Author: Mark Goodyear

Lisa (Nina Hoss) is an author unable to write anything since her twin brother Sven, (Lad Eidinger) was diagnosed with cancer. She dreams of living the high life in Berlin, at least that’s what she seems to suggest, but she cannot, as while she suffers her writer’s block, she is also living in Switzerland where her husband works for a prestigious school. This is the simple premise of the best film I have seen so far in 2020. It’s called “My Little Sister” (Schwesterlein), Véronique Reymond and Stéphanie Chuat directed it, and it’s utterly devastating. 

The film is about loss, or impending loss to be specific. Throughout Lisa lies on the precipice of losing so much and it hurts her deeply, but she always looks after her brother, desperate not to lose him most of all. Confronting would sum the film up best, not in the violent and graphic sense, more in the way everything is so real; it is a relatable film, and incredibly evocative as a result. You see, as her brother deteriorates, so does her marriage, and for all her courage and love, Lisa cannot fully grasp either. 

Sven is an actor who, prior to his illness, was preparing to take to the stage as Hamlet, something he has done many times before.  He is at home performing, and he desires nothing more than to keep bringing characters to life, but he is unable to when his director cancels the show. His arc involves this idea of loss as well. Loss of his work, his love, who is mentioned throughout, and his life.

Yet, unlike his sister, Sven hasn’t the strength to fight for anything and only seeks to perform as his final vice. Together their two lives form a tragic tale, one of dependency on the other and otherworldly commitment. Theirs is a very pure depiction of the sibling relationship, and thus the most heartbreaking aspect of the film as there’s the constant sensation one will soon be without the other. 

The emotional clout of this film comes in many facets, but none are more significant or more impressive than the work of Hoss and Eidinger. As Lisa, Hoss is a vision of grief which rarely appears on-screen. She isn’t broken with sadness, nor is she guilty of repression; she’s just trying to fix everything she can and struggling to stay afloat in the process. As the cracks begin to show and her monumental efforts start to falter with both her husband, who wants to stay in Switzerland, and Sven who is only getting sicker, Hoss well and truly brings the waterworks and develops Lisa into the most empathetic of protagonists. After all, we’ve all lived through something we’d give anything to change. 

Eidinger is just as good. Sven’s sick, but the fight isn’t inside him, it’s inside Lisa. As such Sven doesn’t wage any grand battle against cancer in what could be his final days, he doesn’t lie in a hospital bed and monologue about his fear of death, he does what’s real. He feels things, pain, sadness, love, compassion, happiness. He lives through his emotions and accepts the fact that’s all he can do. Edinger captures this in crushing fashion, and when the pair of them combine on-screen, be sure to have tissues on hand.

The directing duo of Reymond and Chuat work wonders in the composition of this film. I often criticize films with multiple dramatic elements which all culminate at the same moment. To the filmmakers of all those films I say, watch this movie. The broken marriage, a dying brother, an emotionally distant mother, the impact of the broken marriage on the children, and so much more are what Lisa has to deal with and yet it all works. Subtlety is key, as we explore one issue another plants its seeds for later, and when things begin to come to a boiling point, they flow through them satisfyingly like toppling dominos. This ultimately sees everything fit perfectly into a 99-minute runtime, and that’s brilliant. 

With stirring performances and poignant direction, My Little Sister will break your heart in the way only a great film can.

Abstract filmmaking will never burst into the mainstream, a fact that in my eyes only makes endeavouring to explore the abstract more essential. However, when doing so, filmmakers take significant risks, risks that could see them produce something nobody relates to, or possibly even understands. Fortunately, those intrepid auteurs willing to try have inspiration from the likes of David Lynch amongst others, who prove it is possible to make something extraordinary. Unfortunately, it is the films which leave the mind wanting, that define the genre for most. Marcus Flemmings’ second film “Palindrome” is one of those films. 

Palindrome tells a non-linear story, cutting between the present and past of Anna (Sarah Swain), a spiteful artist who, in the past, thinks Paris is the only solution to promoting her art. Time passes, and she is apart of an unclear traumatic event, one that elevates her to stardom, but leaves her all the more lost. We also follow Fred (Jumaane Brown), a patient in a psychiatric facility, who may, or may not be, imagining Anna as an element of his psychosis, as he tries to save her from dying.

There’s a lot there to unpack, it almost goes without saying that Flemmings’ was decidedly unclear about what he is trying to say, and that’s the fatal flaw. Yes, abstract or “arthouse” films are often intentionally ambiguous. Still, there should be a way to put the pieces together, or at the very least, some apparent message or purpose, Palindrome does not offer that. 

What Palindrome does offer is a connection between two individuals that is entirely unsubstantial. Why is Fred the only person in the world who can save Anna? Why would Anna ever contact Fred? Of course, this is a literal way to look at things, but even going further abstract, their lives are hardly similar, and it is a relationship that fails to inspire any deep thought instead evoking the cinema sin of confusion. This lack of justification only compounds the fact that the ending fails to provide a clear resolution for either character opting to end with the crescendo and offer nothing further.

The film is desperately trying to say something here, particularly with Fred, who does show some character progression. He realises he needs to be a better more present person who sticks to his guns and lives life on his terms, and this does impact on the films ending, it’s just there’s no reason to care. If this is indeed the point that people need to make the most of life and be themselves, then Palindrome is a cruel and heartless way of depicting it.

Palindrome is a dark film, one with very little compassion and plenty of twisted imagery. For it to all be about growth is startling. Nobody could feasibly change in this purgatory Flemmings creates, it reeks of repression and offers zero encouragement. Even Anna herself, who contacts Fred to tell him about her impending death, essentially says, “don’t worry that I’m about to die, just make sure you know who I am”. She wants to be remembered, not to be successful, she’s an insufferable figure portrayed with a strange effort to garner empathy. And although I empathise with her turmoil, Fred certainly doesn’t, as he fails to do the one thing Anna asks of him. 

On the technical side of things, there is little to say. Still, there is a likeable performance by Thomasin Lockwood who plays avid reader Maria, a chatterbox who offers Fred a helping hand. It is a bit of an empty role, but she steals every scene she’s in which is commendable. Outside of that, all the performances are par, owing little to the actors themselves and more to the screenplay which offers plenty of dialogue but ignores that most of the lines are superficial.

Palindrome is an unreasonably dark film that tries too hard to say a whole lot and ends up saying very little.

Road trip movies are all about progress. As the characters weave their way to their destination, they change and grow, ultimately finding an inner resolution that makes everything worth it. Indeed, the genre is riddled with clichés, but that’s no reason to dismiss it. A recent reminder of the never-ending power of the road trip movie is Sean McEwen’s debut feature “Braking for Whales”. 

The script, written by McEwen and his wife/star Tammin Sursok, introduces us to Brandon (Tom Felton) and Star (Sursok), estranged siblings reuniting to settle their recently deceased mothers’ affairs. In many ways the two are polar opposites, and it doesn’t take long for them to be at each other’s throats. Just after they implode, they are informed, in a case of severely rotten luck, that to claim their inheritance they need to take mum’s ashes to her desired resting place, the stomach of one of her beloved whales. Needing the money, the duo set out from Iowa to a Texas aquarium home to an Orca whale.

Of course, this is a somewhat silly plot; obviously, it’s not okay to feed remains to a whale, but, as anybody who has ever seen a road trip movie knows, it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. And that is a sentiment which Braking for Whales embraces wholeheartedly to heart-warming effects.

At least that is the case for the most part. However, the film has the unfortunate knack of overcomplicating itself with the absurd. There are otters, a strange infatuation with a former US president, and the incessant need for the pair to continually refer to each other by their first names mid-conversation with one another. It’s all a bit much and will undoubtedly deter some viewers. In saying this, those who can look past this will find a tale of two suffering people desperately needing help from one another and witness them slowly come to find it.

And it is precisely the two stars responsible for being those two damaged people that ensure this film’s success. They make for an endearing pair who perfectly encapsulate the way family baggage can drag you down. Felton produces a wonderfully deep portrayal of severe repression, and opposite him, Sursok develops Star’s tragic guise of apathy in the wake of a divorce perfectly. They are both terrific performances, and they make the film.

Behind the camera, Braking for Whales finds two significant strengths, score and cinematography. The music in the film is beautiful. Jason Soudah composes the heart and soul of the film with his work here. The subtle guitar is haunting as it echoes both the tragedies of Brandon and Star’s past as well as the difficulties of their present, it’s brilliant work. Cinematographer, Justin Henning also stands out thanks to the wonderful way he captures America and the pair within it. There’s just the right amount of sentimentality that it doesn’t get cheesy and remains stunning. Credit must also go to McEwen himself who guides the film admirably and pulls all the strings together nicely. 

Braking for Whales has the potential to speak to many people. Yes, there are flaws, but by the end, there’s a certain enlightenment, and that’s more than enough to make this film a good one.

Robert the Bruce is a figure not nearly given enough credit for his achievements. This is likely because Scottish independence was effectively lost in the 1600s and has yet to be regained, despite the reasonably straight forward and democratic way of attaining it. Many see him as a figure of inspiration, but to others, he’s a symbol of a lost cause. That has not tarnished Angus Macfadyen’s connection with him. 

I say connection because in 1995 Macfadyen portrayed The Bruce for the first time, and as of 2019, 24 years later, he’s reprised his role in a script he wrote with Eric Belgau. This is obviously no coincidence, there’s a connection there, something about the courage, and aims and desires of the old king tie him to Macfadyen. The aura of all those feelings and how they all made up one great man is what the film “Robert the Bruce” is all about. 

First and foremost, I must echo a common sentiment about this movie; it is slow. The film’s director Richard Grey shows almost no interest in echoing the explosiveness of this film’s spiritual successor Braveheart. Instead, he opts to make a far more personal and introspective experience, focusing mainly on how a family facing hard times inspires a wavering Robert to pick up his sword and recommence his fight for Scottish independence. 

There is intrigue based on the premise alone, the idea of this legendary leader wavering in his darkest hour, but the execution highlights a lack of substance. About 40 minutes in the film loses its way entirely and gets more bogged down in the family looking after Robert, and not on the title character himself. Morag (Anna Hutchison), is a single mother whose husband died fighting for Robert, she finds herself raising three children with no desire to remarry and every night she prays for Scottish revolutionary victory. She’s not an altogether bad character, but the shallowness of her children, two of whom she isn’t even the biological mother of for no discernible reason other than to overcomplicate the script, is unforgivable. Iver (Talitha Eliana Bateman) in particular could be taken out of the film entirely to little impact. 

The longer this went on, the worse the film got, but thankfully there is somewhat of a saving grace. Angus Macfadyen waited years to get this film made, and to his credit delivers some of the most effectual and emotional work of his career. The interactions between Morag’s son Scot (Gabriel Bateman) and a wounded King Robert are the best in the film. Despite Scots youth, Macfadyen becomes so convincingly vulnerable in their discourse, and the sense of regret and failure becomes completely clear and harrowing. 

Another strength is the beautiful settings which are a credit to the film. Especially considering the shoot didn’t take place in Scotland. Rather, it is Montana that takes centre stage in this Scottish period piece, and while that is unfortunate, it does a more than admiral job. Thanks in no small part to the, admittedly tame, but excellent cinematography by John Garrett. 

All in all, though Robert the Bruce is a disappointment. When it’s so closely linked to such an epic picture and story, it needed to be epic in stature, and that just wasn’t possible on this budget. For every bit of dismemberment in Braveheart, we have a solemn piece of regret here, and it just doesn’t inspire the same powerful emotions. No, this film didn’t need to be violent, but it did need to do something to evoke the sensation William Wallace’s story does so effortlessly. 

Robert the Bruce allows Angus Macfadyen to reprise the role he was born to play. However, despite his fine work, the film fails to be the sum of its parts.

Christ has been the source of plenty of controversies when it comes to film and television. From Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ to Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ, outrage is at every turn. However, I’ve always believed that this shouldn’t stop us from telling his story. He’s one of those rare figures who can transcend beliefs. Even if you believe his acts to be fiction, his message is still remarkable and essential to this day. After all, his preachings were primarily on the concept of love above all else, and the world could use a little more of that.

Dallas Jenkins’ 8 episode series “The Chosen” endeavours to tell the biblical tale once again, and does so with a paramount reverence and an abundance of kindness. The concept of this new retelling is that the perspective is primarily from the apostles of Christ rather than Jesus himself.

And of them, the primary 4 we follow are Simon Peter (Shahar Isaac), Mary Magdalene (Elizabeth Tabish), Matthew (Paras Patel) and Nicodemus (Erick Avari). We see each of them as they meet Jesus (Jonathan Roumie) for the first time, just as he is preparing to reveal himself as the messiah. He saves some, he redeems others, but all come to love and follow him. There is, however, another side to the story, that follows the Roman persecution of the Jewish people, and their slow discovery and disdain for Jesus.

As all this begins to happen, it quickly becomes apparent that The Chosen is a show fully prepared to express itself at a slow pace, and that’s totally fine. Yes, inevitably things do get bogged down, particularly when following Matthew, a tax collector shunned by his people, as he associates himself with some Romans. Still, for the most part, the show finds an entertaining and enlightening pitch. This is thanks to the work of two of the most important characters in the show, Erick Avari’s Nicodemus and Jonathan Roumie as Jesus. Their eventual canonical meeting is one of the best moments of the show, and of all the beautiful and impactful moments The Chosen creates one or both of these men generate it.

Roumie carries himself with such an apparent kindness and warmth that he is at times breathtaking. The humanity at the centre of the portrayal is so crucial to get right, and the performance is remarkably grounded and moving. I think he nailed it, and it is my favourite performance by anyone in the role. His finest moments come as the many individuals he heals begin to appear. The beautiful score begins to swell, and you know you are about to see something heart-warming

Avari is brilliant in a very different way. His debates on faith with the other Pharisee’s and Jesus himself are engrossing, and his arc of confronting the contradictions of his faith with what he believes Christ’s emergence means is the strongest of the show. It’s a performance unlike any I’ve seen him produce before and I would gladly see more of it.

This does highlight one crucial question to ask when reviewing this show: how much does it mess with the source material? I’m happy to report there are no egregious changes. The most notable differences see some figures take a step back so others can be more prominent, in particular, Nicodemus, who is likely in this show far more than in all of the Bible. Regardless, this is a faithful adaption, one that elects to provide more context than the Good Book itself provides, which was a good decision.

When it comes to independently funded series about Christ, there will never be one as good as this. There are issues though, the main titles and theme is always jarring and feels thrown together and cheap, which considering the beautiful score the show boasts, is a shame. The other issue is the show’s most significant, the casting of Brandon Potter as the primary antagonist, Quintus. Unfortunately, he delivers a frankly distracting performance seemingly focused on making Quintus a weaselly and cunning man, who never actually does anything wicked. The writing of the character destroyed this performance before it could even take place, and the end result isn’t pretty.

The Chosen strikes gold with some key casting decisions and as a result, delivers a wholesome and enjoyable retelling of Jesus’ story.