"Queer" - Review

Adrift in Mexico in the 1950s, rakish hard drinking disaster Lee (Daniel Craig) lives as a homosexual man of his own means, cruising bars and induling in base vices to combat his self loathing. The arrival of an enigmatic serviceman by the name of Allerton (Drew Starkey) beguiles him, and leaves him reaching out through the fogginess of his own intercinine struggles to seek a connection.

Basing a film upon the works of William Burroughs is not exactly easy: his books are almost incomprehensible gibberish outsider art concocted by a walking amalgamation of bitterness and neurotic self hatred, glued together with drugs. This certainly feels like a passion project from Guadagnino who has managed to capture that meandering, sleazy, debauched sorrow and beat poetry from chaos: cutting apart words and passages, forming new order from that chaos, and finding a disordered beauty in that renewed chaos. Craig (on a tear ever since he managed to get his Bond money and bolt for the hills of good characters) is fantastic here: an outwardly self-confident rake who is just a massive dork beneath, awkward and trying to reach out and grasp at any form of connection. In between his drinking, smoking and rants about telepathy there is a genuine, lonely pathos which permeates throughout the film. There are moody, evocative, banquet-style shots to just lavish yourself in, immerse yourself in the sleazy bars and the scorching hot underbelly of a city unseen. It's good stuff, I really appreciate this strolling across gorgeously lit streets, getting trapped in a cycle of addiction and loneliness (his conversations with a fellow loser homosexual played by Jason Schwartzmann are evocative of late nights in bars with friends) and the anachronistic soundtrack by Trent Reznor (it opens on a beautiful Sinead O'Connor song, and "Come as You Are" plays early on) lends it almost a horror movie vibe to foreshadow the events to come, and how intrinsically drug-fuelled Burroughs is. The chemistry between Craig and Starkey is excellent: I appreciated the phantom dream-like squences dreaming of touching him, the enigmatic behaviour of Allerton which makes you ponder if he's leading Lee on, or if Lee is simply too horny to see anything else, it's solid stuff. I like the feeling of it all, the atmosphere and moods are exquisite. The film however, true to form with Burroughs, is meandering and rather thin on the ground in terms of plotting and ideas. There are longer but paletable stretches early ony, but the 3rd act when characters go to the jungle with the express purpose of taking a lot of drugs and hallucinating. The flesh-melding, expressionist, non literal expression of moods comes back, but it's started to feel a little meandering at this point. Still beautifully shot.
The madness of the affair never reaches Hunter S. Thompson territory, despite glimpses and flashes of crazy adventures, and it remains a heartfelt love story about a flawed man longing for connection.

"Conclave" - Review

Upon the death of the Pope, unassuming Cardinal Thomas Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes) assembles the College of Cardinals, in his capacity as Dean, to elect a new one. Secluded from the rest of the world, the Cardinals vote upon their preferred candidates: Liberal reformer Aldo Bellini (Stanley Tucci) hoping to capture the progressive vote; middle of the road Joseph Tremblay (John Lithgow) doing his own thing in the corner; popular Nigerian candidate Joseph Adeyimi (Lucian Msamati); and bespectacled Italian traditionalist Goffredo Tedesco (Sergio Castellito) capturing a time long passed. Lawrence oversees this dramatic tug of war, and must also contend with a recently inducted Cardinal of Kabul, a young man known as Vincent Benitez (Carlos Diehz), and a simmering undercurrent of resentment and drama...

Well constructed with immaculate cinematography and impeccable sound design, very much a pedigree picture with the talent involved, it has an excellent speech from Fiennes at the start of the film about doubt. It weaves its themes of a man succumbing to the base instinct of ambition amongst this nest of vipers well, and the cast are strong across the board: particularly Fiennes, the ever wonderful Tucci, and the always excellent Lithgow and Rossellini; but Castellito also threatens to steal the show with a discussion of linguistics and boundary lines.
The weakness of the film comes in its writing and plotting, and I can only imagine that this is the result of being adapted from the often-silly novels of Jonathan Harris.
The examination of the Conclave and its procedure, a unique setting for its politics, is undercut by soap opera revelations and gossipy bickering, populated by characters we know are evil because...
John Lithgow plays Cardinal Tremblay, so we know he's up to no good, which is enhanced by every line reading requiring a twirl of his moustache. Cardinal Tedesco is vaping, so we know he's bad (though to be fair, there is a fun little contrast throughout of the cardinals in their finery using smartphones and smoking cigarettes, it's cute), and we know that the Nigerian cardinal is homophobic because a character tells us so. I like the characters when they are doing their politicking, but it is by the grace of the actors that they are saved from being cardboard cutouts. It jam packs a lot of things in, and just about juggles them, but it is at the expense of some of the plotting, and with one twist too many to keep it "fresh" and "daring".
Honestly I'd have been delighted with discussions of theology and terse arguments about doctrine and theory.
It's a solid film, and worth a rental.

"The Wild Robot" - Review

Introducing the ROZZUM Unit 7134: for all of your needs! Do you have a task which needs accomplishing? Then contact your Rozzum 7134 (Lupita Nyong'o), currently operating on an island free of humans - where the unit ends up interacting with all kinds of animals, and adding all new elements of her programming along the way...

Dreamworks are back, baby!
I went into this knowing nothing about the source material (a children's book which apparently director Chris Sanders loved) or the film proper, wanting something a little more relaxed after the emotionally knotted roller coaster of "Anora".
I cried 3 times.
From director Chris Sanders (of "Lilo and Stitch", "The Croods" and "How to Train Your Dragon" fame, as well as co writer of "Mulan"), this thing thus has some pedigree and experience: all of it put to magnificent use. The film looks like a watercolour, building upon that previous strong of 3D CGI Dreamworks stuff, making it look a lot more pleasant than films of late, and there are some absoultely breathtaking images throughout, almost ripped straight from a picture book or an art gallery (as cliched as that may be) and used to spectacular effect. It's a seriously pretty film: not "Kubo" pretty, but lovely nonetheless. The score by Kris Bowers (his first for an animated film) is the highlight: soaring and beautiful music, got me choked up frequently. Nyong'o is a treasure, as always, and absolutely carries this film with her performance, but the supporting cast are no slouches: Kit Connor does a good job, Pedro Pascal is always wonderful, Matt Berry plays a beaver who makes a "bullshit" joke, and Stephanie Hsu almost steals the show as a fellow robot. It's a tad rushed in parts, but its central story about teaching a goose to fly, and how kindness and coming together should be seen as survival instincts rather than weaknesses, makes up for it. It's a lovely film.

"Anora" - Review

New York stripper Anora (Mikey Madison) is hired by Russian oligarch's son Ivan "Vanya" Zakharov (Mark Eydelshteyn) as an escort, due to her ability to speak Russian. A whirlwind romance follows, told as a fairy tale fable through the lense of Sean Baker...

Spellbinding.
Bold, audacious, beautiful, emotionally complex, and far funnier than I was expecting: it is an absolutely wild ride which leaves you breathless. When the wool falls from Anora's eyes and the spell is broken, it is not in some vast overly-verbose monologue, but a silent awkward car journey through the cold and bustling night. A love story ripples beneath the surface, but not the one you expect. We strive for human connection, we all deserve to be loved.
Is Anora a grifter, an idealist, a professional, or a fairy tale dreamer? Maybe she's all 4... By the end of it, on a pragmatic sense, she is better off: but was any of this worth her pride, her dignity, the raw emotional scars which will develop from this? It's messy, clean, bright, dark, loud, quiet, funny, sad and exactly what I wanted and needed it to be. It's about the human experience, and a pitch perfect examination of life on the lower rungs of society.
And of all the things I expected to see, Take That was maybe rock bottom, but much appreciated.
I get chills thinking about this movie

"Heretic" - Review

A pair of Mormon missionaries, the droll, sensible veteran Sister Barnes (Sophie Thatcher) and the bubbly wide-eyed idealistic optimist Sister Paxton (Chloe East), find themselves at the precipice of the home of "Mr Reed" (Hugh Grant), who has expressed interest in their church. Attempting to convert him, they step over the threshhold, and are in for a long night of the soul.

Marketing and selling a horror movie around the continued comeback of beloved English actor Hugh Grant is a bold movie, but something which pays off. There has always been a sense of malice and menace behind that stuttering, sputtering quaint English stammer; and here Grant uses it to excellent, enthralling effect. He's hypnotic and relishing the part, relishing the chance to be part of his "freak show" era as an actor. He's well worth the admission, and is genuinely putting in one of his best turns: he has a fantastic conversation about Monopoly which had me grinning ear to ear and gripping my seat.
This isn't to say that the film suffers as a result of him not being there: the script stands on its own as a tightly focused bottle movie, where I can happily watch our leads discuss religion and dogma and faith, before they even get to the spooky stuff. The 2 leads are solid and believable without being charicatures, and the movie has a lot of fun with deciding and subverting and flip-flopping on who its final girl is. I appreciate the baroque square and box imagery too (a visitor framed by the gate, the walls of Grant's home, the jumper our big man wears...)
The movie wobbles after 40 minutes (kudos though, that is some juicy build up!) when the 2 girls enter the doors, but quickly regains its feet after a while, about the same time that Grant takes centre stage again. It is fun and has a whale of a time discussing faith, and manages to stick the landing with a well-planted arc about a butterfly...
Come for Hugh Grant, stay for Hugh Grant, and have a tight 3-act play. Oh, and Topher Grace has a surprise cameo in this, and I like seeing him in things.

"A Different Man" - Review

Edward (Sebastian Stan) is a meek, mild, shy and awkward aspiring actor with no self esteem and neurofibromatosis. His life is changed twice: first when a delightful aspiring playwright named Ingrid (Renate Reinsve) moves in next door, and they hit it off, sharing stories about his life and genuinely forming one of his genuine human connections, which may blossom into something more. Second, Edward is selected to be the participant in a trial for an experimental drug which may alter or even remove his condition...

A bold as brass, pitch black little comedy which, unusually, makes for a double-feature with "The Substance".
The first half is a sweet, dry, lovely awkward little character piece with tinges of body horror, shot like it was made in the 1970s or early 1980s (it's grainy, and has those zooms, closeups and edits like something made by Frank Henenlotter); there are well observed little details like the looks given to Edward by the passers by (a scene in the cafe is excellent for this) and the ever encroaching steady drip, drip, drip from the roof of his flat is simply excellent build up and metaphor for his growing problem...
Then comes the second half, where it becomes a different beast entirely. I can't say much, because this was genuinely such a pleasant surprise and a wonderfully awkward, anxiety inducing tale of envy, but suffice to say: the arrival of Adam Pearson as Oswald is an inspired character and a delightful performance, where the joke is that incredibly British thing of "this man is perfect and I hate him". The film has excellent performances from its main trio, in fact, and has a lot to say about not only how we as society tackle facial disfigurements, but also how we place on pedastals those with them and overcompensate, and our enduring awkwardness about it all. The "Metamorphosis" sub pastiche does not go unnoticed.

"Megalopolis" - Mercy Killing

In the not-too-distant future city of New Rome, "genius" architect Cesar Catilina (Adam Driver) is attempting to pave the way for a new Utopia, using his new material "Megalon", a multi-purpose material which also gives him the ability to stop time. He is opposed by Mayor Franklyn Cicero (Giancarlo Esposito) and a director out of his fucking mind. Stuck in the middle are Cicero's daughter Julia (Nathalie Emmanuel) and the people of the city, whilst from the sidelines Catilina's driver Fundi Romaine (Laurence Fishbourne) narrates, and television presenter Wow Platinum (Aubrey Plaza) ingratiates herself into the life of not only Catilina, whom she loves, but his treacherous inbred cousin Claudio (Shia LaBouef) and disgustingly wealthy uncle Hamilton Crassus III (Jon Voight, yay?)...

A palindrome of tedium and a monument to grandiose emptiness, presided over by the decaying husk of auteurism, seizing upon scattered imagery in the same way in which a first time watcher of "Baraka" who is exceedingly enamoured with psychotropic drugs and the works of Terrence Mallick but also really thinks he's "not like the other kids" because he reads books and Shakespeare rather than watches Tik Tok would do.

Made over the course of several lifetimes (including that of his wife, to whom this film is dedicated and deserved far, far, far better), "Megalopolis" cost $120 million in Coppola's own cash, a pet vanity project free from the shackles of studio interference and corporate ghouls tethering his vision and genius.
Where are those 9 producers on "Hellboy" (2019) when you need them?
A preposterously backwards looking attempt to grasp at any idea, hurling images and the most embarassing kind of dialogue in a manner so haphazard you'd think it was a 1st year film student: you'd tell that pretentious cravat-wearing prick to get a real job if he showed you this.
Cast members are not characters, but dolls spewing philosophy at each other in increasingly cheap setpieces (underpopulated nightclubs, C-roll from "King of New York") between title cards etched into stone rather than the memory, as they attempt to jangle keys in front of you in attempt to gain "cult status": Aubrey Plaza femdomming Shia LaBouef and dressing as a slutty Cleopatra; Adam Driver fighting a brick wall as he hallucinates on drugs that he has a million clown arms; recreations of Ancient Roman gladiatorial arenas which look more akin to an event to sell a patricularly odious timeshare; Jason Schwartzmann playing the drums, or Dustin Hoffman randomly dying to collapsing pillar in what feels like a fucking cutaway gag on "Mr Show".
But instead of wonder and weirdness, they grasp at boredom. For a movie about a central character who can "control time" I'll give them this: time did indeed seem to compress and dilate on a whim in this movie, stretching like the shooting schedule of "Apocalypse Now" or the French Plantation Scene of "Apocalypse Now" in a manner which is frankly criminal. It should be illegal to make me look at my watch this much. It should be illegal to make something more tedious than a silent documentary on a "weird dream a pigeon had last night" shot out of focus..
Laurence Fishbourne drones in quotes and narrates events we already watch. An editor would have caught this in post: it's that shit cut of "Blade Runner" but instead of budget Sam Spade, it's Sam Spade quoting the bylines of every Andrew Tate fan on a message board from 2001.
We get terrible renditions of Shakespeare in place of dialogue, and where the rest of the dialogue is not simply quotes, misquotes or pretentious corrections of misquotes with the original quotes: it is repetitive. When not repetitive, it repeats itself. When it is not doing that, it duplicates. And beyond duplication it clones itself. And it's repetitive to boot.
I am entirely unsure what was inside the copious amounts of weed FFC was smoking when he made this movie and molested several people, but I hope that one day it can be weaponised so that we can one day infect other nations with the power to dictate such terrible choices in acting, plotting, coherence and storytelling: that shit was potent enough to eliminate the human mind's capacity for reality, reason and coherent thought.
Shia LaBouef prances like a preening theatre kid, but not in a fun way, more like that annoying one who won't stop singing Hamilton at you in a cafe one night because you mentioned that you liked Lin Manuel Miranda's "In the Heights".
Adam Driver is as wooden as his daughter in "Annette" (just watch "Annette", that movie fucking rules).
Nathalie Emmanuel is done by harder than she is in the "Fast and Furious" movies.
Giancarlo Esposito is... fucking hell... not the worst here, he gives as good a go as any but fuck me, not even he makes this dialogue work.
Aubrey Plaza somehow comes out unscathed: she plays her "Wow Platinum" social climber fem-domme femme fatale money expert golddigger like April Ludgate infiltrating a theatre troupe and mocking them all the way, but somehow getting nominated for both leads in their production of "Blood Brothers" for her talent. I love her.
The central conceit of the film, as he has stated, is to try to compare the fall of Rome to modern day America, and vice versa - in between the Roman names (weirdly casting Cicero as a villain and Catalina as a hero, in a reversal of a conspiracy that only like, 4 scholars and my mate Sam care about) and the blunt force trauma imagery, we get limp-wristed "satire" which I have to read as satire because otherwise my brain cannot comprehend a script this terrible. Red caps thrown at a fallen wannabe grifter dictator who curses their name whilst a sign reads "Make New Rome Great Again!" is discarded.
That sort of bullshit.
But this is not the core concept, as much as he wants it to be.
FFC (who has our leads discuss the fact that their baby who will "lead the future" will be called Francis, and names one of his 2 protagonists after himself) is actually making a movie about a "visionary" who is misunderstood by the world around him, oppressed and threatened and plotted against by rich bankers and wealthy elites who do not care for his vision: and unintentionally makes himself out to be a vile, condescending, pretentious, sexist, sorrowful drug fiend and dickhead surrounded by Yes-Men (fucking James Remar is in this! I legally have to see James Remar movies! And he gets, maybe, like, 2 lines! Fucking BLASPHEMY!); and that's just the character. I almost want to believe that there is some sort of plot against FFC, that there are studio executives with grudges and axes to grind, who have been praying for this film to fail, because that then would at least be some sort of reasonable explanation for this film being so dreadful (other than the obvious and correct assertion that it is simply dreadful). But no such luck.
I know that reading this back makes it sound somewhat interesting, somewhat fascinating as a failure, that in years this is going to be seen as a comedy camp classic, that there will be a reevalutaion of this work:
But no.
Genuinely, do not bother.
This was interminable, there was constant derisive laughter in our audience, and myself and the two people I was watching this went through the stages of grief in about 8 seconsds, or longer: time means nothing.
I can't even find time to talk about how all of the incestuous banking family and villains throw out jussssssssssst enough Yiddish to make it seem deliberate, but not QUITE enough to make it seem like it's being anti-Semitic, or the fact that the movie's sexist as shit to boot (I mean, you could probably guess that).
Fuck this movie.
Fuck me.
It is purely by his own Folly, his own petard hoisted by arrogance (and molestation allegations) that has led him to this disaster, and this will be how he goes. As coherent and meaningful as a collection of untranslated Horus poetry loaded into a shotgun and fired at a passing windmill made of bees. As fucking exciting as reading my fucking blogs.
As doomed as its namesake but nowhere near as interesting, coherent, respectable or with anything to say.