Adventure – Page 3 – Consumed By Film

The Martian (2015)

★★★★★

Director: Ridley Scott

Release Date: September 30th, 2015 (UK); October 2nd, 2015 (US)

Genre: Action; Adventure; Science fiction

Starring: Matt Damon, Jessica Chastain, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Jeff Daniels, Kate Mara

As Ridley Scott’s fourth headline entry in the science fiction genre, you might pre-emptively think The Martian is one giant leap too many. The film opens with a steady pan across wondrous space, a shot that harkens back to his first offering, Alien. But this isn’t Alien, far from it. Nor is it Blade Runner or Prometheus. The Martian is too busy swimming in the delightful proclivities of space pirates and gaffer tape to concern itself with morose terminators and monstrous creatures. In short, this giant leap is the best one Scott could hope to make at this stage in his career and, indeed, the right one for mankind to feast on.

Drew Goddard recalibrates Andy Weir’s highly regarded novel with impetus, creating a screenplay that sparks with life and manifests on screen in surprisingly slick 140-minute form. It’s about botanist Mark Watney (Matt Damon) who finds himself stranded on Mars after an Ares 3 mission catastrophe (a scene shot with intense furore). Accordingly, we spend a lot of time in the company of a man whose technical wizardry acts as a lifeboat. There is a lot of scientific space lingo and control room hubris, yet a combination of Goddard’s wily script and Damon’s charming performance renders the would-be impersonal exceedingly personal.

Mars’ landscape is incredible — when Watney awakens from his unconscious state and ambles across the rusty sand, you really feel his isolation. The grandeur both intimidates and inspires. His first call of duty is a squirm-worthy medical scene involving pliers and the astronaut’s gaping abdomen. Matt Damon recaptures the tortured spirit unleashed by Noomi Rapace in Prometheus, and the excruciating results would make her proud. His eyes are black and heavy at this point. To fund the sense of total seclusion, we’re stuck with Watney on Mars for a good chunk of the movie (though “stuck” suggests it is time spent against our will, when in fact it is some of the best time I’ve spent at the cinema this year).

The Martian is about a smart person (and later people) doing smart things, and Damon is perfect as the savvy loner. He is brilliant company, erupting with charismatic poise and an everymanness that usurps his specialised occupation. You feel an authentic burst of joy every time he connects the problematic dots via intellect and nous. Cinema will do well to conjure up a more likeable presence before 2015 is out. There’s no volleyball, but for a companion Watney employs a webcam and, like Cillian Murphy’s Capa in Sunshine, our hero speaks to the camera as if conversing with us and not with a machine. Emotions become capital and we absolutely get our money’s worth: whenever Watney wells up our natural instinct suggests we do the same.

The self-proclaimed greatest botanist on the planet often wears a scowl that implies a freak out is imminent, but instead whimsical quips relieve any tension. He has to be sarcastic and jokey in order to survive, and his jokes are unequivocally funny (“It has been seven days since I ran out of ketchup”). David Bowie’s “Starman” tune is part of an expertly employed soundtrack that feeds the genial air surrounding Watney’s shenanigans — potato growing, alphabet reconfiguration, machine hacking, to name but a few.

In any other Ridley Scott sci-fi effort, the titular man-Martian would be cursing God and trembling through his deserted predicament. But not here. Here, the prevailing sentiment is a hearty, somewhat sly, “Fuck you Mars.” Watney throws a plethora of insults at his host — the planet becomes the enemy. It’s man versus wild, and there is an acknowledgement from the filmmaker that threat ought to still linger despite the upbeat atmosphere. Watney, as such, has to contend with peril constantly swirling around him, danger emboldened by the movie’s forthright sound design.

Goddard’s screenplay — which he initially wrote intending to direct — likes to poke fun at PR and at press discourse. The film is barely five minutes old before the digs start: “Mark just discovered dirt — should we alert the media?” (as fate, or otherwise, would have it we got a water-related Mars announcement from NASA just days before the film’s release). While Watney does his best to stay alive, the mission back on Earth is to somehow spin his survival into a non-destructive PR story. Those doing the spinning, somewhat amazingly given the cynical Zeitgeist in which we live, are far from deplorable.

They each have flaws: Jeff Daniels’ NASA chief is a bit impersonal; Sean Bean’s Ares 3 crew supervisor heralds gut reaction over practicality; and even Kristen Wiig’s publicity woman can be on the dismissive side. But they are all amiable people trying to do good. While on Mars it is all about Spielbergian wonderment, quirky humour, and a genuinely winsome crust, the Earth arc mixes a jaunty detective movie with corporate drama. Bureaucracy plays a part — should they or should they not inform the Ares 3 crew that their man is still alive? Those at NASA struggle to keep up with Watney’s ingenious prowess despite their technological advantage, and the film hilariously emphasises this.

The cast is rich in depth but very large, and you worry that some might suffer due to a lack of screen time (a criticism many aimed at Baltasar Kormákur’s Everest). Thankfully, by the end, the vast majority are afforded a moment to shine. It’s great seeing Chiwetel Ejiofor in a breezier role, and he fits the bill as home-based NASA engineer Vincent Kapoor with coolness to spare. Jessica Chastain, Kate Mara, Michael Peña and the remaining Ares 3 crew members function like a well-oiled team despite their comparatively short-lived screen stint. Mackenzie Davis is very good as the freshman NASA analyst, energising a potentially corny role. Kristen Wiig, too, confidently plays against type.

As the film advances, the Sol counts (the number of days spent on Mars) that are systematically thrown up on screen do lose their clout. It could be argued that the piece unwittingly stumbles into a pacing issue; not that it ever threatens to plod along, but rather that the on screen presentation of advancing time is a tad careless. The longer we go, the less it impacts on us (though admittedly, by the time the grand conclusion gets under way nobody really cares).

It is dramatically better than Apollo 13. Visually, it rides the same rocketship as Gravity — Dariusz Wolski’s cinematography is foolproof. The Martian probably isn’t Ridley Scott’s best sci-fi movie (both Alien and Blade Runner will take some beating), but his love letter to human dexterity, perseverance, and personality is an utter triumph.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): 20th Century Fox

Everest (2015)

★★★★

Director: Baltasar Kormákur

Release Date: September 18th, 2015 (UK); September 25th, 2015 (US)

Genre: Adventure; Drama; Thriller

Starring: Jason Clarke, Josh Brolin, Jake Gyllenhaal, Keira Knightley, Emily Watson

“One in four died.” That’s the first thing we see on screen, a solitary line in a block of informative dialogue detailing the worrisome history of Everest expeditions. It is our dramatic lever, pulled at the inception just in case we’re not already aware of Mount Everest’s indiscriminate harshness. Throughout, numerous avalanches interrupt our viewing but unlike the false threat exhumed from similar-looking shots in the alpine-set Force Majeure, the danger here is very real.

William Nicholson and Simon Beaufoy’s screenplay (which may or may not be based on John Krakauer’s Into Thin Air — draw your own conclusions) sheds light and dark on the late-90s mountaineering disaster involving rival trekking companies. Going in bereft of any knowledge probably isn’t much of an advantage; there is a moment at around the forty minute mark that essentially earmarks the film’s ending. It is one of those disaster movie clichés — Titanic’s “You jump, I jump”; any conversation between Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck in Armageddon — that acts as a sentimental forewarning.

Admirably, it is the only instance of pure sentimentality in a film more concerned with truth. Everest is cold, at times freezing, but authentic and gripping and no less emotionally involving as a result. Realising the dangers of a crowded field, opposing expedition leaders Rob Hall (Jason Clarke) and Scott Fischer (Jake Gyllenhaal) — the former is excellent, relaying an exhausting and exhaustive performance — opt to team up during a simple scene bound by numerous layers: it shows two experienced climbers anxiously bowing at the mercy of the mountain, but does so in a manner that provides one of the film’s only junctures of light relief.

Fischer asks who will lead when they near the summit, and both men laugh. There is clarity in his words, an assertion that the need to achieve will always usurp the right to survive. Or, if you like, it’s just a rare chance to giggle. Baltasar Kormákur hones in on the competition between colleagues, a smart move that affords these men and women who are otherwise embroiled in an unrelatable escapade a degree of accessibility.

Invoked from the get-go, this competitive edge mirrors a layer of unsettled snow poised to subside at any moment. At the beginning the banter is weightless — it’s there, but the sly digs between Josh Brolin’s Texas-bred Beck Weathers and the aforementioned journalist John Krakauer carry an ominous undercurrent. The film’s atmosphere is driven by poorly disguised trepidation, and you just know something has to give. “There is competition between every person on this mountain,” says the hippie-esque Fischer, and it is palpable. But any interplay between the climbers is superfluous and Fischer acknowledges this shortly thereafter, declaring the mountain will inevitably have the last word.

In a sense Everest is about the pull of an unavoidable thrill. “Why?” asks Krakauer as he documents the climbers’ journey. “Because it’s there,” is the comically-inclined universal reply, but it is also the best reply the mountaineers can muster. Nobody really has a solid answer — postman Doug Hansen (John Hawkes) talks about his desire to be the everyman who conquered the monster and achieved the impossible. We’re left to ponder whether the reward eclipses the risk, a contemplation that becomes increasingly one-sided the more Hall’s pregnant wife (a game Keira Knightley) appears. Various other members of the group give their reasons: Yasuko Namba (Naoko Mori) references her need to complete the Seven Summits, having already commandeered the other six.

But each response to Krakauer is admonished with persiflage. It is as if the alpinists know the risk is too great, and they’ve simply given in to the thrill. An unfortunate offshoot of the film’s competition element is a spot about the completion of a celebratory magazine article. Emily Watson, who graciously adds oomph to her fairly thankless role as a glorified receptionist (the actors are very good en masse in generally underfed roles), is stressed about her company receiving a bad review in the midst of the encumbering drama, a whim that feels tonally fake.

Death is an inevitability and when it occurs it is visceral in a non-violent way. Shades of grey don’t exist; the landscape yields either white tundras or black crevasses, and as such when people pass they do so bluntly. Analysing the effectiveness of a death scene in this instance feels egregious and unnecessary, particularly given the victims are real people, but Kormákur does handle said moments with candour and, crucially, without mawkishness. Mass amounts of clothing and equipment make it difficult to differentiate between those on screen, reinforcing the notion that on Everest individuals are merely pawns, merely statistics.

Kormákur’s direction is adroit initially, and it gets better as things get worse. We often see the misty, black peak looming over base camp like a plague. Oxygen masks quickly resemble gas masks. Each second the climbers spend plodding up slopes represents an ounce of life extracted from their bodies. This dangerous aura is complemented by Salvatore Totino’s visual flair — the snow-covered ridges could easily pass for one of The Two Towers’ awe-inspiring New Zealand shots.

Enhanced by booming screening room speakers (Everest is definitely a cinema movie), the sound design frequently jabs at your solar plexus. You instinctively breathe a little more vociferously when things start to go wrong and the outing’s audio power does nothing to ease the tension. There is one tranquil shot that is particularly wonderful; at twilight, camped in the eye of the storm, the camera pans calmly around Hall and co. as they gaze longingly at their lofty goal.

Everest stays true to its subjects in a way that is both compelling and respectful, even if some individuals don’t receive the attention they likely should due to the constraints posed by an excessively large cast. By the end, as the credits paid tribute to many of those involved, I found myself in a morose state of sadness, agitation and admiration. For a ‘big disaster movie’, that’s pretty good going.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): Universal Pictures

The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (2015)

★★★

Director: Guy Ritchie

Release Date: August 14th, 2015 (UK & US)

Genre: Action; Adventure; Comedy

Starring: Henry Cavill, Armie Hammer, Alicia Vikander

If you have a particular preference for buddy cop movies set in 1960s Eastern Europe (technically it is Western Europe but the prevailing Cold War atmosphere favours the former) starring a Brit playing an American, an American playing a Russian and Swede playing a German, The Man from U.N.C.L.E. is absolutely your kind of film. For those whose tastes spread more generally, Guy Ritchie’s latest adaptation is still an enjoyable and, for the most part, enticing action flick.

The director’s trademark style is plain to see — though in no way plain — from the beginning. We are introduced almost immediately to Henry Cavill’s Napoleon Solo, an exceedingly well kept CIA agent whose mission takes him to East Berlin where he must track down mechanic Gaby Teller (Alicia Vikander). KGB handyman Illya Kuryakin (Armie Hammer) is also after Teller, whose family has ties to a complicated plot involving Nazi experimentation and nuclear weaponry.

An opening duel between the opposing operatives lights the fuse on a two hour game of one-upmanship. It’s almost comic book-ish, with kinetic pans across bleak urban locales and camera zooms in towards an extended car chase providing much verve. This early sequence in particular harkens back to Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes series, the dark and shadowy inflections of Victorian London incorporated again here, reflecting our two protagonists’ use of stealth and smarts as they attempt to gain the upper hand (shades of grey and black diagonally segment Solo’s face in scrumptious Hitchcockian fashion). The rest of the movie is mostly bright, its colour palette part of the confident — arrogant, even — bulbous energy.

Solo is no Han, though he and Teller do share a smidgen of Han and Leia’ feistiness (none of the romance). The agent exudes sarcasm and is a smarmy git, but Cavill’s cool swagger draws our affection; at one point Solo, in the midst of passing out, perfectly positions a few pillows beneath his head. The characterisation isn’t always this strong — Vikander’s seemingly distant chess piece stumbles through a faltering arc during which her actions are never really vindicated. The most egregiousness part is Teller and Kuryakin’s will-they-won’t-they relationship which feels too blasé for a film that is trying to be clever and slick.

There is a confident flow to proceedings when the two male leads are bantering back and forth. They are spies by trade but also convince as fashionistas, socialites and passive fiancés (well, sort of). Aside from the excellent opening, a team-up mission that both men wish to keep a secret is the film’s most entertaining occasion. It’s like an affair that neither operative wants to go public, and you buy into the individually-driven egotism each man displays.

Both actors assume their roles — Cavill as the upmarket Bond, Hammer as the brutish Bourne — with ease, a notion perhaps best embodied by a gadget-off at the beginning of said mission that sees Solo’s technical prowess out-muscled by Kuryakin’s straight-to-the-point mantra. The entire heist is a fine experiment in combative wit and told-you-so derision.

At one point we see then-President John F. Kennedy within the confines of a television screen, a reminder that events are unfolding in a paranoid and antagonistic setting. Ritchie needed to inject more of this uneasy tone, and should’ve taken a page out of The Winter Soldier’s book in doing so. It should be noted that John Mathieson’s crisp cinematography does evoke an effective era look, richly textured and striking in delivery.

But as snazzy a period piece as it is, the movie shares the same unfortunate lack of interest in exploring the suspicious undercurrents of its period as Mission: Impossible — Rogue Nation. We only really get broad East versus West strokes. The violence is kept to a minimum, which hampers any prevailing danger — greater bite would have upped the ante. It doesn’t have to be Fury, but an additional layer of grit would’ve assisted in shifting the characters from comic sketches to real-ish people.

There is an awful lot of exposition laced throughout too — the film disguises this information overload by getting most of it out the way in a snappy manner, zipping through newspaper clippings and newsreels during action lulls. “Whoever has that disk will simply be the most powerful nation in the world,” one character informs us before reaching through the screen and administering a collective elbow nudge to the audience.

The plot is quite messy. A plethora of agents, spies and turncoats are all invoked though many arrive without a sufficient backstory, or with a rushed one at best. Take the Vinciguerras for example, a villainous power couple who only seem to radiate villainy because they happen to be a power couple. As such it becomes increasingly difficult not only to engage with whichever talking head is around, but also to follow the intricacies of who is motivated to do what and why.

Hugh Grant shows up every now and again as Waverly (because he’s British — he even mutters the line, “Yes please. Thank you very much,” to compound the polite British stereotype). But Grant is so poised and brilliant in the role that it works. He’s a scene-stealer, possibly the best aspect of the movie. Now there’s at least one man from U.N.C.L.E. who deserves a sequel.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): Warner Bros. Pictures

Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation (2015)

★★★

Director: Christopher McQuarrie

Release Date: 30th July, 2015 (UK); 31st July, 2015 (US)

Genre: Action; Adventure; Thriller

Starring: Tom Cruise, Rebecca Ferguson, Simon Pegg, Jeremy Renner

The Mission: Impossible films, in general, are good because the franchise knows exactly what it wants to be, and subsequently what it is. Rogue Nation, which once again pairs Tom Cruise with his Jack Reacher director Christopher McQuarrie, understands its place in the action-thriller lexicon just as well as its four predecessors. The film opens with an exhilarating sequence familiar to those who have seen the trailer: IMF agent Ethan Hunt attempting to clamber inside a gigantic cargo plane as it takes off.

When he eventually boards, the spy-cum-trapeze artist aims a sly shrug at the camera and a shocked bad guy, before parachuting out of the plane with tonnes of nerve gas in tow. The moment reaffirms Cruise’s insanity whilst also ushering in an infectious tongue-in-cheek vibe that thrives indefinitely. “I’ve heard stories, they can’t all be true,” says an Impossible Missions Force operative to Hunt in the calmer scene that follows. They’re definitely all true.

This story centres on the IMF’s unauthorised motion to take down a terrorist organisation reeking global havoc, known as the Syndicate. It’s righteousness versus evil. Mission: Impossible knows it isn’t as gritty as Bourne or as intelligent as Bond, and Rogue Nation’s high-concept plot somewhat reflects that. McQuarrie’s movie is not in any way mindless though — quite the opposite. It purveys a frothy exuberance that relentlessly breathes life into the screenplay and a coyness reflected in said screenplay’s playful genre jabs.

The film constantly pokes fun at itself, reaching out and nudging viewers amid all of the high intensity nonsense and popcorn silliness. “Nessun Dorma” chimes out as Hunt and a big baddie perform combat acrobatics on a lighting rig above an opera performance. The higher the note, the more absurd it gets. But it’s entertaining, one of a few tremendous action set pieces. An underwater spectacle conveys the same technical merit as Gravity and is probably the best of the bunch, highlighting some really intuitive camera work from Robert Elswit — his shots manoeuvre with the stunts and become part of the slick show. We shouldn’t be surprised given his portfolio (There Will Be Blood, Nightcrawler), and here Elswit introduces a cheery energy that those films didn’t have.

At one point Hunt ponders the location of a MacGuffin. Morocco apparently. Cue Lalo Schifrin’s mischievous theme and an ironic Cruise smile (not another sunny location!). He and Simon Pegg are fun to watch as odd buddies whose friendship you genuinely buy into. They meet up with Rebecca Ferguson’s Ilsa Faust who, in an earlier scene, promptly turns Hunt’s condescending, “You should go before it gets ugly,” into something more appreciative (she rescues him by beating up a ragtag band of tough guys as he struggles to unlock his handcuffs). The character is a super addition and Ferguson nails it. She is tough like Emily Blunt in Edge of Tomorrow, but a great deal more emotionally receptive than Rita Vrataski.

Back to Morocco, where Faust outlines a seemingly impossible mission. Wink, wink. Her five minute spiel detailing the most difficult heist in history is delivered with such credible nonchalance that we actually believe the group can pull it off. They do. The conclusion of said heist signals a lengthy stretch during which the film loses steam. Like many overexuberant blockbusters, at almost two and a half hours Rogue Nation is too long, which means we get unnecessary gap-filling acts where characters speed around in fast vehicles with very little at stake.

McQuarrie tries to inject ambiguity into an otherwise conventional narrative by contemplating the trust-related pitfalls faced by agents (“There are no allies in statecraft, only common interests”). A fleeting Cold War-esque paranoia infects the air and sort of muddies various characters’ credibility. The aforementioned opera scene includes a three way shootout embodying this uncertainty. Is Faust a double, or triple, agent? Is Jeremy Renner’s — whose brilliantly snarky performance warrants much more screen time — William Brandt secretly liaising with Alec Baldwin’s CIA director? The suspicion mantle is overworked, demeaning characters’ decision-making and suggesting their motives lack focus.

On the other hand, the film’s modern day socio-economic terrorism angle isn’t explored enough. Sean Harris’ Solomon Lane is an underwhelming villain. He relentlessly places misguided trust in Faust, which only serves to undermine his intellect. Lane is not a hulking enemy — a guy called the ‘Bone Doctor’ fulfils our hard-hitting desires — which is fine, but because we don’t comprehend his savvy as much as we should he never feels like much of a threat.

This sticks its tongue out until the very end and earns the right to be whimsical. There aren’t any attempts to sit at tables already reserved by other action staples. The film resultantly doesn’t have a sharp bite, which might be for the best given the flippant nature of its only moderately engaging thematic endeavours. Rogue Nation is still probably the IMF’s best outing to date though.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collier

Images copyright (©): Paramount Pictures

Inside Out (2015)

★★★★★

Director: Pete Docter

Release Date: June 19th, 2015 (US); July 24th, 2016 (UK)

Genre: Animation; Adventure; Comedy

Starring: Amy Poehler, Mindy Kaling, Bill Hader, Phyllis Smith, Lewis Black

If you’ve spent years agonising over the possibility of a live action Numskulls film — and let’s face it, who hasn’t? — you’re finally in luck. Inside Out takes the premise of said comic strip and imbues it with a visual vitality not always achievable on paper. But more than that, the film smartly and effectively explores the social complexities of growing up, and does so amidst a level of confidence not relayed from Pixar since Toy Story 3. One thing is absolutely certain: the creative minds behind the studio’s latest imagination emporium are no numbskulls.

The film follows youngster Riley (Kaitlyn Dias), whose bright and bubbly exterior matches her consistently joyful interior. See, Joy (Amy Poehler) is Riley’s overriding emotion, she having commandeered a monopoly on her host’s mind since birth. A sudden shift in locale from her beloved, chilly Minnesota to an unhomely San Francisco disturbs the eleven-year-old’s mental hierarchy, leaving Anger (Lewis Black), Disgust (Mindy Kaling), and Fear (Bill Hader) in charge.

As you can probably imagine, this loss of cheerful guidance sends Riley down a path of greater isolation in already isolating surroundings. Happy core memories — which power five primary islands, including Family Island and Goofball Island — are tinged with solemnity via Sadness (Phyllis Smith), whose clumsiness catapults her and Joy away from the central hub. You buy into the film’s simple story, desperately urging the odd couple back to Headquarters, even if the various structural nodes take a while to fully grasp.

The inside of Riley’s head assumes a life of its own, where reality has been remodelled with a rainbow-like gloss. Fittingly, we find out it’s a movie studio (aptly called Dream Productions) that is responsible for the creation of dreams. With her rectangular hair and sharp glare, Riley’s dream auteur resembles Scarefloor clerk Roz from Monsters, Inc. Pete Docter, who helmed Mike and Sulley’s fun frightfest, also directs here and does so with incessant invention, answering questions about how the mind is constructed before we even get the chance to think them up. At one point the action calls for a dream to become a nightmare, and as such Dream Productions’ feature film evolves into a horror movie starring a huge scary clown.

Inside Out often takes its visual cues from Toy Story, both materially and comically. Just as that franchise portrays Slinky, a stretch toy, in Sausage Dog form, here Anger wears a shirt and tie combo normally associated with workers who are fed up with their job and full of scorn. Anger is also the lead emotion inside Riley’s father’s head, a playful jab at male stereotypes; men are either grumpy, preoccupied by sports or hilariously militaristic when it comes to getting things done at the last minute. We stalk the camera during a superbly written family dinner scene as it invades the inner workings of mother and father (voiced by Diane Lane and Kyle MacLachlan), showing their respective reactions towards Riley’s morose attitude.

Fear is unabashedly spontaneous, in a state of terminal alarm and never boring to watch — Bill Hader just about steals the show with his squawking audio performance. Joy glows, whereas Sadness is a murky blue colour, small and forever huddled up. Phyllis Smith’s voice work as the latter channels Saturday Night Live’s Debbie Downer to perfection. Disgust, obviously, carries the poise and style of a fashion expert.

Throughout we constantly weigh up whether the emotions are controlling Riley, or if it’s Riley who is controlling her emotions. On occasion you can’t help but give into the sprightly visual splendour and the barrage of smart gags, but even in these moments the film steers well clear of all that is routine. For adults Inside Out could be a hypothetical examination of mental illness, or simply a voyage into the psychologically transformative nature of ageing. For children it’s also about growing up, only the immediacy of events on screen are sure to hit home with greater verve. The film affords young viewers an optical veracity that likely mirrors their ongoing experiences.

Pixar hasn’t shied away from misfortune in the past — see the first ten minutes of Up, or the abandonment arc in Toy Story 3 — and the studio continues to respect its audience by maintaining that mature philosophy here. Joy is undoubtedly a positive influence on Riley’s life, but her mistrust of Sadness is telling. The establishment of a ‘Circle of Sadness’ is a somewhat autocratic control mechanism thought up by Joy to restrict Riley’s emotional output. Joy doesn’t want her young anchor to ail, not realising the process of ailing plays a crucial role in a person’s development.

Docter and co-writers Meg LeFauve and Josh Cooley champion lightheartedness in equal measure, matching seriousness with amusement: less imperative memories are tossed away at the onset of teenagehood, at which point bouts of important knowledge (US Presidents, piano skills) succumb to materiality (the perfect boyfriend). The funniest running gag, which centres on an annoying advert with a catchy theme song, is irksomely on point. This mixture of slapstick, witty and child friendly — though not childish — comedy gives the movie a peppy air. “That’s it, I fold,” bemoans a Jelly Bean-esque builder whose house made of cards keeps collapsing.

Long-term memory is visualised as a gigantic maze library. The filmmakers even explore abstract thought; the realisation of our overly analytical side (something writers can relate to), where notions and ideas and truths are deconstructed and subsequently flattened to the point of nothingness. It’s a brilliantly incisive scene that implores us not to be too self-critical or too self-diagnostic.

The primary message throughout Inside Out is a reassuring one. Sometimes it’s okay to be sad. Or angry, or fearful, or disgusted. These are feelings that will eventually subside and offer in their place a stepping stone to happiness, and to other, more complex and interesting emotions. Docter’s film is rich in subtext, one of those that you should watch again and again and could pick apart all day thereafter. This warrants examination both inside and out.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures

As Above, So Below (2014)

★★★

Director: John Erick Dowdle

Release Date: August 29th, 2014 (UK & US)

Genre: Adventure; Horror; Mystery

Starring: Perdita Weeks, Ben Feldman

“They’d have to catch me first,” Scarlett (Perdita Weeks) says near the beginning of this faux-documentary horror outing. She’s talking about the consequences of illegally sneaking into places, or the Catacombs beneath Paris to be more precise. Scarlett is a student studying archaeological formations and symbolic patterns and, having found something called the Rose Key during a dangerous expedition in Iran, she’s now desperate to get her hands on Nicolas Flamel’s philosopher’s stone (apparently nobody at Hogwarts answers the phone).

She bands together a ragtag bunch of urban explorers including cameraman Benji (Edwin Hodge) and her reluctant, might-be-mightn’t-be boyfriend George (Ben Feldman) who is still a bit miffed at Scarlett for abandoning him to go relic hunting a while back. Before we get to the scary underground part, there’s a lot of translation gibberish that goes on. Putting her education to good use, our lead scampers around Paris examining odd objects and deciphering hieroglyphic-esque language.

It’s an unnecessary history lesson that doesn’t really add anything to the remainder of the movie, nor is it all that interesting. Scarlett, Benji and George dart across museums (maybe it was just one) as the film strives to pick up some early momentum, but it’s a bit wearisome. The dialogue at this point is uninspired too — at one point Scarlett rhetorically asks if she looks like a tourist, trying to emphasise that her self-perceived non-touristy appearance suggests she isn’t up to anything. But she does look like a tourist, and she quite plainly is up to something.

This fairly ponderous opening act has much in common with the first half of Bigfoot horror Willow Creek, and much like Bobcat Goldthwait’s film, As Above, So Below kicks into gear when its misguided pawns reach their congested destination. You will die if you run out of light or water in the Catacombs, or if you get hurt, we are informed by the group’s more advanced Catacomb explorers. Heading down into the blackness sounds like a great idea then.

Thankfully, this is a horror movie and the characters are all dumb enough to genuinely think descending into dark cavernous ruins is a great idea. All except yep-they’re-definitely-getting-back-together-again George, whose previous claustrophobic endeavours have rendered him resentful of cramped spaces. He spends a lot of time ruling out his involvement, but ends up following the group all the way to the entrance anyway and then, through a bit of hullabaloo, finds himself in another cramped space.

The confined setting almost immediately generates a very primitive longing for air among the characters, and we even occasionally get caught up in its uneasy potential. “People who go in this tunnel don’t come out,” says the troupe’s experienced leader of sorts, and of course they’re subsequently forced into said tunnel via some wall-shifting tomfoolery. You do get the sense that director John Erick Dowdle, who has experience in both found footage and claustrophobic horror with Quarantine and Devil, could have spent more time attempting to wear us out.

The Descent is an obvious inspiration — there’s a clear homage moment towards the end involving a river of blood — and that film succeeds because it works exceedingly hard to get under the viewer’s skin. The Descent’s scare-factor isn’t necessarily born out of the arrival of its cave-dwelling beasts. It is scary because, no matter how vociferously you scream at the television, the people on screen are clearly going deeper into the abyss with no foreseeable way out.

This film spends a bit of time conveying that trapped-ness effectively; the found footage aspect is a positive influence, enforcing a natural tightness that in most other cases would frustrate viewers. Although it tries hard to steer clear of jump scares — Dowdle and his co-writing brother Drew should be commended for avoiding that lazy route — it doesn’t hammer home the characters’ overarching struggle as well as The Descent. This might be to do with the frequent interludes of ancient word scrabble that are tonally hokey and encourage respite.

For those who have seen The Borderlands, the same ‘corridor of uncertainty’ conclusion to that movie can be found spliced throughout As Above, So Below. Peculiarity is in the air, and Scarlett et al are often as unaware as we are regarding the strange events. Though the philosopher’s stone stuff is generally silly, when Dowdle strikes the correct balance between mysticism and realism the film takes a turn for the creepy. Objects that appear at random are unsettling not just because they’re in a place they shouldn’t be, but also because they’re in some way connected to the group. An errant piano has the same broken key as one of the party’s childhood instruments, a revelation wrought in subtle terror.

The characters are secondary to the spooky goings-on which is an unfortunate genre norm. Perdita Weeks and Ben Feldman are fine if unspectacular as the ostensible leads, both amiable enough. Though, at times it does feel like the duo and their mates have watched too many generic horrors — events that should shock them don’t for some reason. Someone dies and Scarlett declares, “I can’t bring back the dead, sorry,” with the same nonchalant detachment a waiter would convey when apologising for the lack of tomato ketchup at his restaurant.

People inevitably begin dropping like flies, which is fine. It is a horror movie after all and death is written in the Horror Movie Constitution. In a somewhat surreal turn of events, the ending manages to be both aggravating and refreshing. As Above, So Below starts off on shaky ground, stuck in a preparatory rut for longer that it ought to be. When the shaky ground finally is behind (or above) us, there’s a lot to like.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): Universal Pictures

Terminator Genisys (2015)

★★

Director: Alan Taylor

Release Date: July 1st, 2015 (US); July 2nd, 2015 (UK)

Genre: Action; Adventure; Science fiction

Starring: Emilia Clarke, Jai Courtney, Arnold Schwarzenegger

Every once in a while, Terminator Genisys springs a countdown clock on us. Bad things will happen, we’re told, when it hits zero. If you are in any way familiar with how films work, you will know that countdowns often hit zero at the end of movies, and that is true again here. Suddenly those bad things look more appealing. For an hour and a half, Thor: The Dark World director Alan Taylor’s reboot is robotic in all the wrong ways. It’s frustrating, because the final act somewhat harkens back to the great action of past instalments. But by then it’s too late — time’s up.

In getting under way, we retread a backstory recognisable to viewers who have visited the franchise before. It goes on for ages, but Kyle Reese’s (Jai Courtney) words are at least visually supplemented by some advanced Star Wars-meets-Transformers combat. We’re then introduced to future John Connor (or current, semantics pending), played fairly well by Jason Clarke. Trying his best to conclude the exposition heavy prelude, Connor makes a big deal out of why it should be Reese he sends back in time to stop an evil Terminator, as opposed to any other schmuck. But his interrogation follows a scene in which the pair cement their infallible trust and comradeship. Why wouldn’t it be Reese?

This unnecessary friction exemplifies what soon becomes a full on screenplay pandemic — the creation of narrative falsehoods and conveniences lazily employed in order to move the plot forward (or sideways, or backwards, depending on which time zone or dreamscape we’re lost in). And it’s not just us who are confused. The characters do their fair share of head-scratching too: “That’s the kind of guy your son was… is… will be. Jesus!” bellows Reese as he attempts to tell Sarah Connor (Emilia Clarke) about her son who both has, and has not, been born yet.

The story is all over the place but it essentially boils down to Sarah, Reese and classic Terminator (Arnold Schwarzenegger) trying to save the world. Co-writers Laeta Kalogridis and Patrick Lussier seem hell-bent on expunging the franchise’s mythology entirely, though their efforts ultimately produce a convoluted product. The former had better luck penning the evasive Shutter Island, but the layers of plot are excessive here and the film misses seemingly obvious details as a result. For example, there are four different Skynet bots at large: two Arnies — one good, one bad — a T-1000 policeman whose existence in 1984 is never fully explained (though his sword-like arm is at least a nifty nod to Terminator 2: Judgment Day) and John Connor, sort of. Maybe.

Caught up in the myriad of goings-on are infrequent thematic throwbacks to classic Terminator lore; the increasingly intrusive threat posed by machines, humanity’s greed for untested technological advancement. However not enough time is afforded to any of this meaty material. It is possible that scenes containing Dayo Okeniyi’s Genisys-creating Danny Dyson, son of Judgment Day’s Miles Dyson who also appears, were cut. As things stand his lack of on screen engagement is quite embarrassing. We never really find out about the character’s mindset, or his motives for developing the technology. Apparently the answer to everything is ‘sequel’.

Resultantly, the Genisys program presents itself as nothing more than an iffy iCloud. “This is the world now. Plugged in. Logged on.” That’s as incisive as it gets. The dumbing down of this once prescient franchise is something we probably should have expected given Paramount’s willingness to trade middle act surprises for better marketing traction. If you’ve seen the trailer — and we all have, it has been everywhere — the John Connor revelation is no longer a shocker. Connor is involved in a shocking moment though: his declaration that it probably won’t matter if Sarah Connor dies essentially undermines the entire franchise. If Jurassic World was overly respectful towards its elders, Terminator Genisys couldn’t really give a toss.

Taylor’s direction puts more emphasis on comedy than before. The move is misjudged, but not without merit. You get the sense the film is trying to be too Marvel-esque, too witty, when both The Terminator and Judgment Day both succeeded by being rooted in apocalyptic reality. Snappy lines detract from weighty stakes. It can be quite funny — Clarke and Schwarzenegger have amusing chemistry — but the missed gags do occasionally stick out like a mechanical limb. These characters, unlike the Avengers, haven’t yet earned the right to be funny in a life or death situation.

Unfortunately, the characters simply don’t get by via their iconography. Arnie does because it’s the same actor playing the same role, and he’s actually good fun. The others wear iconic names but they carry unrecognisable attributes. We’re told this is a different Sarah Connor and it’s true. Just not a better one. She is too outgoing, too friendly, too accessible. Though Emilia Clarke makes a decent stab at invoking the steely-eyed persistence of Linda Hamilton, the character is generic. Very little of everything and nothing in particular.

At one point Reese informs Sarah, “Me unlocking your cuffs doesn’t make you less capable,” but neither of them are all that capable to begin with. Both Clarke and Jai Courtney are given virtually impossible tasks. Courtney in particular struggles to overcome the shoddiness of his bland action man. It would be nice to see him in something other than one of these wafer-thin gun-toting roles (Suicide Squad is a dice throw at present). Academy Award winner J.K. Simmons is good as the alcoholic, downtrodden detective, rising above another of the movie’s stock personas.

Despite this plethora of misgivings, Terminator Genisys does conjure up an entertaining final thirty minutes. The action never quite reaches the pulpy, adrenaline-fuelled antics of James Cameron’s outings, but there are welcome pockets of grit. Calling upon Speed — a single-decker bus, female driver, large bridge, inability to slow down — the film switches up the intensity with visual flair. By the final scenes, we are reluctantly along for the ride and the humour subsequently works, acting as a refreshing blast of energy between the hard and heavy battles. A Bad Boys mugshot sequence is inspired.

People applauded as the credits rolled in my screening, so somebody must have done something right. Maybe this is a super-smart critique of sluggish blockbuster reboots. T-3000 John Connor talks about the Sarah he remembers, and maybe he is referring to the Sarah of Judgment Day. Maybe this film is set in an alternate reality where all the characters are diluted on purpose, and the plot points are nonsensical by design. Probably not. Terminator Genisys is as messy as its calamitous title suggests.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Jurassic World (2015)

★★★★

Director: Colin Trevorrow

Release Date: June 11th, 2015 (UK); June 12th, 2015 (US)

Genre: Action; Adventure; Science fiction

Starring: Chris Pratt, Bryce Dallas Howard, Nick Robinson, Ty Simpkins

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. In the context of filmmaking, it’s very easy to construe that as nothing more than an excuse for lazy writing or a general lack of ideas. Mainstream horror comes to mind, movies that retread the same ground so often that the concrete slabs below are eroding into nothingness. Jurassic World similarly stomps over familiar tracks, the same ones paved back in 1993 by Steven Spielberg.

Yet there’s an authentic admiration afoot in Colin Trevorrow’s work. Moments so sincere that any semblance of cynicism will be expunged from your psyche. A lot of goodwill has clearly been poured into the making of this fourth dino instalment, a film that undoubtedly strives to capture the fantastical magic of the first. It probably gets there in the end. We see imitation in spades and it’s flat out splendid.

Some time after the tumultuous events of Jurassic Park, Isla Nublar has been transformed into the tourist-attracting dinosaur paradise originally envisioned by John Hammond. Operations manager Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard) invites her two nephews — gloomy Zach (Nick Robinson) and wide-eyed Gray (Ty Simpkins) — over to experience the park first-hand. When something inexplicably goes wrong, Claire and Velociraptor coach Owen (Chris Pratt) find themselves in a race to restore civility.

These characters are initially drawn rather whimsically. Chris Pratt’s Owen is the morally upright park hand who spends his time tucked away in a cabin fixing up motorcycles when he’s not training Velociraptors. Claire is work-obsessed, her penchant for sustainable order and satisfaction statistics often overruling any time spent with her nephews (both of whom also assume recognisable age-related traits). It’s all part of the writers’ plan though; imminent danger brings heroism and savviness to the fore, particularly in Claire whose transformation is punctuated in a scene where she literally rolls up her sleeves.

In fairness, there are early hints at this increasing character roundedness. Conversations about the new breed of dinosaur — Indominus Rex, a corporate attempt to freshen up the park — leave Claire flustered, suggesting she is somewhat torn by the possible consequences. “Indominus wasn’t bred, she was designed,” we hear ominously. Owen, despite treating his raptors with care and respect, is still holding them captive. The influence of corporations, poor animal welfare, and immoral science are all interesting themes that would have benefited from more breathing time in a film not contractually obliged to serve up grand bouts of action.

Occasionally, Trevorrow and his team of co-writers do return to the aforementioned themes — an exhilarating scene where Owen rides his bike among the raptors seems to suggest humans and dinosaurs are one in the same. But the moment of the movie, and a shoe-in for one of the moments of the entire year, belongs to Claire. It comes towards the conclusion, spine-tingling in delivery, and cements her place atop the annual cinematic table of quick-thinking badassery.

While Bryce Dallas Howard moulds into the cool aunt we always knew she could be — shooting errant dinosaurs and using her wily driving skills to protect her nephews — Chris Pratt remains impossibly cool throughout. He’s Indiana Jones, a surly customer not afraid to echo some juvenile Han Solo-esque one-liners. When he gets serious, he means it. The two actors appear effortless in their roles, and share an engaging, charmingly awkward chemistry.

An underfed yet sweet relationship plays out between brothers Zach and Gray too. Not helped by an unnecessary divorce plot strand, Nick Robinson and Ty Simpkins are fun to watch as the generic sibling duo who eventually, predictably, come to appreciate each other. Robinson, who excelled in The Kings of Summer, has natural charisma and could be a breakout role away from superstardom. Comparably younger, Simpkins defies the annoying kid curse and puts on an amiable show here.

Other members of a pleasingly diverse cast include Omar Sy, Jake Johnson, Lauren Lapkus, Vincent D’Onofrio, Irrfan Khan, and previous Jurassic survivor, BD Wong. Jimmy Fallon makes a hilarious cameo, striking a funny bone from which point the film gets gradually more amusing. Trevorrow manages to carefully balance light-hearted humour (which the franchise well known for) and rampaging action (which the franchise is also well known for). We see this during a dino football scene: the situation is terrifying in theory, but the visual of a marauding dinosaur thumping a giant glass ball around is humorous.

Action spots are aplenty, though never burdensome. Executed with boisterous energy, you willingly give into the air of childlike joy and genuine threat. One sequence sees the dinosaurs meet The Birds and we subsequently feel that film’s sense of impending, uncontrollable danger. A claustrophobic night vision routine looks like it has been lifted directly from the Zero Dark Thirty Abbottabad raid. These instigators of flickering emotion merge with John Schwartzman’s realistic-looking cinematography, and as such we constantly feel embedded in the story. This is, without doubt, a CGI masterstroke.

The same can’t be said for compelling dialogue, of which is there is very little. There are plenty of exposition-driven sound bites in first hour though, lines wrapped in a heightened dramatic effect, snippets that have an unfortunate made-for-trailer dynamic. The screenplay is ham-fisted, especially during the film’s opening third where the desire to induce peril overrides any airy character discussion. But the people and the sounds and the overall atmosphere collectively create a welcome distraction.

At its simplest — and it is often simple — Jurassic World is a nostalgic love letter to cinema. It is a wonderfully reminiscent piece bearing great admiration for Spielberg’s original, and is able to duplicate Jurassic Park’s most memorable moments without plunging into mawkish territory. We hear John Williams’ famous track early on, during a perfectly handled island tour sequence celebrating the magnificent park facilities (Tomorrowland… pfft), before it hits a crescendo coated in cinematic glee.

Those sort of goosebump-inducing moments are the foundation of the cinematic experience. Jurassic World is not the complete package by any means, but as far as celebratory storytelling goes, it has serious bite.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior (1981)

★★★★

Director: George Miller

Release Date: January 19th, 1982 (UK); May 21st, 1982 (US)

Genre: Action; Adventure; Science fiction

Starring: Mel Gibson

When it comes to writing, you get the sense George Miller (and co-writers Terry Hayes and Brian Hannant) can’t wait to put pen to paper. It is an eagerness that translates across the whole Mad Max franchise, one that permeates each film from the word go. The Road Warrior begins in much the same vein as its predecessor, with lots of revving and car acrobatics and dodging and crashing.

Only this time Max (Mel Gibson) is the hunted and not the hunter. Nightrider has nothing on Max’s new curtain-jerking nemesis — a sign of crazier things to come. The red-Mohicaned Wez (Vernon Wells) and Max race to a stalemate (there’s that western influence again), which sees the former pull an arrow from his injured arm and evoke an unmoved screech.

This local impasse is indicative of a much grander one to which the film builds. The world has emerged from its process of environmental, political and economic degradation and is now in a state of total desolation. Max, alone following the tragic events that went before, must decide whether or not to assist a similarly cut off community in their fight against an oil-hungry motorcycle cult.

The former patrol officer runs into another drifter after his aforementioned interaction. The drifter, therein known as the Gyro Captain (Bruce Spence), exclaims: “You’re quick, very quick! Never seen a man beat a snake.” That’s where Max is now, instinct fully developed, greatly skilled in the art of survival. He is the road warrior. Max’s only companion is a scruffy dog, who amusingly entrusts with the Gyro Captain’s life — a scene involving an errant rabbit is absurdly hilarious.

As opposed to phones or wallets, people carry around spoons in the hope that they will find some leftover food rotting away in a tin can. The enforced partnership between Max and the Gyro Captain — the latter’s existence in exchange for direction — offers a bout of light relief from this demoralising and harsh landscape. Spence’s character is a sort of Ragetti figure (or perhaps Ragetti is more of a Gyro Captain), which is a welcome contrast to Max’s more sombre, uptight self.

Miller incessantly plays up his anti-hero’s transformation. Later in the film, Michael Preston’s settlement leader Pappagallo laments Max’s lone wolf status: “You think you’re the only one who’s suffered? We’re still human beings with dignity. You? You’re out there with the garbage. You’re nothing.” While his words ring with truth, we still feel compelled to sympathise with Max given his unfortunate past. The character’s evolution, or devolution, from a wholesome upholder of law to a lawless, fractured outcast is believable not only in accordance with society’s lack of structure, but more so because both Gibson and Miller consistently afford the character thoughtful consideration.

Marauding car sequences come with extra bite. At one point we see Max and the Gyro Captain peer through a telescope at a grisly runaway attempt. We become part of their distance spying, which adds a sense of realism to an otherwise unrecognisable world. The telescopic view carries the same rawness as modern amateur news reporting. In a way there is more at stake now that the landscape is completely barren; everyone is out for themselves, there is no more justice via the Main Force Patrol and instead barbarity is fought with barbarity. This shift towards more brutal action is a lot like shift in tone from The Terminator to Terminator 2: Judgement Day.

Classic genre tropes are at large, including a classic Mexican standoff that sees an invading army attack the resource-rich town where Max ends up stranded. When guns are unavailable, blunt arrows and skull-cracking headbutts take centre stage, emphasising civilisation’s retreat back towards more archaic times. A finger-slicing boomerang finds its way into a brilliant scene, compounding the unadulterated madness of Miller’s film which, despite his no-nonsense approach, is thankfully still around.

Lord Humungus (obviously) is Max’s new nemesis. He dons a Jason-esque hockey mask and exudes the soothing pitch of an experience cult leader. “There has been too much violence, too much pain… just walk away and there will be an end to the horror,” Humungus decrees to the people defending their refinery. Kjell Nilsson is great to watch, sounding like an enigmatic overseer who has all the answers and looking like a monster who could do serious damage. He adopts Hugh Keays-Byrne’s intellectual Toecutter vibe but matches that with brute strength and sense of imminent physical threat.

One of The Road Warrior’s more abstract moments is a distorted scene which resembles something out of a Cecil B. DeMille horror flick: a loud brassy score with shots overlapping one another as enemy characters wail and gesture violently. There are aesthetic echoes of Charlton Heston’s Moses presenting the stone tablet to his followers in The Ten Commandments, oddly. Here, Humungus appears to take on the mantra of Hades, vehemently spouting threats as he stands before what appears to be the fiery pits of hell. It’s a bizarre scene, but the film’s genuine self-awareness justifies its inclusion.

Since release, The Road Warrior’s many admirers have catapulted the film into cult status. It is more aloof and less predictable than Mad Max. But it also favours simplicity in the right areas, affording more time for the development of its central character who is now a very different person. Just as Max has changed through circumstance, the world has changed with him. The symmetry is admirable, if expected. The execution is expectedly excellent.

Images credit: IMP Awards