If there’s one virtue of the Oscars, then it’s the spotlight on certain films. Blue Moon has been on my radar since its limited UK release in November, but it finally got my attention with its two nominations (Best Original Screenplay and Best Actor for Ethan Hawke). And I would be remiss if I did not mention the recent passing of Catherine O’Hara. Although I haven’t seen the entirety of Home Alone, her work in the Beetlejuice movies has been very formative for me. And she will be missed in the upcoming season of The Studio. In the first season, she proved what an indelible comic spirit she had, and I will miss her dearly. With that said, what’s your favourite Catherine O’Hara performance? Let me know in the comments below.
Review
Early into Blue Moon, a smug bartender, Eddie (Bobby Cannavale), says to celebrated lyricist, Lorenz Hart (Ethan Hawke), “Do you ever think your entire life is a play and that, you know, 99% of the people in it, they got no lines, you know? They’re just like extras.” Such is the nature of Blue Moon, a casual slice-of-life picture in which its central character slowly discovers his growing irrelevance. Primarily set at Sardi’s bar, the film depicts Hartz confronting the fallout from his former partner’s first hit, “Oklahoma!”
Whilst Richard Linklater did not write the movie, the script (courtesy of Robert Kaplow) does include elements of Linklater’s real-time style. This takes the form of a structure in which Hart interacts with the players at the bar and around the restaurant. As such, it’s akin to a Before movie in slow motion, where the focus is not on how the characters interact with the environment but on the people around them. At the same time, the Oscar-nominated screenplay has the biting dissection that graced early Kevin Smith and Quentin Tarantino movies, particularly in an early scene where Hart and Eddie discuss the ultimate meaning of Casablanca.
Ethan Hawke is captivating in a central performance that feels suitably showy for its nomination. However, within that largeness where Hawke commands the room, there’s a subtle sense of performance. Hart modulates himself according to the company he’s in, and Hawke portrays these shifting states with an ease that feels authentic and moving. But it’s in isolation that the actor shines, particularly in the closing scenes, when he realises he’s become the embodiment of the song ‘Blue Moon’.
Equally as striking is Margaret Qualley as Elizabeth, who represents Hart’s muse and love interest. In what could have been a throwaway part, Qualley brings a sense of groundedness and self-respect that goes a long way toward making us see beyond Hart’s rosy picture of her. And Andrew Scott impresses in a supporting role as Hart’s former colleague, Richard Rogers, whose facial expressions and gestures offer the audience the most nuanced portrait of the celebrated writer.
In terms of filmmaking, I really appreciate that Linklater avoids making the entire enterprise feel inherently stagey. He does this by being intimate with the camera, with close-ups being a fixture that show Hart in his element. These are contrasted with quite detailed medium shots in which he blurs the background of passers-by. This conveys the quality of Sardi as a living, breathing place, while also giving the audience a tantalising glimpse of what lies beyond the frame.
The filmmaking choice also reinforces the push and pull of whether the people Hart surrounds himself with are extras or if he’s slowly becoming an extra in the lives of people who were important to him. It’s a testament to Blue Moon that, in that quandary, it feels light and charming enough that the answer is a slow, dawning realisation for audiences, much like it is for Hart himself.
To quote Gurney Halleck from Dune (2021)- “I see you’ve found the mood.” My blog posts can be erratic at the worst of times: 3 posts in a week, then nothing for nearly 10 days. However, I don’t follow any set plan or release schedule. I just follow my bliss. In the spirit of that point, I wanted to discuss Megalopolis. I’ve seen it twice this week, and honestly, the film has lingered for me in surprising ways. One way is through its visuals, which range from artful to astoundingly cheap-looking. With that said, what’s your favourite shot from Francis Ford Coppola’s ambitious 2024 film? Let me know in the comments below.
One Great Shot
Much like a Russell Brand-styled political rant (circa 2014), Megalopolis is a rambling but well-intentioned effort from one of America’s most celebrated directors. The same goes for the movie’s various shots. I could have gone for the medium shot of a nefarious Shia LaBeouf doing what could only be described as a cocaine fuled, Dennis Hopper esque impression of Jack Nicholson’s Joker from 1989’s Batman. Or the various Art Deco-inspired shots of the New Rome skyline, where Adam Driver’s Cesar affirms his metaphysical prowess.
However, I wanted to go for something a little more abstract to discuss what I think the film is exploring in part. The shot in question is Cesar’s face reveal after he got shot in a fan encounter. The reveal of his glistening golden visage has a striking resemblance to the Phantom’s unmasking in various musical and movie incarnations. This feels particularly intentional, given Adam Driver’s physicality early in the film that resembles a child trying to strut about the stage (in a semi spooky fashion) as literature’s most famous Erik.
But it also points to something important the film is contending with. Cesar’s various flirtations with time are a metaphor for how an artist deals with death and grief. It’s as though all of a sudden, that hole in their life has given them the freedom and time to work on their art. However, if they attempt to paper over the cracks of that loss (via a misuse of drugs or hedonistic pursuit), then they lose that ability to create and be able to self-actualise. It’s no accident that Cesar gains back this ability in tandem with Julia’s (Nathalie Emmanuel) insistence and faith in him.
At the same time, there’s a reason for the almost dreamlike depiction of Cesar’s golden half face. You could read it as an awakening of the third eye, an almost godlike sense of self-awareness that the character now projects outwards as opposed to inwards. This is evident when he goes to Purgatory to visit his dead wife. Only he can see his late love in these similar colours, but Julia can’t see her at all. In the same vein, Wow Platinum (Aubrey Plaza) now sees Cesar in a heightened way, much as he still sees Sunny Hope.
In turn, this makes Platinum’s arc quite ironic. As someone who perhaps can see the world in heightened ways, she instead chooses to embrace the world as it is, which is the pursuit of power and wealth at any cost. And that may just be the character of New Rome, eat or be eaten, or in her case, worship or be worshipped. Or perhaps, I will have a different reading next Tuesday about the scene being truly about Megalon. Such is the nature of Megalopolis’s one great shot. It’s pretentious, playful, and perhaps full of meaning.
After a bit of a humble start to the year, it’s great to return with my first review of 2026. And I could not think of a better one to start with. The Bone Temple is one of my most anticipated movies of the year. Ever since the ending of Years, I’ve been curious about how the story continues and the direction (courtesy of Nia DaCosta). With that said, have you seen The Bone Temple? Let me know in the comments.
Review
Perhaps more than any sub-genre within horror, the zombie movie is the most distinctive because it can serve as a canvas for examining humanity. This is evident in The Bone Temple, the daring and bizarre fourth entry in the 28 Days franchise. Picking up directly after the events of 28 Years Later, The Bone Temple depicts Spike (Alfie Williams) being initiated into the Jimmy Gang, led by Jimmy Crystal (Jack O’Connell). Meanwhile, Dr Ian Kelson (Ralph Fiennes) continues to explore his dynamic with the alpha-infected Sampson (Chi Lewis-Parry), whom he’s convinced can be cured of his affliction.
In many ways, The Bone Temple is audacious. For one, it has a slow, languid quality that lets audiences linger in the scene a bit longer. This is particularly the case in the film’s first half, where we see Kelson’s routine and interactions with Sampson. Their dynamic has echoes of Bub and Frankenstein from Day of the Dead, as well as the head zombie from Land of the Dead. The result is an exploration of humanity in a seemingly inhuman creature that, on the surface, has lost its rationality and compassion.
This is contrasted with the inhumanity of Jimmy Crystal, whose brand of sadistic satanism is a response to a longstanding childhood trauma that casts his long-dead father as a figure whose will he carries out. Jack O’Connell is simply captivating as Crystal, whether delivering recitations or the moments where he looks out of his element. As brash as the character is, O’Connell’s subtle facial expressions, when he questions himself (in the tail end of the movie), stuck with me the most, resulting in one of the most fascinating portraits of evil that I’ve seen in a while. The ever dependable Ralph Fiennes adds a showiness to Kelson that has echoes of his performance in A Bigger Splash. And Erin Kellyman really impressed me with a performance that is equal parts resilient and sensitive.
In contrast to Danny Boyle’s direction of 28 Years Later, Nia DaCosta’s direction is less showy and more subtle. Much like her legacy sequel to Candyman, DaCosta’s best filmmaking moments are when she’s playing with framing. The highlight is a close-up shot of Kelson with a blurry glimpse of Crystal in the background, suggesting the doctor’s obliviousness to the satanic leader. But there’s also a visceral sense to some of DaCosta’s camera moves, whether it’s a documentary-esque use of spinning camera in the opening fight sequence or the use of precise panning to immerse the viewer in an infected chase sequence.
On balance, The Bone Temple has impressed me more on reflection than when I initially walked out of it. This was mostly down to a feeling of being deflated by the ending. With what happens, the prospect of a third film becomes less enticing because the newer elements that have fueled this trilogy are no longer with us. This is combined with a sense that Spike felt less challenged here than in Boyle’s picture. There were a few times when Alex Garland’s screenplay pulled its punches to preserve Spike’s virtuous nature. What remains is a film that moved me much less than Years, but is much more interesting to think about than to watch at times.
Two posts in one week? Sacrebleu, as the French would say. In all seriousness, I’ve been looking forward to doing a post on 28 Years Later’s one great shot. And the imminent release of its sequel, The Bone Temple, is a good excuse as any. What’s your favourite shot from 28 Years Later? Let me know in the comments below.
One Great Shot
There’s an abundance of great shots in 28 Years Later. A simple medium shot of houses has the beauty of the mundane as Isla (Jodie Comer) wakes up and thinks she’s not on a post-apocalyptic island. There’s also a mythic grandeur to the series of shots that depict Spike’s (Alfie Williams) and Jamie’s (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) hurried return to their island home. However, the above shot of Jimmy Crystal (Jack O’Connell) resonates with me the most.
Like the film itself, it alludes to something sinister within British culture, namely, Crystal’s visual resemblance to Jimmy Savile. The infamous children’s presenter would go down in history as one of the worst predators with a large history of abuse that was only discovered after he passed away. I think that the truth of Savile was not discovered in the 28 Days Later universe, but he still carries weight as the Jimmy cult seems to carry out violent atrocious (in his name), etc. Or perhaps, they grew up with the presenter and fashioned themselves after him because he’s a beacon for innocence in their eyes.
At the same time, the shot visually tells the audience that Jimmy Crystal is the grown-up boy that we saw at the beginning of the movie. With a particular focus on the upside-down cross, the shot alludes to a wellspring of religious meaning in this universe. One hopes that future instalments will mine the depths of this set-up because a perverse religion based on Jimmy Saville is too good an idea.
Happy New Year, everyone. I hope you all have a wonderful 2026. I honestly did not know what the first post of the year should be. However, 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple is coming out soon, so what better way to prep for it than bringing back the one great shot series of posts? It’s been a while since I’ve done them, and they’re an excellent way of revisiting a film. So, with that said, what’s your favourite shot from 28 Days Later? Let me know in the comments below.
One Great Shot
It’s amazing how much time can change the perception of a famous shot. Back in 2002, the above shot of Jim (Cillian Murphy) probably played as a statement piece. Zombie movies were rarely, if ever were set in the UK, and seeing one of London’s most famous landmarks (Big Ben) cements the sub-genre in our cinematic lexicon. However, in a post-COVID world, the shot takes on a starker and more haunting quality.
It’s no longer a novelty to see a Zombie film set in the UK. Instead, it’s a reminder of how life imitated art, as an empty London was precisely the state of affairs during the early stages of the first lockdown. In fact, the shot was like a short hand for what we were seeing on our television screens as a nation stayed indoors. At the same time, the shot has gained a newfound resonance in a post-pandemic world.
Jim’s occupation as a courier takes on a great significance because they was one of many essential workers who sacrificed their safety during the lockdown period. In this way, 28 Days Later is oddly prophetic in depicting what life would be like in a post-infection world. The humbleness of Jim’s occupation is also a great reminder of his simple beginnings and where he ends up, thus proving that any one of us can tap into our primal rage to save the ones we care about. It’s a vein that I hope is tapped into more in subsequent instalments of the 28 Years trilogy.
Compared to most other years, 2025 has been personally tough for me. For much of the time, I’ve felt like a boxer with their gloves up, responding to various events, whether self-inflicted or sheer dumb luck. But that has not diminished my love of cinema and what it has offered through the course of the year. Rather than just post pictures and quotes in a straightforward top ten list, I thought I’d discuss some of my favourite films of the year and the themes that have appealed to me.
The first and most pressing is the existential crisis that cinema has faced. Since its inception, the medium has faced challenges that were presumed to spell death, whether it’s the advent of sound or the ability to watch films at home (via physical media). However, between the pandemic, a sharp change in people’s viewing habits and the looming Netflix acquisition of Warner Bros, the cinematic experience has truly felt under threat.
In many instances, this has not felt true when attending certain movies this year. Revival screenings, such as Revenge of the Sith, felt like pre-pandemic cinematic experiences, when you never feared a movie would play to an empty crowd. My sold-out IMAX screening of Sinners somewhat restored my faith in the medium’s future. Given the nature of the film, it felt like a concert, with its musical sequences having the audience enraptured. On my first viewing, I read it as an interesting metaphor for cultural appropriation (through the lens of a vampire story). However, on subsequent viewings (aided by unique perspectives on the film), Sinners has really felt like a future classic to me, with its engaging mix of heartfelt drama and genre trappings that paint a remarkable portrait of what it is like to be an artist.
Despite being obviously high on Sinners, it’s not my favourite horror movie of the year. That honour goes to Weapons (along with my favourite film of the year). I’ve not felt that I was on the wavelength of a 2025 movie more than this sophomore effort from Zach Cregger. It really appealed to me because of its deft ability to be comedic and horrific. It also has themes that powerfully resonate, namely, in how we are all so caught up in our own torments that we can’t hope to engage with community tragedy. Instead, we only rage blindly and blame the wrong person because that’s all we can do. It’s also a film that’s yielded the most fascinating perspectives, given what it’s about. And like Sinners, it speaks to the power of the cinematic experience, as Cregger knows how to play with the audience through effective tension and humorous scenes.
Weapons and Sinners were actually good harbingers for a robust year for the horror genre. From 28 Years Later to The Monkey, the often-dismissed genre really came out to bat for the cinematic experience. The other horror picture that impressed me this year was Robert Eggers’ remake of Nosferatu. Herzog’s 1970s remake features in my top ten favourite films, so naturally, I was curious about Eggers’ interpretation. The result was an engrossing and much more dramatic version of the story that explored how a young woman’s sexuality is dismissed by men and society at large. It surprisingly moved me and made the best case for Eggers’ penchant for period authenticity. And like Weapons, it had a sublime dreamlike sequence that spoke to how the medium is still bursting with a creative, surreal spirit.
Horror also has an indelible presence in Rian Johnson’s latest Knives Out film- Wake Up Dead Man. There’s an ambitious flashback sequence that feels like a cross between Mario Bava’s and Dario Argento’s Italian sensibility (in terms of the use of colour and tone). The sequence depicts the breakdown of Jefferson Wicks’ (Josh Brolin) mother, Grace, who smashes up the church to look for her inheritance. Throughout the film, she’s labelled as the “harlot whore.” As much as the film is a microcosm for radicalisation in Trump’s America, Dead Man is equally about the killer coming to terms with Grace’s plight (a sort of wrestling with how the American conscience has contended with the MeToo movement). In this regard, it pairs well with Eggers’ Nosferatu remake because it’s about how Willem Dafoe’s character comes to understand and empathise with Lily Rose Depp’s Ellen.
Two other films that had surprising thematic ties were Avatar: Fire and Ash and Hedda. The former, insofar as Jake Sully’s (Sam Worthington) persistent appeal to Miles Quaritch (Stephen Lang) to gain a new perspective in his Avatar body. To paraphrase Jake- “You got new eyes, colonel, learn to open them.” In Nia Dacosta’s bold new interpretation of Henrik Ibsen’s famous play, Hedda (Tessa Thompson) is now a black, bisexual socialite who still harbours complicated feelings for her former flame, Eileen Lovborg (Nina Hoss). Like Jake, Lovborg equally appeals to Hedda to make something of her life other than continuing her persistent cycle of toying and torture of people. In today’s divided age, the empathetic reaching across from people whom we seemingly hold in contempt is as beautiful as it is stark.
Equally as striking was the earnest depiction of goodness in James Gunn’s Superman. On my first viewing of Superman, I was critical of the picture for its seemingly erratic nature. However, on subsequent viewings, I’ve found it to be a comforting and exciting new interpretation of the Man of Steel. Whilst Gunn’s irreverence is evident here, I never felt he was demeaning Superman; instead, he proudly displayed his humanity and ability to see the good in everyone. As he says to Lois in my favourite scene- “Maybe that’s the real punk rock.”
But as ever, no year is ever plain sailing for cinema and 2025 was no exception. If I were to bundle my assessment of the films that disappointed me, then it would come from directors I hold in high regard. By far, my least favourite film of the year is Ari Aster’s Eddington. It’s an indulgent, miscalculated and ultimately shallow experience. Aster’s exploration of how the pandemic changed us never fails to feel surface. I would give it credit if it were at least funny (from a satirical point of view), but it can barely be called a comedy. Instead, it sleepwalks from one social trend to another with a lazy shrug at what it’s saying. Beau is Afraid still remains Aster’s most divisive film, but for me, that effort had a clearer sense of what it was about. Eddington makes one point and keeps hitting it: the pandemic turns us all into human silos who fail to engage rationally with one another. I got that from moment one and still got it as credits rolled.
In the same vein, but not nearly as ruinous, was Paul Thomas Anderson’s One Battle After Another. Whilst there’s a lot about the film that I appreciate, it felt like a lesser effort from the great American director. This comes down to how shallow it is in addressing its politics and the struggle between motherhood and being a rebellious soul. As such, Battle felt like a film I could admire more then fully embrace.
The final movie I would put in the mixed-to-bad category is Thunderbolts.* Like Battle, it has some admirable parts. This mostly comes in the form of the third act, which depicts depression with a touching sense of empathy, and, like the best comics, uses it as fuel to power its storytelling. However, for much of the time, I found the typical MCU humour undercut moments of sincerity. Coupled with an abrupt ending that had the quality of winging it, and you have an average if not great MCU movie.
To tie everything together, this year’s Netflix movies have proven that there are still filmmakers who create work meant for the big screen. Guillermo del Toro’s resplendent Gothic imagery in Frankenstein was made for the cinema, often combining a sweeping and lush romantic quality that feels in keeping with the time period. And the set design of the central location in Wake Up Dead Man has a grandness that only a big screen can project. In my more pessimistic moments, I’ve thought about the next generation of filmmakers who are not beholden to the cinematic experience and instead have relied on TikTok and YouTube for their stories.
This year marked the release of two big films by big YouTubers. The first was Bring Her Back by Michael Philippou and Danny Philippou (of RackaRacka fame). Whilst I was mainly lukewarm on it, it was still an earnest and, at times, quite disturbing effort (although not as good as their first feature, Talk to Me). The second was Shelby Oaks by Chris Stuckmann. Oaks has had a compelling development. Initially, it was funded by backers on Kickstarter, picked up by Neon and eventually brought to the attention of Mike Flanagan. The film surprised me in its quality and subtext. It’s a film that comments on YouTube and its culture whilst depicting how tragedy can make us fall into the cycle of documenting our lives. Perhaps more than in his reviews, I felt Stuckmann’s love of cinema in every frame, and his fondness for Spielberg and Shyamalan, clearly on display.
It’s honestly great to see folks of my generation who grew up on YouTube and made it part of their identity be able to transition into making movies. It may be “Just a fool’s hope”, as Gandalf says, but it’s the one trend in 2025 that has made me hopeful about the future of cinematic storytelling.
Given the times that Tron has entered my life, I’m astonished that the franchise has been met with stony silence on the blog. Tron Legacy was my first midnight screening, and my first viewing of the original was a nostalgic time for me. Ares comes with a bit of mild curiosity, if not a slightly raised eyebrow. So, with that said, have you seen the latest Tron movie? Let me know in the comments below.
Brief Consideration
The Tron franchise is unique in that it’s been like a slow-evolving Pokémon that’s shed much of its identity, with each entry effectively a reboot (with loose connective tissue). This was not much of a problem for the 2011 film Tron Legacy, which made the series soar to subtextual heaven with its musings about creation and the legacy of its digital world. For my money, it’s near the top of the legacy sequels pile because it was never concerned with replication but rather innovation of its universe and aesthetic.
Tron Ares feels like it’s gone back to basics. For a franchise that’s had video games in its bones, it’s surprising that the 2025 film has chosen to embrace the medium entirely. The titular Ares (Jared Leto) refers to a program poised to be the soldier of the future, one that never tires and is easily replaceable. The catch of his creation is that he only lasts 30 minutes before he disintegrates. With this in mind, the movie depicts the search and hunt for the Permeance code, which will resolve this problem. The central figures chasing this MacGuffin are the CEO of Dillinger Systems, Julian (Evan Peters), and Eve Kim (Greta Lee), the current CEO of ENCOM.
In spirit, Ares does feel like its prior entries, insofar as it depicts corporate espionage. In fact, the film’s best sequence is a hacking of ENCOM that results in a grid-based face-off between Ares and ENCOM’s various security goons. The difference is in the emphasis. In the past, sequences like this would say things about the character, whether it’s Sam Flynn’s relationship with his birthright (ENCOM) or Ed Dillinger’s (David Warner) greed.
Unfortunately, for most of its running time, Ares exists at this level of simplicity, where its setup is clear but leaves little impact. And this is why it feels like an old-school video game: it has a threadbare narrative and character motivation that serve its plot, aka the acquisition of the Permeance code.
The actors do their best to elevate the material. Greta Lee, in particular, gives her part some emotional truth and a sense of determinism, even if the screenplay lets her down with a one-note purpose and motivation. Jared Leto injects the central character with a wry detachment that occasionally amuses. But it becomes problematic in his scenes with Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges). Their scenes reinforce how much Bridges has been a boon for the series, effortlessly walking the tight-rope between enlightened and casual that immediately feels disarming. Unfortunately, Leto does not have that same quality,
And despite some commendable filmmaking (medium shots of Light Cycles are the stuff of IMAX wonder) and the sublime industrial highs of Nine Inch Niles’ soundtrack, Ares feels like an unfortunate climbdown, even when it was pleasing me with its base thrills. After Legacy, I simply expected and wanted more.
Hello everyone. Rather than start with a quippy quote or a reason for my recent prolonged absence, I will instead share a little tidbit about my process. Typically, for movies that really resonate with me, I don’t write about them (for a while, if at all). This is because I like living with them and seeing how they change for me over time. Wicked has been one of those films for me (warts and all), bringing me comfort during some of my more tougher times in the last year or so. For this reason and because I initially missed it at the cinema, I decided to go to a double bill last night. The experience was interesting to say the least. Are you seeing Wicked: For Good this weekend? Let me know in the comments below.
Review
Wicked had its heart in the right place. It had a gooey emotional centre (courtesy of its two main leads) that combined with some quite potent subtext made the film a commendable prestige-esque musical. From a technical and filmmaking perspective, Wicked: For Good is better than its predecessor, even if it never fails to feel safe.
The sequel picks up five years after the original. It depicts Glinda (Ariana Grande) and Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) further entrenching themselves in their respective roles as the Good Witch and the Wicked Witch of the West.
Wicked’s greatest weakness lay in its technical aspects. For one, its muted colour palette, combined with a digital sheen aesthetic, undermined its power as a musical. The timid filmmaking and staging of certain songs did not help either. For the most part, For Good fixes this issue with a brighter sheen and much more interesting sequences. The opening is a Hitchcockian-inspired sequence as the audience waits with baited breath as some animals free themselves from building the yellow brick road.
Jon M. Chu also flirts with horror, as some of the sequences have a classical sense of the genre, such as a scene in the third act that plays with wide-angle shots to depict an ironic twist on the Frankenstein story. But above all, I really appreciated how Chu was bolder with the camera; many scenes have more breathing room, with much more detail, as they’re not confined to close-ups and instead let the characters feel more lived-in in their space. Myron Kerstein’s slick editing also helps, with a persistent sense of propulsion and ambitious cross-cutting.
Subtextually, Wicked was about how social discord is managed through scapegoating an innocent group whose voices and presence are literally silenced. At the same time, there was a sense that the film was about activism, when it was performative and when it was genuine. For Good is about complicity in this system and how the two main characters perpetuate it by playing into their public personas. There was something tragically ironic and powerful about how Elphaba’s attempts at magic cause ruin and harm, which makes her journey from animal advocate to privately acknowledging her public moniker all the more potent.
Cynthia Erivo effortlessly conveys this transformation, particularly in the song “No Good Deed,” which is as much a statement piece as a Disney-esque villain song. For the most part, Elphaba’s storyline works. I also appreciated the layers that Jeff Goldblum adds to the Wizard. His performance does not feel phone-in, but rather good, insofar as it conveys a weight of shame and subtle showmanship.
On paper, Glinda has the more interesting storyline. She’s a figurehead who has no real sense of magic, but eventually discovers that her true power is being good, thereby turning her performative morality in the first film into reality. However, in execution, it appears quite muddled. This is mostly due to the character feeling very passive. It always feels like stuff just happens to Glinda, whereas Elphaba faces the consequences of her choices. There’s a bit of flirting with Glinda being the true main character of the story, but this is undermined by a contrived ending, along with a few other narrative elements that don’t feel as bold as they should have.
This is a shame, as Ariane Grande has been the MVP of the musical duology, often combining sublime comic timing with subtle flickers of emotion that break the pristine image Glinda has of herself. This is apparent in the new song, “The Girl in the Bubble”, which subverts and adds to Glinda looking at herself in the mirror. Despite great moments like this, there’s a sense that the material lets down the character.
This may be the most challenging preamble I have to write. It’s not due to a sense of writer’s block, but rather because it may compromise my ethos for this blog. I’ve never taken myself seriously because I’m just another schmo with enough gumption to hit send after a review has been written. The same could be said about my personal life, where I don’t broadcast my problems, but rather deal with them in my own way. As such, after a protracted absence, I try to deal with it with some jokey movie quote and a half-baked theatre stage metaphor.
But that’s not the case this time. Without going into it too much, my motivation has sunk to an all-time low. Part of this has come from falling ill recently and it lingering a little longer than necessary. But even my usual joy of the Halloween season has been absent. But hopefully that’s at an end now, and I’m glad to be back.
One Battle After Another came out during a self-imposed isolation, and despite the heavy hitters of horror cinema also being released at the same time, it’s the one film I most wanted to see. So, with that in mind, have you seen Paul Thomas Anderson’s latest? Let me know in the comments below.
Review
Early into One Battle After Another, a cocksure Perfidia (Teyana Taylor) states, “Make it good. Make it bright. Impress Me.” The line is tacit in conveying the weight of a new Paul Thomas Anderson film. For the most part, Anderson’s latest is a rollicking and often quite hilarious experience, but it lacks the depth of his other films. Partly based on Thomas Pynchon’s Vineland, One Battle After Another is about a former revolutionary, Bob (Leonardo DiCaprio), who must protect his daughter, Willa (Chase Infiniti), from a determined Colonel- Lockjaw (Sean Penn).
Whilst Anderson’s adaptation of Pynchon’s Inherent Vice primarily engaged as an experiential piece of cinema that plays like a mosaic of an era, One Battle feels much more in line with the director’s previous films. For one, Anderson has had a knack for portraying the strife between parents and children through quite an interesting lens (such as capitalism in There Will Be Blood and cycles of abuse in Magnolia).
There’s an emotional truth to this aspect in Battle, particularly in a touching coda that feels the closest to the confessional quality that permeated Magnolia. And conceptually, some fascinating dynamics are signposted but never explored, such as Perfidia’s revolutionary streak clashing with her duties as a mother.
But One Battle’s true Achilles heel comes from the handling of Lockjaw. Even when Anderson draws his antagonists in heightened ways, such as Philip Seymour Hoffman’s abrasive Dean Trumbull in Punch-Drunk Love, there’s a trace of humanity in them. The same could not be said for the Colonel. He’s cartoony on the page, and Sean Penn’s performance does not help matters either, playing him with the twitchy energy of an alien’s first day in human skin. This is a shame, as there are seeds of his revulsion and attraction to something he hates; however, this aspect had more finesse in the portrayal of Frollo from Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
What remains is a propulsive and energetic verve that strangely works with Anderson’s filmmaking sensibilities. The use of large open spaces and patient cutting, which has become a staple of his modern work, is given a vivid and classical sense with the use of VistaVision. It particularly lends his third act a beauty and tension, as long shots of the desert landscape result in a protracted Hitchcockian-inspired car chase. This quality is also present in Jonny Greenwood’s score, which is a blend of tension-rising piano music and discordant xylophone use.
In this way, One Battle almost always exists in the planning and motion. Methodical and buttoned-up meetings, contrasted with the franticness of the best-laid plans going awry, are where the film gets its comedic mileage. This is also helped by Leonardo DiCaprio and Benicio Del Toro’s double act that plays like an earnest replay of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. DiCaprio’s signature anger and comic timing are also used to significant effect, threatening to almost shake the film up, even when the camera remains static. Chase Infiniti also casts a great impression with a performance that’s equal parts determined and vulnerable.
However, despite my goodwill towards these aspects of the film, One Battle After Another feels more concerned with the quirky pitstops of the journey than with its meaning. Much like Ari Aster’s recent picture, Eddington, its themes and politicking are surface-level and could have benefited from more refinement.
For fear of sounding repetitive, I was almost going to do a variant on the last preamble due to how it took a little longer than usual to gather my thoughts on Weapons. And for reasons that still seem out of reach, I’m still searching for why. But that’s foolhardy speculation. Have you had a chance to see Zach Cregger’s Weapons this weekend? Let me know in the comments below.
Brief Consideration
In an era where horror movies seem to be at near bursting point in terms of new releases, Zach Cregger’s Barbarian stood out. This was due to how it felt like a feature-length expansion of the Parlour scene from Psycho, in which both characters were acutely aware of the inherent distrust and danger from their inconvenient living arrangement. Cregger’s follow-up, Weapons, which depicts a community grappling with the sudden disappearance of 17 school children, is a much more ambitious and sly effort.
Rather than rely on a singular location and nesting doll narrative that fleshes out said location and the themes it fosters, Weapons feels much more expansive and fairy tale-esque in its storytelling. In fact, its primary source of inspiration is Magnolia in terms of how it uses its characters to sketch out its themes. The film is split into different parts that tell the story from the vantage point of many characters. The anthology-esque approach is bold and occasionally veers into leading down the garden path territory.
However, I think the structure (particularly emphasised in the sections about a cop and a drug addict) is part of the thematic point. Despite the central tragedy that has shaken the Maybrook community, the characters are far too caught up in their bullshit that they can’t see the forest for the trees when it comes to solving the central problem. They are an embodiment of the famous line from Norman Bates- “We are all in our private traps.” And as such, the stark title “Weapons” is not just how the central evil twists innocence and familiarity for selfish ends, but also how we are capable of doing that to each other (regardless of external manipulation).
The Bates quote also takes on significant meaning in the final stretch of the film, where we discover the nature of the antagonist and the psychological toll it takes on one character in particular. There’s a gut-wrenching emotional truth to these sections that’s as much an indictment of the systems in place as it is the notion of complicity in silence.
Cregger’s subtle direction impresses, particularly in instances when he plays with focus, often blurring the adult characters, which encapsulates the themes quite elegantly. He also juxtaposes this with quite exact and patient medium shots that give rise to a nerve-shattering tension that had me on the edge of my seat. And in a film with quite an ensemble cast, Julia Garner strikes a chord in a performance that balances fragility in the face of mounting public scrutiny and rarefied emphatic defiance.
SGS On Film 