Brooklyn is an unfathomably mawkish period drama centered on Irish immigrant Eilis Lacey’s (Saoirse Ronan) life anew in the titular New York City borough. She remains reasonably unburdened by everything until the handsome young Tony (Emory Cohen) – a suitably attractive Italian local – almost instantaneously sweeps her off her feet. Eilis continues to battle waning homesickness in the coming days until an unforeseeable tragedy brings her back to her native Ireland and a potential new suitor, forcing her to inevitably make a firm decision about an increasingly uncertain future.
Please believe me when I say that Brooklyn‘s tidy disposition borders on disgraceful. In giving credit where its due, Nick Hornby knows just how to pander to a particular audience to staggering success, as in the man sitting to my immediate left wept uncontrollably at several key latter act moments. The film’s entirely saccharine nature works to its advantage in this regard only, failing to captivate those like yours truly once any semblance of mid-century reality is taken into consideration.
I’m not trying to dog the film for being decidedly idealistic in its telling of Eilis’ story, yet for her to remain this completely unhindered by anything but seasickness in the midst of uprooting her life is hard to overlook. Barring the forced sympathy card that serves as Eilis’ return trip impetus, Brooklyn as a mere love story set against a timely situational backdrop is still glaringly rote. Girl meets boy and the two hit the ground running toward a very serious relationship, of which is rendered just strong enough to tug at your heartstrings when the two are separated.
It isn’t out-and-out unbearable as a lavishly rendered slice of young love in a particular time and place, but Brooklyn is only a cut above similarly stilted sap that streamlines itself to accentuate its elementary-level sentimentality. The desired result is one that’s partially shameful in intention even if the film’s earnest production values suggest otherwise, leaving me mostly disappointed in pondering what could’ve been should the narrative not have steeped itself so fervently in conventionality. Brooklyn is a steadfast tearjerker for sure, meaning it already has and will continue to find its intended audience as countless comparable efforts have proven time and again.
Having not seen Lucile Hadzihalilovic’s preceding Innocence, my implicitness in trusting her eagerly anticipated and long-gestating follow-up wasn’t misplaced, but the viewing experience was a polarizing one to say the least. Set in an alternately eerie and idyllic French coastal village, young Nicolas (Max Brebant) is startled to find what he identifies as a dead boy pinned to the ocean floor. When his mother shrugs off the incident, Nicolas becomes more and more inquisitive of the nature of his existence until he’s ushered to the local hospital with the rest of the local boys.
Evolution is probably one of the most literally nightmarish things I’ve laid eyes on. Evoking traditional body horror elements that mesh with alternately breathtaking and ceaselessly disturbing set pieces, the film’s deliberately languid pacing only serves to further unsettle as deafening silence punctuates the halls of the decrepit hospital as a centerpiece. Despite what precedes this change of setting being all but conventionally steeped in mysterious procedurality, Evolution‘s latter half is both bleak and hauntingly non-ethereal.
Hadzihalilovic’s aesthetic proclivities tend to overshadow what Evolution lacks in terms of accessibility and straightforward narrative. The decidedly singular proceedings fall into a predictable rhythm of atmospheric exploitation preceding moments of genuine discomfort, the latter of which often culminate in surgically-inclined crescendos that had quite the effect on yours truly. For as affecting as these moments are, the film has a hard time sustaining itself on account of how omnipresent its minimalistic sensibilities are throughout.
Evolution ranks high among more uniquely disturbing viewing experiences I’ve ever had. Hadzihalilovic’s combined use of atmosphere and imagery yields its intended effect, yet it can’t comfortably coast along on this merit alone on account of an oppressiveness of slow-burning repetition. It’s a hard sell for sure, but Evolution‘s particular merits work entirely in its favor as it rests comfortably among comparable body horror canon members.
Flaunting an undeniably dexterous single take conceit, Victoria follows the titular twentysomething on a fateful two-plus hour jaunt through the streets of her non-native Berlin. An initially innocuous run-in with an inebriated quartet of locals yields the debauchery you’d expect it to, that is until a phone call upends the festivities tenfold. What ensues is a dice roll of dire proportions when Victoria becomes an unknowing accessory to the scheme the lot of them are forced to execute.
The word “gimmick” can often come off as reductive based on context. As a solely technical accomplishment, Victoria‘s ability to breezily exploit its strongest attribute is impressive in and of itself. In fact, one needn’t see the film in order to buy into the buzz surrounding what’s ostensibly a rote heist thriller bolstered by tension in real time. Gimmicky or not, what transpires is still engaging albeit a victim of its own design in terms of a streamlined narrative best suited for the film’s inherent visceral integrity.
Beyond the obvious, Victoria doesn’t have much else going for it. The performances are fine but the narrative isn’t, opting to paint Victoria as a naive, weak-willed hyperbole of exactly the woman these guys needed to help them in a pinch. It’s not an entirely insulting caricature, yet grating enough given how genuinely stupid the lot of them are. In handling what could very easily become a matter of life and death at any moment, the choices they make belie the film’s more sophisticated trappings, even if they’re all drunk, high, reckless and in the throes of an adrenaline rush.
Victoria does a great job at masking its inadequacies with one-third of the tagline on its poster. The excellent execution of concept is unsurprisingly its crowning attribute, greatly overshadowing just how necessarily bare bones the proceedings are to ensure the utmost smoothness of presentation. It’s agreeably impressive and worth lauding as a fundamental cinematic achievement, but Victoria doesn’t stand tall as a pinnacle of contemporary excellence.
Mountains May Depart is Jia Zhangke’s insular tale of life and love spanning three consecutive time periods. Beginning with a focus on a love triangle between young Tao (Zhao Tao) and two potential male suitors – one a white collar coal miner, the other a wealthy investor – the film transitions to the present before coming to a close in the year 2025. As time goes by, these same individuals drift in and out of each others’ lives as organically evolving change becomes something of a centerpiece, for better and for worse.
For those familiar with A Touch of Sin, let it be known that his latest is a drastic departure in terms of subjectivity and tone. Mountains May Depart is a wholly accessible yarn steeped in basic human relationships and the ebb and flow of life itself. Shot in three different aspect ratios indicative of the time period in question, Jia’s decidedly slight illustration of each scenario exudes earnest sympathetic vibes that help transcend the banality of the various goings-on.
The nuanced advancement of the narrative from scene to scene feels a bit sluggish given the ordinary disposition of what transpires, however the sensitivity directed toward the film’s subjects is enough to procure and sustain our respective investment levels. With the first two-thirds being entirely enjoyable, viewers will undoubtedly have a hard time transitioning into a final third that features a hokey, English-speaking teenage Dollar and Sylvia Chang’s Mia: Dollar’s teacher and soon-to-be lover. Barring the quality of the central performance, investment rarely dwindles as Dollar’s existential uncertainty as a burgeoning adult rounds out the platter of life’s messiness that the film employs as its thematic through line.
It’s easy to pinpoint why Mountains May Depart‘s existence as an ostensibly run-of-the-mill character drama could earn a fair share of detractors. The success of Jia’s latest is immediately contingent upon our respective investment levels and, despite a palpable earnestness and uniqueness of presentation from segment to segment, what transpires consciously sidesteps melodrama to remain low key albeit effective. There’s little to read into, but to be honest, this slice of unfettered human interconnectivity through the times hit nearly all the right notes despite the predictably varying quality of its entirety.
Mustang is Deniz Gamze Ergüven’s debut feature about a Turkish sisterly quintet coming of age in an oppressively conservative household. The girls long for contemporary normalcy on a day-to-day basis, constantly rebelling to little avail as the consequences of their behavior grow more and more severe. Only time will tell if the sisters’ resilience will triumph in the face of adversity as the allure of the outside world grows stronger every day.
Barring obvious parallels to The Virgin Suicides, Mustang‘s primary appeal is contingent upon one’s inherent fascination with cultures not our own. The core sisters – having lost their parents years prior – are at the mercy of their wildly conservative relatives that have a hard time with leniency despite the changing of times. Predetermination and purity are the behavioral cornerstones to abide by and, rest assured, stepping the least bit out of line yields the most dire of consequences. In the girls’ case, an innocuous aquatic romp with male classmates after school garners an indefinite prison sentence set within the confines of their isolated mountainside estate.
The routine motions the girls go through on their road to maturation are elevated by the film’s appreciable personality. Although the repeated instances of situational rebellion are entirely familiar in scope, the script is imbued with a genuine concern for each character to varying degrees of engagement. While these girls are undeniably miserable as a result of their unending solitude, Mustang‘s narrative does well enough in avoiding all-encompassing gloom-and-doom consequence until it goes irrevocably off the rails in its latter moments, losing sight of its earlier, better former self as it staggers toward what’s an agreeably tidy conclusion.
Without nitpicking, I’m confident in saying that Mustang is a serviceable debut that undeniably exudes promise from Ergüven. It combats familiar subjectivity with a singularity of setting that feels personal and remains engaging despite its shortcomings. While I didn’t connect with the proceedings as much as others, the film’s incisive gaze into the lives of these sisters is one of note, even if a fumbled latter-act crescendo pales substantially in comparison to what precedes it.
Burrowed discreetly within a Shibuya, Tokyo back alley is a passage to the mythical world of Jutengai: a fantastical land of beasts on the cusp of a leadership change. With the lot of contenders narrowed down to level-headed crowd favorite Iozan and his stubborn, unrefined foil Kumatetsu, the latter must search for a worthy apprentice to train if he’s to sustain consideration. When young runaway Kyuta enters the picture by literally stumbling into this land not his own, Kumatetsu takes him under his wing and the two embark on a joint journey toward evolution of character amid dual world-spanning hardship and uncertainty.
Mamoru Hosoda earned deserved notoriety with 2006’s The Girl Who Leapt Through Time, of which kick-started a career devoid of diminishing returns that resulted in the forming of his own Studio Chizu in 2011. Having been touted as somewhat of a successor to Miyazaki, The Boy and the Beast suggests that such an unthinkable resemblance is indeed the real deal and far from hyperbole. Imbued with a balance between slight objectivity and weighty thematic heft, Hosoda’s vision remains unfailingly insightful as it charts Kumatetsu’s and Kyuta’s budding co-dependence.
The ensuing theme of a mutual learning experience is one that the film leans heavily on throughout its first half, going through the motions as Kyuta transitions from bumbling temperamental brat to something of a dynamo. Kumatetsu’s foreseeable fondness of Kyuta is touching as can be as Jutengai’s lovingly crafted geography meshes wonderfully with the rest of Hosoda’s singular vision. Other characters’ involvement levels vary in terms of quality, yet such this minor focal inadequacy is forgivable based on just how enjoyable the proceedings are.
Just when you think Hosoda’s lost all sight of Kyuta’s former life, The Boy and the Beast‘s latter half takes some time to flesh out the entirety of the only “What if?” scenario its initial setup and trajectory presents. A slight balance issue ensues given how heavily the proceedings lean on Kumatetsu and Kyuta’s establishment of their legacy within the confines of Jutengai, but the shift is handled deftly and manages to pack a considerable emotional wallop prior to the clash of two worlds that serves to usher in the film’s nigh-perfect conclusion.
The Boy and the Beast competently assumes the role of the non-Ghibli anime benchmark. It embodies a multifaceted melding of accessible tropes, considerable depth and artistic integrity to round itself out as an altogether singular and affecting effort despite the obviousness of its influences. Having only seen the aforementioned The Girl Who Leapt Through Time, I’m determined to watch the remainder of Hosoda’s burgeoning filmography to witness his steadfast evolution as both a Miyazaki parallel and purveyor of significant contributions to the animated genre.
Dheepan is Jacques Audiard’s latest that follows the titular Sri Lankan refugee from his war-torn homeland to a slummy housing project in a Parisian suburb. Forced to assume the guise of a familial unit with a mock wife and daughter, Dheepan’s role as caretaker is welcome as he works toward establishing a life of normalcy. When the complex neighboring his family’s is revealed to be harboring gang activity, Dheepan’s woes reach beyond his modest domicile into his nightmarish past and increasingly uncertain future.
Let it first be known that I appreciated Rust & Bone for what it was despite its obscenely overwrought tendencies. It was above all a tale of unlikely friendship blossoming in the face of tragedy, and all told, the film is a serviceable if tone-deaf mess. I’ve yet to see A Prophet, but Dheepan is ostensibly an objectively dissimilar extension of his previous work. The specificity of its run-of-the-mill refugee narrative is engaging enough as Dheepan and family arduously acclimate themselves to a foreign locale, but unavoidably hokey story beats – familial bonding especially – don’t do much to procure emotional investment. Dheepan, his wife and daughter are characters and serve their respective purposes within a setting along a timeline, yet none of what transpires is especially affecting due to a lack of overall dynamism.
Dheepan‘s insistence on tension building via subplots abound is needless, the most absurd of which involves Dheepan’s past coming back to haunt him in the form of a delusional and disturbed former general. What ensues is a means of inebriated, heavy-handed foreshadowing that culminates in a latter-act bloodbath so insane that everything preceding it is rendered an afterthought. Banality is further accentuated by a mere modicum of non-handheld camera techniques, the oft-seen “gritty realism” approach doing little to evoke the visceral response it intends to despite harshly-rendered living conditions.
It’s apparent that Audiard knows how to pander to his intended audience with Dheepan. While its central family’s struggle is certainly worth investing in, the basic fish-out-of-water drama spawned by circumstantial misfortune bogs everything down considerably. The script blatantly glad-hands a crazy confrontational climax given the story’s familiar and bleak disposition, peppering itself with enough requisite human moments to keep us invested. The full package is something noteworthy if glaringly emulative of other gritty realist efforts, Audiard’s own included.
Shakespeare adaptations over the years have been both plentiful and subject to singular artistic flourishes, to varying degrees of success. The most recent entry into this canon is Justin Kurzel’s brooding and visually sumptuous Macbeth. Kurzel renders the cautionary tragedy about the toxic allure of ambition and total power as something of a moodily streamlined marvel, omitting small semblances of burdensome exposition in favor of sheer atmosphere and an adherence to character-driven emotionality.
In light of the Shakespearean dialogue clashing with Scottish dialect, Adam Arkapaw’s cinematographic brilliance steals the show and refuses to let up. Macbeth‘s vibrant chameleonic color palette and corresponding sequences are shot through with uncanny aplomb and serve to fully transcend formally stifled norms. From the grandiosity of key battle sequences to subtler character moments, each frame is meticulously constructed and ensures that Kurzel’s film remains both evocative and indicative of the tragedy oozing from the subject matter’s every pore.
Kurzel’s vision as a whole is easily lauded thanks largely to the overarching aesthetic and unsurprisingly noteworthy performances, but technique and ability can only elevate the proceedings so far above how viewers feel about the source material. The focus on pivotal narrative shifts over rote, entirely reconstructive trappings places an emphasis on these strong suits, of which are more than enough to make Macbeth easy to digest for Shakespeare detractors and those worn out by just the notion of countless predecessors. An appropriately sustained grimness helps to expertly illustrate what the play conveys via text, and although I found myself a tad underwhelmed, you really only come across something this beautifully rendered once in a while.
Four disgraced priests and their nun overseer live isolated in a remote Chilean seaside town. They live out their days contentedly, seldom interacting with outsiders until the arrival of a mysterious and similarly troubled fifth tenant ushers in an unforeseeable travesty. When what transpires that attracts unwanted attention, an investigation is conducted by a fledgling member of the Catholic church to determine the fate of all involved.
In aggressively chastising its subject, The Club pairs unsubtle stigmatization with a purposeful aesthetic to achieve its desired effect. The film tackles the theme of muddled and misinterpreted faith with aplomb, of which is illustrated to varying degrees of depravity via enthralling intermittent one-on-ones with the priests’ unwavering interrogator. It’s within these delusional men’s ramblings that we’re offered insight into how genuinely depraved they are, no matter how mild-mannered the lot of them appear to be at first glance. The effect these frank exchanges yield is one of sustained discomfort for viewers, but the film is all the better for it in examining deep-seated albeit hyperbolic corruption within this geographical sect of the church.
The Club manages to deftly balance these instances with an overarching subplot involving the enigmatic instigator that started this entire mess. This wraparound chunk of uncertainty tacks suspense onto what’s already compelling, and although the score is a bit overwrought and accentuates melancholy over anything else, Larraín doesn’t refrain from keeping things light when a situation warrants it. This sense of humor drastically drops off as things grow increasingly dire, but there’s something to admire about sprinkling effective levity on a plate of hard to swallow subjectivity.
Larraín agreeably hits the nail on the head in tying the familiarly seedy underbelly of the Catholic Church to a narrative that’s neither nihilistic or entirely shunning. It aptly paints a portrait of what some may consider evil in a manner unlike anything else, combining technical merit with sharp-tongued exchanges that shed unsettling insight into the minds of the corrupt. Certain elements can’t help but feel manipulative on account of the extremes that emerge from characters’ respective pasts, yet The Club‘s overreliance on mood-altering aspects works mostly to its advantage.
Josh Mond’s beautifully wrought James White focuses on the titular, self-destructive protagonist as he struggles to care for his terminally ill mother following his estranged father’s death. Well-meaning but unable to get out of his own way, James coasts idly from one month to the next with the stable support of few and nothing to offer them in return. Only time will tell if James will compensate for his wide-reaching selfishness with an earnest effort to better himself, if only for his mother’s sake.
Tales of twentysomethings bogged down in a state of arrested development have always struck a chord with me, but not solely because I can relate to these types. Instead, characters like James have the opportunity to be complex, thought-provoking ones that transcend typically black-and-white tropes with the help of an incisive script. Whether James’ immaturity and rampant recklessness is a byproduct of a single-parent household or not, Mond’s nuanced illustration of this individual is both sentimental and unbiased in a way that avoids melodramatic missteps, even during familiarly staged depictions of substance-infused debauchery as a go-to coping mechanism.
Despite how some may feel about its basically engaging themes, James White‘s narrative cuts a bit deeper thanks to a deft, spatially-inclined sense of focus and corresponding intimacy. Beneath the one-two punch of a screw-up screwing up while earnestly tending to his dying mother, therein lies a ticking clock element that exacerbates the former’s incompetence tenfold. Although this yields as bleak an outlook as can be, Mond’s hand is never manipulative as this uncommonly strong bond is revered for its perseverance through hardship rather than lamented for the tragedy on display.
James White is hands-down a masterclass in focal intimacy and restraint among its contemporaries. Both James himself and the unwavering bond between him and his mother are as authentic as anything I’ve seen in recent memory, an impartial portrait of the title character serving to inform us that some things are easier said than done. It’s ultimately the least uplifting thing you’ll see, but James White is still shot through with enough hopefulness, sincerity and balance to avoid diving headlong into an ocean of cloying emotionality.