The Lady in the Van

Maggie Smith's face deserves an Oscar. More specifically, her vast array of contorted and puckered facial expressions deserve an Oscar. Downton Abbey appearances have consolidated her popularity for acerbic put-downs and withering one-liners and her latest film, The Lady in the Van, will only cement her position as a national treasure.

The Lady in the Van started off life as an Alan Bennett memoir, based on the (mostly) true story of his encounter with a certain Miss Shepherd, an old and cantankerous lady who parked her van “temporarily” on his London driveway and then proceeded to stay there for 15 years. Later came a stage adaptation – in which Maggie Smith also played Miss Shepherd – and now a film, directed by Nicholas Hytner. Anyone who is a fan of Alan Bennett is bound to enjoy this snug adaptation, saturated as it is with his recognisable style of humour and observations on human nature.

On the surface, Nicholas Hytner's film is a fairly safe and warm-hearted affair, held together by Smith's domineering performance. No other actress could have taken on the role of Miss Shepherd, a woman with a mysterious past and a love of yellow paint and the Blessed Virgin Mary - “I've had guidance”, she says when asked why she's moved her van on to double yellows. Of course, her well-to-do neighbours are not overly pleased when she decides to park up in Gloucester Crescent, terrorising the young children for holding a concert in the street and lambasting social workers for bringing her second-hand coats: “green is not my colour!”. She is eccentric, rude, bigoted and unhygienic in equal measure. And yet, she's all-the-more loveable for it.

Credit goes to Smith, of course, but Alex Jennings as the exasperated Alan Bennett also offers plenty of laughs. The screenplay's inventive use of “two” Alan Bennetts on-screen – the writer and the person – allows for the author's internal monologues to shine through and explores more poignant themes of loss and old age. The film's supporting cast reads like a who's-who of Alan Bennett and Nicholas Hytner's past creative partnerships: James Corden, Russell Tovey, Dominic Cooper, Sacha Dhawan, Stephen Campbell Moore and Frances de la Tour all starred in 2006's The History Boys and pop up again in The Lady in the Van.

The appearance of these actors hints at one of the film's weaknesses: at times, it feels a little too self-congratulatory and entrenched in Alan Bennett's world. Whilst it is true that much of the comedy is funny and the character of Miss Shepherd is perfect, it often felt as though there was no real spark to lift the whole thing up a level. In other words, it will do little to win over those who aren't a fan of Alan Bennett's work.

Maggie Smith's twinkle in her eye and fierce performance is enough of a reason to see The Lady in the Van. It is a comfortable film which balances eccentricity with telling insights into human nature and compassion. The main problem is its self-indulgence which threatens to undermine many of the funnier jokes and sequences. That said, Maggie Smith is fantastic. Have I already said that?!

Clapperboard Rating: * * *

Brooklyn

This review was first published in The Student Pocket Guide

As career beginnings go, Saoirse Ronan has done pretty well. The Irish-American actress counts the likes of Keira Knightley, Wes Anderson, Cate Blanchett and Peter Jackson as colleagues, and her performance as Briony Tallis in 2007's Atonement earned her an Oscar nomination. Not bad for a 21 year-old. Her latest film, Brooklyn, is emblematic of this much-deserved success.

Deftly adapted by Nick Hornby from the novel by Colm Tóibín, Brooklyn is a heart-warming – and heart-breaking – drama starring Saoirse Ronan as small-town, and rather unremarkable, Irish girl Eilis Lacey, who emigrates to New York in the early 1950s in search of better job prospects and a more fulfilling existence. Leaving behind her much-loved mother (played by Jane Brennan) and sister (Fiona Glascott), Eilis embarks on the (rather fraught) trip across the Atlantic which has been organised by Jim Broadbent's benevolent priest, who acts as a comfort when the inevitable homesickness kicks in.

Her new life in Brooklyn is both alien and overwhelming, and Eilis struggles to shake off thoughts of home. A job in an up-market department store does little to bolster her spirits and even Julie Walters on top form as Eilis' landlady seems unable to cure her longing for home. That is, until Eilis meets an Italian New Yorker at an Irish dance and her whole outlook changes. Emory Cohen plays the sweet Italian plumber, and plays him with such a naturalistic style that the pair's subsequent romance is utterly convincing. But, just as the audience have dried their eyes after Eilis' initial departure, tragedy strikes back in Ireland and Eilis must briefly return to her old life.

On arriving back, she meets Jim Farrell and finds herself experiencing the life, and love, she could have enjoyed, had she stayed in Ireland. The tensions here between family loyalty and personal happiness and notions of belonging and home will strike a chord with many, and the film's essential question boils down to whether Eilis will stay in Ireland or return to New York. Under a lesser director, this emotionally-charged, but fairly predictable, subject matter could have spilled over into saccharine cliché, but director John Crowley allows the plot to mature and unfurl in its own time, developing characters who really seem to matter to the audience.

Crowley's direction is restrained and understated, but all the more affecting for it. A scene early in Eilis' Brooklyn life sees her help out at a church-organised dinner for the Irish elderly – men who helped to build the bridges and tunnels of the New York metropolis. One of the men gets up and sings a traditional Irish song, evoking memories for Eilis of home. It is a moment which could easily have had the audience sticking their fingers down their throats, but the film's perceptive dialogue, engaging characters and fantastic performances unite to make it very moving.

On the subject of performances, Saoirse Ronan really is the lynchpin of the film, captivating the camera with her electric-blue eyes as it focusses on her in tight close up, capturing her transformation from a rather uninspiring girl to a confident young woman. The portrayal of a woman stuck between two worlds – the old and the new; America and Ireland; opportunity and missed opportunity – is handled beautifully by Ronan. Visually, the film is a treat and the production design for the 1950s hair, clothes and scenery is wonderfully rich.

In narrative terms, Brooklyn is hardly revolutionary, but the sum of its parts adds up to be much more than a simple tale of new beginnings. It would be almost impossible to drown Saoirse Ronan in superlatives: she is sensational. The drama envelops the audience totally and affectingly, and is often as funny as it is poignant. Oh, and in case you're wondering, it's pronounced “ Sur-shah”. And “Ay-lish”. You're welcome.

Clapperboard Rating: * * * *

Spectre

Under the steady and assured hand of Daniel Craig, James Bond has arrived in the twenty-first century. Any franchise with 24 films under its belt will inevitably have its ups and downs, but Bond pre-Craig frequently fell into cliché and mediocrity. That is not to dismiss Pierce Brosnan's efforts, but his was a 007 who wrestled far too much against poor scripting and predictable plotting; too many gags and not enough gravity to proceedings.

With Brosnan gone and a suave, blonde Shrek in his place, the Bond films have, if not reinvented, reinvigorated Ian Fleming's creation, balancing style with substance, stunning action and a relevance to today's world. Spectre condenses the best elements of Craig's previous outings as Bond and cements him as one of the franchise's best.

Spectre picks up from events in Skyfall and the supporting cast make a welcome return. Naomie Harris strikes a thoroughly-modern Moneypenny, Ben Whishaw stresses and quips as technology guru Q and Ralph Fiennes, taking over from Judi Dench as M, tries – in vain – to rein in Bond. 007's errant behaviour is not M's only concern, however, as Max Denbigh (played by Andrew Scott), the new head of the Centre of National Security, attempts to close the 00 programme for good.

As usual, such Whitehall politics are not Bond's primary concern: he's on the trail of the mysterious organisation known as SPECTRE. With Q and Moneypenny's help, the trail leads Bond to Dr Madeleine Swann (Léa Seydoux), who might hold the key to untangling SPECTRE. But, as he heads closer to the truth, Bond discovers that the organisation's head is uncomfortably familiar.

Following on from his successes with Skyfall, director Sam Mendes has again created a weighty, beautifully-crafted film. The opening continuous tracking shot, which weaves in amongst a Day of the Dead parade in Mexico City, is a captivating preface to a brilliant (if absurd) helicopter action sequence, which sees 007 literally beating up the pilot as the chopper does barrel rolls metres above the parade crowds. Not the most believable of scenes (and a later encounter sees Bond trying to control a plane with its wings sheared off) but, hey, who goes to see a James Bond film for a sense of reality?

That said, the script's themes – cyber-security and surveillance – do feel very current. “You're a kite dancing in a hurricane, Mr Bond”, Jesper Christensen (as Mr White) chillingly whispers. That hurricane takes the form of a whirlwind of data, electronic espionage and double-crossings. Daniel Craig approaches all of this with his usual mixture of refinement and physical prowess: if nothing else, the man knows how to wear a suit. Christoph Waltz is great as 007's adversary, playing a technology-loving villain that could only work within a Bond film.

The film is, tonally, perhaps not as dark as some of the trailers would have you believe, but it satisfyingly nods to the raised eyebrow humour of earlier films: as Bond escapes a collapsing building, he lands on a conveniently-located sofa, readjusting his tie as he does so. Later on, he is rather riled when a new Aston Martin is given to 009 rather than to him, and effectively steals it, leaving Q a bottle of champagne in its place. This is a playful – and immensely stylish – Bond. This confident sense of effortless style extends to the Bond girls, the mantle this time passed to Monica Bellucci and Léa Seydoux. As the enigmatic (and oldest ever!) Bond girl, Bellucci smoulders on-screen, in contrast to Seydoux's more churlish but equally beguiling Dr Swann.

Even at its 148 minutes running time, the film never drags and its resolution, whilst not a great coup in the 007 formula, is satisfying. Linked to the subject of endings, Sam Smith's rather derided theme, really does work in the film's opening titles, with its soaring orchestration and melancholy timbre. Screenwriters John Logan, Neal Purvis, Robert Wade and Jez Butterworth have done a great job of fitting the film into the Daniel Craig canon, by placing SPECTRE at the centre of all of the previous three films.

Spectre oozes sophistication and action, and the unique elements which make a Bond film coalesce in an engaging and hugely enjoyable manner are crafted with love and enthusiasm. If Spectre is Craig's last Bond (and it could well be), then he will left the franchise in ruder health than ever.

Clapperboard Rating: * * * * *

The Martian

This review was first published in The Student Pocket Guide
 

If we’ve learnt one thing from science fiction films, it’s that space travel never goes smoothly. Ever. Space adventures such as Apollo 13, Moon, Prometheus, Interstellar or Gravity certainly won’t be used in the promotional trailers for Richard Branson’s Virgin Galactic spaceline. But even if we’ve heard the words “Houston, we have a problem” a thousand times before on-screen, there’s something about man pitting himself against the incomprehensible vastness of the universe that keeps us coming back to the cinema for more (albeit with our feet safely planted on terrafirma).

And so it is with The Martian, a film as derivative as they come but with a glint in its eye and a captivating central performance which suggests that maybe, just maybe, experiencing the wonders of space might not be such a bad thing after all.

Matt Damon plays Mark Watney, an astronaut and botanist who is presumed dead after a manned mission to Mars goes wrong and a huge storm cuts him off from the rest of his crew. Faced with the realisation that he has no immediate way of contacting Earth and that help, if it comes, is three years away, Watney must survive on a planet which wants to kill him. The film, directed by Ridley Scott, is based on Andy Weir’s self-published book – an internet hit which, although a work of sci-fi, very much emphasised the science side of things.

One of Watney’s most immediate concerns is how to grow potatoes on a planet devoid of nutrients or water (it’s more compelling than it sounds, trust me). In his own words, he has to work out how to “science the shit” out of his predicament. Back on Earth, meanwhile, the initial elation on discovering that Watney is still alive soon turns to one massive techie headache: how can mission control possibly rescue him in time, before his meagre supplies run out? Finding solutions to the problem falls to NASA’s top brass, played by an impressive, if underused, cast including Jeff Daniels, Sean Bean, Chiwetel Ejiofor and Kristen Wiig.

Perhaps the most surprising element of the film is just how funny it is. After initially resigning himself to the fact that he’s going to die on Mars, Watney gives it his best shot to beat the red planet, approaching his task with a healthy dose of sarcasm and wit: “in your face Neil Armstrong!” he exclaims, after a small victory. This humour is reflected in scenes back on Earth, where jokes revolve around Lord of the Rings references: a refreshing change from the screenplay of Ridley Scott’s earlier film Prometheus, which seemed unable to go two pages without having protracted and contrived existential discussions on God and humanity. In contrast, The Martian is much more light-hearted and all-the-more enjoyable for it. When was the last time you watched a sci-fi film with a soundtrack from Abba?!

Jessica Chastain as the mission commander (with an unhealthy taste in disco music) is as brilliant as ever and Matt Damon, who has never had an issue about connecting with audiences, proves to be an endearing and magnetic protagonist. The success of the film is afforded, in a large part, by his screen presence and the ability to carry an audience with him through the film’s slightly-too-long 141 minutes. That said, the action never really drags, the nerdy banter stays fresh and the film’s denouement channels elements of Gravity to create a gripping conclusion to Watney’s ordeal.

The Martian is a welcome return to form for Ridley Scott and strikes the right balance between entertainment whilst touching on the serious issues of the human spirit and our place in the universe. The film’s script provides the solid backbone for a film which, whilst treading a well-worn path, manages to remain engaging and smart. It’s a lot of fun and will enlighten you on the life-saving properties of gaffer tape. If that isn’t a reason to see a film, I don’t know what is.

Clapperboard Rating: * * * *

A Walk In The Woods

This review was first published in The Student Pocket Guide

Grab your boots! We’re off on the walking trip of a lifetime! A Walk In The Woods is an adaptation of Bill Bryson’s travel memoir of the same name, which recounted his attempt to walk the 2,200 mile Appalachian Trail with his long-lost friend Stephen Katz. Miles of breathtaking scenery, top banter and new experiences galore makes for a great book but, unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the film.

Flying in the face of warnings that such a long hiking trip is madness (not least from his wife, played by the ever-wonderful Emma Thompson), Bill Bryson (Robert Redford) sets out on one last big adventure to find peace and tranquility. The only trouble is, his walking partner Katz (a ruddy-faced Nick Nolte) has a rather different idea of what the hike will offer, namely an escape from unpaid debts and potential prison time.

The genesis of a screen adaptation of A Walk In The Woods has been a long one, and one which has been overseen by Redford for some ten years. Redford hoped to bring Paul Newman on board but Newman’s death in 2008 stalled the project. When Nick Nolte took on the role of Stephen Katz, who is as cantankerous as any walking partner could be, the book’s long hike into cinemas was nearly complete.

Opening with Bill Bryson giving a TV interview in which he can’t seem to get a word in edgeways, the film paints Bryson as a restless and discontented writer whose literary success and countless awards count for little. In order for him to be happy in retirement, a new adventure of self-reflection is needed. In reality, Bryson was in his 40s when he walked the trail, slightly different from Redford who will be celebrating his 80^th birthday next year. This fact defines the film, which is stuffed full with geriatric jokes and laughs which revolve around Nolte and Redford’s longing for the good old days.

Anyone who has read Bill Bryson’s humorous and effortless prose will be ultimately disappointed with Ken Kwapis’ film. Glimpses of Bryson’s writing struggle through the screenplay which, unfortunately, is riddled with clichés and pedestrian dialogue. This is not to say that proceedings are devoid of any laughs, and occasional one-liners elicit a few chuckles. Nolte’s performance as Bryson’s washed-up companion also raises a few smiles but his gruff tones and bickering with Redford all seem a bit uninspired and unremarkable.

As the pair trudge through beautiful scenery (shot with a quasi-travel documentary edge), encounter bears and constantly bemoan their advanced age, their journey of self-reflection and redemption is pleasant enough to watch but one can’t help feeling that the whole thing is rather inconsequential. A thread of sentimentality runs throughout the film but, at times, borders on the ridiculous, especially when we see our protagonists in their sleeping bags staring up at the stars and pondering on opportunities missed and the futility of their lives.

On an overall level, A Walk In The Woods feels as if a tired and weary Kwapis made it the day after finishing the Appalachian Trail himself: the energy of Bryson’s writing is lost and the film’s lethargic pace threatens to smother the rather enjoyable comedic tone of the film. In essence, it’s less of a walk, and more of a slog through the woods.

Clapperboard Rating: * *

The Man From U.N.C.L.E.

This review was first published in The Student Pocket Guide

Guy Ritchie's The Man From U.N.C.L.E is nothing if not stylish. Indeed, it is so achingly sleek in its escapist portrayal of Cold War Europe that you'd be forgiven for thinking that the biggest threat to the West came in the form of an untailored suit.

The Man From U.N.C.L.E. is a reboot of the hit 1960s American TV show which paired CIA agent Napoleon Solo with KGB spy Illya Kuryakin to form an unlikely counter espionage duo, set on fighting a sinister organisation with world dominance in its sights. This big screen version offers much of the excitement and camaraderie of the original but Guy Ritchie's film seems to focus a little too much on the glitz and the glamour of international espionage to let a well-paced and, importantly, meaningful plot emerge from underneath the 1960s elegance.

Henry Cavill, of Superman fame, takes on the role of Napoleon Solo, the wise-cracking and self-assured CIA agent whom we first meet on the East side of the Berlin Wall, attempting to smuggle out a German car mechanic called Gaby (played by the wonderful Alicia Vikander). Gaby's father is a scientist under the employ of Alexander and Victoria Vinciguerra, a wealthy and Nazi-admiring couple who are intent on building their own nuclear bomb. On the orders of Solo's superiors, Gaby and Solo team up, together with the KGB's finest agent, Illya Kuryakin (Armie Hammer) in order to defeat the Vinciguerras and prevent World War Three.

Much of the enjoyment to be gleaned from these proceedings lies with two main factors. Firstly, every frame of the film looks as though it has been lifted from the pages of Vogue. Much of the action takes place in the sumptuous locations and hotels of Rome and transports the audience into a bygone world which, although beautiful, never truly existed. Secondly, the film has a nice vein of humour running throughout, exemplified in the opening scene which may well feature this year's most pedestrian, yet entertaining, car chase.

Henry Cavill wears a three-piece suit with supreme confidence and a hint of arrogance, giving the impression that Napoleon Solo would be just as at home on the catwalk as he would be breaking into a nuclear bunker. Solo's quips and daredevil attitude play in amusing counterpoint to Armie Hammer's more stiff and disciplined Soviet spy. Such contrasting characters makes them an entertaining duo to watch as they trade one-liners whilst saving the world, all the while keeping an eye on where the other's gun is pointing.

Alicia Vikander's character is equally as two-edged, quickly shedding her mechanics overalls in favour of Swinging Sixties dresses, cocktails and sunglasses, whilst holding her own opposite her male colleagues. Solo's nemesis takes the fashionable form of Victoria Vinciguerra, Italian high-society's answer to a fascist-sympathising Anna Wintour, played here by Elizabeth Debicki.

Debicki clear revels in the villainous role, dominating Cavill and taking great delight in her apocalyptic plans. It is a cast as athletically dapper as it is deadly and Ritchie takes great care in shooting the film with a nostalgic sensibility. Every scene glows with cinematography aimed at showing the world of U.N.C.L.E in all its unashamed opulence.

It is, unfortunately, this veneer of beautiful sophistication which defines and, in turn, undermines the film. The film's plot never really seems to matter; the stakes for which Solo is playing never rise above the superficial. The action is rather uneven and, whilst there are a number of thrilling set-pieces (including a visceral three-way chase in the film's third act), the interplay between exposition and action never really works.

The Man From U.N.C.L.E seems to have been cut in the workshops of Savile Row, favouring style over substance and emphasising beauty over pacing. As a piece of escapist viewing, it works and its slightly tongue-in-cheek tone is engaging. But in the end, no number of beautiful dresses or crisp white shirts can hide the superficiality of it all.

Clapperboard Rating: * * *

Paper Towns

This review was first published in The Student Pocket Guide

In recent years, we have seen the emergence of a literary genre which has garnered as many critics as it has fans. Young-adult fiction (or YA, as it is also known) has proved to be very popular amongst its target demographic, focusing as it does on teenage angst, emotion and adversity. Such novels translate well to film and last year's The Fault in Our Stars – based on the YA book of the same name by John Green – was well-received by audiences and critics alike. And now the latest John Green novel to receive the big screen treatment, Paper Towns, is set to hit cinemas.

Paper Towns is notable for being the first film to star Cara Delevingne, the supermodel most famous for those eyebrows. Delevingne plays Margo, a free-spirited and enigmatic girl who captured the heart of Quentin (Nat Wolff) when the pair were growing up opposite the street from one another. Quentin's rather unadventurous childhood was at odds with Margo's more wild and complex early years and their initial friendship fizzles out. Fast-forward to the last days of high school and Quentin remains infatuated, just as the rest of the school is, with the mystery and beauty of Margo.

One night, Margo appears at Quentin's bedroom window and convinces him to join her in a series of pranks to take revenge on her ex-boyfriend and best friend. Letting down his guard, Quentin joins her and finds his sense of youthful abandon and fun. The next morning, however, Margo has gone (her parents are not worried - “she is 18, after all”) and Quentin is left wondering what, if anything, the previous night meant for their relationship. Then, in a rather strange plot device, Quentin discovers a series of clues left behind by Margo which he follows, together with his friends, to try and find Margo and confess his love.

This rather contrived plot drives a film which is part coming of age drama, part comedy, part mystery and part road trip and which speaks to its target audience with an affecting sincerity. The central relationship between Margo and Quentin is as frustrating as it is intriguing and the film brilliantly captures the immediacy and potency of adolescent feelings and relationships.

Shot with a vibrant edge, there are many moving moments peppered throughout the film. An early scene sees Margo and Quentin dancing atop a skyscraper, hinting at the intimacy for which Quentin longs. His lack of confidence, when placed opposite the self-assurance of Margo, is plain to see. Scenes such as these speak of the struggle between image and reality which often troubles teenagers: to the rest of the school Margo is the outgoing and popular girl, beautiful and bold enough to hang with the jocks. Underneath, however, she struggles to find an identity in, as she sees it, the blandness of suburban Orlando.

Perhaps as a result of her modelling career, Cara Delevingne is magnetic, enchanting the camera with an ambiguous and confident performance. Indeed, scenes without her (which make up much of the, rather weak, middle of the film) seem slightly dull in comparison and her acting career looks to be very promising. That is not to say that the other performances are inert. Nat Wolff manages to keep the audience on-side and some of his final sequences are charged with convincing emotion. The banter with his two best buddies (played by Justice Smith and Austin Abrams) is well-written and frequently funny. Paper Towns nears its zenith during the road trip to find Margo, mixing laughs, good tunes and blossoming relationships with assured and believable acting.

But Paper Towns' greatest feature is its ending which captures the essence of adolescent years. Quentin's love for Margo seems to him to be, at the time, the most intoxicating and important thing in the world. In reality, theirs is a relationship built within the messy, intense, chaotic and confused lives of teenagers. The film's ending is refreshing in its rejection of the idealistic and romanticised plots of other teen movies, challenging the audience whilst retaining a sense of youthful optimism.

Paper Towns is uneven and its plot is rather implausible, but its characters are relatable and the film has something definite to say on growing up and the meaning of adolescent relationships. Haters gonna hate, but young-adult fiction certainly has a deserved place in our cinemas.

Clapperboard Rating: * * *

Mission: Impossible - Rogue Nation

In recent years, spying in Hollywood has been dominated by three main franchises: Bond, Bourne and Mission: Impossible. Two have unmistakable theme tunes and the other is noted for its gritty realism, at odds with many action blockbusters which have increasingly depended on computer special effects. No one, however, could accuse Mission:Impossible – Rogue Nation of an over-reliance on CGI. It is a film which opens with Tom Cruise literally hanging on for dear life to the side of an aeroplane as it takes off. Not bad for a 53-year-old.

The fifth outing for Ethan Hunt (Cruise) and his fellow IMF operatives sees CIA Director Hunley (Alec Baldwin) attempt to shut down the IMF as a result of its rather erratic and destructive activities, as seen in the previous film. It soon becomes clear, however, that the CIA is not the only threat to the IMF's existence when the shadowy terrorist organisation known as The Syndicate, led by the rather creepy Solomon Lane (Sean Harris), attempts to wreak havoc.

These are the bare bones of a plot which strings together a series of action sequences (some rip-roaringly outrageous, some less so) and, whilst the action jumps around the globe, the threat from The Syndicate feels anything but global. Not that such set pieces are ineffective: indeed, the film is at its best when it throws itself fully into the absurdity and unashamed implausibility of Hunt et al's escapades. The stakes, however, are never raised high enough for any of it to much matter.

Tom Cruise's enthusiasm and sheer star power is evident and, supported by Simon Pegg as IMF tech wizard Benji and Rebecca Ferguson as British (is that double?) agent Isla Faust, he remains a compelling action hero. Cruise's insistence on doing his own stunts (which necessarily demands that his fellow actors do so as well) landed him with six injuries during the course of filming and it wouldn't be surprising if the vast majority of the film's investment from Alibaba Pictures (part of the Chinese e-commerce group Alibaba) went on paying for the cast's insurance premiums.

The M:I franchise has benefited from a different director for each film, imbuing each with a unique tone and identity. Brian De Palma, John Woo, J. J. Abrams and Brad Bird have each directed an instalment and Rogue Nation is helmed by Christopher McQuarrie, whose previous credits as a screenwriter include The Usual Suspects, Valkyrie and Edge of Tomorrow. In the director's seat, however, McQuarrie is overwhelmed by Cruise and the whole film feels like a wild theme park dedicated to Cruise's attempts to kill himself.

Slightly silly, you might think, to be expecting auteurism from a M:I film, but in the absence of any genre originality in the film's plotting, a stronger directorial style would have lifted the film. This is not to say that Rogue Nation falls flat. Within the first thirty minutes, the action zips around the globe from Casablanca to Vienna, Cuba to Paris, and would have surely boosted Ethan Hunt's frequent flyer points no end. A rather Hitchcockian sequence at the Austrian opera (complete with bullets timed to fire when the opera singer hits the high note) and the prerequisite Cruise-on-a-motorbike scene are enjoyable, even if we have seen them all before.

Despite some slightly questionable dialogue – “he is the living manifestation of destiny” – the script is a lively and often humorous affair, especially when Simon Pegg flexes his comedic muscle (although he is notably less goofy than in previous films). Sean Harris as the head of The Syndicate makes for a rather unsettling villain, rasping and twitching his way through stealing USB drives and causing chaos for Hunt and crew.

Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation is an enjoyable spectacle but the excitement diffuses well before you reach the cinema exit. It lacks the combination of spectacular gadgetry and truly original stunts which characterised earlier films and which sets the series apart from the likes of Bond and Bourne. As summer blockbusters go, you could do a lot worse. But that's hardly a ringing endorsement, is it?

Clapperboard Rating: * * * 

This review was first published in The Student Pocket Guide 

Magic Mike XXL

Perhaps the first thing to say about Magic Mike XXL is that it's a full five inches...I mean minutes...longer than the first film. But rather than this meaning five more minutes of an engaging plot, an interesting commentary on the nature of modern masculinity, and well-developed characters – just as we had in the original film – Magic Mike XXL goes to prove that bigger doesn't always mean better.

2012's Magic Mike was as surprising as it was sexually charged. Steven Soderbergh's film was primarily a drama which just happened to involve male strippers and there was plenty aside from the nakedness to keep the audience involved with the characters. But with Gregory Jacobs, the first film's assistant director, taking over from Soderbergh in the directing chair, Mike and his gang of male entertainers have lost the plot. Quite literally.

The central problem with XXL is that it has virtually no plot. This was of course, rather predictable, as the sole reason for the film's commissioning was to cash in on those female dollars. Not that there is anything inherently wrong with this, but a trace of narrative integrity would have been nice. The bare bones of the plot, if I can call it that, see Mike (Channing Tatum) being tempted back to his former profession, hitting the road with the Kings of Tampa on their way to a stripping convention for one last blow-out performance. Along the way, there's plenty of banter, abs and conversations about how Big Dick Richie (Joe Manganiello) got his name.

Aside from this plot which is as thick as a sheer dress, the film is punctuated with several stripping performances, ranging from a rather random sequence in a country mansion strip club, to Manganiello undressing in a service station and a bizarre encounter with a group of cougars, headed by Andie MacDowell. There is no doubt that the dancing sequences are well choreographed and nicely shot (Soderbergh is, once again, cinematographer) and the cast certainly throw themselves head-first into the fun. But with anaemic dialogue and a lack of believable characters with which the audience can empathise, the film gyrates from one performance to another with no clear narrative trajectory or coherence.

Whereas the first film managed to explore the conflict between the on-stage and off-stage lives of its characters and the impact of drugs and money on friendship, XXL is tonally confused and the film doesn't seem to know if it's a comedy, a drama or simply an extended music video. Some would argue that none of this matters and that the film is a pure a piece of disposable entertainment. Whilst there is an element of truth to this, a script which was a little less focused on making money and more focused on striking a balance between the fun of the stripping and the predicaments of the characters themselves would have been welcome.

I've got a lot of respect for Channing Tatum (not just for the hours he obviously puts in at the gym) and he is one of Hollywood's men of the moment. From a technical perspective, he is a superb dancer and his physical energy on-screen is infectious. Tatum's acting and emotional range has increased enormously in recent years and he is has a very relatable, natural screen presence. There are glimpses of this in XXL but these are, unfortunately, smothered by the cringe-worthy dialogue and polished dance routines.

Magic Mike XXL is focused entirely on giving women what they want or, more accurately, what it thinks that they want. Yes, the oiled chests, bulging posing pouches and winks from Mr Tatum are satisfying and yes, the film will take a shed load of money because of it. But as a vehicle for such antics, the film is devoid of any merit. I'm aware that I've referred a lot to the original movie in this review, a film I gave 3 stars back in 2012. In comparison to XXL, the first film is a masterpiece. Now, I'm off to the gym...

Clapperboard Rating: * 

Amy

It's a scene synonymous with modern celebrity culture. A paparazzi mob briefly parts and a young and dazed woman staggers through the suffocating mass of camera flashes. That woman is Amy Winehouse – famous for her incredible vocal talents and her untimely, sad demise. Deeply uncomfortable for anyone watching Amy, the footage is emblematic of a life lived – and lost – in front of intense media and public attention.

Asif Kapadia is a maestro of the documentary genre and Amy is a master-class in the art of editing. Having collated a wide range of archival footage, from family home videos to mobile phone clips and official television programmes, Kapadia and editor Chris King have managed to construct a compelling and coherent narrative which tells of Amy's rise to meteoric stardom and the pressures encountered by a woman for whom fame and commercial success were unwanted by-products of her love for creating jazz music. In one sequence, a young Amy says that she wouldn't handle fame well, suggesting that it might be the death of her. The ultimate tragedy is that she went on to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Early on in the film, we discover that Amy doesn't consider herself to be a songwriter, although she does “write poetry”. And it is this poetry on which Kapadia chooses to focus, displaying the lyrics from Amy's songs on-screen and using them to construct a narrative in conjunction with voice-overs from those who knew and worked with the star (there are no talking heads here to distract from the immersion in the archival footage). Whilst there is an element of contrivance in using her lyrics to create and reflect the film's narrative, it is nonetheless a very successful way of threading together otherwise disparate source material.

This brilliant editing is coupled with the film's non-judgemental, but resolute and unflinching approach to the events in Amy's life: events as dramatic as they are sad to watch. The media circus which enveloped Amy is explored, as is her troubled relationship with Blake Fielder and the role that her father played in her later years. The audience is left to draw their own conclusions and Kapadia carefully intertwines the archive footage with the interviews and song lyrics to create a bold, heartbreaking film.

Early scenes of Amy's successes give a glimpse of a girl with a talent far beyond her years and her lack of confidence during an Abbey Road recording session with Tony Bennett is touching. Towards the end of the film, she finds out that she has won a Grammy award, but her surprise is soon tempered by the sadness that her relationship with drugs has left her life empty and unfulfilling. Moments such as these look staged, as if written by a screenwriter. It is Amy's ultimate tragedy that this was, in fact, real life.

Amy is a powerful and desperately sad film. Amy Winehouse's unique talent catapulted her into a world where, for the most part, she felt uncomfortable and lost. She was arguably surrounded by the wrong people at the wrong time and faced debilitating media scrutiny. Kapadia's film is an impressive and affecting piece of work and documents the very best – and worst – of a girl who had nothing if not an astounding set of lungs.

Clapperboard Rating: * * * *

Minions

They say you can never have too much of a good thing – a true motto, if the third film in the Despicable Me franchise is anything to go by. Those little guys in yellow who have an obsession with bananas and all things evil are back with a film to call their own, having delighted audiences as Gru's henchmen in the previous Despicable Me films. With more slapstick gags, cute smiles and nonsensical conversation than you could shake...well, a banana at, Minions is a fun and satisfyingly silly affair.

Minions acts as a prequel to the events of the first two films, charting the rise of the minions from the primordial soup and their affiliations with the bad guys of history, long before meeting Gru. No sooner as the minions enter the service of a villain, however, they prove to be the undoing of their master. From tyrannical Egyptians to Count Dracula, the minions always seem to find a way to accidentally cause their downfall. When the minions lose the battle of Waterloo for Napoleon, they are sent into exile and it is there that these happy-go-lucky yellow chaps get rather depressed at the prospect of not serving a criminal mastermind. But one minion called Kevin has an idea to venture back out into the world and, along with his fellow minions Bob and Stuart, seek out a new evil master.

The trio's quest takes them to London in the 1960s and into the service of super-villain Scarlet Overkill (voiced by Sandra Bullock) who has a plan to steal the Queen's crown and overthrow England. And here we have the bones of a plot which is, sadly, rather underdeveloped and which clearly plays to a younger audience than the first Despicable Me films.

The villains don't feel as dynamic or inventive as in the minions' previous outings and whilst there are some witty observations on British society (the British are far too polite to complain about being overthrown by a criminal mastermind), such comic detail never rivals the kind of jokes seen in films from, for example, Aardman Animations. Nevertheless, the film makers have approached the premise of Minions with an energy and enthusiasm which has to be admired, and there's plenty to keep both kids and big kids entertained.

If you think about it, on paper, Minions was always going to be tricky to pull off. The film's protagonists speak in 99% gibberish with the odd recognisable word thrown in (“banana!”) and to create an engaging and, importantly, funny script was always going to be a challenge. Despite this, the emphasis on visual gags, the loveable nature of the minion hordes and the interactions between Kevin, Stuart and Bob keep the film afloat.

Aside from director Pierre Coffin providing the voices for all 899 minions (imagine how many helium balloons he got through), the film features the stellar vocal talent of Sandra Bullock, Jon Hamm, Steve Coogan, Jennifer Saunders, Geoffrey Rush, Allison Janney, Michael Keaton and, of course, Steve Carell.

Minions will delight fans of the goggled yellow people and it feels like a film which is worthy of their crazy, and often hilarious, antics. It's nothing ground-breaking and it is slightly let down by its plot but it would be very difficult to leave the cinema without wanting to take a minion home. Never has tyranny been so loveable.

Clapperboard Rating: * * * 

This review was first published in The Student Pocket Guide 

Jurassic World

There's a moment in Jurassic World when a giant aquatic dinosaur leaps from the water and engulfs a shark hanging over its pool, much to the delight of the theme park's spectators. The symbolism is obvious – this film will eat Jaws for breakfast, quite literally. References to Steven Spielberg's canon (the director served as Executive Producer) run throughout Jurassic World and, in terms of spectacle, it certainly beats Jaws and is on par with the Spielberg's Jurassic Park. Just as the original film did, Jurassic World will amaze and enthral audiences and is a pleasing, if underdeveloped, blockbuster.

Set 22 years after the events of the original film, Jurassic World takes the audience back to Isla Nublar which is now home to a theme park which would have surpassed even John Hammond's wildest dreams for a dinosaur paradise. No-one, it seems, has learnt the lessons of history. The visitor experiences and amenities are slick affairs and a consumerist culture saturates the attractions. But for all the wondrous dinosaurs roaming the island, visitor numbers are declining: the public are no longer amazed by extinct animals, even if they are 60 foot high. With corporate pressures bearing down on them, the park's owners decide to genetically engineer a big new dinosaur to attract the crowds, one with a louder roar, bigger claws and more teeth. Things, however, take a rather nasty turn when the star exhibit manages to escape from its 'high-security' enclosure.

Events in Jurassic World are as predictable as the tide and from the moment we are introduced to the Indominus Rex and her many teeth, the film's plot runs its course as you would expect. But the thing is, this doesn't matter. Indeed, it adds to the audience's enjoyment of the film and the building sense of the inevitable – people are going to get eaten.

As blockbuster fare goes, Jurassic World is about as big – and as loud – as it gets and there is something very pleasing about seeing on-screen monsters which are ostensibly fictional but are, in reality, based in fact. Of course, the idea of their revival from extinction is pure Hollywood, but the fact that such beasts once roamed the planet makes the action and subsequent death-by-eating all the more exhilarating. Some have said that the film's pacing slows in the middle but I think that it maintains a healthy pace throughout, shifting from one dinosaur escape to another, culminating in hundreds of pterodactyls descending onto the terrified crowds below.

There are several plot strands which run throughout the film, focusing on the park's director of operations, Claire (played by Bryce Dallas Howard) and her two nephews who come to visit the park. Throw in a love interest in the form of Chris Pratt's character, Owen, who is trying to train the velociraptors and a few rather shady individuals intent on developing dinosaurs as weapons, and you have a cast who commit fully to their parts but, in terms of characterisation, are rather underdeveloped.

This is the most significant problem with the film. The 1993 film (just as much of Spielberg’s work) managed to balance terrific spectacle with careful characterisation so that the audience could empathise with the characters as they were being chased by a hungry raptor. In Jurassic World, however, the special effects seem to take precedence over a coherent plot and engaging protagonists. That said, the film's script does have plenty of comic moments between the characters (in particular between Dallas Howard and Pratt) but this is, again, overshadowed by plot holes and plot developments which are seemingly forgotten about or never concluded to a satisfactory level.

I don't wish, however, to let this detract from a film which, overall, is really enjoyable and visually breathtaking. The special effects (now predominantly CGI but animatronics were also used) are impressive, especially in the film's dinosaur-on-dinosaur denouement and the raptor encounters. I genuinely found myself smiling in wonder at some of the set-pieces, feeling as I did when I first watched Jurassic Park aged ten. Swooping establishing shots of helicopters gliding over the island accompanied by John Williams' familiar theme music will satisfy every Jurassic fan. Nods and references to the first film are handled nicely and the film manages to maintain the sense of threat and fear which makes the thought of escaped dinosaurs such good screen material.

Jurassic World provides all the scares, thrills and teeth that you could want. It has a self-awareness, whether in terms of referencing its preceding films, or in the consumerist theme-park culture which has emerged in recent years, which is refreshing and it excels in its arresting action sequences. It's a shame the the characterisation lets the film down somewhat but I have to say that I still really, really enjoyed it. Now, where has that T-Rex got to...?!

Clapperboard Reviews: * * * *

Testament of Youth

When the credits rolled at the end of Testament of Youth, there was a palpable atmosphere in Screen 2 of the Palace Verona cinema in Sydney. It is a sure sign of an effective – and affective – film when the audience takes a moment to reflect on what they have just watched, instead of trampling over spilt popcorn in a dash for the toilets. That moment or two of pure silence in the auditorium was definite and, but I can't help feeling that it was the silence of an audience denied the chance to see a film truly worthy of its source material.

Considered a classic work of twentieth-century literature, not least for its feminist and pacifist leanings, Vera Brittain’s 1933 memoir Testament of Youth is a highly-personal account of the impact of war on middle-class families, the upheaval of British society and the terrible suffering inflicted on those left behind on the outbreak of the First World War. Notable as it is for being one of the first female accounts of the irrevocable damage done to a whole generation, Brittain’s work endures to this day as a compelling account of the domestic impact of total war. Such a vivid and personal work had the potential for an even more affecting film, but one can’t help feeling that the big screen adaptation of Brittain’s early life only scratches the surface of such important issues.

Directed by TV-turned-film director James Kent, Testament of Youth is a very handsome affair. Visually, the film radiates quality, starting with the cinematography which captures the rural beauty of pre-war Britain with an effortless and exquisite sensibility. The camera dances around the characters in early scenes evocative of the world of Evelyn Waugh: a world of public schools, rolling countryside and, when Vera receives an offer to study at Oxford, orderly and scholastically-tranquil cities. The camera is not afraid to focus intimately on the faces of the characters or present Oxford in an idyllic glow. And then there's the cast. Most recognisable is Game of Thrones' Kit Harington as Vera's love interest, Roland. Harington's performance is genial and sincere and will certainly provide some eye-candy for the women in the audience, as he courts Vera (constantly, however, under the watchful eye of a chaperone). 

But it is Harington's opposite, Alicia Vikander, who steals the show. Vikander came to international attention in the superb Danish film A Royal Affair and, whilst it may seem odd to cast a Swedish actress in the role of Vera, Vikander's accent rarely defaults from the cut-glass English accent of Ms Brittain. The hopes and loves of Vera – and their eventual destruction – are intensely and convincingly conveyed by Vikander, as she portrays the journey of Vera from the serene Oxford quad to the suffocating nursing hut on the killing fields of France. Vikander really is fantastic.

Any film version of Testament of Youth was, thanks to its subject matter, always going to be defined by its central subjects of war, friendship and, in particular, grief. It explores the sense of peer pressure felt amongst the young generation of men who felt compelled to enlist, if not for King and country, then for their friends and for the expectations of society. There can be no arguing that the film doesn't pull at the heart strings and there are some individual scenes which are totally devastating (Dominic West's intense expression of a father's private grief in the most public of settings is a notable example). But the sum of individual emotionally-piercing moments does not, I'm afraid, make for a film which works as a whole. 

 

The central problem is that the narrative takes the audience through a plot which is instantly recognisable and which has been seen many times before. From its idyllic beginnings, one knows exactly where the film is headed, and the script seems, on some level, to treat the audience as rather dim. The beginning of war is flagged by the camera focusing on a newspaper headline, the news of a death foreshadowed by an scene of excited anticipation, and the film's moral message summed up in a rather contrived speech towards the end of the film. We've seen this all before, and I can't help but find this to be a rather lazy approach to film-making (made worse by the evident care and detail with which the cinematography, mise-en-sène and acting is approached). In essence, Testament of Youth had such potential to be powerful, intelligent and cautionary, just as its source material was and is. In the end, however, the film's romantic and melodramatic strains overwhelm any incisive commentary on the nature of war, love and the experiences of women in a time of unprecedented struggle. 

 

In the end, I can forgive Testament of Youth for much. It is powerfully-acted, constructed with great care and beauty and contains much to be admired. But, despite its explicit horrors of death, grief and sacrifice, it feels a little inert and I left the cinema moved, but wishing it had been so much more.

Clapperboard Rating: * * * and-a-half!

Fast and Furious 7

The recent departure of Jeremy Clarkson from one of the BBC's most popular – and lucrative – programmes has hit headlines around the world. A show famous (or infamous) for its edgy humour and wild antics, Top Gear capitalises on the love that many have for fast cars and ludicrous stunts. When placed alongside any of the films from the Fast and Furious franchise, however, the high jinx of Top Gear suddenly seems rather placid and conservative. Fast and Furious 7 has sped into cinemas with an almighty roar and makes the car-based antics of the Top Gear boys look like they've been thought up by a committee from the Women's Institute.

You might say that seven Fast and Furious films is rather pushing it, and you'd be right. The franchise can hardly be praised for its complex characterisation, beautifully-balanced dialogue or cutting examination of humanity in the 21^st century. Indeed, the series is film-making by numbers and the audience is battered into submission by the number of fast cars, scantily-clad women, explosions and physics-defying action sequences. And this is all before the opening titles.

Fast and Furious 7 reunites its star-filled cast against bad-guy Jason Statham who is seeking revenge on Dominic Toretto (Vin Diesel) and his family for putting his brother in hospital in the previous film. Add to this the hunt for a piece of hacking technology which can turn any electronic device in the world into a spy camera, and you've got the bare bones of a plot which is as about as convincing as a UKIP manifesto.

If you put the plot to one side, you're left with a number of action sequences which seem to get more and more ludicrous as the film goes on. Reality doesn't feature in director James Wan's vocabulary, but the film, I have to say, is all the better for it as supercars fall out from the back of the cargo plane and plummet down to the mountains of Azerbaijan. This gut-wrenching free-fall, followed by an intense car chase through the mountain roads is a well-shot and frenetically-edited affair and has a sense of fun which Wan seems to capitalise on when the action moves to the deserts of Abu Dhabi.

The reasons for the cast's decampment to one of the world's richest cites are easy to explain: cars, money and more cars. Toretto and his team have to steal the hacking software which has been hidden, rather bizarrely, in a supercar belonging to an Arab billionaire. But, of course, said car is located at the top of Abu Dhabi's Etihad Towers and the only way that Toretto and friend Brian O'Conner (Paul Walker) can think of escaping with it, is to drive it out of the skyscraper's window and into the neighbouring tower. The resulting shots of a multi-million pound car in mid-air between two skyscrapers is ridiculous, but all the more fun for it. Less visually-arresting is the film's denouement, set on the mean streets of LA which sees fights between cars and helicopters, and between Statham and Diesel in a multi-story car park (to be fair, it's better than it sounds on paper).

Fast and Furious 7 was always going to tear up the tarmac at the box office. But the untimely death of one of its stars, Paul Walker, in an unrelated car crash midway through filming, assured that it would become a very special film for the fans. Despite concerns that filming would have to be abandoned following Walker's death, some clever computer graphics and the help of Walker's brothers as body doubles meant that the film could be completed and adapted to be a fitting tribute to the star. Walker's loss is sensitively acknowledged at the end of the film and, as the screen fades to white, I'm sure some of the series' most devoted fans will be wiping away a tear or two. And that's something I never thought I'd say about a Fast and Furious film.

But here's the thing. One doesn't go to see a Fast and Furious movie for high-art, just as one wouldn't pick up a copy of the Daily Mail in search of balanced and considered journalism. But James Wan has directed a film which is brash and unapologetic and which will satisfy the wants of fans of fast cars, explosions and death-defying stunts. The departure of Paul Walker, however, served to underline the fact that even in Hollywood, no-one is immortal. 

Clapperboard Rating: * * *