A 1984 Period Piece in Present Day: Review. By John Battiston.
Before watching Sean Glass’s latest short film, A 1984 Period Piece in Present Day, I had never thought it possible to judge a film by, of all things, its title card — or, in this case, cards. But it’s difficult to read the text that opens this 18-minute short and not accurately predict the film’s disaffecting sense of grandiosity.
Scribbled on translucent paper in what Glass, judging by his social media photos, has fashioned as a sort of trademark scrawl, the first bit of text essentially communicates the filmmaker’s conviction that titles themselves are redundant and ought to be done away with, before reluctantly cutting to the title itself (which notes this film comprises merely a first act). The discerning, open-minded viewer will do their best to suppress the urge to immediately dismiss Glass as the irritating sort of self-proclaimed “artist” you’d find aimlessly lounging around a campus radio station, who thinks subversion for subversion’s sake is meritorious regardless of purpose or effect.
Those who manage to press past this distasteful introduction are thankfully rewarded for doing so, at least from a cinematic standpoint. A black screen punctuated with an unseen character’s coughs gives way to a darkened, middle-American landscape in which an eerie roadside motel glows fluorescently, a single car rumbling to a stop in front as late-night travelers buzz past in the background. This shot alone, which runs for a solid minute or so, is a testament to Glass’s behind-the-camera abilities despite an ostensibly constrained budget. He, cinematographer James Siewert, and especially sound designers Jon Eckhaus and Allistair Johnson establish a dynamic setting with subtle, painterly touches that deserve to be experienced with a high-quality screen and set of speakers.
But after the painfully plodding introduction of the two unnamed guests (played by Glass and Isabel Sandoval) and creepy motel clerk (Carlos Dengler), one can’t help but feel Glass is leaning on his craftsmanship to distract from his film’s lack of substance. His and Sandoval’s characters take up a decent chunk of screen time simply walking to their room — which, sure, allows for a neat tracking shot through the low-light exterior haze, but is horribly plodding all the same.
From there, we watch restlessly as the characters glacially explore their new hotel room, receive a non sequitur-laced visit from the clerk, and eventually switch on the television to a showing of Creepshow 2. (Is that 1987 movie’s placement in a 1984-set story a simple oversight? Or, as the title suggests, is time in this world nebulous and simply not worth our meditation? By this point, few will care enough to ponder further.)
Glass’s character, dressed in an oversized Beastie Boys tee, pontificates about his childhood obsession with a particular segment of Creepshow 2 and how it resulted in a lasting sexual fantasy, though as he and Sandoval watch the movie, it’s revealed that the source of his romantic ideations is more problematic than he remembered.
Still, as Glass seems to be telling us during the final few minutes before an abrupt cut-to-black, adult conscience has little power over the inexpungible desires of youth, no matter how long they might have had to deteriorate. It’s an idea worthy of interrogation, to be sure, and perhaps a second act of A 1984 Period Piece in Present Day intends to explore it further.
Still, this short, as it currently stands, doesn’t do nearly enough with its limited runtime to either substantially flesh out its themes or engage viewers enough to bring them back for a follow-up, if or when it arrives. For a filmmaker with such a brief resume, Glass has an impressive grasp of mise en scène and a distinct auteurial voice, but will only achieve substantial impact as a storyteller if he can mesh his aesthetic talents with a compelling narrative and leave his narcissistic pretense at the door.
Call Me Brother is a coming-of-age comedy about incest, puberty and teenage sexual awakening. Lisa and Tony are a brother and sister who grew up separately because of their divorced parents and when they are reunited for the summer as teenagers, they grow closer than ever before. This is an independent film written by, and staring, comedian/actress Christina Parrish. David Howe makes his full-length feature directorial debut.
Beyond the uncomfortable theme of prepubescent incest, the idea of childhood trauma is also explored. We gradually learn that the siblings’ parents’ had a volatile relationship that resulted in a hateful divorce, and the film suggests that perhaps Lisa and Tony’s confused understanding of love is a consequence of this. This endeavour to investigate such a complex and raw topic is commendable. Unfortunately, it feels as though this film is too wrapped up in giving shock-value and dirty jokes to allow it’s more poignant message to come to the forefront.
Parrish – who in real life is an adult woman – is completely believable as a sheltered 16 year old girl, on the younger side of puberty. SNL’s Andrew Dismukes also convincingly portrays the awkwardness of a teenage boy. Together their brother and sister chemistry makes for the most childlike and unsexy romantic leads on the planet. There are times where their innocent playfulness is endearing to watch, until it is ruined by a sexually explicit act.
Despite the low budget of this indie film, the production value is good. The cinematography and editing is all to a professional standard. Moreover, the colourful design palette mixed with the trashy set is a juxtaposition that suits the overall theme of childlike love and cheap sex.
Lastly, the dialogue is incredibly awkward and lame but perhaps on purpose to reflect the uncomfortable experience of being a teenager. However, this is extremely painful and unenjoyable to listen to for an hour and a half.
https://vimeo.com/228341275
In all, Call Me Brother successfully captures the painful struggle of puberty and teenage sexuality. It’s also brave in its venture to unpick the complexity of incest and the repercussions of dysfunctional parental relationships. But there are few with the stomach to truly enjoy exploring these concepts for the length of a feature film. So, despite some of its admirable intentions, Call Me Brother is thoroughly unenjoyable, at times unbearable, and generally hard to watch. Also, unless you’re into crude humour, this film is not laugh-out-loud comedy. Consider yourself warned.
If you weren’t already excited at the prospect of the great Steve McQueen directing five new films as part of an anthology series this year (Small Axe, coming to the BBC in November), the masterful Mangrove would’ve changed all that when it opened the London Film Festival recently. Now, as this year’s event draws to a sad close, audiences have been lucky enough to view another excellent installment in the series, but the experience of watching Lovers Rock couldn’t be more different.
Set in West London in the early 1980s and clocking in at a mere 68 minutes, Lovers Rock takes place over the course of one Saturday night, as dozens of young people from the local West Indian community show up for the house party of the year, filled with delicious food, booze and loud, soulful reggae music. What follows is perhaps the most authentic and unapologetic look at such a night in all of cinema, from the romantic pursuits of its guests and the alcohol-driven euphoria that erupts at the sound of a great song, right to the irresponsible use of narcotics and the drunken arguments with friends and family. Its razor-focused, ingenious in its simplicity.
Newcomer Amarah-Jae St Aubyn shines as Martha, who climbs from her bedroom window under the nose of her deeply devout mother to meet her friend Patty for a fun night out. They are hassled by various men before Martha meets Reggie (Francis Lovehall) and forms a surprise connection, in spite of her many reservations and much to the annoyance of Patty. Aside from the poor behaviour of Bammy (Daniel Francis-Swaby) towards the women at the party that quickly gets out of hand, and a row Martha has with her cousin, Lovers Rock is mostly a magical and positive experience, and is easily McQueen’s most upbeat film yet.
Audiences familiar with his work will watch Lovers Rock awaiting drama but, unlike Mangrove, or indeed any of his other films, it never really happens. The racial tensions in the area are clearly implied, most notably by a group of white men who hassle Martha on the street, but it never becomes the focal point of the story as one might expect. They’re there simply to remind us of why this party is happening in the first place; the guests don’t exactly feel welcome in the local clubs and have had to create their own safe space to party. But McQueen is far more interested in the fun his characters are having than the goings-on outside.
This is a film with very few characters and little story, more of an observational piece than a traditional narrative, high on atmosphere and spirit. McQueen, well-known for his signature long, motionless takes, moves the camera more than ever before, almost as an extra uninvited guest to the party and reflecting its hectic nature as the night continues. The engrossing reaction to the Janet Kay song Silly Games (making up almost ten minutes of screen-time, including almost five straight minutes of non-stop, passionate singing) is not only the finest moment of the picture, but one of the highlights of McQueen’s already illustrious career. He’s never had so much fun.
As the sun shines on Sunday morning, Reggie returns to work for his short-tempered boss and Martha makes it back just in time to attend church with her mother; a subtle reminder of the world these people must return to, having escaped from it the night before.
Lovers Rock is more concerned with mood than it is narrative, focused on capturing the magic of a moment that would normally make up only a handful of scenes. It perfectly captures the escapist magic of music, the essence of a house party and, more importantly, the comfort this one provides for its guests. Steve McQueen’s Small Axe series is becoming something very special indeed. This is sublime.
Francis Lee, who first impressed audiences with his 2017 Bafta-nominated debut God’s Own Country, never quite creates the same magic with his sophomore feature Ammonite, a well-produced yet flawed romance starring Kate Winslet and Saoirse Ronan.
It’s the 1840s, and famed palaeontologist Mary Anning (Winslet) spends her time walking the beaches of Lyme Regis in search of fossils that she can clean up and sell to wealthy tourists, one of whom (Sir Roderick Murchison, played by James McArdle) pays her to keep his wife Charlotte (Ronan) company for a few weeks while he’s away. Charlotte’s suffering from poor mental health, silenced by her oppressive husband and traumatised by a recent incident, the specifics of which are left for the viewer to interpret.
Mary is a subdued woman, angry at the world and living with her irritable mother Molly (Gemma Jones), and at first she finds Charlotte’s company to be nothing short of a nuisance, but soon they find a connection through their shared loneliness, baring all to one another and finding solace in their emotional presence.
It’s certainly unfair that Ammonite is already being compared to Céline Sciamma’sPortrait of a Lady on Fire(released earlier this year), but perhaps only natural, given the similarities the two share, both being beach-set romances between two women. Sadly for Ammonite, it never seems to rise from the shadow of Sciamma’s deeply affecting masterpiece, but the presence of a similar yet superior film is far from the only reason Lee’s new work never really takes flight.
Winslet and Ronan are, unsurprisingly, on top form, both hitting the heights of their already illustrious careers and conveying raw emotion with the subtlest of touches, but their blossoming romance, while compassionately developed, never hits the right emotional notes.
Stéphane Fontaine shoots the film with real passion, the sound design is superbly complimentary and Dustin O’Halloran and Volker Bertelmann’s score is used astutely, but these elements seem to serve to inflate the emotional core, rather than compliment it. At its bare bones, the film’s themes are approached a little too simplistically, with the inclusion of some fairly clunky dialogue, including the on-the-nose line ‘women are supposed to care for their sisters’ and Mary likening herself to a ‘bird in a cage.’ It feels like Lee telling us how we should feel, rather than earning it through strength of character, and it all just comes across a little too obvious, right down to the almost cartoon-ish portrayal of Roderick.
When it comes down to It, Mary and Charlotte’s relationship has no heat or any sense of passion. Of course, the film is more focused on the comfort that these two lonely people find together than it is their romance per se, but we’re left with performances so repressed that it masks any chemistry shared between the performers and feels as cold as the beach weather of Dorset. For a story so focused on the connection found between these two women, the material feels a little restrictive. Even the closing moments (an ambiguous ending that leaves Mary’s decision open to interpretation) feel a tad too implausible and, above all, not in keeping with the raw nature of the rest of the film.
Given the talent involved and the heartfelt character of Lee’s previous film, it’s somewhat disappointing that Ammonite seems so misjudged. His intentions are commendable and clear, but his execution seems to take any soul out of the picture.
While the film doesn’t necessarily succeed as a romance, it works far better as a character study of Mary Anning, a lonely, under-appreciated and repressed person who finds hope from an unexpected source and struggles with the risk of opening up to her. Kate Winslet’s performance is so wonderfully engrossing that these scenes are far stronger than much of the film, and one can’t help but wonder how special it might’ve been had it been more focused on her.
Much of Ammonite works very well indeed. The performances are exceptional, not just from Winslet and Ronan, but also from Fiona Shaw, who sells its emotional core better than most in just a couple of stand-out scenes. The film is expertly-crafted as a whole; talented professionals at work creating some truly beautiful cinema, but these elements aren’t able to elevate the film beyond its limited material.
The simple truth is that the heart of Ammonite is off-balance and doesn’t really work; a competent film, yes, but an emotionally dissonant one. It’s hard to fully engage with the material in any meaningful way, and it never strikes quite the chord that God’s Own Countrydid so effortlessly before.
Overall, it’s a film that’ll impress a lot of people, many of whom might say something along the lines of ‘well, that was very well-made’, but they probably won’t be moved. It’s trying far too hard.
Festival season is upon us, which means hours spent glued to computer screens due to the current COVID conditions. While the situation does put a damper on the typical festival spirit, it does allow critics like me the chance to sift through a wide array of content fairly easily. With that being said, here are my thoughts on some of the notable festival darlings grabbing audience’s interest, including films from NYFF (New York Film Festival), AFI (American Film Institute), Nightstream, Hampton, and Middleburg respectively.
MINARI: THE HEARTLAND FILM FESTIVAL
Synopsis: It’s the 1980s, and David, a seven-year-old Korean American boy, is faced with new surroundings and a different way of life when his father, Jacob, moves their family from the West Coast to rural Arkansas.
Drawn from writer/director Lee Isaac Chung’s personal experiences, Minari thrives as one of the rare comings of age tales to weave in a deeply-intimate, yet universally profound narrative about a family staying afloat while chasing the American Dream. It’s also one of the rare awards fare movies that are able to convey their central conceits with a humanistic eye, shying away from the theatrical grandiosity that plagues several dramas of this nature.
For Chung, this is an impressive breakout effort. He skillfully paints around the crevices, favoring finite moments of familial connection over major plot beats. The film’s low-key nature is part of its charm, allowing audiences to breathe with the characters and their personal journey. Chung and Director of Photography Lachlan Milne find visually-inspired ways to capture the story, while Chung’s screenplay rarely misses a beat from an authenticity standpoint. He balances the character’s plights with comforting warmth and humor, controlling the tonal balance with a deft sensibility (this is quietly one of the year’s funniest movies).
The performance work across the board is also exceptional, with Steven Yeun and Yuh-Jung Youn delivering two Oscar-worthy performances (Yeun conveys the character’s personal and paternal struggles while Youn is a joy as David’s eccentric grandma). Aside from a somewhat rushed and chaotic third act, there’s little to nitpick about Minari, which will likely be a film discussed throughout the 2021 awards season.
ONE NIGHT IN MIAMI: MIDDLEBURG FILM FESTIVAL
Synopsis: A fictional account of one incredible night where icons Muhammad Ali, Malcolm X, Sam Cooke, and Jim Brown gathered discussing their roles in the civil rights movement and cultural upheaval of the 60s.
Few festival films live up to their outsized hype, yet Regina King’s directorial debut One Night in Miami accomplishes that rare feat. Using its fictionalized set-up to meditate on black celebrities’ roles as agents of representation and progress, this is a rare film that ably speaks volumes about the past and our contemporary world.
Miami boasts one of the year’s strongest ensemble casts. Aldis Hodge (Jim Brown), Eli Goree (Muhammad Ali), and Leslie Odom Jr. (Sam Cooke) continue their impressive career ascensions, but its relative newcomer Kingsley Ben-Adir who leaves the strongest impression as the impassioned Malcolm X. Each actor is able to imbue their historic personas with nuance and agency, creating lived-in portraits that come to life in ways few biopics can match. Kemp Powers screenplay pops with lively dialogue exchanges and intelligent ruminations, eschewing the “Oscar bait” trappings that often hinder films of this caliber.
Some will critique King’s lack of visceral craft, though the actresses turned director accomplishes an impressive achievement with her first outing. Ruminating on its central conciets with soul and intelligence, One Night in Miami makes a powerful and exceedingly relevant statement.
THE FRENCH EXIT: NEW YORK FILM FESTIVAL
Synopsis: An aging Manhattan socialite living on what’s barely left of her inheritance moves to a small apartment in Paris with her son and cat.
French Exit operates as a distinctly mannered comedy unafraid to embrace a quirky sensibility. Few films can pull off having a cat (played by Tracy Letts) voice the dead spirit of a deceased love one with a straight face, but that’s just one of the many charming asides that Azazel Jacobs new film brings to the table. I wasn’t a huge fan of Jacobs’ last film The Lovers, which asked interesting questions about monogamy before bailing on its conceits in the third act. Here, Jacobs works vehemently to elicit an acerbic tonality that takes risks with its seemingly conventional set-up. Akin to the deadpan delivery of Wes Anderson films, Jacobs imbues a certain sincerity to the material that sells the bizarre gags, including a supporting cast of colorful characters who elevate their one-note roles.
While the film’s detached sensibility won’t sell everyone, its strong central performance will certainly turn heads. This was a role tailor-made for Michelle Pfeiffer’s bitting ability, bringing Frances’ sharp persona to life with wit and proper dimension. Lucas Hedges also offers one of his best performances as Frances’ neurotic son, ably working to define the character outside of his conditioned mannerisms. There’s a lingering sense of melancholy that pairs nicely with the comedic sensibility, as the film occasionally explores the intimacy, or lack thereof, of the mother-son duo (ruminations on the wealth’s ambivalent detachment to the world around them also register, as Frances makes a spirited effort to upend this with large monetary donations to random strangers).
That being said, French Exit lacks the refined visual identity and impactful emotional core to truly elevate its material. I can see some film fans clamoring to label this as a Wes Anderson rip-off (early world out of NYFF has been mixed), but that would be an unfair distinction to Jacobs’ work. While it may not register as the “awards film” people predicted it to be, Jacobs’ film unearths a humorous odyssey from the character’s separation with wealth and the baggage it brings.
CONCRETE COWBOY: MIDDLEBURG FILM FESTIVAL
Synopsis: A teenager discovers the world of urban horseback riding when he moves in with his estranged father in North Philadelphia.
I was enamored with what Concrete Cowboy attempts to uncover onscreen. Along with highlighting underserved real-world communities, writer/director Ricky Staub’s film critiques the numerous ways black frontier culture has been whitewashed in American history. At its peak, Staub’s effort personifies its own voice within the western ascetic while aptly representing thoughtful societal dynamics through his stylistic verve.
This innate promise makes Concrete Cowboy’s inconsistent delivery frustrating to endure. As an adaptation of Greg Neri’s novel, the narrative doesn’t translate well on screen, adapting a melody of cliches while never defining a consistent structure (the third act feels rushed and thinly-conceived). It’s a letdown to see a vital concept consistently marred by antiquated plot mechanics, including a distant father/son dynamic that lacks authenticity. Caleb McLaughlin and Idris Elba are a compelling onscreen pair, yet their charismatic performances feel underserved at every turn.
There are elements to appreciate throughout Staub’s film, but Concrete Cowboy ultimately lands as a missed opportunity.
SHADOW IN THE CLOUD: AFI FILM FESTIVAL
Synopsis: A female WWII pilot traveling with top-secret documents on a B-17 Flying Fortress encounters an evil presence on board the flight.
Winner of the TIFF Midnight Madness award, Shadow in the Cloud boasts the scrappy allures of a guilty pleasure B-movie. Director Roseanne Liang invents a few high-flying setpieces despite strict resources, including a third act that depicts its aerial dogfights with slick camera work. She pushes her 83-minute film with her frenetic pace, using her boilerplate set-up to convey an air of tension and intrigue.
Liang’s efforts are admirable, yet her film struggles to find its footing when the action isn’t onscreen. Liang’s script strives to critique the overt chauvinism of the era, an admirable intention that lacks proper nuance. The characters and dialogue are steeped in hokey 40’s cliches that severely undercut any dramatic aspirations. It’s a bummer, especially since Chloe Grace Moretz’s lead performance carries the film with a chipper and commanding energy.
Shadow in the Cloud has the shameless joys of a satisfying low-rent diversion. The issues arise when viewing the film as anything greater than that limited context.
MANDIBLES: THE NIGHTSTREAM FILM FESTIVAL
Synopsis: Two simple-minded friends discover a giant fly in the trunk of a car and decide to domesticate it to earn money with it.
Quentin Dupieux continues to push forward his surrealist comedic sensibility, with films like Rubber, Wrong Cops, and Deerskin showcasing a craftsman operating with an idiosyncratic voice onscreen. His latest Mandibles continues to push his unique vision forward, although it’s not quite as refined as some of his previous endeavors.
That’s not to say Mandibles is without its charming allures. Dupiex’s oddball sincerity is always admirable, knowingly handling bizarre gags with a straight-face delivery that sells the ridiculousness. His latest film brings a Dumb and Dumber approach to The Fly, following two abscent-minded friends (Gregoire Ludig and David Marsais) who continuously find unintelligible answers to their problems. The two central performances convey the idiocy with a certain charisma and conviction, often drawing laughs as the film sets up its premise.
Mandibles eventually overstays its welcome though, employing a plethora of gags that feel more grating than gratifying (Blue is the Warmest Color star Adele Exarchopoulos plays a character who shrieks all of her dialogue). Dupiex’s films go as far as their concept can take them, but I felt Mandibles ran out of steam even before its 77-minute runtime concluded. Still, his latest is sure to incite passionate support from some of his loyal followers.
BLACK BEAR: NIGHTSTREAM
Synopsis: A filmmaker at a creative impasse seeks solace from her tumultuous past at a rural retreat, only to find that the woods summon her inner demons in intense and surprising ways.
Few films this year have kept me on my toes like Lawrence Michael Levine’s latest Black Bear. Audiences who go in with a blind notion about the project will discover a film that continually evolves itself, ultimately creating a compelling character-driven piece that meditates on its own genre’s existence.
Without giving much away (I recommend avoiding the trailers if possible), Levine splits his narrative into two central halves, though he meshes these conjoined realities through the character’s insecurities and baggage. The second half is where the film finds its true voice, delving into the manner in which filmmakers and actors evoke their own damaged realities into their work. Aubrey Plaza and Christopher Abbott’s performances are stunning, with Plaza conveying an emotional whirlwind that is hard to look away from. It’s a joy to see her find new wrinkles in her persona, while Abbott continues to prove himself as one of the industry’s unheralded gems (he captures the neurotic focus of a director with wit and a deranged dedication).
Black Bear is a true must-see, boldly deconstructing its indie sensibility through an inventive narrative framework. It descends into emotionally raw and cerebral territory with impressive ease, possessing the ability to become a future cult staple.
Synopsis: A woman returns from combat and befriends a family in NYC. A gang of thieves plot to take the family’s valuables, and she is all that stands between them and their lives.
Ruby Rose has operated as a capable action star, yet her latest starring vehicle The Doorman does little to boost her profile. Contently swimming in a pool of genre contrivances, this straight-forward actioner rarely reanimates its antiquated roots.
It’s frustrating to see considering Rose and director Ryuhei Kitamura’s talents. The Midnight Meat Train director displays some stylistic verve with his framing, although his ingenuity is often hindered by the apparent budgetary restrictions. The narrative takes a promising Die Hard-esque approach that’s never spiced with fresh ingredients. Rose’s protagonist Ali isn’t much better, straddling the actress with a stoic, thinly-drawn hero that fails to engage.
Adequately passing the time but rarely engaging, The Doorman greets audiences with an oppressive sense of familiarity.
I also covered a few films from this year’s Toronto International Film Festival if you want to read full reviews of Nomadland and Another Round.
