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.
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.
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.
Maika Monroe in Longlegs.
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.
Maika Monroe in Longlegs.
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.
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.
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.
Mads Mikkelsen in The Promised Land
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.
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.
Léa Seydoux and George Mackay in The Beast.
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.
Melbourne premiere screening provided by Universal Pictures
How does one follow up one of the greatest action films of all time? In George Miller’s case, he doubles down: double the car chases, double the explosions, double the chaos, double what’s happening in the mise-en-scene, and double the fun. But Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga should not be seen as an attempt to outdo Mad Max: Fury Road (2015), even though it speaks (sometimes explicitly) to the idea of making something epic and memorable, as though that wasn’t already achieved with the sequel.
Tonally, visually and sonically, Furiosa is on par with Fury Road which makes complete sense for the simple reason that it’s a prequel that’s there to compliment, and there’s not someone else in the director’s seat to screw it up. It’s clear that Miller went with a ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ mentality when approaching this film, and the result is all the better for it. The biggest deviation to be felt in Furiosa is that, while it lives in the universe of Mad Max, it isn’t about him. In fact, Fury Road wasn’t exactly about him either, with these two films carving out their own place as post-apocalyptic, operatic action epics with larger-than-life stakes beyond a bloke called Max. But nonetheless, Furiosa is the character we follow and the focal point that guides our understanding of where Fury Road begins and ends.
Taking place across five chapters, Furiosa opens with the titular character (played in youth by Alyla Browne) in the green haven she attempts to return to throughout Fury Road. After noticing bandits ravaging through the haven, she tries to sabotage their bikes and alert the rest of her people of their presence; unfortunately she’s captured in the process, leading her mother (Charlee Fraser) to give chase. Eventually, Furiosa is brought to the bandits leader, Dementus (Chris Hemsworth), who is looking for his own means of survival along with the rest of his pack of bikers.
Chris Hemsworth in Warner Bros. Pictures’ action adventure “FURIOSA: A MAD MAX SAGA,” a Warner Bros. Pictures release.
It’s from here that Miller reintroduces familiar aspects from Fury Road, namely Immortan Joe (Lachy Hulme) and his goofball sons; Immortan’s white army of War Boys; and the Citadel. The first hour or so of the film focuses on Furiosa’s navigation of this space after she finds herself a captive of sorts (for reasons I won’t spoil). Alyla Browne does a fantastic job at setting the foundations of Furiosa’s arc to the point where, when Anya Taylor-Joy eventually takes the reigns after an hour, it’s not immediately apparent because of how alike the two actresses are with their pronounced blue eyes and Miller’s focus on framing them in tight close-ups.
Once Taylor-Joy is at the helm, Miller throws her into a extended chase sequence with Praetorian Jack (Tom Burke in a minor, but effective role) onboard an oil tanker, the War Rig. It echoes the chase from Fury Road where Furiosa deviates from her oil run to Gastown, but here Miller is much more interested in stretching the tension out as much as possible, almost to breaking point. It really speaks to his penchant for destruction and his eye for detail, where every nook and cranny of the truck, gears and all, is on display and pushed to the limit.
It takes some time to buy into Taylor-Joy’s performance, namely because it feels like she trying too hard to fill Charlize Theron’s boots rather than carve out her own little space for this character. Theron’s commanding screen presence, particularly the way she carries herself, is ultimately too pronounced for Taylor-Joy — she even tries to mimic her cadence of speaking — and subtlety is more effective here (which Browne brings). But Taylor-Joy does offer a level of vulnerability through her enchanting eyes; in this sense it’s easy to see why Miller might have chosen her as the lead.
Tom Burke as Praetorian Jack and Anya Taylor-Joy as Furiosa in Warner Bros. Pictures’ action adventure “FURIOSA: A MAD MAX SAGA,” a Warner Bros. Pictures release.
Hemsworth, by contrast, steals every scene he’s in, even when he goes missing for some stretches of time. Where the Thor films misplaced his larrikin humour (often at the character’s expense), Miller gives him the freedom to lean into it in a way befitting a character with a name like Dementus. His brute physique coupled with his nasally way of speaking gives Dementus a memorable edge, especially with all of the quotable lines he’s given.
Adding to the grandiose and scale of what’s on display is the fact that the Wasteland’s harshness is felt to an equal (if not greater) degree than in the first film. The addition of locations hinted at in Fury Road, like the aforementioned Gastown and Bullettown, adds weight to the stakes at play. There isn’t just more for the sake of having more, but rather Miller deliberately leaves no stone unturned and paces his film like the War Rig barrelling down a stretch of road — there’s no room for respite, you just brace yourself and try to hold on for the ride.
For what it’s worth, it’s a gorgeous ride to be had, with the visuals once again being enveloped in this orange, grainy tinge. Where in Fury Road the colours felt less saturated, there’s a much more surreal, darker quality this time around.
This is ultimately a film about Furiosa though, and her story never feels like it’s compromised or diluted for the sake of brandishing all of the fun and games that audiences will expect. Miller is a master at knowing how to capture human plight and not let it be overshadowed by the scale of his pictures. The human element of his films and this portrayal for struggle is what intensifies every car flip, gun shot and extraordinary set-piece, which is why it’s even more commendable that in a film full of incredible moments, Furiosa never loses sight of Furiosa.
Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga opens nationally from the 23rd of May.
Of all the cultural exports to emerge from Australia, arguably none is more widely recognised or celebrated than the Mad Max film series. These post-apocalyptic, dystopian tales have inspired praise and enthusiastic fan-bases the world over, from Asia to the Americas, all enamoured by the franchise’s idiosyncratic characters, punk-like aesthetics, and high-octane action sequences.
This popularity is quite remarkable when one considers the franchise’s humble origins. The initial Mad Max (1979) was conceived by its director, George Miller — a qualified surgeon — as a means of highlighting the impacts of road trauma, with the hallmarks for which the series is most-widely known not being introduced until its sequel, two years later. And even then, it is never directly stated nor explained why, or how, Max’s world operates the way it does.
This mystique has led to several theories from cinephiles, some of which help explain discrepancies that have emerged in the franchise’s four-picture, five-decade history. With the latest film in the long-running saga, Furiosa set to reach our screens this week, we’re sharing three of our favourites. Spoilers follow!
Max is Dreaming
Max Rockatansky (Mel Gibson) as he appears in the final moments of the first Mad Max
This first theory postulates that our main protagonist, Max Rockatansky is imagining the events which occur in the second, third and fourth entries in the series, and stems from what transpires in the first picture. As a reminder: Max (Mel Gibson) loses his best mate, Jim “Goose” Rains (Steve Bisley), wife Jessie (Joanne Samuel) and infant son Sprog (Brendan Heath) to the violent hands of a rogue biker gang, led by The Toecutter (Hugh Keays-Byrne).
The argument here is that Max, having been distressed by the loss of those closest to him, becomes listless and descends into madness — hence the title — by entering a fantasy world of his own creation, one where he gets his revenge on Toecutter and his minions. From there, he visualises himself as a champion of the oppressed, committing vengeance against those who dare to stymie the peaceful will of others.
Applying the Caligari-esque mentality of it all being a dream may appear juvenile, but there are some elements which help provide credence to this belief. Note how, for instance, the respective plots of Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior (1981), Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome (1985) and Mad Max: Fury Road (2015) all have Max entering a cult as an outsider, becoming their leader in all but name, and defeating their oppressors in a climactic chase sequence.
The theory also explains the use of certain actors in more than one film. Bruce Spence is a prime example — he plays the Gyro-Captain in The Road Warrior, and then appears as an amateur pilot in Beyond Thunderdome, both times assisting Max and his allies as they escape tyranny. Then there’s Max Fairchild, who appears in supporting roles in the first and second instalments; and Toecutter himself, Hugh Keays-Byrne, who portrays Fury Road’s antagonistic Immortan Joe over three decades after his first casting as a villain.
Max is a Legend
Max (Mel Gibson, again) with The Ones Left Behind in Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome
By that, we mean he’s a mythical figure, akin to the Roman or Greek gods written about centuries ago. A couple of the examples used above could also be utilised as evidence for this second theory — the appearance of thespians as different characters in multiple films; the vaguely similar narratives of the three sequels — and more besides.
The Road Warrior is the entry which most readily identifies with Max Rockatansky being a myth. From the outset, it’s made clear the story is set in the future, with an elderly man (voiced by Harold Baigent) recounting the events of his past, who by story’s end reveals himself to be one of Max’s allies: the Feral Kid (Emil Minty).
More proof comes from the end of Beyond Thunderdome, where an adult Savannah Nix (Helen Buday) is seen recounting the tale of how she and her fellow tribespeople were rescued by Max. And then, there’s this quote which appears at the end of Fury Road:
“Where must we go… we who wander this Wasteland in search of our better selves?”
That line is attributed to “The First History Man”, and unknown and unwitnessed figure who, we can assume, is responsible for telling Max’s story.
Also indicative of this theory is the demise and unexplained return of Max’s iconic car, The Interceptor. This heavily-modified Ford XB Falcon Hardtop was stolen by Rockatansky in the third act of the original film, and destroyed in Mad Max 2, only to miraculously appear in the opening scenes of Fury Road (though in fairness, Miller circumvents this plot-hole by describing the latter picture as a “revisiting” of the franchise).
There’s More than One Max
Max (Tom Hardy) strapped to the front of a War Boy’s car in Mad Max: Fury Road
In the days and weeks following the release of Fury Road, there were certain netizens who hypothesised that this particular Max is, in fact, the aforementioned Feral Kid from Mad Max 2, owing to his long hair, the return of The Interceptor, him being played by a different actor, and the character reluctantly sharing his name.
Miller himself entertained this idea when queried by IGN, labelling it “interesting” but ultimately dismissing it, pointing to The Road Warrior’s end narration. Other factors that work against the premise include Tom Hardy being directly credited as “Max Rockatansky” in Fury Road’s opening, and his voice-over where he directly states:
“Once I was a cop, a Road Warrior searching for a righteous cause.”
But, tying into the theory that Max is a fable, it is possible that he is not the only “Max” in this universe. Again, The Interceptor helps provide weight to this theory — if this is the same Max we saw in Road Warrior and Thunderdome, how is it that “the last of the V8s” (as the car is labelled in the first and second chapters) is still in his possession after being lost?
There’s the matter of his name, too. Rockatansky only says his name twice in Fury Road — in the initial voice-over, and in the third act when he saves Furiosa’s life; he shares it about as often in Mad Max 2, and doesn’t utter it even once in Thunderdome, where he’s instead called “the Raggedy Man” or “the Man with No Name”. Perhaps our History Folk are telling of several figures who came to the aid of others, and just so happen to have named their hero “Max” in each tale.
Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga is screening in theatres nationwide from this Thursday, May 23rd. The other four Mad Max films are available via home-video, streaming and on-demand services.
The under-the-radar but always enjoyable sci-fi franchise, the Apes films has always impressed with its top-tier CGI department and Shakespearean approach to storytelling taken straight from the James Cameron school of action cinema. With this new entry, Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes (2024), the franchise has evolved and shifted towards a more intimate scope, without lacking its compelling and nuanced storytelling vision. This latest entry is less interested in the do-or-die existential struggle for primates and humanity survival as a whole and more interested in the young individuals (on both sides) finding their place in an ever-shifting world. The Apes films have never been more relatable than with our hero Noa (Owen Teague), a young prince to a quiet colony of apes whose avian-centric culture shuts off the outside world, focusing on the establishment of their slice of the brave new world.
With Matt Reeves moving on to darker pastures with The Batman (2022), Wes Ball, central filmmaker for the Divergent franchise, has taken the keys to this generation-spanning tale of legacy and evolution, merging into his familiar abode of adolescents staking a claim in an uncertain, dystopian future.
Kingdom begins with a coming-of-age trial, as Noa and his companions, Anaya (Travis Jeffery) and Soona (Lydia Peckham), attempt to climb an overgrown skyscraper (in one of many evocative world-building choices the creative team have made here), in pursuit of eagle eggs to take home. The sequence is thrilling and economical in its storytelling, as the trio swing from floor to floor, learning just enough about each character to satisfy a full film. A central tenet of this trial is to always leave an egg behind, allowing the eagle cycle to continue mostly uninterrupted. As we come to learn of other colonies throughout the film, the acceptance of the eagle clans’ place in the wider ecosystem is stark and increasingly emotional as we see Noa having to adapt and find his own place in the world.
Noa (Owen Teague) in Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes.
What allowed the trilogy of modern Apes films to maintain a strong dramatic narrative is the Caesar character, seen from birth to death, performed extraordinarily across the films by the great Andy Serkis, the king of motion capture filmmaking. Serkis gave Caesar a soul deeper than skin and fur humanity, and his absence is plainly felt here, even as technology has rapidly grown.
Kingdom sets itself apart from the previous Apes entries with its relationship with humans through its far-future setting. Noa and his companions stumble upon the mercurial Mae (Freya Allen), a seemingly feral scavenger of a human, isolated from ape kind and potentially one of only a few humans on the continent. The film thrives when Noa is forced into trusting either Mae or the film’s domineering antagonist: the cunning and powerful Proximus Caesar (Kevin Durand). Whether Promixus is a true successor to the previous film’s Caesar is only vaguely touched upon, with both potential answers to that question compelling. This question of legitimacy and Durand’s sly performance add a richer depth of storytelling to the film’s villain, solving an issue the previous trilogy of Apes films have suffered from.
The exploration of religion in this Simian civilisation is compelling and something that was taking its first steps in War of the Planet of the Apes (2017), with the word of Caesar holding an incalculable weight, leaving an enormous hole in their society after his passing. In this new film, Ball and screenwriter Josh Friedman explore these teachings of Caesar through both Raka (Peter Macon) and Proximus. While Raka seeks to use Caesar’s words to teach cohabitation and compassion across Simian and humankind, Proximus uses the recurring “ape together strong” franchise moniker to dominate other apes, folding them into his fascist empire.
(From left) Noa (Owen Teague), Mae (Freya Allen) and Raka (Peter Macon) in Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes.
Similar to the previous entry War, Kingdom is interested in whether this new emerging primate civilisation is inherently similar to humanity or has become similar through their knowledge of humanity’s past through the characters’ desire to survive and dominate all others. The second half shifts towards a fight for survival between Mae and Proximus to break into an American army vault, with Noa stuck in the middle, disagreeing with both. While altogether a satisfying climax, these moments feel closer to retreads of similar set pieces and ideas than anything fresh and exciting to allow Kingdom to stand on its own in this enduring franchise.
There are suggestions of a continuation of this story at its conclusion, comically implying the franchise’s intentions to leave no stone unturned towards arriving amongst the zany 70s entries in the Apes story. But, even with our modern addiction to Hollywood IP storytelling, Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes still manages to continue developing a vision for a more interesting and creative version of franchise cinema.
Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes is in theatres now.
From the opening moments of Tran Anh Hung’s sumptuous new film The Taste of Things (2023), we understand this is not your typical cinematic culinary experience. A glorious 38-minute sequence of its central characters, esteemed cook Eugénie (Juliette Binoche), gourmet chef and partner Dodin Bouffant (Benoît Magimel), as well as teenage assistants Violette (Galatéa Bellugi) and Pauline (Bonnie Chagneau-Ravoire), preparing a gastronomical adventure for a dinner party, is almost the antithesis of American kitchen dramas like The Bear and Boiling Point. The motions are smooth and articulate, and the pace is casual but never languid. Tran is keenly aware that an audience will be salivating over this high execution of French cuisine and intrigued by its characters, desiring to know more than just how to get their hands on a plate. The lack of score and dynamic sounds throughout this sequence and the film as a whole allows the quiet expression of the art of cooking and eating to dance across the screen.
Based on the popular French novel The Passionate Epicure (1920), written by Marcel Rouff, The Taste of Things operates closer to a prequel to the novel, expanding on and inhabiting this merging of equals between Eugénie and Dodin. Their relationship plays out in a slow simmer across the film, with Tran’s camera dancing calmly between their cooking and intimate dialogue scenes, while remaining an impressively clear eye for both situations as an opportunity to explore the characters. Binoche has always been an extraordinary screen presence and the film relishes in that from entrée to dessert.
Like a perfectly cooked meal at a dinner party, it is impossible to avoid becoming entranced in the moment-to-moment treasures of this charming film. From the opening frames, we are taught to embrace the pleasant ambience of crackling pork fat and the sizzling butter, allowing its narrative to surprise you like the pang of spice in a seemingly gentle soup. There is a simple plot of Dodin being invited to a prince’s palace that boasts one of the best chefs in the world (played by three-star chef and the film’s culinary consultant Pierre Gagnaire), whose response is to return serve with an invitation of his own, but Tran is only tepidly interested in this space. He is more keenly preoccupied with the relationship found between Eugénie and Dodin, a pair of incredible artists who want for life and to share their love of food and cooking with others.
Benoît Magimel and Juliette Binoche in The Taste of Things.
A gentle smile between Magimel and Binoche, during a gorgeously romantic dinner where Dodin cooks for Eugénie, simply melts your heart. The air of trepidation and expectation before someone eats the first bite of a meal you’ve sought to perfect is a difficult moment to reflect on screen and is perhaps the film’s greatest accomplishment. This powerful moment is achieved through the chemistry both behind and in front of the camera, from Binoche and Magimel, to cinematographer Jonathan Ricquebourgand director Tran Anh Hung, and importantly, culinary consultant Gagnaire who designed an extraordinary menu for the film.
The Taste of Things feels closely tied to Kelly Reichardt’s recent wonder Showing Up (2022), a gentle but honest depiction of the day-to-day craft of creativity and creation through the eyes of a sculptor. The camera weaves in and out of the patient crafting of stock and demi-glace alongside a spread of different meats, learning more and more about the characters in the kitchen as they prepare and cook. French cuisine is all about patience and simplicity, seeking bite-sized perfection from a large base, which is emulated in the filmmaking style on display.
Culinary and gastronomy nerds will savour the glancing mentions of famed chefs Carême and Escoffier, placing the film directly within the deep history of French cuisine and gastronomy. The Taste of Things could operate perfectly at any time, but there is an evocative nature to the period setting of the film, particularly inside the world of the kitchen.
Juliette Binoche and Benoît Magimel in The Taste of Things.
Much like Dodin’s decision to serve pot-au-feu (simple but delicious slow-cooked meat and veg) to the prince, the film’s narrative is simple and elegant with an undercurrent of complexity and nuance that heightens each scene, even when you know the destination. What allows us to connect with this simple narrative is Tran’s use of time, executed through a near-constant camera motion, weaved with some of the most seamless editing by Mario Barristel that you’ll see this year.
In its transcendent final sequence, the total emulsion comes together to leave you wholly satisfied. The combination of contrasting natural lighting, echoes of its rigorous but delicate opening sequence, and the compelling performances of Binoche and Magimel heightens the crescendo to a point of potency that arrives unexpectedly on the palate. The Taste of Things gives you just enough narrative and plot on your plate to satisfy, but it is this unique focus on naturalism and craft that is the aftertaste you are left with.
However, this is not a film of food porn extravagance, there is a compelling world of emotion and relationships steeped below. Like the perfect demi-glace, the most important component is time and patience. Give this film both and you’ll be richly rewarded.
Rating Frames 