Article: Sleaze on the streets - A first viewing of Cop

 A grim neo-noir which is as blunt as its name. Cop (1988) is a morbid curiosity which only matches its bloody violence with absurdity. Roger Ebert’s review of the movie notes the film becomes an essay on the “Cop” genre; with its final shots slamming the book shut. Cop which certainly borrows from the likes of Dirty Harry (1971), certainly feels like a full stop on a certain type of cop drama. While of course, films like Cop have never stopped being made, its release coincides with the final Dirty Harry entry: The Dead Pool (1988). A film which had the cracks more than starting to show with the series. Cop also comes out the same year as Die Hard. Kathryn Bigelow’s Blue Steel appeared soon after in 1989. Looking back at this moment, it feels like subconsciously there’s a crossing of the guards. It might be harder to get away with films like this in the future.  Once Silence of the Lambs and Seven appeared in the '90s, it felt like the book Ebert talks about had been rewritten. Cop now feels even more like a relic. That doesn’t stop it from being an entertaining watch though.

The cop of the film’s title is deliriously played by James Woods, who portrays the role with the intensity and odious sleaze that only an actor like him can provide. Woods plays Lloyd Hopkins, an unorthodox police detective who, like Dirty Harry, doesn’t play by the rules, but damn sure gets results. However, while Harry Callahan's dubious morals are built towards a black-and-white view of justice, Woods Hopkins is a grubbier prospect. He is happy to rely on graphic stories of the scumbags he arrests/murders to his eight-year-old daughter, while his wife pleads with him to go to therapy for his troubled mind. The issues Hopkins has become quite apparent when he takes on a murder case of a young woman. He believes the murder is one out of a string of similar killings which have been occurring for almost two decades. Hopkins is a good detective, but his evidence in this case is flimsy. Therefore, Hopkins executes all the tricks of his playbook. Take note early one, Hopkins blows away a criminal suspect in a shower of bullets before making the moves on the dead man’s date before the split blood has even cooled. Lloyd Hopkins is a particular kind of asshole.

This is what makes Cop a fascinating watch. Hopkins’ talent as a detective is formidable. Shown early in the film’s second scene in which he shows a greener cop the ropes of what to pick up on when a call comes through. Yet why he’s a Cop seems to be for the sport, with little care for upholding the law. He puts on a front that he’s part of the thin blue line stopping L.A. from being overrun. Hopkins displays his little bedtime story to his daughter as something to prepare her for the scum she may have to deal with in her life. All the while, Hopkins’ objectification of women is as dubious as the hypothetical crims he claims that he is preparing his daughter for. Another litmus test for his values is his behaviour when canvassing a feminist bookstore for leads. Here he meets the owner, Kathleen; a woman who may hold the key to finding the culprit of the case. Here Hopkins pulls out his inner James Bond, putting on all his sleazy moves to seduce her. This is also while being wholeheartedly dismissive of her as a survivor of sexual assault. Seeing her as merely another object that can hurtle him towards his goal.

Woods’ ability to sink into Hopkins’ grubby nature makes the endeavour immensely watchable. There's a swiftness in how he fornicates with a sex worker witness. A brazenness to the obnoxious tone in his exchanges with his boss. Hopkins is, for lack of a better word, a sleazy prick. However, the amount of concern he gives to this case, along with the fact his hunches keep him on track of the killer, only makes him more compelling. This is Bad Lieutenant (1992) before Bad Lieutenant. The way the film cannily keeps focus away from the killer helps suggest that you don’t need villains around when you have cops like this. In an updated reference, Hopkins is no better than the killer he’s chasing. Seeing people, particularly women, as disposable. He would be a reason to choose the bear.

Despite this, the film applies a certain level of absurdity to the proceedings. Leslie Ann Warren, a feminist book owner comes across as a fierce activist for women’s rights. However, it’s surprisingly troubling how easily Hopkins puts the moves on her; and how swiftly she indulges him. It’s a dynamic that would be more interesting if Hopkins needed to chip away at her defences. However, the weakness within this character and her belief in white knights and happy endings feel underwritten. Although it does bring forth a dark humour to the situation. Albeit one that would perhaps get the stink-eye from folk today. Also, while Hopkins's cop credentials are established well early on, it’s a narrative in which Hopkins rarely seems to struggle in his investigative work. Hopkins is allowed to have some fiery exchanges with his head of department when he’s deprived of resources for the case. However, his hunches are unwavering, a small piece of detective is uncanny, and the conflict within the film never gets as hostile as Hopkins himself.

However, the brutally abrupt finale to Cop is such a ballsy slap in the face, that it’s lingered in my mind for a few days since my viewing. It’s not that the last moments are shocking in any grotesque way. But the film’s ending is so sudden that it forced me to think about the film, as well as parts of the subgenre. It’s commendable that the film's unromanticised finish ensures a sense of nihilism all the way up until the end. Cop starts and ends with a Detective on the edge; who’s so enraptured by sleaze that he’s become addicted to it. He talks a good game about wanting to solve the case, but the disillusionment and emptiness can be seen from the start to the final three shotgun blasts. Copagander this ain’t.  

Cop can be found on various streaming platforms.

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Article: Dog Day Afternoon - Blind Watch of Dobermann

I’ve been trying to find something that would shake me out of semi-doom scrolling the socials as we enter yet another day of the Chris Rock/Will Smith Crap Joke/Stupid slap discourse that has been running since the Oscars played out on March 27. This first-time watch of Jan Kounen’s hyper-kinetic, heist actioner Dobermann was just the right thing to jolt me out of award season malaise and push me into babbling some paragraphs down on this semi disused blog. It shouldn’t take me third-party hot takes of some badly behaved actors to get me back on the blog horse. However, the fresh prince’s slap heard around the world once again reminded me of how so much of film culture is now dedicated to talking around films, but never about them. I’m sure I have my own opinions about the utter nonsense that occurred on Oscar night. But that’s far too wrapped up in my disdain for the Academy Awards themselves. I will note, however, with all the people of colour making clear gains with their wins, this was ruined by a moment of macho madness which screamed bad optics to many in the silent majority. If you think reading by reading this paragraph, you know how I feel about the whole shebang. Guess again. But thanks for helping my SEO gain marginal footfall to my lowly page.

Back to the reason for this post. Doberman. A 1997 crime flick that was recommended to me by my dear friend and Hustlers of Culture podcast co-host: Hugh David. I remember Hugh excitably telling me of this wild, French slice of madness almost 10 years ago. I purchased the out of print, Tartan Video DVD almost 5 years ago. Which highlights a point for me: If you passionately recommend a film to me, I usually put it on a list, and I do try and get around to watching it. Just don’t expect a reaction a week later.

Dobermann is a product of Dutch-born French film director Jan Kounen who is now possibly more known for his Shamanism than his films. After working in advertising and creating two critically acclaimed shorts, Kounen drummed up the clout to create this first feature. From the film's first frames in which a Dobermann saunters through a church graveyard, we are ensured that subtly is not found here.

A smattering of plot. The wild-haired Yann Lepentrec (Vincent Cassel) otherwise known as Doberman arranges a complex heist with his misfit friends and deaf girlfriend "Nat the Gipsy" (Monica Bellucci) which leads to a large manhunt by the Parisian police.  The hunt is led by Christini (Tchéky Karyo), a cop whose moral bankruptcy is as deep as a sandworm’s stomach on Arrakis. Once Christini catches a whiff of the gun-loving thief, chaos ensues, building up to a frenzied and brutal climax.

I thought Doberman would leave me shook up. My overall response was more muted than expected. It’s a film that certainly has its moments. Watching a stray Doberman run into the church and attack a criminal, leading him to throw the gun that he was holding into his crying son’s pram, is certainly a way to introduce the character of Dobermann. The film certainly enjoys trying to lob grenades of craziness into its atmosphere. Many scenes feel as if ripped out of an angry teenager’s graphic novel. Doberman excels in nailing a wild comic book style energy, despite not pushing the boat out in other needless things such as plot. I was taken aback by how lightweight the film felt overall. With the film’s eager dynamic action covering a rather ho-hum screenplay.

Perhaps with Dobermann appearing nearer the back end of the era which delivered us the birth of one Quintin Tarantino and a strain of post-modern crime flicks, the film found itself under unfortunate circumstances. Watching Doberman's dated opening titles, which features a CGI-suited dog who chomps cigars, and urinates on actors' credits all the while holding a magnum, it’s difficult not to shake off some of the film's try-hard attempts of transgression. Tarantino chopped up his narratives and made gangsters a bunch of lads who nattered about tipping waitresses and chomping burgers with Reservoir Dogs (1992) and Pulp Fiction (1994) respectively. Elsewhere, Michael Mann decided to go for all-out operatic. Pitting Al Pacino and Robert De Niro together in a long-anticipated showdown with Heat (1995). Doberman features a cameo from one Gasper Noe, one of the leading lights in the New French Extremity movement coined by Artforum critic James Quandt. Noe’s film I Stand Alone (1998) coming a year after Doberman, shows where boundaries began to get pushed. Doberman sits awkwardly in between the brash philosophies of the Americans and the aggressively nihilistic visions of directors like Gasper Noe. While Tarantino decides to cut the heist because it doesn’t matter., Doberman merely has all its characters yelling like nothing matters. But they have no interesting thematic provocations.

However, Doberman is about looking cool first and asking questions on morality much later. Best viewed as a cult curiosity, it’s the kind of lower-budgeted movie which makes use of its limited number of locations. The action sequences hold a frenzied momentum, while the film's triple-headed cast of Cassell, Bellucci, and Karyo gnaw wildly at what scenery exists. There’s a dark charm that inhabits much of the film's craft. From locking a grenade into a cop’s bike helmet while still wearing it, to a dance DJ blasting out tunes ecstatically while a full-blown gunfight is taking place beside him. Both Cassell and Bellucci enjoy themselves while being somewhat short-changed considering their talents. But it’s Karyo who fully revels in sadistic narcissism with his role of a rogue cop gone off the deep end. Like Gary Oldman’s Norman Stansfield in Leon (1994), he gets all the film's best character moments.

For the most part, Doberman serves itself well as a morbid sugar rush, which would be worth a new generation of hipster films to seek out, if they don’t mind the volume of homophobia exhibited by some of the characters. The film isn’t a crowning achievement for its well-known cast, but it’s not a bad late-night watch that would make an interesting double bill with Roger Avery’s Killing Zoe (1994) if you’re up for a little bloodshed.

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Article: Love and Isolation - A blind watch of The Honeymoon Killers

You know what's great? Finding a Blu-ray in your collection you forgot you picked up a while back. You know what is better than that? When you purchased said Blu-Ray because you knew little about the film in the first place. I had picked up the Arrow Blu-Ray of The Honeymoon Killers on the cheap, with little knowledge about the film other than the intriguing title and cult status. My first viewing of this 1970 feature was a blind one. Such a watch feels oddly quaint in the information age era. Blind purchases and viewings are something I definitely urge younger film fans do too. You never know. You may unearth a gem.

The Honeymoon Killers is something I would not call a treasure. It’s far too seedy to feel beloved. It is however a startingly potent slice of viewing. In terms of tone, the best comparison would be Henry: A Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986). In skimming reviews, few noted the films macabre humour, which I do concede the film does have. Yet like Henry, The Honeymoon Killers is shoe leather tough material. A scuffed and bruised tale lifted from true crime which relishes making you feel bad that you enjoy its scandalous nature. Followers of true crime will feel at home here. Particularly in the universal ease at how the main conceit can be still be transferred into modern life. 

A dash of story. Inspired by a true story and set in 50’s America, Martha Beck is an obese and embittered Nurse. Her conduct is so blunt that one can only wonder what her bedside manner could be like. Martha is also desperately lonely. Living with her mother, the fraying relationships can easily be seen. It’s not the company she wishes to keep. She craves male attention. A friend signs her up (against her wishes) to a lonely-hearts correspondent’s club. Her letter is picked up by Ray; a “Latin from Manhattan” who at first sees Martha as just another notch in his long line of female marks whom he seduces, robs money from and leaves soon after, leaving them too embarrassed to make a retrieval. Martha however thinks differently a coerces Ray into being a partner. Both romantically and in crime. The couple continues on with Ray’s lonely heart scam, albeit with Martha posing as his somewhat repressed sister. There’s now a change in the plan. The amendment is now murder.

 Famed director and marvel fandom agitator Martin Scorsese was famously fired from the production of The Honeymoon Killers due to the most infamous of reasons: "creative differences". Allegedly Scorsese wished to shoot everything in master shots. This made stitching the film difficult. An amusing aside when considering the filmmakers slight at comic book movies which appear to truly adore the idea of coverage. It was also noted that Scorsese was taking too much time and eating into the tight budget. The final straw was the Goodfellas Helmer supposedly performing arty close-ups of a beer can. The firing obviously didn't hamper the acclaimed director's career prospects. However, the completed film was credited to Opera composer Leonard Kastle. The Honeymoon Killers was his only feature production. 

 Kastle took over from Scorsese's replacement Donald Volkman, who only lasted a fortnight on the production. While much more is said about Scorsese's involvement due to the director's statue, The Honeymoon Killers feels more owed to the likes of Volkman and Kastle. The gritty and unrefined look leans more towards the types of industrial films that Volkman was known for. While the film's overall unkemptness certainly has the feeling of a debut filmmaker, though this is by no way a knock on the product itself. Kastle’s lack of inbuilt habits allows the film to go rogue in terms of conventional cinematic traits. A moment from the film’s opening starts with the kind of roaming camera shot one would expect from Scorsese. However, once the camera positions itself, perhaps due to limited space, the actors stand awkwardly within the edge of the frame. Letting dead space dominate the frame. Cinematographer Oliver Wood’s lensing often matches the grim and disconcerting subject matter. The flatly lit, grainy images visually contribute to the film’s disturbing look at the banality of evil.

All over the Honeymoon Killers lies an ugliness of the narrow social lens that existed in the period. It is easy to see why this couple chooses to prey upon these women. These victims have already been displaced by society. In the Blu-ray extras filmmaker Todd Robinson notes that after the Second World War, there was a high volume of vulnerable women isolated due to the fallout of the conflict. It’s an aspect that heightens the ease of connectivity that technology brings us today. It also highlights how easily the women in this picture were quickly spurned by the dominant way of living. That their situation was held in contempt. It’s little surprise that the advent of internet dating (despite all its many flaws) has softened the view of the so-called personal ad and the people who use them Although ask the right people, and there’s still quite a way to go. 

Throughout the movie, women are viewed as spinsters or looked down upon due to wider age gaps or pregnancy out of wedlock. The conversations held between the victims in their cramped living rooms bring their desperation to light. Martha also isn’t immune to this. Her abrasive and controlling manner feel unsurprising when she loses her job early in the film. The hospital is more than happy to simply just rifle through her personal belongings just because. Scenes make a strong point of her weight and enjoyment of sweet treats. Despite trying to hide his receding hairline via toupees and hairpieces, Ray’s apparent attractiveness and ability to woo are more welcoming to an overweight woman of her demeanour who lives with her mother. When Ray first tries to con Martha, she counters by claiming she attempted suicide when he left. This type of manipulation follows throughout the film. As Martha’s jealously of the younger, more objectively prettier women is barely hidden. While the audience doesn't witness the actions, yet it's made obvious that Ray is sleeping with these women to bolster his own ego. Also, with Ray’s income stemming from conning lonely women through seduction, The Honeymoon Killers makes not that desperation is not only found in the women.   

Kastle’s use of form distorts our view of time and space as if we were in a casino of hopelessness. We’re never quite sure how much time has elapsed unless a character offhandedly mentions it. So many scenes are set in cramped living spaces. If those spaces are left, it’s only to move the action to cars or buses. New York is mentioned, yet perhaps due to budget limitations, never really visited. With the film uninterested in truly pinpointing its geography. Save for a couple of moments. Amusingly while occupying a suburban household, Ray brusquely labels suburbia itself as an identikit prison of sorts, hinting at characters morose point of view. It’s also a line that reinforces the compact feel of the film itself. One key moment is set outside in which Ray does what he can to woo a young lady but ends with a jealous Martha doing her best to drown herself in a river. The camera drops down with her. Water submerges Martha and any breathable air. From aquatic disasters such as this to the brutal methods Ray and Martha use to kill victims, the film in so many aspects feels suffocating.

The film uses its twisted sense of humour to sit unsettlingly side by side with the film's overwhelming grimness. One can't shake the feeling that John Waters absorbed this before he when on to create the deviously satirical Serial Mom (1994). Courting sympathy with its monsters while selling its victims often as irritants. Despite their bratty arguments, at the film’s heart, the conniving couple does seem to have a connection with each other. More so than the hapless victims. Although do these other women get a chance? Perhaps a better question is how likely would anyone get on with a partner who screeches ‘America, the Brave’ offkey at the top of their lungs? Maybe it’s Martha’s eye-rolling at yet another unexpecting single woman believing this is her chance of happiness, or perhaps Ray’s snake-hipped dancing while Martha’s drugged mother struggles to stay awake. The film is dusted with jewels of silliness that encourages a viewer to giggle ashamedly.

However, the film’s disarming sharp turns always ensures that the laughs are short-lived. One of the films final sequences involves the murder of the politically conservative, romantically naïve Delphine Downing and her small child. It is a scene that is chilling in its execution. It’s a sequence that is less explicit than moments that have come before it yet sticks out for the horrified and disgusted reactions that come from it. 

It is unfortunate that Kastle only made one film in his lifetime. The composer finds himself falling in a similar category as William Peter Blatty (The Exorcist 3, The Ninth Configuration) or Charles Laughton (The Night of the Hunter). Filmmakers with limited filmographies, but with texts which all held distinctive visions. With his work so often considered to be celebratory of sociopaths, one wonders if Scorsese would have brought forth the same unsentimental approach to the material that Kastle achieved. The Honeymoon Killers is a killer couple feature that is nestled between Bonnie and Clyde (1967) and Badlands (1973). It may not have the same influence, yet by holding none of the romanticism, The Honeymoon Kills comes across as more honest. The impassive balance between the casual and the caustic, along with the deep isolation and despair felt by the characters makes The Honeymoon Killers stand out from its new Hollywood counterparts. A blind watch of a film shrouded in darkness. This cult classic was certainly worth partaking in. 

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Review: Legend

Year: 2015

Director: Brian Helgeland

Screenplay: Brian Helgeland

Starring: Tom Hardy, Emily Browning, David Thewlis, Duffy, Christopher Ecclestone, Chazz Palminteri

Synopsis is here

Emily Browning has recently spoken out about the discrepancy in women's roles in comparison to Mens. The actress rightly questions why we see so many flat female characters who don't "act like human beings" and has called for female roles with greater autonomy and there's many out there who would wholeheartedly agree. However, in watching Browning's one note portrayal of Frances Shea; tragic wife of Reggie Kray, in Legend, one may have to search elsewhere for the thorough portrayals that the actress yearns for.

It's easy to slight Browning's performance. From the dubious cockney accent to the horridly dry narration that flutters in and out of the film, but it's not the actress's fault, although she has been better. There's a feeling that the material has left her out to dry somewhat. Browning may be riling against the vapid "hot babe" model that we witness constantly in films, but her performance has Frances never really shifts a gear. She looks glamourous when she has to be, and distressed when she doesn't have to look good. Browning narrates the film in order for the audience to see it from her point of view. However the screenplay by writer/director Brian Helgeland is a rather sour piece that's more interested in informing us rather than feeling anything. Constantly the film will joylessly tell us what's on screen rather than allowing the audience to infer for themselves via the camera or performances. It jars with the films already bumpy rhythms. Instead of seeing Browning emote fully, the voice over is quick to tell us how to feel. 

Browning, as well as much of the top quality cast, is pushed to the edges by a dominating Tom Hardy, who holds dual roles as both the infamous Kray twins, Reggie and Ronnie. This is a showcase for the charismatic actor who takes what could have been a cheap gimmick (it uses some Social Network style image trickery) and puts forth two remarkable displays. Reggie has the cocksure swagger, while Ronnie is clouded by intense paranoia. The beauty of Hardy's performances are in the small details and differences. Even the poise and murmurs from either brother is vastly different. In terms of performance it always feels like you're watching two different people. 

Mentioning Tom Hardy's superlative displays, only makes the rest of the film pale even more in comparison. Minus Hardy, and Legend is a rather listless affair. Much like how the brothers hid their brutal crimes around a veneer of celebrity, the film does a great job of hiding a lot of the nastiness that ensued. Legend enjoys claiming that it's coming from the eyes of those who knew the brothers, but the film often seems so preoccupied with infusing a Goodfellas-lite charm to the brothers, that it forgets just how well the best gangster films balance the ugliness with the romance. Helgeland clearly has certain cinematic influences on his mind in his visualisation of this, and the film holds enough humour and brutality that may appease casual gangster fans. However, for the most part, Legend is over egged, overlong and lacks the kind of energy that would make it stand out in a line up.   

Review: A Most Violent Year

Year: 2014 (U.K Release 2015)
Director: J. C. Chandor
Screenplay: J. C. Chandor
Starring: Oscar Isaac, Jessica Chastain, David Oyelowo, Alessandro Nivola, Albert Brooks
Synopsis is here:

It is extraordinarily cliché to say, yet you suddenly realise that while watching A Most Violent Year, the implications behind the words are what give the film its power, rather than the words themselves. It’s a film that has garnered a muted response, despite solid word of mouth.  A part of me feels that A Most Violent Year’s more restrained approach may be the reason. In spite of the film’s sharp and pointed moments of violence, it’s a film that hints at a world that has already suffered bloodshed. The film has no need to be overtly explicit because we feel it’s already been down that road. The disorder is being normalised.

The film, like Oscar Issac’s immigrant businessman; Abel, is on a constant simmer. We wait impatiently to see Abel be pushed into the murky depths of corrupted competitors, bias D.A’s (A solid David Oyelowo) and secretive wives, but we should know that he’s already keeping his head above water. Issac looks like he’s channeling Godfather era Pacino, but this man is struggling much harder to push back from darker forces that wish to consume him. Set against the bankrupt, crime ridden era of the early 1980’s which New York City was at one of its lowest ebbs, Issac plays a man who throttles his frustrations so they only ever so slightly peak over the surface. His drivers are scared, he implores them to be strong. His wife (a steely, Lady Macbeth-like Jessica Chastain) suggests fighting the violence in the city with a force of their own, and he tries hard to refrain.  J.C Chandor taut screenplay and direction paints Abel as a delicate blend of honesty and anti-villain. A clean looking screw, being wound tighter by tighter by the grimy tools around him. Yet Isaac’s poker faced portrayal veils Abel with an added layer of complexity.  We’re never sure if he’s been swayed or remaining strong.

As opposed to the romanticised view of gangster dealings in line with the likes of Coppola and co, this film shares a brittle tone with films like A History of Violence (2005) and We Own the Night (2007). Chandor’s film envelops each scene with a similar suffocating sense of foreboding. With A Most Violent Year however, the film often feels chillier. The warm, golden colour tones are not only juxtaposed with the soft white snow (a fortunate accident during production), but cinematographer Darius Khondji’s use of negative space. Characters often find themselves isolated within the frame, only smothered by the crooked environment.

This is why I loved A Most Violent Year. The film never builds to a typical, clichéd crescendo. There’s no orgy of violence despite the film’s title. Each scene burrows under the skin and festers in a way that’s hard to wipe off. Its climax is unsettling in its subtlety while the outcome chills the nerves with its tiny reminder of how far the films particular type of corruption reaches and who exactly gets hurt. That’s the thing about the film. It’s difficult, it’s adult and holds more shades of grey than Christian.

Review: The Grand Budapest Hotel

Year: 2014
Director: Wes Anderson
Screenplay: Wes Anderson
Starring:  Ralph Fiennes, F. Murray Abraham, Mathieu Amalric, Adrien Brody, Willem Dafoe, Jeff Goldblum, Jude Law, Harvey Keitel, Bill Murray, Edward Norton, Saoirse Ronan, Léa Seydoux, Jason Schwartzman, Tilda Swinton, Tom Wilkinson, Owen Wilson, Tony Revolori

Synopsis is here

It's probably been said before, but if you've seen Wes Anderson's Rushmore and got nothing out of it, then the later films of this particular auteur may be almost impenetrable.

The Grand Budapest Hotel is no different. It's a kaleidoscope of intricacies and references. If a viewer not well versed in Anderson's quirks then I can easily imagine them glaring blankly at the slightly indulgent nods to art, music and readings. You're certainly in trouble if you don't enjoy dead pan.

Lord knows how I became a fan of Wes. Then again, like Eli Cash, I always wanted to be a Tenenbaum. The Grand Budapest Hotel doesn't reach the emotional heights I found with that particular movie (Wes’ movies often feel like this, Google Eli Cash if you haven’t a clue about what I’m talking about) but for this blogger The Grand Budapest Hotel is a somewhat return to form since the underwhelming Moonrise Kingdom. Yet I say this knowing that, in typical Anderson form, both films will require more viewings to unpack.

This latest entry, much like what we've previously witnessed, is a film brimmed full of mechanics and poise that will drive detractors mad. Yet like its earlier predecessors, The Grand Budapest brings with it that earnest sense of melancholy that Anderson can often provide. While The Darjeeling Litmited  tried to turn an eye on a vastly different culture (and felt cumbersome), The Grand Budapest is a look to the past which is tinged with a light sadness rings true, despite being placed in such an immensely artificial world.
In a fine comic performance; Ralph Fiennes plays M. Gustave, an extraordinarily dapper gent from a bygone time. In one of his wittiest roles, Fiennes delivers an immensely charming portrayal. While he might bed old dears, this is a gentleman who has one foot in a past of traditions that many would love to regain. His lingering desire for meticulous customer service and near sickening politeness is one of the highlights of the film. It’s delightful to see a film in which the protagonist tries (and sometimes succeeds) using an element of refinement.

You expect something so mannered by Anderson. It’s a candid caper where raucous laughter is substituted with muffled polite chuckles. Warmly measured moments swing rapidly to outrageously cartoonish sequences, all to the beat of a metronome.

This is the sort of film where Tilda Swindon plays a 84 year old dear and Willem Defoe gets to remind us how well is his at unnerving viewers, with an ape like gaze which is far from voicing polar bear puppets for frozen food companies. Yet this is also a film that can break ones heart with a snap of its fingers. A boy can relive the horrors of war in one sharp monologue or a pained expression on a middle aged man tells a thousand stories. The film is book ended by sequences which seem odd, yet when a step is taken back, we released that's it's not just about Wes pulling a yarn but empathising that stories whatever they be should be told and kept close in an ever changing world that is falling in the hands of youth. We must share and tell our tales and be polite when we do so.

Review: American Hustle

Year: 2013 (2014 U.K release)

Director: David O. Russell

Screenplay: David O. Russell, Eric Singer

Starring: Christian Bale, Bradley Cooper, Jennifer Lawrence, Amy Adams, Jeremy Renner

Synopsis is here:

When I think of the con movie, I always expected it to be tight wound. American Hustle approaches things differently. It’s loose, slightly baggy and always seemingly wishing to go off a tangent. This is no Mamet. No House of Cards (1987) here. Even when I think of the recent adventures of Danny Ocean and his cohorts, there’s a feeling that they know everything will be fine. I mean seriously when do you ever feel that there’s any pressure being exerted in the Ocean films?  Then again the moment David O. Russell’s latest starts, the opening credits inform you that “some of this actually happened”.

This is O. Russell mucking around with the crime film in the similar way his he enjoyed playing around with the sandpits of the sports film and Rom-Com.  His film The Fighter (2010) dropped his man-child boxing lead character into a pit with a gaggle of Punch Drunk Love-style sisters (and one corrosive brother) to verbally smack each other around. Meanwhile; Silver Linings Playbook (2012) which Adam Batty elegantly informs us in his review, remixes the romantic comedy with a new age cynicism for a generation to respond to in kind. In Hustle; as opposed to cool, clean and calm confidence men we often think of, we’re placed into a realm of heightened desperation that leans towards the quirky tics that infected Nicolas Cage’s Roy in Matchstick Men (2003). There’s no comfort gained from looking across to your partner as you’re never sure if they were ever on the same page.

As Adam mentions in his commentary of Silver Linings, this is again dysfunction upon dysfunction.  Yet this time we have broken family units slapped alongside gender deconstruction as characters that should be femme fatale argue and fight over men who try awkwardly hunting for machismo, despite their own pathetic standings. That staple of male virility; hair, is mocked often as we watch Cooper’s Richie perm his, while Bale’s Irving is first introduced to us applying his wacky comb over to hid his clearly thinning patch. While the con goes on in the background, the film is more interested in how the character’s frailties and anxieties stand lumberingly in their own way.

What I enjoyed most about American Hustle, apart from its brassy cast, is that it’s lovingly in love with the con in its own particular way.  Its glossy cinematography often lavishes characters in warm slightly garish gold, highlighting the greed. The 70’s detail isn’t as carefully attained as some of the films it’s riffing on, mostly because this is a film which is based entirely on facades any way. There’s a boldness that suggest s that trying to work the con out (which so many of us do) isn’t worth it while there’s so much fun to be had.

The amount of dicking around does become a slight nuisance. The film notes the type of corruption that could explain the nastiness of the Watergate era, or the remnants of the hedge funds that screwed us in 2008, American Hustle doesn’t really have too much time to dwell on that. Like Adam’s eye catching cleavage, it wants to distracts us and keep us a mark for as long as possible. 

There’s the slight feeling that American Hustle point is pointless and the bagginess of the piece (along with the references to Goodfellas(1990), Casino (1995) and Boogie Nights (1997)) take us out of the film somewhat. Yet I can’t say I didn’t enjoy these guys in relaxation mode. Hustle may sometimes feel to some that it’s too much of a con, but the more I think if it was played straight, the more I’d say to myself: where’s the fun in that?

Review: Filth

Year: 2013

Director: Jon S. Baird

Screenplay: Jon S. Baird

Starring: James McAvoy, Imogen Poots, Jamie Bell, Eddie Marsden, Joanne Froggart, Jim Broadbent, Shirley Henderson

Synopsis is here

It’s all falling apart. Trumbling inch by inch and you really don’t want to be around when it finally collapses. I’m not talking about Edinburgh where Filth is based. Although the picture director Jon S Baird paints, is no way a pretty one.

No the dilapidation that’s found in Filth resides in the mind of Bruce Robinson; the crafty yet crumbling anti-hero who inhabits this story. The film is Bad Lieutenant by the way of Fight Club, throwing us into the dark psyche of Bruce Robinson, a model cop if he wasn't so cracked. Crooked to the core and holding it together by the skin of his teeth, Robinson is on the case of murdered Japanese student, although Filth isn't interested in the outcome of that, as we are soon to find out. 

A film that’s unapologetic with the dark places it drags us to. I was in no way surprised when a couple walked out early. This is a grubby, sweaty yet darkly comic picture that's lead by a character as ugly as the picture of Dorian Gray. Trust me when I say that if you know and love cheerful chappy James McAvoy as Professor Xavier or the chipper lad from Starter for Ten, then you best leave now.   

McAvoy takes centre frame here, filling the screen with an ogre like ugliness and revelling in it Alex De Large style. The cinematography is so tightly framed around him at times; it doesn’t want you to escape his presence. It's not that Scotland is ugly, but McAvoy's Robinson seems to embraces any and all the horrible problems that haunt our northern neighbours. Racism, greed, sadism, homophobia, and excess, you name it. He embodies all the sociological problems that infect and devolve us. That despite this; he manages to ring out a small amount of pity out of all this sinful revelling, is astonishing. For the most part, Bruce is riding an overpowered rollercoaster of decadence, which is beginning to buckle as he slowly loses control.

If you expect Trainspotting, be warned. Both films may have the same voice, but the energy differs. There are seemingly more flights of fancy, more of an abstract nature and more abrasiveness with the film seeping into something like a horror film as it hurtles towards the films conclusion. But that's what Irvine Welsh’s source material seems to be good at, with Barid as writer/director tailoring the film to balance the rot with just enough pathos to stop you from becoming fully submerged in the quagmire. That said, as the film shifts from dark comedy to drama the film does start to stumble. Not very scene hits it's mark emotionally and it's clear some cinematic alterations almost softens the blow too much and the film almost loses it's bite at the end. But Filth keeps its eyes on the prize and stays on track remaining a darker than dark yet somewhat entertaining look at sin in the modern age.

Review: Pain & Gain

Year: 2013

Director: Michael Bay

Screenplay: Christopher Markus, Stephen McFeely

Starring: Mark Wahlberg, Dwayne Johnson, Anthony Mackie, Rebel Wilson, Tony Shalhoub, Ed Harris

Synopsis is here:

Based loosely on an even more insane true story, Pain & Gain finds Michael Bay at the height of his excesses. The film is homophobic, xenophobic and sleazy in all the ways we expect a Bay film to be. Yet as the film isn't aiming dubious messages at the world’s youth (see Transformers), the blow is softened somewhat. The nastiness of the story the film is based on is in fact perfect for a director like Bay who revels in the delinquency of it all. The film is full of discrepancies (composite characters, altered facts) but it doesn't seem to matter. In his own cartoony way, Bay has crafted a film that at its highest points satirises the desperation that infects some who chase the elusive American Dream. It’s Scarface by the way of The 3 Stooges.

Bay mines all the techniques that make many hate him, but his excessiveness only seems to aid the film. The forever roaming camera captures these exasperated characters in heavily saturated colours. The extreme close ups capture every ounce of sweat drenched anxiety that befouls these despicable creatures. The canted angles and hectic cross cutting only seem to serve the skewed views of these criminals.  Even the multiple voice over narration from nearly every character in the film, plays into the mania of it all. Like soulless vultures; the various voices (full of juxtaposition as opposed to what we’re seeing) highlight the hollowness of these people.

It’s easy to hate Pain & Gain because it captures the vapid nature of its characters acutely. Delving head first into the griminess of its story, the characters talk in infomercial platitudes. They take work out breaks when the grisly shit hits the fan. Bay throws this amped up aggression right in our faces and doesn't let, but I never found myself aligning myself with the characters. I felt there was more than enough distance for me to pity their ignorance and laugh at them then with them.

The films humour is often hit and miss, yet when the lurid nature of the piece hits the right spot, there is an amusement about it that will tickle a few. Bay still really needs to reign in his bizarre issues with homosexuals (there was no elements of this in the actual story), while his attitudes to race and females are still as crude as ever. However, I must maintain that some of this works towards the characters we are observing. To sanitize the nastiness of this story would be a disservice. Fact is, as grim as the tone of this movie may be; it’s still not as nasty as what actually happened.  That Bay manages to mine something “enjoyable” out of this, says more about me than anything, but there’s something in the blackness of it all that entertained me. I've said it before; you gotta laugh, or else you’ll cry.

Pain & Gain looks to attack the worse aspects of American materialism in plain sight. From the garish colours, and over indulgent direction (although Bay has eased up on his editing), to the arrogant, dunderhead performances (Johnson’s relapsed, meatheaded addict is a highlight) of the main cast. Everything plays into the sordid mentality of culture that’s able to cultivate sociopaths and all of this is wrapped within a high octane package that only Bay could deliver. I have to admit that after the 447 minutes of robot smashing that Bay gave us, Pain & Gain seems much more toned down and focused in its action. Again, nothing hits the peaks of some his earlier works, however compared to the fallen revenges of the dark of the moon, everything is little bit more engaging. I guess one of the reasons is that Bay isn't shilling this to adolescents.

Review: The Hangover: Part 3

Year: 2013

Director: Todd Phillips

Screenplay: Todd Phillips, Craig Mazin

Starring: Bradley Cooper, Ed Helms, Zach Galifianakis, Heather Graham, Justin Bartha, Jeffrey Tambor, Ken Jeong

Synopsis is here

There is one question a writer must ask before he puts pen to paper for his screenplay. It's something that the audience don't even ask themselves before they sit to watch. Never the less; it must be asked. The question is simply: why should I care about these people? Such a query must be asked and it definitely must be answered, even in the most basic of terms. The audience may not think they care, but subconsciously they need to know that if they're going to spend 90+ mins with these people, there must be reasoning to back them.

Hollywood right now is in a franchise fronted, risk free circle, that it may never wish to break, as long as the pay is good. Films are becoming more like soap operas with characters having to trip and stumble over the same hurdles again and again.

The Hangover worked on a guy like me because it was a decent one shot idea; four misfits thrown together into a wild circumstance. It was rude, crude and a little bit dumb, but there was something in there that kept me watching. The second film was more of the same but not in a good way. Fool me once shame on me, fool twice, I'm an idiot. The same goes for these guys as they hit the same beats of the first film but with more spitefulness and diminishing returns.

We are now lumped with a needless third film in which the hangover is no longer a literal one, but a metaphorical one in which the Wolfpack's previous antics have caught up have finally caught with them in the shape of Leslie Chow whose rampant criminal activity has sparked a rival gangster to take action. The Hangover Part 3 forgets about being an actual comedy and in turn becomes a crime film with comedic elements and uninspired reminders of the previous entries. It failed with me on all accounts.

The reason is down to the rambling I was mumbling about at the start of this review. Why should I care about characters who have outstayed their welcome? What were a bunch of amusing guys you could relate to, are now a miserable bunch of irritants. No longer do are the protagonists balanced. Once Alan became the "break out" character of the first film, more focus has been placed on him. He's obnoxious and belligerent but the film does nothing to balance this. Like the Phillips produced Project X (2012) we have a nasty character and his faults are celebrated to the extreme. Add to this that he's also mentally unstable and we have a potent mix. 

Comedy of cruelty is difficult, but brilliant if done correctly. Films such as Martin Scorsese's The King of Comedy (1982) or Jody Hill's Observe and Report (2009) manage to blend the absurdity and pathetic qualities of their characters so well that you don't simply focus on their nastiness. Another example would be Mitchell Hurwitz's brilliant dense sitcom; Arrested Development (2003) which manages to add pathos to a group of characters you would walk across the street to avoid in real life. By the time the boorish creatures in The Hangover Part 3 reach their unearned emotional conclusion, I had my fill. 

For me; the film’s only saving grace was Ken Jeong, the only person who remembered that he was in a comedy. Jeong's nastily stereotypical Chinese character, has some of the best lines and the most energy in a film in which the listless looks on the leads faces are all too obvious. But think about that. The character that most people have a negative issue with is the only thing I found interesting within the film. Colour me backward, but I feel that says everything about The Hangover Part 3. A bloated, lazy comedy in which I had to focus on its most negative aspects in order to find a laugh.  

Review: Fast & Furious 6

Year: 2013

Director: Justin Lin

Screenplay: Chris Morgan

Starring: Vin Diesel, Paul Walker, Dwayne Johnson, Jordana Brewster, Tyrese Gibson, Michelle Rodriguez, Sung Kang, Chris Bridges, Luke Evans, Gina Carano, John Ortiz.

Synopsis is here

We are currently in a climate which film critics are being attacked for their taste in comparison to populous opinion(despite it often falling in line); the first defence is how the critic’s opinion means nothing as the films profit margin is way more important. "All these people went to see it; therefore your thoughts are invalid". The second attack is one I call the Kevin Smith offensive. This is where the only people with an opinion are the ones with the ticket stubs.  

You have to laugh at the absurdity. You can only have a say about the film if you pay for it, and by paying for it, your payment is a statement that you enjoyed the movie. It is a warped sensibility, but one that appears more and more. We now have the unsettling occurrence in which keyboard warriors lie in wait for the first negative review of any popular film and unleash at whatever poor sap had a different opinion from their own. 

So when your franchise is six films in and the latest entry is close to making half a billion at the box office, it doesn't really matter what any blogger or critic thinks. Yet here we are writing about these movies, often trying to give cultural context to these episodes of pop culture, while the loyal servants lie in wait to explain how wrong you are by calling you a faggot. 

Fast & Furious 6 sole aim to fascinate and frustrate those who believe that their palette is too sophisticated for such "lower" nonsense. Many complain about the lack of original movies and while we may be standing at the films sixth entry to the franchise, Fast 6 not based on any previous material. True the franchise is completely derivative but, hey, at least it's doing it on its own account. The film still indulges in displaying gratuitous female flesh, and yet still utilises more female characters than both Iron Man 3 and Star Trek. Women in Fast 6 have more to do, say and truly feel part of the films terrible plot and storyline. Fast 6, much like 5 is also vastly multi-racial and uses it to its benefit. Aside from one or two poorly placed moments of dialogue, race is not a major issue in Fast 6, with its main theme of family extending across racial lines. 

Justin Lin (the veteran director of the franchise) doesn't lose stride with hi direction of the action. The late night London locale is effective and while Western editing has effectively maimed the beautiful art of choreography, Lin still manages to deliver simple, easy and enjoyable action to follow. I found it incredibly easy to find myself caught in the twisting of metal and cracking of bones, simply because Lin holds a shot for half a second longer than most. 

The film is still nonsense, keep up with the loop jumping plot and we're still watching a film in which the good criminals are planning to steal from bad thrives because screenplay. The film is incredibly happy with its strange discourse of bloodlessly murdering innocents without a care in the world. A nitpick but still bizarre when watching. The script is happily fuelled with dim witted dialogue, graceless wit and dubious platitudes and even at its worst the validity of the characters is flimsy. 

Yet, the sheer unpretentious of what's at play, drives Fast 6 through most of its obstacles. Unburdened with the geek weight of comic book adaptations, Fast 6 can happily laugh of any YouTube "everything that's wrong with" videos because it has nothing to live up to and yet succeeds somewhat with what it delivers. It's hard to call out a film which has its main catchphrase "ride or die" at its heart. 

Fast and Furious 6 isn't doing too bad critically. It is currently fresh on Rotten Tomatoes and riding high on the IMDB. It will not stop a small army of fans deride anyone who doesn't hold it with high praise. Despite this; what makes Fast and Furious 6 interesting, is not that it has a force big enough to provide ammunition if it were under attack. It's that the film and franchise is big and ugly enough not to give a fudge if anyone likes it or not. 

Review: The Place Beyond the Pines

Year: 2012 (U.K Release)

Director: Derek Cianfrance

Screenplay: Derek Cianfrance

Starring: Ryan Gosling, Bradley Cooper, Eva Mendes, Ray Liotta, Bruce Greenwood

Synopsis is here

The Place Beyond the Pines (TPBTP from now on) is a messy film, in a way that many American films try not to be any more. It's ragged around the edges and doesn't appear to answer every question it puts forth. I thank the film's writer/director Derek Cianfrance for that. There's a clear wish to elevate the material beyond what current audiences often register with. It's novelistic structure felt reminiscent of Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds although the stern dramatic material on display couldn't be further from Tarantino's more pulpy offerings. It's commentary of the "sins of the father" made me think back to one of my favourite films of the year What Richard Did (2012), although it doesn't strike it's message as hard.

Ambition is high here and it shows. Cianfrance takes a small microcosm of New York state American life, and expands it into a sprawling tale in which the lives of those involved are fractured by coincidence and infringement. While the film doesn't have the same earnestness that other works may hold, it is a piece in which its tone seeps in slowly from its corners and penetrates receptive viewers who are willing to put in the time. Its opening sequence is a significant one, in which we follow Luke Glanton (Gosling) from a changing room through a funfair towards his bike stunt job. As he walks we quickly absorb his way of life before we even see his face. The stunt he preforms is the perfect examination point to the jagged edges of the character.

Later on we see another character being asked to stand next to a relative at a grand event. We gain one small close up of the character and see them smile. Is the smile given a force one, based on the situation we've witnessed? Have they realised the complicated issues and decisions that someone has made to bring them to this moment? Like with What Richard Did, I asked myself if this character has now understood his luck. The film is speckled with small telling and intimate moments, which seem to be emphasised by the films large time frame.

Much of the films good work stems from the heavily lifting done from Bradley Cooper. From what I've seen; it is his best work. As the focus swings towards his story he deftly swipes the film away from most of the other performances. As we watch him stand up against the likes of Bruce Greenwood and Ray Liotta, you notice just how much of a controlled and effective performer he can be. The same could be said for Ryan Gosling; an actor who I've cooled on after the likes of Gangster Squad, who also does well here. His portrayal of Luke harks back to his quietly confident work from Drive. Gosling feels more interesting when he's given roles that speak less and we as a audience have to figure out what emotions are simmering beneath the surface. The same goes for Eva Mendes who comes out of her shell in roles such as the one she plays here.

In spite of all this, I had to ask myself; does this film stay with you? For me it doesn't. It clearly doesn't want to be the sort of entertainment that I often mindlessly chew on. Yet, there something about how the film strives so stamp its importance, that lingers over everything else that appears within it. Cianfrance for the most part; pulls off a difficult and quietly absorbing piece but the film still placed a firm amount of distance between me as a viewer and these characters. The Place Beyond the Pines is a messy film, but when these people stumble and fall, I want to be close enough to catch or fall with them.

Review: Welcome to the Punch

Year: 2013
Director: Eran Creevy
Screenplay: Eran Creevy
Starring: James McAvoy, Mark Strong, Peter Mullan, Andrea Risborough

Synopsis is here

Welcome to the Punch is by no means perfect. The film lacks theintensity of Heat, although the blue tinted hues and murky cop and criminalbonds suggest Micheal Mann as an influence. While other elements such as JamesMcAvoy and his cock-a-ney accent also take a while to warm to. Yet despitethis, there is something tangible and provocative within its subjectmatter that provides interest. There's a clear ambition in its scope andvisuals that land it a cut above the usual Laandaan crime capers we are sooften used to.

The scale of thevisuals and well executed set pieces are needed to elevate admittedlyworkman like plotting. Fans of this type of genre will know from the off why soand so is doing such and such, before the characters themselves evenhave time to comprehend. The element of surprise is not a strongpoint in the storyline mechanics. Yet the film does contain bold strokes.The antagonists of the enterprise and their reasoning may not shock,but they do leave the right kind of nasty taste in the mouth. Creevy's filmmanages to shoe horn small topical moments (displaced soldiers shadyPR) that may have been explored before, yet are well presented andfor the most part, are solidly entertaining.

While the path iswell trodden and yet again I'm watching another film that feels the need tohang out at a cargo bay (Batman Begins, Hanna, The A Team, The Losers, Redand the rest), I felt the enthusiasm from from Creevy's set pieces and the wellknown group of character actors (including yet another thumbs up for MarkStrong and Andrea Riseborough) pulled this out of the lurches. There's enoughin Welcome to the Punch to the casual crime fan going.

Review: Gangster Squad

Year: 2012 (released 2013)
Director: Ruben Fleischer
Screenplay: Will Beall
Starring: Josh Brolin, Ryan Gosling, Emma Stone, Sean Penn, Micheal Pena, Antony Mackie

Synopsis is here

I found myself amused by a tweet that came my way, which statedthat the problem with modern movies is that film directors have stopped lookinglike film directors and the likes of Ruben Fleischer and Tom Hooper look morelike depressed estate agents than filmmakers. I'm tickled by the idea thatcreativity stems a little from unkempt, unshaven beards and lucky red caps.That such scruffiness of appearance equals a creative freedom ofsorts.

As amused as Iwas, by the idea I did retort back to the gentleman, that it's not that theydon't look that the part, it's more that they don't look AT other directorswith any real depth. As presumptuous as I've just been, it's hard for me tolook at a film like Gangster Squad and not feel that way. The film gives us along tracking shot of Slappy's bar starting from the outside and entering. Weare shown a singing act right at the end. What is the reason behind this shot?It's clear that the shot a riff on Goodfellas and yet itdoesn't realise why Scorsese takes us all the way through theCopacabana with Henry Hill. So while in Goodfellas we are being taken into thedepths and pleasures of Hill's world, in Gangster Squad, you feel that the shotis there because a long tracking shot has been done in a period gangster movie.And so we get nothing from the moment other than what it is, a complicated yetempty sequence. 

To many, I'm suresuch trivial matters won't matter to them. It certainly didn't bothermy girlfriend one iota. As she happily invested time to sit and watch RyanGosling and Emma Stone copulate in a movie again. I however, was far toofrustrated at Gangster Squad's stale execution, uneven tonal shifts andits pale imitation to better gangster films. The rich detail that isplaced within the likes of L.A Confidential and The Untouchables is missinghere as Ruben Fleischer flaps and flails to get a strong grasp atthe material. If the film feels like it's taking itself too seriously(which it does often), it will slip awkwardly into board comedy. Characterswill be introduced, but little will be done with them afterwards. The lukewarmrelationship between Stone's Gangster Moll and Ryan Gosling's police sergeantis hardly scintillating, let alone smoldering, with the relationship jumpingahead without us actually witnessing any actual affinitybetween the two. Every aspect of the film seems paper thin, and more interestedin slow mo than anything else. The whole affair is slick for slicks sake, alltalk with no weight behind it. 

The acting isequally as uneven as the tone of the film. Brolin's straight man seems moreboard than stoic. Gosling appears out of his depth, hamming up his display witha cornball accent, but lacking the nobility that the likes of Costneror Crowe had in other films. Goslings performance I had the most difficultlywith, as I was unsure whether or not it was his chops or thescript/direction that were the pinpoint of his weakness. Also dripped inhoney glaze is the cartoonish display by Sean Penn who feels like he's in acompletely different film. Many have likened his performance to Al Pacino's inDick Tracy, which would be fine if Gangster Squad knew what it would be aimingfor. Unfortunately everyone else is playing cops and robbers for real. The lesssaid about Stone, Mackie, Pena and Patrick the better, they are give no time orcharacter development to make any real impact.

Real critics havealready made Gangster Squad January's cinematic whipping boy, attacking it withfar more gusto than I have here. Will this be the worst film of this upcomingyear? I doubt it very much, as 2013 is very young. However it'sunderstandable how Gangster Squad's mimicking of better movies (the film liftsa lot of its structure off The Untouchables) could get someone’s back up. Thefilm's shallowness shines brightly though the clichés and holes of itsgeneric screenplay and no one does well enough to cover the weakness.Fleischer, who made a splash with the very amusing Zombieland, unfortunatelydisplays limitations, in his first semi serious piece. Hopefully thisis a mere blip on his CV.

Review: End of Watch

Year: 2012
Director: David Ayer
Screenplay: David Ayer
Starring: Jake Gyllenhaal, Michael Pena, Anna Kendrick, Frak Grillo, America Ferrera

Synopsis is here

I was quite bowled over with End of Watch. Its combination of the mundane and the visceral really appealed to me. My girlfriend was less impressed, frustrated by the film's running time. I was less bothered by this. The film is in no way as economical as it could be, with the films length allowing some of its narrative aspects to almost trip it up. However the film is less about its narrative and more about its characters. For me, the film is effective when we gain the sense of just how haunted these police members are as they battle against the grimness of their eco-system.

There is visual inventiveness within the film too. End of Watch's cinematographer Geoffrey Jackobsson, confines these two officers within their police car. Note that the ironic and unfortunate district number is often caught as we cut around the vehicle with abstract Micheal Mann like shots. It's within this car we get to know these men personally. We see them at peace, see them at their sanctuary. This ideal only intensifies as we witness the danger the officers’ face each time they pick up a call and exit the vehicle. 

Much has been said about the films "found footage" aspect; often a bane of contention with many, here, I found aesthetic to be one of the film’s best touches. It's easy to feel that such an element is a gimmick thanks to the consistent use of the tactic by horror films, however, in the same way a director like Martin Scorsese uses 16mm to capture a feel of nostalgia and history, Director David Ayer uses the "handy cam" footage to accurately convey a certain sense of relevance of our current culture. Its opening sequence, a car chase with downtown LA, doesn't have the pace that we often see in a crime thriller (such is the beauty of good editors), but it does have the realism. Take away Gyllenhaal and Pena and this could be any video lifted from youtube. Not all of it works. Like so many films which dabble in "user generated" footage; one may find it hard to believe that, say, hardened gangster would be filming some of their exploits in such a way. But while there's a feeling of the improbable, it's never impossible, and the film using the method as a part of the aesthetic and not the whole, allows an intimacy and immediacy that works well with the narrative and the genre. 

David Ayer (writer of Training Day) captures the distress of the situations so well it shows on the characters faces. Part of the film’s success with me is that; despite its somewhat generic plot, its grimness is boiled down to such a concentrated level you can feel it on everybody's skin. My girlfriend's aforementioned issue with the length of the film is an interesting one, mostly because I loved how the film happily spends much of its time with its main relationship, getting under the skin of these guys, seeing what makes them tick. We gain such a sense of these characters that when they are affronted with what they see, we can feel it in their bones as much as they can. We understand why they're so hardened, and we can fear and/or pity them accordingly. They remind me of coroners, having to place a shield between them and their subject to deal with their day to day harshness. It's compelling when the darkness breaks through.

You need a good cast for this, and End of Watch picks a strong bunch of talent and plays to all of their strengths.  Gynllenhaal is always at his best as a jaded, young recruit be it of the Army or Giant Time Travelling Bunnies and the choice of him being the main thrust of the narrative is a solid one. Pena is superb as Gynllenhaal's foil. While Gynllenhaal's Brian Taylor deals with the worrying conundrums of it all, Pena's Mike Zavala is the heart of the film. All emotions and hot blood, Zavala is the most instinctive and reactive out of the two. Pena's performance takes something that could feel stale and typical and injects new energy to it. The chemistry between the two is so engaging that one could easily just watch them shoot the shit. It's worth mentioning a sweet performance from Anna Kendrick as well as a nice turn from Frank Grillo, who places the perfect amount of weight to a small but important scene.

End of Watch doesn't do too much in way of fresh storytelling, but the films technique and performances bring forth a bold and riveting piece about two men trying to do good in a corrosive environment.  

Review: Seven Psychopaths

Year: 2012 (Viewed at the London Film Festival)
Director: Martin McDonagh
Screenplay: Martin McDonagh
Starring: Colin Farrell, Sam Rockwell, Woody Harrelson, Tom Waits, Christopher Walken.

Synopsis is here:

After taking my podcast co-host on a needless, round about trip of the London West End to find a bank, we took our seats for our final film of the London Film Festival: Seven Psychopaths, the second full length feature from Martin McDonagh.. The reason I had to find a bank was so I could pay for the tickets, the price of the tickets were...more than your usual cinema venture. But when it's the European Premiere and features a talk with the director, you have to consider you don't get such things with an illegal download.
This is not a statement of confession, more a painting of a scene. It's certainly worth paying more to sit with an excited audience and laugh, giggle and guffaw at McDonagh's latest feature. A violent and offbeat tale of writers block, dognapping and gangsters, Seven Psychopaths is Pulp Fiction by way of Adaptation and Barton Fink. McDonagh's himself stated that the only real influences were Peckinpah and Malick (?!) but it's hard not to think of Kaufman and the Coens (The movies is scored by Carter Burwell) as the film goes on.

Frantic and madcap in its telling, Seven Psychopaths slides from flashback to present day to imagination without a moment’s notice. A film about losing focus which is constantly trying to distract with its famous faces and near meta aspects of plot. It can't be too much of a coincidence that Farrell, known for his risqué past, is shown here, as a wannabe Hollywood writer lost amidst a haze of hard liqueur. A man who could do really turn out a good piece of work as long as he keeps focus. It feels like McDonagh isn't just picking him due to In Bruges.

Farrell's role of straight man is sometimes a little caught up in the craziness of it all, which could be part of the fun. However for all its anarchic glee; the tale does like to go off on tangents, feeling frayed at the end, and coming off like Adaptation's brattier cousin. Kuffman's sublime comedy about "the process" has a deft of touch and sympathy that Psychopaths doesn't. Not a deal breaker by any means, but it does make you notice that Psychopaths suffers from some slight overkill. The film is just a tad too into itself to have a boarder scope.

I shouldn't be knocking too hard on the film which gives us the best Christopher Walken performance in years. Once again, Walken shows why he is rewarding in scenes of both menace and mirth, and does so with an ease that allows one to forget that they actually saw him in The Stepford Wives (or Balls of Fury for that matter).  It's difficult who steals the most scenes between himself and Sam Rockwell, whose balls to the wall performance climaxes a sequence of utter madness. Not to spoil things, but heads have not exploded that well since Scanners. Woody Harrelson sweeps things up as the films loopy antagonist.

For a film that is as all over the place such as this one (we go from dognapping to taking class A's in the desert with a lot of murder inbetween.) The film is never disengaging, like In Bruge, the films dialogue laddish, often ponderous dialogue sparkles, and the film keeps a certain amount of earnestly, despite it's know it all vibe. Like many festival films the film doesn't linger in the mind much, however, it's clear from the offset this isn't a film made to be heavy or filling. Like a grubby lads stag weekend in Magaluf, there's fun to be had, but you might have to be in with the crowd from the start to be comfortable with the injokes.