Samuel L Jackson – Consumed By Film

The Hateful Eight (2016)

★★★★

Director: Quentin Tarantino

Release Date: December 25th, 2015 (US); January 8th, 2016 (UK)

Genre: Comedy; Crime; Drama

Starring: Samuel L. Jackson, Kurt Russell, Jennifer Jason Leigh

Quentin Tarantino’s The Hateful Eight almost feels like a career denouement. Fittingly, its structure loosely resembles that of the director’s inaugural feature, Reservoir Dogs, though experience has clearly softened his haste. One can imagine a young Tarantino, exuberance overriding patience, penning a screenplay too snappy to tempt overstaying its welcome (at less than 100 minutes, it is his shortest film). With over 20 successful years to his name and having perfected his incomparable style — arthouse blockbusters — snappy screenplays no longer have a place in the auteur’s workshop. The Hateful Eight reflects just that, seemingly to the point of no return.

Post-Civil-War tensions are rife in what is essentially a courtroom western. In non-revelatory terms, let’s run through some of the prosecutors (after all, Tarantino’s screenplay does the best descriptive job). John Ruth (Kurt Russell) is pure Americana, the type who gets glossy-eyed reading a letter written by President Abraham Lincoln. He is transporting criminal Daisy Domergue to Red Rock where she will be hanged — Jennifer Jason Leigh, oddly enough, increasingly channels The Breakfast Club’s Allison with each disconcerting grin and her general weirdness. Along the way they meet Major Marquis Warren, practical and thoughtful, played by Samuel L. Jackson.

He hitches a ride after some toing and froing, as does Chris Mannix who the trio find flailing around frantically in the brewing blizzard. Mannix, the prospective Sheriff of Red Rock, is weaselly and the most out-there of the entire bunch. He is played by Walton Goggins, the film’s MVP on the humour front. Tim Roth (Oswaldo Mobray), Michael Madsen (Joe Gage), Bruce Dern (General Sanford Smithers), and Demián Bichir (Bob) are already huddled up in Minnie’s Haberdashery when the travelling troupe arrive seeking shelter from the storm. Turns out the snow would have been a safer bet.

This rabble, though most engaging, are a noxious bunch. They use “during wartime” as a reductive excuse for past misdemeanours when really those misdemeanours were, and are, a way of life. “Justice delivered without dispassion is always in danger of not being justice,” muses Roth’s Mobray with ominous foreboding. Much has been made about the treatment of Domergue, and it’s plain to see why: she gets throttled often and without much in the way of retaliatory action. The characters are almost universally vile, Domergue included; the abuse is not funny nor, crucially, do I think it is meant to be. It didn’t offend me (the N word is again invoked with consistency) but others mightn’t be so kind.

For around an hour and a half, you get the feeling Tarantino and co. are taking the material seriously, so much so that those doing the striking gain a nasty reputation. But when the spaghetti violence takes form later on, that conscientious veneer ceases to exist and gory absurdity reigns supreme. Perhaps justifiably, given the caricature-esque group involved. At this point the violence is played, at least to an extent, for laughs and shock value — although it is worth noting most of the amusing moments arrive via verbiage. Ruth, for instance, intentionally has the worst comeback patter: “My pistol plays a tune… Domergue’s Death March.”

Jackson gets the best of the dialogue and subsequently repays Tarantino’s faith. He delivers a whodunit monologue with such devious joy; you can just about see the actor licking his lips as he succumbs to the satisfying taste of the words rumbling around his mouth. On the topic of audio, Ennio Morricone delivers another resplendent score, thoroughly grandiose and absolutely worthy of the occasion: his return to the genre for the first time since Buddy Goes West (1981). Galloping horses carry a distinctly cinematic sound and Tarantino, a movie lover, knows it. He also knows and cherishes the woody authenticity of film as a shooting medium, making Robert Richardson’s immaculate visual serving a welcome non-surprise.

There are times, and this is true of all Tarantino outings apart from the aforementioned Reservoir Dogs, when you find yourself actively egging conversations towards their conclusion. This is especially applicable in “Chapter One” of The Hateful Eight, when Warren is attempting to nab a seat in Ruth’s convoy. It might be a genuine attempt to flesh out key characters or simply a matter of self-indulgence, or possibly a bit of both. Tarantino writes and writes, and then writes some more, and when you see one of his films you just have to accept that. Because when he gets it right — and let’s face it, he does get it right quite a lot — even Aaron Sorkin must look on with a hint of jealousy.

Having said that, there isn’t much depth beyond the obvious cultural and political divisions (which are so plainly invoked they barely register as thoughtful). The certainty of death manifests via blood-trails in the snow — these rose markings could also represent the importance of evidence on the path to justice, though I might be clutching at straws with that one. Tarantino makes it work, however, by subbing in rich characters and the unrepentant screenplay I have already alluded to. The film exists in an era that demands people declare their backstory upon meeting a stranger and those variably truthful backstories are thoroughly enticing to hear.

A chapter in the film’s second act expertly refreshes proceedings just when you think the film might be turning stagnant and a tad repetitive. “The name of the game is patience.” It is true; patience welcomes more positives than negatives in The Hateful Eight. Quentin Tarantino is the sort of director who would rather swim across an ocean than take a speedboat in order to prove his point. You’ll know by now whether or not you enjoy that sort of storytelling. Regardless, there is something charming about a film that keeps you in the cinema a little longer than necessary — especially if said film has a lot going for it.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): The Weinstein Company

Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014)

★★★★

Directors: Anthony and Joe Russo

Release Date: March 26th, 2014 (UK); April 4th, 2014 (US)

Genre: Action; Adventure; Science fiction

Starring: Chris Evans, Scarlett Johansson, Samuel L. Jackson, Anthony Mackie

Anthony Mackie’s aerial hero Sam Wilson clarifies his role in combat: “I’m more of a soldier than a spy.” It’s a statement that undoubtedly applies to the all guns blazing Falcon, but not one that echoes alongside Captain America: The Winter Soldier. In a bolder move than perhaps initially perceived, brothers Anthony and Joe Russo decide to direct this latest Marvel instalment down a noticeably unrecognisable runway, one without the usual witty pizazz or golden godly attire. Instead, we find ourselves immersed in a more familiar world where threats come from secretive suits and moral ambiguity challenges heat of the moment decision-making. An ever-increasing commonality on the annual cinematic calendar, superhero jaunts must beware genericism. Captain America: The Winter Soldier heeds this notion by placing storytelling on a pedestal, and the result is the genre’s best outing since The Avengers.

Having traded barbershop quartets for iPhones, Steve Rogers (Chris Evans) is struggling to comprehend modern society. Shield in hand and other hand in the enemy’s face, as Captain America, Rogers is unwavering — if there’s a mission to be done, it’s his job to carry out the orders without fail. However, when the star-spangled armour is removed and his protection against life and its cynicisms subsequently foiled, Rogers finds himself at odds with not only those close to him, but also at his own inherent ideals too. With the walls of surveillance closing in and S.H.I.E.L.D. director Nick Fury’s (Samuel L. Jackson) warning to trust nobody a prominent klaxon bellowing around his mind, the bastion of righteousness must suddenly contend with another menace: the aptly named Winter Soldier (Sebastian Stan).

Unlike most other Marvel epics, The Winter Soldier adheres to a distinctly retro vibe; in execution, in tone and in narrative. Of course the same could be said of The First Avenger but, unlike the film set amidst World War II, Captain America’s second sole venture onto the big screen sees him fiddle around in a 2014 that is rife with wisps of the past. Phrases such as “nuclear war” are tossed around and it’s not long before the technical beat of Bourne sounds off. Rather than bombastic CGI gorging, the film shuttles forth through subtle tension. It has the basis of a spy thriller, an espionage tale pitting foes against each other in a semiotic battle where the meaning behind a threat holds as much reverence as its actual implementation.

The filmmakers astutely conjure up an air of uncertainty that sees hostile clouds slowly gather as a plethora of characters interact with each other. We know only to trust Cap, who is suffering the same principle-related dichotomy that any of us would succumb to if thrown in a similar situation. At heart he’s still the same scrawny chap from 1942, and is entirely relatable in that sense (his normality rather than his age). This amalgamation of Cold-War-esque strain is emphasised at no better moment than during a lift scene where, as more gun-wielding combatants enter and the number of suspects grows, one single trickle of sweat represents a hazy downpour from those aforementioned clouds of hostility. The overriding tonal shift works because it is different from what we normally see at the reels of Marvel (and normally enjoy too). In actual fact, The Winter Soldier is of similar mould to Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy, as gritty realism effectively grounds and familiarises proceedings.

In an interesting twist, though the Cold War vibe presents an encapsulating avenue into the film for viewers, said time period absolutely remains a modern one for Captain America. The unethical derivative of modernity combined with fears over infiltration acts as an almost tumultuous double whammy for Steve Rogers, who is experiencing the worst of two eras. A lot of emphasis is placed on character development which means the audience is able to develop a sincere connection towards Rogers who, in the previous film, was a bit of a one-trick pony. This time around, Captain America is the perfect foil for the narrative in question, one hoisted aloft by defection and deception. He’s the symbol of freedom and justice, but how can one be fair in a morally jarring modern society? Rogers walks through a museum, showing signs of still living in the past much like his seemingly outdated moral attitude (“It’s just not the same”). One recognisable element though, is conflict, and The Winter Soldier himself reflects the soulless nature of contemporary life. As a villain he’s solid, if not a tad uninspired, though Sebastian Stan does occasionally stimulate an aura of peril.

The mind-strewn superhero himself, Chris Evans emits an authentic sense of noble disenfranchisement, but refrains from thrusting his character too far in the wrong direction. Unlike S.H.I.E.L.D., his stance is never compromised. Evans is a very watchable presence, much akin to Scarlett Johansson whose skilled spy Black Widow is a peculiarly compliant foil to Captain America. Johansson’s poise suits her ruthless agent, and here she is given a wider emotional spectrum to hit. Though originally introduced as part of the Iron Man thread, Black Widow is better suited to Captain America. Robert Redford shows up as S.H.I.E.L.D. seniority, a tangible throwback to those 1970s political war outings from which the film finds inspiration. His role not quite as physically tormenting as in All Is Lost, Redford appears to be enjoying the healthier hands-in-pockets approach here. Other noteworthy faces include Anthony Mackie, who injects humour and energy as Falcon, and Samuel L. Jackson whose Nick Fury sees more action than ever before.

One or two issues do arise as the film trundles on, notably a moment of universal conformity against a particular someone displayed throughout the ranks of S.H.I.E.L.D., an instant acceptance that feels slightly inharmonious when considered in context with the cohesive events of previous Marvel films. Though The Winter Soldier upholds a down-to-earth narrative for most of its overly long runtime, the last 30 minutes do usher in a quintessentially grandiose superhero battle. Perhaps a more nuanced final act might have rocketed the film within touching distance of The Dark Knight territory in terms of quality, but the concluding action is exciting and does not overstay its welcome regardless. The anxiety-driven tone contributes to the film’s wholly apparent lack of humour, which is a slightly disappointing but likely unavoidable cost.

“I thought the punishment was supposed to come after the crime,” rebuffs Captain America upon hearing about S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new anti-criminality methods. Buoyed by connotations of yesteryear, Captain America: The Winter Soldier presents a pertinent rhetoric on modern society by placing its titular hero in a moral joust of ethics that are tainted at best. Admirable, different, and admirably different.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures

Jurassic Park (1993)

★★★★

Director: Steven Spielberg

Release Date: June 11th, 1993 (US); July 16th, 1993 (UK)

Genre: Adventure; Science-fiction

Starring: Sam Neill, Laura Dern, Jeff Goldblum, Richard Attenborough

Who knew rippling water could be so menacing? Steven Spielberg’s early 90s dino classic swings from a slyly humorous thrill-ride to a tense environmental duel harbouring geopolitical connotations. Visually enticing beyond its years, the opening of Jurassic Park’s gates ushers forth a landmark in technological achievement on screen with effects that wouldn’t look too far out of place amongst the CGI blockbuster behemoths of today. There are one or two missteps along the way, most notably a paternal plot strand that feels forced rather than instinctive and an outrageous accent that seeps from the mouth of Richard Attenborough which at times threatens to boil over into caricature territory. Subtlety mightn’t be on the menu (that spot is reserved for human beings) and nor should it be in this rip-roaring tale of imagination, immorality and animatronics.

After a worker is killed by an errant Velociraptor, lawyer Donald Gennaro (Martin Ferraro) converges on Jurassic Park, an island owned by entrepreneur John Hammond (Richard Attenborough) and inhabited by cloned dinosaurs. Hammond simultaneously invites doctors Alan Grant (Sam Neill) and Ellie Sattler (Laura Dern), a palaeontologist and palaeobotanist respectively, to join the certification jaunt knowing the pair have more than keen interest in the fossil business. Mathematician Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum) gets wind of the goings-on too and accompanies the party on their venture around the island that is prospected to open publicly in the near future. They ought to fix that fencing first though.

From the moment our ragtag band of explorers and suits reach their ill-fated destination, David Koepp’s screenplay based on Michael Crichton’s novel — also a co-writer here — strikes up a juxtaposition bearing an awesome visual gloss, but with a dirty underbelly. We first see the immense dinosaurs roaming across the landscape at the same time as Dr. Grant and company, the creatures’ awe-inspiring repertoire generating a sense of splendour. However, it’s not long before crass ignorance and abject misconduct take over; touring car doors are missing locks, the park is understaffed, a disinterested slob controls central safety measures and flimsy wired fencing is implemented as a harnessing mechanism. In essence, the park is a sham.

This notion of lawlessness disguised as grandeur is developed further as it latches onto certain characters. In a scene pivotal to the narrative’s apparent wary message, the group settle around a sleek table to discuss degrees of wrong. Is humanity’s imperious domination over nature — mirrored by CEO John Hammond’s genetic manipulation and cloning — immoral? Effectively, is this the rape of the natural world, to paraphrase mathematician Ian? Financial gain is presented as the ultimate destination for some (“We will have a coupon day or something”) whereas it’s the inherent allure of discovery for others. Spielberg refrains from indirectness here, instead placing his cards on the table and facing the query head on. The film asks questions that are perhaps even more relevant to this day, and doesn’t shirk away from picking sides. It’s a mature approach that, coupled with a visual affluence, successfully challenges the viewer to consider external prosperity gained at the cost of nefarious biochemical control and human tyranny over nature.

Tonally, Spielberg hammers a balance between the geopolitical and the humorous. Admirably, there’s no shortage of the latter as we see a witty, banterous dynamic rear between the various characters on display. As resident number-cruncher Ian, Jeff Goldblum scoops and skilfully delivers many of the funniest quips. Goldblum’s timing is terrific and the film would’ve benefited further if he had garnered more screen time towards the conclusion. Sam Neill’s Dr. Alan Grant relays humour cut from a blunter cloth, and his pseudo-Indiana Jones demeanour — the attire, the adventurous mind, the standoffish personality — is a tad camp, but amusing when paired alongside Ian, his polar opposite. In fact, an ongoing campiness exists throughout the film, embodied by zoomed-in camera shots on shocked faces and the occasional line cheesy in obviousness (“They’re approaching the tyrannosaur pen”).

The only significant issue Jurassic Park must contend with is a sub-plot that is unnecessary in existence and contrived in execution. John Hammond’s grandchildren arrive mid-way through, and it just so happens that they find themselves under the care of Dr. Grant, who dislikes children (“They smell”). Though the actors do a fine job and present a duo of child characters who are not in any way annoying, their inclusion feels primarily like a method solely intent on generating sympathy where sympathy is superfluous to requirements. At a stretch, it is conceivable to consider that the intention behind these characters is to reflect civilisation’s should-be protective instinct towards nature, though there is already enough weight behind this particular cog.

Other than Richard Attenborough’s disastrous Scottish accent that chimes more off-putting than funny, the remaining performances invariably contribute peripheral goofiness and/or tension. Laura Dern is Dr. Ellie Sattler and endears from start until finish. Samuel L. Jackson’s hard-headed poise is particularly humorous, playing a cigarette smoking engineer who oversees many of the park’s operations. Computer geek Dennis Nedry (paha) grumbles in his chair and bumbles in the rain — pathetic fallacy is almost a character on its own — and funny man Wayne Knight portrays this ineptness as well as anybody. And aside from the accent, Attenborough does well as the increasingly flaying visionary whose plans are progressively falling apart.

When we aren’t laughing or contemplating moralities, a brooding atmosphere grabs hold and gains momentum as the film evolves. The T-Rex reveal is timely; held back long enough to allow simmering anxiety and in turn create a mystique that bellows danger upon the dinosaur’s appearance. Cinematographer Dean Cundey captures the mechanical appearance of the park where metal fences, armoured vehicles, durable weapons and giant food dispensers retract from the dinosaurs’ animatronic motions, subsequently accentuating their perceived fluidity. Some scintillating sound work complements the tremendous visual array and bolsters said ominous atmosphere.

“We never had control, that’s the illusion!” bellows Dr. Sattler as proceedings begin to go awry. The line effectively sums up an inquisitive narrative that denounces immorality, but also wholly contradicts the efforts of Spielberg and co who absolutely always have control and resultantly chisel out an optical cinematic milestone.