the red stuff. The chain of grotesqueness begins almost before the opening credits, as we see murder compensate for more murder. Whereas the likes of both Valhalla Rising and Drive relayed a method to their differing levels of violent outburst — a curious soul and a pulsating beat, respectively — Only God Forgives squanders any opportunity to inject a sense of purpose. Essentially, it is violence for the sake of violence. There is no prevailing message. At one point Kristin Scott Thomas’ character despicably murmurs, “I’m sure he had his reasons,” when she catches wind of a particularly awful revelation. I’m sure Refn has his reasons too, but they are few and far between here.

When the film is not painfully boring it is an uncomfortable watch for all the wrong reasons — certainly, it’s not distressing in an adrenaline-driven way. This is partially due to the uncompromising and baseless brutalities on show, but it is also down to the palette of characters present before us. Either we hate them — and we hate most of them — or they are treated woefully. The females either represent a gaping hole searing through the heart of humanity (in the case of Crystal), or they’re token prostitutes (in the case of everyone else). Refn is painting just one picture that seeks to represent just one slice of humankind, which is fine. But must that picture really be as degrading to women as this is?

The guys aren’t let off lightly either. Ryan Gosling plays Julian, perhaps the least reprehensible of the lot. He has something of a moral backbone, one that stops short of unjust killing. (We’re into that territory, where murder must be separated into unjust and “ach, well maybe he deserved it”). Instead Julian funds his tumultuous conscience by running a drug smuggling operation and, more or less, employing a woman to be his puppet. The character stuffiness does absolutely nothing for Gosling. He’s trapped in a body too similar to the driver in Drive: emotionless, straight-backed but this time without that unorthodox charisma. Despite portraying genuine evil Kristin Scott Thomas is at least afforded the ability to be the only fluid person stuck among a meandering rabble of perceived luminaries. Crystal is a horrible person but she does move in a three-dimensional manner. The rest could pass for robots.

Refn’s customary art house injection arrives by way of the film’s visual appeal. Only God Forgives tries to manifest as a nifty, slick-looking film and cinematographer Larry Smith actually performs commendably. It does look good. Vogue photo shoots also look good, which is exactly what this is — a 90-minute photo op with a Halloween theme set in Thailand. The camera constantly looms around with precision, latching onto folk who are often standing as if giving prior notice; poised, posing and ready for their cover shot. Superficiality reigns supreme, a notion backed up the incessant air of boredom disguised as arty silence.

Aside from the early gore fest, the picture’s opening thirty minutes are bereft of any intrigue, subsequently setting the desolate tone moving forward. Ryan Gosling stares blankly into space. Characters walk so slowly. The violence might be gratuitous, but this carry on is borderline self-indulgent. Even the ambient music — an element Refn often gets spot on — is a little underwhelming. It certainly doesn’t make staring at wallpaper any more interesting. (Though staring at wallpaper might be more interesting than Only God Forgives.)

Nicolas Winding Refn tries to combine the successful strands of two previous outings — Valhalla Rising’s disconcerting climate and Drive’s brute force — yet ends up with the worst possible result. If we are taking this outing as a primary source, attributing Refn with a bleak view of humankind is probably fair. We’re all unmerciful maniacs.

Apparently only God forgives. Well hopefully God won’t see this, else we’ll be living in a world without forgiveness.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): Radius-TWC, Lionsgate

Guardians of the Galaxy (2014)

★★★★★

Director: James Gunn

Release Date: July 31st (UK); August 1st (US)

Genre: Action; Adventure; Science-fiction

Starring: Chris Pratt, Zoe Saldana, Dave Bautista, Bradley Cooper, Vin Diesel

As far as pure cinema goes, Guardians of the Galaxy has all the boxes covered. Sure, we’ve been running on the fumes of superhero momentum for a few years now and with a behemoth such as Marvel Studios behind the film, entering expecting entertainment is an entirely justifiable frame of mind. But James Gunn’s picture never rests on any laurels, it is not satisfied with simply entertaining. Guardians of the Galaxy sets out to interact with the paying customer, to re-establish the genre whilst also refining it. There are laughs, plenty of ’em. Societal threads designed to make us think. And real characters, most importantly. This isn’t just a great addition to the Marvel ranks, it is also a great piece of cinema.

Having lived twenty-six years of his life aboard a scavenger spaceship, Peter Quill (Chris Pratt) somewhat innocuously finds in his possession a universe altering orb. The artefact is highly sought after, by none more so than Thanos (Josh Brolin). In an attempt to scupper the success of a threatening deal made between Thanos and Kree radical Ronan the Accuser (Lee Pace), Quill joins forces with an alien, a warrior, a tree humanoid and a raccoon. Chaos? Ensue.

Balance is pivotal, just ask the bloke in prison with only one leg. Gags, thrills and seriousness are all elements that see plenty of daylight under the astute guidance of James Gunn, a decision that wholly benefits the director’s film. It is tough too, cementing each individual strand without compromising the whole, a concoction Iron Man 3 failed to measure correctly (and look what happened there). Guardians of the Galaxy never stumbles into said pitfall and instead thrives on variation. If the essence of tip-top filmmaking is versatility, we’re looking at a lofty outing. As an audience overly saturated with superhero escapades, we need more. A divergence from the, albeit rather fun, company line. We need space adventures and fresh motives, and both are on the menu here.

As Peter Quill and co’s gallivanting adventures scamper between wondrously constructed civilisations, it becomes increasingly difficult to decipher what might happen next. Mystery and intrigue swivel in and flurry around proceedings, at which point our minds are buzzing with a thirst for more. 10 films into Marvel’s Cinematic Universe, this burst of authentic suspense is truly welcome, particularly at a time when the formula is beginning to wane. And it’s not just the raucous air that commands a sense of thought; Gunn and co-writer Nicole Perlman also include a frequently rearing class allegory, pitting different species side-by-side in disharmony and challenging social boundaries.

And if you’re just here for a laugh, you could do a whole lot worse. The film is hilarious, and it knows so. There’s a prevailing camaraderie between audience and filmmaker; collectively, we know this is all a bit absurd — a tree with a conscience, a raccoon with a rocket launcher — so why not revel in the madness? Brilliant one-liners (“Pelvic sorcery”) make way for equally funny banterous group deliberations. Despite oozing a retro vibe, the film still bears more than a semblance of accessibility. Newcomers will leave filled to the brim on “bro” lingo, whereas the more mature amongst us can lap up Footloose references — of all people, Kevin Bacon becomes one the best running gags on screen this side of 2014. Or, like me, you can inelegantly giggle at everything. Guardians of the Galaxy has a heart, one that beats for all-comers.

At the epicentre of its heart is a ramshackle gaggle of misfits. Forget cookie-cutter characters, these five are dense to the nth degree. Chris Pratt plays Peter Quill — though he prefers Star-Lord — and is the glue that holds the guardians together. Pratt is on a mission to stardom himself, and his performance here is another indication of the leading man’s talent. He injects Quill with some soul and, rather than becoming the conventional male hero, embarks down a slightly less glamorous yet equally loveable path. No doubt buoyed on by his Parks and Recreation experience, Pratt also has comic timing down to a T. Zoe Saldana is Gamora, the kick ass alien who is sort of Thanos’ daughter but sort of not. Saldana has already proven her worth on the blockbuster stage and her mystique is integral as it affords the group an ambiguous streak.

Perhaps the most impactful performance emerges from wrestler turned actor Dave Bautista. No doubt, his skills inside a ring prove handy when it comes to fulfilling a number of exciting fight sequences, but it is the big man’s sincerity that really shines through. Drax takes everything literally — a trait that often tickles the funny bone — but he is never presented as stupid. He’s had a tough time in life and he is a tough guy, but Drax is also an endearing presence and Bautista deserves huge credit for ensuring that this is case. Groot is the Hodor at large, partnered alongside the spitfire raccoon, Rocket. Bradley Cooper’s voice work is both persuasive and energetic. A wit-off between Tony Stark and Rocket must be in the pipeline. The aforementioned quintet mesh together like a rugged patchwork quilt: rough and probably a bit dirty, but entirely warming.

Unlike The Avengers, Guardians of the Galaxy is not an all guns blazing affair. There are a lot guns and they do embark on a hefty amount blazing, but that comes with the territory. We get the sense that the engine is only revved half-way, that the future is dangling the promise of a whole lot more. And that is thrilling. We’re only in the introductory phase of this particular relationship and, while the sparklers are sizzling now, fireworks undoubtedly lie ahead. The comparatively small-scale feel, then, is really charming and quite emotive. Subsequently a deeper connection with the characters ignites. The film’s mischievously dated soundtrack has a hand in generating this personable aura. Its compilation is a masterstroke, making for a number of unorthodoxly funny mishmash sequences — Cherry Bomb is particularly rollicking.

Going forward, one thing is a certainty: if this is Marvel’s new prerogative, then rest assured that next time the comic book logo appears on screen we’ll be in good hands. “If there’s one thing I hate it’s a man without integrity,” rings out early on. I’d like to think that Guardians of the Galaxy is gender-neutral and I’m convinced it is bursting with integrity. It’s also Marvel’s best film to date.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures

Runner Runner (2013)

★★

Director: Brad Furman

Release Date: September 27th, 2013 (UK); October 4th, 2013 (US)

Genre: Crime; Drama; Thriller

Starring: Justin Timberlake, Ben Affleck, Gemma Arterton

At some point near the beginning of Runner Runner, Justin Timberlake’s snappy student Richie Furst says, “Make no mistake, if you’re betting something, you’re gambling”. In this solitary sentence the character sums up the film within which he aimlessly meanders. It’s such a throwaway line, one that is so obvious it becomes irrelevant. Much like the whole of Brad Furman’s utterly conventional outing. But more than that, the words resonate with truth. Runner Runner isn’t betting on anything other than the knowledge that its audience is well-versed in poker lingo. There is no gambling going on here, only playing it safe. And safety is really boring.

Having blown his big break in Wall Street, Richie Furst (Justin Timberlake) is now ploughing his way through college. Unable to afford the master’s jump, Richie gambles all of his savings in a game of online poker and comes up short. Though, it turns out he’s been conned by Ivan Block (Ben Affleck), a rich business tycoon whom Richie endeavours to tell off in Costa Rica.

For a film centred on gambling — a concept pillared by unpredictability — Runner Runner is endlessly predictable. It relies on cheap normalities more often than not, and subsequently fails to sizzle in any way. Proceedings kick-off with yet another montage comprised of news reports, an introductory method that is becoming increasingly common in contemporary cinema. It’s too easy. Writing partners Brian Koppelman and David Levien contribute a screenplay bereft of originality and stained by familiarity; we watch the typical story of a guy with a gift (this time it’s intellect) who decides to throw everything away by dabbling in unethical stuff. Where does this bustling need to be edgy come from? A troubled parent of course (this time it’s the father), a dad who lived beyond his means and not with his son’s best interests at heart.

We struggle to engage with the film then, primarily due to the trampled road down which it blindly ventures, and behind many better pieces that have gone before. Timberlake himself has starred in a more focused slick-fest, The Social Network, a flick that Runner Runner seemingly aspires to be. That film had Aaron Sorkin’s witty script and David Fincher’s scintillating direction, whereas this would claw at the chance to boast half of the aforementioned duo’s inventiveness. Unless we’re quoting lines to demonstrate an incessantly plodding nature, the dialogue is severely unmemorable. It is a shame too, for a more enterprising approach might have made this a sleek addition to The Social Network or even Ocean’s Eleven brand. Yet, it’s not even on 21’s table.

And it is not as if the filmmakers aren’t trying to add a stand-out quality, they just frequently miss the mark. Richie wanders into a nightclub fairly early on where there is an obvious attempt to infuse events with style. Camera glued to the travelling student, an array of luminous colours give way to a myriad of energetic tunes. What should be glossy instead feels forced and unnatural. The moment is too music video-esque. In fact the whole presentation is laced with this sense of unimportance — chopping a few scenes wouldn’t make any difference. Nor would the addition of Kanye West miming lyrics to his new song.

When we’re not being bogged down by uneventful narrative, we’re still challenged to fend off relentless onslaughts of casino lingo. The entire opening poker scene is a verbal tennis match, Timberlake constantly serving to our body with language that is either too difficult to grasp or too boring to care about. Furman and company revel in the speech. As do their characters, who collectively spend large periods of time explaining the plot and, in doing so, don’t really condone gambling. Just the illegal side of it. Betting is an inherently negatively regarded activity, which presents a problem in so much as there is a resultant air of deceit that surrounds all of the characters from the start.

Ben Affleck is the one who phones it in most often. And who can blame him? Post-Argo, and probably still basking in that rich, dense frame of mind during filming, it is no wonder that he gives off the impression of someone memorising and then robotically regurgitating lines. He plays Ivan Block. Block calls his boat ‘The House’ because “the house always wins”. He’s a millionaire. Even the imperiously charismatic Justin Timberlake’s attempts to overcome the dreary script are unfounded. His character is a bit rubbish too — Richie is so desperate to gain a master’s degree that he gambles away all of his tuition money and then leaves college forever. When the filmmakers remember she is on the payroll, Gemma Arterton appears. Like the others she’s much better than the stinker of a role afforded to her, but Arterton does make an effort and is quite amiable.

Runner Runner is an intuition vacuum. By the time any shallow complexities begin we’ve been too dazed by convention and a superfluous insistence on casino-tongue to figure anything out. It’s not necessarily a badly made film, or even a bad film at all. It’s just really dull.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Out of the Furnace (2014)

Director: Scott Cooper

Release Date: December 6th, 2013 (US); January 29th, 2014 (UK)

Genre: Crime; Drama; Thriller

Starring: Christian Bale, Casey Affleck, Woody Harrelson

Scott Cooper’s film tells the story of two brothers left short-handed by the frankness of life, but more specifically it’s a look into the psyche of one sibling, Christian Bale’s Russell, emotionally shot and physically trapped. Out of the Furnace itself received a rough ride upon release. The cast, wasted, supersede the inefficiently constructed narrative, seemed to be the most common argument. It’s too slow, too poorly paced. Quite the opposite. The film is marvellously paced and the narrative is steeped in authentic poignancy. Sure the screenplay would benefit from a dose of balance, but Out of the Furnace is not a missed opportunity. It’s a really, really good piece of cinema.

A heart-on-sleeve type of guy, Russell Baze (Christian Bale) works three jobs. Aside from earning a meagre living at the nearby mill — the same one that has rendered his father incapacitated — Russell cares for his ailing dad whilst also attempting to keep his younger brother’s mind straight. Rodney is a solider whose deployments to Iraq are as scattered as the head on his shoulders. The brothers just about get by, but their lives are quickly shattered when a horrific accident suddenly opens demon-infested floodgates.

Realism seeps into every frame, every projected wooden crevice. We’re slap-bang in the centre of a hereditary coal and steel town, North Braddock, Pennsylvania and the camera rams this home. A huge factory is often shown looming in the background, the greyish smoke pillowing skyward a constant reminder of toxicity and waste. It hosts the eponymous furnace and endeavours to promote the air of struggle of its nearby citizens, but also their honest willingness to work. Already we’re drawn to Russell who embodies this mentality, a grafter by trade. Masanobu Takayanagi’s cinematography is musky — you’d be forgiven for any eye-rubbing to remove dust — and perfectly captures the mood of the town; filled with hard labourers and harder folk. It screams ‘get me out of here’.

Russell is a hearty soul, a trait that beams as he interacts with those close to him. Lena is his girlfriend at the beginning and their playfulness is infectious. Uncle Gerald, or ‘Red’, is another whom we watch engage positively with Russell. But it’s the latter’s relationship with his wayward brother Rodney that’s most genuine. They share an at times awkward yet always nurturing bond, one that is believable partly due to how Bale and Casey Affleck play it, but we’re also convinced by the harshness of reality and their subsequent eternal earnestness as a duo. Not much is going according to plan but these two remain decent guys with admirable qualities who are not impervious to the odd mistake. (Some mistakes very serious — Scott Cooper doesn’t shirk away from complexity).

Existing subserviently in manner but not meaning to this sibling relationships is Russell’s own personal battle with day-to-day existence. He’s mentally more mature than his brother; at one point it’s suggested that Rodney “might be safer over in Iraq” than wandering the chalky streets of North Braddock. The screenplay simmers patiently, as does Cooper’s precise direction, allowing us to connect with Russell and his unluckiness. But even as pillar after pillar collapses in the manual worker’s life, we’re afforded the chance to acknowledge the sincerity of each problem because they’re all completely applicable within the prevailing context.

In Russell, Cooper revives the teetering tragedy of Crazy Heart’s Otis Blake. In some ways the two mirror each other: in their jobs, slaving away without much financial reward; in their protectiveness, one for a son he never had and one for a brother he fears losing; in their mentality, both close to defeat yet deeply defiant and inspired by externalities. Out of the Furnace is the director’s second character study of two and is equally as effective as the first. The camera likes to linger on glances and facial expressions — not Russell’s exclusively — and so we’re able to feed off of each characters’ strained thoughts and the cast’s wholesome portrayals.

Christian Bale does for Casey Affleck here what Mark Wahlberg done for Bale in The Fighter. He underplays the performance, clearing room for Affleck’s hysterics. These range from anxiously proud to uncomfortably harrowing, but are consistently sterling. Bale’s is certainly the toughest role because restraint is absolutely key. He nails it. However, as Rodney, Affleck is stand out performer. Which is some feat considering the truly excellent efforts relayed by the remaining cast members. Woody Harrelson appears as Harlan DeGroat, an invasive and psychotic drug dealer whom Rodney owns money to. Harrelson’s recruitment is a great choice, his character a real baddie. A grizzled, rugged no good son of a bitch. Zoe Saldana, Forest Whitaker and Willem Dafoe complete the star-studded selection and the trio each donate valid performances.

If there is a fault to be picked and presented, it’s the unfortunate imbalance in narrative. The runtime is fine at almost two hours, but over half of that is enlisted as set up leaving only around 50 minutes for retaliation. The problem is not catastrophic — it likely would be in lesser hands — but it does dent an otherwise foolproof outing, incurring unevenness as opposed to equity. In an attempt to disguise the issue, we’re subject to interplayed cuts between scenes that actually do end up harmonising well together.

Out of the Furnace is another winning film from Scott Cooper. It’s worth pointing out the effective soundtrack that shifts between a Western twang and a mellow ambience, and one that is capped off by Pearl Jam’s Release. For that’s what the piece is all about, release. A very sombre picture with sporadic healing tendencies — though not enough — it is the recognisable mundaneness that really hits home.

Rating:

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Dawn of the Planet of the Apes (2014)

★★★★★

Director: Matt Reeves

Release Date: July 11th, 2014 (US); July 17th, 2014 (UK)

Genre: Action; Drama; Science-fiction

Starring: Andy Serkis, Jason Clarke, Gary Oldman, Keri Russell

It’s always darkest before the dawn, or so the saying goes. Well, if Matt Reeves’ film is the culmination of a dawning ape species, then said saying is spot on. Dawn of the Planet of the Apes — we’ll stick to Dawn from now on — is frequently unsettling. Coalescing magnificently with arguably the best-looking visual palette since Middle Earth (every raindrop on fur is accounted for) is a story that sizzles with poise and acute direction. When the lesser of the film’s two halves is still approaching five stars, you know there is a winner playing out on screen.

Rise was a deft and engaging prelude that focused keenly on human-animal relations and biological moralities, but Dawn is more than that. Those traits are still prevalent of course, however Reeves invokes an emotional core by affording his actors the chance to tell a story. And whether it is the ping of Michael Giacchino’s score or the rugged outlook purveyed by Michael Seresin’s cinematography, it’s clear we are back in familiar territory. Apes fans rejoice. Apes newbies prepare. All eyes on the next branch, this one is swinging straight back to 1968.

A decade has passed since the fall of humankind due to viral infection. In San Francisco, a group of seemingly immune people have merged in an attempt to reignite the flame of civilisation, but this uprising is severely threatened when a few of the survivors inadvertently set foot in a developed ape colony. Caesar (Andy Serkis) is colony’s conscience-driven leader who hopes for peace, something that the two separate cultures may never be able to attain.

Fraught with tension, Dawn relentlessly teases a monumental clash. The contrast between two societies — apes and humans — is startling yet not unfamiliar. For better or worse, we watch as a total role reversal unfolds: people live hidden away with basic supplies, whereas apes roam landscapes carrying out practices akin to those originally implemented by human beings. They hunt. They safeguard. They educate. They even wear protective face masks during birth. Armed with subtitled grunts filling in for words, the opening quarter of an hour details this thriving lifestyle as it lulls us into a rhythm of admiration. The following gunshot that dully interrupts with immediacy not only acts as a wedge between life sources, it also represents their inability to coexist.

It takes human intervention to negatively hamper the structure of being that has been mustered by these hominoids. Dawn, then, is a cautionary parable about the disease of humanity; once we infect, we destroy. Reeves tactfully employs this overarching theme — the various characters on both sides of the Golden Gate Bridge openly discuss the merits and demerits of war, necessary primarily due to our own invasive attitude. (“Fear makes others follow.”) As the analysis plays out on screen we’re challenged to weigh up combat as a fundamental prerequisite. Is it? Reeves is firmly in the camp that denounces war and its resultant mess, and it’s hard to argue when his presentation is so compellingly and affectingly relayed. No issues arise when the script occasionally hints at predictability because of the hearty motifs and strands that weave throughout.

In fact, Dawn is all the more interesting because it is about the apes. They are the beginning, middle and end. Unlike Rise — which rightly honed in on human beings and their attempt to control animals — this second instalment sheds more light and dark on ape life. Given this, we’re allocated far more time to see the intricacies of the primate’s in-house relations and potential fallouts. And so, Andy Serkis, the spotlight is yours. The actor famed for his consistently dazzling motion capture acrobatics once again vaults into the skin of Caesar, and subsequently groans out a career defining performance. Each sinew matters because Serkis is inclined to make each sinew matter. Though he plays Caesar with air of perpetual dominance (“Ape not kill ape”) Serkis’ humility shines through. To many he’s simply a voice with no face, that guy who done the thing as Gollum. I certainly wouldn’t begrudge any formal recognition headed his way. What he does is acting, plain and simple. Utterly brilliant, too, and this role is his reward. It’s also ours.

Serkis’ powerful performance is made all the more tantalising by way of Dawn’s visuality. The film looks incredible. Motion capture settles into its surroundings as well as ever and the attention to detail routinely impresses. The apes might as well be authentic, drafted in from Hollywood’s premier acting zoo. San Francisco manifests gloomily, mirroring the prevailing mood of both the narrative and the characters involved. Reeves also harkens back to the tremor-like scariness of two previous outings, Cloverfield and Let Me In, by letting proceedings breathe a foreboding breath or two — the film’s curtain jerker is a genuinely ominous hunting scene. Mature heads also prevail when it comes to violence, which isn’t common, therefore smatterings of red spring with greater gravitas.

Toby Kebbell is Koba, Caesar’s second-in-command. The Brit’s mannerisms are so convincing that you’d be forgiven for thinking Koba is another Serkis creation. On the human front, Gary Oldman’s Dreyfus is the most captivating character. He’s a staunch defender of stretching ethical limits in order to prevail and, despite being fed a little less screen time than other major players, Oldman effectively channels his persona’s mindset. Jason Clarke lands the James Franco role as the human whom Caesar develops a bond with. The Aussie’s efforts are admirable and, more often than not, sufficiently potent.

Dawn, then, is one of 2014’s best films thus far. This reboot of the Apes franchise may yet prove to be a mightily formidable cinematic set once complete, but for now we can at least bide our time equipped with the knowledge that, as a standalone piece, part two has already achieved a status of grandiosity.

Bravo.