The Huntsman: Winter's War

This review was first published by The Student Pocket Guide

You can’t accuse The Huntsman: Winter’s War of not looking great. Part prequel, part sequel to 2012’s Snow White and the Huntsman, this film not only oozes with visual splendour, inventive production design and bold digital effects, but its star cast shines almost as much as the magical mirror on the wall. Chris Hemsworth and Charlize Theron reprise their fairytale roles, joined this time by Jessica Chastain and Emily Blunt in what the trailers sold as a tale of sisterly rivalry and dark fantasy. Shame, then, that such a stellar cast is rather wasted in a film which lurches around all over the place, searching for meaningful themes and emotion which are lost in a screenplay with little originality and even less spark.

In many ways, it should be little surprise that The Huntsman is so visually-arresting. Director Cedric Nicolas-Troyan acted as the visual effects supervisor for the first film, and he maintains the rich and compelling imagery, centred on the two evil queens – Ravenna (Theron) and her younger sister Freya (Blunt). After suffering a heartbreaking loss, Queen Freya leaves her sister’s side to conquer her own ice kingdom, kidnapping hundreds of children to raise an army of huntsman. From this emerges the back-story of Eric, the Huntsman (Hemsworth) and his wife Sara (Chastain) whose forbidden love angers Freya, who is determined to rid her kingdom of the emotion.

All this happens during – and far away from – the events of Snow White. It is a plot device which explains the absence of Kristen Stewart (a result of, if you believe the rumours, the studio’s disapproval of her relationship with director Rupert Sanders) and which comes full-circle when Freya summons the soul of her sister from the magical mirror.

The central problem with all of this is that it feels very forced and is undermined by a script which seems to have been written by a committee of execs with their eyes fixed firmly on the bank. Having assembled a really great cast, the rather stilted dialogue and bemusing gear-changes of tone let down the actors who, it must be said, really do give it their best shot. Hemsworth’s easy screen charm carries him through the film and Chastain is as watchable as ever in role which gives Hemsworth a run for his money in the fighting sequences. Both, however, have strange accents which seem to flick between Irish and Scottish: a sort of “Och-aye-top-o’-the-mornin’-to-ye”. That said, their relationship is ten times more convincing than the chemistry between Hemsworth and Stewart in the first film, which would have failed even the easiest of GCSE science exams.

But it is Emily Blunt who does the most to dig below the predictable screenplay, attempting to unearth a tortured and sad character below all of the evilness which may have younger audience members asking their mum “why is Elsa being so nasty?!”. Blunt – resplendent in her flowing costumes and ice-white hair – flings ice sheets left, right and centre, and she really holds her own opposite Theron’s evil cackles.

Rather bizarrely, Rob Brydon and Sheridan Smith make appearances as dwarves – alongside Nick Frost and Alexandra Roach – but, again, their talents are underused. The dark tone in the opening half hour is soon dropped once Brydon et al join up with Hemsworth, and the band embark on a quest to stop Freya from capturing the magic mirror which would bring back golden-encrusted Theron from her Dior adverts. During many of these sequences, the script takes a distinct comic turn with much foul-mouthed banter between the dwarves which is sure to raise one or two eyebrows. Some even more perplexing sexual innuendo makes the film’s tone further confused – something which gives proceedings a chaotic, messy feeling.

Most of the entertainment in The Hunstman comes from its action and fight scenes, which are as frenetic as they are well-designed, and Hemsworth is certainly a capable leading man. The stakes, however, are never raised to the level they should be and the end result is a film which is not spectacularly bad, but really not that remarkable either. Freya may well be the queen of ice, but The Huntsman: Winter’s War will leave its audience out in the cold.

Clapperboard Rating: * *

London Has Fallen

This review was first published by The Student Pocket Guide

The President needs saving. Again. Back in 2013, Olympus Has Fallen saw Gerard Butler's Secret Service Agent Banning single-handedly fight off a bunch of terrorists who stormed the White House with the intention of killing the leader of the free world, played by Aaron Eckhart. This time, the action moves to the UK when the President attends the British Prime Minister's funeral. Of course, things go spectacularly wrong and the capital – and the world's leaders – come under attack from Islamist terrorists.

Directed by Babak Najafi, London Has Fallen bears all the hallmarks of its prequel – defined, perhaps, by Gerard Butler's particular style of heroic, brash and unapologetic neck-snapping. Opposite Eckhart as the equally-buff President, Butler gnarls his way through some pretty painful dialogue: “why don't you pack up your shit and head back to Fuckheadistan”, he diplomatically asks a terrorist.

The initial assault on the President takes place in central London, and in the first half an hour or so, most of the city's landmarks are blown up, Heads of State are unceremoniously despatched by fake police (and even Buckingham Palace guards) and Gerard realises that it's up to him alone to save POTUS. Cue a lot of running around, swearing, and a brief teaming-up with Charlotte Riley – MI6's finest (and the film's token strong female character).

Helicopters crash and armoured cars are chased through the chaotic streets, all filmed with frenetic energy (even if you've seen it all before). The film's cinematography excels only in the final assault to rescue the President, using well-oiled tracking shots to immerse the audience in the firefight. Underneath all the explosions and bullets, however, there's little – if any – substance to the film, which falls back on Islamophobia and general laziness in its plot construction.

Morgan Freeman returns in this sequel as the Vice President and spends much of the film looking in horror at computer screens, muttering “Oh my God” in only the way he can. Back at home, Agent Banning is soon to become a father, the usual Hollywood stuff to raise the stakes, and a device which gives the President and Banning something deep to discuss in the film's down time.

London Has Fallen feels like a live-action video game, and at points, is rather unpleasant. Even Gerard Butler's enthusiasm and warm screen-presence can do little to redress its thematic problems, driven by a worryingly-simplistic world view. Genre cliches run deep, and whilst I'll be the first to say we all occasionally need unthinking action films, it has all got a bit ridiculous. 

Clapperboard Rating: * * 

13 Hours: The Secret Soldiers of Benghazi

This review was first published by The Student Pocket Guide

Michael Bay's films tend to be defined by their “shoot first, don't-ask-questions-later” approach. Indeed, subtlety and nuance are words entirely absent from his vocabulary. The loudness and unashamed manic action of the Transformers series was enough to grind anyone down, and Pearl Harbour showed he could do exactly the same with a historical subject. And in 13 Hours: The Secret Soldiers of Benghazi he returns to a real-life conflict (as opposed to robots endlessly hitting one another over the head) to craft a war film made with filmic brush strokes so broad and unrefined, it's almost as if someone threw a grenade into the editing suite and shoved the results in cinemas.

The opening of 13 Hours proudly declares that its narrative is based on true events in 2012. On the evening of the anniversary of 9/11, a diplomatic compound and a top secret CIA base in Benghazi, Libya was attacked by Islamist militia. The American ambassador, J. Christopher Stevens, was killed in the attack, along with a number of private security contractors. Bay's film recounts these events (who knows how historically accurate it is), focussing on six of the security team – given suitably tough, tattooed and heavily-bearded ex-Navy SEAL characters and names such as “Rone”, “Boon”, “Tig”, “Tanto” and “Oz” – as they try to repel the militants until help arrives.

It would be fair to say that proceedings favour explosions and gunfire over emotion. The trademark intensity of Bay's approach to action would work in short snippets, but even the most resilient audience would be pummelled into submission by the frenetic and over-the-top cinematography. The camera never seems to be able to stay still for more than a second, and the incessant use of drone shots from overhead give the whole thing a Call of Duty, inconsequential sensibility.

This is not to say that the characters are totally one-dimensional: fleeting Skype calls to loved-ones (John Krasinski's character is top of the list for this) and brief conversations between the fighting do attempt to construct characters with backstory. But you've seen it all before, and done a lot better. For much of the film's (far too-long) running time, I found myself thinking of other modern war movies such as The Hurt Locker, Black Hawk Down, Zero Dark Thirty and even American Sniper – all films which fleshed out the emotional and ideological side of conflict. 13 Hours, in contrast, seems much more happy to forget the politics and make the explosions even louder.

As the gun battles rage, and the sound design gets increasingly more headache-inducing, there are one or two compelling sequences – namely a car chase through the unpredictable streets of Benghazi. But what the film presents is a particular brand of American patriotism: brash, uncompromising and very keen to assert that the tough, family-man soldiers are the ones protecting the great nation, not the pen-pushing incompetence of bureaucrats and state agents. Such tensions could have made for an interesting screenplay, exploring the interactions between power and protection in the Middle East. But because Michael Bay is involved, the film adopts the much more simplistic – and rather uninteresting – ambition of making the last explosion bigger that the last.

At one point, CIA analyst Sona Jillani (played by Alexia Barlier) pleads with those higher up in command for air support: “it never came” she later tells the security contractors as they pick up the pieces from the waves of attacks. Whether this refusal of air support actual happened in real life or not, is open to debate. The hostility between the leader of the contractors, Rone (James Badge Dale) and the CIA compound head (David Costabile) about who is now giving the orders is as unsubtle as the shot of the tattered and burned American flag floating in the compound swimming pool.

13 Hours: The Secret Soldiers of Benghazi is far from a terrible piece of film-making. The battle sequences are admirable for their energy and dynamic intensity, even if it all goes on for far too long. Its fundamental flaw, however, is its unrelenting focus on the action, with little sense of character development or narrative context . If Michael Bay was directing a video game – it would be great. But such an unreflective, video game approach to violence doesn't really belong on the cinema screen.

Clapperboard Rating: * *

The Revenant

This review was first published by The Student Pocket Guide

The main question on everyone's lips at the moment seems to be “will Leo finally win an Oscar?!”. In the past, DiCaprio has been nominated for six Academy Awards and has won...well, none. But all that might be about to change thanks to his latest film, The Revenant which is as brutal and intense as films come.

Just in case you were wondering, the word “revenant” is a noun meaning a person who returns after a length absence. Now we've cleared that up, on to the film inspired by the (supposedly) true story of Hugh Glass, a nineteenth-century fur trapper who was attacked by a bear and left for dead by his companions in the wilderness of the American Frontier. In the film, Glass (DiCaprio) is bent on avenging the death of his son who is killed by John Fitzgerald, one of his fellow explorers (Tom Hardy), and drags himself – quite literally – over some 200 miles in search of safety and revenge.

In essence, what you have here is Bear Grylls meets Touching the Void, with a large dose of confronting violence and harsh, unforgiving landscapes. Directed by Mexican film-maker Alejandro González Iñárritu, The Revenant has become notorious in the media for its punishing schedule, spiralling budget, unpleasant shooting conditions and Iñárritu unflinching pursuit of the film he envisioned in his mind. DiCaprio's commitment to the role (which included sleeping in a dead animal carcass, eating raw bison liver and enduring prolonged exposure to cold locations in Canada and Argentina) is unflinching and almost defiant: at one point, he looks directly at the camera as if to say “what more can I do for that Oscar?”.

Iñárritu and cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki have done a fantastic job of transporting the audience from the warm comfort of their cinema seats and placing them in the bitter, cruel cold of the American Frontier – a land dominated by snow, ice and imposing mountains. The success of this immersive experience is down to several factors. From the very beginning, Lubezki's camera scythes through the landscape in an apparent single-take, a technique which comes into its own in the sequence which sees Glass come under attack from a grizzly. My toes genuinely curled during the encounter and I would wholeheartedly believe you if you told me Leo was attacked by a real bear.

From a technical perspective, Lubezki's eye for capturing the natural landscape in all its majestic and intimidating glory is astounding (the majority of the film was shot using natural light) and he allows the camera to approach the actors' faces in tight close-up. The camera gets so close, in fact, that their breath fogs the camera lens – usually something which shatters the cinematic spell. In this case, however, it only serves to drag the audience in closer with the characters, experiencing their pain and suffering. From plunging down icy rivers, to weathering snow storms and horrendous wounds, the plight of Glass is not just presented to the audience, it conscripts them into involvement.

Iñárritu has a considered sense of narrative pacing which works well to fully-involve the audience. At 2 hours, 36 minutes, it is a long film. But this running time rarely feels indulgent: the beautiful cinematography and assured performances prevent that. DiCaprio's hurt, anguish and determination is compelling to watch, and Tom Hardy's gruff and self-serving Fitzgerald fits well with the supporting cast of other British and Irish actors (Domhnall Gleeson as a by-the-book army Captain and Will Poulter as an impressionable young fur-trapper).

The film's depiction of violence – both from animals and from encounters with the Native Indian population – is uncompromising and graphic. It does, however, fit well with the stark reality of the film. America in 1823 was a violent place, and man was frequently at the mercy of the elements. The denouement between Glass and Fitzgerald had me flinching and gripping my seat with anticipation as those long takes refused to let the audience go from their icy grip.

The Revenant is bold, shocking and committed film-making. I left the cinema feeling exhausted and convinced that Leo deserves that Oscar. There's really nothing more he can do.

Clapperboard Rating: * * * * *

Joy

It is testament to Jennifer Lawrence's star power that she can be glorious whilst selling mops. These mops, however, are not any ordinary household cleaning implement: they are the 'Miracle Mops', invented by real-life single mother Joy Mangano who made a fortune selling them on the QVC shopping channel. Not the most compelling true story for screenwriter Annie Mumolo and director David O. Russell to tackle, but in Joy, their efforts result in a strange combination of surreal drama, the occasional laugh and fleeting moments of heartfelt emotion.

Joy is not, of course, the first film which brings together Jennifer Lawrence with David O. Russell. Nor is it, indeed, her first time acting opposite Bradley Cooper and Robert De Niro (both starred alongside her in Silver Linings Playbook). Lawrence plays Joy, who is struggling to find happiness and satisfaction in her life, largely as a result of her dysfunctional family. Her invalid mother (Virginia Madsen) stays in bed all day watching soap operas, whilst Joy's ex-husband (played by Édgar Ramírez) lives in the basement of her house. Her hapless divorced father (De Niro, in the slightly eccentric paternal role in which he seems to be typecast nowadays) returns to the domestic mix, also temporarily moving in to the basement after splitting with his most recent partner. Only Joy's grandmother Mimi (Diane Ladd) and best friend Jackie (Dascha Polanco) seem to act as encouraging voices of sanity.

Compelled to make more of her life and, in many ways, to disprove those (including her parents) who said she should be content with banal domesticity for the rest of her life, Joy invents a self-wringing mop after a mishap with red wine and broken glass on her dad's latest lover's yacht. This plot – a story of invention and self re-invention – works well, leaving the audience satisfied as Joy takes on the male-dominated corporate world and transforms her life. But this fulfilment in narrative terms is eclipsed by the film's tone which is, quite frankly, all over the place.

David O. Russell's direction is as confused as it is full of ideas. The dissatisfaction with life which Joy feels is established early on through the bizarre behaviour of her family and much of the film's beginning is punctuated with rather surreal sequences in which Joy finds herself trapped in her mother's soap operas. By the film's end, however, this rather kooky tone is lost as Lawrence struts down the road after a successful business deal, sunglasses on and ready to tackle the world of domestic cleaning.

The screenplay is peppered with humorous moments but it doesn't develop as a comedy – which it certainly could have done with Lawrence's comedic flair. Neither is it, however, a straight-down-the-line drama. Instead, the film floats about between reality and unreality, playing with ideas but never fully-engaging with the emotions it seeks to interrogate. Instead, it navigates its themes of family, business and success without settling on what any of it actually means. Joy's story, whilst transformative on a personal level, leaves the rest of us a little disengaged with proceedings.

That said, the performances are great: Bradley Cooper, as a QVC executive, does well and Jennifer Lawrence is her usual brilliant self as she attempts to anchor the film's disparate elements. Her face magnetises the camera and allows the audience to empathise with her character's situation, even if not with the film as a whole. But despite her star power, the film feels too uneven to create emotional coherency with its audience, something which it needs desperately, given that its subject isn't the most exciting in the world.

Joy has individual scenes which are touching and emotionally-charged. Lawrence is, as ever, fantastic, and there's certainly a message of morality to be found. But I can't help feeling that audiences will leave the cinema confused. Perhaps a repeat viewing is required, but Joy is far from the joyous New Year film which many will be expecting.

Clapperboard Rating: * * *

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: * * * *