Hollywood, 1927. It’s a prosperous time to be a movie star, and no star shines brighter than that of George Valentin (Jean Dujardin; The Little White Lies). As handsome and charismatic as he is vain and self-centred, Valentin – with his pencil thin moustache reminiscent of real life silent movie sensation Douglas Fairbanks – along with his long time co-star, a talented Jack Russell terrier, is the biggest thing in movies since, well, ever, and has audiences, reporters and money hungry executives all eating out of the palm of his hand. But all good things must come to an end. For Hollywood, it’s the end of the silent movie, booted abruptly from the screen to make way for the next big thing: the talkies. For Valentin, it’s the end of his career, as he too is cast unceremoniously aside, usurped by fresh young talents like Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo; A Knight’s Tale), whose path soon crosses with Valentin’s own.

To those who might be made hesitant by the prospect of a silent movie, don’t be. Yes, the story is simple, and the acting over-the-top. But Hazanavicius and company have done a marvellous job of capturing the spirit of the erstwhile art-form, whisking you through film – and the films within the film – with near unbridled exuberance. Dujardin and Bejo, who have the advantage of being total unknowns to English speaking audiences, both give terrific performances – big and bold by necessity, but also charming and full of heart. The same is true of Ludovic Bource’s score, always present to heighten the emotion, punctuate the comedy, or simply fill in the silence where words cannot be heard.  Visually, the film is just as impressive, with cinematographer Guillaume Schiffman working wonders with light and shadow in a classic 4:3 aspect ratio.

But while enormous effort has gone into recreating the style and feel of Hollywood productions at the height of the silent age, Hazanavicius is certainly not above have fun with his gimmick. The Artist is littered with clever little-self aware moments that play on the conventions of silent features, from Peppy being “overheard” in a restaurant, to a fantastic dream sequence in which Valentin is tormented by a cacophony of sounds.  The appearance of recognizable Hollywood faces in smaller roles – John Goodman (Red State) as a cigar chomping studio boss, or an endearing James Cromwell (Surrogates) as Valentin’s loyal chauffeur – will delight knowing audiences, while the especially savvy may notice a dinner table sequence that steals directly from Citizen Kane. One rather major misstep in this regard is the use of Bernard Herrman’s Vertigo score in a key emotional moment towards the pictures’ end. It’s a great piece of music, but so recognizable that it immediately becomes distracting.

As fun as it is, it must be pointed out that a great deal of The Artist’s appeal comes from its novelty – in being a silent film in a noisy age, and a recreation of a style that has all but been forgotten. Still, maybe there’s nothing wrong with a bit of nostalgia. It’s hard to think too critically about a film as joyous as The Artist. It simply sweeps you away.

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But worry not, Hergé fans; the ink-blotted Tintin of yore has not been forgotten nor besmirched in this audacious 3D adaptation. That much is clear in the opening scene where a street artist — looking suspiciously like the late Hergé himself — paints a profile of Tintin (voice of Jamie Bell; Defiance) in his iconic two-dimensional likeness, the first of many ‘wink-wink’ allusions to the beloved source material. No one can deny that Spielberg and producer Peter Jackson have gone to great lengths to capture the lightly comical, historically focused and distinctly European vibe of the comics, even in the face of a largely unaware American audience who will probably think they’re watching The Adventures Conan O’Brien instead. This is one for the fans, and even if that’s not you, consider this your chance to become one.

In what is hopefully the first of many, Tintin’s first Hollywood adventure begins with the young reporter’s eye being drawn to a model ship – the titular Unicorn — on sale in a Brussels marketplace, which he snaps up for a bargain. Moments later, a rather baleful looking collector, Ivan Sakharine (Daniel Craig; Cowboys & Aliens), offers to buy the model off of Tintin for a hefty sum, but he declines, intrigued to know what makes this particular model so desirable. Leave it to Snowy, Tintin’s wily fox terrier, to sniff out a cryptic piece of parchment hidden in the mast, hinting at a secret treasure Sakharine no doubt intents to get his hands on. Sensing a good story, Tintin and Snowy board Sakharine’s ship as the collector sets out to recover another clue he believes is in somewhere Morocco. On board, they bump into the boisterous Scotsman Captain Haddock (mo-cap king Andy Serkis; Rise of the Planet of the Apes), who is too drunk to remember what he has to do with anything, but not quiet drunk enough to forget that it’s very, very important.

Fans will be quick to point out that this swashbuckling story — penned by a British screenwriting supergroup comprised of Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead), Steven Moffat (Doctor Who) and Joe Cornish (Attack the Block) — is actually a mixture of three Tintin adventures: The Crab with the Golden Claws (1941), The Secret of the Unicorn (1943) and Red Rackham’s Treasure (1944). The fact that narrative still manages to feel somewhat underwritten and incomplete despite such a bevy of material is a little surprising, I’ll admit, but the film barely slows down long enough for anyone to notice. It’s relentless alright, but relentless in the best kind of way, lurching from dazzling set-piece to dazzling set-piece with just enough exposition in-between to keep the mystery unraveling at a pace the whole family will appreciate. Any doubt I previously had towards the eerie, photo-realistic animation style — and believe me, I had plenty — was diminished by the sheer beauty and spectacle of the action, none of which could be been so vividly and kinetically realised had it been filmed live. There’s undeniably still work to be done in evoking the “soul” of a real performance, but the CG virtuosos at Weta Digital successfully avoid falling into the uncanny valley by keeping physicality of the characters loyal to that of the comics rather than the actors. Thus, we don’t see Jamie Bell, Andy Serkis and Daniel Craig; we see Tintin, Haddock and Sakharine. And that distinction is what makes it easier to give yourself over to the world of Tintin than that of The Polar Express, where I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was watching zombie Tom Hanks drive a train.

I suppose my only real problem with The Adventures of Tintin is, well, Tintin. Let’s face it, the Belgian reporter is bit of a colourless character; a drearily earnest and asexual boy scout without a discernible quirk to call his own. I don’t blame Hergé for this, because in print, such nondescript characterisation allows the reader to imbue their own traits and values into the protagonist. But with film, the audience takes a more passive, observational role, leaving it up to the filmmakers to shape these characters for you. It’s the reason why Bond orders a shaken Martini and Indy loathes snakes. It makes them more than just a hero. It makes them human.

Nevertheless, Snowy does most of Tintin’s emoting for him, and Captain Haddock has enough eccentricities to sink a battleship – which, come to think of it, he does eventually. All in all, this is a wonderfully entertaining rollercoaster ride, a signature Spielbergian adventure that almost makes me wish the directing great would have another crack at reviving Indiana Jones again.

Just, you know, go easy on the aliens…

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In 2001, the Oakland Athletics baseball team were knocked out of the American League series finals by the New York Yankees, a side with nearly four times the A’s budget.  With the next season just around the corner, the A’s general manager Billy Beane (Brad Pitt; Inglourious Basterds) is left in charge of fielding a competitive team with a less than adequate funds, while also faced with the departure of three of his star players for more profitable pastures, and a coach (Phillip Seymour Hoffman; Miller’s Capote) understandably concerned about the single year remaining on his contract. Driven to desperation, Beane hires Peter Brand (Jonah Hill; Get Him To The Greek), a fresh-faced Yale economics graduate who has devised a radical method of team selection using statistics – called sabermetrics – that flies in the face of the conventional wisdom of the scouts.

Billy Beane is a great part for the maturing Pitt, whose recent work in films like The Tree of Life and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button has seen him gracefully transition from his boyish Hollywood persona to something closer to a quintessentially American man. In Moneyball, Pitt captures without unnecessary flair all the frustrations of a man for whom victory has always been elusive. Across from the A-lister, Jonah Hill gives the first real dramatic performance of his admittedly short career, holding his own against the rest of the cast and demonstrating the same inner determination that his nervous character does when his statistical wizardry faces opposition from his colleagues.

Sadly, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who scored well deserved Oscar gold in his last outing with Miller, is largely wasted. In his role as the aging team coach, Hoffman represents the old guard of the Oakland staff; the dinosaur who refuses to evolve. As such, he is offered the significantly reduced screen-time that befits a creature on the verge of extinction. This is indicative of the film’s most niggling flaw: Miller, Sorkin and Zaillian simplistically chalk up the early failings of the sabermetric approach to a bull-headed old man who refuses to play the team as intended. However factually accurate this may be, the films depiction of the young versus the old – of the clashes between Beane and his aged staff – feels thin, unkind and often unconvincing.

Where Moneyball really takes off is when Brand and Beane’s gamble starts to show dividends. Scenes of rapid fire dialogue, such as when the two traders juggle half a dozen phone calls and counteroffers to secure a new player and screw over a rival team, are far and away the best parts of the film, recalling the frantic energy of the stock exchange (although not quite in the same ballpark as Sorkin’s Oscar winner from last year). The excitement is then ratcheted up on the pitch as well, as the A’s edge ever closer to twenty victories in a row and a place in the American League record books. Under the artificial stadium lights, Miller and cinematographer Wally Pfister (Inception) shoot the matches with icy elegance. But inevitably they return to the offices and corridors with Beane, whose mind keep ticking – and whose phone keeps ringing – long after the fans have gone home.

With the film running a tad over two hours, Miller might have been a little tighter with his editing. Sugary scenes between Beane and his precocious daughter could have easily been removed, as could some of the many shots of the man driving around in his truck looking introspective. These moments, meant to humanize a character who doesn’t need to be likable, ring false. It’s enough that we know that Beane is a former baseball prospect himself, and that victory with the A’s would make up for all those years of disappointment. Beane has honour and loyalty. But he is also a cynical man, capable of firing players like they’re nothing more than scribblings on a whiteboard. Brand and the rag-tag Oakland team are there to be liked, but Beane is there to count the pennies. Moneyball is at its best when it’s all about the numbers.

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The Ides of March (Review)

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The Ides of March follows the campaign of Pennsylvania Governor Mike Morris (Clooney; The American) against Arkansas Senator Ted Pullman (Michael Mantell; Ocean’s 13) for the Democratic nomination for the Presidential race. Morris is a rare breed of politician; determinedly forward thinking and unwilling to compromise on his ideals, he is the kind of man who inspires faith and loyalty, even from men like Steven Meyer (Ryan Gosling; Drive), a young but talented junior campaign manager who works under Paul Zara (Phillip Seymour Hoffman; Moneyball) doing everything he can to get Morris that one step closer to the Whitehouse. But as Meyer soon discovers, temptation lies everywhere in the political battlefield, be it in the form of the opposition campaign manager Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti; Win Win) who aspires to lure Meyer over to the other side, or embodied by the flirtatious young intern (Evan Rachel Wood; The Wrestler), the keeper of a secret that could derail Morris’ entire campaign.

As Clooney’s fourth directorial effort (after Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Good Night and Good Luck and Leaderheads), The Ides of March is confidently filmed and edited like the straightforward drama that it is. Much of the film plays out in the typical locales of the political thriller; by payphones, on public benches, in ballrooms and two-bit motels. Cinematographer Phedon Papamichael fills the frame with passionless whites, blues and greys, lending the picture the cool, calculated aesthetic of a film by David Fincher (The Social Network) or Christopher Nolan (Inception). Clooney frequently transitions from scene to scene by dropping out the diegetic sound and letting the images march ominously on to the snare-drum tempo of Alexandre Desplat’s quietly propulsive score. Desplat’s music begins the film on notes of hope and determinism, like a kind of patriotic ditty. But as the story grows darker, the score becomes increasingly more corrupted.

Where The Ides of March really stands apart is in the quality of its actors. Perhaps because he is a veteran actor himself, Clooney has assembled a dream cast consisting of Hollywood’s finest performers, and gives them full reign to deliver Williamson’s scintillating dialogue with little intrusion. Ryan Gosling is magnetic as Meyer, a character considerably more verbose than Goslings’ nameless anti-hero in Drive, but who exudes the same charming confidence that masks cold-blooded capabilities. Clooney finds the perfect man to play Governor Morris in himself; few actors would be better suited to the role of a charismatic politician capable of inspiring genuine hope, only to be ultimately revealed as susceptible to the same human failings as everybody else.

Meanwhile, Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Paul Giamatti are typically brilliant as the two duelling campaign heads; their one scene together, all too brief, crackles superbly. Similarly, Giamatti’s covert scenes with Gosling’s character bristle with Machiavellian intentions, while Hoffman’s mid-film monologue about loyalty reminds us why he is perhaps the best character actor working today. Evan Rachel Wood oozes sexuality, but also deliversher weightier dramatic dialogue with skill. Even the most minor roles are filled by top notch performers, including Marisa Tomei (Crazy, Stupid, Love) as a hardnosed political reporter, Jeffrey Wright (Source Code) as a conniving senator, Max Minghella (The Social Network) as a junior member of Morris’ campaign team, and Jennifer Ehle (Contagion) as the governors devoted wife.

Politics is the game dominated by the ruthless ambition of a few. For all the tension wrought by the chess games these men play, the stakes offered in The Ides of March are not lives, but careers. As one character points out, it makes very little difference to most everyday people who actually gets elected. It’s a sentiment that rings miserably true as Meyer’s completes his Godfather style coup, even as Morris delivers a televised speech about the importance of personal integrity. How bleak. As another character remarks, a long stay in politics will leave you jaded and cynical. The fact of the matter is, everyone in this film: Morris, Pullman, Thompson, Zara, Duffy and Meyers himself; they’re all in the same party. They’re meant to be on the same side. Yet for all their inspiring words, every one of them sells out their ideals and their allies for a chance to get ahead. One hates to imagine the depths they’ll sink to when they’re facing off against their enemies.

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That’s the inspired premise behind Arthur Christmas, the endlessly entertaining CG-animated adventure in which one of the planet’s most iconic figures is given a 21^st century makeover. Gone are the days of reindeers pulling sleighs; Christmas is now a military-efficient operation involving super computers, satellite tracking and a control room teeming with elves to make sure no present goes undelivered, and no evidence is left behind. The procedure is so hi-tech, not even poor old Santa (Jim Broadbent; Another Year) knows what each button does; he just does as he’s told by his eldest son Steve (Hugh Laurie; Hop), the brains of the whole operation eager to supersede his father. Meanwhile, Santa’s clumsy youngest son Arthur (James McAvoy; X-men First Class) stays out of harm’s way in the Mailing Room, basking in the Christmas cheer that emanates from the piles of letters children have addressed to Santa.

After a glitch in the system leaves a single present undelivered, Steve shrugs it off as a minor margin of error in what was otherwise their most successful Christmas ever – a sly stab at just how commercial the holiday has become. But Arthur, unable to fathom how heartbreaking it must be to wake up on Christmas to find nothing under the tree, sets out to deliver the present on his own accord, enlisting the help of an enthusiastic gift-wrapping elf named Bryony (Ashley Jensen; Gnomeo & Juliet) and last generation’s Santa, Grandsanta (Bill Nighy; Rango). With Steve’s spaceship under lock and key, the trio are forced to make the delivery the old fashioned way: by sleigh and reindeer.

Even a right ol’ Scrooge will struggle to hold back a smile during the dazzling adventure that ensues, which sees Arthur, Grandsanta and Bryony attempt to navigate their way to England, but instead wind up in Canada and Africa.  Like the best family films, the story is simple in structure yet intricate in execution; the stunning opening shots of Santa’s workshop in full operation evokes the same wonderment felt when first witnessing the Scare Factory in Pixar’s Monsters Inc.  It helps that the writing by Peter Baynham and Sarah Smith is just as sharp as the best Pixar outings, the two frequently finding that balance between all-ages physical humour and refined adult wit. Their larger than life characters are brought to life by an excellent voice cast, most of whom aren’t simply involved because they’re big-name stars, but rather because they actually suit their roles. Still, the real strength of the film lies not in its protagonist Arthur – who I’d argue least interesting member of the Claus family – but in its lack of an antagonist. Without a villain, the film rises above the good vs. evil structure that defines most children’s films and finds a core complication everyone can relate to: a kooky family.  And while the trials of bringing the clan together for Christmas is an oft-explored subject, it feels decidedly more authentic here than it has in recent Christmas fables. Sure, the end is a bit cheesy, but it wouldn’t be a movie from the makers of Wallace and Gromit if it didn’t feature some cheese, now would it?

After a long and successful history in Claymation, Arthur Christmas marks Aardman’s second foray into CG-animation after 2006’s Flushed Away — a movie which despite positive reviews, struggled to set the box office ablaze (possibly because it was about sewer rats). This time round, the studio has played it safe by piggybacking on the success of a character already beloved by kids the world over, but they’ve done so without falling into the trap of making a trite, uninspired Christmas cash grab starring Tim Allen. Instead, Arthur Christmas feels like the product of genuine inspiration, and although it’s somewhat disheartening to see one of the biggest industry advocates for stop motion trade in their clay for computers, there’s no denying that the studio’s distinctive fingerprints are all over this one.

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Our first glimpse of Tom (Matthew Goode; Watchmen) comes as he is stands masturbating over a naked woman. It’s an audacious way to introduce one’s hero, and just the first of many instances of misdirection that Teplitzky employs to keep audiences on their toes. A rapidly edited montage takes us from moment to seemingly unconnected moment; the only constant is Tom, an irritable, arrogant, womanizing Englishman whose life is a blur of cooking, drinking, arguing and shallow sex. The structure of the film is intentionally designed to challenge, as Teplitzky deliberately points you in one direction and then merrily leads you in another. But the speed and energy that dominates these early sections of the film – like the frantic kitchen of Tom’s exclusive restaurant – is such that it is impossible not to be engaged.

As the scenes begin to fall into place, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, we come to understand that behind his unsympathetic façade, Tom is dealing with the insurmountable grief of losing his wife Sarah (Bojana Novakovic; Edge of Darkness) after an agonizing struggle with breast-cancer. Suddenly, random scenes and images – like Tom starring drunkenly at wigs in a store-front – take on profoundly tragic meaning. Flashing backwards and forward between before and after Sarah’s death, the films’ structure, once used to confuse the narrative, now demonstrates it’s protagonists fracturing psychology, as Teplitzky and editor Martin Collins’ juxtapose Tom’s contented past with the agony of his present.

Matthew Goode is terrifically cast in the films leading role, managing the difficult task of playing a character that frequently crosses the line between charming and unlikable, while also pulling off the film’s heavier dramatic scenes with considerable gravitas. Novakovic is equally good as the emotional centre of the film; as their young son Oscar, first time actor Jack Heanly – although playing a character that sometimes falls into overly precocious kiddy clichés – is extremely impressive as well. The rest of the cast is filled out by recognizable Australian actors and actresses including Rachel Griffiths (TVs Six Feet Under), Dan Wyllie (Animal Kingdom) and Anthony Hayes (Beneath Hill 60).

But the true star of the film is cinematographer Gary Phillips (Candy), who captures images that are nothing short of sublime. Each shot in this film is immaculately lit and framed, as Phillips and Teplitzky turn every plate of food, sun-soaked street and curve of Novakovic gorgeous naked body into a work of photographic art. The film’s frank depiction of sex is alternately funny, tawdry and beautiful, while even a violent car-crash results in a series of images that are absolutely astounding.

The flaw of Burning Man is that it is so immaculate – both visually and structurally – that it lacks the rawness that befits such a heartbreaking tale. Teplitzky’s artistic construction is always apparent, and as a result, while viewers will undoubtedly feel sadness, they may never be moved to the extent that they should be. The movie is best viewed as a work of filmic construction, one in which the aesthetic is immaculate, and the narrative so neatly designed that even the raunchy opening scene is eventually revealed as a moment of cathartic resolution. As a complete package, Burning Man is very good, but a little too pristine to be great.

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Ku-Nam (Ha Jung-woo) is a down-on-his-luck cab driver living in Yanbian, a Korean prefecture in North-Eastern China. Chronically in debt, his wife left for South Korea a year ago, but her promise of sending money back has gone unfulfilled. Plagued by nightmares that his wayward spouse is having an affair, Ku-Nam spends most of his time drinking or loosing at Mah-jong in dingy gambling halls, while his elderly mother is left to look after her son’s infant child. An opportunity to finally make some money is presented by a local gangster Myun-Ga (Kim Yun-seok), who offers Ku-Nam $60 000 and the chance to travel to South Korea to track down his wife. All he has to do is kill somebody. Both Kim and Ha previously starred in The Chaser, and both are excellent here; the bearded Kim is especially watchable as the jovial Myun, a gangster whose easy going manner masks his grisly ability with an axe.

The first act of the film unfolds slowly. Arriving covertly in Seoul across the eponymous yellow sea, our would-be assassin nervously scopes out his target’s apartment, while also searching for his wife, who he begins to fear may have fallen victim to a violent crime of her own. Deliberately paced and often wordless, the early parts of the film are classic neo-noir, with Na’s high definition digital cinematography recalling Michael Mann’s Collateral. Arguably it goes on a little long, especially considering the version I saw was the 140-minute director’s cut, itself shortened from the 156 minute Korean theatrical version. That said, this lengthy setup is the eerie calm before the storm: on the night of the murder, things go horribly awry and the film transitions suddenly from a slow burning mood piece to a high-octane action picture. It’s gruesome, exciting and scarcely ever lets up.

Betrayed and bloodied, Ku-Nam suddenly finds himself on the run, with the cops, the South Korean mafia and  Myun and the knife-wielding Chinese underworld not far behind. All of a sudden, The Yellow Sea becomes a non-stop Fugitive style chase movie, one with pursuit scenes so riveting and audaciously lengthy that it is only in the brief moments of quiet between bursts of running that you realise you have completely forgotten to breath. Na does occasionally over-edit his action, and his use of shaky-cam renders two potentially excellent car chases practically unintelligible. But most of the time, the sheer intensity shines through.

The fight scenes are even better. The punishment inflected on bodies in this film – not by guns but by knives and hatchets – is certainly enough to kill most mortals, yet Na’s characters push on with Terminator style endurance, be it because of their burning desire to live or through the sheer power of badassery. This is an enormously bloody movie, but never indulgently so; Na’s excellent fight choreography and creative kill concepts keep things exciting, as he pitches dozens of armed assailants brawling against a single man. At other moments he chooses to skip the violence entirely, opting to cut away, and then back again a few moments later, to a room once full once of people that is now littered with corpses. The second and third acts also reveal an unexpected amount of gallows humour, as Na blurs the tonal line between carnage and comedy in a way that only the South Korean’s can.

But even as Na unleashes progressively more insane and exciting scenes of action, he also explores and plays with contemporary themes of emasculation and urban resettlement. Ku-Nam, the drunken cuckold, is only driven to murder in the first place because he is unable to provide for his family. The suit-and-tie wearing Korean crime-king Kim Tae-won (Lee Chul-min) cowers before the unflinchingly efficient Myun; his failings as a gangster reflective of his failings as a man. Meanwhile, many aspects of the film play like a frightened parable about immigration. Killers arrive by boat hidden amongst migrants, while Koreans spit the world “Joseonjok” – which means a Chinese person of Korean descent – as if it were a racial slur. The city, already filthy, crime-ridden and packed to the brim, does not want these people, and soon strips them of any dignity or humanity they may once have possessed.

The visceral nature of the violence in The Yellow Sea reveals its ultimate thesis. This is a film about the lengths men will go. For money. For pride. For survival. Its characters – both hero and villains – are animals, driven by base instincts and utterly unhampered by conscience. It is no coincidence that the fight sequences so often descend into senseless melees, where men swing blindly at each other, attacking from all sides. They are rabid dogs, fighting tooth and nail. And all for a few measly scraps.

The Yellow Sea recently played at the Fantastic Asia Film Festival in Melbourne. It opens in selection Australian cinemas on December 1.

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Even when the writer/director/actor doesn’t play the part personally, most protagonists in Allen’s films are inevitably thinly veiled versions of Allen himself. In the case of Midnight in Paris, the actor filling his shoes is the affable Owen Wilson (Hall Pass), while the character he plays is a successful screenwriter disillusioned with Hollywood and his own mediocre output. He is the kind of man who likes old books, records and taking long walks in the rain; who dreams of giving up his material possessions  and moving to Paris to finish his novel  — an aspiration that does not sit well with his materialistic fiancé Inez (Rachel McAdams; Morning Glory).

While on vacation in Paris with his unbearable wife-to-be and her equally unbearable parents (Kurt Fuller; Ray and Mimi Kennedy; In The Loop), Gil finds himself wandering the streets of the city at night, and is soon inexplicably transported back in time to the height of the swinging twenties. There, he encounters all of his artistic and literary heroes, including a sociable F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald (Tom Hiddleston; Thor and Alison Pill; Scott Pilgrim), a straight-talking Ernest Hemingway (Corey Stoll; Salt), a paranoid Picasso (Marcial Di Fonzo Bo; Polisse) and a very goofy Salvador Dali (a hilarious cameo by Adrien Brody; Predators). Not only do these historical figures welcome Gil into their inner circle and encourage his writing, but they also introduce him to Adriana (Marion Cotillard; Inception), an alluring French woman with whom Gil soon becomes smitten.

Certainly one of Allen’s lighter works, there is a wonderful wit and whimsy to Midnight in Paris that whisks you off your feet, rarely inspiring booming guffaws, but provoking satisfied smiles that never leaves your face. The picture begins with a montage of gorgeous Parisian locales accompanied by the dreamy tunes of Sidney Bechet’s “Si tu vois ma mere”, and from that moment on it is impossible not to fall in love. From there Allen steals us away into the night, transporting us to a world full of colour, laughter and romance. His classical shooting style, warm lighting, rich costuming and detailed production design all contribute to a wonderful nostalgic feeling that we share with Gil, intoxicated and amazed by the magic of the city around us.

Wilson’s performance here shows more shades of subtlety than we are used to from the Hollywood star, as he plays Gil with just the right combination of befuddlement, passion and down-to-earth likability. Surround him are a series of supporting players that never cease to impress; Rachel McAdams nails the dismissive nature of the spoiled American housewife (a Woody Allen staple), while Michael Sheen (Tron: Legacy) is perfect as Paul, Inez’s former lover and a cringe-worthy pseudo-intellectual who takes great pleasure in appearing the expert on every element of French culture.

There is a great deal of affection in every aspect of this film. Allen loves this city and these artists. So does Gil. And inevitably, so do we. Best of all, although the script drops enough names to send even the most learned intellectual scrambling for the encyclopaedia, Gil’s unabashed and genuine enthusiasm for it all – especially when contrasted with Paul’s intolerable pompousness – ensures that you never feel excluded or inferior for not catching all the names. Funny, clever and full of love, you don’t need a Fine Arts degree to appreciate this film. Although speaking as someone who had to look up a few of the characters after he got home, it certainly wouldn’t hurt.

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The Artist (Review)

Anton Yelchin (Star Trek) plays Charley Brewster, a Las Vegas county high-schooler who has recently scored a hot girlfriend (Imogen Poots; 28 Weeks Later) and admittance into the “cool crowd”, something that sees him eager to leave his old friend Ed (Christopher Mintz-Plasse; Kick-Ass) and the nerdy adolescence he represents behind him. Charley’s reluctance to hang out with Ed is understandable, especially once Ed becomes convinced that Charley’s new neighbour Jerry (Colin Farrell; In Bruges) is a member of the bloody-sucking undead. But when people around the neighbourhood start to go missing, Charley starts to realise that his old buddy might not be crazy after all.

One of the most delightful things about Fright Night is that it almost immediately does away with the boring old “is he, isn’t he” question. Anyone who buys a ticket to this film obviously knows that Jerry is a vampire, and while it may take some of the characters a while to cotton on, Noxon and Gillespie make it obvious to the audience from the moment Farrell appears on screen. Indeed, one of the funniest things about the movie is how amused Jerry seems that no one in the film can figure out his secret.

It’s a conceit that also gives Gillispie the chance to weave a couple of excellent, suspenseful sequences. An early scene in which a suspicious Charley tests whether Jerry can enter a home uninvited brims with unspoken tension, while a moment in a Las Vegas dance club offers an effective modern day twist on the age old vampirism-as-rape metaphor.

Farrell absolutely relishes the role of Jerry (an ironically terrible vampire name from which much humour is derived), playing the part with the creepy leer of an obvious predator. Combine this performance with his show-stealing turn in Horrible Bosses, and 2011 has been a banner year in the filmography of this underrated Hollywood star.  Special attention must also be given to David Tennant (Doctor Who), who assumes the role of a flashy, leather-pants wearing Vegas magician and vampire hunter – a character with obvious shades of Russel Brand – with brilliantly over-the-top aplomb.

But while it is Farrell and Tenant are given the most opportunity to steal the show, the entire cast does great work. Anton Yelchin is a seriously talented young actor, conveying all the feelings of terror and disbelief that would go along with learning that a guy named Jerry wanted to rip your throat out, not to mention the throats of your mother and girlfriend. These two leading female characters in the film are unfortunately given very little to do — the third act sees one of them unconscious in a hospital, the other a damsel in distress just waiting to be saved. Nevertheless, Imogen Poots and Toni Collette (Signs) as Charley’s single mother are both more than convincing in their somewhat thankless roles. As Ed, Christopher Mintz-Plasse also offers up his usual nerdy shtick, but while we’ve this this performance from him before, there’s no denying he plays the part well.

Martin Noxon’s script is filled with the same blend of genre humour and sincere teenage drama that she brought to episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but perhaps the best decision she makes is setting the film in Las Vegas. A town of transients where people won’t be missed, the city offers the perfect hunting ground for a bloody thirsty killer. Moreover, the inherently artificial quality of the gambling capital of the world somehow seems to justify the utilization of digital gore effects instead of practical ones, and even helps one to accept the slight sheen given to the film by the unnecessary 3D effects.

Be it in two dimensions or three, Fright Night is a bloody bucket-load of fun.

Australian Box Office 28/8/11: Horrible Bosses relates

Australian Box Office 4/9/2011: Horrible Bosses still on top

Horrible Bosses (Review)

The Hangover (Review)

Knight and Day (Review)

Although Tabloid shares the same fascination with “the truth”, it is by comparison to the rest of Morris’ acclaimed filmography a much breezier and more irreverent affair. Unlike in The Thin Blue Line, where it is the ultimate quest for answers that grips us, Tabloid is satisfied to simply recount the story – or stories – and let the audience make of it what they will. In this way, it is the journey, not the destination, which keeps you so enraptured. Well, the journey and Joyce McKinney.

The film’s primary interviewee (Anderson refused to be be interviewed), McKinney is an absolutely outrageous character, every bit as gregarious, theatrical and unrepentant now as she was in 1977. At one point she makes reference to having taken drama classes in high school, and it’s patently obvious that the lessons stuck. One never fully believes the sanitized version of events as she paints them (conveniently glossing over accusations that she worked as a call girl), but there’s no denying she makes for a captivating talking head.

Morris also shamelessly plays up through editing and graphics all the attention-grabbing elements that made the “Mormon sex in chains” story so attractive to the tabloids in the first place. Headlines and animations flash rapidly across the screen accompanied by John Kusiak’s waltz-like score, while classic film excerpts and clips from Mormon cartoons reflect the fantastical nature of the tales that are playing in our ears. It’s quite cheeky, really; Morris’ recreation of the style and language of sensationalist reporting is meant to be tongue in cheek, but at the same time he reaps all of their benefits. Indeed, Tabloid often seems less like a film about the practices of tabloid journalism and more like a showy piece of tabloid journalism itself.

Yet while under any other circumstances that would be a criticism, Tabloid is such a mirthful, fascinating and fantastically entertaining documentary that you can’t help but get caught up in all the sordid fun. There is also a gleeful ambiguity to the film that makes it that much more intriguing. No matter how honest, dishonest or over the top they might seem, no one in this film can prove a thing. Rarely does a movie, let alone a documentary, end without answers and still manage to satisfy. Tabloid is definitely an exception.

MIFF 2011 Diary: Days 10-12

Soundtrackcity Rotterdam: The Hive (IFFR Review)

Our picks of the 2011 Melbourne International Film Festival (MIFF)

Get Him to the Greek (Review)

Crazy, Stupid, Love (Review)

You see, Sunday is the day studios choose to screen “family friendly” movies. As the quotation marks suggest, “family friendly” is a somewhat questionable designation, particularly in light of a recent study that reveals families who haven’t see Zookeeper are 92% friendlier than those who have. I imagine this is also the case with the likes of The Smurfs, Hop, Mars Needs Moms, Furry Vengeance and all other movies that were forged in the pits of hell and screened to critics on a Sunday, bloody Sunday.

Now this is where I start talking about Johnny English Reborn, so pay attention. Being a “family friendly” movie, I saw the belated sequel to Rowan Atkinson’s 2003 spy comedy on a Sunday. Naturally, then, I was expecting the worst: crotch kicks, talking animals and an audience full of screaming children who, upon throwing popcorn at the back of my head, confuse my fist in their face for excellent 3D. Mercifully, the film is not in 3D, nor does it feature Kevin James, Eddie Murphy or any other talking animals.

The point I’m taking far too long to make is that, aside from the abundance of crotch kicks, Johnny English Reborn is without many of odious things that generally define my Sundays. Not only is this movie tolerable, it’s actually quite good. And not even as a guilty pleasure, but as a legitimate, guiltless one. It’s funny, exciting, entertaining and, yes, family friendly — this time without the quotation marks!

For a more detailed appraisal of Johnny English Reborn, and a Mr. Bean impression for good measure, check out my video review below:

Verdict:

With all the gross-out comedies of late, it’s nice to be able to laugh aloud at a film that doesn’t require a swear jar.

Funny Friday: ‘The Social Network’ Parodies

Funny Friday: Twilight…for guys!

The Hangover Part 2 (Video Review)

Interview: Jonathan Teplitzky, writer/director of BURNING MAN

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 (Video Review)

I suppose one could also expect without much fear of disappointment quite a bit of sexual longing writhing within the shadows of some looming gothic castle. As well as underneath the many layers of clothing worn by the inhabitants of said dark and looming castle, a castle probably growing out of rolling hills of the green and grey English countryside. Jane Eyre does not disappoint on any of those points. In fact, I’d venture to say that any vampire-loving authors out there could take a few tips from Ms Brontë and Mr Fukunaga when it comes to matters of forbidden love between a brooding, tortured man and a virginal, “small and plain” yet strong-willed girl.

We’re introduced to our heroine, the eponymous Jane (Australia’s Mia Wasikowska; Alice in Wonderland), as she races and stumbles through a dark and stormy countryside. Distraught, probably near death, it’s a dynamic (and surprising) opening to the film. It seems indicative then, of the myriad emotions that bubble and squirm underneath the surface – occasionally exploding out – from that point on for Jane. Through flashbacks, we’re told of her Dickensian childhood. She endures physical and emotional abuse at the hands of her father’s family (including Sally Hawkins, not looking nearly as cheerful as she usually does), then at a cold and dark charity school where her best friend dies. Grim, no?

The young Jane grows up and finds work as a governess at Thornfield, and it’s there that she meets Edward Rochester (Michael Fassbender; X-men First Class). It’s also within the walls of Thornfield that things really begin to spice up. I’ve heard that in Brontë’s novel Mr Rochester is described as being no spring chicken, no spring chicken that may have been hit with the ugly stick. I’ll tell you this, Michael Fassbender is neither one of these things. Even if he’s been hit with the opposite of the ugly stick, Fassbender has in spades what it takes to be a Byronic hero. He glowers, he’s alluring in a threatening kind of way, he looms over the tiny Mia Wasikowska. He does “tortured” like no one I’ve seen in a while. The energy he exudes is at once menacing and full of lust; the tension between he and Wasikowska can more often than not be described as palpable, yet never forced.

Speaking of Miss Wasikowska, she manages to find an admirable balance between being a “small and plain” girl, appearing as if she could be snapped in two like a twig, yet also being every bit a strong-willed, virtuous and intelligent heroine of this proto-feminist story. Jane is strong in her convictions, longs for an independent life, and never bends in her morals – even if it means sacrificing something she loves. Wasikowska manages to carry Jane Eyre, playing the eponymous heroine with restraint. That being said, one can see all those emotions, be it anger, pridem sadness or lust, about to crack through her still exterior.

Cary Fukunaga’s adaptation is one that is suitably restrained, with has a vague sense of foreboding, that something might go wrong at any moment. It’s all repressed emotions, sexual longing, self-denial, and Rochester’s dark past and secrets. I don’t know how faithful it is, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t get swept up in the drama and beauty of this particular version. Jane Eyre is elegantly shot, gorgeous to look at (and that’s completely disregarding how good Mr Fassbender looks in period get-up). I will say this though, Fukunaga would be wise to put his skills to use on a horror project. I’m sure the result would be one of the finest of the genre in recent years, such was the suspense built during a number of scenes. I had my scarf up to my cheeks and half-expected a ghoul of some sort to jump out at Jane, a la Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (now that’s a book I have read). Fukunaga’s Jane Eyre has all the ingredients — tortured older man, chaste and feisty heroine, the English countryside, pretty dresses, a love story — of a period drama that one would expect, yet none of the snooze factor many of my friends would argue also comes with it. In fact, it’s really rather exciting, as well as quite moving.

If it’s any indication of my enjoyment of the film, then let it be said that I’ve since bought Jane Eyre in book format.

Australian Box Office 14/8/11: Green Lantern the brightest star

Give ‘Em Hell, Malone (Review)

Australian Box Office 28/8/11: Horrible Bosses relates

Role Models (Review)

Anne Hathaway and Jim Sturgess to spend ‘One Day’ together

But let’s not dwell on the past! Today, I’m here to talk about Steven Quale’s Final Destination 5, a film that boldly distinguishes itself from the four previous outings by containing the number five in the title. Aside from that, you could almost mistake Quale’s instalment for a remake of the original, what with Hunky Teen #304 replacing Hunky Teen #153 as the chap who foresees his own death during a catastrophic event — in this case a bridge collapse — and manages to escape with a few of his similarly-attractive colleagues just before it happens. But Death, being the spiteful bastard that he is, isn’t about to let them off the hook, devising a series of freak “accidents” to kill off the remaining survivors, along with the careers of the actors who portray them.

My snarky tone has probably misled you to believe that I didn’t enjoy Final Destination 5, but that’s not the case. I enjoyed it considerably. Come to think of it, there hasn’t been a movie in the series that I haven’t enjoyed. While I’m not particularly proud of admitting that I source pleasure from such gratuitousness — particularly in its cash-grabbing fifth incarnation — I do take comfort in knowing that I’m not alone. In fact, I’ve come across so many moviegoers who consider the Final Destination movies to be their guilty pleasure, I think it’s about time the status of the series was officially upgraded to just pleasure, minus the guilt.

But until that day comes, we FDFs (Final Destination Fans) must be ready to defend ourselves in the likely event that someone looks down on us for revelling in a movie where a girl is impaled on the mast of a sailboat. That’s why, in defence of the Final Destination series, I have prepared the following points all FDFs should arm themselves with:

1) In the pantheon of horror villains, Final Destination arguably features one of the most terrifying death dealers in cinematic history: Death himself. He isn’t just another axe-wielding lunatic with an uncanny ability to be standing behind you when you’re looking the other way. How cliché! Rather, he’s an inescapable entity that is both nothing and everything; nowhere and everywhere. He could be a knife dangling precariously off the edge of a table, or an air-conditioner leaking onto a severed power chord. He could be neither, instead guised ever so innocuously as a cuddly teddy bear with an unstitched eye. Final Destination doesn’t merely tap into our fear of the unknown; it evokes a fear of the known. It puts into perspective the fragility of human life by demonstrating a simple, chilling truth: the whole world is teeming with things just waiting to kill you.

2) As bleakly macabre as the above sounds, the series has never forgotten its place as entertainment. If it has ever been said that the Final Destination movies are unintentionally hilarious, then it has been said wrong; the hilarity is very much intentional. These films are gloriously (and gorily) self-aware, never to the point where they become complete satires, but certainly to the point where the horror is mitigated by humour. In the previous outing, for example, the explosive climax took place in a cinema playing a 3D thriller, whereas in Final Destination 5, all of the survivors work for a paper company called Presage. Coincidence? Not on your nelly. Then there’s the 3D, which despite being an unnecessary gimmick in most films, is a welcome gimmick here. If anything, it enhances the film’s morbid sense of humour by heightening the gore to such ludicrous levels, laughing is just about the only response that makes any sense.

3) Lastly, and perhaps most crucially, the Final Destination series overcomes one of the genre’s greatest pitfalls: predictability. That’s not to say the five films aren’t predictable, because they are. Very much so. But in an age where nothing is surprising, it’s futile for a horror movie to even attempt to keep its audience in the dark, which is why the Final Destinations don’t even bother. Instead, they embrace inevitability with open arms, clearly pointing out to the viewer the various tools of a character’s demise — the loose screw, the vibrating phone, the dripping candle — long before the characters themselves have any notion of their impending doom. It’s the very opposite of the maddening ‘cat-leaps-out from-nowhere’ scare because you can see it coming from a mile away, yet you’re utterly powerless to stop it. All that’s left to do is tremble on the edge of your seat as you anxiously wait for the inevitable to occur, a wait that the filmmakers tease out for maximum suspense. Ironically enough, it’s the journey, not the destination, that makes these movies so damn fun.

But do the above examples excuse the series from its thin characters, inane dialogue and lack of any real innovation with each sequel? No, I suppose it doesn’t. But then again, we humans are creatures of habit. For instance, I always have my coffee white with one sugar. And that’s not because I’m particularly against trying something different, but because I happen to really enjoy it that way. Likewise, I enjoy the Final Destination formula just the way it is: bloody with no survivors.

The Final Destination 3D (Review)

Australian Box Office 4/9/2011: Horrible Bosses still on top

Australian Box Office 28/8/11: Horrible Bosses relates

New Release Movies: 14/10/10 – The Town, Resident Evil: Afterlife

The City of Your Final Destination (Review)

After a two year absence, Lucy (Sarah Paulson) receives a terrified phone-call from her younger sister Martha (Elizabeth Olsen; Silent House) asking for help. Unconvinced by her feeble claims that she has been living with a boyfriend, Lucy brings Martha back to her summer lake-home, where she and her husband Ted (Hugh Dancy; Adam) try to coax the truth out of the troubled and emotionally fragile young woman. Intertwined with these scenes, flashbacks slowly reveal where Martha has been living for the past two years: as part of a commune/cult led by the enigmatic but violent Patrick (John Hawkes; American Gangster). Haunted by her experiences, Martha’s present behaviour becomes increasingly erratic, as she begins to fear that her past is eventually going to catch up with her.

Although I wouldn’t quite qualify Martha Marcy May Marlene as a thriller, Durkin manages to evoke an incredible sense of menace through his confident filmmaking, realizing his own cleverly structured screenplay to its complete and sinister potential. Long, quiet, beautifully composed takes build feelings of uncertainty and dread, while fluid and absolutely magnificent editing — genuinely some of the best I have ever seen– intentionally blurs the transitions between the two timelines, as we flow in and out of Martha’s escalating memories, dreams and nightmares, often uncertain of what is past and what is present. There is also a twisted cyclicality to the film, as we watch how Martha’s position in the cult slowly evolved from victim to perpetrator. Small lines of dialogue and behaviours occur in one timeline, and then payed off with disturbing effectiveness in the other.

Elizabeth Olsen’s performance is remarkable. Weary, naïve and constantly on edge, there is both an ambiguity and intensity to her work in this film that earmarks her as a serious contender for an Oscar nomination late in the year. The same goes for John Hawkes, who fresh off his captivating work in last year’s Winter’s Bone is creepily charismatic as Patrick, a man who prays psychologically and sexually on weak and impressionable young women; through his character film demonstrates with unsettling clarity how people become drawn into twisted “families” like these, especially when there is such an articulate and magnetic figure at its head.

Expect to hear a lot more about Martha Marcy May Marlene it in the months leading up to awards season. Incredibly well made and impeccably acted, it is an unshakable film that will stay with you long after its final image fades.

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Tom Clift is a web-based film journalist from Melbourne, Australia. Visit his website here: http://reviewsbytom.blogspot.com.

You can read all of Tom Clift’s coverage of MIFF 2011 here.

The Liverpool Goalie (MIFF Mini Review)

The 10 Best Films of 2011

Route Irish (MIFF Review)

Give Up Tomorrow (MIFF Review)

Tiny Furniture (MIFF Review)