Film Review - THE IRON LADY

Few genres come burdened with a heavier air of self-importance than the biopic. For they are expected to not only tell an entertaining story, but also serve as a compelling tribute to their famed subjects’ profound importance and exceptionalness. Muddying the waters further is the fact that, frankly, reality isn’t cinematic; serious artistic license and dramatic flourish is required in order to transform it into anything approaching an engrossing viewing experience. Filmmakers have to walk a tricky balancing act, dishing out equal parts invention and accuracy. And the majority fall well short of brilliance. Great entries like Raging Bull, Ed Wood, The Social Network, Malcolm X or The Coal Miner’s Daughter succeed because their protagonist's personal account arrives tightly wrapped in a richly layered narrative that cleverly tackles universally relatable themes. It’s not enough to simply tell us a person is significant. We need to be able to connect emotionally with them and derive meaning from their unique journey.

Alas, The Iron Lady, the new Meryl Streep-fronted examination of the life and times of Britain’s controversial first female Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, couldn’t be any less vital. A cobweb-riddled grab-bag of musty old biopic clichés, archival footage and shallow historical bullet points, the picture falls prey to the same brand of lazy, trite screenwriting and overbearing stuffiness that hobbled Clint Eastwood’s dreary J. Edgar. It’s as if the filmmakers, fearful that audiences wouldn’t grasp or respect the magnitude of Thatcher’s achievements alone, decided to overcompensate by dressing up their effort in clumsy TV-movie obviousness and forced sentiment. It’s been a while since a biopic championed its own cause harder than this one.

Set largely in the modern day, The Iron Lady presents Thatcher (Streep) as a stately, good-humoured senior citizen, whose grip on sanity is being tested by frequent hallucinations of her deceased husband Denis (Jim Broadbent, twinkling with mischievous wit). Still grieving his loss, and unable to bear moving his belongings from her bedroom closet, she finds comfort by escaping into the past, recalling key personal milestones involving their courtship, her working class youth (in which she’s played ably by Alexandra Roach) and early forays into politics, first as an Oxford student, and later as a Conservative M.P. and education secretary. As well, we witness her miraculous rise to power, and her unprecedented 11-year reign as Britain’s leader, tackling fiery issues such as the 1981 Brixton riots, the 1984 miner’s strike and – most interestingly - the Falkland Islands military conflict.

Unlike similar, superior fare such The King’s Speech or The Queen – which used a single captivating event to explore their main character – the film spreads itself way too thin by trying to cover so much terrain. At just 105 (thankfully well-paced) minutes, The Iron Lady’s script, by Abi Morgan, hops, skips and jumps hastily through Thatcher’s lifetime without ever pausing to delve deeper into any of the crucial events. Did no one realize viewers might actually be intrigued to learn why exactly this woman was able to excel as she did? Or see how her role as a wife and mother affected her role as a leader and vice versa? This final product is like Coles Notes cinema, communicating only the barest of details without any of the desired context, curiosity or dynamism.

The picture’s creaky structure does it no favours. Can we please call for a moratorium on biopics that feature actors in old-age make-up using faded photographs, videotapes and brief memory snippets to recollect their lives in nearly precise chronological order? It’s a beyond-exhausted story device that reeks of artificiality. The Iron Lady relies on this conceit so heavily, it’s kind of amazing. The lion’s share of the movie’s attempts at poignancy and truth are stuffed into hokey, bewildering sequences of Thatcher being pestered by Denis’s ghost (who often wears funny hats!) and devolving into bouts of pitiful hysteria. And since her career spanned such a lengthy period of time, and ended so mundanely, there’s no grand, moving final note to close on. So the film just sort of peters out with a series of concocted fictional moments in which she confronts her demons and achieves blissful serenity. Under the direction of Phyllida Lloyd – who previously guided Streep in 2008’s Mamma Mia! – these scenes play more like parody than honesty.

It goes without saying that Streep is, as per usual, a mesmerizing force of nature on-screen. She doesn’t imitate Thatcher. She inhabits Thatcher. And her performance is so dead-on smart, funny and authoritative that she almost single-handedly redeems the whole uneven affair. Portraying the character over four decades, the legendary actress is completely convincing every step of the way, and brings more dimension to the role than anything offered by the page. In one of her many crackerjack bits, she verbally demolishes a long-time colleague for being unprepared for a meeting, and we sense both her innate anger and stubbornness, and, conversely, her sad regret at having to behave so harshly. Streep also forms a warm union with Broadbent (who, unfortunately, is relegated mainly to popping up in the fantasy sequences). It’s too bad the film doesn’t spend more time with them in the countless flashbacks.

If only this movie wasn’t so timid and unwilling to think outside of it’s safe, unchallenging prestige picture box. With Streep giving it her all, this could – and should - have been an exciting, absorbing portrait of one of the 20th century’s most complex and contentious figures. Agree with her politics or not, Thatcher was a woman of tireless drive, fierce intelligence and vision. She deserved a movie far better than The Iron Lady, which fails on all three of those counts.

2 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - CONTRABAND

There’s not a whole lot in Contraband, the new heist thriller starring Mark Wahlberg, you haven’t seen done better elsewhere. This is another one of those B-movie plots about a former criminal being forced, through unpleasant circumstances, to abandon peaceful retirement and take on One. Last. Job. You know the type of job I’m talking about: a final convoluted journey into the seedy underworld where everything that can go wrong does so spectacularly, every pre-established rule is broken and yet, somehow, the hero manages to emerge triumphant and mislead the sinister antagonist, as well as the audience.

It’s a fun, seemingly inexhaustible, formula, and one that can very easily become repetitive and tediously predictable. However, Icelandic director Baltasar Kormákur has managed to imbue his Americanized remake of 2008’s little-seen Reykjavik-Rotterdam – which was helmed by Óskar Jónasson and featured Kormákur in the lead role — with just enough grungy off-beat charm to warrant its own rather slight existence. Contraband is the kind of movie you unintentionally come across on TV one night and, after a reasonably engaging two hours, find yourself reflecting on why you have no memory of it ever being in theatres.

Wahlberg treads familiar thespian terrain as Chris Farraday, a soft-spoken working class New Orleans family man with a mean right hook and a gift for smuggling. How good a smuggler is Chris? So good that other characters often feel compelled to remind him of his top-notch credentials. Like every other heist movie hero, Chris is the best there is at what he does. Unfortunately for him, his specialized services are desperately required after his ne’er-do-well brother-in-law Andy (Caleb Landry Jones) botches a drug operation and infuriates local crime lord Tim Briggs (Giovanni Ribisi). Soon, thugs are threatening the Farradays’ safety, and Chris is tasked with transporting millions of dollars worth of counterfeit cash from Panama to U.S. shores. Aided by his recovering alcoholic right-hand man Sebastian Abney (Ben Foster), our crafty, muscular protagonist books passage on a dingy cargo ship on a perilous mission to outsmart the ever-vigilant authorities and make it home alive with merchandise in hand.

One of Kormákur’s film’s most endearing qualities is how refreshingly low-tech it is. Unlike most modern heist pictures, which typically involve high-pressure internet surfing and goofy gadgets,Contraband – like Ben Affleck’s superior The Town – wears its blue collar attitude like a badge of honour. Outside of some brief ship manifest doctoring, Chris has little use for computers, relying instead on mundane, practical methods for deceiving the powers that be. He succeeds not because he has more gear or brains than his opponents, but rather due to the fact that he’s adept at improvisation and sizing up a situation, and never underestimates the importance of dumb luck. Or grade 8 science.

The scrappy street-smart tone of the picture also inspires three wonderfully weird performances that breathe much-needed life into the conventional story. Chief among them is Ribisi as the lowly scumbag drug kingpin. Repulsively greased up, python-voiced and operating out of a pathetic ramshackle apartment complex, the actor creates a fascinating case study in terrifying incompetence. No matter how badly Farraday beats Briggs down, he just keeps picking himself up and continuing the pursuit like a possessed cockroach. Ribisi’s sole competition in the scenery-chewing department is Diego Luna, playing a deranged, agitated Panamanian gangster whose sweaty psychotic unpredictability more than makes up for his lack of physical fearsomeness. On the lower end of the crazy-scale is Ben Foster — an eminently watchable beacon of offbeat light in any movie — who doesn’t necessarily have a lot to do here, but adds impressive anguished, twitchy dimension to the ever-rattled Sebastian.

Contraband’s unremarkable script, by Aaron Guzikowski, hums along nicely when it’s tracing our hero’s journey through the movie’s criminal universe. It stumbles awkwardly, however, whenever the action shifts back home to Chris’s wife Kate (Kate Beckinsale). The actress has alarmingly little to do, beyond acting frantic and having her beautiful head slammed into walls by vicious aggressors, and the picture completely deflates once she becomes a key element in the climax (Hallelujah for conveniently loud ring tones!). A more effective film would have either excised the majority of her subplot, or brought more originality to it than hackneyed, eye-rolling “woman in peril” clichés.

It is a telling sign that this film has been released in sleepy mid-January, when studios traditionally refrain from pushing exciting A-grade fare into theatres. Neither particularly good, or bad, it’s an agreeable enough timewaster that won’t tax your patience and serves as a modestly tense and satisfying tide over until 2012’s more ambitious popcorn fare arrives. Like Wahlberg’s world-weary protagonist, Contraband gets the job done with minimal flash or flare.

3 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

The Bottom 5 Worst Films of 2011

As I said in my countdown of 2011′s Top 10 Films, there was no shortage of rewarding film choices this past year. Unfortunately, though, as is always the case, there was also no shortage of cinematic landmines; dreadful movies that made you want to flee the theatre in barely muted horror, and perhaps  motivated you to question the value of the art-form all together.

I know I suffered through my fair share. And I didn’t even bear witness to Jack and Jill or Bucky Larson: Born to Be a Star!

Here are my 5 Worst Films of 2011:

1) The Three Musketeers   Everyone involved in this pathetic, crass exercise in unimaginative brand-building should be ashamed of themselves. Taking little more from the Alexandre Dumas classic than a title and a few character names, this $75-million-dollar dud instead ineptly rips most of its inspiration from the Sherlock Holmes (Steampunk weaponry!) and Pirates of the Caribbean (Pirate ship battles in the sky AND a fey, mascara-wearing Orlando Bloom!) properties. Charisma void Logan Lerman stars as a smarmy, Americanized D’Artagnan, who joins up with the now-personality-free rapier-wielding trio in order to prevent ninja assassin Milla Jovovich from sparking war between England and France. Directed with zero energy by schlockmaster extraordinaire Paul W.S. Anderson, The Three Musketeers is a monotonous waking nightmare of embarrassing CG effects, cringe-inducing witty banter, cement-shoed swashbuckling and ludicrous air battles. Oh, and to add insult to injury, the whole disaster crashes to a final, unresolved close with a blatant cliffhanger for a sequel! Fortunately for mankind, future punishment is unlikely as this burgeoning franchise clumsily falls on its own sword right out of the gate.

2) Apollo 18   A cheap, opportunistic attempt to cash in on the Paranormal Activity craze, Apollo 18 sets a patience-testing new low for the already inconsistent Found Footage horror genre. A “true life” account of NASA’s top secret final moon-landing mission, the movie takes a pretty solid concept and renders it utterly unwatchable. A chaotically edited visual mess of several ugly film formats mercilessly smeared with every imaginable post-production distortion effect and audio burp, the whole ordeal is like a film school video art project gone horribly awry. Director Gonzalo Lopez-Gallego not only fails to break the crushing boredom with ultra-telegraphed jump scares and by-the-books icky body horror, he often cheats too by placing cameras where they frankly have no business being. It’s tempting to say that Apollo 18 stalls on take-off, but that would imply someone even bothered to fuel it up in the first place.

3) Target  Rarely have I encountered a motion picture as confused and narratively incoherent as Russian writer/director Alexander Zeldovich’s science fiction epic Target. Opening with a group of wealthy Moscow citizens travelling to a remote fountain of youth in the year 2020, the picture soon wanders off in a number of bewildering disconnected directions - including border law intrigue, extramarital hedonism and deranged game shows. The helmer deserves points for ambition, but so little of anything on-screen sticks its maddening. He wants to make bold statements about Russian society, geopolitics and human morality (measured by groovy sunglasses!), but the messages are all but swallowed up by the meandering, nonsensical script, which abandons plot threads by the handful and doesn’t give any of the characters even a hint of dimension. Zeldovich also lacks the ability to establish a convincing sci-fi world; the film frequently introduces strange technological concepts without a lick of explanation. Target may boast some lovely cinematography, but all other positive qualities seem to have been utterly lost in translation.

4) The Roommate   The latest in an apparently endless string of teen-friendly PG-13 erotic thriller copycats, The Roommate shamelessly runs 1992’s Single White Female through the trusty ‘ol Sanitize-matic 2000 with predictably vanilla results. Preppy college freshman Minka Kelly is, like, totally psyched to have visibly loony art student Leighton Meester as her roommate. At least, that is, until the crazy-eyed roomie starts donning the heroine’s deceased sister’s necklace and running kittens through the spin cycle. Drained of all characteristic moral ambiguity, escalating tension and sexual charge, director Christian E. Christiansen’s exhausted checklist of poorly-delivered genre tropes is redeemed only by the ridiculous sight of a fancy hat-wearing Billy Zane as a dandyish sleazeball fashion professor. That part is genuinely scary for reasons purely comedic. The rest of The Roommate is so timid and dumb it should be aired as an afterschool special on the dangers of bad teen flicks.

5) Season Of The Witch  No movie featuring Nicolas Cage and Ron Perlman as a wise-cracking 14th century knight duo transporting a suspected witch to a hazardous mountain-top monastery should be this deadly dull. Against all mortal odds, though, director Dominic Sena accomplishes this miraculous feat with Season of the Witch, a generic, cruddy-looking sword ‘n sorcery cheese-fest that’s too concerned with being dour to have any fun with its goofball B-movie premise. Heck, even the dependably bizarre Cage is on autopilot, trudging sleepily through the flick’s endless dank, chilly forest locales with a look of melancholy obligation. At one point a wounded Perlman, in an act of climactic heroism, violently head-butts a shoddy CG demon. Brave this slog and you too will be able to share that demon’s pain.

Dishonourable Mentions: Cars 2, The Eagle, Green Lantern, J. Edgar, Just Go With It, Sherlock Holmes: A Game Of Shadows.

The Top 10 Best Films of 2011

It’s easy to mistake 2011 as a weak year for cinema. After all, how else should one sum up a year that had few universally acclaimed masterpieces-in-the-making or zeitgest-altering blockbusters? A year that will likely lead to Michel Hazanavicius’s adorable, but inconsequential, The Artist nabbing the top prize at the 2012 Oscar ceremony?

However, scanning over the 90+ releases I saw in 2011, I’m surprised at how consistently good – and occasionally great – the output actually was. The sizable number of commendable efforts actually made it significantly tougher to assemble this list than in the past; there were so many titles I tried valiantly to sneak on without success. While you might disagree with a few (or all) of my final choices, think about how nice it is to have a rare year where all the Top 10 lists aren’t boring carbon copies of one another.

Now, without further adieu, my Top 10 Films of 2011:

1) THE TREE OF LIFE  Terrence Malick’s ambitious, awe-inspiring head-trip through the Big Bang, life, death, religion, childhood and 1950s suburban America daringly endeavours to unlock the mysteries of the universe through cinema. More metaphysical visual poetry than clear-cut narrative, The Tree of Life certainly isn’t for everyone. But for those interested in delving into its gorgeous, unforgettably epic sights and sounds, subtle performances – from Brad Pitt, Jessica Chastain, Sean Penn and Hunter McCracken - and heady concepts, it offers an immersive, unrivalled spectacle that reveals powerful new insights, both filmic and intensely personal, with each revisit. Malick has fashioned a film to interpret, debate, dissect and hold dear; it respects the intelligence of the audience, and rewards active participation. An enthralling culmination of the reclusive helmer’s career-to-date – combining the intimate, small-scale storytelling of his 1970s efforts, Badlands and Days of Heaven, with the dreamy, reflective philosophical musings of his more recent The Thin Red Line and The New World – The Tree of Life operates on the grandest of scales and will, without a doubt, continue to amaze, frustrate and challenge cinephiles well into the foreseeable future.

2) WAR HORSE  Alfred Hitchcock famously declared that he loved to play the audience like a piano. With War Horse, a captivating period tale about a majestic horse named Joey navigating his way, owner by owner, through battered WWI Europe, renowned director Steven Spielberg masterfully tickles every finely tuned, spellbinding note in his arsenal, conducting an impressively potent orchestra of wonder, joy, horror and, of course, tears. Inspired by the classical filmmaking of John Ford and David Lean, War Horse is sweepingly picturesque, deliberately paced and refreshingly old-fashioned in its approach to melodramatic emotion and thematic messages. Spielberg again richly tackles the torments of war – nobody else captures on-screen combat with such virtuosity – while also underscoring the heartbreaking irony of mankind’s contradictory relationship with animals; using and abusing them to meet our own “civilized” needs, yet still depending on them to fill our human yearnings for hope, friendship, courage and love. It’s a special film that wears its heart on its sleeve and speaks directly to the soul of the viewer.

3) HUGO  I’m not exactly sure which children Martin Scorsese’s marvellously peculiar, sumptuous 3D celebration of golden age silent film was aimed at, but we should all be thankful Paramount agreed to bankroll it! A whimsical sensory feast, Hugo chronicles the exploits of its titular hero (Asa Butterfield), an orphaned clockmaker, secretly living in a bustling 1930s Paris train station, who becomes entangled in the life of disgraced pioneer filmmaker Georges Méliès (a mesmerizing Ben Kingsley). Scorsese’s passion for the material radiates from every single exquisite, affectionately-assembled frame, and in its themes of illusion and fantasy, the importance of film preservation and art’s ability to unite people of all ages and backgrounds. There’s such an abundance of charming pleasures to be uncovered in Hugo, from the audacious cinematography and striking art direction, to the sweet performances and stunning advancement of 3D as a storytelling tool. It transcends mere movie-making and becomes something else entirely: magic.

4) SHAME  Steve McQueen’s second directorial effort is a profoundly uncomfortable, wrenching experience that I’ve yet to shake. A harrowing portrait of one man’s bleak descent into loathsome excess, Shame traces the day-to-day life of a dashing New York professional, portrayed by 2011 MVP Michael Fassbender, who, after his disturbed sister (a brittle Carey Mulligan) reappears, attempts to escape his deep-seated anguish by surrendering, body and soul, to self-destructive sex addiction. Shame is uncompromising and often shocking in content – depicting its protagonist’s sad behaviour in cold, clinical detail – but McQueen never fails to generate raw honesty and breath-taking passages of visual artistry from the sordid squalor. This cinematic downward spiral is as magnificent as it is ugly.

5) THE DESCENDANTS  Rarely has a family unit felt as authentic and relatable as in Alexander Payne’s droll, observant study of a dysfunctional Hawaiian clan blindly navigating their way through the grieving process. George Clooney, in amusing dorky dad mode, hits a career high as a loving, but distant, father who reconnects with his kids while preparing for his wife’s untimely death, while Shailene Woodley, as his rebellious oldest daughter and confident, is a true discovery. The Descendants is relaxed and delightful, content to show us flawed, decent people trying their darnedest to do right by those closest to them. It’s the kind of breezily endearing low-key gem you almost wish wouldn’t end, if only so you didn’t have to bid farewell to its enchanting cast of fully-realized characters.

6) DRIVE  Danish director Nicolas Winding Refn’s visceral neo-noir tribute to vintage cinematic cool is an invigorating blast of slick, attitude-drenched style. With brooding, toothpick-chomping driver-for-hire Ryan Gosling sitting intently at the wheel, and stellar supporting players Carey Mulligan, Oscar Isaac, Bryan Cranston, Christina Hendricks, Ron Perlman and an unsettlingly shark-like Albert Brooks adding dimension to the requisite stock roles, Drive adds a dazzling, flavourful dash of art-house meticulousness to an oft-rehashed B-movie chestnut of a plot. Backed by a propulsive, insanely catchy soundtrack, Refn’s picture doesn’t simply riff on beloved old Hollywood clichés; it lovingly reassembles the parts into something new, alive and visionary. The result is a picture that has one foot planted firmly in the past and the other in a bold, electric future.

7) X-MEN: FIRST CLASS  This is one movie that really shouldn’t have worked. A questionable venture at prequelizing a series that petered out of creative gas in 2002, the picture was rushed through production without a finished script in 11 head-spinning months in order to meet its release date. Against all odds, wiz director Matthew Vaughn – coming off 2010’s sneering superhero triumph Kick-Ass – delivers a thrilling James Bond-influenced adventure yarn with serious dramatic oomph! The picture not only pumps new blood into the brand, it actually ranks as the very best of the X-Men pictures; as vital, fun and inventive as a beloved Chris Claremont-era panneled page-turner. Populated by a cast of colourful, compelling mutants led by James McAvoy’s groovy, well-intentioned Professor X and Michael Fassbender’s tragic, seething Magneto, and drawing boundless inspiration from its 1960s Cold War setting, First Class is a pure popcorn rush that merrily lives up to its own cheeky title.

8) BRIDESMAIDS  Kristen Wiig finally received the career launching pad she’s long deserved in this uproarious comedy smash that gleefully gunned down Hollywood’s long-held stodgy belief that women can’t be as funny as men. A hilarious, freewheeling exploration of wedding party pressure-cooker stress, Bridesmaids mines endless comic gold from the wacky group dynamics of its enthusiastic go-for-broke female cast – which also includes Rose Byrne, Maya Rudolph and raunchy scene-hijacker Melissa McCarthy – as well as the dizzying lows journeyed to by its basket-case protagonist. Directed with casual, hands-off confidence by Paul Feig, working off a sharply truthful and witty script by Wiig and her writing partner Annie Mumolo, this brilliant, endlessly rewatchable laugh-fest is the rare major studio comedy that’s worthy of its hype.

9) WARRIOR  This rousing MMA family drama was one of the year’s most welcome, fist-pumping surprises. Starring heavy-hitting up-and-comers Joel Edgerton and Tom Hardy as over-burdened blue collar brothers working out their demons in the ring, Warrior is the rare sports film that knows how to make its well-worn genre tropes feel bracing and impactful. Loaded with exhilarating martial arts action sequences and nuanced performances (especially by Nick Nolte as the clan’s recovering alcoholic patriarch), Gavin O’Connor’s modern day Rocky skilfully builds suspense by setting genuine emotional stakes and never making the climax seem like a foregone conclusion. By the time the final blow is landed, and the fractured family’s tumultuous trip towards reconciliation reaches an explosive, cathartic end, Warrior nearly has us on our feet in rapturous applause.

10) MELANCHOLIA  Whereas The Tree of Life astonished us with the explosive origin of the Earth, Melancholia sees controversial director Lars Von Trier wiping it out of existence in gloriously operatic splendour. A haunting, sad and sometimes darkly humorous examination of crippling depression, this elegantly assembled drama casts Charlotte Gainsbourg and an ethereal Kirsten Dunst as a pair of strained sisters grappling with insurmountable mental illness, as well as the impending apocalypse. Never succumbing to overly-morose stabs at misery exploitation, the always unconventional Von Trier has made a film that dives unwaveringly into the darkest depths of mortal despair, yet still manages to find beautiful, sweet release and a tiny, shining sliver of undying hope.

Honourable Mentions: THE IDES OF MARCH, MARTHA MARCY MAY MARLENE, MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE - GHOST PROTOCOL, MONEYBALL, TAKE SHELTER, 13 ASSASSINS.

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - SHERLOCK HOLMES: A GAME OF SHADOWS

2009’s surprise smash Sherlock Holmes, which reinvented Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s master detective into a hyper-aware bundle of anti-social neuroses and peculiarities, was a decent enough film hobbled by a number of problems. Director Guy Ritchie was saddled with a script heavy on exposition and world-building, but light on actual mystery and depth. While Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law, as Holmes and Watson, infectiously batted their roles out of the park, the picture separated them – to great detriment - for too much screen-time. It also failed to supply a memorably dastardly villain or a lively love interest.

My hopes were high that, with its gorgeously ugly steampunk Victorian London universe up-and-running, and the key figures firmly ingrained in the public consciousness, Ritchie would use his sequel to actually spin a ripping yarn worth telling. Alas, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows is an obnoxious, confusing slog of a motion picture; one that mistakes bombastic franticness for charm, revels in tiresome snarky smugness, and criminally wastes one of literature’s most indelible bad guys. It’s a prime example of lazy franchise filmmaking; taking what everyone loved the first time around and cranking the dial mercilessly up to 11.

Picking up a few years after the initial entry, the movie opens with Sherlock (now with even more enhanced psychic powers!) on the trail of fiendish mastermind Professor James Moriarty (Jared Harris), a cold, sinister intellectual who may have a hand in a series of anarchic bombings that threaten to kick-start war in Europe. Unfortunately for the crazed detective, his trusty right-hand man, Watson, is about to embark on his honeymoon with the lovely Mary (Kelly Reilly), and firmly resists helping to unravel the truth from the uber-tangled ball of conspiracy theories and misdirection. However, an action-packed visit to a gypsy fortune teller (Noomi Rapace) soon brings an abrupt, explosive halt to Watson’s romantic plans. The delightful deciphering duo are then launched on an extensive cross-country fact-finding mission, where they face unbelievably dangerous cliffhanger predicaments, and, ultimately, find themselves drawn ever closer into Moriarty’s sinister web of deceit and murder.

In theory, the script for a Sherlock Holmes adventure should operate like clockwork, with all of the seemingly disconnected plot threads fusing together into one grand, climactic “A-ha!” moment of glorious revelation. Whereas the 2009 film sort of half-heartedly toyed with that trope, A Game of Shadows’ terrible script, by Michele and Kieran Mulroney, basically abandons the concept all-together! There isn’t a great deal of mystery here at all - only an endless series of convoluted happenings obscuring what is essentially a very, very routine villain scheme. Sure, there’s a last minute reveal, but it’s a shameless cheat. It depends solely on introducing never-foreshadowed elements that the audience has no chance of predicting. The film really wants to play like a Victorian-era Indiana Jones/James Bond adventure, with its characters skipping across locations willy nilly, carried almost solely by a string of dynamic action sequences. Problem is, those series depend on fast-paced, broad-stroke storytelling to succeed. Holmes, on the other hand, is simply at odds with that mode of high-flying adventure because it’s fixated on the minutiae of each moment, exhaustively explaining every new development and detail. Call it Cinematic Square Peg, Round Hole syndrome, if you will.

To complicate matters, director Guy Ritchie's stylistic skills have always far outweighed his ability to convey a satisfying narrative. His best efforts – Snatch and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels – are jolting, showy snapshots of attitude, visual virtuosity and scruffy, street-level cool. Here, though, working with a script that’s as incoherent as the last two Pirates of the Caribbean pictures, he flounders, unable to mould this overlong, shapeless mess into a compelling whole. That said, working with cinematographer Philippe Rousselot and production designer Sarah Greenwood, he has made a fairly striking mediocrity. Victorian England has rarely looked as wonderfully cluttered and ominous (you can practically smell the filthy cobblestone streets and soot-covered extras). And, although his livewire energy seems absent from the majority of the movie, Ritchie does still find a handful of moments to shine, among them an artillery-shell-packed jaunt through the forest, a nifty battle inside the cabin of a steam engine, and an amusingly awkward horse-riding montage - scored, improbably, to Ennio Morricone’s hee-hawing theme from the 1970 Clint Eastwood western Two Mules for Sister Sara.

It bears mentioning that Downey Jr.’s Holmes is beginning to creep perilously close to Jack Sparrow-ville. He’s fun in short bursts, but becomes grating when standing centre stage for too long. In A Game of Shadows he runs wild, consuming everyone in his presence, save Law’s suitably aggravated Watson. This picture desperately needed well-rounded supporting players to add flavour and build the series’ mythology into something nuanced and involving. Steps have been taken, with the addition of Moriarty and Holmes’ spy brother Mycroft (Stephen Fry – a winking, jovial presence in search of a purpose), but these characters aren’t given enough to do. Despite an effective last-act verbal chess match with Holmes, Moriarty never feels like the iconic villain he should be. Harris has a diabolical exactness that’s largely underutilized, and we never really get a good sense of the true malevolence he’s capable of unleashing. As for poor Noomi Rapace – cinema’s fierce original Lisbeth Salander – she’s stuck here in the type of useless, one-dimensional role many gifted imports must slum through on their debut trip across the pond. May her future burn brighter.

Draggy and nearly devoid of joy or thrills, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows soullessly vacuums up the accumulated goodwill generated by its predecessor, leaving only an uninspiring promise that a third instalment is definitely in the cards. The fact that the film is helpless to mine good escapist entertainment from such rich, fertile source material is baffling and, to be honest, more than a little concerning. If Ritchie and Warner Bros. really want this franchise to endure, they’d best make it a priority to avoid screenplays this ridiculously clueless.

1.5 out of 5

Film Review - SHAME

When we first meet Brandon, the haunted sex addict played by Michael Fassbender in British director Steve McQueen’s potent second effort, Shame, he resembles a living corpse. Impassive, alone and spent, he lies silently in bed staring at the ceiling above, vacant eyes registering only exhaustion and crushing boredom. He might as well be gazing into the dark reaches of his own broken soul. Subsisting on an obsessive daily diet of mechanical casual sex with prostitutes, masturbation and internet pornography, Brandon’s like a tragic modern day vampire; devoid of feeling or vitality, living simply to unenthusiastically feed his own base compulsions.

Like all serious addicts, Brandon’s devastating sickness has begun to infect the normal aspects of his existence as well. Although he holds a lucrative job at a generic Wall Street office, his suspiciously virus-plagued work computer, and penchant for consistently arriving late, has started to grab the snaky attention of his boss – and singles club wingman – David (James Badge Dale – unrepentantly odious). Even worse, his expensive, sterile New York apartment has been invaded by long-absent younger sibling Sissy (Carey Mulligan), a clingy, damaged basket-case whose fragile wrists are alarming roadmaps of deep psychological anguish. The reappearance of his sister – and her ensuing improper relationship with David – opens excruciating, unspoken wounds for Brandon, further propelling his self-loathing tailspin into excess, and forcing him to face the suffocating torments of his past.

For McQueen, Shame is an extremely fitting follow-up to his great 2008 debut Hunger, which, in often excruciating detail, portrayed the grim fate of Bobby Sands, the republican inmate leader of Ireland’s infamous 1981 prison hunger strike. Whereas that movie featured a protagonist – also played by Fassbender – strictly denying himself all temptations, this new film veers boldly in the polar opposite direction, showing us a man who dives headfirst into them and refuses to come up for air. There’s a fearlessness to Shame’s depiction of sex addiction that’s coldly effective; McQueen fills his picture with countless scenes of graphic sexuality and nudity, but drains them of any sense of eroticism or passion. After the initial shock wears off, we’re slowly drawn into Brandon’s headspace, greeting each ensuing perfunctory sexual encounter with an increased sense of detached apathy. The film doesn’t titillate, it numbs.

As overwhelmingly unpleasant as the picture gets, the director - who has a prominent background as a visual artist - once again proves to have an magnificent ability to transform revolting human misery into breathtaking passages of pure cinema. Among its many wonders, Shame contains two extended dialogue-free sequences, set to Harry Escott’s gloomy, ominous tick-tock score, that are astonishing visual poetry. The first, which occurs early on, sees Brandon seducing a lovely commuter on a subway train with little more than a strong, unremitting gaze. As the tension builds, the film cuts away to random explicit excerpts of his regular routines, providing us, in just a few absorbing minutes, with both a vivid layout of the character’s world and his no-nonsense approach to seduction. The second follows Brandon on a night-time prowl around the city on a ravenous, self-destructive hunt for gratification and – he hopes – a much-longed-for moment of peace. It’s a heartbreaking bit of filmmaking.

Just as in Hunger, there’s repeated use of long single-shot takes in order to draw out the complexities of the characters. During the film, Brandon goes out on a date with an attractive co-worker, played by Nicole Beharie, and, in their real-time verbal, and sensual, interactions, we’re given first-hand witness to the debilitating effects of his affliction. For him, sex is no longer (if it ever was) about intimacy or a profound human connection. Instead, it’s been distorted into a selfish act of personal satisfaction, with women acting merely as a prospective fuel source. Equality has been erased from the equation entirely. Despite rarely being without female companionship, he’s never anything but utterly alone.

Michael Fassbender continues to warrant recognition as one of our most courageous and exciting up-and-coming actors. Most will know him best for his commanding performance as the iconic villain Magneto in last summer’s X-Men: First Class. However, it’s his smaller efforts – playing Sands in Hunger, or an incestuous step-father in 2009’s Fish Tank – that reveal the murky depths he’s willing to travel to in order to serve an artistic vision. There’s no ego or artifice in his performances, only steadfast dedication. Here, he performs numerous scenes fully nude, exudes raw animal magnetism, and doesn’t shy away from appearing grotesque or unlikeable. He has a fantastically disturbing moment with Mulligan where he playfully leaps on top of her, and transitions into a frenzied madman so instantaneously that the audience sucks in its breath in discomfort. Brandon may be something of a monster, but with Fassbender inhabiting his uncomfortable skin, he’s a fascinatingly complex one, who wholly involves us in his pitiful, wrenching journey.

Certainly, this is primarily Fassbender’s show, but apparently no one told Carey Mulligan, who delivers an extremely juicy supporting turn. Following her co-star’s committed example, she makes Sissy into a compellingly ravaged portrait of barely suppressed misery. Her biggest showcase scene comes in the form of an extended musical performance, where her character – a struggling nightclub singer – performs “New York, New York” with all the starry-eyed optimism of a retired streetwalker. While Mulligan has a knack for playing vulnerable, she’s never really been called on to be this pathetic or irritating before. We immediately realize why she’s such a toxic factor in Brandon’s life, but still yearn to grasp the trauma that so thoroughly shattered her.

Shame is – to state the obvious – not a film for every viewer. It’s grueling and aching, filled with unforgettable images of emotional and moral decay, with precious little relief. McQueen has crafted an important picture that transcends the sensationalistic “controversial” tag some will slap it with, and offers thoughtful, provocative insight into the nature of sex, addiction and oppressive long-term guilt. After all, individuals like Brandon do exist. And this picture helps us, if only a little, to understand their pain.

4.5 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - MY WEEK WITH MARILYN

The genius of Marilyn Monroe was that she never appeared to be trying. Whether delivering a saucy punch-line, uttering breathy come-ons or cooing and slinking her way through a seductive musical number, there was never a sense of performance. She simply was, seemingly happening upon her dialogue and tantalizing body language through some kind of divine inspiration. Under the watch of master directors like Billy Wilder (Some Like It Hot, The Seven-Year Itch) or Howard Hawks (Gentlemen Prefer Blondes), she was an unstoppable force, rendering those on-screen around her invisible. Even junky, hopeless material couldn’t suppress her radiant talent. In the feeble final Marx Brothers comedy Love Happy she managed, in a mere sliver of screen-time, to upstage renowned scene-stealer Groucho Marx – a feat few mortals would dare attempt, much less accomplish.

Now, almost fifty years after her untimely death, she dominates the screen anew – courtesy of sublimely talented conduit Michelle Williams – in My Week with Marilyn, a so-so coming of age/showbiz drama that squeaks by on our affection for the fallen icon. But just barely. Based on the (rather dubious) memoirs of documentarian Colin Clark, the film highlights one turbulent key week in the starlet’s life, during her 1956 stay in London shooting The Prince and the Showgirl under the strict direction of lauded thespian Sir Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh).

Acting as our avatar into this exciting moment in cinema history is Colin (Eddie Redmayne), the gawky “youngest in a family of over-achievers,” who scores an (uncredited) 3rd assistant director gig on the The Prince after procuring lodging for Monroe following a production setback. Starry-eyed and naive, but motivated by an unquenchable love for filmmaking, the aspiring artist has a prime seat in the eye of the hurricane as Monroe frolics into town and plunges the set into chaos. Accompanied by her maternal acting coach Paula Strasberg (Zoë Wanamaker), the insecure, ill-prepared star quickly draws the ire of the classically-trained Olivier, who has zero patience for America’s new Method approach to acting. He wants only to harness her boundless charisma as a means of reigniting his dusty screen image.

As tension builds, and the production is put on hiatus, Colin unintentionally winds up becoming Monroe’s confident, and partner in a chaste quasi-romance. This irritates many of the power players, including the actress’ protective, seen-it-all press agent Milton Greene (Dominic Cooper). However, as her brand new marriage to playwright Arthur Miller (Dougray Scott) becomes strained, Marilyn begins to spiral into an abyss of pills and drink. While Olivier struggles to maintain control of his picture, and frets over whether his main attraction will be able to bring the necessary on-camera fireworks, Colin fears that the sweet girl he’s come to love will be consumed by the fog of depression hovering around her.

As the tragic blonde bombshell, Williams is an unlikely, yet wholly convincing choice. With her delicate, angelic loveliness and quiet, melancholy, she’s a pro at inhabiting damaged souls – recently evidenced in Shutter Island, Blue Valentine or this year’s frustratingly enigmatic misery-western Meek’s Cutoff – but here she also embraces, and owns, Monroe’s bubbly erotic innocence. Although the actress doesn’t exactly look like the legend, it’s often astonishing how fully she disappears behind her subject’s endearing wide-eyed stare and come-hither vocal mannerisms. She nails a musical opening, lip-synching the sultry lyrics of “Heat Wave,” and flawlessly channels Marilyn’s magnetic ability to work a room in a wonderful scene set at a press conference. But it’s the small moments that really sell the illusion, like how she teasingly calls to Colin from a bubble bath, telling him to “Wait a while, crocodile,” or how, even at her lowest, coy amusement flickers in her dazzling eyes. It’s a tough task, to avoid the perils of pure imitation, but Williams manages to create not an idealized carbon copy, but a fully-realized human being with dreams, fears and deep emotional wounds.

Sadly, Williams’ revelatory work is at the service of an underwhelming screenplay. There are compelling stories to be told in My Week with Marilyn, but very few of them have anything to do with Colin Clark. Redmayne, with his leering eyes, vaguely reptilian features and smarmy social-climber air, is a tepid nonentity of a lead, with all the charisma of watered down oatmeal. The character obviously serves a necessary function, providing us access to the film’s truly intriguing figures, but his by-the-numbers, dramatically inert character journey dominates so much of the run-time it threatens to topple the picture into the bleary dregs of Blandsville.

The remainder of the cast is on-the-ball, albeit criminally underutilized, with many vanishing from the picture by the halfway point. Dame Judi Dench is a sweet, funny joy in her handful of scenes as actress Dame Sybil Thorndike, the set’s loving mother figure who goes out of her way to make Marilyn feel welcome, and Julia Ormand portrays Vivien Leigh with striking elegance and humanity. A warm Emma Watson is wasted in a go-nowhere part as a costumer who catches the attention of Colin. Though she at least gets some resolution, unlike Toby Jones’ cynical publicist Arthur Jacobs, who barely even registers as a character. Only Branagh’s role has any meat, and he relishes digging in. A pompous tyrant on set, Olivier is at his most poignant when he sits in the dark, silently watching daily rushes, and admitting – in a voice both mournful and wondrous – that Monroe makes everyone else on-screen look “permanently ten feet under water.”

Helmer Simon Curtis directs with unflashy restraint, enlivening the proceedings through subtle visual tricks. He frequently lights Williams more intensely than her co-stars; a nice shorthand for emphasizing just how much brighter Monroe’s star shone than those around her. Additionally, Colin and Marilyn’s two most important meetings are set in idyllic pastoral environments, and he and cinematographer Ben Smithard do a nice job creating gorgeously serene natural paradises that complement the exquisite natural wonder of Monroe herself.

Ultimately, though, My Week with Marilyn is the most frustrating kind of film; one with limitless potential, a fascinating historical background and a crackerjack lead performance, which takes the easy road, settling for shallow whimsy and safe, unimaginative storytelling. No film about this captivating, eternal sex symbol – who created an invigorating, vivacious stir wherever she appeared – should be this flimsy, tame and, frankly, forgettable. In the playful parlance of Marilyn herself, it’s too much whoop-dee-doo, not enough boop-boop-a-doop.

2.5 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.