Movie Review: "Beasts of No Nation" (Cary Joji Fukunaga, 2015)

LIFE DURING WARTIME by Mo Shaunette

Above: Abraham Attah stars in Mr. Fukunaga’s new movie.  Photo ©Bleecker Street

In an interview on the Nerdist Podcast, director Robert Rodriguez once said that while making “Spy Kids,” he had to convince studio heads that the movie should have a Hispanic main cast.  And how did he win that argument?  By pointing out that the more specific a movie is, the more universal it becomes—that specific, relatable touchstones can help bridge the cultural gap.  As Mr. Rodriguez put it, “You don’t have to be British to appreciate James Bond.”

Writer/director Cary Joji Fukunaga asks us to cross that same bridge in his new feature “Beasts of No Nation,” albeit while venturing into much harsher territory.  The film opens with a scene of children playing in a field in an unnamed village glimpsed through the frame of an old TV set.  The camera then pans towards two boys standing by the frame, watching the kids play.  The message is clear: we, the audience, aren’t going to be watching this story unfold from a distance, through the lens of a television; we’re going to be forced to watch it with our boots on the ground, alongside the main characters, for better or for worse.

One of the watchers by that TV is Agu (Abraham Attah), an adolescent boy living in an unnamed West African village that exists in a buffer zone between an oppressive military and a rebellion army.  It isn’t long before Agu’s home becomes a war zone, forcing him to flee into the jungle, where he comes across a platoon of rebel soldiers led by the Commandant (Idris Elba).  The Commandant drafts Agu into the so-called Native Defense Force and leads him on a bloody campaign through the country, during which Agu’s innocence is shattered by the atrocities committed against him and committed by him.

In a story as heavy as this, you need actors who are capable of mixing horror with humanity.  Luckily, the cast brings it in spades.  Abraham Attah is fantastic as Agu, bringing pathos and commitment to the character’s every persona—the innocent child, the scared little boy, the dutiful soldier, the wearied killer, and the narrator, who asks God’s forgiveness for all his sins between battles.  Similarly, Idris Elba brings swagger and charisma to the Commandant, a man so fully committed to war that he is only ever referred to by his rank.  The Commandant lives to be a soldier, to lead his troops into battle, and when we learn that the war is soon to end, we see that he’s a man who can’t go back to whatever life he had before.

It’s important to note the level of restraint shown by “Beasts.”  Yes, Mr. Fukunaga never pulls his punches; violence, indoctrination, drug addiction, and rape (much of which is committed by and to children) are present throughout the film.  However, Mr. Fukunaga never feels the need to be explicit or sensational about these horrors.  The camera rarely focuses on gore and mutilation, instead letting the performances of the actors and the score by Dan Romer underline the horrors of the Native Defense Force’s campaign.  The film is brutal without taking pleasure in the brutality, and that’s to be commended.

Mr. Fukunaga also served as cinematographer for the feature, and he’s still as sharp and clever as he was when he was directing the first season of HBO’s “True Detective.”  He has a talent for long takes that travel through war zones, but also a keen eye for composition and montage.  In one scene, the Commandant makes a speech to his soldiers before leading them into battle, while behind, a propaganda mural for the opposition depicts rows of uniformed army men above the phrase “Leadership for the People.”  This makes it clear that the Commandant is no different than the military men he decries as evil oppressors.  In this war, there is no “right side” or “wrong side”—there is only the violence that is tearing a country apart and destroying the lives of its citizens.

“Beasts of No Nations” is a rough film to watch; even though it moves quickly through its 137 minutes, it leaves you feeling weary and glad to be on the other side.  However, there is hope to be found at the end—the possibility that life during peacetime is within reach for Agu.  His story is a powerful experience, one that begs to be watched.  Definitely go see this one.

Movie Review: "Spectre" (Sam Mendes, 2015)

BOND REDEEMED by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Daniel Craig and Léa Seydoux star in the latest James Bond movie.  Photo ©Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Pictures and Columbia Pictures

Late in the James Bond movie “Casino Royale,” Bond (Daniel Craig) sat on a sun-coated beach, almost liberated from his life of lying and spying.  But it was not to be.  Soon, he was emotionally gutted by his paramour, Vesper Lynd (Eva Green).  And without the anchor of selfless love, Mr. Craig’s 007 drifted into a coldly heroic sea of violence, fighting for Queen and country with only flimsy aspirations of nobility.

            That was back in 2006.  Ever since, Bond has vaulted across the globe, armed with gadgets, guns, girls, and barely a trace of goodness.  Yet “Spectre,” the said-to-be conclusion of the Craig-Bond cycle, vigorously fans the fire of its hero’s humanity, thrusting him into a life-affirming battle that dares him (and us) to tear into a nagging question: what if Ian Fleming’s “beautiful killing machine” were deprogrammed?   

            The architect of that query is director Sam Mendes, who flourishes his gift for screen poetry in the film’s opening shot—a near-ceaseless take of Mr. Craig strutting through a Day of the Dead parade in Mexico City.  The image is a prelude to a fistfight in a helicopter and a small shot a silver ring branded with an octopus—the symbol of SPECTRE, a nefarious secret society in Bond’s crosshairs. 

            SPECTRE, like most movie-villain cabals, schemes in the shadows of a lush lair (early in the movie, its members sit around a gleaming office table, like studio executives plotting world domination).  The organization’s reach is vast, so much so that it encompasses old Bond adversaries—the blood-weeping Le Chifre (Mads Mikkelsen); the grotesque grinner Silva (Javier Bardem); and the chilly Mr. White (Jesper Christensen), who returns in “Spectre,” reduced to a bearded husk staring dead-eyed at television screens.

            Mr. Christensen’s screen time here is brief.  Yet his grizzled skin and frail body are a premonition of the decrepitude that awaits Bond, should he continue to beat and kill with impunity.  And that threat claws at our hero in “Spectre”—Bond may still look like a spade commissioned by the Sharper Image (he’s still Mr. Craig), but the weight of experience hangs over him.  You feel it, in the midst of both Mr. Craig’s subdued delivery and the climax of the movie, during which Bond races past booby-trapped rooms lined with photos of his dead enemies and friends, hanging on battered walls like strung-out pieces of his psyche.

            As the end of “Spectre” nears, those shattered pieces fuse together as Bond begins to heal—and finds someone who just might love him enough to follow him along the road to recovery.  It’s a sublime twist that echoes the words Sam Smith sings in the film’s opening song: “For you, I have to risk it all.”  That line matters, because it is friendships that make this 007 not Bond, but James.

Movie Review: "Crimson Peak" (Guillermo del Toro, 2015)

HALLOWEEN’S PERFECT DATE MOVIE by Maxwell Meyers

Guillermo del Toro is an artist.  I know what you’re thinking: “Well duh.  Aren’t all directors artists?”  I will give you this: most of them are.  But what sets del Toro apart is the passion that he puts into every project.  Whether he is doing a film about the Spanish revolution, a comic book adaptation, or a sci-fi epic of robots and monsters, his zeal for moviemaking remains.  And that passion exudes from both the floor and the ceiling in his latest endeavor: “Crimson Peak.”

In “Crimson Peak,” Mr. del Toro tells the tale of Edith Cushing (the lovely Mia Wasikowska), who one day meets the mysterious and enigmatic stranger Sir Thomas Sharpe (who is played expertly by Tom Hiddleston).  When Edith’s father dies suddenly, she marries Thomas and is whisked away to his massive dilapidated property, which the locals call Crimson Peak, due to the red clay that seeps out of the surrounding soil when it snows.  The house, which is also home to Thomas’ sister Lucille (a spectacular Jessica Chastain) holds a dark secret that Edith sets out to discover.

            “Crimson Peak” isn’t your typical ghost movie; it’s more akin to a period drama (if more period dramas took place in a haunted house and featured copious amounts of murder).  It’s also visually arresting.  Say whatever you want about Mr. del Toro as a director, but he has a very specific visual style that is transfused through the spectacular filter of his eye.  From crimson clay mines to a roof that has caved in so that outside elements pool in a foyer, every image that Mr. del Toro creates is lush, beautiful, and horrific (not to mention that the whole affair is elevated by the trio of Wasikowska, Hiddleston, and Chastain). 

            I would have gladly watched “Crimson Peak” for another hour.  Why?  Because the movie is like everything else that Mr. del Toro creates—a story with something more going on below the surface.  The fact that sometimes the living can be far more terrifying than the dead that haunts the walls of Crimson Peak the house and “Crimson Peak” the movie, making it all the more powerful. 

I’m giving “Crimson Peak” a solid A, and come awards time, I hope to see some nods in the costuming and production design categories.  If you are in the market for a spooky Gothic romance, Mr. del Toro’s movie is the ticket.

Movie Review: "Steve Jobs" (Danny Boyle, 2015)

“STEVE JOBS”: ***½ (three and a half stars) by Patrick Belin

Above: Michael Fassbender is Steve Jobs.  Photo ©Universal Pictures

“Steve Jobs” is the story of a flawed man, not a mythical figure.  Not a man who changed the world (I believe it was destined to change anyway), but a man who did believe in himself and his ability to single-handedly do the changing.  Truly, there’s no doubt that Steve Jobs worked tirelessly at what he believed would work.  And considering what his company has achieved over the years, it paid off.  The feat of disrupting industries and bringing not one, but two corporate giants (IBM & Microsoft) to their knees is simply amazing.

“Steve Jobs” is not Steve Jobs.  It is a biographical film adaptation (starring Michael Fassbender) and originally told by Walter Isaacson, as dictated by Jobs himself.  The movie does justice to the fact that one person cannot single-handedly distort entire industries all by themselves, and I appreciated the film’s effort in bringing some of the myths surrounding Jobs back down to earth.  This is perhaps the movie’s greatest achievement to anyone interested in this man’s life (not to mention its excellently depicted relationship between Jobs and Apple CEO John Scully).

On film, the story of Jobs’ life works well; under writer Aaron Sorkin (“The Social Network”) and director Danny Boyle (“Trainspotting”), it is spread across three distinct movements, or acts—three product launches, each of which crystallizes some element of Jobs’ life.  These episodes aren’t difficult to follow; considering its two hour running time, the film moves at a very swift pace, its timing distorted by Mr. Boyle to manufacture a sense of unfinished business (which Jobs, who died in 2011, may have felt himself). 

This effect is enhanced by Mr. Sorkin’s infamous machine-gun dialogic delivery style, which I usually enjoy.  But in this film, it felt a bit much at times.  I walked away feeling as though more scenes of quiet contemplation would have allowed Mr. Fassbender to explore the complex character he portrays with greater subtlety.  Speaking of which, the fact that Mr. Fassbender doesn’t look much like the real Jobs was not an issue for me, either going into the film or while watching it.  That’s because the acting (which, to be honest, exceeded my expectations) all around in the movie is executed convincingly, as is the chemistry between all of the main characters.  

Overall, just like its protagonist (a figure who seems almost Shakespearean, if I dare say so), “Steve Jobs” isn’t perfect.  In film geek-speak, I just felt that the movie’s segues between its three acts could have been edited and directed with better finesse.  And as hinted at above, I would have enjoyed seeing a bit more of Steve Jobs outside of the agonistic circumstances that this film chose to focus on.

PS, this was written on my MacBook Pro.

Seen at Fox Tower, 21 October, 4.30pm showtime.

Movie Review: "Goosebumps" (Rob Letterman, 2015)

IT CAME FROM BETWEEN THE PAGES! by Mo Shaunette

Above: Odeya Rush and Jack Black star in “Goosebumps.”  Photo ©Sony Pictures Entertainment and Village Roadshow Pictures

During a lecture on the basics of writing in the new “Goosebumps” movie, author R.L. Stine (Jack Black) explains that all stories are made up of three parts: “The beginning, the middle…and the twist!”  Unfortunately, while “Goosebumps” features all of those, that’s not enough to make it a great film, or even really a good one.  The movie does its best to live up to the pedigree of the horror novellas it's based off of, but is so mired in cliché and mediocrity that it ends up being a well-intentioned but rather dull affair.

“Goosebumps” begins, as many of the books that inspired it do, with a move to an unfamiliar location.  Teenager Zach Cooper (Dylan Minnette) and his mother Gale (Amy Ryan) go from bustling New York to the quiet suburbs of Madison, DE, where Zach unexpectedly befriends dorky classmate Champ (Ryan Lee) and neighbor Hannah (Odeya Rush).

Hannah is the heir to a notorious legacy—her shut-in father is Robert Lawrence Stine, author of the long-running “Goosebumps” series.  We learn that the monsters from Stine’s books actually exist in the pages of his manuscripts, and can be released into the real world once they're opened.  Not surprisingly, a misunderstanding leads to the opening of the books, the unleashing of Stine’s monsters, and a rampage across Madison that forces the unlikely quartet of Zach, Hannah, Champ, and Stine to try and trap the beasts back in their paper-and-ink prison.

In other words, “Goosebumps” is “The Monster Squad” meets “Wes Craven’s New Nightmare”—not a bad starting point for a child-friendly horror romp.  Sadly, the child-friendly part of the equation necessitates child characters, something that gives “Goosebumps” a major stumble.  While Zach and Hannah are serviceable enough as leads and the actors have decent chemistry with each other, the characters are written so blandly that they make the whole film seem sluggish.  Their pretty faces and quirky banter are never enough to really engage, the twist with Hannah's backstory ends up meaning nothing, and Zach’s character arc (he learns to “let people in again” after the passing of his father) feels so half-hearted that it makes me wonder if the only reason the filmmakers included it is because main characters, y’know, need an arc.

Attempting to compensate, the script (by Darren Lemke of “Jack the Giant Slayer”) fills in the edges of the story with quirkier characters in the hopes of bringing the laughs—most of which fall short.  Champ is the sort of comic relief sidekick who’s only funny when he’s being berated by someone else, but at the very least, Ryan Lee has been playing parts like these for years and has the act down pat.  Other supporting players like Jillian Bell, Ken Marino, and that guy who plays Jonah on “Veep” all do fine work and elevate some of the film's attempts at humor, but then again, not much is asked of them.

The real star of the show is, unsurprisingly, Jack Black.  His version of Stine acts as a parallel to Zach, but to the extreme: Stine is a recluse who never made real friends, but created his own in the pages of his stories.  His character arc is sold more potently than Zach’s, and Mr. Black clearly has fun playing Stine, painting him as a sometimes-manic paranoid who sometimes can’t help but brag about his success (especially when he’s compared to that hack “Steve King”).

The effects of Stine’s creatures aren’t exactly game-breaking, but in a story like this where humor and horror are meant to mix, that can be forgiven.  The ringleader of the monsters, the recurring “Goosebumps” baddie Slappy the Dummy (voiced by Mr. Black), is rendered as an actual puppet and is effectively spooky.  Really, more than anything, “Goosebumps” is a greatest hits parade of Stine’s creations (including a giant praying mantis, an overgrown Venus fly trap, and an army of zombies and ghouls), one that shows off the wide variety of horrors the author committed to the page, but doesn't really linger on them long enough to make them more than a quick scare to run away from.

Even still, I’m inclined to forgive a lot of the shortcomings of “Goosebumps.”  This movie wasn’t made for me.  It was made for people who read and loved the books; the kinds of fans who would delight in trying to name every monster onscreen the same way I would delight in naming every mutant in an “X-Men” flick.  Yes, “Goosebumps” is awkwardly paced and hangs its story on uninteresting leads, but it’s harmless and features enough humor and monster action to keep the little ones entertained.  If you loved the books or just like this brand of spook house fun, check it out.

Movie Review: "Sicario" (Denis Villeneuve, 2015)

HARD (MOVIE) DRUGS by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Emily Blunt stars in the latest movie from Denis Villeneuve.  Photo ©Lionsgate, Black Label Media, and Thunder Road Pictures

At the suburban mall theater where I saw “Sicario,” a joyless new thriller directed by Denis Villeneuve, I spotted a sign: a notice that bags would be checked.  It was a reminder of the mass murders in Aurora and, most recently, Lafayette.  For most of us, that violence is wish-you-could-forget-it horror.  But for Mr. Villeneuve, killing is a phenomenon to be dissected, probed, and scrutinized—via the lens of tastefully bleak cinematography.

            I’m not going to shout out a lecture on cinematic ethics (not in this review, at least).  But I do think that Mr. Villeneuve should loosen his macabre shroud.  Two years ago, he directed the kidnapping mystery “Prisoners,” in which Hugh Jackman flayed a teenage boy’s skin until it gleamed like a maraschino cherry.  Now, in “Sicario,” Mr. Villeneuve has outdone himself by multiplying that boy into a house full of dead and brutalized bodies, sandwiched into the walls of an Arizona townhouse invaded by FBI agents.

            Leading the charge is Kate Macer (Emily Blunt).  At first sight, she looks combat ready, an action figure sealed in a black helmet and bodysuit.  Yet the moment that Kate sees those sadly grotesque bodies, she is reduced to a fountain of vomit with only one thought—to find the cartel-running criminals responsible for the savagery she’s uncovered.  A shady FBI “advisor” named Matt Garvan (Josh Brolin) offers her a chance, though Kate isn’t sure if she should trust him.

            Who would trust him?  Mr. Brolin, easing into a sleazily contented smile, is seamlessly cast as a man who greets human depravity with nasty amusement.  Yet “Sicario” doesn’t toss him any munch-worthy dramatic meat, and Ms. Blunt fares no better.  Kate may be the focal point of “Sicario,” but she is often relegated to the crosshairs rather than the frontlines.  At one point, a man tells her, “You look like a little girl when you’re scared”—a line that creepily hints at Mr. Villeneuve’s lack of interest in dreaming up a fearsome heroine and his passionate interest in projecting some sickeningly masochistic imaginings onto Ms. Blunt’s body (as a matter of course, the film includes an attempted rape).

            Fantasy is central to Mr. Villeneuve’s work, especially his Jake Gyllenhaal döppelganger freak-out movie “Enemy,” which trafficked in distorted dreams and tricked-out sexual fantasies (the most unsettling of which starred an overlarge, very fuzzy spider).  Ostensibly, “Prisoners” and “Sicario” are more realistic, but there’s a superfluous nature to Mr. Villeneuve’s visions of crime.  Lest you forget, one scene in “Prisoners” commenced with a door-breaking arrest and climaxed with an image both ludicrous and terrifying—the unlocking of a plastic case filled with snakes.

            Mr. Villeneuve’s knack for unfurling such horrors makes his movies scarily entrancing (if the film career doesn’t pan out, you can expect Denis Villeneuve’s House of Creepy Crawlies to open at a park near you).  Yet his lust for horror and gore drowns any hope of his movies flourishing with genuine meaning or emotion.  I’ll admit that in “Sicario,” he does turn his gaze toward the human toll of the drug war, most poignantly during a vignette about the mother and the son of a corrupt, hapless cop named Silvio (Maximiliano Hernández).  But the hard truth is that Mr. Villeneuve doesn’t care about Silvio or his family. 

If they didn’t suffer, he’d be out of a job.

Movie Review: "The Martian" (Ridley Scott, 2015)

SURVING (AND CLOWNING) ON THE RED PLANET
by Bennett Campbell Ferguson 

The first scene of Ridley Scott’s new film “The Martian” is a haunting one.  With steely control, the camera stares down at Mars, then fixes its gaze on a cadre of astronauts spearheaded by Melissa Lewis (Jessica Chastain).  They’re collecting data, joshing, showing off their shiny orange spacesuits…until a buffeting dust storm forces them to rocket back into space and abandon their presumed-dead comrade Mark Watney (Matt Damon), who is buried in martian sand and very much alive.

            Save for a sappy shot of Mark’s vacant chair, these early moments of the movie coalesce into a delicious inferno of jovial teamwork, otherworldly vistas, and stinging loss.  Yet once Mark is left in solitude, “The Martian” surrenders its emotional vigor.  Mr. Scott may tell the tale with the brisk bravado of a veteran assembler of Hollywood entertainments, but his film is frustratingly hollow and even boring—much less exciting, in fact, than the recent proclamation that the real NASA has discovered water on the real Mars.

            Mr. Scott, of course, didn’t learn that in time to change “The Martian,” so Mark has to make do with a towering, metallic water-manufacturing contraption to stay the affects of dehydration.  He keeps the device inside a crinkly white shelter where he harvests potatoes, while waiting over a year to hear the trumpets of a rescue party that may never touch down.  “I’m going to have to science the shit out of this,” Watney wryly declares, proving that in times of duress, a spacefarer’s most potent gadget is their sense of humor.

            Or is it?  As the days pass and Mark ventures further across the Red Planet’s dusty plains, he appears strangely immune to despair.  Or any emotion, for that matter.  “The Martian” is based on a novel by Andy Weir, who explained in a recent New York Times interview that he bristled against the possibility of plunging into the gloom of exploratory loneliness, choosing instead to zero in on Mark’s adventurous bravado and scientific know-how.  The film follows his lead, to its detriment.  

In fact, “The Martian” commits itself not to dramatic storytelling, but to rattling off a string of painfully unfunny quips.  At least three times, Mark mocks the disco music Melissa left in his martian hut, as if hoping that repetition will improve the joke (it doesn’t).  What’s more, Mark’s oppressive jocularity even infects the film’s capsule-spinning climax, in the midst of which he cheekily says that if he punches a hole in his spacesuit, he’ll “fly around like Iron Man” (which is the sort of grating pop culture reference that might show up in, well, “Iron Man”).

In Hollywood movies, space has long been a laughter-friendly zone (as the delectable wordplay of J.J. Abrams’ “Star Trek” movies has reaffirmed).  But making a space epic that isn’t attuned to the rush of wonder and loneliness that an outstretched starry canvas of can’t help but stir is like strapping on a spacesuit with no oxygen tank.  Lest we forget, it was the isolation of Sandra Bullock’s stranded Ryan Stone in “Gravity” that made her survival so exhilarating; her despair primed us perfectly for the joy of her triumph. 

            It’s a shame that “The Martian” couldn’t do the same, and that it offers a multitude of cinematic stumbles to nitpick (including Mr. Scott’s distracting and ludicrous choice to flash the names of every NASA character’s name and rank onscreen when they first appear).  Yet there are fleeting moments when the movie coheres into something wondrously diverse.  Not only are Mark’s would-be rescuers are of, respectively, American, Latino, and German descent, but the action on terra firma is spurred by the resourceful NASA techies played by Chiwetel Ejiofor, Donald Glover, and Benedict Wong.  Towards the end of the film, we even see people across globe gathering in public to pray for Mark’s return. 

            Somehow, the struggle of one inspires the transcendence of borders.