Life review: "Cat-and-mouse action with simple, squelchy thrills"
It may owe a debt to the Alien franchise, but this slick sci-fi thriller pays back with help from its hard-working cast and bursts of head-spinning action
★★★ Coming just six weeks before the release of Ridley Scott’s Alien: Covenant, Life feels like a pre-emptive move, reminding you of where it all began with the Alien franchise. It’s not as enthralling as the 1979 film, but it has its moments and the horror is balanced by composed performances from a cosmopolitan cast that features Jake Gyllenhaal and Ryan Reynolds alongside Swedish actress Rebecca Ferguson, Brit Ariyon Bakare, Russian Olga Dihovichnaya and Japanese actor Hiroyuki Sanada. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cuA-xqBw4jE?ecver=2 We’re thrown in at the deep end with the crew from the very start when a Mars probe almost knocks their space station out of its orbit over the Earth. Daniel Espinosa (the Swedish director of Easy Money and, more recently, Child 44) makes it an immersive experience, floating at speed through the narrow tunnels of the station as they try to avert a collision and save the precious soil samples on board the probe. Analysing those samples, po-faced biologist Hugh (Bakare) discovers a single-cell life form which, over the course of days, grows at a rapid rate. Eventually looking something like a slippery Marigold glove flopping around in a petri dish, the creature is able to give Hugh a firm handshake – to the point that he realises this isn’t a friendly hello. He survives the encounter, but there can be no doubt that people are about to die as the creature, within seconds, morphs again into an Alien-type face-hugger with parasitical tendencies. That famous scene of John Hurt suffering fatal indigestion is played in reverse as this little sucker worms its way into (rather than out of) the human body through the mouth. Initially, there’s something more morbidly amusing than scary about this particular alien, not least because it’s referred to as Calvin, but more because – in its earlier guise – it makes the actors look as though they’re madly trying to shake off a globule of nasty snot. However, the thing keeps evolving until gradually it becomes quite a fearsome sight, with a sneering face and tentacles, winged and translucent, swooshing around in zero gravity like an angel of death, leaving the crew to reflect on their mortality between bursts of head-spinning action. Espinosa makes bold choices about the order in which characters are despatched; otherwise he follows a standard, reliable formula. There are yet more nods to Ridley Scott’s seminal work as the alien assailant is tracked on a digital display – a glowing red dot moving across a screen – but Espinosa misses the elegance of execution, unable to generate the same level of tension in these moments of quiet menace. The same could be said for the film as a whole, which can swerve too abruptly between hushed conversation and full-on, scream-filled scuffles. Hugh observes that this is a uniquely efficient form of life whose cells perform every required function – “all muscle, all brain, all eye” – and that promises a more sophisticated adversary than the one we’re given and which could have made this a more interesting chess game. Instead, it’s plain old cat-and-mouse action with simple, squelchy thrills to carry you through to a turbo-boosted finale. Gyllenhaal is given a bit of background story to chew on, having done a tour of duty in Syria, but there’s not much else to cling to when it comes to characterisation – of course, the face-hugger is only concerned with having enough flesh to grab a hold of. With a script from the writers of Deadpool, you might expect more wit too, but even Deadpool himself, Reynolds, only manages a few pale wisecracks. The dynamics of the crew are so superficial, they feel easily expendable. Except for the fact that some of them are A-list stars, no single member makes a lasting impression. Espinosa is at his most inspired with haunting images such as blood that splatters in slow-motion and one of the crew slowly drowning inside a helmet filled with leaking coolant. The actors do well to convey enough sweaty desperation while hanging on to their dignity, and they make a workable unit to combat the threat – not just of the alien, but of the occasional dips in the movie's energy. Like the villain here, the film flops around at times, although it does hit its genre marks along the way, and serves as a mouth-watering appetiser for whatever Scott has up his sleeve in the next chapter of his alien story. Life is released in cinemas on Friday 24 March
The Lost City of Z review: "a sedate trek through the Amazonian jungle"
Charlie Hunnam stars as the real-life British explorer whose pursuit of El Dorado became a reckless obsession
★★★ Forget the bombast of Indiana Jones movies, this is a sedate trek through the Amazonian jungle, with Sons of Anarchy star Charlie Hunnam severely clipping his accent to play real-life British explorer Percy Fawcett. In the early 1900s, he led a series of expeditions aiming to find evidence of an ancient civilisation, a journey bristling with intrigue and as much frustration. Although noble in the pursuit of knowledge, Fawcett is hampered by aloofness and calmly accepts the rift that grows between him and his young family whenever he disappears for years at a time. Benedict Cumberbatch was originally slated to play the lead, and he might have brought more of an edge to Fawcett, for whom sacrifice gradually becomes a destructive fixation, whereas Hunnam plays him with a bland kind of fortitude. View oEmbed on the source website Robert Pattinson adds colour as his right-hand man, Henry Costin, bearded and bespectacled, always looking as though he’s trying to shake off a hangover – far from the teen idol who set pulses racing in the Twilight movies. The pair's mission, as outlined by the Royal Geographical Society, is to map the border between Bolivia and Brazil, where local conflict threatens British interests in the area (namely, rubber plantations). But Fawcett wishes to return because of evidence he finds (carvings and fragments of pottery) that support local tales of a lost civilisation. Many at the RGS won’t entertain the idea of “savages” being elevated above their station or lend credence to the myth of El Dorado, but Fawcett has just enough support to make repeated trips, each one thrown off course by hostile tribes, disease and growing weariness. The air feels thick with danger, humidity and pestilence, and a scene where the men are entertained by cannibals is particularly striking – the remains of dinner still smouldering above a fire. Just as halting is Fawcett’s measured response to this, putting the quest for knowledge above all sensitivities. Meanwhile, Sienna Miller swallows a lot of resentment as his wife, who believes wholeheartedly in what her husband is trying to do, despite the ridicule heaped upon him. She brings much-needed heart to an otherwise matter-of-fact account of Fawcett’s life. There is fire, too, in the belly of their eldest son (Tom Holland) who has an obvious abandonment complex. Fawcett gets off lightly, however, with bonds only mildly tested and loved ones generally acquiescing to his righteous justifications about the way humanity will benefit from uncovering the “City of Z”. It’s only when Fawcett’s staunchest ally, Costin, expresses some doubts about their continued efforts to find Z that some tension is injected into the often loose and rambling plot. The seeds of his discontent aren’t sown early enough, though, making it something of a lost opportunity to present Fawcett as others saw him – not necessarily noble, perhaps even crazed. After all, his first trip is motivated by a need to elevate his family’s social standing, and too often the lives of his men are put at risk. It's biologist and Antarctic explorer James Murray (Angus MacFadyen) who's made the villain of the piece, initially for failing to keep pace and then for being accused of stealing rations. But it’s hardly a rounded portrayal – only one step from moustache-twiddling evil. Writer/director James Gray (We Own the Night) delivers a very subdued film overall, right down to the washed-out visuals, but the doggedness of Fawcett sparks a sort of morbid fascination with how far he is willing to go to prove his theory. An increasing sense of impending disaster looms, but, when the moment finally arrives, Gray swerves the chance to have Fawcett finally look himself in the mirror and ask, "What was it all for?" Of course, Fawcett would be vindicated after his death with various discoveries made to prove the existence of an advanced civilisation, but here the more tantalising question – that drags you along yet is left unanswered – concerns the psychological make-up of this unique individual. The Lost City of Z is in cinemas Friday 24 March Order your copy of the Radio Times Guide to Films 2017
Viceroy's House review: "a poignant tribute to the millions uprooted or killed during the largest mass migration in history"
Partition and the transition of power to India is seen through the eyes of a servant in Gurinder Chadha's refreshingly blunt drama
★★★ Seventy years after the Partition of India, director Gurinder Chadha delivers this poignant tribute to the millions of Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims – including members of her own family – who were uprooted or killed in what remains the largest mass migration of people in history. Hugh Bonneville gets top billing as the last Viceroy of India, Lord Mountbatten, whose onerous task it is to see the country’s “peaceful” transition to independence with the end of British rule. The story is divided between him, his wife Edwina (Gillian Anderson) and his young servant, Jeet (Manish Dayal). Together they draw a neat picture of the existing class structure within the microcosm of the (albeit vast) household. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=id_ZyNdvXKQ?ecver=2 However, trying to give equal weight to different points of view has its drawbacks and robs the story of some depth. Bonneville plays Mountbatten with what comes across as foolish dignity because this account (co-scripted by Chadha with Moira Buffini and Paul Mayeda Berges) sees him as a bit of a patsy, cornered into brokering the deal that would divide India and create Pakistan upon Britain’s withdrawal. Bonneville’s portrayal remains sympathetic throughout. As sectarian violence increases, he is exasperated by Muslim leader Muhammad Ali Jinnah (Denzil Smith) who insists his people will be massacred without borders to protect them. And even his wife believes there must be an alternative to carving up the territory. Edwina is eager to engage with the locals too, but Anderson is so mannered in her portrayal it is difficult to warm to her (“It’s so terribly, terribly hot…”) – a sharp contrast with Bonneville’s easy charm. Jeet is the ostensible hero of the piece, rooting for a united India and eavesdropping on Mountbatten’s meetings with the likes of Jinnah, eventual Indian Prime Minster Jawaharlal Nehru (Tanveer Ghani) and the revered Mahatma Gandhi (Neeraj Kabi). One of the more intriguing aspects of the film is being a fly on the wall at these talks, along with a suggestion that important decisions are made even deeper in the shadows. There are others among the Viceroy’s staff who would prefer to have their own Muslim state, and so the fighting that rages on in the villages begins to cause unrest in the house. There is a star-crossed romance, too, with Jeet pining for fellow house help Aalia (Huma Qureshi), a Muslim girl who believes their love cannot withstand societal pressures. The late Om Puri is underused as Aalia’s father, but his being wise and blind is another cliché in what feels like a tokenistic love story that is resolved rather questionably when the movement of people finally gets underway in August 1947. Chadha uses snippets of archive footage to hint at the appalling humanitarian disaster that ensues, but all the bloodshed, rape and child murder is nudged into the background. Jeet fears for his family in the Punjab, but no time has been spent drawing those relationships, and with a reliance on black-and-white newsreel, the full horror of Partition stays remote. Fortunately, Dayal gives an impassioned performance – especially upon receiving some bad news – that goes some way towards bridging the emotional gaps in the story. Bonneville, too, is given room to convey something like regret beyond the stiff upper lip that he must present in public, and he does that without slipping too far into sentimentality. While the film might have gone further in laying bare the true scale of the political subterfuge and the upheaval it caused, it is refreshingly blunt about a period of history often viewed through a rose-tinted lens. Everyone has blame to bear – some more than others – and Chadha isn’t afraid to share it out. Viceroy's House is released in cinemas on Friday 3 March Order your copy of the Radio Times Guide to Films 2017
The Great Wall review: "Even Matt Damon looks hopelessly out of place in this big, stony hunk of nothing"
Mercenary Matt Damon and Chinese warriors put aside their differences to battle a legendary horde of monsters
★★ In business terms, think of The Great Wall as a bridge across the Pacific, a co-production between the US and China allowing Hollywood access to the Chinese cinema market, which is reported to be the fastest growing in the world. On a pure narrative level it is a big, stony hunk of nothing and even Matt Damon, who is the strongest link, looks hopelessly out of place – and that’s before you even consider the odd Fargo-esque accent. Of course, this works for him in the early part of the film. His character William is a fish out of water or more accurately, a mercenary in the Gobi desert – stunningly captured in sunset hues – who along with Spanish cohort Tovar (Pedro Pascal of Narcos fame) is searching for a fabled treasure called “black powder”. This, of course is gunpowder, a weapon that will revolutionise warfare at this non-specific period in history and make them rich. But the men are thrown off course by something most unexpected and in a film that has already signposted its intentions to philosophise earnestly on the human condition, it really does feel like a random intrusion when the CGI beastie – which looks something like a cross between a Komodo dragon and the hound demons from Ghost Busters – tries to take a bite out of William. Having gotten out of that sticky situation, William and Tovar immediately fall into the clutches of the Nameless Order, noble warriors (naturally) who guard an outpost on the Great Wall, a structure built with the specific purpose of keeping those rabid lizards out. Straightaway they get to see the Order in action, wonderfully choreographed in their defence with ladies in bright armour looking like bluebirds as they swoop down to spear their prey. You would expect nothing less than visual splendour from director Zhang Yimou, the director of Hero (2002) and House of Flying Daggers (2004). There are high-flying crane shots over the wall to take in the majesty of this man-made feat and the camera moves seamlessly from inside to out while the wide, rugged landscape beyond promises an adventure with epic scope. Alas, the story doesn’t open out in the same way. After the introductory battle, it very quickly becomes claustrophobic and monotone. William impresses the locals with combat skills and makes a deeper impression on the pretty yet steely Commander Lin (Jing Tian), who inevitably has much to teach this soldier of fortune about honour and sacrifice. Meanwhile, big-name actors in China Andy Lau (star of Yimou’s House of Flying Daggers) and Hanyu Zhang as her superiors are reduced to echoing these platitudes between suspicious looks. William can only prove himself through battle and Yimou moves as quickly as possible from one skirmish to the next, allowing no room for characters – much less relationships – to develop. Instead, the moral of the story is driven home hard in blunt exchanges of dialogue. Willem Dafoe draws the shortest straw in a pointless role as a fellow Westerner gone stir-crazy after 25 years held captive. For all their high-minded ideals, it turns out the Order have a Mafia-like philosophy on keeping interlopers in. The mythology of the Tao Tei (the demons) hasn’t been thought through either, and apart from the obvious use of CGI, it all feels a bit naff given the stupidly simple rules that are established on how to defeat them. The climactic scenes are less tense because of that and a heavy reliance on clichés. Before its (successful) release in China, the controversy around the film was about Hollywood “whitewashing”, with Matt Damon perceived as the blue-eyed hero dispatched to save China. In fact, he stands for the capitalist West – at least at the beginning – but the contrast with the oh-so honourable Chinese warriors is just as tired, especially when the story reaches for lofty ideals and barely rises up on its tiptoes to see what life is like on the other side. Rather than being spiritually uplifted or emotionally stirred, The Great Wall is grey, cold and immovable and it leaves you stupefied, as though you just walked into it. The Great Wall is related in cinemas on Friday 17 February Order your copy of the Radio Times Guide to Films 2017
Hidden Figures review: "captures all the grit, grace and brilliance of its three female protagonists"
Behind the men who went to the Moon were three brilliant black women who never received their due recognition – until now
★★★★ Putting man on the moon is one of humanity’s greatest achievements, but the women who played a part in getting him there have gone unsung for too long – and the fact that some of them were African-American is the surprise draw of this inspiring, Oscar-nominated account. Besides having to work out the angles of re-entry, math whizzes Katherine G Johnson (Taraji P Henson), Mary Jackson (Janelle Monae) and Dorothy Vaughn (Octavia Spencer) were required to jump through hoops in any given working day at NASA throughout the 1950s and early 60s, when segregation meant they couldn’t even use the same lavatories as their white peers. View oEmbed on the source website It’s a running gag here – in the most literal sense – as Katherine spends 20 minutes every morning jogging across the grounds at Langley Research Center in Virginia to use the “coloured bathroom”. Of course, while being laughable, it’s not inherently a laughing matter, but director Theodore Melfi (the film-maker behind Bill Murray vehicle St Vincent) movingly conveys the absurdity and sheer outrageousness of the situation without beating a drum. Like the indefatigable can-do spirit that led the US space program, there is a drive and optimism about this trio of ladies that involves you more deeply in their plight. Mary Jackson goes to court for the right to attend a whites-only college and secure the qualifications needed to fulfil her ambitions (and meet her obvious potential) as an engineer. Meanwhile, Dorothy Vaughn swots up on innovations in mechanical computing to ensure that she, and her team of “coloured computers” (the pool of human number-crunchers where all three women start out), are not deemed expendable with the introduction of IBM machines. In an Oscar-nominated turn, Spencer layers her performance with a world-weariness that she can only voice in sly exchanges with her uppity manager (Kirsten Dunst), while at the same time enjoying the challenge of making those machines bow to her knowledge. Unfortunately for Dunst and Jim Parsons, who plays Katherine’s “superior”, the script is harsh in defining these (fictional) characters purely by their petty jealousies and prejudice, although with a script that uses Margot Lee Shetterley’s book as its basis – seeing events through the eyes of those who were discriminated against – any small-mindedness would be difficult to underplay. Katherine’s boss and manager of Space Task Group, Al Harrison (a composite of three people), is more generously portrayed by Kevin Costner, but a scene that finds him sledgehammering the “coloureds only” signage above the loos smacks of Hollywood bluster. The more interesting facet of his character is the logic and pragmatism that overrides his casual acceptance of the way things are. There’s the sense of a few more embellishments in the aw-shucks clean-cut portrayal of astronaut John Glenn (Glen Powell), whose fate falls squarely into Katherine’s hands after Project Mercury finds him in a tight spot hovering some 200 miles above the Earth. In pure storytelling terms, however, it presses all the right buttons for a blast of exciting, upbeat entertainment. Even if some details have been massaged to fit the template of a Hollywood crowd-pleaser, the main thrust of the story is true and all the more remarkable for that. What’s more important is that Melfi has captured all the grit and grace, as well as the brilliance, of his three female protagonists, who have been honoured very late in their lives for their contribution to the Space Race. In recent interviews, Katherine G Johnson – now 98-years-old and still with her husband Colonel Jim Johnson (their romance detailed here, with Mahershala Ali in the role) – has said the film is true where it counts, and she has earned her right to have the last word. “Go see Hidden Figures,” she has urged. “And take a young person. It will give them a more positive outlook on what is possible if you work hard, do your best and are prepared.” Hidden Figures is released in cinemas on Friday 17 February Order your copy of the Radio Times Guide to Films 2017
Gold review: "Another iridescent gem of a turn by McConaughey"
Matthew McConaughey shines brightly, but this treasure-hunting tale doesn't quite hit the mother lode
★★★ While mining the current trend for movies that expose the outrageously hollow investment strategies of Wall Street bankers, Gold also celebrates another real-life chancer played in winning style by Matthew McConaughey. His balding and bedraggled prospector Kenny Wells is actually a fictionalised version of Canadian businessman David Walsh in a film that takes dramatic licence with the true story of a scandal involving his Bre-X mining company. Far from taking liberties, though, it may even have benefited from a few more creative whims to bolster the enticing pitch. View oEmbed on the source website With a hint of crazy in his eyes and a lot of fire in his (very ample) belly, McConaughey encapsulates everything that a treasure hunter should be. Besides his obvious passion for the role, he’s easy to root for because there is an innocence as well, core to his character, that sets him apart from the stock brokers who jump on his bandwagon. Wells’s journey begins in the 1980s with a simple dream that plagues his sleep one night and sends him from Reno, Nevada (a switch from Calgary, presumably to evoke the Gold Rush mentality) all the way to Indonesia. There, he bankrolls an old acquaintance with the last bit of capital he has in a company bequeathed to him by his father, to satisfy a hunch. Michael Acosta (a contrastingly suave Edgar Ramirez) is a geologist with a famed track record in pinpointing valuable ore and with Wells’s backing, unearths nuggets of gold that promise the mother lode lying just beyond a lush mountainside. Thus, director Stephen Gaghan (best known as the Oscar-winning writer of Traffic) starts out by leading us on a feverish jungle adventure that echoes the 1947 classic Treasure of the Sierra Madre with Wells driven half mad by the glimmer of riches and a case of malaria. But the real substance of the story is in the immediate fallout from the gold strike. Back at home, Wall Street suits clamour for a piece of the action, but when he turns down a $300 million deal, it’s clear that Wells isn’t just in this for the money. His head is turned, though, and it drives a wedge between him and Bryce Dallas Howard, playing his down-to-earth other half, Kay. There is mild friction, too, between Wells and Acosta, although for the most part they stand united against an army of Manhattan suits led by a too-smooth Corey Stoll. Frustratingly though, these power struggles never create enough trouble or tension, and because Wells makes it clear that fabulous wealth isn’t his ultimate goal (and because Kay walks away from it, too), his increasingly madcap efforts to retain mining rights don’t seem to matter much either. Lucky for Gaghan that McConaughey can bear that burden and sweep you up in his enthusiasm, an essence powerfully distilled when he confronts a tiger to impress an Indonesian prince who might help his cause. His portrayal is bejewelled with witty little acts of self-assuredness, sometimes strutting around in his y-fronts yet almost constantly sweating with desperation. When, eventually, accusations of fraud swirl around Wells and scandal breaks, his regret is palpable, too. He may be innocent, a victim himself, or there may be more to the story than Gaghan has uncovered. The finale leaves you with a bit of uncertainty, but, more importantly, there's another missed opportunity to see our hero dig deeper for redemption. Wells stands alone, whether it’s on Wall Street or in a crowd of angry investors. That’s both a virtue and a drawback of the film, especially as it begins to become apparent that he is hunting, not really treasure, but glory. Underlying this is a suggestion that he wants to honour his father, but Gaghan doesn’t quite latch onto the seam that would have turned this into box office gold. Content yourself instead with another iridescent gem of a turn by McConaughey. Gold is released in cinemas on Friday 3 February
T2 Trainspotting review: "a slightly surreal, melancholy comedown off that initial high"
Choose… a sequel. Danny Boyle picks up the story 20 years on, as Ewan McGregor's prodigal junkie returns to face the music
★★★ The original Trainspotting was a classic, not least because it captured a moment in time when Britain was riding a wave of mid-1990s optimism. In that context, Ewan McGregor’s directive to "Choose life. Choose a job..." seemed feasible, and in vivid contrast to his character Renton’s life of drugs and grime. Two decades on, with high unemployment and a general air of depression about the place, his spirit of defiance doesn’t belong to the counterculture anymore. Renton (McGregor looking a little more creased) is off drugs, no longer on the fringes of society but part of a mainstream malaise. If the first film was a wildly invigorating shot in the arm, its long-gestating sequel is mellowed out, resigned to the way things are. View oEmbed on the source website It’s a bold change of pace for returning director Danny Boyle. While there are plenty of his trademark visual flourishes, they amount to a slightly surreal, melancholy comedown off that initial high. The mad gleam in McGregor's eye is poignantly dulled to a misty-eyed sheen. Still, the dry humour that stems from Irvine Welsh’s novels (this one loosely based on Porno) remains a vital element – arguably, even more so here – with a couple of laugh-out-loud moments. Like the first time around, Renton is introduced on the run, only this time he's on a treadmill – going nowhere. There’s a slapstick punchline to the scene that speaks volumes about his current mental state. He heads back to Edinburgh after the life he chose clearly hit a dead end, but he risks the wrath of his old junkie pals (the main cast all reprise their roles here) after making off with the swag from a drugs deal at the end of the first film. Jonny Lee Miler’s manic Sick Boy is the first in line to clock him and hapless Spud (Ewen Bremner) somehow musters the energy as well after a clumsy suicide attempt. Meanwhile, the psychotic Begbie (Robert Carlyle) is out of prison, looking to settle the score. Don’t expect too much plot. That’s merely a background feature in a film content to just hang out and rake over the good (or bad?) old days. Sick Boy persuades Renton to help him raise the money for a new business venture, a “sauna” to be fronted by his Eastern European girlfriend Veronika (Anjela Nedyalkova), who otherwise helps him blackmail VIPs in honey traps. But they get bigger kicks ripping off wallets and tearing down the street like they used to. Boyle punctuates these more dynamic, blood-rush moments with nearly still frames that echo key scenes from the original film, like Renton’s shark-like grin over the bonnet of a car. Other flashbacks go even further back, with Super 8 snippets of the lads as children. Even Begbie indulges in a reverie (Carlyle finds new depths to the character) when he drops in on Spud and finds scraps of a memoir he’s writing. Sick Boy, despite being the least evolved of the gang, chastises Renton for living in the past and Veronika makes the point, too, that in her country, people don’t like to think about what went before. Boyle, again working from a script by John Hodge, also lays himself open to accusations of wallowing too much in nostalgia but the characters are so familiar, so well-drawn (at least the males anyway) that their collective midlife crises stir up real feeling and drama. Even the soundtrack is retrospective to match the tone of bittersweet melancholy, using remixed, slightly slowed down versions of familiar tunes (Born Slippy by Underworld) along with teasing little blasts of the main theme, Iggy Pop’s Lust for Life, popping up throughout the film. If Renton is too busy looking back, it’s because he feels there is nothing to look forward to, and he impishly riffs on an old rant to underscore that: “Choose a zero hours contract and a two hour commute to work… Choose Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat… Post a picture of what you had for breakfast and hope somebody cares.” That speech aside, T2 doesn’t quite tap the zeitgeist in the same way as the first film, but what it does do is find the heart in a bunch of characters who were once defined by not caring – so hopped up on skag they would rip offer their own mams. Early on, Renton hugs his bereaved father (James Cosmo) to put his misspent youth in perspective, but there’s still enough cheek and pointed wit here to get under your skin. T2 Trainspotting is in cinemas on Friday 27 January
Live by Night review: "there's rarely a dull moment"
Ben Affleck goes from good guy to gangster in a classy period piece that skims the surface of emotion but delivers action aplenty
★★★ Men in fedoras with slick suits and shiny hair, running rum and dodging hails of bullets – Ben Affleck welcomes you to the glamorous underworld of Prohibition-era America in Live by Night. Adapting the novel by Dennis Lehane (Mystic River, Shutter Island), he keeps a steady hand behind the camera as writer/director, while, in front of it, he deftly evokes trouble beneath still waters as on-the-up gangster Joe Coughlin, a man described by Chris Cooper’s beleaguered Tampa sheriff as “once, good”. View oEmbed on the source website Having already opened to a lukewarm reception on home shores, Live by Night won’t rank among Affleck’s best directorial work, including the Oscar-winning Argo and his earlier films Gone Baby Gone (also based on a Lehane novel) and The Town. That may be because, while he handles a sprawling plot with elegance and alacrity, the passion that defines and drives Joe Coughlin – and in turn, the story – is buried too far beneath its structure. In laconic voiceover, Joe reveals how the First World War turned him against authority and into an armed robber, while the burning love he feels for Sienna Miller’s hard-nosed moll, Emma, gets him into strife with his cop father (Brendan Gleeson) and her kingpin lover Albert White (a rodent-like Robert Glenister). He could wind up dead, but instead does a spell in the slammer after a botched stick-up (the car chase is breathlessly shot), and with reports that Emma is sleeping with the fishes, he aims to take his revenge on White. If only Emma was as alluringly enigmatic on film as she is in the novel, you may not feel that Joe was wasting his energy. The vengeance Joe takes is more elaborately drawn, with him agreeing to work for the Italian Mob down in Tampa, Florida, importing rum from Cuba to corner the market and hit White where it hurts. His right-hand man is played by Chris Messina (sporting alarming buck teeth) but his real partner in crime is Zoe Saldana's Graciela, who gives the film added pulse. Graciela controls an essential shipping route with her brother, but before long she and Joe mixing business with pleasure. Inevitably, Graciela starts talking about getting out of “the life”, but it’s complicated. Even more tragically, those complications overtake the character study at the heart of the film; that friction between the hopeless romantic and the emerging tough guy. Joe assures Graciela in one scene that revenge no longer interests him, only building a future with her. But that’s not the feeling you get as you watch the bodies stack up and his dream to create the first legalised casino takes hold. Motivations get muddied and Joe gets his hands very dirty, although Affleck imbues the character with enough humanity that the pain of his spiritual demise is palpably clear. In a quietly played role, Cooper’s pragmatic Chief Figgis offers him a sharp reflection of the man he once was and has become, and that makes it even harder when he is required to deal with Figgis’s loose-cannon brother-in-law (Matthew Maher) and wayward daughter (a poignant Elle Fanning). While the action has plenty of visceral punch, it dampens the emotional impact of Joe's soul-searching. Without that depth, the film doesn’t quite live up to its epic scope. Still, Affleck has delivered another accomplished bit of film-making. Apart from looking great and keeping a brisk pace, he shows his cast (and not just himself) in the best light, knowing when to linger on a close-up or cut to the chase. Because Miller gets shortest shrift, she benefits the most, hinting at what her true feelings about Joe might be. In a world where Joe must always look over his shoulder, even under the blazing sun, such doubts breed peril and intrigue. There is rarely a dull moment, but if Affleck had thrown more light on the darkest corners of Joe’s mind, Live by Night could have been a classic. Live by Night is released in cinemas on Friday 13 January Order your copy of the Radio Times Guide to Films 2017
Sully review: "How could it not be an awards contender?"
Clint Eastwood directs Tom Hanks in the true-life tale of the pilot who splashed down in the Hudson and was hailed a hero
★★★ Sully finds Tom Hanks centre stage in a true story that taps into post-9/11 anxieties, so how could it not be an awards contender? And that’s before you factor in Clint Eastwood behind the camera; his two Oscar wins as director matching Hanks’s back-to-back triumphs in the best actor category. There's no doubting the emotional resonance of the story either, which relates how US Airways pilot Chesley Sullenberger was forced to land a passenger plane on New York’s Hudson River. View oEmbed on the source website Eastwood isn’t the type to beg the attention of the Academy, however, so this telling of the events of 15 January 2009, and the intense commotion that came afterwards, is resolutely unsentimental and distinctly unsensational. Like the hero of the piece – who questions whether he really did do the right thing – it is reserved and understated. That suits Eastwood and his style of film-making just fine. And for Hanks, playing the beleaguered pilot, it allows for an acting masterclass in playing grace under pressure. Hanks is often described as an everyman, and in the sense that Sully maintains he was just doing his job, the actor is certainly performing to type. But he also has movie-star charisma and an innate soulful quality that few other Hollywood actors bring to the screen. The fact is, he doesn’t have to do very much to draw you in to Sully’s private thoughts and reflections while the media circus is in full swing around him. Eastwood's film flashes back and forth in time, opening with nightmare images of an airbus, US Airways Flight 1549, swooping low over Manhattan. When Sully wakes up in a cold sweat, it may leave you feeling emotionally manipulated – especially because those images evoke the terrible events of 9/11. Eastwood is otherwise restrained in portraying the crash in increments throughout the film, or what Sully insists was “a forced water landing” when he is later interviewed by investigators for the NTSB (the National Transportation Safety Board). Still, the sight of New York skyscrapers from the air at skewed angles and the thrumming sounds of engines failing are truly haunting. As co-pilot Jeff Skiles, Aaron Eckhart reminds the investigators that the plane landed “on” the Hudson, not “in” the Hudson, and his dry humour in the face of what was a potential catastrophe helps to leaven the sober approach of director and star. Laura Linney is typically tender yet no-nonsense as Sully’s wife, who is besieged by reporters back on the west coast, and a source of reassurance to her husband as he is bounced between TV interviews and borderline interrogation by the NTSB. The suggestion made by his accusers – which would benefit the airline for insurance purposes – is that Sully had enough time to turn the plane around and return to LaGuardia airport, or else land on a runway seven miles away at Teterboro. It’s also put to him that one of the two engines was still operational. While having to take this on board, Sully is made to feel even more awkward with the adulation that is heaped upon him from around the world. Eastwood gets another gentle laugh at the way he deals with female attention, particularly, but this is a man brooding over what might have gone wrong. Dramatising those "What if?" scenarios is one of the more difficult tasks for Eastwood given that Sully did land the plane, saving all “155 souls” on board, against all the odds. Repetition of the action from slightly different viewpoints (including the passengers and crew) doesn’t always work to build tension. The public hearings that bring the story to its culmination are condensed as well, playing a little too much like an old Hollywood courtroom drama. The scenes feel at odds with the overall tone set by Eastwood and Hanks, where quiet level-headedness prevails over noise and chaos. Indeed, it mightn’t be exciting enough for some viewers, but Hanks is a big presence and carries this one home with great skill and composure. Sully is released in cinemas on Friday 2 December Order your copy of the Radio Times Guide to Films 2017
Allied review: "a production with plenty of class and the seductive appeal of Hollywood's Golden Age"
Love leads to suspicion for Brad Pitt and Marion Cotillard in a glossy wartime romance just like they used to make
★★★ With the Second World War as a backdrop and a fateful meeting in Casablanca, this love story bears all the hallmarks of an epic Hollywood romance. In actual fact, Allied is very contained, even claustrophobic at times, as befits a story viewed through the suspicious eyes of a Canadian intelligence officer, Wing Commander Max Vatan (Brad Pitt), who’s told that his wife, Marianne (Marion Cotillard), is working for the enemy. What the film lacks in scope, it makes up for in constant tingling suspense and raw emotion. And that frisson is certainly heightened by the rumours of an affair between the stars during production (which Cotillard has strenuously denied). View oEmbed on the source website In the film's early stages, though, the pair's on-screen chemistry does feel subdued, as Vatan parachutes into the African desert and steps carefully around Marianne, the French Resistance fighter who must pose as his wife. Their mission is to infiltrate a gathering of high-ranking Nazis and assassinate the lot of them, and Max is adamant there should be no other fireworks to distract from the plan. Inevitably, Marianne does weaken Max's resolve, and Cotillard plays the part with an effortless blend of gentle sass, sensuality and moments of porcelain vulnerability that will leave you guessing as to her motives. Pitt's character is enigmatic in a different way. He's self-possessed and perhaps a little too understated at first, before growing more agitated with the heat coming from his superiors in London. It's there that he and Marianne tie the knot for real and quickly have a child, and the rapport between the couple builds while the stakes rise, adding to the tinderbox atmosphere. Jared Harris, playing a British officer, vacillates between sympathy and stern insistence when Max is ordered to test Marianne’s loyalty. If she leaks the false information given to her, it falls to Max to execute her. Of course, the real drama is not in Max’s opposition to those in command, but the seed of doubt that begins to grow in his own mind. Every interaction with his wife becomes weighed down by paranoia, the tenderness giving way to desperation, and this breeds more uncertainty as she begins to notice that Max is being “different” with her. Director Robert Zemeckis and writer Steven Knight (Peaky Blinders, Locke) could have made more of this psychological subtext and the repercussions of broken trust instead of sending Max on his own fact-finding mission midway through the film. On the upside, that does afford Zemeckis (a veteran of blockbusters such as the Back to the Future franchise) the opportunity to include a bit of rousing, all-guns-blazing derring-do behind enemy lines. He also underlines intimate moments with sweeping, fiery action, whether it’s a love scene in an African sandstorm, Marianne giving birth during the Blitz, or a German plane literally crashing a party at their Hampstead home. There are dramatic contrivances as well as a few discrepancies when it comes to the nitty-gritty of classified military operations (how do Max and Marianne smuggle machine guns into a Nazi cocktail party?). And referencing Hollywood classics like Casablanca does the film no great favours. However, this is still a production with plenty of class and the seductive appeal of the Golden Age. Cotillard, in particular, shines in a role that plays on her doe-eyed, almost angelic aura, floating across the screen in silky gowns with a tenuous smile. In the context of 1940s cinema, the occasional overblown moment makes sense as well, and if you don’t feel a lump in your throat by the final curtain, you may want to consider a career in espionage. Only the iciest temperament could resist. Allied is in cinemas on Friday 25 November Order your copy of the Radio Times Guide to Films 2017
Inferno review "a Frankenstein’s monster of a movie that's dead on its feet"
Tom Hanks unlocks the code to screen boredom in an apocalyptic travelogue devoid of excitement, thrills… and floppy hair
★★ Over the course of the three films in which Tom Hanks has played Harvard academic Dr Robert Langdon, his hair has become distinctly less floppy. Alas, the same can’t be said of the dramatic tension in these stories from novelist Dan Brown. While the ever-game star jogs around quaint European landmarks with a look of mild consternation, director Ron Howard struggles to inject real urgency into proceedings. Initially, this boilerplate thriller feels a little different to previous instalments The Da Vinci Code and Angels & Demons. Langdon wakes up in a hospital in Florence, Italy, concussed and unable to remember how he got there, when people start shooting at him. Across town, evil genius Bertrand Zobist (Ben Foster, seemingly desperate to twiddle his too-short facial hair) has committed suicide and his note to this cruel world is a deadly virus that he has engineered to cull vast swathes of humanity. View oEmbed on the source website Zobist believes global population control is necessary to ensure our species’ long-term survival. In his infinite wisdom, he hasn’t just released the toxin he has spent years developing – that would be too easy. Instead he has hidden it away in a public place and left a series of clues as to its whereabouts. So begins the standard, pedestrian treasure hunt where we’re pinballed around between historical sites, with so many woozy, high-speed tracking shots you may experience motion sickness. Dante and his poetic vision of the nine circles of hell provides the inspiration for Zobist’s scheme, as well as describing the viewing experience (the sheer interminability of it!) and so is the starting point for the exhausting touristic trawl that goes from Italy to Istanbul. Even the postcard scenery is dulled by overcast skies, and while Hanks stares hard (really hard) at paintings by Botticelli and Vasari, Howard feels the pressure to animate these masterworks. Soldiers go to war in his mind’s eye and Langdon clasps his sore head and proclaims, “I’m having visions!” Introductory scenes are dominated by horrific images ripped from Dante’s Inferno, cut together in a burning frenzy and, later on, action scenes are treated in the same fit-inducing style, which only serves to cause confusion and further distance you from the characters. The eclectic Euro-casting sees Felicity Jones wasted as Langdon's sounding board, while Sidse Babett Knudsen (Borgen) and Omar Sy (Untouchable) scrabble around in his wake (frescoes in tatters), trying to add gravitas as members of the World Health Organisation. Sy in particular comes across as a little stilted, and there are hints at a failed romance between Langdon and Knudsen that are batted around very late in the day for no dramatic gain. Hanks is always watchable, but Langdon is as interesting as watching paint dry. He may be saving the world but he has nothing personal at stake – even as Knudsen (who does have great presence) appeals to him with her wistful gaze. Brown and screenwriter David Koepp spare no room for characterisation or even a moral dilemma to thicken the plot. Irfan Khan, as a shadowy fixer who was once a client of Zobist, is the only one among the line-up who understands the immense silliness of the situation and acts accordingly – with dry one-liners and a wry expression. He’s also a calming influence, standing firm while everyone else races against the clock, trying incredibly hard to convince us that this is an edge-of-your-seat thrill ride. But you don’t have to be a mad scientist to understand that Inferno is dead on its feet, a Frankenstein’s monster of a movie, pointlessly lumbering about in search of a heart. Inferno is in cinemas from Friday 14 October Order your copy of the Radio Times Guide to Films 2017
The Girl on the Train review: "Emily Blunt strikes a deft balance between porcelain fragility and eerie menace"
The casting of Emily Blunt as a dumpy alcoholic might have raised eyebrows, but her compelling performance lifts an otherwise safe big-screen take on the Paula Hawkins mystery
★★★ Being faithful isn’t always a virtue, especially when it comes to adapting a novel as widely read as Paula Hawkins's The Girl on the Train. You need to add a little something extra. Director Tate Taylor (The Help) has created a very neat (if rather too tidy) domestic thriller, but he hasn’t exploited the medium to bring anything fresh to the story, riding instead on the solid track the book provides. Relocating the action from London to New York only serves to get more American bums on seats, and the casting of the usually fresh-faced Emily Blunt as a dumpy alcoholic has had some fans bemoaning a lack of authenticity. Even Hawkins was sceptical and, yes, Blunt is still beautiful after being made up to look ruddy-faced and shrouded in a heavy grey coat. But Blunt also represents the one compelling deviation to the story. Her anti-heroine, Rachel, comes across as more tragic for looking like the kind of woman others might envy, with those sparkling blue eyes turned poignantly glassy with sorrow. View oEmbed on the source website On her daily commute to Manhattan, she sips vodka while gazing out of the window, paying special attention to the road where she used to live with her former husband (Justin Theroux). He has a new life now with Anna (Rebecca Ferguson), who is fed up with Rachel’s loitering. But it’s the couple’s neighbour Megan (Haley Bennett) who becomes Rachel’s most dangerous obsession. Megan is an ethereal beauty, and judging by glimpses of her looking whimsical on the balcony with husband Scott (Luke Evans), Rachel imagines she has the perfect life. Scenes shot from Megan’s point of view tell a different story, and though it’s a tricky double-act for Bennett to pull off, she doesn’t have the presence or power on screen that would have made the clash more resonant. The real intrigue comes when Megan goes missing, which is around the same time that Rachel has one of her booze-induced blackouts. She knows she was in the area at the time of the disappearance, and the morning after her head is bloodied. But she can’t remember if, or how, she is involved. Alison Janney is fearsome as the hard-nosed cop who tries to bully a confession out of Rachel, with Blunt striking a deft balance between porcelain fragility (on the verge of cracking) and eerie menace. Taylor uses Rachel’s fractured memories along with other flashbacks to Megan’s unhappy home life to gradually build a picture of what happened, and while this creates a dark and spellbinding air of uncertainty, in the end Rachel only remembers key details at convenient moments. A few small holes in the plot don’t break the spell, but they are more obvious on film where a novel can bridge those gaps with other deeper, psychological insights. Where the film does gain some depth is in observing the way Rachel ingratiates herself with Scott. It speaks volumes about her neediness, and also her haplessness, because by trying to help him she bolsters a theory that he killed his wife. Whatever Rachel does, she is damned, but the cleverness of the conceit is that, in another film (a yuppie thriller from the 1980s like The Hand that Rocks the Cradle, or Single White Female), Rachel would be deemed the femme fatale. An annoying, overblown finale disturbs the balance just as Rachel is beginning to come to terms with the person she has become – or always was. She reckons that, “I’m not the girl I used to be,” and it’s that particular jigsaw puzzle, made up of Rachel’s bad choices and deepest insecurities that, however disturbing at times, draws you along on the winding journey. The Girl on the Train is released in cinemas on Wednesday 5 October Order your copy of the Radio Times Guide to Films 2017
Ben-Hur review: "decent popcorn entertainment, but hardly epic"
It's chariots at the ready, as Jack Huston steps into Charlton Heston's sandals to re-create one of the most beloved blockbusters of old
★★★ While there is nothing particularly awful about this remake of the 1959 ancient-world classic, the brash, breakneck style – obviously geared towards a young, modern audience – renders it less epic. At best this version of Ben-Hur (also filmed in 1925, from Lew Wallace’s novel) is decent popcorn entertainment with an exciting re-creation of the famous chariot race that, surprisingly, avoids looking too much like a video game. In the title role, Jack Huston (British grandson of director John Huston) lacks the imposing presence of Charlton Heston, but he does cut a dashing figure in his own quiet way. He makes his feelings known without grandstanding, as Judah Ben-Hur evolves gradually into the type of man who can withstand the pull of wild horses and steer his way to victory. View oEmbed on the source website The chariot race is foreshadowed from scene one, right at the start line, when Roman officer Messala (Toby Kebbell) promises to kill Judah Ben-Hur. In flashback these men are brothers (they were just friends in the original story), an idea taken literally with Messala having been adopted into Ben-Hur’s family in Judaea. They’re blue-bloods and the point is made, too, about how removed they are from the rabble who are growing ever more discontent with Roman rule. In one of the modern touches, there are repeated references to the “zealots” who threaten the status quo. When Messala begins to question his own place in the household – and why he can never win the hand of Judah’s sister (Sofia Black-D’Elia) – it spurs a tour of duty with the Roman army that gives him new purpose, at odds with that of the Jewish prince. Director Timur Bekmambetov (the man behind high-concept action flicks Wanted and Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter) simmers the pot that turns Messala against Judah without delving deep enough into his inferiority complex. When Messala returns (bearing the gift of an old toy chariot), it is Judah’s refusal to hand over a rebel that lands him in the galley of a Roman warship, rowing under pain of death. Bekmambetov films the ensuing battle with a Grecian fleet in snatches through the portholes, giving a thick sense of confusion and fear, but denying us the full sweep of the action. It’s here, too, that he cuts away much of the 1959 film’s three-and-a-half-hour runtime, leaving out the part where Judah saves a Roman consul from a watery grave and is assimilated back into high society. Instead, Judah is washed up on a beach where Morgan Freeman’s dreadlocked wise-man (he voice-acts but otherwise is barely present) spots his potential for wrangling horses at high speed. Chariot racing is his business and he suggests to Judah that challenging Messala in the circus may be the best way to exact his revenge. Underlying the plot, then as now, is the pull between love and hate, encapsulated by the fate of Jesus Christ. He is almost too human in the shape of Rodrigo Santoro, but that’s part of an overall drive by Bekmambetov to get down and dirty, telling the story with more grit. There is no gloss or heavenly glow, and he also plays down the crucifixion, when a miracle is visited on Judah’s mother and sister. But in upping the realism he forgets that the religiosity of William Wyler’s film was a key part of its power and another reason why, in our more secular times, Ben-Hur was probably best left alone. Revenge, when it finally comes, doesn’t taste so sweet for the spiritually enlightened – and that’s as it should be – although the very last scenes push too hard for a neat resolution. Kebbell aims to bring another dimension to Messala, but Bekmambetov’s frenetic approach doesn’t allow too much room for that. Ironically, Wyler’s film is edgier and more truthful in the way it puts an end to the feud. For those who have never tuned in to see Charlton Heston in his most iconic role on any given bank holiday, it’s academic. There is a good story here – albeit stripped to the bone – and the handling of the chariot race, with the ripping of wheels, thundering of hooves and sheer brutality of men being thrown to their deaths, is still impressive to watch (though less of a feat with CGI). Huston follows bravely in Heston’s footsteps to hold it all together, but it’s a burden no actor should have had to bear. Ben-Hur is in cinemas from Wednesday 7 September
Bridget Jones's Baby review: "a bundle of joy"
Renée Zellweger's hapless heroine is pregnant – but unsure who the father is – in a comedy sequel that really delivers
★★★★ Over a decade after Bridget said "yes" to her Mr Darcy, she is alone again in a total hoot of a sequel, outdoing the second film by far (almost matching the first), perhaps because the scatty diarist is carrying a lot more baggage now. Reprising the iconic role, Renée Zellweger bears the burden well (unafraid to show a few wrinkles) and gives it plenty of gusto from the off, when Bridget celebrates her 43rd birthday with a cupcake and plenty of wine. She is older but no wiser despite putting her career first for once. Colin Firth slips back into the Mark Darcy role like a glove – or a wet shirt – married, but alas, not to Bridget. Helen Fielding's third Bridget Jones novel had fans up in arms by submitting him to an even worse fate, but director Sharon Maguire (who made her big screen debut with the first film in 2001) works instead from a script based on Fielding's columns for The Independent in 2005. View oEmbed on the source website Here, it’s Hugh Grant's Daniel Cleaver who is pushed out of the picture, but it’s the loss of Darcy that impels Bridget to put her heart into her work. Still, she is in danger of losing that, too, when a team of young executive hipsters are drafted in to take the news viral. Behind the scenes Zellweger has some great X-rated banter with Sarah Solemani, a standout as a newsreader so outrageously saucy – cleverly timing her quips between headline soundbites – she’d make Fiona Bruce blush. She urges Bridget to cut loose and get "dirty" at a muddy music festival and after a bit of good old-fashioned slapstick Bridget is soon falling into bed with Patrick Dempsey's suave American self-help guru Jack Qwant. Not much later, a run-in with Darcy and a lot more wine leaves her twisted in the sheets once again and torn over what to do when she finds out she’s “up the duff”. Emma Thompson tickles the ribs as Bridget's doctor, who wearily plays along when the expectant mother brings Darcy and Qwant to alternate appointments, too cowardly to tell one about the other. Thompson also co-wrote the script with Fielding and Dan Mazer (Sacha Baron Cohen’s frequent collaborator since Ali G) and together they trump the Edge of Reason with a sassier, more satisfying mix of dry wit and knockabout comedy. Apart from Bridget's obvious dilemma, they draw on her insecurities about balancing motherhood with a career and ageing in an industry that prizes youth – and YouTube – above experience. Kate O’Flynn certainly grabs the attention as Bridget’s new boss, a hilarious glossy-lipped Goth/Goebbels cross, only impressed by Bridget when she books Jack as a guest and proceeds to interrogate him, live on TV, about his sex life. Even if the machinations of the plot are highly unlikely and predictable, like the best British comedy, there are moments that make you cringe as well as laugh out loud. Along with that, there’s a familiarity about Bridget – and her inclination to show herself up, instinctively played by Zellweger – that heightens those pivotal moments when she could just tell the truth and chooses not to. Elsewhere, there is an edge to Dempsey’s Mr Nice Guy that could have run deeper to make the character more interesting in a Cleaverish sort of way, but the push and pull between him and Firth (stoic as ever) is nicely played as Bridget decides who she wants to raise her child. The scene where she is forced to introduce them to each other – dragging in a random bystander named Ariyaratna Sithamparanathan to try and defuse the situation – is classic. Witty, playful touches like this and a sterling supporting cast that brings back Jim Broadbent and Gemma Jones as mum and dad, Celia Imrie as mum’s bestie and Sally Phillips as Bridget’s confidante, ensure that Bridget Jones’s Baby is a bundle of joy. Bridget Jones's Baby is in cinemas from Friday 16th September
War Dogs review: "there's never a dull moment"
Jonah Hill and Miles Teller star in the crazy but true story of two slacker dudes who muscled their way into the arms trade – and made a killing
★★★★★ One of those stranger-than-fiction true stories provides the basis for War Dogs, a cracking comedy thriller from The Hangover director Todd Phillips, named after the small-business arms dealers who cashed in under the Bush administration. Jonah Hill and Miles Teller (Whiplash) are surely the strangest of these opportunists, two 20-something stoners from Miami Beach who somehow win contracts to supply arms to the US military in Iraq and Afghanistan through the mid-to-late noughties. View oEmbed on the source website Hill is a study in excess as Efraim Diveroli, from his immense waistline to his in-your-face attitude. After reconnecting with his old school buddy David Packouz (Teller), he pulls an AK47 on a street hood – firing it into the air in broad daylight. Guns are his uncle’s stock-in-trade, but Hill has worked out that the big money is in the War on Terror. Through a public website designed to open the field to small businesses (that Bush, so socially conscious…), he pitches for US defence contracts supplying random bits and pieces of lethal hardware. Hill tells Teller he “lives off the crumbs, like a rat”, but in a billion-dollar industry the crumbs are worth millions. With a baby on the way and massage therapy proving to be a greasier business than he had expected, Teller forgets his antiwar principles and becomes Hill’s right-hand man. That’s the cue for Phillips to launch into a Goodfellas-style rags-to-filthy-riches morality tale, with kinetic camerawork (although, crucially, not too much) and a wry voiceover by Teller that boggles at just how easy it is to muscle in among the big boys. Is there a catch? Of course, there is. Small hiccups have life-threatening consequences, like a logistical problem caused by trade embargoes that means Hill and Teller have to go in on the ground in Iraq to deliver a shipment of Berettas. This sequence could be a film in itself, tickling the funny bone while being heart-hammeringly tense. The action gains even more momentum when the pair get a bite on a hotly contested contract worth hundreds of millions – although they realise it may be more than they can chew. A bug-eyed Bradley Cooper (his eyes unnervingly magnified by his glasses) holds the key to a massive dump of Albanian ammo that could help secure the deal, but he’s on the US terror watchlist. An ominous mood builds, not least because the terms sound too good to be true. Hill and Teller take success for granted, turning up for a meeting in Washington in a haze of pot smoke. But that leads to the harder stuff for Hill. And in a gangster film like this (and these two are essentially gangsters, despite their association with the government), that's always a sign of bad things to come. Even as Phillips mines slackerish behaviour for laughs, more tragically he reveals how cracks form in the partnership. Increasingly, Teller is torn between his wife (Ana de Armas) and child and the egocentric Hill. But when a gun is put to his head, it’s the beginning of the inevitable end. Hill and Teller play two very different characters who wouldn’t be easily likeable except that the script (co-written by Phillips) and the actors successfully trade on the guys’ naivety. Hill has an especially tough task and successfully brings humanity – more specifically, a boyish neediness – to his portrayal of a shameless glutton who can barely see past the dollar signs in his eyes. Sobering moments come between regular shots of wry humour and rattling jolts of adrenaline, all skilfully pulled together by Phillips without one element undermining the other. There’s never a dull moment in War Dogs and just when you think it can’t get any crazier, it blows your mind. War Dogs is in cinemas from Friday 26th August
David Brent: Life on the Road review – "Still the king of cringe"
"Hello, Reading!" Ricky Gervais returns as his tragicomic alter ego, and this time he's giving up the office to fulfil his dreams of being a rock star. What could go wrong?
★★★ Ricky Gervais often says that if you don’t know who the David Brent is in your office, it’s probably you. Actually, there may be a bit of Brent in all of us – that vulnerable person who’s eager to please and only wants to be popular – which may explain why the two series of The Office from the early noughties have become a landmark in British comedy. Thirteen years later, Gervais finally brings his creation to the big screen in Life on the Road and proves Brent still has plenty of mileage. That’s not to say Gervais keeps this vehicle revved from start to end. In the title song, the wannabe rock star croons about putting his “foot down to the floor, 70 miles an hour – but no more”. Likewise, the laugh count is high but the film (which Gervais wrote and shoots in the same mockumentary style as his original sitcom) is definitely funnier earlier on when Brent is in his natural environment: the offices of Lavichem, flogging feminine hygiene products. With his bad-taste jokes, nervy grin and the punctuating laugh that peters out into a sigh, Brent (or “the Brentmeister” as his equally infantile desk mate calls him) is still the king of cringe. View oEmbed on the source website He’s no longer the boss, however, and without the minions paid to suffer his tomfoolery (he’s frequently told by a bullying colleague to put a sock in it), his thoughts turn to rock stardom. Cashing in all his pension investments, he takes two weeks leave and hires a tour bus to ferry him and his band Foregone Conclusion around the dive pubs of Reading. Being based in Slough, it doesn’t cost him much in petrol, just a helluva lot in expenses and, above all, dignity. There isn’t a plot as such to what follows, with the action unfolding as a series of stage turns that are more toe-curling than toe-tapping, as the pressure builds backstage. You may recall Brent’s rapper sidekick Dom Johnson (aka Doc Brown, aka Ben Bailey Smith) from their hilarious 2013 music video Equality Street, recorded for Comic Relief. That’s referenced again here after Dom reveals that Brent only offered to be his manager before taking over the show with ditties like Slough, Lady Gypsy and Native American (“soar like an eagle, sit like a pelican”). Though Gervais has a half-decent voice and was big in the Philippines in the 1980s with his group Seona Dancing, his more obvious talent is spinning a tune into comedy gold where a catchy beat cleverly underscores the punchline. Free from having to adhere to BBC TV guidelines, Gervais also cuts closer to the bone with Brent’s half-baked musings in relation to ethnic minorities and the gender divide. There are a couple of teeth-gritting moments where you’re not sure whether to chuckle or choke, but he usually causes offence while trying to dig himself out of a hole or when he tries to appear “chillaxed” regarding taboo subjects and around attractive women. Because he tries so hard, you can’t hate him for it. In fact, you feel for him, because – as Dom and roadie Tom Basden point out – he finds it impossible just to be himself. It’s a pity the old “Slough posse” (Martin Freeman, Mackenzie Crook and even series co-writer Stephen Merchant) don’t figure in this spin-off – it would have been interesting to hear their take on their old boss in his new leather-jacketed guise. A different line-up of talking heads are much more brutally honest about Brent when his shortcomings don’t really need pointing out. There’s no getting to know the band either (including drummer Andy Burrows of Razorlight, who co-produced the accompanying album), who only look blankly and shift their weight while Brent rambles away. What could have been "This Is Spinal Tap meets Alan Partridge" doesn’t quite catch fire and Gervais doesn’t fully exploit the big-screen canvas he's been given. But, as a portrait of a tragicomic hero – snigger-inducing yet ultimately heart-warming – it’s an irresistible bit of chilled-out entertainment. David Brent: Life on the Road is in cinemas on Friday 19 August
Tarzan review: "a struggle to reconcile vine-swinging thrills with squirm-inducing subtext"
Alexander Skarsgård and Margot Robbie look out of place as Tarzan and Jane in a bumpy jungle romp
★★ Forget memories of Johnny Weissmuller puffing out his chest, sucking in his gut and announcing himself as “Me, Tarzan” to a bemused Jane, having just swung in on a vine to pluck her from danger. There is a bit of that in The Legend of Tarzan – arriving over half a century after the jungle hero’s Hollywood heyday – but this movie is aimed at a more enlightened audience who might take offence at the sexist, racist undertones threaded through the original stories by Edgar Rice Burroughs. The irony is that modern viewers are also sophisticated enough to see the wood for the trees and the political correctness thuds so hard you may as well call “Timber!” View oEmbed on the source website When we meet Tarzan (Alexander Skarsgård of TV’s True Blood), he’s already in the habit of wearing a suit, drinking tea with pinkie finger extended and sombrely musing on the plight of the Congolese whose country, in 1884, is being carved up between Great Britain and Belgium. He sits in the House of Lords and is known to his friends as John but to the wider public he is Lord Greystoke, whose upbringing in the African jungle is the stuff of legend. Jane (Margot Robbie) is his wife and certainly no shrinking violet, making her opinions heard when hubbie is asked to return to the Congo on a diplomatic mission. Here, British colonialism appears to be a friendly, fair-minded sort of affair – it’s our partners in Brussels who are taking advantage. But even those who voted Brexit might suspect this picture is a little skewed. The race politics is further muddied by Samuel L Jackson as a real-life veteran of the American Civil War, George Washington Williams, who takes Greystoke aside and suggests the Belgians are bolstering their economy with slavery. When Tarzan finally returns to his old stomping ground, Jackson's role then switches to cringe-worthy comedy sidekick while Skarsgård does a very slow striptease – he only gets his shirt off in the final third. One of the benefits of a monosyllabic Tarzan is that, to put it simply, you get to the action quicker. When the so-called "wild man" finally shows up in this movie, he’s then bogged down by a struggle to reconcile vine-swinging thrills with squirm-inducing subtext (the white man bringing order to the colony). Skarsgård is certainly an imposing physical presence squaring up to silverback gorillas and director David Yates (the darker Harry Potter movies) gives him psychological demons to grapple with, too. But the guilt is token, conveyed in gentle moping between fly-by-vine, butt-kicking frolics that are too brief and badly edited. And worse, with the CG critters you can spot the seams, despite clouds of dust and mist. Along with the wildlife, Tarzan has other enemies to contend with; among them, Djimon Hounsou, reduced to playing the “noble savage” again – almost 20 years after Amistad and Gladiator – as tribal leader Chief Mbonga who has been nursing a grudge since childhood. Flashbacks fill in the gaps in Tarzan’s backstory and also reveal how Jane captured his heart before inevitably getting into trouble again. (She insists she is no "damsel" and head-butts one of her captors in a laughable bid to prove the point.) Christoph Waltz is the Belgian envoy who strikes a deal with Mbonga to deliver Tarzan in return for diamonds, doing yet another variation on his camp villain from Inglourious Basterds. By the time Tarzan musters sufficient enthusiasm to do his trademark yodel, it’s not enough to rouse excitement, only disturb your slumber. The script is just too uncertain, treading softly-softly to make the character seem less of a relic, or hitting false comic notes between brooding close-ups. Ultimately, our hero never finds his feet – or should that be his swing? The makers of George of the Jungle had it right – in this day and age, Tarzan only makes sense as a clown in a loincloth.
The Boss review: "A big fat drag of a movie"
For all her live-wire energy, Melissa McCarthy struggles to raise laughs with her latest comic creation
★★ This is the second collaboration between Hollywood funny girl Melissa McCarthy and hubby/director Ben Falcone (after 2014's Tammy), and once again it feels as though he is a ball and chain on her comic energy. The Boss is a big fat drag of a movie and McCarthy, throwing herself into it with her usual crackling, live-wire energy, can only lift it in places. Mr and Mrs both take credit for the script that clunks at every turn after multimillionaire fat cat Michelle Darnell (McCarthy) is publicly disgraced for insider trading and turfed out of her big-ass mansion. Kristen Bell is the petite blonde sidekick and long-suffering PA, Claire, who is forced to put a roof over Darnell’s head when, mostly, what she wants to do is shove it down the toilet. View oEmbed on the source website McCarthy plays it typically loud and obnoxious, but unlike her recent performances in The Heat and Spy, she takes it too far here. Arguably, it’s Falcone giving her too much leeway when, like in Tammy, gags too often culminate in cuss words, and when profanity isn’t the punchline, there’s random violence. Darnell agrees to take Claire’s young daughter Rachel (Ella Anderson) to the equivalent of a Girl Guides meeting and proceeds to split the room with a plan to sell home-baked treats on a global scale. That leads to a claws-out scrap on the streets of suburban Chicago that plays like a junior Kill Bill. Apparently schoolgirls kicking the brownie out of each other passes for comedy, but it’s difficult to know who the gags are pitched at. At times the story leans towards good old-fashioned family values (much is made of Darnell growing up in care) but the dialogue is fifty shades of blue. Peter Dinklage is the butt of many a crass joke as Renault, Darnell’s rival in big business and former lover, but they mostly revolve around his height (or lack thereof) and repeated insinuations about his sexual prowess. He hams it up for all he’s worth, which only confirms his desperation at the lack of genuinely funny material. Kathy Bates steals both scenes she’s in as Darnell's mentor, so it’s a pity her time on screen is so limited, and Claire's romance with Mike (Tyler Labine) feels slotted in as an afterthought. The finale, which switches to all-action mode when Darnell breaks into Renault’s office, leaves Claire and and Mike exposed as mere props in a series of lame knob, bum and boob jokes. This part also features the umpteenth slow-motion strut towards camera to a thudding hip-hop beat. The effect: humdrum. It's such a shame because Michelle Darnell is a promising comic creation, with dollar signs for eyes, a hard-nosed attitude and polo-neck jumpers unrolled to the jaw that threaten to swallow her head completely. When allowed to cut loose and improvise, McCarthy affords her a few witty lines as well – she’s particularly scathing in a confrontation with her male peers at a country club luncheon. Of course, it’s a tirade peppered with filth, and things get unintentionally awkward because Darnell has no other strings to her bow. McCarthy’s innate charm shines through and there is no doubting her prodigious talent as a comedy actress, but all that still isn’t enough to counter Darnell’s abrasive, in-your-face approach, which is apparently shared by the man who calls the shots behind the camera. Quite simply McCarthy works very hard for little or no pay-off. The Boss is released in cinemas on Friday 10 June
Alice through the Looking Glass review: "It doesn’t make sense, but its weirdness is a virtue"
Mia Wasikowska's headstrong heroine returns to Wonderland where Johnny Depp's Hatter needs her help, in another phantasmagorical fantasy inspired by Lewis Carroll's creations
★★★ Guaranteed to aggravate purists, this sequel to Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland has almost nothing to do with Lewis Carroll’s classic children’s story. Those evil masterminds in Hollywoodland have merely snatched his beloved characters and trapped them inside a more mainstream movie with chases, time-travel and Johnny Depp in another silly wig doing another silly voice. It still doesn’t make complete sense, but its weirdness remains a virtue. To start, with Mia Wasikowska, returning as Alice, is the unlikeliest sea captain you’ll ever see. She has stepped into her father’s shoes to explore the world on his trusty ship, The Wonder, but alas her mother (Lindsay Duncan) is a practical woman who is just about to sign it away to a sneering toff (Leo Bill) to keep them out of the poor house. View oEmbed on the source website Being a bit of a brat (“headstrong” is the word often used), Alice snaps at mum before storming off straight through a mirror back into Wonderland. Despite James Bobin being in the director's chair, this is still emphatically Burton’s vision – just as gloriously garish as before, although with fewer darker, shadowy parts. And in his house, shaped like a top hat, the Hatter (Depp) is also having issues. Psychology never figured much in Carroll’s books but, here – because it’s Hollywood and they love a backstory – the Hatter is driven mad by the disappearance of his family long ago. They were presumed dead, killed by the Jabberwocky under the command of the Red Queen (Helena Bonham Carter), but now Hatter has reason to believe they’re still alive. Everyone thinks he’s doolally, naturally – that’s Anne Hathaway as the White Queen (dazed-looking rather than ethereal), the Tweedles (Matt Lucas in double-vision), the White Rabbit (voiced by Michael Sheen) and the Blue Caterpillar (Alan Rickman, to whom the film is dedicated) – but they beg Alice go back in time to find out what happened anyway. Sacha Baron Cohen brings another intriguing dimension to the story as “the personification of time”, part-man, part clock (there are cogs in the back of his skull) who denies Alice access to the “Chronosphere” – a sort of mechanical capsule that rides the waves of history – because, he warns, “you cannot change the past” and any efforts to do so could be cataclysmic. Of course, she steals it anyway. She’s a curious, “headstrong” girl and that hasn’t changed. Meanwhile, the bad blood that exists between the White and Red queens also comes under scrutiny, explaining why Bonham Carter’s head is so magnificently swollen. She wants the Chronosphere, too, for the purposes of world domination and to set things straight on a childhood trauma. Bobin (who worked with Cohen on Da Ali G Show and also made the recent Muppet films) has a lot of balls to juggle, and though his heroine is strong-willed, she often charges off without a clear plan. Carroll’s Alice was in some ways more passive – pin-balled around and having to react – and that made the dreamlike qualities of her adventure even more intense. In contrast this Alice stamps her feet a lot, often to no avail, but that at least gives her scope to learn a lesson with the words of Time ringing in her ears. There is an overall arc to Alice's journey rather than the zigzagging artful nonsense that just wouldn’t translate from Carroll’s work to the screen – not without alienating that part of the audience who don’t take umbrage on his behalf. This is by no means a well-oiled machine. Some parts are as clunky as the rusting clock of Time (breaking down after Alice hijacks the Chronosphere), but Wasikowska is a good anchor, bringing the requisite vulnerability to keep Alice from being insufferable, while Depp, despite the scary eye make-up, is full to the brim with Mad Hatterish charm. Even if some are left wondering why this sequel was made, kids of all ages are more likely to take the film as they see it and simply enjoy the ride. Alice through the Looking Glass is released in cinemas on Friday 27 May
A Hologram for the King review: "not your standard Hollywood love story"
Businessman Tom Hanks has a midlife crisis in the Middle East in a fish-out-water-comedy without the requisite laughs
★★ Tom Hanks is a stranger in a strange land in this adaptation of Dave Eggers’s bestselling novel from writer/director Tom Tykwer (Cloud Atlas). Even if you do gradually warm to his character, don’t expect to feel the same way about the place he finds himself in. Saudi Arabia is the setting and in some ways the villain of the piece, not unlike the way Tokyo came across in Lost in Translation, but with crucial differences: the only bright lights in the desert are the sun and stars, and, given the climate, the portrayal feels surprisingly cold. Oh, and Lost in Translation was much funnier. But is it supposed to be a comedy, or a drama? The tone of the film shifts like the Arabian sands. View oEmbed on the source website In the throes of a midlife crisis, Hanks’s can-do American businessman Alan Clay finds his resolve weakened by the capricious nature of the Saudi royals who have invited him to pitch for a contract supplying IT systems for a new mini-city. He doesn’t get much “face-time” with the prince or the king, instead his team is relegated to a big black tent a stone’s throw from the air-conditioned paradise of development HQ where they sweat it out in hope of reward. Alan’s discomfort is emphasised by the many chairs he sits on and breaks, providing a bit of jarring slapstick. Alan also has a comedy sidekick in the shape of newcomer Alexander Black (hand-picked for the role by Hanks), who plays taxi driver Yousef. The mock ethnic accent might raise a chuckle, along with his fear of turning the key in the ignition (he's wary of being bombed – not by terrorists, but by a jealous husband). However, such running jokes soon get old and the pair's relationship doesn’t develop in any meaningful way to enlighten Alan – or the rest of us – about the local culture. The point about Alan is that he’s disconnected, and judging by emails to his daughter, it’s the same whether he’s home or away. Fine, but those gaps of understanding aren’t properly bridged. Inevitably, Clay gets the urge to reach out and touch someone. And that falls to his husky-voiced doctor Zahra (Sarita Choudhury), but she only lays her hands on him to examine a big lump on his back. (That’s a metaphor-alert for the emotional baggage that is weighing Alan down.) She stays aloof for the most part and it’s left to Yousef to state the obvious: Saudi women do not go out for cocktails and kissy-face. This is never going to be your standard Hollywood love story. There are stolen glances and eventually a few messages exchanged, but whatever Zahra is going through in her personal life isn’t for sharing, and the risks she is taking by indulging Alan’s need to talk are never made clear. Tykwer creates a mood piece rather than a journey where the sense of alienation is heavy and, eventually, stifling. The film is weird without redemption; a story of love across borders without any peril and a fish-out-of-water comedy without any laughs. If the similarly themed Salmon Fishing in the Yemen gently waded through the waters of midlife angst, this is what happens when the river dries up. Tom Hanks is always watchable and endearing but he is wandering around in futility looking for signs of life here. The hologram of the title refers to the company’s latest innovation in face-to-face communications and it could also describe Tykwer’s treatment of the source material, turning something of weight and substance into a mere light show. A Hologram for the King is released in cinemas on Friday 20 May
The Huntsman: Winter's War review: "a breezy fantasy spin-off with plenty of Chris Hemsworth's easy charm"
Hemsworth goes it alone as the waywardly accented Huntsman in an eye-catching if plot-holey prequel/sequel to the Snow White story
★★★ After turning the Snow White story on its head and rolling her around in the mud a little, the makers of Snow White and the Huntsman have cast her aside and given The Huntsman top billing in a breezy spin-off fantasy adventure. But apart from dulling the feminist edge that Kristen Stewart brought, the obvious drawback here is that Chris Hemsworth must carry the movie. Yes, his shoulders are broad, but his performances are never too hefty. His “Scootish” accent also leaves a bit to be desired, so it’s just as well that he has a naturally imposing presence and plenty of easy charm to fall back on. Still, he’s upstaged by the women again, among them Jessica Chastain as Sara, the huntswoman he trains alongside and later calls his wife, years before encountering Snow White in the woods. They’re brought together by Emily Blunt, who elegantly strikes a balance between deep hurt and bitter hate as Freya, queen of a kingdom where all sorts of Celtic accents collide (Chastain seems to be doing “Oirish”) and she rules, not with an iron fist, but with magic fingers that can raise ice from the ground. View oEmbed on the source website Evidently, supernatural abilities and psychotic tendencies run in the family, as Freya is also the sister of the fabulously evil Ravenna. Charlize Theron reprises that role, with her gold Dior look and eyes like silver daggers, but hers is only a small part. She reigns over a different territory, while Freya raises an army of kidnapped children to make up for the one she lost when her lover betrayed her. Her heart is frozen and she shows no mercy when the Huntsman and Sara – brought up to lead that army – break a cardinal rule and fall in love. Cut to seven years later, after the events of the first film, and Snow White (unseen), having usurped her wicked stepmother and gotten rid of that pesky mirror, orders the Huntsman to retrieve it before it finds its way into the Ice Queen’s frigid hands. So, this is part-prequel, part-sequel, and first-time feature director Cedric Nicolas-Troyan does a fair job of trying to even out the action. But there are a few slow-going boggy parts as the Huntsman wanders through the woods. He has only four dwarfs for company this time: the wryly amusing double-act of Nick Frost and Rob Brydon, plus Sheridan Smith, brightening every scene she’s in as a freckled ladette, while Alexandra Roach is her dippier gal pal. Nicolas-Troyan lightens the fairy-tale gloom of the previous film in all aspects, with just the odd scary part – most notably a bruising encounter with a musclebound goblin. The fight scenes are edited with a hyperactive energy, but the director’s speciality is visual effects (he earned an Oscar nomination in that category for his work on Snow White and the Huntsman) and, as before, the fairy-tale world he creates is a cool and glittering spectacle marked out by ice and stone and metal. Nicolas-Troyan can dazzle when needed and throws in a few stunts to keep up the pace, but there are plot holes he can’t fill, like the absence of Snow White from the picture and the lack of what might have been a fleshier love triangle. After all, Kristen Stewart’s off-screen antics with director Rupert Sanders on the first film (prompting their dismissal from the sequel) isn’t totally out of keeping with her grungier Snow White. Any cracks are very efficiently papered over and the result, while not seamless, still has lots to offer, with sterling performances from the female contingent and a couple of other neat twists on the classic fairy tale. Even Hemsworth, who doesn’t have the most complex character to work with, is certainly game when it comes to sending up that macho image. When he steps into Sheridan Smith’s path, asking what she wants, she tells him she’d like nothing more than to see him dance around with no clothes on. If he ever finds the courage to bare his soul, too, he might finally earn his stripes as a Hollywood movie star. The Huntsman: Winter's War is released in cinemas on Friday 8th April
My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2 review: "Draws you back in with open arms"
How do you follow a record-breaking hit? Here's a tip from Nia Vardalos: take your time – and don't try too hard
★★★ How about this for pressure: 14 years after My Big Fat Greek Wedding hit cinemas, it remains the highest-grossing romantic comedy in Hollywood film history. No wonder Nia Vardalos has taken so long to deliver the sequel, perhaps finally resigned to the idea that she can never top that. Indeed, from the perfunctory title to its party-hard finale, My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2 doesn’t try too hard, but it still draws you back in with open arms and the same big heart. Vardalos keeps it real as the only credited scriptwriter and she doesn’t mind baring her crow’s feet and an unruly mop of salt ’n’ pepper hair as Toula Portokalos, now anxious mother to 17-year-old Paris (Elena Kampouris in moody black eyeshadow) and back working at her own parents’ restaurant after the internet sank her travel agency. John Corbett is insouciant as ever playing hubby Ian – and he needs to be, having married into a family that lives side-by-side on the same street and where he has to be on standby at nights to haul his naked, fat father-in-law out of the bath. View oEmbed on the source website Michael Constantine may be pushing 90 but he still has the fire in his belly as grouchy patriarch Gus Portokalos, and just as much cheek, too, warning Paris that she’s “getting old” and needs to find herself “a nice Greek boy”. Still, the best lines, as before, go to Auntie Voula (Andrea Martin with her impish pout), who coolly instructs Toula to “shave everything” when it becomes apparent that she’s been too busy mothering Paris to tend to Ian’s needs. The dilemmas Toula finds herself in all feel familiar – including her reluctance to let Paris leave Chicago for NYU – but Vardalos is tapping universal chords the way she did with the first film, when movie-goers from all backgrounds swore their families were just the same. Vardalos endears herself by being just as willing to send herself up, always trying to play it cool in a family of hotheads and invariably winding up in a cold sweat. Apart from having to face empty-nest syndrome, the title promises another excuse to smash some plates (although, in fact, this is the one stereotype Vardalos doesn’t tick off) and it’s Gus who grudgingly proposes to Toula’s mother (Lainie Kazan, also reprising her role) when a clerical error reveals that their marriage of 50 years isn’t legally binding. Plans for another big fat Greek wedding get underway and soon descend into brightly coloured chaos with British director Kirk Jones (Waking Ned, Nanny McPhee) painting the comedy in broad strokes – and Gus’s garage in blue and white. While the effect is sometimes overbearing, in a sense, that’s the point and there are chuckles to be had watching Toula trying not to rise to the bait. As before, Vardalos is the grounding force in a hurricane of extreme silliness, occasionally drawing out pointed observations about the suffocating dynamics of a close-knit family. A subplot that shows the softer side of one of her muscle-head cousins (Joey Fatone and Louis Mandylor) feels like an afterthought and, in general, the characters are defined by the jokes rather than the other way around. Still it’s hard not to like the Portokalos family for refusing to tone it down. There are small roles, too, for producer Rita Wilson (the Greek wife of executive producer Tom Hanks) and the twinkly eyed John Stamos as a well-to-do Greek couple, but there’s no stealing the Portokalos’s thunder. There is strength in numbers, and the way they pull together in a heartbeat makes them a winning team. Even before the nuptials come around, the film has a celebratory feel and pulls at you like a relentless cousin dragging you to the dance floor, insisting you enjoy yourself. My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2 is released in cinemas on Friday 25 March
Zoolander 2 review: "as weak as a starving supermodel"
Ben Stiller's king of the catwalk takes a mighty tumble with this sequel, despite all the help from his celebrity friends
★★ Killing Justin Bieber in scene one may ingratiate movie-goers who are old enough to remember the first Zoolander, but sadly, the rest of this sequel will also have fans of the 2001 film mourning the ruin of Ben Stiller’s original poufy-haired poseur. Fifteen years on, Stiller again directs himself as catwalk star Derek Zoolander, joined by his old partner in fashion crime, Hansel (Owen Wilson), who are now media outcasts – and it’s no wonder when the jokes are as weak as a starving supermodel. View oEmbed on the source website We find Zoolander bearded and holed-up in the frozen peaks of “extreme north New Jersey” after his Centre For Kids Who Can’t Read Good And Wanna Learn To Do Other Stuff Good Too (established at the end of the first film) burns down, killing his wife (real-life spouse Christine Taylor) and leaving Hansel with a horrible facial disfigurement (ie a teeny-tiny scar). He is overwhelmed with guilt, which is fair enough given that he built the centre with the same materials as the architectural model. An overly complicated, underworked plot later brushes this crime under the rug, and there are other attempts to cover the cracks, like a cast stuffed full to bursting point with cameos – always a reliable source of cheap laughs. It’s none other than Billy Zane, playing himself, who draws Zoolander and Hansel out of hiding (the latter, from a life of orgies in the desert) to feature in a big comeback show in Rome. The event is to be staged by the current First Lady of Fashion, Alexanya Atoz, a sort of satin-wrapped, sour-faced gargoyle, sportingly played beneath inches of latex by Kristen Wiig. Wiig’s unintelligible multi-ethnic accent is good for a few laughs, but like the character, it’s overdone and gets old quickly. Not to be discouraged by that, Kyle Mooney, playing Atoz’s head designer Don Atari, also has a funny way of talking, being too hip for consonants “n’all that y’all”. Cue Zoolander and Hansel doing their nonplussed pouty faces. It’s a wonder they can keep up with the plot, which also has Penélope Cruz pouting equally hard as a swimsuit model-turned-Interpol agent investigating Bieber’s death – the latest in a string of pop-star murders – and enlisting Zoolander’s help (why wouldn’t you?) in return for tracking down his son (Cyrus Arnold) who was taken by social services. Inevitably, Zoolander has lessons to learn about caring for someone other than himself, and there’s a chuckle (or two…) to be had when a trip for ice cream results in selfie-induced injuries, otherwise there isn’t much of a payoff to this storyline. The writers’ short attention span (that’s Stiller and his usual collaborators) later turns to Zoolander’s old nemesis Mugatu (Will Ferrell), who struts into frame very late in the day after a long spell in fashion prison. The manic energy that Ferrell brings is a welcome shot in the arm as the pace flags, but he feels uncomfortably shoehorned into the movie. The origins of the Fountain of Youth are worked into the plot, along with various other strands, leading to a showdown of couture icons. And the cameos just keep on coming, including a startling, brow-less turn by Benedict Cumberbatch as androgynous model, All. In a comic universe as outlandish as this one, daft plotting shouldn’t matter, but when it undermines what was funny about the original premise, then it’s fatal. With the first film, Stiller delivered an inspired blend of spy spoof and goofy fashion satire; here, the grand intrigues overshadow the characters, and when there are so few laughs – just a lot of rubber lips and random weirdness to substitute – it only makes the yawning gaps in logic harder to bear. Zoolander used to have that cool look of “Blue Steel”, but like a scene where Mugatu disguises himself as our hero, it’s as if he’s been badly reconstituted out of mouldy papier-mâché. Zoolander 2 is on general release in cinemas
Deadpool review: "an enjoyably twisted little mutant tale"
It's Marvel – but not as we know it – as Ryan Reynolds's sweary, lairy, kick-ass avenger gives the X-Men series an X-rated shake-up
★★★ He stalks the Marvel universe but, as the man himself tells us time and again, Deadpool is no hero. He has the super strength, just not the mind-set, which is both a strength and occasional weakness for this oddball X-Men spin-off. There’s no doubting that Ryan Reynolds is in his element though, cracking wise as well as knocking heads together with a delicious dark sense of humour. Reynolds spent years trying to persuade studio suits to give this movie the green light, his character having made a brief appearance in 2009's X-Men Origins: Wolverine. For them, it’s a dicey proposition because it so relentlessly (and refreshingly) mocks the superhero ethos that has made Marvel billions, regularly breaking the fourth wall to bring the audience in on the joke. Even the opening credits are marked by mischief, not bothering to check names but only tick off Hollywood stereotypes including “British villain”, here played by Ed Skrein like a cross between a cockney hardman and a Nazi concentration camp officer. At a top secret medical facility, Ajax (Skrein) takes special delight in torturing his patients, with the mouthy Deadpool chief among them. Before coming up with that moniker, though, Deadpool is just a washed-up ex-mercenary called Wade Wilson, who drinks hard and plays hard, then falls in love with a feisty hooker called Vanessa (gamely played by Morena Baccarin). Cancer spoils the party, however, and with no other hope for survival, Wade accepts an offer from a man in black (“Agent Smith?” he presumes) and ends up in Ajax’s “care” – enduring pain to the point of cell mutation. While he acquires the ability to self-heal, regenerate and kicks cancer’s butt, Wade no longer sees a reason to live after Ajax burns him third-degree style (just for the giggles), making him so unsightly that he has no option but to don a mask and a tight suit, and, crucially, is left unable to face Vanessa again. Wade tells us that this is a love story, not a superhero movie, and that’s the key to getting over the nasty parts, with Deadpool embarking on a bloody rampage of revenge, vaulting over cars like a ninja, spraying brains and sticking guys with his two swords. It’s Ajax he wants – well, Francis actually, because as Deadpool gleefully discovers, that’s his real name. Early on, the blood splatter can feel gratuitous, especially because Deadpool is so mercilessly glib about it. That’s a habit that has tripped Reynolds up in other movies, like The Green Lantern (which gets an amusing wink-wink reference here). Thankfully, the smugness is eventually tempered by vulnerability as he tries to muster up the courage to face Vanessa looking like, as he puts it, “a testicle with teeth”. Later, after dropping in at X-Men HQ, he also gets the endorsement of silvery giant Colossus (that’s part CGI, part Stefan Kapicic) and the lesser-spotted Negasonic Teenage Warhead (Brianna Hildebrand) to lend credence to his mission. Wolverine gets a few mentions too – at one point, Deadpool wears a paper Hugh Jackman mask – but he notes with a hint of ire that the studio probably couldn’t afford the more famous X-Men. Deadpool is after all an outsider, and that’s the appeal of this enjoyably twisted little mutant tale. The volatile mix of crude comedy, violence and lovey-dovey stuff means it’s not a smooth ride; at times, it’s just plain uncomfortable. But director Tim Miller (making his feature debut) packs in a fair whack of choreographed combat and a couple of epic stunts to keep action fans happy. Above all, the fun is in seeing how Deadpool handles himself in standard set-ups – often digging himself deeper into trouble with a tongue as sharp as his weaponry. Importantly, along with that too-cool attitude, he’s also willing to be cut down to size. You have to root for him when he gets shot in the backside “right up Main Street” in a guns-blazing battle on the freeway and still manages to keep his sense of humour. Deadpool is certainly rough around the edges, but that's his – and the film's – charm. Deadpool is released in cinemas on Friday 10 February
Vanessa Hudgens: Ever since I was really young I wanted to play a prostitute
Star of The Frozen Ground says her role was “thrilling” and while she played co-star to Nicolas Cage, they “didn’t spend any time together off-screen”
Vanessa Hudgens was only 18-years-old when she found herself in the glare of the media spotlight thanks to the High School Musical phenomenon and her off-screen relationship with co-star Zac Efron. “I was young,” she says, though she’s still only 24. But she maintains a balanced view on the many sensational stories – and photos – that were published early on in her career. “I didn’t pay attention to what people were saying, nor did I care, honestly. I was just enjoying life and I got to do what I loved and people loved what we did, so I was just very grateful and just kind of rolling with the punches.” More than rolling with them, Hudgens is a strikingly confident young woman who insists she’s “at the steering wheel, driving the bus” when it comes to her film choices. She was last seen in the grimy satirical thriller Spring Breakers and her latest is The Frozen Ground, a true crime story in which she co-stars as prostitute Cindy Paulson. Nicolas Cage is Jack Halcombe, the cop pursuing notorious Alaskan serial killer Robert Hansen (John Cusack) who allows Cindy to slip his grasp. It’s a world far away from the shiny, happy showbiz parade that was High School Musical, but she knocks RT off balance when asked about her reasons for taking this on. “Ever since I was really young I wanted to play a prostitute. It’s just, like, thrilling as an actor to put yourself in a situation you, personally, would never be in. At the end of the day you’re just a kid playing pretend, so if you’re going to do it, might as well go crazy with it.” If that sounds a bit frivolous, Hudgens certainly got a reality check after spending a weekend with the real Cindy Paulson prior to shooting. “I had a happy childhood, so it’s hard, but it’s interesting, when you don’t grow up with a solid foundation, how much that really affects the rest of your life. “What she went through…it’s eye-opening, for sure. In the past I’ve possibly been too trusting with people I don’t know and it’s opened my eyes to the fact you can’t do that, you know? You’ve always got to keep an eye over your shoulder, especially as a woman because there’s real danger out there.” Given the trauma Paulson endured, the prospect of doing the role justice might have daunted many an actress, but Hudgens isn’t one of them. “I actually found it empowering because she didn’t have a voice, you know? She was just a girl trying to survive and she found hope when she was least expecting it – in Sergeant Halcombe – and that’s when she felt a little bit of love. She is just a sweet, kind, young female and I wanted to show that, and give her a voice.” The entire film rests on the bond that builds between Paulson and Halcome, who takes her under his wing (and even into his home), but it’s not a dynamic that was translated behind the scenes. “I mean, he’s very professional, quite reserved. With me, he was reserved. We didn’t spend any time together off-screen and the time we spent together on set was just the time we spent together on screen. But he was amazing, very professional and he brought so much to the table every day.” Maybe Cage felt that Hudgens was handling herself well enough without his help. He even tested her acting mettle, “trying different things” with the scenes as written. “He kept me on my toes. Yeah, a little bit. But it’s all about playing when it comes to acting and seeing how far you can take certain things, how to push each other’s buttons, where it really hits home.” Having to portray such a troubled soul and to do it alongside veteran actors who expected her to rise to their level each day, did she ever feel out of her comfort zone? “Yeah, for sure, but I think I felt safe because I knew that I was doing it with people who I could trust, who would give me their honest opinion. If something wasn’t working, I knew that they would tell me, so I felt very, very safe in the environment. I think that’s key when you do something that’s really outside of the box.” RT suggests that Hudgens may also get a kick out of being plunged in at the deep end. “One-hundred-and-fifty per cent. Absolutely! That’s what I’m about. I mean, I don’t like being stagnant. I want to continue to grow and just be better at what I do, and the only way to do that is to keep stepping outside of your comfort zone.” When asked who her role models are, it’s clear to see where Hudgens wants to place herself. “I love and really respect strong women. I’m obsessed with Scarlett Johansson, and Drew Barrymore and Penelope Cruz. They are just really incredibly strong-willed, intelligent females in the industry.” Hudgens appears to be pushing the boundaries again with her next role in Robert Rodriguez’s grindhouse sequel Machete Kills, a style of film-making that depends on shock value. “Nah, that one, for me, was tame,” she insists. “I play Cereza who’s the virgin bride and things don’t end up very well for her. But I’ve always been drawn to the dark side – I guess you could call it that – to things that people turn a blind eye to.” So, can we expect to see Hudgens digging even dirtier depths in future? “I’d enjoy a comedy. I haven’t done that much of it, so… I feel like when I wanted to do darker things, I was only getting offered lighter things and when I want to do lighter things, I’m only getting darker things.” Clearly, this is a girl who knows what she wants and that is, “Everything. I want to do everything.” But more importantly, she is not afraid to venture out and make things happen. We agree that this is a valuable trait for a young woman looking to make a lasting career in Hollywood. “You always, constantly have to fight for what you want,” she says, “and I think that it’s always going to be a struggle, and you always have to just put your best foot forward. That’s all you can do. You’ve just got to fight for what you want.” See the trailer: View oEmbed on the source website The Frozen Ground is in cinemas from July 19
"The guys at Franco’s place are ripe for the picking, with more sins in the bank than money – and if they had a swear jar in the house, they’d be twice as rich"
If the end of the world is this much fun, then bring it on! James Franco is the host of the party that spirals into hellish chaos – quite literally – when the Earth opens up in Hollywood and swallows up a bunch of A-Listers. They’re all playing heightened, tripped out versions of themselves in a wild story hatched by Seth Rogen who also co-directed with Evan Goldberg. It sounds self-indulgent, except that they are deemed unworthy of God’s salvation when Judgement Day dawns. Rogen, Goldberg and Franco previously hit big with Pineapple Express and use their characters in that film as a template for what they might be like in real life. They sit around stoned, spitballing wacky ideas for a sequel just before things get really weird… Jay Baruchel is the anchor who stands apart from this crowd of Hollywood hipsters – branded as one of Rogen’s “Canadian friends” – and incessantly patronised by Jonah Hill, taking his ‘nice guy’ reputation to the point of nauseating oiliness. Michael Cera goes the other way, subverting his cosy image and making Charlie Sheen look like a choirboy. Danny McBride is just straight-up obnoxious (also riffing on his part in Pineapple Express) and a crasher at the party because Franco, specifically, didn’t invite him. Alas, they end up in each other’s faces when the fire and brimstone rains down and Franco must batten down the hatches. Baruchel recognises that this is a disaster of biblical proportions and Goldberg shoots some impressive scenes of grand-scale destruction: massive fiery pits, palm trees flaring up like giant, Roman candles and Ray Harryhausen-style demons prowling the hills for souls to take. Naturally, the guys at Franco’s place are ripe for the picking, with more sins in the bank than money – and if they had a swear jar in the house, they’d be twice as rich. The colourful language feels apt, however. Hot Tub Time Machine’s Craig Robinson is among the small group of survivors who neatly sums up the problem: “We play tough guys, but we soft as baby s***.” Indeed, there’s some girlish screaming, desperate man-hugging and in a brilliant, laugh-out-loud scene (which feels improvised) Franco goes OCD when he finds evidence that McBride has been in his porn stash. In fact, Franco and McBride are the most merciless of the group when it comes to sending themselves up and because of that, they’re easily the funniest. Perhaps, not surprisingly, Rogen comes across as the most balanced and popular of the gang as Franco, Hill and Baruchel all compete for his approval. But to use Franco’s own parlance, he just ends up looking a bit “douchey”. Of course, deep down, the guys aren’t that bad. Staring into the mouth of madness becomes a lesson on the real meaning of friendship. That, too, might seem a bit “douchey” given that laughs have been had from seeing them kick a severed head around the floor. But it’s because they’re squeamish. They confess to being as soft as the contents of a baby’s nappy, so a few romantic (or “bromantic”) whims can be forgiven and even, embraced. Anyway, Rogen and Goldberg sense when they’ve gone too far by going even further in shrewdly judged yet random and outrageously homoerotic finale. It’s the perfect release for the tension that builds towards the end, when the guys are forced out of the house to face their demons. Rogen and Goldberg give Roland Emmerich a run for his money in those climactic scenes, but it’s all the stuff that’s said and done behind closed doors that really set the screen alight. The chemistry between the guys is smoking hot and wonderfully intoxicating. This is what makes a comedy classic and if it doesn’t live on forever, there is no hope for humanity.
Welcome to the Punch review - Creevy is assured and dynamic behind the camera
Rarely does a British film come along that smacks you right between the eyes with its sheer style and scope but Welcome to the Punch does just that
Rarely does a British film come along that smacks you right between the eyes with its sheer style and scope, but Welcome to the Punch does just that. James McAvoy and Mark Strong go head-to-head in an all-guns blazing battle of the egos reminiscent of Hollywood blockbuster Heat and Hong Kong thriller Infernal Affairs. It’s not original and it doesn’t have quite the same depth as those films, but it is packed with excitement – not least because it signals the arrival of a bright new talent. Strong calls writer/director Eran Creevy “the new Ridley”, referring to that famous Scott brother who came on board as a producer, here, after seeing his debut feature Shifty. That was a socially conscious crime drama– pared down yet well-crafted and quietly moving – and perhaps, an unlikely springboard to big-budget filmmaking. But from the outset, as the camera swoops in on the City of London, capturing its modern side in cool blues and chrome, you know you’re in safe hands. Down on the ground, rabid copper Max Lewinsky (McAvoy) is in hot pursuit of master criminal Jacob Sternwood (Strong) who has just pulled off the latest in a long line of audacious heists. Evidently, Max has had it up to the neck, being made a fool of by this smooth operator, but he’s asking for it when he defies orders and continues the chase on foot, alone, and outnumbered. Sternwood could kill him right there and then, but instead, shoots him in the leg. Three years later Max is sleepwalking through life – well, hobbling really – having to drain his knee with a syringe every day before his morning coffee. Meanwhile, Sternwood is enjoying magnificent lake views at what looks like his own personal Scandinavian spa resort. Truthfully, he looks a little fed up as well, but Sternwood doesn’t get a kick out crime – not anymore, anyway. His pulse only quickens when his hoodie son (Elyes Gabel) is gunned down on London’s streets and taken into custody. Inevitably, Sternwood comes back to town and Max switches to red alert, keeping a close eye on the hospital where the boy is in critical condition. Of course, Creevy must keep the men apart for most of the film, but he sustains the tension by always having them within teasing proximity of each other. He doesn’t get bogged down either with the roots of Max’s obsession prior to getting his kneecap blown off. It falls to a thorny Andrea Riseborough (playing his partner) to mirror his loneliness and self-pity. McAvoy’s naturally hangdog expression comes in useful for that too and there’s a lot of grimacing as he pounds that knee, desperate to nail his man. Sternwood, on the other hand, doesn’t do personal grudges. When Max finally gets the chance to ask him why he didn’t just shoot him dead, the response is, “What for?” It’s a selfless emotion that drives Sternwood (paternal love) and it makes him more noble – more heroic even – than the cop on his heels. Again, this is an astute bit of casting. Strong is a towering presence with a laser-like stare, though it’s often used to instil terror in clear-cut baddie roles (Sherlock Holmes, Robin Hood, The Green Lantern). He’s done more complex work in smaller films and TV, but it’s refreshing to see Strong in a commercial movie that allows him to play with an interesting duality. At one point, the men try to work out their differences in the back of a van, in an improvised scrap, but Creevy also stages operatic shoot outs, rhythmically choreographed and grand in scale – and these flourishes are what set the film apart from your standard British cop thriller. As the endgame draws near, the London Docklands (stacked with shipping containers) becomes a labyrinthine maze, where danger lurks around every corner. The plot is comparatively straightforward. There are no surprising twists and more than a few clichés, but the fact that you know where all this headed and still can’t look away is testament to the star power of McAvoy and Strong (ably supported by David Morrissey, Daniel Mayes and Peter Mullan) and the assured, dynamic style of Creevy behind the camera. No doubt Hollywood execs will be rolling out the welcome mat for him. View oEmbed on the source website Welcome to the Punch opens in UK cinemas on 15 March
Peter Jackson on stopping The Hobbit shoot to allow Martin Freeman to film Sherlock
"I was having sleepless nights. I lay awake one night with my iPad. I’d just downloaded Sherlock... ‘God, he would make the perfect Bilbo. What the hell is going on? How did we end up where we are?"
For the Hampshire-born actor who plays The Hobbit, the journey to landing the role in this epic adaptation was just as unexpected. As the red carpets unfurl for the first part of the trilogy, Martin Freeman and filmmaker Peter Jackson have been reflecting on the various dark dead-ends they wandered into before reaching their goal. Ahead of the London premiere, Jackson recounted the problems. “Back when we were originally thinking about The Hobbit Martin was the first person who came to mind and the only person we ever wanted for the role. I imagine we probably spent about 18 months [in development] before we started shooting and during that period it was hard for the film to get a green light because MGM – one of the co-rights holders – was having financial issues and the studio was being sold and it wasn’t possible to proceed with the movie until that situation was resolved, and so we were kind of in a waiting pattern to some degree. Then during that period of time Sherlock arrived.” Sherlock was a major stumbling block. Freeman was already contractually obliged to play Watson in the BBC’s second series and Auntie wasn’t budging. “I was in a state of panic, I think,” said Jackson. “We couldn’t think of anyone else. To me that piece of casting is absolutely perfect and [without that] you’re really jeopardising the films and jeopardising the investment in the films and audiences’ enjoyment. I was having sleepless nights. I lay awake one night with my iPad. I’d just downloaded Sherlock. I was watching the second episode. It was about four o’clock in the morning and I was sitting there watching Martin, thinking, ‘God, he would make the perfect Bilbo. What the hell is going on? How did we end up where we are? It’s a disaster!’” But it was then that Jackson, like one of Tolkien’s heroes, was struck with inspiration and decided to go up against the might of the studio giant. “I got up in the morning and made some phone calls and basically, the idea that I had – which is pretty audacious really, in the way the film industry works – was to shoot as much as we could of the Hobbit, then to stop filming and let Martin go back to the UK to do the Sherlock shoot, then come back and continue on again. I had to ask the studio.” Surely, this was the cue for some serious wrangling with the mighty Warner Bros, but Jackson isn’t dwelling on that. “It was the best phone call that I ever made quite honestly.” Freeman still boggles at the thought that he was the cause of so much fuss. “I was amazed and delighted when that phone call came. I was rehearsing a play in London at the time and, mentally, I had already sort of said goodbye to The Hobbit. I’d had to pass. And, well, boring. Really dull. Boring to not do it.” This seems like typical British understatement given the enormous worldwide impact of Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy, but Freeman admits brooding, just a little. “I remember very clearly I was actually going to see Benedict Cumberbatch in a play at the National Theatre and I had this very long and involved conversation with Michael, my agent, and I remember saying, ‘We’re gonna have to let this go, aren’t we?’ And he said, ‘Yeah, I think we are. Sorry.’ And I was like, ‘Ah. Okay.’ I’ve never been one to dwell on things. Onwards and upwards and all that, but I’d rather not have had to do that. However long it was later I was rehearsing a play myself and I got a call from Michael again saying, ‘It’s back on.’ I said, ‘What do you mean!?’ and he said, ‘Well, Peter has rearranged it.’ I was amazed… I was extremely surprised and took it as a huge compliment, and still do.” Without a doubt, The Hobbit is a game-changing role in Freeman’s career. He carries a very big film with ease, but it was no picnic in The Shire as he had to flit between hemispheres to complete both projects. “I handled it just by the glee of being able to do it really. I felt very, very lucky that I spent the last couple of years doing two jobs that I really adore – two very different parts, two very different universes and in two very different parts of the world. But I didn’t really get a chance to unwind, I have to say. I spent 2011 being quite knackered because I was in New Zealand from January to May then, literally, straight off into Sherlock then straight back into this. Was there ever a moment when Freeman thought he might have bitten off more than he could chew? “Yeah, it was very, very tiring, but like with all things, when you’re tired for the best reason – because of doing something you love – you get through it. Like, poor me. Woe is me, I got to do Sherlock and The Hobbit! It made it easier the fact that I didn’t think I was going to be able to do The Hobbit, so the fact that I could do both was fantastic.” After many years in development hell, Jackson, too, never lost heart. “I knew there would be a Hobbit one day. It was just a question of how long it would take... I’m just glad it happened when it did, and with us still involved.”
The Hobbit: an Unexpected Journey - review
Peter Jackson has made a great film, but it’s hiding inside a much bigger, brighter and only quite good one, says Stella Papamichael
No medium can transport you to another world so fully as cinema and with effects wizard Peter Jackson at the helm the experience can be utterly enchanting. The Lord of the Rings trilogy was a triumph in this regard and with The Hobbit, he is pushing the boundaries of digital technology to even more distant realms. So, why does it look like a glorified home video? If you elect to see An Unexpected Journey in 3D, you will experience motion at 48 frames per second (compared to the standard 24) which draws you deeper into the action. Even the opening dinner party at Bilbo Baggins’ cosy Hobbit hole is made to feel like a rollercoaster ride. But the hitch is that it brings reality too close, too sharply defined, giving the feeling that you’ve accidentally stumbled into dress rehearsals and spoiled the magic of seeing the film as it was intended. The much-hyped super-kinetic action also takes a while to kick in. Bilbo (Martin Freeman) doesn’t set a hairy foot beyond the gates of Bag End for almost half-an-hour, instead forced to entertain 13 warrior Dwarves who are en route to the reclaim their homeland. In this first of three instalments, Jackson is more concerned with Bilbo’s evolution from anxious homebody to war hero. Thankfully, Freeman is a charismatic lead, employing that familiar look of weary bemusement (perfected on The Office) to offer a humorous counterpoint to all the growly doom-mongering. That’s left to Richard Armitage as the Dwarves’ leader Thorin, throwing looks of blue steel at the wimpy little hobbit. T’is the wise wizard Gandalf (Ian McKellan matching Freeman for dry wit) who insists that Bilbo is vital to their quest to reclaim ‘the heart’ of The Lonely Mountain from Smaug, the dragon. And after much hemming and hawing – and a superfluous singsong around the fireplace – they eventually mount up and sally forth. Naturally, the road ahead through stunning mountains is littered with ‘orrible Orcs, trolls and goblins and Jackson exploits that 48fps to craft some breath-taking set-pieces, the most exciting of which sees those mountains come to anthropomorphic life and knock each other to pieces. Middle-earth aficionados can revel in other sights too, like a pit-stop at the Elven garrison of Rivendell where Galadriel (a misty-eyed Cate Blanchett) foreshadows things to come. There’s a teasing glimpse of the Necromancer, too, who is voiced (along with Smaug) by Benedict Cumberbatch, though he doesn’t serve much of a purpose here and Sherlock fans will be left wanting of a face-off between the erstwhile detective and his sidekick. One of the big highlights is Bilbo’s life-or-death battle of wits with Gollum. Andy Serkis steals the scene emoting the creature’s terrible desperation, sneaky cynicism and tragic self-pity by quick turns, every nuance brilliantly captured by Jackson in those goggling CG eyes. The confrontation also provides the film with a climactic moment for Bilbo – not just because he takes that precious ring, unwitting of its power – but because he must choose whether Gollum lives or dies. In choosing to split the book across three films, Jackson is forced to engineer another grand finale from a minor thread and picks a skirmish with the Orcs. But, it doesn’t quite pay off. Bilbo is finally given a chance to prove his courage, but it’s Thorin who is laying ghosts to rest and the emotional impact is muted by the fact that, in the build-up, Jackson can only invest limited time in drawing out Thorin’s personal demons. After all, the film is already approaching three hours, so the Dwarf’s violent backstory is slotted in with flashbacks, usually when the film needs a burst of adrenalin. In fact, it slows the pace by veering off the main track. Those who treasure the books of JRR Tolkien may approve of Jackson’s determination to amp up every detail of his work, but casual fans might feel that he is pushing too hard and too far; spreading the plot too thin and throwing too much light on the picture with his superfast shutter speed. Jackson has made a great film, but it’s hiding inside a much bigger, brighter and only quite good one. By bringing it to a sudden finish without a proper resolution, he risks having filmgoers stagger out of the dark like the bemused Bilbo, eyes wide and lost in a daze.
Martin McDonagh tackles Seven Psychopaths
The director behind cult classic In Bruges reflects on the messy business of shooting people in his latest crime thriller
London playwright Martin McDonagh made the transition to film in 2008 with the existential thriller In Bruges, which he also directed, earning an Oscar nomination for Best Original Screenplay and a strong cult following. In it, Colin Farrell played one of two hitmen who arrive at a spiritual dead end in Belgium, but his latest thriller Seven Psychopaths puts Hollywood in the crosshairs. Talking to RadioTimes.com, McDonagh thinks carefully before describing the film as “meta-textual or meta-fictional”. He casts Colin Farrell again, this time as screenwriter Marty who dreams up the title Seven Psychopaths and little else, before crossing paths with a real-life gangster played by Woody Harrelson. McDonagh admits to naming the hero after himself in a self-referential gesture. “Like Colin says in the film, I had the title but only one psychopath and he wants it to be about love and peace. That’s the same place I was in; I had the story about the Quaker psychopath played by Harry Dean Stanton and nothing else but the title, so yeah, there are degrees of ‘self-referential’ in it, but I’ve thrown plenty of red herrings in there too. His name is my name and he’s Irish and I’m half-Irish, but there’s plenty that’s not me too, so it’s always fun throwing those things into the mix as well and playing with people’s perceptions and expectations.” Fortunately, McDonagh has never encountered a psychopath either – let alone seven – but his film has a feverish energy and he takes special delight in pulling apart the traditional gangster film. “There was something joyful about it for me because it takes the piss out of lots of stereotypical Hollywood gangster movies, and it’s not like I’ve ever been in a position of having to make those kinds of movies, so I’m not reacting against a Hollywood that I’m a part of. I wasn’t trying to work out stuff that was bugging me, but I was definitely trying to comment on violent movies a bit and I felt that maybe we could take ‘guys with guns’ and those conventions to a more interesting place than a Hollywood film.” McDonagh underscores bloody scenes with ethical questions and Christopher Walken is his mouthpiece, as one of Marty’s friends and Harrelson’s sworn enemy. Even after his loved ones are targeted, he stays cool, never cutting loose in the way Walken often does. “See, that would have been the expectation,” says McDonagh. “I think it’s nice to confound those things. Although there’s one scene, when he confronts Woody Harrelson, which is especially powerful because that violence and malevolence is under the surface but you can almost see it in his eyes. The tension is all there, but it’s because of what we think is going to happen, which is for Christopher Walken to blow up. That’s almost more interesting to play with than to have him explode.” Still, the film flows with claret, but McDonagh doesn’t have a hard time reconciling the graphic blood spatter with the critique of screen violence. “The thing is you don’t want to make an art-house film that only two Belgian guys go and see in a cinema on the Isle of Sheppey. If you want to make statements about Hollywood conventional films, it’s more fun to make one and attack it from the inside out; to pull in the fans of those types of films, to then explain it, or do it in a better way.” So, is he trying to educate the movie-going masses? “Educate would be too heavy-handed, but yeah, maybe to show…” He takes another moment to think about it. “Thing is, there are Hollywood gangster movies that have been done really well. Pulp Fiction is a great film, but then so many of them are easy rip-offs and ugly violence for no other reason than that’s what sells. I think that’s what we’re trying to play around with in the context of a violent film.” Together, In Bruges and Seven Psychopaths redefine the thrill that comes with watching bad guys getting sprayed with bullets, but fans of hardboiled crime flicks should be warned to expect the unexpected. And on the matter of his third feature, the same advice applies. “Well, this one’s of a meta nature, so I think the next one will be more a pure noir, or pure rom-com – whichever one it is.” With a mischievous grin, he issues a dare: “Bet on which one you think it’ll be.”