Reviews – Page 5 – Rating Frames

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice: Tim Burton Turns Back the Clock with a Nostalgic Sequel

September 4, 2024September 4, 2024Arnel Duracak

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice preview screening provided by Universal Pictures.

Whether you like him or not, mesh with his unique aesthetic or run the other way, Tim Burton occupies a space in modern cinema that he’s carved from consistency: in strangeness, in the casting of brilliant oddballs, and in retaining his trusted collaborators. It’s a big reason why Beetlejuice Beetlejuice (2024), his follow-up to the now classic Beetlejuice (1988), is such a breezy experience at the cinema, one that picks up effortlessly from where its predecessor left off, and feels just as fresh and alive as it did 36 years ago.

It’s all the better, in fact, with this sequel using the foundations established in the first film and elevating them to a level of zaniness and tomfoolery that only Burton is capable of. Beetlejuice Beetlejuice plays out like a celebration of its predecessor, one that’s well thought out and that doesn’t feel like it’s had to reinvent itself for a modern audience. That’s in stark contrast to Burton’s attempt at Dumbo (2019), a film that from the outside looked like it was marred by too much intervention and creative oversight by Disney to the point where it felt like two visions clashing, with the result being a pretty mess.

Burton’s return to his own fabled creation has the opposite effect, showing a director who’s at ease and in his element, as though he needed a reset by returning to something so beloved to find his groove again. The title sequence attests to this, with a sweeping overhead shot of the town of Winter River that’s almost identical to the one he utilised in the first film; it’s a familiar, nostalgic sight, with most of the film leaning on callbacks to the original to appeal to audiences both old and new.

(L-r) WINONA RYDER as Lydia and MICHAEL KEATON as Beetlejuice in Warner Bros. Pictures’ comedy, “BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE.”

From the overhead shot, we land on Winona Ryder’s Lydia Deetz who’s now hosting her own show on paranormal horrors as though this was an episode of Ghost Hunters. She’s still just as quirky as in the first film, but is also much more on edge as she’s clearly still haunted by her own encounter with Beetlejuice (Michael Keaton) many years ago. It could also be that her overly sleazy TV-producer boyfriend, Rory (Justin Theroux) is right up in her business trying to solve her problems the moment she gets a bit jittery; or even that her own daughter Astrid (Jenna Ortega) ignores her texts and doesn’t believe her ghost obsessions.

The truth is, it’s a mix of those things, but especially the former. Beetlejuice’s presence is still felt by the characters of the first film, including Delia (an ever so comical and hilariously bougie Catherine O’Hara), but he’ll play a key part in helping them deal with the film’s wider threats, including an old flame of his, Delores (aptly played by Monica Bellucci), who’s stapled herself back from the dead and wants revenge.

That’s not the least of the backstory that Burton traces through, with the first 25 or so minutes of the film introducing and reintroducing the film’s characters. Others include Wolf Jackson (Willem Dafoe), a dead-actor-turned-detective in the Afterlife who’s full of wits as he’s tasked with tracking down Delores, treating his job like a performance in the process. The standout of the newcomers is of course Ortega who, after her success with Burton’s hit Netflix show Wednesday, slots effortlessly into the director’s zanny world. Her chemistry with Ryder is a revelation, with their pairing singing the tune of the film and its theme around reconciliation and the bond between a mother and daughter.

(L-r) JENNA ORTEGA as Astrid and WINONA RYDER as Lydia in Warner Bros. Pictures’ comedy, “BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE.”

The Afterlife itself is just as teeming with (dead) life, and looks just as vibrant and charming as it did all those years ago. It’s a testament to production designer Mark Scruton’s eye for detail as he decorates this setting with even more personality and character through his whacky designs. In fact, all of Burton’s collaborators are on their A-game, especially his regulars; Danny Eflman’s score has an ethereal quality that is reminiscent of the heyday of this genre of film, while costume designer Colleen Atwood once again dresses the cast to impress, to the point where one’s eye is naturally drawn to all characters lurking in the background.

There’s rarely ever any wasted space in a Burton film which is something that all filmmakers working in tight runtimes should aspire to. Every frame feels well thought out, every gag is executed cleanly and every prop feels like it’s just where it needs to be. Keaton has more screen time this time around as well, but everyone gets a share of the spotlight. There’s even time for a Chucky-esque demon baby-Beetlejuice, a room full of awkward Bob-like, small-headed, big-bodied beings, and a ‘Soul Train’ that —befitting to its name— transports soul musicians (and has wider implications in the plot). It’s a film that feels like it was made for the 80s gothic B-movie scene, was somehow never shown the light of day, but was unearthed at the right time.

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice opens nationally from the 5th of September.

Bookworm Revives the Family Adventure Genre

August 29, 2024Darcy Read

Screener provided by Rialto.

A charming, off-kilter adventure story that stakes a claim as a story for all ages, Ant Timpson’s Bookworm (2024) offers a lot to an audience crying out for live-action family films made with care and respect. With a wry Kiwi humour that buoys the more rote storytelling choices to get to its uplifting finale, the film has the charm and enough evocative imagery to enthral both kids and parents.

After a tragic electrical accident leaves her mother Dotty (Nikki Si’ulepa) in a coma, 11-year-old Mildred’s (a spark plug Nell Fisher) world gets turned upside down as her estranged father, the washed-up illusionist Strawn Wise (Elijah Wood) returns from America to New Zealand to take care of her, whether she likes it or not. Eager to please a child he has avoided his whole life, Strawn agrees to go camping with Mildred, who is driven to dive into the forest to track down the fabled Canterbury Panther, a real New Zealand urban legend. Mildred is keen to capture proof of the fabled panther, which has a reward of $50,000 on its head, money we learn she and Dotty are desperate for.

The opening sequence, shot in a boxed aspect ratio, reflects the overprotectiveness Dotty had on Mildred, a cage she was desperate to prove herself larger than. As the unlikely pair emerge from the car into the glorious New Zealand landscape, the film expands into widescreen, a simple but effective nod towards the adventure we are about to embark on.

Mildred is not like other kids, a voracious book reader who is keen to show how mature and knowledgeable she is on all matters. Whereas Strawn is a down on his luck but an overconfident magician who only knows as much as he needs to to make a living in Vegas. The duo could not be more mismatched, creating friction that these two equally charming performers wield to delightful effect from beginning to end.

Elijah Wood and Nell Fisher in *Bookworm*.

The charm of seeing Elijah Wood back in the New Zealand mountains is never lost on this adventure story, and while Strawn is no Frodo, Fishers’ Mildred has all the heartful energy and tenacity of the legendary Hobbit. While the storytelling lacks cohesion, particularly in the back end that offers little thread between points, Timpson’s inventive and creative filmmaking carries us through the New Zealand countryside. While the gorgeous scenery certainly has no bad side for the camera, Timpson and cinematographer Daniel Katz’s charming use of camera setups gives us a fresh perspective on the space that easily could’ve fallen into being a tourism ad.

Surprisingly, the film arrives at the panther footage capturing sequence like it took a wrong turn. While the scene is charming and engaging, it leaves little room to continue on from, a decision it never recovers from, sputtering to invent a new take to continue on the story, with every plot exploration afterwards becoming increasingly bizarre. The off-kilter nature of the story and characters does assist the unbalancing impact of seemingly finishing our quest so early, but the film never arrives back on solid ground.

Ultimately, Timpson’s exploration into the dense, murky marshes of family entertainment is a unique trajectory for an indie filmmaker from our neck of the woods and should be celebrated. While not every piece falls into place, the chemistry between Fisher and Wood, on top of an enchanting visual palette, means Bookworm is creatively leagues ahead in a genre crying out for original voices.

Bookworm is in theatres now.

Blink Twice and you Might Miss the Thrills and Spills of Zoë Kravitz’s Debut Feature

August 21, 2024August 21, 2024Arnel Duracak

Blink Twice preview screening provided by Universal Pictures.

It’s 2024 and movie characters in thrillers are none the wiser, still choosing to vacation with strangers on secluded islands in the middle of nowhere. That idea has tickled the fancy of first time director Zoë Kravitz whose star studded feature Blink Twice, which she co-wrote with E.T. Feigenbaum, is ripe with dark humour, bubbling tension, and is gripping from start to finish.

As it turns out, Instagram doesn’t tell you about stranger danger, at least not to Frida (Naomi Ackie). She’s a barely-getting-by waitress who we meet as she’s scrolling through the social media app before finding herself enthralled by millionaire Slater King (Channing Tatum) in a strange apology video he’s issued. Whether for better or worse (which becomes clear as the pace picks up), she clumsily meets him while waitressing at a fundraising event with her friend Jess (Alia Shawkat), and when he asks her if she’d like to come to his private island, of course she says yes.

She’s not the only one who takes up his offer to ‘party it up’, as though this is one of Leonardo DiCaprio’s yacht getaways. King has decided to bring a whole group, one that’s comprised of celebrities like Sarah (Adria Arjona), his troupe of mates (Simon Rex, Haley Joel Osment, Levon Hawke, Liz Caribel, Trew Mullen, and Kyle MacLachlan), and a few other unsuspecting souls.

Channing Tatum stars as Slater King and Naomi Ackie as Frida in director Zoë Kravitz’s BLINK TWICE, an Amazon MGM Studios film.
Photo credit: Carlos Somonte
© 2024 Amazon Content Services LLC. All Rights Reserved.

The real fun and games commence on the island, which has a sprawling resort-like quality; frequently smiling, somewhat off-kilter staff; slithering snakes; and enough drugs to kill a herd of elephants. It’s hard to think one would ever want to leave when every day seems like a holiday, even if you don’t quite know what day it is and what happened yesterday —that’s all part of the deal, or so Frida tries to tell herself.

For what it’s worth, Ackie’s performance is solid, and when paired with Shawkat (and later, Arjona) she’s really able to lean into the constant state of flux that her character finds herself in. Coming off the back of his performance in Fly Me to the Moon (2024), Tatum is also able to hold his own, playing his rich, handsome but slightly-off/too-good-to-be-true character with a distant edge, proving that he can hold the weight of a tense scene with an equally tense gaze and charming quality.

Where similar debut thrillers like Don’t Worry Darling (2022) often have a promising start, they tend to struggle to bring plot points together in the final act and tailspin within their own twists and turns. In saying that, knowing that this is Kravitz’s debut feature is almost as wild as the film’s premise. Her direction is assured and distinct, and I was often reminded of Jordan Peele and his approach to his debut feature Get Out (2017), from which this film clearly takes inspiration from.

Kravitz’s style is especially evident in the groovy soundtrack and the frequently blunt, yet edgy, but altogether humorous, dialogue. Coupled with Kathryn J. Schubert’s snappy editing, which gives both a feeling of intoxication/trippiness as well as the flittering of time, the title Blink Twice reverberates deep into the film’s technical elements. It also helps that Kravitz is able to get all of her nuts and bolts into roughly 90-minutes where so many filmmakers today struggle to write compact scripts that don’t overstay their welcome. If Blink Twice is anything to go by, we’ll be talking about Zoë Kravitz a lot more in years to come.

Blink Twice opens nationally from the 22nd of August.

Alien: Romulus Strips the Franchise Back to its Core

August 16, 2024Darcy Read

Lean, grimy, and seemingly unkillable, Fede Álvarez’s instalment in the enduring Alien franchise, Alien: Romulus (2024) is for the fans crying out for the return of true horror in a world that has moved towards epic myth-making with the return of creator Ridley Scott in recent years. Álvarez focuses on a smaller story, wedged aggressively between Alien (1979) and Aliens (1986) to cater to the ever-hungry IP crowd, over the wider original stories of Prometheus (2012) and Alien: Covenant (2017) that many audiences dismissed despite its impressive scale and profound ideas on the totality of the human experiment, for better and for worse.

Our entry point into the instalment is Rain (emerging star Cailey Spaeny) and her out-of-date android helper, lovingly referred to as her brother Andy (Industry’s David Jonsson). Rain is an overworked colony worker desperate to get off-world and see the sun again, something impossible to do in their small hellhole of corporate dystopia. When some old acquaintances show up telling Rain and Andy of a plan to take over an eerily decommissioned ship out in space, one with enough fuel to get to a planet with more opportunity and the chance to be in the sun’s rays again, they jump at it. Chaos ensues, as is always the case with those eerily decommissioned ships floating in space, isn’t it?

Cailey Spaeny and David Jonsson are brought in to reinforce the sparse dramatic moments of a film almost solely focused on its sci-fi horror architecture. In Álvarez, the franchise has looked to a true horror filmmaker to re-establish its roots as a lean, tin-box-floating-in-space creature horror, and to that extent, the film easily clears the bar. However, the film’s limited scope does mean its final swing of a final act (which will not be spoiled here) does not land with the energy and propulsion of earlier, more effective horror set pieces.

Cinematographer Galo Olivares is driven to capture the natural eeriness of vacant space stations, with its distressing orange and red warning lights a stark contrast to the stale greys seemingly close to being subsumed by the encroaching blackness. Through its committed cinematography and sound design, Alien Romulus feels at times like a more direct sequel to Don’t Breathe (2016) — Fede Álvarez’s breakout hit — than its actual sequel. While some key dramatic moments are undercut by a simple inability to see in crucial corners of the frame, the atmosphere created by these choices is the impressive engine that powers the entire ship.

The Alien franchise is maybe the best for creatives to work within as it operates as a sandbox for compelling filmmakers to experiment with the genre, a place where Álvarez thrives. The Alien films have excelled in its close quarters suspense, but styled in unique ways that have made each instalment feel fresh and alive. With Álvarez, Romulus returns to a more strictly low-fi haunted house in space space-style horror film, weaponising the claustrophobia that made the original film an instant classic.

However, by tying itself in many ways to Alien, Romulus falls between a rock and a hard place separating itself as its own work. While the script is lean and efficient in getting to the action, we are given sparing amounts of meat on the bone which becomes an issue for many horror films. Spaeny and Jonsson are terrific young actors who can do a lot with a little, but here even their most triumphant moments come through direct Ripley echoes, leaving no room to stand on their own.

Fans of the deep lore of the long-spanning franchise will enjoy brief moments of service to the wider canon while never cratering its own narrative momentum, an issue more recent franchise stories have self-inflicted on their work. For fans of Roman history and mythology, the name Romulus can be used as its own entry point into the wider Alien mythos, as Prometheus (2012) did before it.

In a franchise that usually probes the depth of space to discover compelling ideas of humanity and our place within the wider universe, writing partners Álvarez and Rodo Sayagues instead delve into compelling depths of the inherent amorality of the mega-corporations that dictate the movements of humanity, and how AI is deeply entrenched in the amorality. These ideas are present throughout each Alien film, but with Romulus, they are highlighted and focused on as its primary directive. While not as emotionally enriching as the primal stories of motherhood and survival that were the heart of the Ripley story, Rain and Andy’s story is more than enough to compel us through this sci-fi horror, even if it won’t be enough to stand apart in the franchise.

Where the film attempts to stand apart, however, is in its wild swing of a final act, where Álvarez and Sayagues recall the much-maligned Alien Resurrection (1997) that will have audiences cheering and laughing in equal measure. Where the final of the strange 90s entry in the franchise leant of decades of emotional world-building of the Ripley character to a beguiling climatic choice, Romulus goes for a similar event but remains in the more core horror genre ideals that tie it closer to the original film. Álvarez’s horror roots were perfectly suited for this continuation of the original Alien, with its palpable tension rattling around a floating tin box in the vast emptiness of space.

Alien: Romulus is in theatres now.

MIFF 2024: Brief History of a Family is a Richly Suspenseful Family Drama

August 15, 2024August 21, 2024Darcy Read

Screener provided as part of MIFF 2024

The one-child policy of China casts a long shadow across Brief History of a Family (2024), a taut and beguiling debut feature from Jianjie Lin. After an incident at school sparks an unlikely connection, the shy and reserved teen Shuo (Sun Xilun) begins to spend more and more time at his more confident classmate Wei’s (Lin Muran) upper-middle-class house.

The first time Shuo enters Wei’s family home, he is immediately drawn to the large tree garden blooming out of the back window, his envy and wonder emanating off the well contained screen. In a mannered film like Brief History of a Family, where emotions and intentions are tightly contained, this moment shines brightly, working as a core grounding point the rest of the film is built upon.

As Shuo encroaches further and further into Wei’s family, the suspense and sinister undertones simmer at a low frequency, creating a palpable atmosphere that propels the story. The young boy quickly becomes the flower of affection for both of Wei’s parents, who are not given names in the film but are played wonderfully by Guo Keyu and Zu Feng. Their care and desire to help this teenager plays against the thriller style that Lin is seeping into every moment of the story, creating a wonderful contrast that makes for great tension.

Sun Xilun as Shuo in *Brief History of a Family*.

Lin’s camera and blocking choices are meticulously observed, wielded with a stern combination of remove and suspense that all the best modern thrillers embrace. However, when a filmmaker decides to withhold so much, an audience will begin to intensely scrutinise every morsel of information within a frame. The best thrillers can withstand this level of keen audience awareness, but most often the absence is felt.

With Shuo as the black hole at the centre of the frame, the film is barely able to support its own weight. The cinematography by Jiahao Zhang is deliberate and tense, accompanied appropriately by an abstract score by Toke Brorson Odin, which heightens the strong opening half of the film. However, all too often with indie thrillers that operate mostly on mood, style, and oppressive visual metaphors, the climax and resolution rarely reward the experience. The emotionality that Lin plays towards the conclusion of the film feels tepid and unrewarding, given the propulsive momentum and eerie suspense that takes up the majority of screen time. This is a delicate tightrope Lin is trying to execute in a debut feature, one that I’m sure will be more artfully handled in future projects.

That being said, Brief History of a Family’s conclusion does savvily leave you with more compelling ideas about the cost of oppressive government mandates like the one-child policy, and the impact it has on a family, from both the parents and the child. With a combination of strong performances and meticulous attention to suspenseful detail, Jianjie Lin’s debut feature will have you on the edge of your seat and questioning the next friend your kid brings home.

Brief History of a Family is playing at MIFF now.

MIFF 2024: Powerful Performances Amplify the Trauma of Memory

August 1, 2024August 1, 2024Arnel Duracak

Screener provided as part of MIFF 2024

With heavy handed issues such as dementia and rape, films always run the risk of oversimplification and misrepresentation in less-than capable hands. Michel Franco’s Memory (2023) tackles these issues with a sincerity and empathy that doesn’t demote or reduce them, but rather examines them from the perspective of two struggling souls.

It’s through Sylvia (Jessica Chastain), a recovered alcoholic who was raped when she was 12, and Saul (Peter Sarsgaard), a widower with onset dementia, that Franco’s examination unfolds. If the situations of the two aforementioned characters are anything to go by, Memory is the sort of film that could very easily tailspin into, and be written off as, a grim and depressing sob story that treads old ground that similar films have already excelled at (like 2020’s The Father); fortunately, it does not.

The film’s tone is set from the outset, with Sylvia attending an AA meeting with her daughter, immediately establishing the sort of emotional roller-coaster that awaits. Clearly in a better place in her life now, Sylvia’s past deliberately remains unclear for most of the film (at least until a wider reveal in the third act) to ensure that enough tension remains throughout the modest 99-minute runtime.

Franco frames her as uneasy and on-edge, as she pedantically locks her apartment door, sets her alarms and assumes a guarded position when in uncomfortable situations, something that she extends to her daughter in an instinctively maternal, but overprotective, way.

It’s not until an evening at a high-school reunion, that the direction of Memory becomes clear. Sylvia is followed home by a man who casually approached and sat next to her, going so far as to sleep outside of her apartment in a tyre with nothing but a rubbish bag as a blanket. Saul is his name, and Sylvia quickly finds out that he’s not well.

It’s from here that Franco takes the duo and their past and current problems, and uses them as a catalyst for exploring how peoples situations and serious problems can so easily be reduced by those closest to them, that these people ultimately gravitate towards other troubled souls to find solace and understanding. And that approach is felt mainly because Chastain and Sarsgaard deliver profoundly moving and complex performances. The duo capture the trauma and pain their characters are going through in a way that elevates what, on paper, could have been a very basic thematic exercise that comfortably ticks the sort of boxes you’d expect from a film about grief.

Sarsgaard is subtle as Saul, giving enough from his performance to capture a man who is on the brink of losing his sense of self, while never losing the warmth he brings that draws you in; in this way, I was reminded a lot of Robin Williams’ Oscar-winning performance in 1997’s Good Will Hunting. Chastain is just as compelling, playing off of Sarsgaard effortlessly, and giving greater depth to Sylvia the more the two are on the screen together, slowly opening up as she builds trust for him after being asked to be his caretaker by his brother. It’s hard to take your eyes off of them, and if there is something that will stick with you beyond the end credits, it’s definitely the choices they make in bringing these characters to life.

Bubbling beneath the surface of the film’s central duo is a dysfunctional family thread that, while relevant in understanding the circumstances of Sylvia’s situation, does almost pop up at a wobbly moment. That said, it speaks to the idea that there never really is a great time to confront your past, especially when it’s as harrowing as Sylvia’s — it just presents itself in a tacked-on kind of fashion (especially when the film is at its strongest when it’s solely with Sylvia and Saul).

While the relationship that develops between Sylvia and Saul might not sit comfortably with everyone (given Saul’s growing dementia and need for specialist care), Memory asks its audience to see beyond circumstance and try to empathise with two damaged human beings who understand each other more than their own families do — something that its non-ending ending, invites.

Memory will be screening as part of MIFF 2024 in August.

Longlegs is Your New Horror Obsession

July 18, 2024Darcy Read

Beginning with a burn-chilling opening sequence that operates on a high level of performance, composition, and editing in only a few short minutes, Oz Perkins’ Longlegs (2024) creates an all-encompassing feeling of dread and paranoia from which there is no escape. With a claustrophobic boxed aspect ratio wielded with true maliciousness, the opening frames are the shocking jolt of electric current that flows through the rest of the film, which operates in a thrilling liminal space that will keep you destabilised.

In blending serial killer procedurals with the existential dread of an unexplainable nightmare, Perkins’ internal genre mashup will surely frustrate and bewilder those on both sides of the horror spectrum. With its uncompromising vision and style, Longlegs opens up into a compelling exploration of familial abuse that will catch up to you in the days and weeks after in ways all too rare in modern horror. As a young FBI upstart, agent Lee Harker (Maika Monroe), put on the case of a serial killer who goes by (Nicolas Cage, weaponised to incredible effect), an unidentifiable killer of young families who has operated for decades. With her new partner Carter (the terrific and unheralded Blair Underwood), Lee must uncover and decrypt a series of seemingly occult clues, some seemingly linked to her life, to catch Longlegs before he targets another family.

For the crime procedural lovers, all the serial killer staple moments are here: suspenseful walks through suburbia, a tense microfiche scene in a library, and deep dives into the cult and religiosity, Longlegs has everything you could want from a modern-day homage to Silence of the Lambs (1991) inside the overused ‘elevated horror’ branding that infers hyper-considered compositions and atmosphere over ideas.

This has been Perkins’ issue in the past, with the son of legend Anthony Perkins and Berry Berenson putting image over story and script in his previous work, Gretel and Hansel (2020) and I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House (2016), but has broken through with easily his best script in Longlegs. The film is wider ranging and more compelling than recent entries in this new wave of American horror. Films that want to explore deep rooted causes of horror like child abuse and extreme religiosity but have no appetite to get into the true heart of this evil, something Perkins is keenly focused on conveying honestly and potently.

On the dread-inducing serial killer axis, Longlegs finds itself tightly drawn to David Fincher’s Seven (1995), with its internal focus on our central characters’ world and the encroaching evil building up around them. While his presence, and particularly his face is often obscured by the frame, Longlegs lingers in the psyche of its characters and the audience. Played with his customary intensity and ferociousness, Cage excels in limited time like Darth Vader’s limited but outsized presence in Star Wars (1977).

Lee is a fascinating character, played brilliantly — although is sure to be divisive, similar to how the performance of Justice Smith in I Saw the TV Glow (2024) has been judged — by modern horror stalwart Maika Monroe, who has as much anxiety meeting her partner’s daughter as encountering a horrific murder scene. The world weighs heavy on her mind, and Monroe gives her a level of dissociative tendencies that are incredibly difficult to portray on screen and in lesser hands would’ve derailed the film. This makes Longlegs‘ true beguiling mystery, and the beauty of the script comes from its ability to strip away Longlegs himself, leaving us compelled by the mystery of her story, the true engine of the film.

Longlegs as a film lingers in the corners of frames with the patient tension of a spider, as Perkins and cinematographer Andres Arochi revel in having an audience’s eyes dart from every inch of their considered and restrained frame that stretches out into eternity. Even in tense, quick-motion sequences, we cannot help but peer over the shoulder of Lee (which takes up two-thirds of the frame), expecting the worst in every moment.

Weaponising its extreme wide lens to a chilling effect, the film sucks Lee into the frame, increasing the opportunities for the menace and dread to creep in and linger. In modern horror, a tight perspective is often given to our protagonist, heightening the tension by playing with the fantasies of the audience of what lurks beyond the frame. In Longlegs, by extending the frame outwards, in both tense scenes and in standard dialogue moments, we are instead led to explore our fears head on, even as the film plays out in a more elegiac and liminal way.

With a work of mounting dread, the inevitable climax is unique but crucial to the final impact that can be felt days and weeks later. The greatest work of insidious evil and its unexplainable nature is Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s masterpiece Cure (1997), which operates in plain sight but questions what is capable within the banality of human life. With Longlegs, Perkins decides instead to spend the final moments explaining the hows and whys of the story, turning all the lights in a house we’ve been too scared to walk around at night, believing that the true lasting impact will be felt after these capital R revelations, not prior.

The closing 10 minutes are overwhelming, and the tensest you’ll feel in a theatre all year, but one can’t help but feel a more ambiguous ending with a tight grip of evil that propelled the entire experience would’ve lingered longer in the memory of its audience. This decision to enlighten that which was kept in the dark, while removing a juicy level of elusion to reward feverish rewatches, does allow the true meaning of the film in the case of Lee’s familial story and how Longlegs operates as an outsized metaphor within it. The fact this sharp decision can easily be argued on either side shows how evocative a story Perkins has been able to tell.

What we are left with is a deeply fascinating work of modern horror from an emerging artist, one that can work both inside and outside the trappings of where the genre finds itself in the 2020s. Flanked by a great ensemble of Monroe, Cage, Alicia Witt, and Underwood, with quality craftspeople across the production, Longlegs is a nightmare born into reality, with a level of tension that is overwhelming, adding to the top of what is shaping to be an excellent year in horror.

Longlegs is in theatres now.

Fly Me to the Moon: Scarlett Johansson and Channing Tatum Team Up for Space Race

July 10, 2024July 11, 2024Arnel Duracak

Fly Me to the Moon preview screening provided by Sony Pictures.

As far as films about space go, Fly Me to the Moon is about as far from the launchpad as they come —which is not to say there isn’t a takeoff. Set against the backdrop of the 60s, specifically around the Space Race, Greg Berlanti’s (director of 2018’s Love, Simon) film mixes romance with rockets, focusing on one of mankind’s greatest achievements in the man-finally-meets-moon Apollo 11 mission, while throwing Scarlett Johansson and Channing Tatum in the mix to see how they bounce off of one another. There’s a sincere, if not contrived aura about Fly Me to the Moon; in other words, it’s incredibly playful, sometimes to its own detriment.

Johansson plays con artist advertiser, Kelly Jones, whose successful career is noticed by the Nixon administration and one of their shady executives, Moe Berkus (Woody Harrelson). Moe commissions Kelly to sell the moon landing with her advertising chops. On the other side of the coin is Cole Davis (Tatum), a NASA employee and veteran who oversaw the tragic Apollo 1 mission. Their paths briefly cross in a flirtatious happenstance at a diner, one they thought was just a once off, before they realise they’ll be spending more time together.

Berlanti’s film is surprisingly clever, taking the conspiracy ideas behind the Apollo 11 mission and working them into an original script that satirises this notion playfully. But more than that, Fly Me to the Moon (though too long for its own good) makes good use of its two leads who effortlessly bicker and banter amongst all the turmoil around the launch. In particular, Johansson commands the screen, playing the part with the same zest and reverence for the time as in Asteroid City (2023), proving she could be warped back to the 1960s and fit right into the classic Hollywood setting.

Kelly Jones (Scarlett Johansson) and Cole Davis (Channing Tatum) in *Fly Me to the Moon*.

It’s almost bemusing that a film like this would cut past streaming and land on the big screen, not because it isn’t deserving of it, but because it seems like a hard sell —even with the Johansson/Tatum pairing. While the Apollo 11 mission was a big deal at the time, it’s easy to see audiences struggling to stay with it for 132 minutes. Characters like Lance (an unsurprising scene stealer in Jim Rash) and Moe inject energy when the pace starts to falter, giving moments like a sequence around building a fake Apollo 11 stage, a much needed boost.

While still a stud at 44, Tatum doesn’t completely bring the same flair as he does in the Magic Mike films or Logan Lucky (2017). His character is there to bear the weight of deceit from Kelly, but he often plays in Johansson’s shadow, even with their enjoyable jabs, serving more as a weight that levels her character out when she’s reaching for the stars faster than others.

Fly Me to the Moon does come at an interesting time though, where conspiracies and disinformation, truth and reality, are as distorted as ever. Though it doesn’t necessarily usher the audience to think a certain way, Berlanti’s film offers food for thought for those familiar with the controversy around the moon landing, and an interesting foot in the door for those that never paid it any mind. It doesn’t quite hit the landing it hopes for, but it’s not short on fuel.

Fly Me to the Moon opens nationally from the 11th of July.

The Promised Land is a Rare and Satisfying Danish Period Epic

June 22, 2024Darcy Read

Set in the glaringly inhospitable north of Denmark in the 18th century, The Promised Land (2023), is a period drama that could’ve easily slipped into historical mad-libs. But, through a nuanced script by director Nikolaj Arcel and Anders Thomas Jensen based on the 2020 novel by Ida Jesson, we are given an easily digestible and consistently compelling epic through a real focus on character interiority. Mads Mikkelsen, with a weathered face as sprawling and inscrutable as the sparse Danish countryside, captures our attention within every frame of the film that too easily could’ve faded into obscurity without his brilliant performance.

The heath, a term for the impenetrable countryside in northern Denmark is where we find ourselves. A land with murky jurisdiction between the Danish king and local landowners, recently retired army captain Ludwig Kahlen (the formidable Mads Mikkelsen) seeks to gain permission to farm this impossible land and in return, gain land ownership and an estate. A uniquely humble period drama, The Promised Land succeeds in the grounded, universal story of perseverance and cultivation that ties us to our global history.

This is an environment we don’t often see Mikkelsen in, as the lower-born striver amongst the bourgeoisie. He is in a more anxious state than the revered actor is used to, placing his weathered face amongst the terse and difficult countryside cultivating anything that will uproot him into a higher station.

Mads Mikkelsen and Gustav Lindh in *The Promised Land*

A film that reflects its brooding and unsettling environment in its subject matter and style, The Promised Land still finds new pockets of period cruelty in a tense scene at the local magistrate and estate owner Frederick’s (Simon Bennebjerg) ball, highlighted by the capture and horrible torture of a runaway alongside a children’s choir. Up until this point, Frederick is seen as petulant and weak, but in this moment the world Ludwig seeks to establish himself in is realised. Bennebjerg’s performance is a great counter to Mikkelsen’s resolve, matching his severe expressions with those of an adult toddler with too many toys at their disposal.

The Promised Land pairs closely with the modern masterpiece There Will be Blood (2007), albeit with a more classical Western approach to striving protagonists combating the established power structures. While not on the same artistic level as the Paul Thomas Anderson film (few new films are), The Promised Land thrives in its modesty, propelled by its strong ensemble cast highlighted by Mikkelson and Amanda Collin as Ann Barbara, an indentured farmer who fled the cruel Frederick’s reign.

But this is not just a film about farming and potato rustling. This is a rare modern period film that actually explores the role of faith, both in religion and in the monarchical institution that Ludwig wields as a symbol of righteousness amongst chaos. These are complicated, compelling ideas to show in a grounded way, and by focusing on the individual humanity on display over the broader concepts, you see both modern life and history at once, deepening the experience.

The revelation of Ludwig’s trump card in this land and farming war is the lowly and persistent potato is a charming one and well reflects the character’s stern resolve in his ambition, no matter the origin. The Danish winter is harsh with only the slightest glimmer of hope coming through the promise of spring that ties us physically and emotionally to this enduring farming tale of perseverance. The cinematography by Rasmus Videbæk is beautiful in its landscapes and use of natural lighting with a focus on fire while maintaining a groundedness that can too often be lost in these more natural environments.

The casting of Mikkelson is of course integral to the production of the film, but it does alter how the narrative unfolds. As one of the great unflappable performers working today, Mikkelson always appears entirely in control of his situation, with his desire to lift himself into a higher station an inevitability. His age also complicates the story, as the character of Ludwig on the page appears a more youthful character out of the army (there is a line in the opening scene informing us that Ludwig is recently retired that seeks to explain away his age) and eager to establish themselves with money and land, but at his more advanced age, the man Mikkelson portrays appears to be on his final attempt at making a life for himself. Whether intentional or not, this creates a weight of sadness and desperation that becomes the lifeblood of the film.

Through a well realised ensemble headlined by the great Mads Mikkelson, The Promised Land is an honest and compelling period drama set in a unique world that is still close to home. With its grounded farming story and classic Hollywood western narrative of a single, wandering force upsetting the local power structures, we are placed on familiar ground, allowing us to be swept up into this formidable drama.

The Promised Land is in select theatres now.

The Beast is an Unwieldy but Rewarding Art House Epic

May 30, 2024Darcy Read

With ideas of love, death, and a modernist interpretation of Buddhist reincarnation splayed out across 150 years, Bertrand Bonello’s wide ranging sci-fi romantic epic The Beast (2023) is a sprawling and fascinating film that somehow leaves you wanting more.

A film born of countless fascinating artistic and narrative choices, The Beast is stretched and pulled across multiple lifetimes and styles, from a modern-day LA, a 2044 future setting of all-consuming AI and monotony, and a love story set amongst the 1910 Paris flood. At the centre of it all is Gabrielle Monnier, played by the extraordinary Léa Seydoux. From an Age of Innocence (1993) inspired period drama centring on Gabrielle as a concert pianist, to a futurist worker being asked to wipe to purge her DNA of the memories and anxieties of her previous lives by AI overlords. Concluding finally with Gabrielle as a lonely LA actress trying to find her place in the world, The Beast is an unwieldy art house film that brings to mind the great films of David Lynch and Brian De Palma at its most kinetic, while struggling to leave a mark of its own in the space.

The film focuses on Gabrielle’s internalised fear and anxieties of an unknown catastrophe that she believes is just around the corner. This well understood anxiety that Gabrielle feels bleeds into her many lives, resulting in a profound loneliness and paralysis that impacts her on a near cellular level.

Léa Seydoux and George Mackay in *The Beast*.

While The Beast is centred on the many lives of Gabrielle and her compounding dread and anxiety across lifetimes, she is not alone in this experience. Passing through her life as a seemingly literal soulmate is Louis Lewanski (the surprisingly bilingual George Mackay) as a 20th Century bon vivant, a fellow future worker being asked to purge their DNA, and in an intriguingly jarring shift, a present-day incel with potentially violent ideations. The second half of the film weaponises this shift in temperament and character, moving from an ephemeral sense of peril and anxiety to something keenly modern and grounded that electrifies these once placid waters.

Where films like Mulholland Drive (2001) and Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind (2004) succeed in finding the intimate in the existential, Bonello’s film fluctuates wildly between the two emotional states, only rarely succeeding in finding this balance. The filmmaker clearly has a penchant for pretence which is occasionally buoyed by artistic risk-taking and playfulness, particularly in its modern setting, but the decision to spend an hour of semi-build-up to this place is confounding, making even the most alluring moments of the film felt at a befuddled remove.

But a 150-minute art film predominantly focused on Lea Seydoux’s wide expressions and emotions will never be an unengaging feature, even if there are valleys that under normal circumstances would derail the whole experience. Luckily, however, The Beast’s total commitment and unique narrative keeps one on the hook. Bonello has faith in his sharply drawn concepts on how an individual’s past impacts their future, shown through inventive filmmaking swings, which makes up for the loosely flowing structure of the screenplay, a faith that is justified more often than not.

Whether Gabrielle is unique in this feeling of past lives reverberating through her present is unknown to us, but we are given a strong sense that these other characters from the future setting have a similar sensation as they continue to inhabit these nostalgic clubs. Nostalgic events and content having purpose due to people’s past lives echoing forward into their future selves is a compelling notion situated tightly within this beast of a film.

A film both manic and mannered like The Beast, while inventive, ultimately arrives with a lack of kineticism to consistently work across its extended run time. The film will certainly improve across multiple viewings due to its mysterious narrative and entrancing chemistry between Seydoux and Mackay, with the depth of concepts and emotional stakes we crave from these sorts of wild cinematic swings.

The back end is brimming with a watered down but still palpable Lynchian dread and unease that breathes new life into the film. The closing sequences of the film wield a carnal heartbreak that will linger long in the mind of the audience. A profound feeling of past mistakes and inactions being placed at the doorstep of our future selves is the sort of existential dread found all too rarely in science fiction horror, a realm where The Beast emerges triumphant.

The Beast is in select theatres now.