Darcy Read

Killers of the Flower Moon is a Profound Achievement

December 4, 2023Darcy Read

“Can you find the wolves in this picture?” As the simple Earnest (Leonardo DiCaprio) reads from a history book given to him by his uncle William “King” Hale (Robert De Niro) about the Osage Nation, to acclimatise himself to the new land in Oklahoma he has found himself in after returning from the war, we are not so subtly asked to investigate the frame of each scene. The land is almost entirely owned by the First Nations Osage community that, after being slaughtered and chased out of other states before finding themselves here, struck a reserve of oil on the land they had legal rights to, making them the richest per capita community in the world. And now their people are being brutally killed in careless succession, with the government nowhere in sight to investigate.

Killers of the Flower Moon (2023), a sprawling period crime epic based on the incredible best-selling nonfiction book of the same name by David Grann tracking the 1921 Osage Nation murders (potentially hundreds even though the reported count reached only 20), is the best film to arrive in theatres in years. An astonishing work of the clashing worlds of empathy and cruelty, the legendary director Martin Scorsese, alongside veteran screenwriter Eric Roth set out to explore and probe the original sins of white exploitation and destruction that dismantled a once thriving community in the Osage Nation.

Central to the story is Mollie Kyle (Lily Gladstone in the must-see performance of the year), and her family who were amongst the wealthiest in the community through their Osage headrights. From the opening moments of the film, the plan is established by the wolf Hale: set up his family to marry into and then assassinate Mollie’s family to gain their land through these headrights, with the newest entrant Earnest, Hale’s young (in reality Earnest was 19) nephew with nowhere else to go, to be placed alongside Mollie.

Lily Gladstone, Robert De Niro, and Leonardo DiCaprio in *Killers of the Flower Moon*

With a task as grave and serious about a community unfamiliar to their own, Scorsese and Roth’s script remarkably lands at a point of empathy and understanding they can reach as outsiders to this world. Scorsese’s self-reflective limitations as the person to tell this story are palpable throughout the film. This crime film’s capacity to tell a story of a community not his own arrives at a peak in a final sequence that may not evoke the same emotions in audience members as personal opinions of this vary (more on this later). However, it is disingenuous to wholly dismiss this remarkable film on those grounds, just as it is disingenuous to wholly dismiss the air of white guilt and limitations as storytellers that frame Killers.

The film is a surprisingly straightforward narrative story, using its 206-minute runtime to form as tight a compulsive story as is possible with Grann’s sprawling book, with the marriage of Earnest and Mollie at its core. There are many changes in structure and perspective to the book, with the most crucial being the shift in storytelling philosophy with the character of William Hale. In Grann’s book, the revelation of Hale’s orchestration of the gaining of head rights through systemic murders of the Osage Nation plays out closer to a whodunit true crime thrill ride that concludes with the formation of the FBI and the men that uncovered the truth — a sharp contrast to how the story is presented in the film. By changing the storytelling style from a whodunit into a bottomless well of foreboding dread through our connection to his character, Scorsese is tying us to the poison in his veins, feeling the bounds of the American condition and original sin within this vile man more directly.

Roth’s original screenplay focused on a more procedural whodunit that would’ve subbed as a perfectly adequate recreation of Grann’s book, centring early on Mollie and following onto Tom White’s (Jesse Plemons) role in the FBI investigation. Scorsese, in his first co-screenwriting credit since Silence (2016), alongside Roth, altered the perspective of the script, maintaining focus on Mollie and Ernest. In Grann’s book, the primary question being posed is: who is the culprit of these hideous acts? In Killers, the power of the storytelling comes from pursuing the more unanswerable questions at the core of their relationship and marriage: How can you do this to someone you believe to love? And how can you not see the root from which all these horrible events are stemming from? The boiling frustrations that stem from these probing, emotional questions are allowed to simmer across the entire extended runtime of the film, evolving into a profound sadness that will last with you a lifetime. Very few films attempt this level of emotional connection with the viewer, and even fewer films achieve it.

Lily Gladstone and Leonardo DiCaprio in *Killers of the Flower Moon*

What allows Killers to capture an audience’s hearts and minds across its extended runtime is the trio of performances by DiCaprio, Gladstone, and De Niro in one of the finest ensembles in Scorsese’s storied career. De Niro, in his best performance in many years, is nightmarish as the wolf Hale, able to talk and smile through both sides of his mouth, taking up residence as a haunting figure of colonial greed and arrogance in the early 20th century. Alongside him is DiCaprio in his Calvin Candie mode from Django Unchained (2012), a performance style he has grown more comfortable with in recent years. The choice of DiCaprio to play an individual some 30 years his junior is a fascinating one. It can be read as a director pulling his muse into another film for the central role, or as a compelling provocation to the audience of seeing the star portray a despicable and complicated person. The weight of Earnest’s wilful ignorance is also deepened when placed across DiCaprio’s face than a more age accurate performer. What allows the film to transcend however, is Gladstone, perhaps the most compelling screen presence to emerge in a decade, whether in a single scene in the great TV series Reservation Dogs (2022) or Certain Women (2016), she is simply astonishing. Gladstone’s chemistry with DiCaprio is established early and becomes the crux of the film, with each scene together tethered to an anchor of tension that remains all the way into their incredible final meeting.

There are arguments to be made that Gladstone is sidelined for too much of the back end of the film due to her illness, which is as much a compliment to her performance as a narrative choice. This element of the film is also forced due to the reality of Mollie’s poisoning and illness, a storytelling hurdle that would’ve been disrespectful to sidestep. Her powerful presence is felt on and off screen equally, her piercing eyes hold a deep well of humanity which buries into your psyche for the elongated runtime. To avoid this aspect of the real story is to avoid the real pain that was subjugated on each member of this community, something that was clear throughout the production as being integral to telling this story. This family of women, with Mollie at the centre, want for a normal, wealthy American life that should have been afforded to them, but the ingrained systems of racial vilification and capitalism — the two are intrinsically linked — force them into a victimhood they should have been able to avoid through their wealth.

The longer Roth and Scorsese worked with the community, listening to their stories and hearing their truth, the deeper the well of understanding was established which is felt in powerful sequences throughout the film. A key moment displaying this respect to the Osage Nation is in the profoundly moving sequence as Lizzie (Tantoo Cardinal), Mollie’s mother, passes on, holding hands with her ancestors as she walks, smiling and without regret, into the next life. The sequence is quiet, simply staged, and made with great respect, with the air of an Apichatpong Weerasethakul film. The sequence echoes Silence (2016), Scorsese exploration into his own faith late in life, through its stripped-down and respectful style, displaying the utmost care when dealing with the faith of the people portrayed on screen.

Robert De Niro and Leonardo DiCaprio in *Killers of the Flower Moon*

By saddling the audience with Earnest for much of the film, a man with absolutely no moral core in the centre of the frame, Scorsese seeks to probe and destabilise us in equal measure. We don’t have the comforts of a future-set flashback to reassure us of his remorse, nor do we have saccharine familial moments that give us an easy out of the atrocities portrayed in the film. The further and further we are stretched, the more determined we are to uncover some hidden truth in DiCaprio’s performance, but he is equally as withholding with us as he is with his own wife. Over 200 minutes, the greatest living filmmaker is asking us not to find the wolves in sheep’s clothing, but to ask how these wolves can live amongst sheep after consuming their families.

As an Australian, it’s impossible to ignore the echoes of our own history in this story, of The Stolen Generations and the arrogant dark seed of colonialism at its core. The pain in seeing the universality of these vicious and callous crimes is overwhelming, especially as it overlaps with this year’s referendum vote. It has never been easier to be wilfully ignorant of our past, dooming ourselves to continue them.

This dark cloud hangs over many aspects of the story of Killers. There is a deliberate air of inevitability to the murders and distressing moments of the story, shown through the edit and deliberately bleak sound cues that saddens whilst never veering into an unbearably solemn experience. Too often a film, especially an epic of this scale and runtime, will lose all propulsion as a compelling narrative in order to express the grave nature of the experience. This is a balancing act that is beautifully achieved, where the wealth of film knowledge of Scorsese and his long-time crew shines through to create this tremendous work of art.

Legendary musician and collaborator Robbie Robertson in his final work feels an inch off screen at all times, holding court on proceedings through his Stratocaster with a beautifully anachronistic score that brings to mind the famous Neil Young improvised score for Dead Man (1996). The real highlight piece for Robertson is the mournful guitar and vocal duet “They Don’t Live Long”, which seeps into your bone marrow through its mixture of seething rage and sorrow at the feeling of utter helplessness to these vile acts we are bearing witness to.

Leonardo DiCaprio, Lily Gladstone, Martin Scorsese, and Robert De Niro on the set of *Killers of the Flower Moon*

There is a care taken to each death that is heart wrenching and overwhelming that builds across the film. These moments aren’t calloused, or moments of entertainment that Scorsese has been accused of leaning too heavily on in the past. They are stark and honest, allowing the pulverising emotion of an audience experiencing these brutishly evil acts without a guide rope.

There is a special kind of pain Scorsese is carving out of you through the ham-fisted manner in which these horrific crimes are taking place. Not only is no one properly investigating these crimes due to the collective apathy those in real power hold for the Osage, but that is understood by those involved. This is not some elaborate web of seemingly innocuous murders, but a collection of obvious crimes committed by a group that never thought they’d get caught due to the privilege they wield over this community. For the master of the organised crime genre in cinema to focus on this collection of brutish, disorganised crime figures is pointed and considered, a continuation of his previous film The Irishman (2019), which is present throughout.

The film concludes with a charming Lucky Strike-helmed 50s radio play — sponsored by the FBI, valorising and sensationalising their involvement in the events — performing the events that transpire post the film in place of the usual text over photographs that close many a nonfiction adaptation. In these final moments, Scorsese enters the frame in an emotionally charged note to Molly’s ending, emanating both a solemn goodbye and apology for the nightmarish life she had to endure. He is overtly surrendering to the material and the Osage Nation. Not in some Variety interview or for your consideration campaign spot, but in the very text itself. The greatest living American filmmaker – and perhaps the country’s greatest ever auteur – closing potentially his final film in this manner will resonate till the end of time.

Killers of the Flower Moon is in select theatres now and streaming soon on Apple TV+.

Stop Making Sense is Better Than it Ever Was

November 12, 2023Darcy Read

Across four nights in 1983, one of the most indelible acts in America turned the Pantages Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard into the greatest party on Earth. Luckily for the rest of the world, these performances were immortalised by one of the greatest filmmakers of his generation, Jonathan Demme. Forty years on, Stop Making Sense (1984) lives long in the minds of fans old and new of the Talking Heads. The original is to this day still consistently embraced in repertory theatres around the world on a yearly basis with the same level of cult appreciation as Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) and The Room (2003). Now, one of cinema’s great achievements is coming to theatres visually and sonically enhanced by A24, bringing us closer inside the walls of the Pantages Theatre without removing any of the original’s charms. The power of this eternal classic flows from both the incredible music and extraordinary filmmaking and stagecraft that cannot be taken for granted.

Even the highest quality concert films don’t have the scope of emotionality that Demme achieves throughout Stop Making Sense, to the same level he executes in Philadelphia (1993) and Rachel’s Getting Married (2008). Demme’s cinematic superpower has always been in finding an impossibly deep well of humanity and emotion in a short, single frame, a feat that is perfect for the theatrical production David Byrne has crafted for these performances.

With the humble beginnings of David Byrne entering from stage right, with a boombox and acoustic guitar to perform “Psycho Killer” solo, we are folded into this simple but compelling setting for what has become the band’s biggest track. As the band trickles in one by one, the first act is complete and the concert can launch from street busking art kids into the best nightclub band in town. With an all-killer no-filler set (I won’t hear a bad word about the Tom Tom Club), Stop Making Sense has a more potent propulsion from scene to scene than almost any film you’ll see. What allows it to flow as gloriously and seamlessly through its four performances is the collaboration between editor Lisa Day and Blade Runner (1982) cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth alongside Demme, finding the perfect moments for each song without the camera obstructing the band.

Talking Heads’ acrimonious disbandment has created an aura of profound scarcity with the legendary band which has allowed both this film and the live album (impeccably recorded and produced for a live album) to live on across multiple generations. “Psycho Killer” and “Once in a Lifetime” were always going to be iconic American art anthems, but the way they are captured here by the band and Demme make them immortal.

With the characters established and location set, we are vaulted into as big a cinematic moment as you’ll find this year with “Burning Down The House”, a triumphant detonation of everything that has made the Talking Heads iconoclastic. Communal choruses, a joyous blend of new wave, funk, and pop rock, and a buoyancy of enthusiasm beaming from the whole band, with Byrne’s body movements a lightning rod of motion tapped directly into the frequency of the music. The serotonin spike this moment achieves is profound, connecting as deeply to a live band as you’ll find in person, no matter the regularity with which you watch this film. Stop Making Sense has a serious case to be made as the most rewatchable film ever made.

Stop Making Sense has had a long tail on the genre of concert films in the forty years since its release. However, it is still one of the only performance films that focus on the performer’s excitement and joy instead of a glorified document of the difficulty of pulling off a large concert. The great humanist filmmaker Jonathan Demme is a rare auteur who is able to imprint his own style into a concert film whilst never detracting from the artist and the moment being captured. Demme keenly focused this concert film on the small human moments between band members, displaying the pure joy and excitement of performing together, allowing all of Stop Making Sense to transcend into the near consensus place as the Michael Jordan of concert films it arrived at quickly.

David Byrne and Tina Weymouth in *Stop Making Sense*

The other key decision Demme makes in the film that continues to be a rarity in the genre is the importance given to the crew members building the set during the show. The 4k restoration only heightens these human moments, with its greater emphasis on clarity in viewing the crew in motion. The team restoring this masterpiece are clearly operating on the wavelength in which Stop Making Sense is operating. A great restoration operates similarly to a work of honest adaptation, with the creators needing to be keyed into why the work resonates and lives on in the audience’s minds for decades, something that is proudly achieved here.

Indelible moments like the lamp dance in “This Must Be the Place” and the emergence of David’s enormous suit in “Girlfriend is Better” after the Tom Tom Club reprieve play with a renewed verve in the remaster, particularly sonically. The powerful synth duo performance from Tiny Weymouth and the legend Bernie Worrell of Parliament-Funkadelic pulses throughout the cinema, with your eyes locked on Byrne at the centre, commanding a uniquely transfixing allure that’s not easily quantified. The oversized suit quickly became the icon of the film, a humorous and strange cultural object that will be the lasting image of a film full of iconography.

Uniquely, Demme avoids showing the audience, concealing them until this enormous explosion of joy when they are shown during the conclusion of “Take Me to the River” and into “Crosseyed and Painless”. Demme arrives at the moment after Byrne has introduced the entire extended band like the audience is the final member of this incredible performance. After that point, the lid is off and Demme is unable to stop the powerful geyser from erupting. The audience’s excitement is so overwhelming for the final tracks of the concert that Demme shifts the atmosphere of the Pantages Theatre from an intimate warehouse soundcheck to an almost religious exuberance with the Talking Heads as our saviour.

There is an emotive religiosity to the whole performance, with Byrne donning the energy of a pastor in fleeting moments of “Life During Wartime” and “Once in a Lifetime” that compels you forward. Demme’s decision to frame this iconic performance as a near single take of Byrne having this near-religious experience an hour into the film is electric, highlighted by a sharp spotlight on the frontman’s right side. In a song about the existential insecurities of life itself, Demme and the Talking Heads combine to create a powerfully emotional moment inside this already overwhelming cinematic experience.

In what could’ve been an easy cash grab with minimal effort, this remaster has improved upon a perfect film that is genuinely life-changing. With crisper contrasts that never feel artificially enhanced like is the case with poorer quality restorations, A24’s 4k update is an improvement on a perfect film, becoming a new definitive version of a true masterpiece. To have one of my ten favourite films remastered with this level of care, as well as having it return to theatres again, is something I will treasure forever.

Stop Making Sense is in select theatres now.

7 Best Shudder Original Films, Ranked

November 2, 2023Darcy Read

Arriving on our shores in 2020, the horror-centric streaming service Shudder has become the definitive location for the boundary-pushing genre that comes alive every October. Its library boasts entire collections from the decades-spanning series’ to the micro-budget international indies, all available under one roof that promises shocks, thrills, and subversive moments that get seared into the brain.

In recent years, Shudder has ramped up its original programming, in the states and across the globe, giving its devoted audiences the opportunity to discover some of the most interesting international and indie films of the 2020s. Here, we have ranked the 7 best originals Shudder has to offer, from the perverse to the exhilarating, these are ones not to miss.

7. When Evil Lurks (2023)

Evil lurking through a film with true malice, The newest Shudder original from Argentina arrives on this list with a dark heart that is certainly the feel-bad film of the year. Opening with its grotesque makeup designs that should only be seen at least an hour after eating, When Evil Lurks devolves into a series of purely chilling experiences in a world without a soul.

Demián Rugna has crafted a strangely dense piece of world-building on a post-religion Earth where evil and demonic possession are very real occurrences with a series of rules to keep the peace and protect the community. This film is not for the faint of heart, as its stark malevolence and propensity for child endangerment never form a callous in the mind.

6. Revenge (2017)

The brilliance of Coralie Fargeat’s Revenge is in its ability to consistently take the more compelling path, both narratively and visually, weaving through the obstacles of horror’s thorniest subgenre (the rape-revenge thriller) with a powerful ease. A film this forward does not move with grace but with the bombast and assuredness of a filmmaker driven by their convictions and choices.

Fargeat’s debut feature is defined by its extreme closeups of body parts, focusing our eye on the human body consistently, from the lurid to the violent extremity. With a potent sound design and score combination heightening both these closeups and spanning, otherworldly vistas of this Moroccan desert, Revenge is as good as it gets in this oft-misguided genre, with as tense a final 30 minutes as you’ll find on the service.

5. Speak No Evil (2022) (U.S. Exclusive)

The feeling of a knife slowly being twisted over and over and over again put to film. Speak no Evil is a profoundly upsetting film about our inability to speak up for the everyday evils we may face, centring on a Danish family that makes quick friends with a Dutch couple on vacation and takes them up on an offer to stay with them for a weekend at their remote home. A shockingly bizarre invitation to some, more normal for others, that devolves as these friendly strangers reveal themselves in time. Filmmaker Christian Tafdrup feels content sitting with the audience in a pure form of discomfort that veers slowly into dread that has rarely been captured so well on screen.

There is a hilarious moment halfway through the film where it appears the family will return home without harm and only a mild unease about their new friends, only for the husband Bjørn (Morten Burian) to turn the car around over the slightest thing. Tafdrup never sells this as a moment of triumph you’d find at the end of a horror film, knowing full well that the dread and banal claustrophobia that has been cultivated from the opening images is about to take a turn for the worse. Tafdrup’s complete control of the situation revels in the story he’s created, with the fearful exhilaration of being lowered into a seemingly endless well by someone with a tight grip on the rope.

4. Skinamarink (2022)

Wrote about the film back on the site in February, Skinamarink was a flash in the pan in terms of internet notoriety (that expanded into multiple sold-out sessions at indie theatres), but the style and lingering impact this film has on your subconscious is remarkable.

The effectiveness of the film’s horror is its depiction of a universal childhood fear shown from an actual child’s perspective. Filmmaker Kyle Edward Ball is tapping into primordial fears that dwell within all of us, using the constraints of his very modest budget to heighten the atmosphere of dread across its extended run time. The film is certainly too long for its narrow scope coming in at 100 minutes, but when Skinamarink is working, it is one of the most effective horror experiences in years.

Its central set piece, which involves Kaylee (Dali Rose Tetreault) going upstairs into her parent’s room, is one of the most haunting film sequences in years. After 40 minutes of atmospheric buildup, completely unsure of where we are being led, you will be wishing to return to watching cartoons downstairs and staring at Legos. The extended long take in this scene ratchets up the tension to a boiling point, with your palms a sweating mess in a sequence that seemingly goes for eternity. This is no doubt the peak of the film, with only smaller moments in the proceeding hour that match its tension and atmosphere. Structurally, Skinamarink could’ve taken some notes from its predecessors Paranormal Activity and Blair Witch Project (1999), by peaking in its final moments, but the atmosphere is definitely more of the Ball’s focus than the bigger scares the film has. Unfortunately, this makes the film drag in its second half, even for a great lover of durational cinema as I am.

3. One Cut of the Dead (2017)

An ingenious adrenaline shot in the arm of the zombie horror genre desperately at the tail end of the 2010s, Shin’ichirô Ueda’s One Cut of the Dead may never terrify you, but it will have you in hysterics on the floor. With a unique format with its 40-minute intentionally sloppy long take to begin the film, unfolding into a hysterical love letter to independent filmmaking that is as sharp in its cinema satire as The Player (1992).

2. Flux Gourmet (2022)

The world of sonic caterers, a fascinating and beguiling location for the new film by the great filmmaker Peter Strickland, is full of deeply flawed but fascinating characters that potently satirise modern art collectives, musicians, and gastronomical cuisine inside of a wildly satisfying feature. With terrific performances from Gwendoline Christie (and her wardrobe), Asa Butterfield, and Fatma Mohamed, Flux Gourmet will floor you with its audacity and style that is merely the coating to a terrifically detailed and well-drawn world you’ll never question the validity of.

Viewing this world predominantly through the eyes of Stones (Makis Papadimitriou), a Greek hack writer just trying to make a living whilst wholly focusing his writing on his flatulence issues is a hilarious throughline that arrives at a chaotic conclusion you cannot predict. Strickland forces you to remain present within his films through the sheer force of unpredictability that is a defining feature of all great thrillers and horrors.

The wonderful combination of evocative culinary insert shots, mixed in with copious levels of guitar and synth pedals used by the performers (a flanger is a key plot point), realises Strickland’s uniquely bizarre world from the inside out. We are grounded in a story so fully realised, the comedy cannot help but ooze out of every orifice. This film was designed in a gastronomy lab to cater to my tastes and interests, but Strickland’s pure style and chops mean Flux Gourmet caters to all diets.

1. Saloum (2021)

A wonderfully wild and propulsive genre mashup of supernatural horror, revenge western, and mercenary action cinema, Saloum tops this list through its confident filmmaking by Jean Luc Herbulot and a trio of powerful performances, headed by Yann Gael who in a just world would be a certain star.

In a nimble 84 minutes, we track the journey of a trio of mercenaries escaping a coup in Guinea-Bissau, making a forced landing in a small community on the Saloum river in Senegal. Herbulot is able to shift style every scene while maintaining a guile and confidence that the destination will be worth the wildly entertaining journey. You will be begging for this tight indie feature to be expanded into a multi film series through the power and style of Herbulot’s craft and world-building, layered on a truly stellar cast that’ll you’ll never want to leave. This is the must watch original film on Shudder right now.

The Creator is Missing Some Parts

October 3, 2023Darcy Read

Due to the frenetic nature of modern streaming churn based on shareholder growth over humane work practices or audience desire, the Star Wars industrial complex has pivoted to television in recent years. These shows have the blown-out budgets for blockbuster sci-fi epics, but are piped into our TVs and laptops. Some of these shows are great (Tony Gilroy’s Andor), and some aren’t (Obi-Wan Kenobi), but as a whole, this pivot has created a dearth of real blockbuster sci-fi with a sense of originality and modernity.

Enter The Creator (2023), the latest from visual stylist Gareth Edwards of Rogue One (2016) and Godzilla (2014) fame. In an alt-history world where robotic development arrived much earlier and Asia is seemingly conquered by Japan (the film is not equipped to deal with the meaning of his choice) and renamed New Asia, the US, seemingly under martial law, has declared war on AI who have allegedly detonated a nuclear weapon on LA (another choice we are not left given time to process). Joshua (John David Washington), an ex-special forces soldier, still mourning the death of his pregnant wife Maya (Gemma Chan in the most thankless role of the year), is brought onto a mission in New Asia to extract what they believe to be a new AI weapon.

Quickly we discover the weapon is actually an adorable child whom Joshua names Alphie (the standout newcomer Madeleine Yuna Voyles), turning The Creator into a showreel of Star Wars (1977) tropes that begin with a lone wolf and cub story, and concluding with the inevitable explode-death-ship-equals-victory mission. From the outset, the film is at war with itself, with its cheesy 90s sci-fi plot machinations and tropes on AI, robots, and human connection in a sci-fi world, styled as a contemplative Denis Villeneuve sci-fi. Edwards compels you into this visually entrancing film with real locations, considered visual effects, and evocative lighting that is truly stunning.

John David Washington and Madeleine Yuna Voyles in *The Creator*

The extraordinary production and visual design keep you invested in a film that’s narrative constantly draws groans from the audience. With a fifth of the budget of Star Wars Episode 9: Rise of Skywalker (2019) ($80m vs $416m), it is incredible what Edwards and his all star team have created visually. To contend with the wash of franchise blockbusters, Edwards has returned to the big screen with real weight behind him, including Hans Zimmer, cinematographer Greig Fraser, and editors Hank Corwin and Joe Walker, to elevate this familiar story to greater heights than this script deserves.

With Zimmer behind the wheel of a modern sci-fi, one would expect to be awestruck at the master composer’s work, but in The Creator, the great German is on autopilot. With some truly bizarre needle drops including Radiohead’s Everything in its Right Place, the audience is constantly pulled between the furiously disjointed world that is created in the theatre. Edwards has an enormous mountain to climb with this hacky script, with each decision taking away instead of building upon the last.

The film is loaded with arresting images and beautifully unique production designs, like the Nomad ship and South East Asia setting, but it’s all in service to a script that is a collection of sloppy plot machinations and simple tropes rather than genuine insight or human emotion. There is a pregnant wife to be sacrificed as character motivation. There is a surrogate child given to a character that lost a child to learn fatherhood. There are moustache-twirling, blonde military villains that were seemingly given a tape of Stephen Lang in Avatar (2009) to emulate. None of these moments are knowingly familiar or aware that fall into place by a steady hand, instead arriving to us as a manic bingo card of staid sci-fi plots that consistently underwhelm and frustrate.

Events, even the visually stunning ones, occur as cheap building blocks designed to arrive in its most obvious destination. There is no room for exploration and character moments in this beautifully realised sci-fi world, like a child given every toy in a store only to spend an afternoon throwing a rock at a wall. These critiques on story and film structure pale in comparison to the wild othering and orientalism that occurs throughout this story that can seemingly be put down to a team of white writers not considering their choices and subject matter, a trend that becomes clear the further down the rabbit hole of the film you go. It is lovely to see the real world locations of Cambodia and Vietnam used in a large-scale studio sci-fi, but at what cost?

Concluding with a mandatory ‘defeat the enemy by blowing up their Death Star’ plot removes any hope for a satisfying and unique story that earns its dazzling imagery and sound design. The Creator flashes of brilliance are crashing waves, thrashing you against the sea, but once those waves subside, you realise you can easily stand in the shallow depths of the water.

The Creator is in theatres now.

MIFF ’23: Darcy’s Notebook Pt.2

September 7, 2023Darcy Read

With another wonderful festival in the books, MIFF 2023 was a surprising mix of emerging artists from home and abroad spotlighting the program that gave the year a distinct flavour. Here, our writer Darcy has dropped part one of his notebook full of notes and thoughts on the many films he was able to catch at the festival, all of which should hopefully be brought to larger audiences throughout the rest of the year.

Sleep (Jason Yu) 2022:

A wonderfully charming but uneven riff on Rosemary’s Baby (1968) dances between comedy and genuine tension throughout, Sleep (2023) will keep the audience teetering on the edge of uncertainty until its delicious final image.

With an entrancing combination of performances by Lee Sun-kyun and Jung Yu-mi as a young couple about to welcome their first child, the stage is set for a tension-filled domestic horror, one that filmmaker Jason Yu is adept in weaving despite it being his first feature. Sleep, however, is more brash and darkly comic in nature, with a tone that will certainly reward the film with a certain cinephilic cult status.

While structurally inventive that should always stay a few steps ahead of even the most adept horror fans, Sleep’s third-act decisions lessen the forceful impact that was delighting and engaging its audience in the delicious tension Yu builds in exciting and unexpected ways. The enjoyment of the film stems from the deft dance between genre formalism and charming diversions, so further exploring these third-act choices will lessen the adventure as a whole.

I’m being deliberately coy about these aspects of the film as Yu has earned the surprise of these revelations on future audiences. This is a proud and confident debut that is sure to elevate Yu as an emerging voice in Korean genre cinema, one that is sure to expand on and improve on his deft filmmaking skills.

The Breaking Ice (Anthony Chen) 2023:

A collection of transitory young people in moments of quiet stagnation that could soon harden into a crisis, Anthony Chen’s first of two films at the festival, the familiar but evocative drama The Breaking Ice (2023), illustrates the filmmaker’s deft hand in crafting relatable and defined characters you can’t help but see yourself in.

The film is an exploration of life’s transitional nature, depicted through the constant theme of ice. Ice is a fascinating property to base a film around, something that is constantly thawing and refreezing, altering its shape when in contact with warmth, only to regain its solidity through its frigid surroundings in a new shape, forever changed by this transition.

Situated in a frozen Chinese town of Yanji on the North Korean border, a town that literally exports and profits from the ice around them, we meet Haofeng (Liu Haoran), a depressed Shanghai financier alone at a destination wedding of a distant college friend. Through happenstance, he wills himself onto —’s () tour bus, a relatively new local who is also in a moment of stagnation and personal crisis. They quickly form a trio with — (), an older local kitchen hand who feels stuck in this small town.

The film brings to mind a more modern and sombre Bande à part (1964) with its young trio traversing a town and experiencing a shifting world. A romantic film depicted with true honesty, Chen has a deep love for these three transitory characters who arrive and depart in different and life-affirming ways. This intense connection between the trio doesn’t change the matter of their being, but they were thawed out enough to emerge in a new shape. These are still the characters who question the value of their life and the purpose moving forward that we are greeted by but are more assured in their sense of self and their place in the world that is deeply moving.

La Chimera (Alice Rohrwacher) 2023:

There is no one like Alice Rohrwacher working today, with the Happy as Lazaro (2018) filmmaker consistently producing wry, comic, and deeply felt films that harken back to a stranger and often more interesting period in arthouse cinema. With her new feature, La Chimera (2023), Rohrwacher uses her breezy charm to glance into the world of Italian generational class and history through the lens of an instantly iconic band of lost boys, led by Josh O’Connor in a true star-making performance as the ivory suit wearing tortured archaeologist-slash-graverobber Arthur.

The separation between grave-robbing and archeological profiteering is placed at the centre of this brilliant surrealist tragicomedy, asking us to constantly look downwards and question the rights and possessions of the deceased, especially the impoverished deceased. There is weight to these themes and Rohrwacher’s often allows her characters to linger in their moral ambiguity, but through her virtuosic camera work and editing, La Chimera is full of vitality.

Rohrwacher’s camera is alive with cinematic ideas both profound and charming, exuding both personal character moments as well as a wider filmmaking language that can beguile a full theatre in its motions. She is able to land big ideas in her films through her focus on both cinematic and mythic storytelling styles that are rarely so well blended. Few films look and sound like La Chimera, as Rohrwacher is both patient in showing you her style, and confident enough in the story being told that the audience will be put under its spell.

Drift (Anthony Chen) 2023:

Anthony Chen’s second feature at the festival, Drift centres on a young woman Jacqueline (a captivating Cynthia Erivo) who finds herself houseless on a Greek island, both running from her past and avoiding her future. In a mostly wordless first act, Erivo moves through the town, just managing to survive as she sleeps amongst the crashing waves and rock pools on the coast.

Drift operates across three timelines, showing us her life in London with her girlfriend Helen (a surprising Honor Swinton Bryne appearance), and her trip back to her family in Liberia that precedes her arrival in Greece. Much like Jacqueline, we drift through these moments with little to latch ourselves into. Where The Breaking Ice succeeds is in informing its audience about the characters enough to engage and propel the narrative forward. Here, however, the withholding nature of the storytelling becomes the combustion engine of the film instead of the central characters. This structure works perfectly in thrillers and horror, but in a more contemplative character drama, the results are too slim to be wholly engaging.

Ama Gloria (Marie Amachoukeli-Barsacq) 2023:

Featuring one of the best child performances in years, Marie Amachoukeli-Barsacq’s Ama Gloria (2023) follows 6-year-old Cléo, (a charming and captivating Louise Mauroy-Panzani) who spends her summer with her au pair Gloria (Ilça Moreno Zego), who has returned home to Cape Verde to care for her own children after the death of her mother. This tight-focus drama of a young person sharing a final core memory with someone they love is emotionally potent in its simplicity. For two characters that have endured recent untimely loss, there is a genuine warmth in showing this elongated goodbye to a loved one that washes over you like the summer afternoon sun.

The visual highlight of the film is in the gorgeous animated painting sequences that dot the short runtime of Ama Gloria, diving into not just Cleo’s mind, but of Gloria’a, riding an ocean of tears back home. The second painted sequence transforms into a roaring volcano, enacting Cleo’s rage at the sudden departure of her surrogate mother. Both sequences are transitioned with gorgeous sonic match cuts, blending seamlessly into the ether of the 4:3 film stock showing the control and respect Amachoukeli-Barsacq has for her characters and the relationship we have invested in over the efficient runtime of just 83 minutes.

Earth Mama (Savanah Leaf) 2023:

A debut of honest warmth, Savanah Leaf’s Earth Mama (2023) is designed to stay with you the next time you pass a stranger on the street. With its captivating 16mm cinematography of Oakland by Jody Lee Lipes and provocative central performance by Tia Nomore as Gia, a pregnant single mother of two trying to get by while battling the US foster care to regain custody of her children, Earth Mama strips away feelings of judgement until only a depth of empathy is left.

Instead of constructing a film with a tight, domineeringly singular perspective of Gia, Leaf opts to move supportingly alongside her. In the opening moments of the film, a pregnant mother tells us matter-of-factly, “You can’t walk in my shoes, feel my experience, but you can walk alongside me, holding my hand.”

The heartbreak and emotionality of Earth Mama stem from Leaf’s tender honesty she exudes in telling Gia’s story. We want the best for her and her family, so when she hits her lowest point, we feel that moment, not as if it were ourselves, but as a dear friend.

The film shines in its unexpected relationships as Gia searches for solid ground inside a world that feels designed to destabilise. On first meeting with the prospective family in a diner, Gia has a beautiful moment with the family’s teenage daughter Amber (Kami Jones), who she immediately strikes a connection with. Earth Mama has quickly demonstrated Leaf’s deft hand as a writer and filmmaker who will only improve as new opportunities arise.

MIFF ’23: Darcy’s Notebook Pt.1

August 19, 2023Darcy Read

Blue Jean (Georgia Oakley) 2022:

It would be a diminishment to label Blue Jean (2022) a period film as the theatrical experience felt closer to a retrospective of a lost 80s gem than an indie debut from 2023. The debut feature from Georgia Oakley set the stage for a wonderful festival of emerging artists, centring on a young queer gym teacher Jeanie (a transfixing Rosy McEwan), trying to balance her life amongst the authoritarian and anti-LGBT+ Thatcher government in late 1980s Newcastle. The film is intricate in its layering of Jeanie’s clashing worlds as she aims to compartmentalise her sexuality from her work and family, loading even the simplest gestures and moments with palpable anxiety.

Oakley positions the story in an interesting state of generational limbo, with Jeanie’s behaviour clearly ingrained by the regressive world she grew up in and remains. She must navigate being an authority figure to a group of teenage girls that feel destined to progress past her. It’s almost cliche for films centred on teachers to develop into a story of the kids being the real teachers, but Blue Jean is able to maturely navigate these waters with confidence and purpose, developed through an immense level of authenticity.

And this achievement in period authenticity by Oakley and the whole crew cannot be understated. Oakley, alongside cinematographer Victor Seguin and production designer Soraya Gilanni Viljoen, work well beyond their means to create an incredibly lived-in 80s period drama that grounds the worlds of the characters. All three will be ones to watch in the following years.

Disco Boy (Giacomo Abbruzzese) 2023:

Disco Boy (2023) is a fascinating but slight debut from Giacomo Abbruzzese about a pair of interconnected but opposed soldiers, Aleksei (Franz Rogowski) and Jomo (Morr Ndiaye), which aims for Denis but lands closer to Winding Refn. A fascinating moral portrait of who fights our wars and for what purpose, Abbruzzese weaves compelling visual choices, including a heat-vision sensory explosion of violence in the Niger Delta, into this more atmospheric than deeply felt character work, bouncing between engaging and alienating in equal measure.

More a collection of fragmented visual ideas about self-identity, cultural identity through conflict, and purpose, than a developed story, Disco Boy ultimately disengages and limits one’s investment in the story of Alex and Jomo, especially as it enters its final act.

These are weighty themes for a debut feature, one that often falls into flat abstraction instead of provocative imagery that in more seasoned hands, would envelop an audience more fully.

Showing Up (Kelly Reichardt) 2022:

Even a minor feeling Reichardt is still an event, packed with nuggets of wisdom and exploration into the delicate, tiny worlds of its characters. With her muse Michelle Williams, Reichardt centres the world of a tight artist community in her standard milieu of Portland. Williams inhabits Lizzy, a ceramics artist trying to get by while she works on her new independent show. Her friend-slash-landlord Jo (the terrific Hong Chau) keeps putting off fixing her hot water on top of a myriad of other minor obstacles involving an injured pigeon, her office work at the artist’s community keeps overtaking her time, leaving little time for Lizzy’s passion for her art as her patience gets stretched to a breaking point. But there is no true outburst of crescendo to Lizzy’s frustrations, that is never how Reichardt operates.

The master of American neorealism, the lives and conflicts of Showing Up (2022) involve the anxiety of unexpected moments soaking up time. The beautiful counterpoint to these moments however, is in the simple giving of one’s time, whether through a simple walk home, alleviating a colleague’s work, or coming to a friend’s art show, is as powerful a show of love one can demonstrate in this life. In a time of feverish multitasking and anxiety-inducing attention economy, Reichardt instead centres her film around just showing up (which is why this is easily the film title of the year).

There is an intense focus on the physical work of creativity rarely shown on film, giving the sensation of a mid-afternoon stroll through a tiny gallery, seeking to understand an artist through their work. There is genuine comedy rarely felt in Reichardt’s films here that is never snarky or mocking. She has a real care and love for this world and the people within it that emanates through Showing Up, allowing its humour to bubble to the surface in surprising moments.

When she is at her best, Reichardt’s screenplays never show the seams of a Robert McKee-approved story structure, with character arcs never becoming clear until their peaks are unveiled through the clouds. This allows her work to thrive and engage an audience consistently, developing one of the most consistent filmographies in 21st-century American auteurs. We should not take these films for granted.

Shayda (Noora Niasari) 2023:

A gorgeous debut from a real bright light in Australian cinema, Noora Niasari’s deeply personal portrait of her mother, portrayed in the film by the stunning Zar Amir Ebrahimi, brings to mind many great films before it, including MIFF 2022 highlight Aftersun, but is able to confidently stand on its own.

Following a young mother, Shayda, and her six-year-old (Selina Zahednia) daughter Mona, escaping an abusive father to a women’s shelter, Niasari has a clear-eyed but empathetic view of a story so close to her that emanates through the screen. Shayda’s (2023) sense of place and community is tight and focused while still allowing a beautiful freedom for the performers.

Niasari has a graceful way of weaving inner character life into scenes that in lesser hands would be doled out as blunt exposition. By giving the audience just enough story to understand the situation, we are rewarded with an expanded glance into the world of these characters and their relationships as they navigate the difficult situation they have been placed in. This year’s festival has been a wonder of debut features and emerging voices, with Shayda a real spotlight on the new and creative minds coming out of Australian cinema. It was heartwarming to see the festival wrap their arms around her and this impressive film.

Past Lives (Celine Song) 2023:

I wrote about my favourite film of the year in my Sydney notebook here, but I just had to come back to see it with a packed MIFF crowd. It’s just as gorgeous the second time around. An absolute miracle in filmmaking, Celine Song is able to toe the line between the grandiosity of life and destiny and the minutiae of a relationship across many years with the ease of a veteran screenwriter and filmmaker.

In Celine Song’s extraordinary debut Past Lives (2023), time is the central tenet. During the post-screening Q&A, Song said she wanted the film to have the lived-in feeling that “12 years could pass in an instant, but a two-minute wait for an Uber could be an eternity.” What stood out on rewatch at the festival is the underrated challenge of editing this film, particularly in its shifting perspectives at the placement of its time shifts. We are never rushed into these leaps, nor are we led slowly into them, but Song and editor Keith Fraase (who came up working with Terrence Malick) are able to achieve a breathtaking sensation of each stage in Nora (Greta Lee) and Hae Sung’s (Teo Yoo) relationship feeling cut short.

MIFF is the perfect place to be exposed to the emerging talents of filmmakers and actors that will define the next generation, with Song joining Aftersun’s Charlotte Wells at the top of that list. This is the year’s best film to date with an instantly iconic ending that holds a packed theatre’s heart in its hands.

Anatomy of a Fall (Justine Triet) 2023:

Beginning with an abrasive soundtrack of 50 Cent’s P.I.M.P (not a joke), Justine Triet’s Palme d’Or-winning film Anatomy of a Fall (2023) is seeking to destabilise its audience. With a winding courtroom structure and almost comical documentary film style, we are shown an increasingly engaging excavation in truth and what it means to us.

The film is a fascinating investigation of marriage and family through the lens of a tense courtroom drama that lures you deeper and deeper into its world with a powerful pair of performances by Sandra Hüller and Milo Machado Graner as mother and son Sandra and Daniel. Sandra Voyter, a novelist, stands trial for the murder of her husband Samuel (Samuel Theis), who “fell” from the second floor of their reclusive vacation home in the Alps.

Over the extended 150-minute runtime, Triet explores the legal system, guilt, and a family living with trauma inside a distinct Cinéma vérité comic realism. Anatomy of a Fall is a film that teaches you how to watch it, forcing an audience to give themselves over to its style and storytelling. This may be too big an ask for some films, but through Hüller’s all-encompassing guile as the compelling figure of Sandra, alongside Graner’s stellar work as her son Daniel, the beating heart of the film, it achieves something special as the story reaches its tipping point.

Chevalier is a Uniquely Modest Period Drama

August 3, 2023Darcy Read

“Who the fuck is he?!” There are few better ways of introducing the bravado world of the European music scene in the 18th Century than a violin battle between Mozart and our protagonist. Bursting onto the scene as a young, brash upstart, Joseph Bologne (played wonderfully by the emerging star Kelvin Harrison Jr.) won’t take no for an answer, accruing skills and accolades like his life depends on it, which they perhaps do in this world of extreme prejudice.

Chevalier (2022) is a briskly paced period musical drama in the mould of a stripped-down Amadeus (1984), focusing on the untold story of Bologne, a famed composer, fencer, and violinist, named Chevalier de Saint-Georges right on the precipice of the French Revolution. Harrison Jr whips through courtrooms and ballrooms with an active charm he wields as tightly as his rapier, staving off potential suitors and snobbish aristocrats in equal measure.

Directed by veteran TV journeyman Stephen Williams, Chevalier is as modest as a period drama can feel. At a brisk 108 minutes (50 minutes shorter than Amadeus), the film structures itself on the familiar grounds of music biographical drama, with Bologne’s newest goal to conquer in becoming the head of the Paris Opera, set out as a competition by his friend Maria Antoinette (Lucy Boynton) against the courts preferred pick, German composer Christoph Gluck (Henry Lloyd-Hughes).

Kelvin Harrison Jr. and Joseph Prowen in *Chevalier*

Bologne’s confidence and deeply ingrained desire for victory propels the story into a familiar but compelling opera-based sports film, with the customary training montages, interwoven romance subplot with his lead singer and muse Marie-Josephine (the great Samara Weaving), and buildup to the final game. The middle act of the film centres on the romance between Joseph and Marie-Josephine, with a whirl of montage spinning us through their relationship as it intertwines with the writing of their opera. There are few surprises through these moments, but the chemistry between Harrison Jr. and Weaving is given room to flourish and charm in the limited time given.

Penned by the great Atlanta writer Stefani Robinson, Chevalier feels unique next to the staid and rigid period biopics that have become all too predictable and unengaging. By highlighting instead of shying away from Bologne’s personal history as a biracial Creole man born of an enslaved mother Nanon (Ronkẹ Adékoluẹjo) and her enslaver George Bologne (Jim High), Robinson has crafted a savvier story that deserved a larger budget to tell his full story. Joseph’s deep desire to defeat any who challenge him stems from his father’s demand for his son to be great at all things, believing that is the only way he will be allowed entry into this white world. This idea permeates Chevalier, as Joseph’s identity stems from this complex moment that is at once a slave owner telling a young boy to dominate those around him to get what he wants out of a world that is against him, and as a father wanting more for his son.

Joseph’s identity is the engine that maintains the course of this unevenly paced drama that easily could’ve stumbled into a cheap cradle to grave story. While uniquely modest for a period drama, Robinson adeptly avoids the many potential cliche landmines that litter historical features of this time.

Kelvin Harrison Jr. and Lucy Boynton in *Chevalier*

Where the film thrives is inside the relationship between Joseph and his mother Nanon, who comes to Paris a free woman after the death of George. Being taken from his mother and shipped off to a white boarding school, Joseph was forced to adapt to survive and thrive within the white world of European aristocracy and the musical landscape, never given the opportunity to learn of his culture and grow a relationship with his mother and that part of his life. Chevalier is at its best when we see this relationship, which is at first a tension point in Joseph’s life which he is eager to avoid, blossoms into a beautiful story of defiance and familial and communal bonds.

As Joseph learns to embrace his whole self , he wields the very defiant confidence and power he used to become accepted into the French aristocracy as Chevalier against them. With the undercurrent of unrest simmering under the surface throughout the film, we are led carefully through Joseph’s discovery of his place in these two worlds that are on the precipice of violence. As a man forced to survive through competition and determination inside the aristocracy that will not accept his place amongst them due to his race, Joseph Bologne is deserving of a place at the table of epic period dramas. In a more fleshed out and well funded telling of this tale, we would follow through into the French Revolution and Bologne’s impressive role in it. But for now, we will have to embrace Robinson and Williams for giving us this compelling and engaging, albeit brief encounter, with his story.

Chevalier is in theatres now.

Carmen Defies Expectation

July 15, 2023Darcy Read

A modern dance film to remember, with a more emotive story than expected, Carmen (2022) is an evocative and thrilling experience that has peaks as high as you’ll find this year. An adaptation in name alone, choreographer and first-time feature filmmaker Benjamin Millepied has crafted, alongside a terrific collection of talent in front of and behind the camera, a complete reimagining of the Carmen opera. The film is vibrant and alive, and while the script is slight and only gestures mildly at its location and setting as a Mexico-American border romance, it still moves with a rapturous passion.

At the heart of the story is Carmen, played with fierce precision by emerging star Melissa Barrera, escaping across the border after the murder of her mother Zilah (flamenco dancer Marina Tamayo with one of the best opening scenes of the year). On the other side, we have Paul Mescal, a recently returning war vet Aiden, who is withholding his PTSD from those around him. On top of this, due to the struggling financial situation of the area, Aiden is forced to volunteer as a border patrol officer (the only real work in town), which pulls him into the path of Carmen.

Paul Mescal and Melissa Barrera in *Carmen*.

It would be easy to reduce this film to a tragic love story between a Mexican immigrant and a border patrol officer, but that would discredit all of the work being done by screenwriters Lisa Loomer, Loïc Barrere, and Alexander Dinelaris to give these characters an agency and poignancy that surpasses these easy conventions.

What allows a dance-focused film to thrive as a theatrical experience is the incredible work of the great composer Nicolas Brittel. Brittell’s choral and string focused score is a work of magic, showing the extraordinary composer’s range while still driven by a focus on uplifting the emotion and narrative. Whether on Succession or his work with Barry Jenkins – his work on The Underground Railroad (2021) and If Beale Street Could Talk (2018) ought to be the stuff of legend – Britell’s compositions never overwhelm the narrative as they appear to come from the very core of the character’s beings. It is a shame a lot of his best work is on TV (Succession, The Underground Railroad, Andor), as it is a privilege to hear his work in a cinema.

Millepied and veteran cinematographer Jörg Widmer both understand the power of movement on screen, especially when shown in deep contrast by a solemn stillness. An emotive dance performance is often followed by an extended stationary shot centring an isolated performer in a chair or in isolation in some form. Wielding a combination of natural and neon lighting, Carmen operates well in both static frame and in movement, constantly fighting a balance between the two poles.

When the film is at its best, all of the film’s elements come together to make something magical. The dancers alongside Barrera, Mescal’s war-torn performance, Widmer’s camera, Millepied’s gorgeous choreography, and Brittell’s score brings the whole film to life, transcending certain moments into awe-inspiring sequences. While it is his first time behind the camera for a feature film, Millepied has a clear knowledge of how these different elements, when operated by some of the best in the industry, can overwhelm an audience.

Bob Fosse paved the way for undeniable dance choreographers leaving their mark on cinema with style and personality, and while Carmen is no Cabaret (1972) or All That Jazz (1979), Millepied has a clear understanding of the energy an expressive, well filmed dance number can give an audience.

The lowest point of the film is certainly the stretch in the final hour without any large dance sequence, a standard for dance-forward films of this ilk. Millepied is aware of this lull, however, with two eruptive dance moments in the club and an underground fight ring that holds nothing back. The fight scene in particular sneaks out of the shadows, building naturally in a thrilling way. Focusing the scene on hip-hop legend The D.O.C and his original song ‘Pelea’ heightens the moment and makes for a terrific finale. Collaborating with Brittel on the song brings to mind Pusha T’s incredible Succession theme remix with its mix of modern Hip Hop and the composer’s cinematic style.

There is power in an artist, uncertain if an opportunity like this will arise again, leaving it all on the floor. This is why the best debut albums are always so powerful. And while this is certainly the case here with Carmen, what makes it unique is how collaborator-focused Millepied’s film is. In a tour de force score from Brittell, a balletic work behind the camera from Widmer and Australian Steadicam operator Andrew ‘AJ’ Johnson, and a potent ensemble highlighted by Barrera and Mescal, Millepied has made an intoxicating debut to remember.

Carmen is in select theatres now.

Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part One Will Wow You

July 7, 2023Darcy Read

There has never been a more impossible task for the powerhouse creative team of Tom Cruise and Christopher McQuarrie than following up their genre-defining film Mission: Impossible – Fallout (2018), but they chose to accept it. With a more global reaching threat that feels more anchored to the moment in its AI focus, Dead Reckoning Part One (2023) has treated us to a weightier but immensely enjoyable film in the enduring franchise that is striving to operate as a final capstone like never before.

By tying the film onto Ethan’s past from the very beginning, Dead Reckoning Part One gives itself capital ‘I’ importance, a sensation unique to the McQuarrie era of mostly lightweight but masterfully crafted action romps. While the stunts are close in quality to Fallout – getting even close is an achievement itself – the focus on thematic and franchise storytelling far exceeds where the previous McQuarrie entries have gone before. The centring on AI technology that challenges the IMF in ways we haven’t seen before heightens the stakes into genuinely stressful sequences that have usually been left for the extreme stunt moments.

Now more about those stunts. Whether it’s dabbling in an extended car chase in Rome, an astonishing train sequence on the Orient Express (when you can, why pick any other train?), or a Venetian rave that feels equally John Wick 2 (2017) and Don’t Look Now (1973) inspired, Dead Reckoning’s staggering set-pieces leave few stones unturned. There are few cinematic experiences as overwhelming as a Mission: Impossible stunt sequence, with McQuarrie and Cruise becoming veterans in pacing out these moments to keep audiences on the hook for the runtime.

Hayley Atwell and Tom Cruise in *Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part* One

The introduction of Hayley Atwell as Grace, a pickpocket out of their depth is wonderful, countering the veteran spies that orbit around her throughout the film. While there is certainly a female character fridging issue that has plagued the MI series and is even more present in Dead Reckoning, it should be commended how each new woman that enters Hunt’s life operates on an entirely different wavelength. Other notable inclusions are Pom Klementieff as the flamboyant assassin Paris that works brilliantly as a silent action star, Esai Morales as the mysterious Gabriel, and the great Shea Whigham (with some tremendous hair) as G-man Jaspar Briggs sent to capture Hunt. They all add a unique flavour to the nearly three-hour runtime that knows when to add something new to the mixture.

Mission: Impossible films centre around their locations, an idea that was once a staple in the jet-setting action genre, but now feels fresh and invigorating in a climate of Atlanta studio lot set-pieces that leave an audience tired and unengaged, criticisms that can never be lobbed at this franchise. With wonderful sequences in Rome and Venice, Dead Reckoning never stays in one place for long but always uses its locations to its extremes, making it feel like the largest budgeted film in existence.

Adding onto the John Wick comparisons are the style and storytelling choices of Dead Reckoning that feel closer to the Keanu-helmed action epic, or even the most recent Bond film No Time to Die (2021), than the espionage trickery that defines this franchise. By opening Dead Reckoning with an extended prologue that sets up the stakes, we are given a rare glimpse into information that the IMF isn’t aware of. While this isn’t uncommon in action movies to establish the story this way, this alters how we as an audience view Hunt and his team throughout Part One, who are almost always a step ahead of us. Mask reveals and double crosses are part of the trade in the spy franchise, but in Dead Reckoning, McQuarrie and Cruise have doubled down on the world-spanning action epic elements that have defined their collaboration since Rogue Nation (2015).

With the strange re-emergence of bifurcated films in recent years (Dune, Spider-Verse, MI), larger stories are being told on the big screen, interesting creative decisions are being made in terms of where to split the narrative, a difficult decision that Dead Reckoning Part One has succeeded well above its peers in giving its eager audience the best of both. The magic trick McQuarrie and Cruise pull off here is in creating the sense that no cinematic idea is being held back, while still concluding satisfyingly with the knowledge that a part two will raise the stakes even higher.

Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part One is in theatres now.

David Lowery’s 7 films, ranked

July 3, 2023July 4, 2023Darcy Read

With the release of his new feature Peter Pan and Wendy (2023), now is as good a time as any to dive into and rank the films of a personal favourite auteur. One of the most interesting and compelling American filmmakers to emerge in the 2010s, David Lowery has crafted a diverse filmography that leaps from quiet indie, Disney reimaginings, and Arthurian epics, all while keeping his unique style intact.

With his signature wistful (key buzzword for Lowery) yet hopeful idealism seeping into his features, Lowery is an impressively economical filmmaker that respects his audience while also searching to give them an entertaining and unique viewing experience, making him one of my favourite modern American filmmakers.

Ranking films of this ilk certainly centres around personal aesthetic preferences, with a clear upward trajectory that makes Lowery a must-see director moving forward, but I have done my best to order them here.

Some of these films are difficult finds, but most can be found on several streaming services.

**7. St. Nick (2009)**

A quiet and simple debut that focuses on vibe over story, St. Nick centres around a pair of real-life siblings, Savanna (11) and Tucker Sears (8), who seek to survive on their own in the Texas wilderness.

All of the hallmarks of a Lowery feature are here: runaway plot, youthful wistfulness, and a focus on atmosphere to establish character. While not on the level of engagement as his films to follow, this is an interesting debut that establishes Lowery’s tendencies that have made him such a creative voice in American indie cinema.

**6. Peter Pan and Wendy (2023)**

Lowery’s newest feature unfortunately arrives near the bottom of this list, lacking the tactility and sense of space that allows Lowery’s previous work to thrive. Peter Pan and Wendy never felt grounded in London or Neverland. Where the beauty and style of Lowery’s live-action Disney film Pete’s Dragon (2016) is drawn from its Pacific Northwest location, this film is desperately searching for an identity, a criticism laid at the feet of most recent Disney features.

While certainly an improvement on the misguided Joe Wright film Pan (2015), this new adaptation is anchored to the original work, striving for recognition as the definitive version that is ultimately misguided. The only standout inclusion to the story is the compelling camaraderie between the three central female characters: Wendy, Tiger Lily, and Tinkerbell. The casting of Alyssa Wapanatâhk as Tiger Lily, who speaks Cree throughout the film feels in direct response to Wright’s film which cast frequent Lowery collaborator Rooney Mara in the role, as well as the cultural insensitivity that has been a constant in the character’s story up until now. Unfortunately, by not replacing the problematic sequences with anything of substance, Tiger Lily is sidelined completely in a second half that was sorely missing her involvement.

Lowery’s penchant for in-camera work, production design, and practical effects gets pushed to the limit of the Disney machine here. Where films further down this list require certain CGI moments for its story, Lowery always limited its use. That was not possible here. Whether through the many flying sequences, the muddy crocodile sequence (hastily edited to avoid scrutiny), or the dry emergence into Neverland that never sparks wonder, Peter Pan and Wendy too often loses its footing, limiting the audience’s ability to lean into the story.

**5. Ain’t Them Bodies Saints (2013)**

The film that put Lowery on the map, this out-of-time, Badlands (1973) and Bonnie and Clyde (1967) style indie drama has moments of immense quality that will be further nurtured and heightened in future projects. Working with Rooney Mara and Casey Affleck for the first of many collaborations, Saints is able to flow on a river of pained expressions that the pair have made careers out of.

The true star of this film, however, is cinematographer Bradford Young, three years before his Oscar-nominated work on Arrival (2016). Young’s work is full of expression both in his use of the strong Texan sun and harsh shadows the pair find themselves in.

Lowery feels driven to craft a 70s Texan atmospheric drama akin to Malick or Wenders, often getting in the way of the story itself. This is usually the case with young filmmakers unsure of their own voice, which will come in his later films that exude an easy confidence.

**4. Pete’s Dragon (2016)**

A warm and wistful reimagining of the 1977 animated musical of the same name, Lowery’s Pete’s Dragon is a much more successful Disney film by the auteur, demonstrating his ability to work within the machine. Set in the Pacific Northwest but shot in New Zealand, there is a strong sense of place in all of Lowery’s features, allowing an audience to settle into a world and atmosphere.

Lowery from his early work is shown to be a wonderful director of children, no doubt a major reason he has worked closely with Disney. Oakes Fegley gives a delightful child performance as Pete, full of both warmth and trepidation, allowing Pete’s Dragon to feel honest amongst extraordinary circumstances.

The film boasts an impressive ensemble that allows the film to ascend to heights few live-action Disney films have, including Robert Redford, Bryce Dallas Howard, Fegley, Karl Urban, Wes Bentley, and Isaiah Whitlock Jr. Redford, in particular, has a remarkably tender monologue that really elevates the film.

The film takes strong influential cues from The Never Ending Story (1984), both in its stylisation of Elliot the Dragon and in its thematic ties. The dark force Nothing in the 80s film series can be co-opted easily into the environmental parable at the heart of Pete’s Dragon. The sequence following Elliot’s capture is full of pure heartbreak, laying him out like a rich Redwood cut down for paper. This sequence’s sound design and score is hollowed out, echoing the turmoil and anti-environmentalist point of view that centres the film. When the discourse around real care is rarely given to movies for families (Eric Kohn even centred a discussion at IndieWire around Pete’s Dragon and the new Mario film), this is where the bar should be.

**3. The Old Man and The Gun (2018)**

Working once again with the legend, Robert Redford, The Old Man and The Gun is a slick and tightly structured 70s crime film centred on an older bank robber Forrest Tucker (Redford). Shot on Super 16mm, the film washes over you like a cool fog in Autumn, combining its filmed aesthetic with its editing and sonic style that makes it such a joy to watch. Lowery pairs this relaxed but taught cat-and-mouse film with a uniquely wistful editing style akin to Steven Soderbergh’s debut The Limey (1999).

Lowery has always been an economical storyteller, using composition and performance to tell a wider story in fleeting moments. The introduction of Casey Affleck’s detective John Hunt, shot externally through a smashed window of a bakery, with a weathered look telling you everything about where this character is mentally and how they view their work (on their 40th birthday to add).

The shift in sound for the final 30 minutes, once Forest and John meet in the diner bathroom is subtly affecting. Lowery has always had a respect for conscious sound design choices (the man adores an L cut) that allow his films to flow with the quiet calm of a gentle river.

**2. The Green Knight (2021)**

I wrote about this film on the site on release and it is still one of my favourite films of the 2020s. A murky, ethereal dream ballad of a film that demonstrates Lowery’s ability to expand his style onto bigger projects. His films are regularly grounded by terrific but always understated lead performances, and Dev Patel shows his range here as Sir Gawain. The knight is a character never sure of their footing as the ground feels to be constantly shifting beneath them through his own trepidation.

Feudal period films rarely feel as perceptive and relatable as this, while also making time for some truly majestic Arthurian imagery composed by returning collaborator Andrew Droz Palermo (A Ghost Story) as cinematographer.

Lowery has a clear inclination towards the myth-making side of storytelling – a likely reason he has operated well with Disney IP – that is fully maximised here. Similar to Robert Eggers with his three films, Lowery is able to manipulate his filmmaking sensibilities to different worlds, forming unique creations that are wholly consistent with themselves and with their wider filmography. Where Eggars is driven by a rigged accuracy to world-building and language that becomes a bedrock to tell engaging narratives, Lowery uses a combination of natural lighting, emotive sound design, and empathic screenwriting to form stories that are engagingly wistful, lightly melancholic, but always hopeful. The Green Knight is Lowery’s boldest execution of this to date. Need this to return in theatres.

**1. A Ghost Story (2017)**

A miracle of a micro-budget indie that stands up to any film released in the past 10 years. A failing relationship depicted as a haunting, how things left unsaid can feel like immovable weights when someone is gone, A Ghost Story packs a lot into its 92-minute runtime. The classic depiction of a ghost as someone who has left things unresolved is a potently sad concept when shown from their point of view. Untethered from time and space, a ghost has nothing but these unresolved emotions to anchor them to this world. While the more powerful emotion of the film comes from the relationship between M (Rooney Mara) and C (Casey Affleck), the second half focusing on C’s ghost is always engaging with ideas that will linger in the mind forever.

Much gets made of Lowery’s eye for compositions in his films but it’s his considered use of sound throughout his filmography that allows his work to shine, none more so than A Ghost Story. The gorgeous Badalamenti-inspired score by frequent collaborator Daniel Hart allows us into the world without ever pushing us through the door. Its combination of sombre and hopeful tones flows through Lowery’s filmography, allowing us to feel for both characters who are miles apart but physically close.

The two central set pieces, the pie scene and the headphones scene of I Get Overwhelmed are anchored by the full emotional range of Rooney Mara, a gift Lowery has complete faith in. She commands our full attention with barely a word, so when it comes time for us to depart, her absence is profoundly felt, by us and C.

The film’s one misstep in a largely perfect feature is the grandstanding monologue from Will Oldham (cast in Lowery’s short Pioneer), as it never felt necessary to use most of the dialogue in the script to explain its ideas. The film is such a Rorschach test of stillness and delivery that a level of dynamism from a performer was required in the film’s psychedelic time skip sequence, a moment that widens A Ghost Story’s themes past the grieving couple, but ultimately sours the experience.

The final 30 minutes are an extraordinary passage-of-time poem – something Lowery follows up within a wonderful panning shot in The Green Knight – shot with wisdom, humour, and contentment that leaves you with more hope than you’d expect to find in a film about grief and time.

This film had a profound impact on me on release, executing something much larger than the sum of its parts, with a tiny budget but a committed cast and crew to create the highest-level student film possible. With gorgeous still photography, considered use of score, and a powerful pair of performances operating almost silently, A Ghost Story is one of the best films of the decade that will outlive us all.