willwri14 Reviews

La Dolce Vita (1960)

Fellini captured a moment, and in it, all is laid bare.

[10/10 · 20 July 2014]

In Mel Brooks' The Producers, the driving scenes are shot front-on, a two-dimensional view into the life of the driver and passengers. You can see out the rear window, but the others are obscured, masking the world behind it – all that matters is the here and the now, the road disappearing into the past behind. The same technique was used in La Dolce Vita as Marcello and Maddalena drive through Roman streets. To La Dolce Vita's Rome, the only matter is portrait, a shallow dimension you can peer straight through. Its people live in pain, trying to break free from their bodies, but they remain trapped within their porcelain figures. An actress yearns for love, and finds it in a stray kitten. Maddalena yearns for connection, and finds it in an echo chamber, disconnected from the other end. We wonder if Marcello ever found his. Fellini's closing shot is hopeful – everything before it isn't.

Fellini's finger-waggle at Roman culture is soaked in now-termed 'felliniesque' trademarks; an object suspended in the air above, men in love, women in love, and a begrudging world that chews them up and spits them out. In 8½ a visionary struggles to discover his muse, a 'perfect' woman who is ultimately underwhelming. In La Dolce Vita, Marcello's identical epiphany doesn't wait until the conclusion. He encounters the blonde and buxom Sylvia, a ditsy actress who relishes her time in the spotlight, only to follow her through the streets of late-night Rome. She howls in the wilderness, rescues a mewing kitten, and paddles into a fountain in a bout of rebellion. The water flows down the stone carvings, but as Marcello wades after her it runs dry, the still water cementing his hopelessness. Fellini's Rome is spiteful, kicking its fools when they're down. Marcello's eyes only continue to darken as Fellini's cynicism grips ahold.

La Dolce Vita seems to celebrate the women who change the world and deplore the men who stand and watch. Actresses stroll from their luxurious private jets as a mob of journalist squabble and brawl like schoolboys on prom night; intellectuals observe an aboriginal singer strum and sing, only for men to fawn over her looks ("foreign women are far superior," one announces before his wife); just as an army of spectators and journalists blindly gather around two children who claim to see the virgin Madonna. Many are skeptical, but one woman offers her wisdom: "People find God wherever they look." Marcello's intellectual friend, Steiner, shares Fellini's insight. His son can accept the beauty of what is already there — he can observe a flower and laugh, for it is beautiful — but his daughter is captivated by invention, coining poetic phrases like "Who is the mother of the sun?" Rome's men are captivated by beauty, but oblivious to what lays behind.

Marcello Mastroianni is a worldly actor whose figure is a canvass of emotion. He needn't open his mouth, lest it pile upon the magnitudes of emotion already plastered over his exterior. His smiles are lopsided and faulted, cold and cynical, grappled by the obligations of love and the heartless venom of his Rome. His romance struggles between the wealthy seductress Maddalena and the long love of his destructive lover at home, leaving him exhausted and trapped between the realms of loneliness. The Roman worlds are of tired love and plastic people, and the two can't resist headbutting each other into submission.

It's Fellini's descent from neorealism which cements his confounding and disorganized world as an exquisite mass in the story, the essential planetoid whose gravity pulls everything inwards. La Dolce Vita is widely considered a hallmark in sharpened satire, a dagger piercing the heart of Roman 'café society'. It is said Fellini was spat on, berated, and called communist and atheist outside of his theatre showings. Biting satire is a curveball which strikes once its audience is whipped into submission – it seems his audiences were wholly convinced by his cautionary tale, and no curveball could nudge them over its edge. Marcello's life may appear amicable and, to some, desirable, but the dark clouds beneath his eyes indicate otherwise. His life feels faulted and satanic, and Fellini's tale reminds me of a lecture from a protective parent so their teenage kid doesn't sneak out at night.

The film begins with a statue of Christ above Rome, and ends with a leviathan being wrestled onto the seashore. La Dolce Vita confounds beauty with the snarl of a beast, mocking its existence with theatrics and showmanship. Fellini revisits his trademark obsession with the circus, but it is overshadowed by relentless melancholy – a lone performer trumpets solemnly, only to march out, the balloons on the ground following through the door. A fellow performer sheds a tear to his performance, just as we, the audience, should for Marcello. We're the performers that share his stage.

La Dolce Vita gave birth to the term 'paparazzi', a contortion of celebrity photographer Papparazzo, who spends his days and nights stalking the upper-class men and women of Roman society, be it celebrity or royalty. But beyond etymology, La Dolce Vita has given us something more. In his era of Italian film, Fellini's audio is almost all post-production. It's a near-flawless conversion, but sometimes a word is spoken while a mouth is closed, or vice-versa. It's easy to collapse into Marcello's world, to live in it and to breathe its air, but only the minor details tore me out. La Dolce Vita doesn't ignore the small print, no, but suggests you draw back its veil and tear off the mask. It urges you to see through its facade. Of course, it's all a fantasy, mere images on a screen, but it's more: it's a film about men, about women, about the capitalist and the communist, about the saint and about the whore. Fellini captured a moment, and in it, all is laid bare.

The Raid 2 (2014)

What you get if when psychopathy has a midsummer fling with sadism.

[2/10 · 17 July 2014]

The Raid 2 – Berandal is a story of legacy, of what it means to be a man, of achieving greatness, and how much blood is spilt in extravagant and utterly disgusting ways in the meantime. It exists in a world where misanthropy is king, and where blood might as well ooze from every spark plug, sewer grate, and bathroom tap. To The Raid 2, the only way to become "someone," as its characters discover (or not), is to kill absolutely everyone you come across with an array of awful weapons. Sometimes it's a machete, sometimes it's a broomstick, sometimes it's a man's fist pulverizing a goon's face into concrete, but in the end one thing is for sure: plastic surgery will boom, because there's a hell of a lot of facial deconstruction, whether someone's jaw is snapped off, or their face is ground to a pulp on a rough concrete wall. To The Raid 2, there is no friend, no ally, just a video game pile-on of ultra-violence as men charge to their dooms in a single file fashion — how polite, I thought, queuing for your reserved seat in Hell like you're waiting in line at the deli. Take your ticket, sir, it won't be long until you're the one on the menu.

This morally reprehensible movie has its fair share of terrible and one dimensional characters, all of which should be a pile of bone dust from how much blunt-force trauma their uber-muscular square-jawed figures absorb. There are no female characters, no, unless you count an utterly useless wife figure of Disturbed Sociopath #1, a man who is so far up the sociopath scale that I doubt he ever loved in the first place. The first appearance of a breathing human female, excluding the useless wife, is a topless lady wearing a strap-on. The second is two 'skanks' who are paid to sing karaoke and sexually gratify Disturbed Sociopath #1 and Disturbed Sociopath #2. They don't get that far, obviously, because God knows Disturbed Sociopath #1 and #2 yearn for their fix of beating someone's face into the earth, so they're promptly disposed of after a thorough shake-up.

If you consider this review cynical, you're only half-way down the rabbit hole. I'd say it's "a taste of its own medicine," but The Raid 2 is a misanthropic, all-hating, violent beat-'em-up with no point besides that of one of its hyper-sharpened blade. Its cynicism cannot be rivalled by that of a particularly shaken and disturbed critic, like yours truly, who wished he had never stumbled across this abhorrent slice of awful. Just once, during this drunken brawl of masochism and ultra-masculinity, I wanted a character to open its mouth, scream, and run away from its ever-impending road trip through the depths of oblivion. I suppose some got half way there, opening their mouths to utter a guttural scream of "Oh bother, why didn't I get a proper education," but it's only a millisecond before a sharp or blunt instrument pulverizes their face like a sledgehammer to an eggshell.

It's a critics job to either decide the artistic merit of a film or gauge its quality of entertainment. So often we come across popcorn flicks, like the critically damned Transformers series, who are excused from the dinner table of the cinematic medium for being 'intentionally stupid'. The Raid 2 is not stupid. It shouldn't be excused. It is a popcorn flick. It exists to serve a plate of morally stagnant violence and martial arts choreography to its viewers like a plate of undercooked seafood. Sure, it might taste alright, but it's only a matter of hours before the horrid food-poisoning sets in, leaving you with a churning stomach and a raging temperature. Violence, when cooked to perfection, is a powerful medium. It can speak words of revenge, of love, of hate, of ambition and power. The Raid 2 speaks no intelligible words with its punches, just a garbled "Blaghhh" as it presents an audience of teenage boys something to practice not-flinching too. Because, you know, girls love a hardened and violent guy.

It melds the Bruce Li kung-fu epic with the violence and moral confusion of Oldboy, yet its sting is accompanied by no bite. It's flat-faced, unflinching, and faces no consequence. Maybe it's far cleverer than I will ever be, and it's mocking the absurd ultra-violence of this genre, but it's a genre it helped build all on its own. This is no Gremlins 2 or Scream 2, just a movie where every corridor and carpet is coloured blood-red just so the carnage doesn't leave an obvious stain. That, or it used to be another colour. I hate to imagine the possibilities.

Berandal, the sequel's subtitle, is an Indonesian word. It means, after quite some research, 'thug' or 'scoundrel' or 'bandit' or 'rascal'. It, unlike the former's (The Raid: Redemption), whose subtitle inferred some form of redemption that never happened, is highly appropriate. The Raid 2 is the kind of thug that would lure you into a shady alleyway to help find his lost puppy, beat the absolute snot out of you, and leave you whining in a puddle of your own blood. After that, he kicks you twice in the stomach and nicks your wallet and car keys. It, just like Disturbed Sociopath #1 through #99, is just an average goon. Today that thief took my proverbial wallet and left me feeling like crap in the shady alleyway of my desk chair. At least I still have my car keys.

The Zero Theorem (2013)

It feels like the grand finale of Gilliam's filmography. I really hope it isn't.

[8/10 · 14 July 2014]

Terry Gilliam is like a fine wine, except the older he gets, he is all the more bizarre. And like a hangover from a jolly night of inebriation through Time Bandits (1977), Brazil (1981), and The Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1988), The Zero Theorem is the snow settled after the blizzard, a grand encore to remind you of your past adventures. The Zero Theorem is as much a Gilliam-sized hit of nostalgia as it is a cocktail of longing, gazing back on the days of old. In those days, there were no spying cameras hidden throughout your home and no dazzling virtual reality tech to make you ponder the existential, just a simple life to enjoy your imagination. I'm torn on whether Gilliam enjoys his world or loathes it. I think it's a bit of both.

And if The Zero Theorem is a companion piece to Brazil – which it undeniably is — it would better serve as its counterpart. The streets aren't governed by Brazil's grayscale monotony, they're a bizarre flurry of colour, advertisements chatting and stalking you down the streets. It's a world devoid of minimalism, but not too far from todays. Our hero, Qohen Leth, is a computer hacker extraordinaire, housed in a run down cathedral precariously located next to a sex shop. He is an agoraphobe, a claustrophobe, and just about any other phobe you could imagine. He loathes his workplace and begs to hack from home. His manager — not to be confused with resident Big Brother, 'Management', helmed by a strangely suited Matt Damon — advises him to be careful what he wishes for.

So Qohen's workstation, a flashing retro-hipster fusion of plastic and neon vials, joins him in his towering cathedral. His door is secured by seven different locks, and the building is home to a colony of rats, doves, and oodles of microwave meals. Whenever the phone rings, he darts to its side. It's not the call he was hoping for, "his call" that explains every iota of existence, just another disappointing deadline from the mysterious Management. Deadline for what, you ask? Qohen is tasked with decoding the titular 'Zero Theorem', a mish-mash of data that could explain all or nothing. Qohen thinks all and nothing is the same thing. He's not wrong (and, at the same time, perhaps he isn't right?).

The process seems impossible, but Qohen is making progress. To him, he isn't, it's just one step forward and a dozen back, his house of cards crumbling as he perfects its steeple. Hacking seems fetishistic: keyboards are gone, replaced by the future equivalent of an Xbox controller, joysticks twiddling and flashing buttons twanging. This future seems to beg for attention, a world of flashing lights and arcadey sounds to captivate our ever degrading attention span. Even work is a game, just a twiddle of joysticks and a colourful computer screen. It's quite unlike Brazil - Lowry's world was uninteresting and bleak, distractions were a temptation. The Zero Theorem is its pole.

But Qohen avoids distractions like the plague, never daring exit the security of his towering cathedral. Along comes a pretty blonde strippergram dressed in a latex nurse suit. He avoids her and recoils from her touch, enjoying loneliness more than her charming company. Nor is he the life of a party, nearly choking to death on a piece of candy. Soon, the colourful strippergram Bainsley introduces Qohen to the future equivalent of phone sex, where they plug themselves in and go at it online. The web extension is .sex – subtle. Technology is a fetish.

Gilliam is less a filmmaker than a magician. He conjures up the wackiest location you could imagine, only to whirl you there with a wave of his magic wand. The journey is exciting, like traversing a tunnel of colour and lights, a carnival of the strange but delightful. Behind the colour nestles a drunken nostalgia, an understanding of something more, a little something you may have missed. The colours pop and scream, but his alarming cynicism bleeds through the picture. Qohen is sad, his cathedral Gothic and ancient. He is reluctant to live in his new world. Perhaps Gilliam shares his reluctance.

Qohen's obsession with nothingness is existential, of course, but far from nihilistic. It's his faith, the God that echoes throughout his cathedral of memory and sadness. This faith saps his life, sucking it into one of Gilliam's neon-lit vials. He doesn't refer to himself as 'I', but as 'we' and 'us'. He is so distracted that he is no longer his individual self – he is as selfless as the monks who lived in the cathedral before him, sworn to chastity and silence.

Gilliam once said "People in Hollywood are not showmen, they're maintenance men, pandering to what they think their audiences want." If that is true, Gilliam is like the dashing terrorist of Brazil, lobbing a spanner in the works to grind against Hollywood's corporate gears. Unlike Brazil, his latest film is far from perfect. But to Gilliam, Time Bandits was about childhood, Brazil was about adulthood, and The Adventures of Baron Munchausenen is about old age. The Zero Theorem is about the in-between, the moments in life where you don't know who you are. In the end of his tale, I hope Qohen has figured out who he is. I want him to move into the next stage of Gilliam's master plan.

Calvary (2014)

A bleak and hilarious depiction of a Christian country gone wrong.

[10/10 · 26 June 2014]

The title of John Michael McDonagh's previous film, The Guard, has a fairly literal translation: the Gaelic word "guarda" means policeman, so it's aptly named "The Cop". Calvary's title is equally uncomplicated, though it sports an appropriate double meaning: one involves the geographical place of Jesus' crucifixion whilst the other describes an experience of intense mental suffering. Calvary, a film revolving around a priest of the clergy in a small coastal Irish town, seems to reveal its use of the word almost immediately - put two-and-two together, and the Biblical interpretation seems all the more likely. But as the curtains near its closing, the second definition is just as likely: Calvary is as bleak as its humour is black.

The McDonagh's, specifically Martin of In Bruges (2008) and Seven Psychopaths (2012), seem to have a fascination with grand finales in wide, open, barren places. In In Bruges, it's an uninteresting medieval courtyard. In Seven Psychopaths, it's an elaborate gun-fight staged in the dusty west. In Calvary, it's a desolate Irish beach - Excuse the spoiler, but it isn't one really. The priest's first conversation, set inside a confession box, sets the countdown of his mortality - the man on the other side promises his death come Sunday. In the meantime, the bulky priest (played by none other than the brilliant Brendan Gleeson) continues with life per usual. A quick visit to the hospital for the last-minute absolution of a dying man, a nip around to the prison to chat with the local cannibal, and some polite gibber-gabber with the nefarious townsfolk in between.

But for a film branded as a comedy, it's quickly overwhelmed by a sickening bleakness. That said, it's nicely counterbalanced by McDonagh's quick-witted prose and black-as-spades humour, erring on the controversial but never taking the full leap. A film about priesthood, pedophilia, adultery, and general wrongdoing in the face of the Church shouldn't take kindly to a mish-mash of political incorrectness, but he stitches it together with relative ease. I wonder what the McDonagh brothers' childhood was like - full of black humour and a love of the controversial, I suppose.

Back to the characters. Gleeson is Father James Lavelle, who reinforces Ireland's stereotypically gawkish Church. First it was sitcom-spectacular Father Ted, where a commune of alcoholics, frauds, and complete imbeciles operated under the name of the Church, but now it's Gleeson's turn, who runs a church for the few townsfolk who would bother turning up. The town, whose characters are far more colourful than its deadbeat humour, is broken in almost every way: the rich man sits alone in his mansion, the married man lives happily whilst his wife cheats blatantly behind (or, in front of) his back, and the rest merrily dance in the pub come Friday eve. Some do cocaine in the loo, but when caught shout "It's only medicinal, father!". Yeah, right.

And it's not long before you realize the extent of the good father's patience. If it were any other priest, they would've packed their bags long ago, but he seems relatively happy in the comfort of his gorgeous dog, flashy sports car, and troubled daughter who occasionally pops by for a weekend visit. His car, a flashy red convertible, seems quite out-of-place in the medieval town of old, and I wouldn't be surprised by a horse and cart plodding through the streets. And the photography? Same applies. It seems to relish its low-angled portraiture, forever set against a grey Irish sky or naked wall of cobblestone. Calvary's gloom and sorrow is reflected in its medieval lighting, as every character's face is lit in solemn dignity - they all wear something under their eyes: whether guilt, regret, or just a lack of sleep, it's no matter - they've all got their demons.

But there's one who's less horrid than most the townsfolk. He's an old and lonely author, who's living on an ocean-side home. He spends his evenings siphoning brandy from every glass, and reading about Nazis and warfare. Occasionally, whilst visiting, Father Lavelle's puppy-dog eyes seem to long for such an amicable existence, but "No!" shouts the priesthood - you can't let the demons manifest, you've got to get out there and purge them, one-by-one. It's a hefty task, but someone's got to do it.

Blue Ruin (2013)

Excellent, well paced, and suspenseful, Blue Ruin is the Coen Brothers mixed with a dash of Tarantino.

[10/10 · 5 May 2014]

Every so often, when the stars align, along comes a small art-house flick that manages to capture your attention like nothing before. And Blue Ruin, filmmaker Jeremy Saulnier's Cannes Film Festival entry, certainly captured my attention like nothing before. It's certainly odd – no big names behind it, no overcomplicated tat, just clean and effective filmmaking. I liked that, and I loved Blue Ruin. True to its namesake, it is a very blue movie; his car, the car seats, the faint illumination of an LED lamp, and the sunny skies, all very blue. Similarly blue is the story itself – soaked in melancholy, it is very tragic indeed.

Blue Ruin is about a vagrant called Dwight. He has a scraggly beard, and lives out of his car. He sorts through trash for leftovers, and squats in homes while the owners are on holiday. His existence is rather sad, but rather uplifting all the same – by day he fishes and sits on the beach, and by night he reads books by the light of a little LED lamp. You are rarely disgusted by his life — you may cringe as he tears into garbage bags in search of food, bon appétit — but otherwise he is pretty OK in my books. Dwight lives a sad existence, but seems fairly content all the same.

But like a string of a sweater, his tragic life rapidly unravels. The murderer of his parents, revealed by a tiny newspaper article, is out of jail. Dwight, understandably, is very upset. Some may sit and wallow in the injustice of the release, but he does anything but, as he jump-starts his tatty blue car and heads to his hometown. There, he exacts his revenge, and his muddled past is slowly unravelled.

I adore films that have the guts to show, instead of just telling the audience everything upon entry. Blue Ruin had the ability to squander everything, and squish the back story into some lazy exposition or some heavyhanded narration. It, however, doesn't. We can latch onto the curtain, and tug as hard as we can to reveal the stage behind, but that stage is shrouded in the fog of mystery. Thank goodness it is, I say. If it weren't, this film wouldn't have much substance. But, hiding behind the convenient layers of the story, it reveals the necessities and lets your mind wander. Nothing more, nothing less.

If I didn't know any better, I would instantly associate Blue Ruin with the brutality of Nicolas Winding Refn, or the dark wit of the Coen brothers. It's a fairly typical revenge movie – Dwight is angry about an injustice, and proceeds to shoot almost everything. By that description, you'd likely associate it with a Tarantino flick – but it isn't one. The most interesting element of Saulnier's revenge flick is its humanity. This isn't to say Tarantino is without humanity, just Blue Ruin has oodles and oodles of it. Dwight seems to stumble through everything, smothering fingerprints over every surface, and coating everything in blood. Hell, at one point he tries to imitate the Terminator as he attempts to remove an arrow from his leg – scalpel at the ready, and blood oozing from his wound, he ends up stumbling into an operating room, and having it removed there instead. He doesn't really know what he is doing, but he gets there in the end nonetheless.

And he proceeds to stumble throughout the rest of the story. He isn't good with a gun, but he proves himself an adequate assassin. Similarly, he falls asleep whilst awaiting his victims in their home, but he wakes up just in the nick of time. He is told to just shoot, and not waste time with elegant monologues, but he stops to give a little speech anyway. Rarely do you see a character so remarkably flawed on-screen, but Dwight is lovable all the same. Especially after he shaves – the beard was a bit too scraggly.

Blue Ruin is so straightforward, and rather predictable, but still has the twists and turns it needs to be an interesting story. It manages to shroud Dwight's past in the shadows of a mystery, and unravel slowly, but not so slowly as to bore everyone's brains out. It has its fair share of bloody gore, which is fun, and heartstring-tuggings, which is effectively emotional; you won't be bawling, but Dwight's puppy-dog eyes are rather pathetic (in the best sense of the word). And so, if you want to make an effective movie, imitate Blue Ruin; show, instead of tell, and do take your time; you have plenty.

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)

A brilliant, stylistic, heartfelt adventure.

[10/10 · 5 April 2014]

Coupled with the subtle pastel corridors and inflammatory red hotel doors, the sprawling Grand Budapest Hotel is home to many exquisite and unconventional characters, as director Wes Anderson further contorts eccentric stereotypes with his brilliant and farcical narrative. The Grand Budapest Hotel is certainly true to its grandeur title, boasting the broad and sensational world of Gustave H. (Ralf Fiennes, Schindler's List), the fabled concierge of the ages and the celebrity of the Grand Budapest Hotel itself. When an unexperienced refugee lobby boy, Zero (Tony Revelori), seeks an adept mentor, he is instead dragged into the confounding and bizarre world full of brass-knuckled psychopaths, diabolical schemers, and an immense conspiracy spanning a soon to be war-torn Europe. Wes Anderson doesn't disappoint, as his comedic adventure is astoundingly resplendent and magnificent in its execution and farcical manner.

The enthralling dichotomy between Gustave and Zero is not only aided by Anderson's colourful visuals, but is tied together in a neat knot as their superficial differences become an apparent similarity. Gustave, the man in the know, deeply engrossed in his library of romantic poetry and his ability to tame insecure and rich elderly women at the drop of a dime, is presented as the perfect mentor for his soon-to-be protégé, a naive and compulsive child. His wit and conceited bravado defines his charming character, but as one should suspect, this is a mere mask, an opaque reflection of his ostensible character. Instead, he is a perfect likeness of Zero; naive and lost in the unknown, especially when he realizes the unfortunate truth: his glamorous exterior cannot stop a proverbial bullet.

Zero, a refugee, hiding from the war that stole his family, is finally given the chance to roam the plains and mountainous ranges of Europe with his eccentric mentor. Falling in love, enveloping his mentors charming ways, and even developing his own persona, Zero is shown the life he would likely never have, a life he is never to leave behind. Unlike his beloved mentor, however, Zero doesn't pursue Gastave's gold-digging ways, but instead pursues a life of isolation. An old man, stubbornly attached to the memories of the once grand hotel, is withered and alone, but inadvertently immortalised his memoirs through a the curiosity of a young writer (Jude Law, Closer).

In true farcical manner, The Grand Budapest Hotel encapsulates the very raw essence of fun; sporting a cast of extremely cartoonish protagonists and villains in an abundance of comic situations, Anderson's adventurous endeavour latched a smile to my face like a parasite – it didn't fall off until a quarter-hour after the film ended. A brass-knuckled Jopling (Willem DaFoe, Spiderman), always accompanied by a menacing organ tone; a deadpan lawyer, Kovacs (Jeff Goldblum, Jurassic Park); a stern police commissioner, Henckles (Edward Norton, Fight Club); The Grand Budapest Hotel has countless colourful and eclectic personalities step through its radiant doors.

Whether the loudest and most unsubtle recreation of The Great Escape, or an exhilarating ski/sled chase, Anderson captures the quintessence of humour and entertainment in its many shapes and sizes; the menacing psychopath throwing a cat out of a window, or severing four fingers in an extremely tragic door-slam, The Grand Budapest Hotel condenses the basics of dark humour. Meanwhile, it contains compelling and light humour, from the delightful back-and-forth between the eclectic cast, to its eccentric visual farce. Full to the brim with laughs and giggles, it isn't a film that laughs at the audience, but instead laughs with them and embraces its comical and meta air.

From an impossibly coincidental Chekhov's gun that saves the day in true deus-ex machina style, to the ridiculous escapades our radiant cast gorges itself upon, The Grand Budapest Hotel does nothing to avoid its inherently light-hearted disposition. Instead, it embraces it, as Anderon's popular 'fiction inside a fiction' style (See: The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, for example) is embraced in its entirety – even the aspect ratio of the picture changes as the narrative jumps from past to present. Visual elements that I would once deem tacky are now welcomed in my mind, as Anderson proves his squared and symmetrical style tantalizing and hypnotic. Vibrant and colourful, the bountiful hallways and stairwells of the Grand Budapest are a pleasure to the eye.

I feel bad having written this far without giving some of the lesser performances the attention they deserve – in the few lines she delivers, Agatha (Saoirse Ronan, The Lovely Bones), Zero's talented dessert designer and soul mate overshadows many of the smaller performances. I daresay that Bill Murray paled in comparison, although his role was extremely limited. Wes Anderson proves that even with an immense cast of well-known actors, he is able to extract their essence of entertainment in mere seconds or minutes, as minor roles are diverse and extraordinary. Gustave, however, with his nuances and idiosyncracies, steals every moment on scene, and Fiennes once again proves his acting mettle.

The Grand Budapest Hotel is an overwhelming triumph, a pleasure to the eye, the ear, and the mind. Absorbing the true meaning of entertainment in its self-parodying and meta fashion, it manages to radiate enjoyment and energy around every corner of the sprawling hotel, and the immense land-mass of Europe. While I despise the use of sensationalistic hyperbole, it is, without a doubt, among the most enjoyable films I have ever perused. I suggest this to all, young and old, as The Grand Budapest Hotel has depth, humour, farce, and fun in an amalgamation of film-making talent. Violent and crude, innocent and naive, hilarious and touching, this is a film that cannot be missed, even if its bizarre but effective style may appear intimidating to the average watcher.

Dom Hemingway (2013)

Overcooked and extremely verbose, Dom Hemingway is stylistic fun.

[6/10 · 1 April 2014]

"A man with no options suddenly has all the options in the world", says the chain-smoking, whiskey-muddled, and articulate but filthy Dom Hemingway. Proclaimed the greatest safe-cracker of the ages, Dom Hemingway (Jude Law, Closer) is back on the streets after twelve years of solitude (twelve years is a running theme of 2013, it seems). His daughter grown up, his partner without his left hand, and in dire need of his earnings, he pursues his criminal associates (a twirly moustache Frenchman, surprise) in search of his deserved reward. Verbose and foul, Dom is a walking thesaurus, a drunken Shakespearean, using more words in a sentence than one should in a lifetime – for example, the opening sequence is a two-and-a-half minute monologue about his cock. That about sums up Dom Hemingway, an enjoyable albeit shallow dark comedy.

A watered down Bronson, a film of similar premise, Dom Hemingway is delightfully dark, similar to his psyche – he is disgusting, filthy, violent and loud, but he retains an iota of charm, one of the few things dragging the film along. Bearing numerous similarities to Refn's prisoner character study, Dom Hemingway is truly a visual feast: the pumping nightlife of downtown London is full of colour and life. The screen is constantly full of greens and yellows, reds and pinks – it isn't dull to look at. While it isn't as intrusive and cerebral as Refn's terrifying glimpse into the mind of a madman, Dom Hemingway and Bronson share two familiar traits: a strong cockney accent and a loud mouth.

While they may retain similarities, they are largely superficial – I must apologise for my comparison of the two, they are different films, but it fluently highlights Dom Hemingway's numerous flaws. Dom's charisma simply doesn't compare to that of Bronson's, from the way he carries himself to the way he walks through the streets and alleys. While the loud and ostentatious Bronson was an addict to attention, Dom slinks into the shadows the way he slinks into a chair; sleazy and slouched. When opportune, he indulges in delightful monologue, Shakespearean in his formidable vocabulary, but it all tastes a slight bit overdone. The script, like Hemingway himself, is largely self-indulgent and masturbatory, and is surely tiresome.

Ignoring the occasionally obnoxious monologue, Dom powerfully commands the screen, even if his persona is quite the opposite. Separated from his cigarettes and whiskey for twelve years, he takes great pleasure in his intoxicated over-indulgement. For example, over three days Dom compensates for twelve years of seclusion with alcohol, drugs and prostitutes – but it doesn't really work, he just ends up very hungover indeed. Such is the life of Dom Hemingway, fuelled by toxicants and greed, when there really are better things to do – reconnect with his long-since abandoned daughter perhaps. Dom's antithesis, his daughter Evelyn (Emelia Clarke, Game of Thrones), is a force to be reckoned with; the opposite of her father's boisterous exterior, she is instead quiet and passive. Contrasting the pounding nightclubs of London, she sings in a country club, her voice soft and soothing compared to her father's loose and loud tongue.

Unfortunately, Dom Hemingway has little punch. The first act is incredibly enjoyable, but act by act, its quality subsides. Fast paced exposition, into an extremely average midpoint, into an abysmal climax (I must admit I enjoyed the final scene), it grew less and less entertaining. Dom Hemingway forgot what it set out to be – its foul-mouthed, violent charm was abducted and replaced by a crowd-pleasing father-daughter subplot. It was unnecessary, contrived, and clichéd. The obnoxious American's shoehorned exposition was similarly sloppy, revealing the (already obvious) moral of the story in last-minute exposition – it became extremely unnecessary and artificial.

Jude Law performs excellently, as does the majority of the cast, yet Hemingway's left-hand-less right-hand man Dickie (Richard E. Grant, The Corpse Bride) completely steals the show, injecting wit and energy into every scene, contrasting Hemingway's rambunctious bluntness. Unfortunately, it isn't enough to elevate Dom Hemingway's paradoxically undercooked-while-overcooked dialogue. With an over-emphasis on Hemingway's verbose monologue and an under-emphasis on every else, Dom Hemingway is a superficial, attractive, generally fun film with little depth – I'm sure no one would be bothered if they saw this as a rental, but I wouldn't suggest going out of your way for it.

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Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey (2014)

For a program that makes us feel so small, Cosmos has a lot of heart

[10/10 · 10 March 2014]

Neil deGrasse Tyson's remake of Carl Sagan's original docu-series "Cosmos: A Personal Voyage". Carl Sagan allowed the public to see the wonders of science in an entertaining, thought-provoking and immensely educational way, and Tyson manages to capture the spirit and integrity of the original series, while giving the science and facts of the 1980 original a breath of fresh air. Tyson's narration is full of charm, and the program does the audience an immense favour, and makes "Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey" an easily absorbed yet thought-provoking experience.

As an admirer of the universe, I couldn't wait to view Tyson's Cosmos - even as someone who is constantly trying to absorb facts about the universe, I still managed to pick up some facts I wasn't already aware of, and this is merely the beginning. The series has 13 episodes, spread over three months, and I can already tell the program has a huge amount to give. Full of lush imagery and wonderful animation, Cosmos is a pleasure to watch, and makes learning extremely easy, something that is becoming extremely difficult in the age of no attention span. Not only does Tyson allow for lighthearted, absorbable fact, but he also allows us to probe into our own imagination, and explore the universe ourselves. Everything in Cosmos is simplified for easy learning, yet isn't dumbed down so far that the fact is closer to fiction - the visuals alongside Tyson's wonderful commentary are absolutely mind-blowingly beautiful, but allow for visual learners to take something away from Cosmos as well.

Tyson finished the episode with a heartfelt story involving his relationship with Carl Sagan, and his inspirational ways - I hope that many are inspired by Tyson's breath of fresh air in the documentary genre, and allows for the population of the world to reach for the stars. Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey is absolutely worth a watch, it is entertaining, heartfelt, absorbable, and most important, educational. As Sagan once said, "The Cosmos is all that is, or ever was, or ever will be", and I hope 'Cosmos' never ends, because all that it is is awe-inspiring and jaw-dropping in its beauty and splendour.

Vampire Academy (2014)

What film did everyone watch?

[3/10 · 8 March 2014]

I'm sitting here writing this a mere four hours after seeing the film, and I don't really know what I expected - if I expected nearly two hours of tired tropes and poor writing, coupled with all around poor performances, I would be happy. If the film was well written, well acted, and a slight bit campy, it would be fine, but it just wasn't. The concept isn't original, the cast was all around shocking, excluding Victor, although there seemed to be a complete lack of evil-ferret-stroking; his character arc was rather predictable. Every single line was just exposition after exposition, with the occasional burst of teenage sass from Rose, which was extremely frustrating after a while. Quipping one liners is not necessary, especially after an hour and a half.

Every relationship felt forced, I didn't feel any connection to the characters, and I honestly couldn't care less what happened to them; they were not believable in the slightest. A good script would have helped, but the performances also assisted in bogging it down I actually enjoyed the concept, as someone who hasn't read the books. I liked the vibe I got from the film to begin with, but it felt extremely tacky. Everything felt like plastic, everyone's face was constantly caked with makeup, felt extremely superficial and tacky, and every backdrop was injected with a tonne of poor CGI. All of the special effects through the film were just poor, and were not nice to look at. The fire effects looked like the fire effects from Adobe After Effects.

I liked what they were trying, but they honestly needed to up their game all across the board; budget-wise, script-wise, casting-wise, and the dozens of other issues with this picture. I almost got a 'it's so bad it's good' feeling, but it's heavy handed and poorly made throughout.

I do not recommend.

RoboCop (2014)

A damn good reboot, It's not Verhoeven's classic, it's something new.

[7/10 · 25 February 2014]

When I first sat down in the theatre for José Padilha's 'RoboCop' remake, I was considering making myself dislike it – but then I realised that was daft considering I just spent ten dollars to get in here, so I decided to at least try to enjoy it. A large issue I keep seeing is everybody is needlessly comparing it against Paul Verhoeven's 1987 Robocop, a film that I consider close to perfect on a technical level, but the comparison is not necessary. Both films tell a story very effectively, and have differences and similarities that I largely enjoyed. It wasn't a bad movie by any means, I actually sat through and (god forbid) enjoyed it quite a lot. It's not on the same level as the original, but it manages to showcase some extremely enjoyable performances, great visual design, a rich storyline and surprisingly enjoyable satire. RoboCop 2014 doesn't just tear out features from the original, it tells a story with critique on transhumanism, the use of robots in moral protection and even political critique involving America's heavy-handedness in the Iraq war. It does all these things extremely well, and a few scenes were incredibly effective and chilling, it actually surprised me that it managed to get an M rating in Australia, it was certainly bordering an MA (R in America, I think). I was originally complaining about the use of a PG-13 rating in America (M for us), especially in contrast with the original, but the original uses ultra-violence to convey the use of institutionalised violence encouraged by the big corporations. The remake tells a new story, in a new fashion.

However, my first main criticism involves some of the casting and character choices, which is a rather fundamental issue in places. Joel Kinnaman plays a rather effective Alex Murphy/RoboCop, but he comes off as a bit clunky and heavyhanded at times but the film honestly didn't suffer as a consequence. His character was merely a vessel for the other characters to act around, and he didn't perform badly at all. Michael Keaton's antagonist is probably one of the weaker performances of the movie – he has some great moments, but it appeared he needed more screen time and more space to show his acting skills. Michael Keaton is one of those actors who if you confine his skill set, he will appear one-dimensional and dull to watch, but if you give him some creative freedom, you get some wonderful performances. I have heard that the studio was extremely limiting and pushy on RoboCop 2014, and that definitely shines through his performance, and the rest of the film. Now for the character that shouldn't have been in the film as much as he was – Jackie Earle Haleys' Rick Mattox, the mercenary gunman that acted as a one-dimensional, boring McGuffin to force tension into the final act. He was okay in the beginning of the film, appearing as the annoying mentor to Alex Murphy once he is in his RoboCop armour, but he is shoehorned into the finale as a setback to force some kind of tension, and build the character of his partner, Michael K. Williams' Jack Lewis. However, he just got annoying. Mattox was unnecessary and I believe the film should have focused on internal conflicts between Murphy and the RoboCop persona, allowing more of his humanity to shine through. They attempted to do just this with the wife/son storyline, but it was rather flat.

Gary Oldman's Dr. Dennett Norton completely steals the show, per usual. He plays an extremely effective humanitarian yet somewhat corrupt scientist, but is of course redeemed towards the end. His character pumped so much emotion and humanity into the film, he made it completely worth watching. Another tiny character who I enjoyed was Jay Baruchel's Tom Pope, a greedy public relations assistant. His character had a few great moments that didn't receive nearly enough credit, and I would have liked the film to showcase more of his character. Another standout performance was Samuel L. Jackson's Pat Novak, a fox news-esque news show host, who delivers some very punchy and enjoyable satire, and allows the storyline to be told in an enjoyable fashion. Naturally, it doesn't match the satire provided in Verhoeven's original, but provides an entertaining supplement while not abandoning the original elements that made the satire of the original so entertaining. Overall, the film gives an all-rounder cast, some brilliant performances, some mediocre, with some great delivery from many accomplished actors while others are not given the space they need to flourish.

The film is largely well written, it has some comedic elements, some rich satire, a storyline that doesn't hinge on the story of the original and injects its own unique and entertaining elements, critique and allegory in true science fiction fashion. It provides some great performances, and has a great visual style. However, I felt the world they were building had so much more to give, like the original RoboCop, the Detroit it was set in felt corrupt, it felt sick and twisted and crime ridden, Detroit in RoboCop 2014 felt absolutely fine. I also hold the opinion that there wasn't enough RoboCop – I liked the moments where he was fighting crime, it was building a great world, but they finished that segment quicker than I expected, and instead invested so much time into developing the wife/son plot line, that I didn't hate to begin with, but it fell flat on its face towards the finale. Overall, RoboCop manages to bring life back to the RoboCop franchise with an overall entertaining remake, one that I was not at all expecting. Fans of the original may compare it to the Verhoeven's masterpiece, but RoboCop 2014 is its own film, and deserves independent critique. It provides entertaining satire through Samuel L. Jackson's Pat Novak, Gary Oldman gives an excellent performance, Joel Kinnaman plays a decent Murphy/RoboCop, and background characters aren't too bad either.

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Prisoners (2013)

Prisoners - one of the best of 2013

[9/10 · 23 February 2014]

Prisoners' was a definite surprise hit. I have always enjoyed Jake Gyllenhaal's performances (Donnie Darko, The Source Code), and always respected his ability to act, alongside Hugh Jackman's excellent performance as a father who will do anything to bring back his child. I walked into 'Prisoners' with no expectations; in fact I barely knew what the movie was about. I read somewhere it was a 'Taken' clone, but that is a huge disservice to the direction, screen writing and most importantly the cinematography shown in the film. The film was so incredibly moody, falling into a similar category as 'Se7en' and 'Silence of the Lambs'. One or two scenes overstayed their welcome by a minute or so, and Jackman may be overacting to some, but I think he hit the nail on the head. Gyllenhaal also portrayed an incredibly weary and tired police officer, who becomes increasingly suspicious and twitchy as the film progresses. His performance carried the film, in my opinion. The basements were dusty and the X-Files-esque flashlights pierced the fog, while the snowy environment gave the film a cold, clinical feel. Roger Deakins has never deserved a reward for his cinematography more, and is one of my biggest inspirations in the field. The film is beautiful, while retaining a dark, sinister feel. Unfortunately, Gravity broke so many boundaries in the cinematographic field, and will likely receive more credit for 2013s cinematography. A shame, Deakins has shown his skill multiple times without any reward (outside of fame and money, obviously) in the academy and such, especially after 'Skyfall' in 2012. Outside of this, the film displays an excellent dissection of morality on a fundamental basis, and it left me thinking for a long time afterwards. The film is so pleasing to watch but oh so chilling and dark. I recommend this film to anyone, but not the faint of heart, it does get messy.

Excerpt from 2013 - a year in review: www.perksandpeeves.wordpress.com