THE DESCENDANTS

“Paradise? Paradise can go fuck itself.”

This line pretty much sums up the entire philosophy of Matt King (George Clooney), a middle-aged man in crisis. His wife is in a coma after hitting her head in a boating accident, his 10-year-old daughter Scottie (Amara Miller) is acting out, and 17-year-old daughter Alex (Shailene Woodley) is all too aware how absent her father has been over the course of their lives. Then, just to make the whole matter worse, Alex reveals to her father that his wife was having an affair before the accident.

The Descendants is the long awaited return from Alexander Payne, director of Oscar Winning Sideways (for best adapted screenplay, which he also co-wrote), and deals with themes of the family, uncertainty, and reconnection in the same way as many Indie films of the same ilk. Infused with a degree of honesty that births humour from a bad situation and everyday occurrences, it rings much like Win Win or Little Miss Sunshine in its portrayal of a patriarch struggling with the world he has built for himself.

It’s this honesty that really makes the film shine and coupled with the delicate intimacy that Payne directs the film with, it feels like you’re taking the journey with them. Every character turn and plot twist reveals something new and draws in your sympathies - even with Alex’s stereotypical douchebag surfer friend, Sid, who tags along for her moral support. This is screenwriting at its best and I would be happy if it picks up Payne’s second Oscar for best adapted screenplay (but the prize will probably go to Moneyball, which admittedly, I haven’t seen so I shouldn’t really be judging).

However, it’s not just great writing that make the characters come to life. The performances by the entire cast are great - especially from the younger members. Scottie has a great naivety as she struggles to understand why the people around her are acting so weird, Alex is brash and outspoken whilst hiding her emotions to protect her little sister and Sid turns out to be much more than the 2 dimensional ‘surfer dude’ we’re introduced to. And of course there is Clooney’s master class in restrained acting - bettered this (Oscar) year only by Gary Oldman in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - but whether you believe Clooney as a struggling family man will affect whether you believe entirely in his character. But what makes the performances stand out is that they feel completely real.

The realism of the film turns it into a piece of work that doesn’t romanticise everything. There isn’t a sweeping orchestral score dictating our emotions (the music used is wonderful, but I’ll let you see it and find out for yourself), there aren’t explosions of emotions to show how distraught the characters are, the cinematography is beautiful without being like a postcard tour of Hawaii and its neighbouring islands and the comedy all comes from very real dialogue instead of big set piece jokes and slapstick. Yet it isn’t an entirely realistic film in that it depicts real life as we live it, the realism instead is embedded deeper in the subtext and comes about as something that all films seek to explore - truth.

A classic film reveals or explores a particular truth about the human condition (even blockbusters such as Jurassic Park - man’s futile desire to play God/control life), which is why they become timeless. And whether The Descendants becomes a commercial smash hit or not, it will stand the test of time because its honest and real portrayal of a father under pressure explores something we should all think about - what will our descendant generations inherit, both physically and morally, from us?

SHAME

When I first watched ‘Hunger’ - the debut feature film from British artist Steve McQueen - it was hard not to be taken aback by such an intimate portrait of human extremes and where it did have its flaws (creeping into artsy pretentiousness), it was a very strong stepping stone to bridge the gap from art to feature film making. His sophomore feature, ‘Shame’ is a much more refined piece of film craft that really shows McQueen is definitely a director to watch out for in the future.

Brandon (Michael Fassbender) is a model citizen of Manhattan. He’s top dog in his job, he’s charming, well dressed and lives in a comfortable, modern flat high up in the city. However, he’s also a sex addict - an addiction he works around in his day-to-day life with calm calculation. But when his younger sister, Sissy (Carey Mulligan), comes for an unexpected (and indefinite) visit, his routine is shattered and he is forced to deal with his addiction.

But to say that this is a film about sex addiction would make it sound like a film that tried to deal with the issues surrounding it: causes, problems and the effect it has on Brandon and those around him. This couldn’t be further from the truth. The causes are only hinted at, the problems it brings aren’t black and white and the effects are not what we would imagine. Not least because Sissy is just as damaged as Brandon. So it’s much more like a portrait of people dealing with their emotional damages and it just so happens that the protagonist we find ourselves with manifests these damages as a sex addiction.

It’s this emotional quality of the film that is the driving force of the story, rather than actual plot. Taking place over the course of a few days, we see slices of Brandon’s life and routine and how once Sissy appears, the utter contrast between the two characters completely disrupts it. They are both complete train wrecks of people who have both developed their own ways of dealing with life. Where Brandon is sophisticated and introverted, Sissy is impulsive and extroverted. But both of them share a traumatic past that is never revealed and all we know is that despite being total opposites, they both share a tragic loneliness. This is most clear during a sequence in which Sissy sings an original, haunting rendition of “New York, New York” at a stylish Manhattan bar. The shots are close and editing is minimal and the emotion is ramped up by the magnificent performances of both actors.

Both Fassbender and Mulligan give the performances of their careers. The lingering shots of Brandon doing very little other than thinking are utterly compelling to watch and to see Mulligan playing the total opposite of her usual quiet, mousy characters is incredibly refreshing. These performances are emphasised by McQueen’s use of the long take, where emotional beats of the script change and the performances change with them. The performances also work in harmony with all visual aspects of the film. Both characters are seen in reflections, shot through glass or we see the backs of them. McQueen places the audience in the position of a voyeur, keeping us visually distant from the characters as they distance themselves from everyone around them in their own ways. It all comes together to produce a film more about crushing isolation than sex addiction.

What really struck me about the film was the audience reaction to when the unflinching and raw sex scenes appeared. There was a lot of awkward laughter, which was intriguing to say the least - the presentation of sex as essentially animalistic seemed to make the audience squirm. Believe me when I say the sex scenes aren’t sexy, not in the traditional Hollywood sense anyway. There isn’t any sweeping emotional music or rich colours with glamorous lighting - it’s just pure fucking.

But the question of the laughter is an intriguing one. Maybe by placing us in a position of voyeurism, McQueen is placing the audience in Brandon’s position when a work colleague discovers his work computer is full of porn - that embarrassment of being caught? Or maybe laughing off the sex scenes is an emotional barrier for the realism involved - we don’t want to admit that we have sex in such an animalistic and unromantic fashion?

Sounds like an essay topic, I’m digressing a little.

But despite the frank and graphic sex scenes, the real emotional plight of the film comes from the parts that made the audience laugh for another reason: seeing two characters having genuinely comic and emotional interactions - little moments showing that both Brandon and Sissy have the potential to engage in an emotional relationship with someone, but their debilitating personalities won’t allow them. That’s what makes this film so ultimately tragic, yet utterly compelling. It’s a weighty film to watch, but if you see any film at the cinema this awards season, make sure it’s this one as it’s worth every single penny you’ll spend on it... 

...just don’t bring your parents or first dates with you.

THE IRON LADY

OK, so I was born in 1988, well into the latter years of Thatcher’s reign and until she left Number 10, I was more concerned with my toys and food than the state of the country. So I’ve never really known much about her politics or what she had done, which actually made walking into this film quite refreshing - I was free from any particular bias towards the woman who is the main subject of the film. However, that was where the refreshment ended as we were propelled into Phyllidia Lloyd’s confused and sentimental biopic about one of the most controversial politicians in this country’s history.

The main base of the story revolves around Thatcher in the present day, going about her day-to-day life. She is a grieving woman growing old and senile, far from the picture that public memory has. From having conversations with her dead husband, she begins to remember times from her formative younger years as a grocer’s daughter to her years as prime minister. We jump back and forth through the narrative as the script (written by Abi Morgan) attempts to contrast the past and the present to reveal Thatcher’s human side, but it only really serves to turn her life into a series of episodes that attempt to define what she stood for.

The biggest problem with the narrative is that as it jumps around, it really doesn’t know what kind of film it wants to be. It’s trying to be an emotional portrait of a woman who no longer has the power she had, it’s a biopic of a divisive public figure, it’s a film about a grieving wife. It deals with themes of power, madness, death, loss, politics, sexism in politics, belief in what is right, belief in one’s self, grief, family, the cost of power and probably a few more that I probably don’t remember. The choice of events to go back to are too varied, pretty much warranting their own feature length film and thus leads the film not only to be rather confused, but it also turns these complex events into ones that are oversimplified and lack any emotional or narrative weight.

I suppose there should be some mention of Meryl Streep’s “please please please give me the Oscar” performance. There, that was it. It doesn’t matter how good her performance is - and there were moments when she was fantastic (but I’ve seen better) - it can’t carry a film that’s as weak as this.

It is nothing but pure Oscar bait, trying its best to please everyone but ultimately, it pleases no one. For the emerging middle class of the 1980’s, who might praise Thatcher for what she did and how she helped the country, the film is a soppy love letter that presents her in a way that totally differs from how they remember her. Then for the working class, who endured and rioted against many of her policies (if they put their political bias aside and actually watch it), its reluctance to engage with the political issues and presentation of them simply as ‘events that happened to her’ could (and probably should) be considered a massive insult.

So as the final frames roll, and Maggie ambles away to carry on with her life, we are left with an empty, blue (the amount of blue in this film is practically insulting, YES WE KNOW SHE WAS A CONSERVATIVE) kitchen and hallway, the camera lingers as the credits begin to roll and the image fades to black. That pretty much sums up the entire film - empty and blue and as confused as the aged Maggie appears to be.

THE ARTIST: REVIEW

Every now and again, a film will come along that dispels the whole “they don’t make them like they used to” belief, but never before have I seen a film that actively enforces it. I mean, many films enforce the belief by being so utterly terrible (just look at last year’s blockbusters), but to see a film that’s deliberately provoking that vintage nostalgia of cinema at its most basic form of storytelling is actually quite refreshing.

Hollywood, 1927. George Valentin is a major star in silent films and at the peak of his career. Outside the premiere of his latest hit, a young aspiring actress - Peppy Miller - waits patiently for an autograph. A chance encounter between the two in the chaotic crowd begins the narrative, charting the rise of Peppy and the fall of George as sound is introduced to cinema and the great depression begins.

This is visual storytelling at its most rich, yet basic. Complex emotions and plot developments are reduced to nothing more than a few simple gestures, dialogue cards (used very sparingly) and visual design. What the director - Michel Hazanavicius - has done here, is create something that appears to be very simple, but in actuality is incredibly complex. The lack of speech has lead every other aspect of the production to do its absolute utmost to convey the emotions, plot points and ideas. Everything here works in harmony to stir emotions in an audience the way that all films should.

Look at this picture as an example. Here, Peppy Miller has snuck into George Valentin’s dressing room to leave a thank you note for an earlier deed he had done to help her. From the initial spark when they first met, we had an inkling of their feelings towards each other, but here we get inside Peppy’s head and what she’s thinking. We see her fantasy and this in turn reveals her feelings for George in an incredibly original way. It’s a brilliant play on vision, being slightly comic, but incredibly intimate. These kind of images perpetuate the film and are what gives it the incredible beauty that it has.

I can’t really talk about this film without mentioning the performance of Jean Dujardin as George, which is one of the most prolific and wonderful performances of the year. Offering charm and charisma, but only as a mask to hide his cynical bitterness and pride. This is a character that is so complex that Hazanavicius’ handling of him is simply masterful. The journey we follow him on is an emotional one, and you really feel for him when he reaches a crisis point, but also laugh when he’s being funny. It’s rare that a character can take you on such highs and lows alone in this way. With a fantastic supporting cast, not one performance takes a bad turn, with John Goodman playing the traditional fat cat in a suit producer, Bénérice Bejo as the young Peppy Miller and James Cromwell as George’s loyal and faithful driver, Clifton. They all have an extraordinary chemistry, which allows you to forgive the incredible typecasting that has taken place.

However, despite the superb direction, incredible cinematography and powerhouse performances, it’s own medium as a silent film is the biggest downfall this film has. Not because it was a bad choice, or because it made it a bad film. It’s because no matter how much publicity or critical praise it gets, no matter how many stars you slap on the posters (believe me, there are a lot), it will not take a lot of money because of the modern mainstream audience’s aversion to anything that doesn’t involve big guns, explosions or fart jokes.

But for me, what is most interesting about The Artist is how relevant it still is today. The main narrative and the sub-plots are all completely universal, and it offers a critique of the industry that it tells the story about. The pride of the old with their reaction to new technology, trying to hold on to their old ways is very allegorical to what is happening today with the rise of digital technology and the industry’s struggle with Internet piracy. But past the struggle between old and new, it ultimately is about how the new can embrace the old and carry it through so that it will last. You can apply it to many industries, but specifically for filmmakers, the new generation my be embracing digital technology for its affordability, but there will always be the utmost respect for celluloid and if the suits let them, they will preserve and look after film as a means of production for decades to come. 

WAR HORSE: REVIEW

When I heard that Steven Spielberg was embarking on a new project, I was sceptical. Having nothing particularly notable to his name since Munich (somewhat underrated), it seemed that he had lost his spark. I need only mention the latest Indiana Jones to send shivers down the spines of anyone that has the slightest hint of good taste in anything.

However, upon hearing he was going to be adapting War Horse - being a colossal success on stage (which in turn was adapted from a children’s novel) - for the big screen, a glimmer of hope appeared. This was Spielberg returning to his classic territory – a story of an unbreakable bond, set in the First World War, between a boy and his horse in a sort of Black Beauty meets Saving Private Ryan affair. Incredibly schmaltzy, but he’s proven he can deal with these themes in an incredibly engaging way (Saving Private Ryan is one of the most shamelessly patriotic, overly romantic, and brilliantly constructed films to come out of Hollywood).

Joey is a horse, bought by a drunken farmer at a livestock auction in Devon, for more money than the poor man can afford. The farmer’s son forms an instant bond with the horse, and the horse pulls its weight around the farm against the odds. World War 1 breaks out and Joey is sold to the army, upon which he embarks on a journey encountering many people and many hardships until eventually, in the depths of the trenches, he is reunited with his original owner – cue the Kleenex.

Drawing from both the original source text, with its story told from the horse’s perspective, and the stage show, with its intensity and incredible visual style, the film becomes confused as to what it wants to do. The film is from the horse’s point of view, focusing on the beast’s power to bring out the best in people. But it also attempts to be violent and intense in a family friendly way. What this leads to is brief encounters with chief characters with which we have no time to empathise with and intense sequences lacking a visceral punch to make it effective.

I can’t say this is true for the entirety of the film though, there are segments where you do see Spielberg’s mastery of this brand of film shine out (2 have stuck in my mind since seeing it), but they are too few and far between to give the film the emotional clout that such a story deserves. The characters are so thinly spread that they become pantomime like tropes in order to make the audience remember who they are and the focus on the boy’s bond to his horse is virtually nonexistent so by the end that you feel the entire first act was a waste of time. There was also a completely schizophrenic cinematic style in the opening that I’m convinced was done entirely to combat the shitty British weather that confused the film as to whether it was trying to be realistic or pure fantasy.

But these are not the weakest points of this film. The biggest shortcoming is the actual horse itself. Where the things they manage to get the horse to do for the film are something quite spectacular, for the entire story to be focussed from his point of view means that we have to find some way to connect with him in the supposed way the characters do. This is pretty hard to do with a live action horse, and where the film could have benefited more from being animated. Allow me to explain; films such as Dumbo or Wall-E – both classic family films – feature protagonists that do not speak. Yet they both manage to carry the entire plot for the film’s duration. Why? Because the animators can control their facial expressions, they can emote. A live action animal cannot convey emotions on cue. If they could, I’m sure we’d be replacing many actors with highly trained chimps (and in the case of Orlando Bloom, I’m surprised they haven’t already). So for a live action film to be from the point of view of an animal just cannot work, as we cannot understand its feelings and thus the film keeps its audience at a considerable distance.

It’s a shame, because as a film, this had great potential. There’s great source material (the stage show blows the film completely out of the water), and you can see the technical prowess of Spielberg at work throughout - from the classic John Williams score that swoops and blossoms in all the right places to the grandiose camerawork depicting a luscious British countryside – but it all falls flat because at the end of it all, it’s just a series of vignettes telling us how incredible the horse is and it’s showing us how emotional we should be without actually invoking any emotions in us by using generic, romanticism in every sequence. Ultimately, it’s just patronising.