Film Reviews by PD

This period melodrama tries earnestly to be many things at once: a tale of mismatched romance, a portrait of nervous breakdown, a snapshot of Thatcher’s racially charged Britain, a love letter to cinema, but unfortunately ends up not being about very much at all, for despite Olivia Coleman's fine performance as the tormented seaside cinema duty manager, none of these themes are treated in any depth. There's some nice touches - shots of the once-grand cinema interiors are very evocative, together with period-accurate production design that transports us back in time to the early 80s very effectively, and there's a good turn from Toby Jones (the only character, strangely, who displays any enthusiasm towards the films on offer), but none of this can hide a painfully thin script, whilst the central racial theme is far too often laid on with such a heavy trowel that it (of course) only loses its intended impact as a result. Undoubtedly heartfelt, but ultimately forgettable, I'm afraid.

This original, very austere but often playfully anachronistic piece by Marie Kreutzer centres on the later life of Empress Elisabeth of Austria, aka “Sissi” (1837-1898), superbly played by a suitably regal and linguistically dexterous Vicky Krieps of 'Phantom Thread' fame. Kreutzer deliberately eschews any attempt to conform to the conventions of period drama, finding instead in the Bavarian-born wife of the Emperor Franz Josef a woman with a very modern spirit who happens to be locked in a 19th century marriage and desperate to assuage her frustration with having no real political power. Kreutzer’s script keeps a reasonably tight temporal focus on these few years in Sissi’s life, although it avoids some of the more dramatic events in the historical record, and substitutes a distinctly different ending to her life.

Kreutzer builds up an episodic but compelling portrait of a disaffected woman, with more than a touch of Coppola's Marie Antoniette and Diana, Princess of Wales, about her. For example, Sissi is seen suffering from an eating disorder brought on in part by a world that views her as little more than an 'influencer', whose slightest change of hairstyle ripples through society. In fact, at one point, in despair over a number of recent emotional shocks, she decides to hack off most of her locks, provoking one lady-in-waiting to cry with despair on seeing what she considers her own (not Sissi’s) life’s work ruined. Krieps brings a strong sense of intelligence to the role, and her own imposing physicality perfectly conveys the regality of Sissi’s presence, but the supporting characters are less well drawn, apart perhaps from Ida Ferenczy (Jeanne Werner), Sissi’s sister and emotional-support courtier, one of the few people with whom she can speak frankly and honestly. Indeed, without making a big fuss of it, there’s a distinct sense throughout that the mostly female key crewmembers are pulling together to tell this woman-centric story through the lens of female identity. Here, Sissi is more of a depressive rather than a narcissist or someone suffering borderline personality disorder - being desired and considered beautiful is practically the only power Sissi has, and as that power wanes there’s little to replace it. Well worth a look.

Following the template of “All the President’s Men” and “Spotlight,” this one is a tense and absorbing film, one that sticks close to the nuts and bolts of what reporters do. We also see Twohey and Kantor at home, juggling work and husbands and children, and we feel their deep solidarity with the women they’re trying to coax into talking. Their reporting connects former assistants, film stars (including Ashley Judd, playing herself), as well as the financial executives who oversaw the payouts to silence Harvey’s victims. We see the journalistic juggling they have to do to build a sense of collective power in these women where there’s been none. This is a film about conversations in diners and restaurants, phone calls and surprise house calls, hunts for evidence that corroborates what is known intuitively. Schrader’s direction is restrained and respectful to the gravity of its subject matter, allowing the inherent drama to do most of the heavy lifting - moments which connect the past to the present establish one of the film’s most affecting threads: a generation of women forced to abandon their dreams and live alone with their nightmares.

However, after a compelling first hour, the film doesn't quite build to the electrifying payoff quite the way you want it to. This is, unfortunately, partly because of both Carey Mulligan and Zoe Kazan -there's a naturalistic chemistry between them as they develop a bond of their shared pursuit of the truth, but otherwise their performances are frustratingly bland and by-rote in a 'made-for-tv' kind of style - and partly because of a frustratingly stilted dialogue which dissipates the intensity at key moments. But the main problem is mainly because, despite an insistence at times in the script that the 'bigger picture' is Hollywood and a sinister corporate web, the film doesn't have the strength or scope to move beyond Weinstein himself. We learn a little about his method of buying his victims’ silence with expensive settlements and using non-disclosure agreements as a secret weapon against them, but Weinstein’s network of enablers—including the high-powered actors and directors who knew what was going on and looked the other way—get what’s essentially a free pass, remaining largely unmentioned. All in all, a worthy piece on a vitally important subject, but something of a missed opportunity, I fear.

This well-acted drama set at the time of Reagan's election has its moments but sadly ultimately fails in its depiction of its central theme of racial inequality.

James Gray's latest is presumably drawing on his own childhood to reflect on prejudice, privilege, and the eye-opening dangers of silence and complacency in American society, but whilst the intentions are admirable, the film isn't up to exploring the nuances of such complex topics in any depth and under-commits to sharing the truths of racial disparity when it comes to the American dream. Anthony Hopkins is unsurprisingly excellent as chorus-figure grandfather Aaron, whilst Michael Banks Repata turns in a worthy performance as his grandson Paul Graff, with good chemistry between him and Jaylin Webb as friend Johnny Davis - the childlike naivete of both is well-handled. But sadly Webb's character rarely gets beyond stereotype, his concerns being always in the background just as the privileged Graffs' are highlighted, and this means therefore that the attempts to explore class and race issues through the eyes of a child and his growing perspective fall rather flat. That's not to say that there aren't some telling moments - for example, when teacher, Mr. Turkeltaub's actions reveal that he almost expects delinquency out of Johnny, even when he’s not the culprit of classroom disruptions, thus neatly revealing the prejudice that Black children misbehave more often than their white counterparts, and these examples grow larger in scale as the film progresses. Yet, frustratingly, nothing ever comes from them on screen besides growing pains for Paul and his family, and whilst the family scenes are very well-done, this feels very uncomfortable indeed given the film's intended target. Ultimately, Gray's attempt to criticise how privilege paves the way to power and contributes to various levels of playing fields in pursuit of 'success', comes off as rather lazy and uninspiring.

This powerful piece is inevitably a difficult watch, but Alfre Woodard's admirably restrained, deeply felt performance means that you can't take your eyes off it for a second. Her burdened conscience takes centre-stage, but it’s the humanity and compassion invested across all the principal characters that makes this contemplative examination of the terrible weight of taking a life so commanding. Elegantly shot in widescreen compositions loaded with meaning, the film is perhaps a tad drawn out, but it’s never less than engrossing and often acutely affecting. A harrowing pre-titles sequence showing a botched state execution in agonising detail is very effective indeed, and whilst the film's core audience is likely to be people already ethically opposed to the death penalty, even some who are pro-capital punishment might find this persuasive food for thought.

There's some good moments in this adaptation of the now-famous musical, and includes a fabulous turn from Emma Thompson as the tyrannical Turnbull, but ultimately, as with the stage adaptation itself, it rather fails to do justice to the world as conceived by Road Dahl (something captured rather better in Danny DeVito’s 1998 live-action film adaptation). For by favouring a cleaner, more straightforward portrait of Matilda and highlighting its undeniably catchy and clever songs, this is at the expense of more complex reckonings with education, revolution, cruelty, and love, that you'd think are just waiting to be dusted off the page. Matthew Warchus holds close many elements from his stage creation, but this ends up being part of the problem (the great chocolate-eating scene for example is drowned in a mass of schoolchildren rotating in magenta-sequinned blazers, and at times it does feel you're watching the UK’s hottest new dance troupe on “Britain’s Got Talent.”). It’s also a shame that the obsession with television is totally ignored, and that the prospect of revolution is fully watered down, or, by contrast, reducing the parents to pantomime villains, which of course merely weakens the comedy. Meanwhile, Alisha Weir is all a bit too one-dimensional for me, for the real conflict Matilda’s qualities — talent, intelligence, emotional threshold — are subjected to is rather lost amongst all the song and dance routines.

And yet, and yet, enter stage right Emma Thompson. Underneath the fake nose and enormous pentagonal jawline, it’s a fully molecular metamorphosis that sings in ways every other part of the film pretty much falls short on. Thompson is fully convincing in displaying Trunchbull’s rage and resentment, reining in the pathetic comedy when fear takes priority, and cleverly sailing that thin line between comedy and horrific, outright abuse. The performance certainly saves the day, but ultimately this is a sanitised reproduction of the source material.

Wes Anderson's latest is very much in the same mould of 'The Grand Budapest Hotel' with its flights of imagination, exquisite visual flair and infectious sense of fun, and so if you liked that one you'll certainly enjoy this, although it never quite reaches the same heights. The very funny and darkly satirical first main sequence, 'The Concrete Masterpiece' is easily the best of the 'stories', involving an imprisoned sociopath-turned-artist and his muse, and featuring a wonderful Tilda Swinton who looks every the inch the part as art correspondent JKL Berensen, who narrates the story. The other sections are much less involving, but there's still much to enjoy, notably, in the final section, some gorgeous animated escape sequences in a bandes dessinées style reminiscent of Belgian cartoonist Hergé's The Adventures of Tintin, while also evoking classic New Yorker covers.

Whilst the film may seem like a series of vignettes lacking a central theme, every moment is graced by Anderson’s love for the written word and the oddball characters who dedicate their professional lives to it. There’s a wistful sense of time passing and a lovely ode to the pleasures of travel embedded in the material, along with an appreciation for the history of American foreign correspondents who bring their perceptive outsider gaze to other cultures. The mission of the magazine is summed up thus near the end of the film: “Maybe with good luck we’ll find what eluded us in the places we once called home.”

This wonderful, subtle and delicate piece involves a depressive young dad at a Turkish resort with his pre-teen daughter, and anyone like me who has had to grab time, and maximise that time, with their young children after being separated from their partner will easily identify with the emotions he is going through - I left the film totally overwhelmed. Charlotte Wells’ highly sensitive film shows that no amount of play time and fruity drinks can keep either the past or future at bay. Paul Mescal is pitch-perfect at communicating an anxious, uneasy flipside to his casual, laddish charm, but its the remarkable duet between Mescal and 11-year-old Frankie Corio that carries the film as father and daughter reveal new, vulnerable facets of themselves to each other over the course of a tacky package holiday. There’s an edge of sibling-like complicity to their relationship, with their shared oddball jokes, loose conversational comfort with each other, and mutual resistance to patriarchal tradition, and this lends an additional urgency to the trip; it’s a chance for both Calum and Sophie to prove themselves to each other, showing off their responsibilities and capabilities, respectively. Wells’ taut script tells us little of Calum's life outside the immediate present, but stray asides and moments of solitary rumination — a fretful cigarette on the balcony when he thinks his daughter is asleep, a longing fixation on a Persian rug at a local market — hint at his unhappiness beneath the surface. Meanwhile, the perceptive Sophie notices some of her dad’s mood shifts, but is distracted with growing pains of her own, with boys showing an interest in her for the first time. With both father and daughter privately facing their own fears of getting older, there’s a sense that they may never share this innocent, breezy ease with each other again (in one brief, simple scene, her insecurities seep out during a brave-faced karaoke rendition of R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion” — a few minutes that appear to age her by three years). Whilst all this is going on, the director flashes both backwards (Calum's past) and forwards (Sophie's future) in time with some skill. 'Aftersun' is about trying to square the intimacy of being cared for as a child with the perspective that comes with being an adult. It’s about wanting to reach across time, and to meet a loved one in an impossible space where, for once, you’re both on the same level, and you can finally understand them for who they are — or who they were. Very impressive stuff indeed.

This very subtle but highly effective piece makes its point by avoiding any kind of melodrama or cliche often reverted to by these types of film, and is all the more powerful as a consequence. First-timer Sidney Flanigan as Autumn is so perfect in the role that it has the feel of a documentary, her defensive demeanour only slipping occasionally to show us the distress underneath, and it also successfully depicts the strength of female friendship (none of the male characters come off well, unsurprisingly). The title of the film comes from a key scene involving a set of responses Autumn is asked to choose from during a pre-abortion interview, over the course of which an intensely personal series of questions is gently posed to her which leads to her shield cracking and falling away completely. What’s left is a 17-year-old girl so inured to enduring in silence that she’s unable to respond to someone is actually taking an interest in her well-being, no matter how clinical that interest may be: 'Your partner has made you have sex when you didn’t want to — never, rarely, sometimes, always'. The camera holds on Flanigan’s face for a long, unbearable stretch in which she’s broken open by the act of being asked about herself and not just the pregnancy she has travelled across state lines to terminate. Impressive stuff.

Great to see Martin McDonagh return to his playwriting roots after 'Three Billboards', definitely his best yet, and it's certainly one of the saddest films I've ever seen. Set in the early 1920s, as the Irish Civil War rages on the nation’s main island, 'Banshees' is about a friendship gone sour - a clear metaphor. The decision to re-unite the 'In Bruges' duo Colin Farrell and Brendon Gleason is inspired, with Farrell playing a dim but affable Pádraic, who tends to his livestock and spends time every day at the only pub in town, and Gleason as Colm, an older and morose character with a touch of the poet in him. Complementing them perfectly is Kerry Condon as Pádraic’s savvy sister, Siobhan, whose exasperation at her brother’s response to Colm’s extreme behaviour is thoroughly relatable; Siobhan also evokes the most sympathy as a woman who has clearly, desperately outgrown this remote corner of the planet.

Inevitably, things take a very dark turn, and the film unfolds in progressively more grim and sorrowful episodes (if punctuated by some dark humour en route), McDonagh revealing the pain and confusion at the heart of both men with considerable acumen. Colm sets about writing a folk tune he hopes will be sung long after he’s gone, an attempt to leave an impression on a world he feels he’s merely stumbling through inconsequentially, but the lengths to which he goes to do so suggests a far more serious malaise than anyone seems able to talk about. Pádraic, for his part, gradually gathers his daffy stupor and condenses it into anger. Maybe this is how wars begin, although one is left with the feeling that McDonagh wants to portray a more existential crisis of humanity than a simple allegory. McDonagh’s version of isolated Ireland may be a bit condescending, but it's balanced by a sensitivity, that tempers some of McDonagh’s folksy stereotyping. Tenderly scored by Carter Burwell and gorgeously shot by cinematographer Ben Davis, this is a film whose unhurried pace never drags. Compelling viewing.

This very watchable, clever piece trundles along in a fairly predictable fashion until a great twist transports us into what director Lawrence Michael Levine wants us to grapple with. The film-within-a-film genre needs careful handling, and here there's perhaps a lot over overcooked melodrama and under-developed ideas, but it's still compelling viewing, being both a serious portrayal of sexual politics and a provocative send-up of tyrannical directors, diva-ish actors and over-invested voyeurs, with a wonderfully gripping performance from start to finish from Aubrey Plaza.

Mona Fastvold’s historical, slow-burning tale, set in NY State 1850s, is arresting for the great chemistry between Katherine's Waterson's Abigail and Vanessa Kirby's Tallie, but the feminist undercurrent comes over loud and clear. Enclosed on all sides by place, opportunity and circumstance, Abigail's journal begins 1 January 1856 much like any other day: her softly spoken, stoical narration starts with a sullen start to the New Year: 'Ice in our bedroom for the first time all winter,' the harsh weather of a remote northerly wilderness echoing a loveless marriage fallen on hard times. The colour drained from the screen and their lives, an overwhelming grief is buried beneath the daily toil of working the farm and dutifully maintaining their household’s meagre existence. The arrival of new neighbours injects a change, and with a flash of eye contact, and visions of Tallie's flowing red hair against the snow, ignites the faintest glimmer of passion in Abigail, but living on a 'long lane that has no turning,' we sense that both women are heading in exclusively one direction with no possibility of betterment or excitement. What begins as polite companionship and understanding moves to greater tenderness and caring – with subtle gesture and glances suggesting much more. It could be that this longing has always been there even before they met, or it could be that the women are drawn to one another due to the cold detachment of Dyer and callous brutality of Finney, but either way the attraction felt seems to come more from one soul’s draw by another, the magnetism of a kindred spirit, although Fastvold’s direction perhaps doesn't do quite enough to fully develop and explore this union. As the seasons come and go, in conjunction with a relationship developing behind closed doors, husbands speak of their wives accomplishing 'responsibilities', 'expectations and duties,' leaving us to ask whether there is there nothing more to this frontier existence than domestic subservience and bearing children? It's a 'modern' question of course, but the film successfully transports us back in time, and it makes a good case for an imaginative leap forward into literal and metaphorical new territory. In Abigail’s longing to see beyond the high valley walls with the kind of scope of an atlas gifted to her by Tallie, the film envisages a future reality not yet visible over the horizon, but shown as the slightest glimmer of light. Quietly impressive, even if the script doesn't match the power of the feelings on display.

Owen Kline's very enjoyable debut film is filled with people who look like they stepped right out of the underground comix his teenage protagonist, Robert (the totally convincing Daniel Zolghadri), reveres. There's Miles, Robert’s mild-mannered best friend and a fellow aspiring comic-book artist who has a face like a moonscape of cystic acne, and frizzy, shoulder-length hair that frames him like a pair of old curtains; then there's Barry, an older man with whom Robert briefly shares an apartment, who has the crimson, permanently sweaty features of an old music-hall star who has somehow been transported to the 21st-century Trenton; and most importantly the highly volatile Wallace, the former Image Comics employee Robert hitches up to as a real professional despite Wallace’s protestations. Wallace is the most distinctive of all: superbly played by Matthew Maher, his ovoid head, combined with a constant look of suspicion, is a walking self-satire. With these absurd characters and various agonising situations, the film is often both very funny and beautifully excruciating.

There's an awful lot of underdeveloped ideas, but the basic theme is someone eager to cast off his upper-middle-class existence for the squalor and struggle he sees as essential to artistic legitimacy, and the visual divide between its main character and the people he surrounds himself with serves as a constant reminder of that contrast. The idea of authenticity that so grips him comes from the artists Robert studies, but also from his teacher, Mr. Katano, who opens the film exhorting his mentee to embrace subversion and to skip college, lest it ruin him. Katano clearly oversees a kind of misfit sanctuary in school and in his own home, though he crosses a line in a deliberately weird first scene and suffers the consequences. As with Holden Caulfield, Robert is a moody, troubled teenager channelling his general angst into going off on his own, declaring to the exasperation of his Princeton parents his intentions to drop out of school (although, crucially, he quickly runs back home to them when the going gets rough). Kline’s got a lot of talent, and a readiness to lean into the peevishness of Robert’s naïve rebellion without overdoing it, but while his affection for the oddballs he puts on screen feels genuine, you get the feeling that he regards them as good material rather than real people, and a very contrived, messy final act doesn't help. Nevertheless, a highly skilled and original piece overall, and the very last couple of minutes are very effective.

Park Chan-wook's latest involves overworked detective Hae-jun (Park Hae-il - very good indeed as the perpetually on edge insomniac) who is—in true clichéd, noir form—married to his job more than to his actual wife, who lives in quiet, foggy Iso while Hae-Jun works weeks in Busan, where the crime and murder that sustains him runs rampant. His latest case involves the death of a mountain-climber which, though by all appearances an accident, quickly becomes suspicious owing to the behaviour of the mountaineer’s much younger Chinese wife, the femme-fatale Seo-rae (beautifully played by Tang Wei). However, Hae-jun’s further scrutiny of the woman becomes antithetical to his actual investigation as he slowly grows closer to her and from this point, it becomes clear that it's the complexities of their mutual attraction that will be at the forefront of the action rather than the various mysteries involving the murder cases (which are the least interesting part of the film). The director is largely successful at pulling us in to their self-destructive dynamic, partly via very astute cinemaphotography (pretty much every scene is very visually arresting indeed) and partly through a (generally) erudite script which (at least until the end) eschews melodrama and both conceals and reveals in equal measure; there's also a surprising amount of humour melded into the dark mix, which is very effectively done. On the other hand, the profound yearning between the characters and potential eroticism from that kind of unexecuted connection is so overt that the film occasionally over-reaches itself and you do get the impression that the director is trying rather too hard to manufacture a Hitchcock-style masterpiece. Meanwhile, the various plot twists become more and more implausible as the film goes on (well over two hours, and it felt like it) and the ending is perhaps the weakest part of the film precisely because of its intended tragic extravagance. All in all, however, lots to admire if you've the patience.

This one's a very intriguing watch, one of those that's predicated on a meeting of extreme opposites under extreme circumstances, and whilst there's absolutely zero - chemistry between Finnish student Laura (Seidi Haarla - superb throughout), and coal miner Lyokha (Yuri Borisov, also excellent) we have enough to believe in their connection, and that is some testimony to the director. They make a great couple: plucked from different countries, walks of life and perspectives, their claustrophobic, forced-shared space encourages an improbable companionship. The plot's ridiculously contrived but the director is skilful enough to keep us convinced, whilst some of the best scenes take place outside the Compartment No 6 - a meeting between an old lady, Laura and Lyokha is easily the best in the entire film and makes it worth watching for this alone. Well worth a look.