Movies

Just as I thought we’d reached the peak of what a cinematic Joker could be, Joaquin Phoenix and writer-director Todd Phillips delve into an entirely new interpretation with a supremely focused character study that effectively disturbs and distresses.

Arthur Fleck (Phoenix) is scraping by in the bowels of Gotham City’s underworld, struggling to care for his mother while suffering from mental illness and a condition that causes him to laugh uncontrollably in times of discomfort. Arthur becomes further unhinged as his world continues to alienate him, and he begins to embrace the comedy he sees amongst the violent madness.

The Joker is a wonderfully adaptable character. He can function as a clown, a murderous psychopath, or a combination of the two. He is rarely portrayed realistically, and the mystery that clouds the character’s origin has enthralled fans for almost 80 years. Phoenix transforms over the course of the movie and we feel the danger intensify from frame to frame. Fleck begins as an outcast, misunderstood and abused. Once liberated, we see his body language and vocal cadence change organically as Phillips’ direction allows us to empathise with this disillusioned man.

Joker finds strength in its disconnection from the books that inspire it, which I say as a huge fan of comics. This is not a Batman story, and this Joker more closely resembles Travis Bickle than any previous iteration. Phillips unashamedly taps into influence from Taxi Driver and the style of Martin Scorsese, rediscovering a tone that mainstream theatres have been missing.

While the influence is there it isn’t a crutch, as the writing, direction, editing, and breathtaking cinematography (we can almost feel the grime on Gotham’s streets) support the weight of Phoenix’s masterful performance. A special mention must go to Robert De Niro as talk-show host Murray Franklin; his timing and prowess shine more in the short time he spends on-screen here than in any of his recent performances.

My eyes have not been glued to a screen like this in quite some time. I’m already itching to experience it again.

In his most light-hearted film to date, Taika Waititi reminds us that it’s okay to laugh to overcome hate. Jojo Rabbit is a comedy, through and through, and those looking for a gloomy tale about World War II should look elsewhere. Alternatively, this is a heart-warming, gut-busting tale about learning to think for yourself; overcoming the influence of a world full of hate to decide what is truly right.

At 10 years old, Jojo Betzler’s (Roman Griffin Davis) views on the war are naïve and childish. He’s a self-confessed “Hitler fanatic” who treats the leader like his favourite celebrity. He soon discovers his mother Rosie (Scarlett Johansson) is harbouring Elsa (Thomasin McKenzie), a young Jewish girl, in the attic. Jojo must confront his blind nationalism in the form of his imaginary best friend, Adolf Hitler (Taika Waititi).

Due to his age, Jojo is largely shielded from the true horrors of WWII. It is not until he is confronted by grief resulting directly from it that he begins to see the full picture. This film is not gratuitous. It doesn’t have to be, nor does it promise to be. But Jojo does not escape the Nazi regime without experiencing his share of trauma.

Taika’s screenplay gives comic talents moments to shine without detracting from the characters who really matter. Sam Rockwell, Stephen Merchant, and Taika himself never outstay their welcome, but eat up every second they have in this vibrant world. The relationships Davis portrays are visceral, particularly with McKenzie and Johansson, and this is what the film is concerned with. Each actor conveys their character’s position, and sense of humour, with pure sincerity. Who should Jojo trust: His country? His mother? Elsa? By the end, certainly not his ridiculous unicorn-eating fantasy of Adolf Hitler.

Jojo Rabbit is not about a boy learning by witnessing horrific acts, it’s about a boy talking to other human beings and concluding that they are all equal. This message just happens to be delivered through the funniest script of the year.

Maiden is an action-packed documentary that viscerally captures an important human achievement. Detailed footage from the 1980s is edited with precision to recreate an entire race across the world, although a deeper dive into its subject’s past would have painted a more complete picture.

A young British sailor named Tracy Edwards had a dream of sailing around the world. When she realised that the male-dominated industry wouldn’t allow her to do more than cook on a Whitbread Round the World Race yacht, she decided to take matters into her own hands. In 1989, she skippered Maiden, the first all-female crewed boat entered into the race, and ultimately won two legs in Division D.

Director Alex Holmes has crafted a vivid snapshot of Tracy’s environment at this particular time. We feel the scrutiny that surrounded her, which helps us empathise with her admitted “horrendous flaws”.

We see a sincere lack of fear in the entire Maiden crew, but the film shines in moments that show Tracy’s sheer drive, even when she was not popular. She was under enormous pressure and prone to anger as a result. She was forced to take the reigns as skipper on top of her duties as navigator when she fired the crew’s original skipper, the highly experienced Marie-Claude Heys, for threatening her leadership. The media wrote Maiden off as a “tin full of tarts” who wouldn’t even finish the first leg of the race. All of this caused the sworn non-feminist to reconsider her viewpoint, and the overall importance of the crew’s success. By including self-reflective interviews with Tracy, her fellow crew members, other sailors, and journalists from the time, Holmes balances this narrative beautifully.

While the film evocatively portrays Maiden’s time at sea, it doesn’t dig as deeply into aspects of Tracy’s past that undoubtedly affect her, such as the sudden death of her father when she was young. Dedicating more time to the root cause of Tracy’s positive and negative traits would have provided interesting context to her inspirational success.

The Farewell places us at the centre of an inter-generational, inter-cultural family drama. Its characters connect with each other and with those in the cinema through smart direction, good humour, and intense (but never sentimental) emotional differences.

Billi (Awkwafina), an aspiring writer, immigrated to New York with her parents when she was very young. She is still close with her relatives in China, particularly her Nai Nai/grandmother (Zhao Shuzhen). When Nai Nai is diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, the family must fly back to see her. The only hiccup is Billi’s somewhat forgotten homeland traditions, which deem that Nai Nai must not know she is sick. And so, a faux wedding is arranged to deceive her.

Writer and director Lulu Wang creates a consistent tone that allows for moments of happiness, heated disagreement, longing sadness, and love. There is no clash between conversations in Mandarin and conversations in English, it all flows seamlessly. Her efforts are entangled with those of cinematographer Anna Franquesa Solano, who uses close mid shots and distant longs to pull us into this family dynamic, at times uncomfortably so. She heavily utilises the lower third of the frame, which puts us level with the characters emotionally.

Each family member is unique in portrayal and perspective. We see how the characters feel about the situation, and how they’re struggling to accept their lies. Particularly Billi’s parents, who are in the most interesting position as Chinese people with recent Western influence. Wang revels in the fascinating cultural comparisons.

Finally, the true stars, Billi and Nai Nai. Awkwafina and Shuzhen each give breath-taking performances. The intimate moments we spend with these two are sweet, entrancing, and funny. Billi sees how overjoyed Nai Nai is when the family returns and struggles between the moral obligation to tell her the truth and the guilt of stripping her happiness away. Nai Nai’s grace infects her and she must learn to be less selfish.

The Farewell is a universally relatable story, but it could – in the wrong hands – be a boring one. With this director and this cast, boy was that not the case.

Quentin Tarantino’s Hollywood-hangout film pulls the audience into the town’s golden age by utilising two of modern-day’s most charismatic performers at peak fitness, though it doesn’t attack the senses in the same way as his revenge-led pictures.

In Once Upon a Time we join fading 1960’s western TV star Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio) and his stuntman Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt). Dalton’s cowboy shoot-em-ups are going out of fashion, which means he and Booth could be out of work. Luckily, Dalton might have an in through his neighbours… Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) and Roman Polanski (Rafał Zawierucha).

This movie is Hollywood. Seeing DiCaprio and Pitt together on screen took me back to a time when the movie star reigned supreme. Their characters are different, but they need each other, something they embrace as the film progresses. DiCaprio plays an unconsciously lonely man whose small moments of achievement are fun to celebrate. Pitt delivers an Oscar-worthy performance as Booth. He does not overact, instead embracing the nonchalance inherent in the script – primarily communicating through badassery. Supporting characters are well placed and well cast, particularly Margaret Qualley as Pussycat and the various other Manson Family members, and 10-year-old Julia Butters, who is maybe the only actor to steal shine from the leads.

The lack of thrills will be an adjustment for some. There’s a lot of driving, a lot of talking, and payoff usually comes in the form of catharsis or comedy. Cinematographer Robert Richardson beautifully captures a half real, half fantasy 1969. The script just isn’t as tight, and the concepts not as clearly executed as we have come to expect. However, the ending was worth it. It was a wonderful ‘WTF’ moment. Tate serves as an important symbol of this time in Hollywood. Robbie plays her well but is short on standout sequences.

Films like this, with actors of this calibre rarely get made anymore. Just don’t go in expecting the regular Tarantino gut-punch. His other films are crazy, this one is cool.

While occasionally falling into coming-of-age traps, Booksmart feels genuine in a way that not many films like it do and allows a talented cast to shine in one of the year’s funniest comedies.

Olivia Wilde’s directorial debut stars Beanie Feldstein and Kaitlyn Dever as high school friends Molly and Amy, who cut loose on graduation night after realising their work-hard play-never mantra may have been for nothing.

Booksmart separates itself from recent coming-of-age flicks like Lady Bird and Eighth Grade through pedal-to-the-metal comedy. At an hour 45 minutes there is no room for filler, and there isn’t any; jokes hit so rapidly it’s hard to see them coming, which is rare.

The friendship between Molly and Amy feels lived in. While both have individual misgivings, they are not simply movie-friends. If these people existed, they really would be hanging out, which is a credit to actresses Feldstein and Dever. To spoil any jokes would be a crime, but just wait until these two need a Lyft – our audience was laughing so hard we missed a few lines.

Often a high school comedy rides or dies with its supporting characters. We have the principal, the teacher, the gay kids, the rich kids, and so on. Doomed to be caricatures, Wilde somehow gives each character enough time to breathe and develop. Saturday Night Live greats Will Forte (Amy’s dad Doug), Mike O’Brien (Pat the pizza guy), and Jason Sudeikis (Principal Brown) eat up their few minutes of screen time, and lesser-known actors Billie Lourd (Gigi), Skyler Gisondo (Jared), and Noah Galvin (George) play unique, hilarious students.

While the jokes are consistently unpredictable, the story beats sometimes are. Our leads fight, make up, and learn their life lessons right on cue. However, Wilde seems aware of this formula and brings a directorial flair to these moments through some surprising editing and sound choices that serve the story’s sincerity.

Booksmart is a good coming-of-age film wrapped in one of the funniest, most authentic comedies I’ve seen in a long time.

While The Lion King (2019), a direct remake of the 1994 film, boasts visual effects that wouldn’t seem out of place in the latest David Attenborough wildlife documentary, it comes across as an exercise in CGI, and does not justify its existence.

The visual effects team at The Moving Picture Company more than earn their keep. The animals and locations are rendered beautifully, and this treatment is not just reserved for lead characters; the Pride Lands look and feel like a natural African habitat. The combination of photo-realism with unnatural behaviours is seamless and not distracting.

However, the voice cast struggles to push real emotion through – yes, realistic – neutral-faced animals. When 1994-Simba cries for Mufasa, we all cried with him. When 2019-Simba (JD McCrary) cries, it looks very similar to how 2019-Simba smiles. There are standouts amongst the supporting cast, particularly Billy Eichner and Seth Rogen as Timon and Pumbaa, and Eric Andre and Keegan-Michael Key as Scar’s hyena henchmen Azizi and Kamari. These pairings manage to inject immediate comedic chemistry into what otherwise feels like a lazy regurgitation. Other cast members, such as Beyoncé as Nala and Donald Glover as adult-Simba, offer nothing interesting vocally and appear as stunt casting.

Another let down was the simplification of some of the finest musical moments in movie history. Scar’s scary and sassy Be Prepared is dampened and completely forgettable. Can You Feel the Love Tonight is an excuse for Beyoncé and Glover to appear on a track together, but the mix is sloppy and does no favours for either star – one friend even called it “grating”.

It seems Disney thought they had a good movie that people wouldn’t mind seeing again. The problem is that this isn’t a good movie, this is The Lion King, for many, the finest film of Disney’s renaissance. This retelling’s astounding effects and moments of comedy do not offer enough to return to this version.

After absorbing a typically fatal dose of cosmic energy, Jean Grey (Sophie Turner) transforms into the murderous titular outlaw Phoenix: a mutant consumed by rage and impulse. It’s up to her X-Men family to bring her home or bring her down.

If this all sounds familiar, it’s probably because this story has been told before, as the 2006 critical dud X-Men 3: The Last Stand. The only difference is this time around, alien imposter Vuk (Jessica Chastain) wants to exploit the mutant’s new power as a weapon.

This final outing for the X-Men under 20th Century Fox is directed by long-time franchise producer and writer Simon Kinberg. His attempts to put a satisfying bow on nearly 20 years of continuity (a term used very lightly here) fall just short of the mark, however.

At the risk of having nothing to strive for throughout, Dark Phoenix stretches its premise as far as superhumanly possible. The story remains faithful to some of the series’ mainstay character arcs, but Dark Phoenix is undoubtedly guilty of stealing the spotlight from Jean to address the failings of one Professor Charles Xavier (James McAvoy). True to form, the film reveals he spent years repressing an immensely powerful orphan’s trauma instead of working through it – to disastrous and bloody results. Good one, Professor.

After mounting their first mission into space during the first act, the climactic battle is mundanely terrestrial, taking place on a train. Speaking of mundane, Vuk’s villainous peers, the D’bari, have been hiding on earth for who knows how long – or why. They ultimately serve as fodder tasked with standing awkwardly still and occasionally charging the X-Men in waves of two or three.

Go see this movie if you’re a diehard X-Men fan, prefer character-driven superhero stories, and don’t care about who holds a series’ franchise rights. Otherwise, hold out for the same story to get a third pass when the X-Men are inevitably revamped, recast, and rebooted, in line with the one true Marvel Cinematic Universe somewhere down the line.

Has there always been so many assholes around, or is the proliferation of entitled, rude people a 21st century phenomenon? Assholes: A Theory explores this question and many more, examining why and how the asshole develops, as well as where they thrive.

This documentary (directed by Canadian filmmaker John Walker) was inspired by the bestselling book of the same name by Aaron James, a professor of philosophy. James appears in interviews throughout the film, but especially the first third, where he and others define the term asshole in quite academic terms. For example, assholes are usually (but not always) male, white, and affluent. You can’t be an asshole until you’re old enough to know better. Finally, assholery points to a feeling of superiority and dismissal of other people’s emotions (rather than a complete lack of empathy, as in narcissistic personalities).

With a burbling, jazzy soundtrack and plenty of funny anecdotes from the likes of comedian John Cleese, Assholes: A Theory is clearly aiming to be light-hearted. However, as the second half of the film swings into matters like assholes in power, it becomes harder for the director to veil the seriously negative impact these people have on the world.

Apparently, assholes thrive in competitive environments like the financial and tech industries; think Wall Street and Silicon Valley. Interviewees dance around arguably the most prominent asshole on the planet right now, President Donald Trump, before delving into the careers of Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg and ex-prime minister of Italy Silvio Berlusconi. Italian LGBTQIA+ activist Vladimir Luxuria, a direct opponent of Berlusconi’s, provides fascinating insights here.

Vox pops from ordinary people slow the pace somewhat, especially as I’m not sure who these talking heads are – at least some of them describe themselves as assholes.

Despite its provocative premise, Assholes: A Theory ambles along, entertainingly musing on the people we love to hate. If you’ve ever wondered how and why people are so dang rude these days, it’s well worth a watch.

In 2016, 22-year-old New Zealander David Hyde made headlines around the world when it was revealed that as an unpaid intern for the United Nations, he was living in a tent on the side of a lake in Geneva. Little did the press – or the UN, for that matter – know that Hyde had only taken on the position (and the unfortunate sleeping arrangements) as part of a film project.

Call Me Intern is the end result of Hyde’s UN stunt, a compelling documentary about the exploitative nature of unpaid internships. Cleverly, he and co-director Nathalie Berger springboard off Hyde’s experiences at the UN to concentrate on the stories of young Black Americans Marisa and Kyle. Marisa was ousted from her unpaid role at the Obama For America campaign after she reported her sexual assault, while Kyle worked at Fortune 500 company Warner Music from a homeless shelter.

The interviews were obviously done with great skill and care, as Kyle and Marisa both reveal intimate details of their backgrounds, motivation to pursue unpaid work, and devastation when they realised their internships were a dead end. Their stories brilliantly illustrate how unpaid internships also work to restrict diversity in white-collar professions and at top companies. Only rich kids can afford to work for nothing, and statistically speaking, rich kids are more likely to be white.

The movie side-steps any accusations of millennial whingeing with extensive interviews from academics. They put these stories in a greater context, where unpaid internships account for up to half of all internships offered in America, in a workforce where entry-level jobs are all but disappearing.

I’ve never heard of an unpaid internship in Aotearoa, but the stories in Call Me Intern still resonated with me. It’s extremely hard to find meaningful work as a young person, even with a university degree. While to some degree Call Me Intern was preaching to a millennial choir, I hope that older generations can recognise the injustice the film delves into so well.

For a certain sector of movie fans and comic lovers, Avengers: Endgame is nothing short of a cultural moment. It’s the fourth and final episode in the Avengers series, and is also the latest entry in the Marvel film canon, which now numbers a whopping 22 movies. At the time of writing, the blockbuster is set to break records across the globe. With so many people flocking to see Endgame in theatres, I’m going to assume you’ve seen it. Beware – spoilers ahead.

Endgame starts directly where Infinity War left off, in the aftermath of the evil Thanos wiping out half of Earth’s population with a click of his fingers. The Avengers assemble, swiftly organise Thanos’ demise, and then mire themselves in their profound loss. That is, until Ant-Man (Paul Rudd) zaps his way from the quantum realm, but also the past, or something. With the mathematical genius of Tony Stark/Iron Man (Robert Downey Jr), the Avengers enact a new plan: to travel back in time, steal back the infinity stones, and right Thanos’ wrong.

While I wouldn’t call myself an Avengers fan per se, I’ve always loved Iron Man, and Endgame is a wonderful vehicle for Downey Jr’s talents. The wisecracks are still there, yes, but the narrative also allows him to play a doting father, grief-stricken comrade, and finally, the true hero we always knew him to be. His last moments onscreen were captured in dramatic, sincere close-up – it was powerful stuff, especially for the small child openly sobbing in the seat next to me.

The rest of the movie is a perfectly fitting send-off, if a little convoluted at times. I have a few minor gripes (can we stop with the fat jokes in every Thor scene?), but overall, Endgame made great use of its stellar cast and hundreds of millions of dollars in digital effects. It’s a fabulous, funny, clever conclusion to one of the 21st century’s most iconic superhero sagas.

Jordan Peele’s 2017 debut Get Out scored him an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, cementing him – and the horror genre, now definitely enjoying a renaissance – as Hollywood forces to watch. Us, his sophomore effort, isn’t quite as narratively disciplined, but is nevertheless a riotously fun genre exercise that walks the line between laughs and scares with glee.

After a cryptic opening sequence, we meet the Wilsons: a middle-class Black family holidaying on the Californian coast. There’s Gabe (Winston Duke, dripping with dad-joke energy) and mum Adelaide (Lupita Nyong’o), as well as their two kids: Zora (Shahadi Wright Joseph) and Jason (Alex Evan). Us establishes a light, funny home life that swiftly turns dark when the Wilsons’ doppelgängers (played by the same actors) turn up on their driveway, dressed in blood-red jumpsuits and wielding golden scissors.

The Wilsons’ holiday home soon becomes a murderous funhouse that Peele’s camera manoeuvres around with fluid ease. Doors conceal frantic bodies, bare feet slap on wooden floors somewhere down the hall… But each shot is taut, purposeful, in sharp contrast and focus. Despite the old-school feel of its slasher gore, Us’ cinematography is so contemporary; the moving shot of a bloodied (and brilliant) Elisabeth Moss is my highlight.

Nyong’o is superb in her twin role of Adelaide and Red, her homicidal double. As Adelaide, she’s fierce, enigmatic, maternal. Red, on the other hand, is deeply chilling, expressed through a raspy voice interspersed with loud gulps. She moves as if guided by a metronome, her posture ramrod straight and her walking staccato.

The Easter eggs in this movie – referring to pop culture, religion, and other horror films – are delightful. The Shining is the most obvious influence, as Peele nicks both the creepy twins and the extended birds-eye shots of the landscape. But in the third act, when the horrors begin to unfurl, Peele’s ideas pile up too quickly. While Get Out felt elegant, Us feels overstuffed. Diving into its late plot developments does the movie no favours; it’s best enjoyed on a visceral level, behind a cushion if necessary.