Fraggin' Aardvark: Movies & Stuff

The lines between accomplice and informant blur when Boston gangster ‘Whitey’ Bulger (Depp) forms an unlikely alliance with FBI agent and childhood friend John Connolly (Edgerton).

As a ‘true story’ that requires little embellishment the gangster genre is a common target for directors seeking to shoot the next quotable cult classic, but with popularity comes the challenge of turning those pre-existing foundations of violence, character and romanticism into something unique. In this regard Black Mass struggles to find its own voice, adopting already-covered subject matter (Bulger and Connolly were the inspiration for The Departed, which, in itself, was a remake of Internal Affairs) within an overly-familiar setting of murder, corruption and betrayal.

Yet despite this inherent triteness a coarse, brooding pulse beats beneath the surface that - although fails to elevate the film to excellence - does at least elicit a rarer state of grittiness and slow contemplation. A chunk of the credit must go to Depp, who - looking bizarrely more pallid than his extensive catalogue of fictional pale-faced roles - absorbs every insidious element of Bulger from his icy, satanic demeanour to his sudden outbursts of rage - After a string of box-office-sinking performances, Depp delivers his most intense performance in years. And barring a miscast Cumberbatch, the remainder of the cast are equally strong.

There’s thus little more to add; it’s a mature, well-acted Scorcese-esque biopic that is occasionally compelling, but on the flip side teeters on dour and is likely a little too forgettable to ever figure in future discussions of the ‘classics from years past’.

Closing Credits: Christopher Lee

I’ve decided to temporarily resurrect this blog to - at the very least - honour the life and times of Christopher Lee who passed away peacefully last month. Lee is one of the most amazing individuals the world of film has ever seen; not merely for his acting prowess, dedication and indelible screen presence (what man didn’t envy those melodious bass tones?), but also his irrefutable longevity. 

Having been a prolific performer for almost seventy years Lee is a truly rare breed in that he touched multiple generations with his work, from his chilling portrayal of Dracula right up to the menacing Saruman in The Lord of the Rings. What’s perhaps most incredible, however - and unlike many other ageing stars - is that his love, and spirit, for the industry didn’t seem to wane.

Following a horrendous blind date, single parents Jim (Sandler) and Lauren (Barrymore) find themselves reunited in an African resort where a relationship begins to blossom.

It’s become customary to shoot down Adam Sandler films but when he provides the ammo and loads your gun it’s a lot easier to pull the trigger. Blended is even more mundane than most, more bland than blend and once again failing to rekindle the chemistry enjoyed in The Wedding Singer those many moons ago.

The apathetic performances feel phoned-in but it’s the writing that’s most at fault, overlooking wit and satirical observation of modern family life in favour of crass, lazy gags about vaginas, masterbation and other such misplaced nonsense. Not one line evoked a laugh, and if anything I felt insulted by the continual insinuation that Jim’s “tom-boy” daughter could ever be mistaken for a male.

There are occasional moments of warmth that could attract a family audience but the script is so dire that I’m dumbfounded that one, Adam Sandler remains employed and, two, this cliché-ridden film managed to take millions at the box office. Although I concede that one is directly influence by two. The paying cinemagoer has a lot to answer for. 

A linguists professor (Moore) is diagnosed with early on-set Alzheimer’s.

There’s one certainty with films tackling dementia: you’re guaranteed a sad ending, and Still Alice is no different as we witness the tragic erosion of an intelligent mind through the eyes of its tormented victim. This inevitably is both a strong-point and unavoidable flaw: entertainment-wise you’re destined for a harrowing journey yet consequently it feels reassuringly raw; bleak, but never succumbing to the temptation to add light to darkness or portray the disease as anything but an affliction to abhor.

Films of similar foreboding (Amour, Iris) will certainly spring to mind, but so will Memento, Before I Go to Sleep and other eerie tales of identity-loss which introduce technology as a form of modern-day memory aid. Laptops, phones, and iPads are all used to slow the process down, but in the end this is a film about human relations; the family response to the downward spiral and the agony of watching a loved one transform before their eyes. And it’s in these moments when the film can be surprisingly dark.

Regardless, the focus should be on the lead actress, and her performance solidifies another suggested certainty about mental and physical ailments: Oscar gold. But here it’s unquestionably deserved, and recognition of a tremendous outing from Julianne Moore who handles her disabilities with such delicacy, tact and analysis that you develop a new compassion for sufferers of Alzheimer’s, and a better understanding of the devastating effects in play. When a character pleads: “I’d rather have cancer,” it’s tough not be shocked by the anguish and despair. The subject-matter may be gruelling, but the message is worth receiving.

An autistic teenager (Butterfield) is forced to confront his social awkwardness when he earns a spot in the International Mathematics Olympiad.

X+Y is the latest of a recent string of hard-hitting dramas about individuals suffering from mental or physical ailments, yet is perhaps the most lighthearted with its colourful characters and homegrown injection of sardonic wit and awkwardness. For the most part it tootles along at a comfortable pace without risk or danger yet thankfully avoids cliché to deliver some genuine moments of heartbreak and melancholy.

The predictable formula is spared by a quite wonderful cast ranging from Sally Hawkins’ despondent mother to the ever-reliable Eddie Marsan as an annoyingly gung-ho team leader. Meanwhile, Rafe Spall delights as a mordant maths teacher whose rough outer edge conceals a heart of gold. However, it’s young whippersnapper Asa Butterfield who deserves the most acclaim; sometimes a little enthusiastic with his gestures, but mostly convincing as a socially inept adolescent dealing with autism. With no wheelchair bound professor to ape, it’s arguably a tougher challenge.

What elevates this story from banality and maudlinness are the supporting narratives; all characters have their troubles - and varying degrees of autism - so it’s telling when mother and maths teacher indulge in an intimate encounter that’s more awkward than anything an acne-ridden teenager could ever fear. As such, it’s not just about the kid, it’s about everyone failing to deal with their troubles as a whole. The romantic angle falls a little flat and there are few twists and turns, but if you let the performances embrace you then X+Y will equal a rewarding time.

An abandoned dog leads a canine uprising in the streets of Budapest.

An industry trope warns never to work with animals or children, yet Kornél Mundruczó has rebelled on both accounts with a canine-centric drama that is so convincing that you feel inclined to contact the BBFC to check it’s all above board. If conducted ethically and sans CGI then White God is a masterstroke in dog training, producing astonishing visual moments and extraordinary acting from Arizona “mixed-breed” siblings Body and Luke that would overshadow many a human performance.

The message is lucid - if a little heavy-handed - kickstarting with a bovine gutting in an abattoir and gradually introducing a string of unsavoury characters whose prevailing purpose is to hammer home the moral: who’s the real beast… us or them? But it remains a provocative question and one that is passionately conveyed with scenes of abuse and cruelty that are so heinous that a lady wailed uncontrollably on the other side of the aisle.

Although the quiet before the storm ultimately crescendos into a marvellous action-piece of riotous dogs running rampant through the streets of Budapest, I found the idea of calculated revenge-killings hard to swallow and the parallel narrative of Hagen’s former owner a little disjointed. Nevertheless, it’s an astonishing film and one of the few to acquiesce to my closing wish: “Wouldn’t it be great if the film ended right here?”

Following the tragic death of his brother, Hiro (Potter) finds friendship in a medical droid who assists him in the battle against a maniacal masked villain.

Fresh off Disney’s recent acquisition of Marvel Comics comes this effervescent tale of friendship and loss based on the three-issue comic of the same name. Much like Guardians of the Galaxy, Big Hero 6 is a refreshing and surprising addition to the silver screen despite its lack of renown and a welcome alternative for those tiring of the various -man franchises.

Set in the hybrid city of San Fransokyo the animated landscapes are a pleasure to behold: a vibrant and lively metropolis with a rich, colourful palette and oodles of character. But a city is nothing without its inhabitants, and Hiro’s energy and enthusiasm alongside the eccentricities of his fellow science whizzes proves an ideal fit.

The star of the show, however, is undoubtedly Baymax, a surreal cross between the Terminator and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man whose unwavering deadpan delivery and cuddly, caring nature make him an instant hit. His inflatable latex may be impractical for Hiro’s crime-fighting needs but it boasts comic effect as he tries to wedge through tight spaces, Sellotapes puncture wounds (the highlight, without a doubt), and plods through hazardous scenes with stoicism and calm ambivalence, all the while squeaking uncontrollably as if squeezing into a pair of leather pants.

It’s not a perfect film by any means and the endearing relationship between Hiro and Baymax - which is indeed the heart and soul of the film - is hampered by the undeveloped side characters and their subsequent and rushed formation as a superhero unit. Meanwhile the villain feels like a similar afterthought, armed with a few throwaway lines and a weak motive. I would have rejoiced in the focus being entirely on the two key players, but in the second half - and much like the aforementioned leather trousers - they tried to fit too much in.

A deluded Japanese woman (Kikuchi) discovers a hidden copy of the film Fargo which she believes to be a hidden map to buried treasure.

Based on an embellished true story, Kumiko, The Treasure Hunter tells the quixotic tale of a reclusive young Japanese woman who believes the story of the film Fargo to be true because of the infamous “This is a true story” claim that ultimately wasn’t true, yet as she embarks on her steadfast adventure to locate the treasure buried in the movie the lines between reality and fantasy blur for both lead character and audience, meaning we neither know which elements are based on the true story that wasn’t entirely true, nor which scenes within the story based on the story that wasn’t entirely true are being portrayed as true.

And that’s a true story.

In short: it’s somewhat of a mindfuck, but on screen it’s surprisingly lucid as director/actor David Zellner (who guested at last year’s Sundance Shorts Workshop in London) moves at a slow, but purposeful pace while focusing his primary attention on the psychological deterioration of his lead character and her undeterred goal to claim her booty. It’s therefore a very sad depiction of mental illness, obsession and delusion, but one that never feels misplaced or condescending. “Solitude is just fancy loneliness,” affirms one charitable stranger, and it’s this melancholic concept of isolation that simmers uncomfortably throughout the film.

The narrative may be downbeat, but it’s not a wholly depressing journey; en route Kumiko engages in taciturn manner with various characters from her indolent, patriarchal boss to her unseen, berating mother to a kind-hearted, but simple police officer who tries in earnest to assist, and it’s within these encounters where the black comedy - if a little sparsely - lies. All backed up by a tremendous score from The Octopus Project and the gorgeous cinematography of Sean Porter, both of which add a sense of foreboding dread to the downward spiral.

Many will find this film dull, twee or even unenjoyable, but for me it’s a hidden gem elevated by a terrific central performance and a touching message. It’s a tale of two geographical halves that showcases alienation in culturally contrasting locations: be it her bustling, compact hometown of Tokyo or the vast snowy wilderness of Minnesota - her loneliness casts a dark shadow wherever she goes.

I haven't been a fan of Vince Vaughn since... erm... Swingers and the trailer for his upcoming film Unfinished Business doesn't seem to suggest a return to form, but I do appreciate creative ways of marketing a movie and so will gleefully applaud the decision to photoshop the cast into mundane stock office photos.

The relationship of two lesbian lovers (d’Anna, Knudsen) is put to the test as they role-play as submissive servant and dominant mistress.

Those seeking a less mainstream alternative to 50 Shades of Grey will be remiss not to wander into an independent cinema to check this mesmeric love story out. On the surface it’s titillation and kinky fetish but down below lurk ideas of commitment, addiction and sacrifice, all set in an ethereal, parallel single-gender world in which sadomasochism and the intense study of Lepidoptera are not taboo or unusual, but an accepted norm.

Despite the oddities the central dynamic serves as an exaggerated example of the prevailing concern that festers in relationships worldwide; that of fear of loss and the unwavering wish to make a loved one happy by catering for their every need. In this sense it’s surprisingly tender and the superlative, hypnotic performance of Sidse Babett Knudsen delicately showcases the emotional strains of fulfilling a request that’s more lifetime obsession than occasional fantasy. It’s therefore ironic that given her role she’s the one who falls under the spell of control, hidden under a mask and as trapped as the butterflies that sit imprisoned in the neighbouring room.

This isn’t a film that bows to the wider audience; it’s insular, sometimes repetitive and short on action with an insect simile that some may find heavy-handed. And the fact that I can’t recall the ending is potentially a concern. It’s thus admittedly a film that requires a little patience and a rendezvous halfway, but if you’re prepared to make the journey then you’ll be justly rewarded with not only a window into a magical, celestial world, but one that has some fascinating, intellectual and bizarrely familiar ideas to convey.

Teenager Jay (Monroe) is burdened with a curse after sleeping with her boyfriend.

One of the biggest scares is arguably in the opening scene, as a scantily clad teenager in high heels evokes the phrase ‘dated slasher’ as she scampers down a dimly lit suburban street worringly similar to those witnessed in Halloween, but as the electronic score and quirky sound effects kick in it soon emerges that It Follows is more homage than plagiarising cash-in, yet all the while marching to its own unique beat.

The premise recalls The Shining, Ringu, Final Destination and more, yet feels inexplicably original. It has that Lynchian element of being not quite right: timeframes discombobulate with Kindles juxtaposed with retro porn mags and a moviehouse organist, and subtle background movements have you mistrusting your own eyes. The narrative jigsaw is completed gradually allowing you to share in the characters' ignorance and fear while the loosened rope and close shaves encourage the questions: “What would happen if…?” and “How can they escape this curse?” The scares aren't spoonfed; it threatens, suggests, and teases while you deliberate their next move.

The origins or mechanics of how it works are never truly explored, but I don’t think it matters; adding such detail would only ham up and convolute the tale. All we know is that it’s transferred through copulation as if a sexually transmitted disease, thus tapping into sexual anxieties and reminding us that those who engaged in hanky panky during 80’s slashers were destined for a grizzly end.

The final chapter peters out but nevertheless this is intelligent filmmaking that poses questions rather than spell everything out; a bloodless horror that relies on slow-built dread and that nightmarish miscreant: the unstoppable force. Not revolutionary, but certainly a chilling modern masterpiece and a much-needed reminder of the true key elements that make up a scary horror film. And like the demonic assailant, it’s hard to shake off... no matter where you hide.

The Oscars ceremony has been bashed to death by social media so I thought I’d just pen a quick few words on the major categories, the winners, and any snubs.

Best Actor: Eddie Redmayne

I’m regretfully agreeing with this decision; Eddie Redmayne’s performance - impersonation or not - was as convincing a portrayal of a real-life person as you’re going to see, and a committed performance both physically and mentally. If anything I was more disappointed with the nominations, in particular the absence of Ralph Fiennes for his impeccable comedic turn in The Grand Budapest, and also Jake Gyllenhaal’s chilling display in Nightcrawler. But, I guess Oscar darling Bradley Cooper ate more pies. There’s also an argument for Jack O’Connell’s career-making effort in Starred Up, while Tom Hardy in Locke could also have been a dark horse.

Best Actress: Essie Davis (Maybe)

Although Julianne Moore is my favourite actress of recent years I’m going to have to tread carefully here as Still Alice isn’t released in the UK until next week. Instead let’s focus on the glaring omission: Essie Davis. Her psychological decline in The Babadook was both perturbing and compelling, and another example of the inexplicable bias against horror. Sci-fi receives similar treatment, so I wasn’t surprised to see Scarlett Johansson also failing to get under the voter’s skin.

Best Supporting Actor: J.K. Simmons

This was the biggest banker of the night and I can’t see much argument. J.K. Simmons commanded every scene and his mere presence alone was enough to make you jolt up in your seat. With the exception of Ed Norton the opposition seemed rather slim, perhaps suggesting room for Toby Kebbell who played Koba in Dawn of the Planet of the Apes. I can only imagine the skill required to embody a talking primate without it appearing preposterous.

Best Supporting Actress: Patricia Arquette

This category was one of the weakest so I’m not against Patricia Arquette’s triumph. Laura Dern is one of the most underrated performers in film, but her part feels a little too slender, while I’m always going to find it hard to regard the acting prowess of Keira Knightly with such high esteem. I can’t think of alternative contenders barring Jessica Chastain, or maybe Alicia Vikander in Ex Machina.

Best Director: Richard Linklater

This was the toughest and arguably most unpredictable award of the night, but while Alejandro González Iñárritu’s mix of sweeping cameras, percussive jazz and raw performances were the elements of a unique masterpiece I may have been swung by Richard Linklater who revolutionised cinema with a remarkable 12-year project that could easily have gone awry. The achievement still boggles my mind.

Best Picture: Whiplash

Bartender Bob Saginowski (Hardy) becomes the centre of a robbery gone awry and part of an investigation that digs deep into the neighbourhood’s past.

The key to an extraordinary actor is that they can elevate a lacklustre film when handed the lead role, which is what Tom Hardy achieves here in a film burdened by the same brooding pretensions that made Killing Them Softly such a clunky bore. As always Hardy is mesmeric in his intensity; a man of few words yet speaking volumes with the simplest of expressions, but the film, however, is nowhere near as fascinating. Atmospheric, yes, but compelling no.

It’s also rather uneventful, with action only threatened and a finale that somehow feels anti-climatic given the building tension that quietly suffuses the film. This all creates an unfulfilling affair, heavily reliant on the performances with some interesting narrative threads that never quite weave together by the end.

Ageing gay newly weds George (Molina) and Ben (Lithgow) are forced to sell their apartment and live separately when George loses his job in a Catholic music school.

Love is Strange is a quaint and tender love story centred on a relationship type rarely depicted on the big screen, but despite this challenge Lithgow and Molina slip smoothly into their roles and immediately convince as two devoted homosexuals entering into their twilight years. It’s therefore ironic that amid the mainstream hysteria of 50 Shades its here where the connection feels natural; never overcooked or forced, they bicker like an old married couple yet a warm bond simmers between the two.

It’s a little slow-moving with key events occurring off-screen, but this isn’t a film about action; rather privacy, communication and taking opportunity of the moments you share. The premise is a little hard to believe, but beneath the surface lies a charming little film in which love is the hero facing off against the villainous obstacles that can get in the way. Love isn’t that strange, but life certainly is.

Physicist Stephen Hawking (Redmayne) battles motor neurone disease alongside first wife Jane Wilde (Jones).

A biopic romance about an intellect suffering from a pernicious and debilitating disease is the type of depressing yet mawkish film I’d normally avoid, but given the hoopla surrounding the lead performance I felt inclined to check it out. There’s little debate; regardless of the Oscar boxes ticked Eddie Redmayne is so utterly convincing in the role that he blurs the line between character and real life, mimicking Hawking’s subtle movements, nuances and unremitting charm with such meticulous devotion that he’s a justifiable frontrunner for Best Actor. And if there were an award for eye-acting, he’d nab that too.

It is, however, a by-the-numbers account devoid of surprises in which the final chapter is already known. There’s also a sense that it has been moulded for the mainstream with an embellished central relationship pushing the intellectual achievements to the side. In doing so it does at least make a star of Felicity Jones who smartly restrains her performance to effectively convey the inner torment of a lifetime spent as someone’s aide - initially steely and determined, but ladened by a gradual emotional corrosion that parallels her husband’s physical demise.

This is a point-A-to-point-B narrative with few risks taken and only fleeting glances at his academia, break-up, second marriage and - some would argue - selfishness. But while it doesn’t leave much of a lasting impression, the journey between those letters is still worth the ride.