Movies

The King of Staten Island directly addresses today’s youth. Structurally, it sticks to a familiar formula, and like many Judd Apatow films, it outstays its welcome. But its fresh subject matter and seasoned supporting cast keep the laughs coming, even if its star sometimes seems disinterested in doing so.

24-year-old Scott Carlin (Pete Davidson) lives with single mother Margie (Marisa Tomei) and sister Claire (Maude Apatow) on Staten Island, New York City. Scott’s father was a firefighter who died in the line of duty, and he has long suffered from depression. He is pessimistic but ambitious, dreaming of one day opening a tattoo restaurant and practising on his friend’s bodies in the meantime. When Margie starts dating Ray (Bill Burr), another fireman, Scott must face his past head-on.

People who are familiar with Apatow’s comedies will not encounter many surprises; a man-child stuck in his immature ways is forced to grow up. However, the characters driving us towards these beats are defined and fleshed out. Tomei stand outs as Scott’s down-to-earth, empathetic mother, as does Burr, who plays to his strengths and delivers more laughs than anyone. He appears as a natural enemy of Scott’s, and the chemistry between the two actors makes it all the more fun. Smaller players Bel Powley, Pamela Adlon, and Steve Buscemi utilise their minor moments to portray rounded characters.

Scott is much less interesting. His story is a recreation of Davidson’s life in most aspects and as a result, the actor meanders through scenes. What I can appreciate is the willingness to embrace a character battling mental illness. Apatow doesn’t treat it as taboo, simply addressing how this individual is dealing with it and allowing him to poke fun at himself. After a while though, this isn’t enough to sustain my interest. Parts of the plot – such as a scene where Scott joins his friends in robbing a pharmacy – are entirely unnecessary and will force many to check their watch, especially astute viewers who will be able to predict what’s coming.

The Burnt Orange Heresy has something to say but no way of saying it. What begins as a compelling critique of the contemporary art scene ends as a flamboyant neo-noir romp. Sadly, the two intentions never effectively coalesce, and the film is forced to rely on a captivating cast to keep us engaged.

Charismatic art critic James Figueras (Claes Bang) and his new fling Berenice Hollis (Elizabeth Debicki) visit the luxurious estate of a powerful art dealer, Joseph Cassidy (Mick Jagger). The true purpose of the alluring invitation is soon revealed; to convince James to steal a painting from Cassidy’s neighbour Jerome Debney (Donald Sutherland), a world-renowned but enigmatic artist whose work has not been seen for decades.

The film’s saving grace is its cast, particularly Sutherland and Bang. Both portray masked men; one who will admit it, and one who won’t. James uses charm and confidence to hide insecurity and rage. We meet him as he teaches a class that Berenice attends. He analyses a worthless painting at length and suddenly, the entire class wants a print, exemplifying the power of the critic. We know we cannot trust James, but we understand why others do. As the weathered artist, Sutherland brings sensitivity to a role that risks appearing pretentious.

Director Giuseppe Capotondi refuses to lean into a single idea, and this lack of clarity often leaves the frame dull and the narrative stagnant. For a film that barely crosses the hour-and-a-half mark, The Burnt Orange Heresy feels painfully slow at times and rushed at others. The story, based on the book of the same name by Charles Willeford, naturally lends itself to a seductive, stylistic noir, but Capotondi sacrifices this opportunity in favour of something he deems more meaningful – an exploration of artistic authenticity. This doesn’t land, and in turn, the film becomes forgettable.

The Burnt Orange Heresy represents a missed opportunity. A talented cast and a bewitching plot let down by a lack of focus.

Watching Wendy is like diving excitedly into a colourful ball pit only to discover it’s been laced with needles. While director and co-writer Benh Zeitlin’s Peter Pan-inspired tale doesn’t lack originality or flair, its jarring inconsistencies leaves me wondering who it is intended to entertain.

Wendy (Devin France) spends most of her time hanging around her family’s Louisiana diner. She spots a boy leaping between railcars on a passing train and compels her twin brothers Douglas and James to hop aboard. They meet the rambunctious Peter (Yashua Mack), who whisks them off to a magical island and promises they’ll never grow old.

Wendy never lulls, and it thrives in moments where its fantastical world is on full display. Cinematographer Sturla Brandth Grøvlen grounds the film’s visual style to make the high-concept elements feel otherworldly. This offers a fresh visual take on a story that has been told time and time again, and it works, for the most part. It’s hard to get an audience on board with a giant magical glowing fish, but the combination of Grøvlen’s striking camera work and Dan Romer’s anthemic orchestral score makes it possible.

No matter how pretty the sights and sounds, eventually, I become disconnected with the story. Incomplete characters, unearned tonal shifts, and clumsy dialogue leaves the film too kiddie for adults and too dense for children. In the end, it’s unclear who we should trust or even like – certainly not Peter. Most of the character arcs are undefined; their behaviours change wildly according to what a given scene dictates. In the end, so many ideas are expressed that its final note feels ham-fisted and the story is left at odds with itself.

The imagination and technical prowess on display in Wendy delivers doses of fun, but it trips over too many hurdles to be compelling or satisfying. The emotional beats that are impactful tend to be ripped away moments later. Those entrenched in the adventures of Neverland may appreciate the take, others may forget it overnight.

Every word that could be said about Stanley Kubrick has already been written. Kubrick by Kubrick turns the final stone, presenting the words of the man himself. This eye-opening documentary focuses on the misconceptions surrounding the illusive filmmaker, humanising a man who, for some, has become mythical. It offers us a seat at Kubrick’s table as he gazes inward, analysing his career humbly and philosophically.

Stanley Kubrick crafted some of the most influential films in cinematic history across a storied five-decade career, including 2001: A Space Odyssey, A Clockwork Orange, and The Shining. He rarely granted interviews and was labelled a reclusive genius by many upon his death in 1999. In 1968, Kubrick was so impressed by an article penned by French film critic Michael Ciment that he agreed to be interviewed. The recordings heard in Kubrick by Kubrick track 20 years of their conversations.

Director Gregory Monro assumes the audience is familiar with Kubrick’s cannon, which allows him to avoid fodder. Monro is interested in the misconceptions about his practices and the intelligence behind his choices, as are many Kubrick fans. In a stroke of structural brilliance, editor Philippe Baillon fluidly maps fragments of Ciment’s sit-downs to break down Kubrick’s filmmaking philosophy step by step, speaking to one movie at a time. Discussions venture into the nature of satire, his relationship with source material, and his distrust in the goodness of man.

Where some ‘in conversation’ documentaries feel grossly self-serving, Kubrick by Kubrick feels necessary. Just hearing Kubrick’s voice is a treat, but hearing him comfortably discuss his work in an utterly unpretentious way is extraordinarily special. It shows a method to the madness; why shoot hundreds of takes? Why research like a detective looking for clues? Because “directing a movie, if you do it properly, is not always fun”.

At an hour and 13 minutes, it saddens me that there were surely pearls of wisdom that were left on the cutting room floor. Still, Kubrick by Kubrick paints an important portrait that film fans cannot miss.

Thanks to a strong cast of subtle performers and restrained writing, Rosie balances moments of warmth and distress. Rosie (Sarah Greene) shows cracks but never breaks, painting the role of parenthood in an authentic and, in the end, immensely effective way.

Rosie Davis, her husband John Paul (Moe Dunford), and their four children are thrust into homelessness when their landlord decides to sell their north Dublin rental. For several days and nights, Rosie desperately searches for a roof while John Paul works in a restaurant kitchen.

The intrigue of Rosie lies in its unique approach to homelessness. The family’s woes are not the result of any archetypical mistake or laziness, but of pure happenstance. Screenwriter Roddy Doyle finds power in the day-to-day – the cycle of a mother simply trying. It’s a take grounded in authenticity. As Rosie sits in her car, calling hotels and social services until the well runs dry, she also worries about keeping up appearances and getting the kids to school on time.

Greene stands as the film’s biggest asset. It relies on her to maintain the realism intended in the script, and she never falters through its brief runtime. Her performance takes a story that may appear bleak at face value and injects it with heart. We see the mechanics of her mind at work, equally concerned with the strenuous task of finding a room and picking up Peachy, her young daughter’s beloved toy rabbit. We see Greene cage Rosie’s heartache for the benefit of her kids, a sentiment many parents will connect to.

Doyle’s resonant script plays well with Paddy Breathnach’s direction, which is never stagnant but never manic. The imagery is fittingly dreary, hinting to the wider economic problems in Ireland that led this ordinary family to homelessness. It leaves room for the family dynamic to shine, and although brief, the film’s runtime tells a complete story with breathing room. Moments of laughter, tears, and fear ring true, reminding us of the true value of family.

Smog Town successfully humanises environmental destruction at ground level. The documentary makes the overwhelming effects of pollution tangible by closely examining an individual example. We see the physical, emotional, and economical scars it leaves behind, serving as a powerful warning for the rest of us.

Langfang, a city in the Hebei Province of China, consistently ranks amongst the country’s most polluted regions. It is cloaked in smog, and the government has reached a point of no return where drastic measures must be taken “for the defence of the blue sky”. We follow author and deputy director of Langfang’s Environment Protection Bureau Li Chunyuan as he inspects homes and businesses using damaging fuels and materials, seeking to lower the city’s air pollution ranking.

Director Meng Han separates Smog Town from other environmental documentaries by including diverse perspectives without picking sides or shaming any party. On a bureaucratic level, Li is emotionally attached to the issue and aware that his job is on the line should he fail. He is the perfect figure to lead us: empathetic, strong willed, and effortlessly inspiring. Li understands that while he must make harsh decisions to better the environment, those decisions have the potential to wreck the lives of people who are already struggling. After he is forced to shut down a spray painter’s business, we follow the man closely as he vies for a licence to continue his work, quickly realising his efforts will be frivolous.

Meng uses the camera to observe, not interrupt, which gives the film a true sense of authenticity. Images of cars suddenly appearing from the smog on an invisible road say more than any narration could. However, scenes providing historical context would have pushed the impact of these moments further.

Smog Town ends on an appropriately sombre note, leaving the audience with a rounded understanding of the hefty topic it delves into. As many great documentaries do, it refuses to judge or provide answers, instead presenting the raw truth in its purest form.

Elementa, the third entry in Richard Sidney’s Speechless trilogy, is the filmmaker’s most refined effort yet. It is a short but wholly organic cinematic experience, which will sear images deep into your subconscious.

The film is a collaborative effort between Sidney and musician Boreal Taiga. It uses black and white cinematography within a triptych frame to take viewers to the most remote parts of Earth and interact with its creatures, including a mysterious black bear with white fur found deep in Canada’s Great Bear Rainforest. In the absence of dialogue, Sidney’s camera guides us through the extremes of each primary element, revelling in their sublimity.

Elementa is ferocious and meditative in a way that no environmental documentary I’ve seen quite achieves. The choice to focus exclusively on the power of visual language is a bold one. Within minutes it becomes clear that to present his findings in black and white in a triptych split screen is to meld these vastly differing scenes into one. Suddenly my eyes zero in on how the sharp lines of a fiery volcano contrast with those of a snowy mountain, how the silhouette of a turtle interacts with the texture of a crystal-clear seashore. Here Sidney manages to capture the serenity of nature in a powerfully nuanced way, without any need for a spoken explanation.

While organic sounds soar, Taiga’s score often feels monotonous, failing to add emphasis to moments that demand it. Still, from a technical standpoint, Elementa serves as a masterclass in how to use the camera. We simultaneously see a colony of fish swimming, a bear plucking one of them from the current, and a bird perched in the distance watching on. Each is filmed under a different circumstance that invites individual difficulties and yet, side by side, Sidney’s selected style puts all of nature on an even playing field. We may not know where we are on the map, but we know it’s out there somewhere, which adds to the mystique surrounding Elementa.

In this decade-spanning documentary, director Luca Severi replicates the infectious energy and eccentric glamour of Hollywood through the lens of one of its most iconic photographers, Douglas Kirkland. As the title suggests, the film focuses on the passion one can develop for their craft, and the respect they can earn through precision and dedication.

If you don’t recognise the name, you’d certainly recognise the images. From a seductive linen-encased Marilyn Monroe to a red-leathered Michael Jackson leaving that movie theatre, Douglas Kirkland has eternalised show-business iconography across a storied 60-year career. That Click offers glimpses into the personality, taste, and motivation of a genius, as told by past clients – Nicole Kidman, Michelle Williams, Baz Luhrmann – and the man himself.

Upon introduction, Kirkland appears to be an unsung hero of Hollywood. Severi quickly clarifies that his praises are sung loudly, with great after great utterly beguiled by his skill, work ethic, and morals. Severi’s choice to accentuate these sides of Kirkland goes a long way to restoring any lost faith in the wonder of Hollywood. In a time when photoshoot horror stories with seedy photographers are finally coming to light, Kirkland’s practice proves the value of safety and consideration for one’s subjects; this is a man who turned down Marilyn Monroe, instructing her to seduce the camera rather than the photographer behind it.

“I wanted to get the snaps,” Kirkland says, “because that’s who Douglas Kirkland is.”

The quick-cut editing and upbeat soundtrack perfectly accompany Kirkland’s larger-than-life aura. His eccentricity could rival that of Austin Powers, although he is totally trustworthy. He is simply excited by the opportunity to make someone look their best.

That Click has focus, but it fails to weave its timespan together into a complete or well-paced narrative, instead feeling like a snapshot of an amazing life with entertaining anecdotes to carry us along. Still, the second the credits rolled I was compelled to pick up a book of Kirkland’s photography, which perhaps says more about the film than anything I could write here.

Just because you journey to the place where it all happens, doesn’t mean it will happen for you. Silicon Valley, Baby. details the highs and lows of attempting to get a start-up off the ground in the global centre of technological innovation – Silicon Valley.

Finnish couple Erika Haavisto (director) and Kalle Freese relocate from their homeland to San Francisco to forage for investors for the latter’s new line of instant coffee “that you’ll actually want to drink”, Sudden Coffee. Kalle’s mission and sole purpose is to change the lives of billions for the better with his invention, but cracks soon form in his master plan.

Silicon Valley, Baby. is an intimate experience. Unpolished in structure and execution, it presents nothing but the truth. Kalle is an interesting person, and even though the film is directed by his devoted partner, Erika has no qualms in portraying him honestly, warts and all. Driven to a fault, Kalle considers himself the future Zuckerberg of instant coffee. He is undeterred by this self-imposed pressure, which allows the audience to spot red flags before he does.

This is a tale as old as time. Kalle’s obsession is attention-grabbing from a voyeuristic perspective, but we’ve heard this story before, and it’s been told in better and smarter ways. Erika features heavily; she is enamoured with Kalle, much more than her audience will be. She fails to find appropriate time to focus on the most intriguing element of the film – herself. Her existential responses to Kalle’s choices, including questioning his humanity and whether she, by comparison, is a “totally boring person”, make for the documentary’s most compelling and unique moments. Sadly, they pass by in a flash, as do major bombshells in the narrative.

Rise and fall stories are inherently absorbing. The best of them reveal the darkest and brightest sides of us. When all is said and done, Silicon Valley, Baby. peters somewhere in the middle.

I can’t help but immediately compare Sweet Magnolias to Virgin River. Both are romantic Netflix dramas set in small-town America and star a very attractive red head who loses her husband but finds solace in other relationships. Both also feature a rather dishy male love interest, which might explain why I binged them in a few days. Where Sweet Magnolias doesn’t beat Virgin River is in its exploration of grief. Where it does better is in its celebration and elevation of female friendships.

Maddie Townsend (JoAnna Garcia Swisher) divorces Bill (Chris Klein) after he gets nurse Noreen (Jamie Lynn Spears) pregnant. With three kids between them, Maddie’s world is turned upside down – especially when Bill announces he’s marrying Noreen. For me, Swisher’s wooden performance is what lets Sweet Magnolias down. Her limited emotional range means I don’t believe her character’s response to this trauma. Maddie’s arc is more like a flat line; she even looks a little bored during a steamy sex scene with Coach Cal (Justin Bruening).

Luckily, Swisher is supported by two fantastic actors, Heather Headley as lawyer Helen Decatur and Brooke Elliott as chef Dana Sue Sullivan. Headley carries the emotional weight of the season with a gut-wrenching portrayal of a woman scorned, while Elliott’s giggly flirt fest with a hot guy who’s got a nice car practically steals the show. The chemistry between the three leads is real and palpable; while I didn’t always buy into Swisher’s solo performance, I believed and cherished the heartfelt connection between these characters. The love between them is accentuated by pretty cinematography (Brian Johnson) and soft lighting, almost as if they glow when they’re together.

Sweet Magnolias is the kind of programme you can pop on in the background while baking brownies. You won’t be glued to the screen, but you’ll find its sweetness sneaking up on you until suddenly, you’re hooked. Though unexpected for an otherwise slow-building show, the cliff-hanger ending surely means a second season is in store. I for one will be tuning in.

Knives Out is a good-old-fashioned whodunit, complete with the bloody murder of a family patriarch, an endless list of motivated suspects, a smooth detective, and more twists than one cares to count. It is mystery in its purest and most entertaining form.

While police rule the dramatic death of well-known crime novelist Harlan Thrombey (Christopher Plummer) a suicide, private detective Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig) receives an anonymous payment that urges him to think otherwise. As Blanc investigates, conflicts within the Thrombey family are brought to light, and everyone becomes a suspect.

After his experience making Star Wars: The Last Jedi, it’s clear writer and director Rian Johnson wanted to make a subversive follow up. The whodunit genre is inherently captivating, but risky – a switched-on audience will see right through any plot holes and call BS on any sudden deus ex machina.

Thankfully, Johnson did his homework. His screenplay and direction are tightly linked to deliver the right information at just the right time; a trail of breadcrumbs designed to ensure maximum impact to the audience. Editor Bob Ducsay is also crucial in this success. As we are tossed around time to achieve the aforementioned impact, Ducsay’s cuts keep the pace and maintain the plot’s intelligence.

If Johnson and Ducsay carry the film’s structure, the cast is certainly responsible for injecting an unabashed sense of fun. Craig chews scenery with glee. Ana de Armas, playing Harlan’s private nurse and confidant Marta Cabrera, brings necessary heart and warmth to the screen amongst a sea of cold, manipulative players. Standouts in the supporting cast include Jamie Lee Curtis as Harlan’s resilient, no-nonsense daughter Linda and Chris Evans as his spoilt grandson.

While the story and characters endow Knives Out with joy, the film doesn’t consistently seize opportunities to innovate visually beyond some well-timed blocking and the odd dolly zoom. However, Johnson’s direction is poised. Not a second of screen time is wasted, constantly building towards what is a satisfying conclusion to a truly grand mystery.

A week on from seeing Robert Eggers’ The Lighthouse, I’m still struggling to gather my thoughts on it. Was it mesmerising? Yes. Devastatingly beautiful? Yes. Upsetting? Hell yes. But some may leave the cinema wondering what the film was trying to say.

The Lighthouse stars Robert Pattinson as Ephraim Winslow, a lighthouse ‘wickie’ on a barren island in the late 19th century. His mentor Thomas Wake, played by Willem Dafoe, is a veteran of the trade. The men slowly slip towards insanity when Winslow’s stay is extended by a vicious storm that leaves him stranded.

Eggers has created a film that could not be defined under any one genre. Its imagery is simultaneously random and purposeful, which adds to the sense of confusion that is felt by the characters and shared by the audience. As the characters sink into alcoholic tendencies, hallucinations of mermaids and sea monsters leave us uncertain and untrusting.

The film is shot in black and white at an almost-square aspect ratio; making it any other way would feel inappropriate. Eggers and cinematographer Jarin Blaschke manage to visualise a time period without either character having to utter a word of exposition.

The fact that Dafoe did not receive major awards recognition is a crime. The chemistry he and Pattinson share ventures down strange paths, from anger and frustration to close friendship and sexual tension. And yet, it never feels unnatural, even as the actors adjust to deliver poetic dialogue in old-timey pirate voices. Moments between them will make you laugh, empathise, and wince in horror.

Many will leave The Lighthouse unsatisfied. While it clearly tackles masculinity and isolation in an utterly unique way, it asks more questions than it answers. But madness is often intangible, and Eggers dies by the laws of show-don’t-tell cinema. Don’t expect to be told a story here, expect to be sucked into one and spat back out a little more unhinged.