Review: Nocturnal Animals (2016)

Director: Tom Ford

****

What a strange beast Nocturnal Animals is.

Like so many creatures that emerge in the darkness, it’s at once alluring and repulsive, and thoroughly unpredictable. That’s entirely the point, of course; to follow his stylish and moving debut A Single Man, fashion designer-turned-writer/director Tom Ford has made a film of contradictions, where truth and artifice constantly switch roles. In adapting Austin Wright’s 1993 novel Tony and Susan, Ford has produced something lurid and provocative, but still with that pronounced style that defined his first film. The style’s a lure, though. This is a film that’s twisted in both content and form. There are narratives within narratives, whose brightly-lit worlds are deceptive and whose strangest sights bring their own kind of beauty.

The opening credits are a good example of Ford’s methodology here. The credits are backgrounded by a series of obese women dancing naked. The women are set against a velvety red wall that envelops the screen in warmth, thanks to the efforts of DoP Seamus McGarvey. Thanks to the oft-garish colours and another sumptuous string-led score from Abel Korzeniowski, beauty can be found even in so unorthodox a sight. The dancing women are part of an exhibit being put together by gallery owner Susan Morrow. The role of Morrow sees Amy Adams exchange her natural charm for excess make-up, horn-rimmed glasses and a cold demeanour, as Morrow’s dissatisfied with her pristine L.A. life.

Susan’s pretty house, prettier boyfriend (Armie Hammer) and obvious wealth cannot dispel her angsty fog. Indeed, this fog seems to cover the Los Angeles of Nocturnal Animals. An early aerial shot of the city at night shines a bright light on its skyscrapers, leaving the streets in the dark, like an eerie alien landscape. For all the colours McGarvey can bring to the city, it’s intentionally cold to the touch. All is artifice in Ford’s vision of L.A., from every overly made-up face to the jangling jewellery worn by a near-unrecognisable Andrea Riseborough. Indeed, the polish can feel excessive at first, lapsing into silliness, but as time goes on, this feeds into Ford’s point.

Instead of harsh realities, we get a delivery of very harsh fiction. Susan is sent a draft of a novel from her ex-husband Edward (Jake Gyllenhaal), a piece of hard-boiled crime drama entitled ‘Nocturnal Animals’, which he’s dedicated to her. Like Wright’s original novel, the film plunges into this book’s narrative, in which Tony (Gyllenhaal again) goes through a night of hell travelling through rural Texas, as he and his wife (Isla Fisher) and daughter (Ellie Bamber) are menaced and tortured by a band of rednecks, led by Aaron Taylor-Johnson’s Ray. Their initial encounter is a prolonged and masterful exercise in tension, as Ray’s gang drive the family car off the road and proceed to psychologically torture their quarry. Tony’s inability to do anything about it is matched only by the anxiety that never stops building behind him. Nocturnal Animals is a film about weakness and insecurity, male weakness especially. Nocturnal animals prey on the weak.

The novel’s narrative brings a change in look and feel, going from polished galleries to the parched Texas sands. The book’s story is foreboding and cruel, and the shift in style feels the same way at first. The intertwining of narrative strands between Susan’s life, the novel, and flashbacks to hers and Edward’s marriage initially jar. Shifts between L.A. and the novel are usually signalled by Susan dropping the manuscript in a horrified daze. Yet, as Tony and Sheriff Andes (Michael Shannon, charm and accent as thick as molasses) chase the wrongdoers, and the switches between Hollywood glam and Hell Or High Water-alike grit become more frequent, they also begin to gel. Edward has dedicated his book to Susan for a reason, and her memories of him grow increasingly melancholy. This is by Edward’s design, though. Nocturnal Animals is a testament to the liberating power of creativity, as Edward expresses his darkest feelings to Susan using this narrative, a method he never could have used before their divorce. The weakness is dispelled by his creative strength.

Ford plays fast and loose with expectations throughout Nocturnal Animals. While he admirably keeps the interloping structure of narratives from the source novel, he also makes changes to accentuate the tonal shifts. In the novel, Morrow was a teacher and mother of three; in Ford’s world, she has only a floundering relationship and failing gallery to her name. These changes, these exaggerations, add an extra punch when emotion and violence do come to the fore. This and Andrew Dominik’s documentary on Nick Cave, One More Time With Feeling, would make an excellent double-bill treatise on how great creativity can be triggered by intense trauma. (All this begs the question: is Ford working out a weakness of his own in this adaptation? It hardly matters. This is a film that will offer wildly different ideas and meanings to different viewers)

It’s a tribute to Gyllenhaal and Adams that they keep the audience invested, even as tones and timelines pinball wildly. Both impress in roles that see them put aside natural charisma for broken people, whose pain is etched in every grimace. The eccentricities of the film’s look and tone extend to the supporting cast. What Michael Sheen or Laura Linney (A vision in pearls and a Southern-fried accent as Susan’s mother) are doing here is anyone’s guess, but they add undeniable flavours. Best of the bunch is Taylor-Johnson, delivering levels of ever-present menace many would have thought beyond him (Remember him as the leading man in Godzilla? Nope, us neither.)

What Ford has done here, as both writer and director, is remarkable. On the surface, Nocturnal Animals is over-stylized and potentially devoid of empathy. Yet, as it goes on, it forges its own path, keeping the style while making its angst more relatable and palpable. It’s a sleight of hand that’s both blatant in its machinations, yet surprising in its emotional power. The vividness of its colours and the horrors of its violence ensure a place in the memory, but there are levels at work here that mean Nocturnal Animals’ deeper meanings could sneak up on you when you least expect it.

Review: Everybody Wants Some!! (2016)

Director: Richard Linklater

****

This review was originally published on Scannain.com

The title Everybody Wants Some!!, borrowed from the Van Halen song that features on the soundtrack, sums up the freewheeling positivity that rests at the film’s core, as underlined by both exclamation points (Get some! And then get some more!). Following the dramatic heights writer/director Richard Linklater explored in Before Midnight and Boyhood, we get a down-to-earth romp that largely eschews conflict in favour of a breezy pace and genuine characters. As proved in Dazed and Confused (to which this has been rightly deemed a ‘spiritual sequel’), few directors can make a lack of narrative drive work as well as Linklater. There may not be tension, but camaraderie and laughs more than fill the gap.

The film pins its setting down in the opening shot, as freshman baseball player Jake (Blake Jenner) drives his ‘72 Oldsmobile to his new college dorm house. Though set in 1980, the design (Bruce Curtis’ production, Kari Perkins’ costumes) is full of ‘70s touches, as the preceding decade has yet to give way to the next. LPs are still the way to listen to music, the t-shirts are tight and the jeans are still bell-bottomed. There is an investment in all concerned to get the details right, especially on Linklater’s part. The film is based on his own experiences in college as a baseball player, so he knows this milieu and this time. By staying true to his experience, and the characters he’s created, he ensures the film feels fresh, never forced or over the top. We’re watching a bunch of guys hang out, get drunk and chat up girls, with nothing like prejudice or irony getting in their way.

Jake arrives at the dorm to be greeted by nominal alphas Roper (Ryan Guzman) and McReynolds (Tyler Hoechlin, with a ‘tache that makes him resemble the impossible offspring of Matthew McConaughey and Freddie Mercury). These batsmen’s initial standoffishness against this new pitcher threatens to sour proceedings, but they gradually warm to the new freshman in their crew as they prepare to party the weekend away before the new school year starts. Their thawing and acceptance is ultimately what Everybody Wants Some!! is all about: accepting new circumstances and going with it. Jake arrives in the house to find a waterbed filling up, the acrid smell of weed in the air and everyone just being themselves. The battinage between the housemates is sometimes merciless (The naivete of farmboy Beuter (Will Brittain) lends him to being mocked early on), but mostly jovial. Drinks are poured (“Cheers for the beers!”), jokes are told and songs are sung together. It’s a testament to the cast’s chemistry and the cracking soundtrack that you’ll find yourself singing along as the boys put their own spin on ‘Rapper’s Delight’.

Compared other campus comedies, that may trade in basic stereotypes, Everybody Wants Some!! is surprisingly generous in its characterisations and viewpoints. Our central baseball team are not generic athletic jocks; they come with the (allegedly rare) ability to string more than two syllables together and chat with all and sundry that come their way. The boys may be driven by twinned desires for booze and sex, but it never mutates them into sexists or (*shudder*) bros. Instead, Linklater plays with expectations in two clever ways. Firstly, the film spends as much time idealising and ogling its male cast as much as it does the females. The short and tight fashions of the day ensure that eye candy is available for all tastes. The film acts as a celebration of halcyon days, when the sun shines brightly, everyone is attractive and no-one is left out (J. Quinton Johnson’s status as the only African-American in the group is refreshingly unremarked upon). As long as you’re up for some fun, you’re welcome here. Secondly, Linklater mocks the fratty atmos by constantly pitching our cast against each other. Having been thrown together, these athletes feel the need to compete in any way possible, be it table tennis, foosball or drinking. This allows Linklater to undermine the effects of the testosterone-drenched atmosphere with commonsense moments of fun and friendship. As the weekend goes on, the boys drop pretense to partake in the fun to be found in line-dancing and a makeshift mosh pit. Why fight, when you can share a beer? Why berate, when you can advise? It might be idealistic, but you’ll probably be grinning too hard to care.

This vision of college life would have been too hard to swallow were it not for the efforts of the cast. Much as Dazed and Confused put the likes of Ben Affleck and Parker Posey on the map, Everybody Wants Some!! is bound to boost the careers of most of its line-up. Johnson and Wyatt Russell (son of Kurt, playing resident stoner Willoughby) prove immensely amiable foils to the alpha-male stylings of Hoechlin or Guzman. Glen Powell is a frontrunner for MVP, excelling as smooth pack leader Finn, whose confidence never becomes cockiness. By comparison, nominal lead Jenner can seem a little bland at first, but that might be by design. Jake only begins to come into his own when he begins to date theatre major Beverly (Zoey Deutch, another star in the making). True, Beverly is the only major female character in the film, but she’s as full of life and character as any of Jake’s new pals. Their scenes centre on discussions rather than flirtations, with Jenner and Deutch delightfully introducing moments of doubt and tenderness. Everybody Wants Some!! may be a story from one young man’s POV, but it’s a story in which no ill will is borne, and in which all, boys and girls alike, just wanna have fun.

Review: Miles Ahead (2016)

Director: Don Cheadle

**

This review was originally published on Scannain.com

“Don’t call it jazz, man. That’s some made-up word.” This is the advice given by Miles Davis (Don Cheadle) when journalist Dave Brill (Ewan McGregor) attempts to label his music as such (Davis’ suggestion? “It’s social music.”). Similarly, whatever you say about Miles Ahead, don’t call it a biopic. Clearly born of a deep passion for Davis’ music, Miles Ahead takes inspiration from its subject by refusing to cleave to a template. (How anyone can want to stick to standard portrayals of musical lives onscreen after Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story skewered the whole genre is baffling). Yet for all its style and clear admiration, Miles Ahead is stuck in some kind of rut; it sticks to the tune for as long as it can tolerate, and then begins making up completely new notes. It’s daring, but the tune ends up sounding awkward and choppy.

Putting the lives of musicians on film comes with a great degree of prestigious and structural baggage, often seen as a quick way towards awards glory and acclaim. The formula (Early days, success, excess and redemption are covered, in that order) works to a point, but the most memorable films of this ilk are the ones that break the mould. From Amadeus to I’m Not There., musical genius requires filmmaking genius to match. Thus, Cheadle has saddled himself with a particular challenge for his debut behind the camera. We’re introduced to Davis in the film in his retirement of the mid-1970s. More specifically, we’re watching him and Brill being chased down a New York street by an oncoming car with a handgun poking out the window. The concept behind Miles Ahead is a portrayal of Davis as a gangster-like figure, with this particular ‘70s-set foray portraying him as a particularly mean and vicious down-and-out. In the title role, Cheadle immerses himself in the part from the first frame, unafraid to grapple with the abrasiveness and drug-fuelled paranoia that defined Davis in the late 1970s. Of course, this is just half the story. Try as Cheadle might, he is ultimately forced to recourse to flashbacks to the various stages of Davis’ life and career from the early 1940s to the early 1960s.

As reticent as Cheadle might be towards their conventionality, the scenes of Davis’ early career are when Miles Ahead works best. Scenes of Davis in the studio offer glimpses of an artist at once improvisational and in control. All the best art makes that which seems freeform seem effortless, despite the hard work that has gone into making it. Cheadle absolutely nails Davis’ passion whilst playing music, his ease when on stage, and his abrasiveness in most other aspects of his life. Miles Ahead takes care not to smooth its subject’s rough edges. The film boasts plenty of colour and energy, but never at the expense of Davis’ imposing character. Taking the brunt of his tumultuous behaviour is his first wife, Frances Taylor. In the role of Taylor, Emayatzy Corinealdi delivers a breakout performance. This woman gave up a lot out of love, but there is a refusal to paint her as a victim here. Corinealdi’s scenes with Cheadle are the film’s highlights; on this evidence, one can only wish this material might be revisited to present a George-and-Martha-alike standoff. Their moments are when Miles Ahead feels most engaging, not least because these scenes are its most honest.

In the ‘70s segment, Davis finds Brill on his doorstep one morning looking for an interview. A punch to the face, some bumbling and a misunderstanding later, and Davis has Brill in tow to Columbia Records’ offices, pulling a gun on executives for not paying up a previously-agreed retainer. These events are a combination of fact (the retainer), hearsay (Davis’ temper) and all-out fantasy. Brill is a creation of Cheadle and co-writer Steven Baigelman, as is the vast majority of the ‘70s-set events. The eventual theft of a master recording of new material from Davis’ apartment sees Davis and Brill off on a Starsky and Hutch-aping cross-city jaunt to find the culprit (A weasley music producer, played by a miscast Michael Stuhlbarg). This combination of fact and fiction only serves to leave the viewer wishing for these two films and plotlines to be separated. One might have been conventional, and the other just plain odd, but at least they wouldn’t have ended up strangling each other. Miles Ahead’s structure is a manifestation of Cheadle’s commitment to Davis’ improvisational style. This isn’t a jazz biopic; it’s jazz fusion. It’s just a pity that the fusion of genres and plots doesn’t translate into anything approaching harmony.

 

Review: High-Rise (2016)

Director: Ben Wheatley

**

This review was originally published on Scannain.com

The story of a high-tech apartment block slowly falling apart under the weight of shoddy workmanship and crumbling expectations? Critics won’t find a more apt metaphor for reviewing High-Rise than the one supplied by the film itself.

Going through Ben Wheatley’s High-Rise is like a journey though a 40-storey tower block, only in reverse, starting at the top. The plush penthouse is furnished and decorated sumptuously, but it’s only as we work our way down through the structure that the cracks begin to appear. The solid foundation on which all this is built is J.G. Ballard’s 1975 novel, a typically sharp satire on the manipulative effect of modern lifestyles. The various classes and cliques of an ultra-modern apartment block turn on one another in an orgiastic venting of primal urges. Based on that pitch alone, it’s clear that an adaptation was going to be difficult. It needed to be lurid yet sharp, a balance of which few directors would seem capable. When the project was announced, the fact that it was coming from the director of such violently esoteric works as Kill List and A Field In England was comforting. Perhaps this would do justice to the Ballard’s vision, a vision that producer Jeremy Thomas had tried to bring to cinematic life since the novel was first published. This structure is burdened with high hopes.

The first scene suggests success. The film opens, as does the novel, with Dr. Robert Laing (Tom Hiddleston) tucking into the hind leg of a dog. His apartment bears the marks of a long descent from stress-free living into anarchy. Laing, a resident of the 25th floor, is our guide through the morass of a building that was to be a beacon of civilization, as per the designs of architect/penthouse resident Anthony Royal (Jeremy Irons). Irons’ presence (Cast Irons? There’s a gag there somewhere…) and Ballard’s text can’t but evoke allusions to David Cronenberg. Alas, the comparisons do High-Rise few favours. Cronenberg made his own high-rise horror, Shivers, the same year that Ballard’s novel was released. Its vision of a tower block tearing itself apart in a frenzy is barmy fun, but not a lot has changed in the stakes of localized anarchy. Its polished surfaces and gleaming swimming pools can be seen in High-Rise, albeit as much a result of coincidence as influence, but it goes to show that the thematic richness of the novel may have been milked long before now. As if to hammer home the point, Amy Jump’s script locates the action in the late 1970s. This decision allows DoP Laurie Rose and production designer Mark Tildesley to show off their skills. The garish world of shag carpets and yellow kitchen panelling is illuminated by narrow windows and round-funneled lamps. It’s pitch-perfect design for the period, but the 1970s stylings insist on themselves to such an extent that any possibility of modern relevance is smothered in furs.

The greater, and more damaging, Cronenberg-Ballard connection is Crash. The Canadian auteur’s symphorophilic thriller is definitively jet-black, even darker than Ballard’s 1973 tome on which it’s based. The fact the film was made was impressive enough, but then there’s little that compares to Crash in its narrative or its transgressions. Ballard’s eerie architectural detachment can be seen in the works of many artists, from Bret Easton Ellis to David Fincher. The aggressiveness of Wheatley’s earlier works, Down Terrace and Kill List, suggest he could at least grapple with the savagery of High-Rise’s source novel. There’s no lack of bloodshed, but it all happens within an over-designed setting that has little purpose other than to call attention to itself. The affectations of High-Rise, whether the period setting, choppy acting or wandering narrative, deny the film the muscularity it needs to carry home any convincing themes. An early scene sees Dr. Laing giving his medical students a lecture on dissection. As he digs into a cranium, he cartoonishly peels off the face to reveal the skull’s structure. Tonally, this feels far closer to Wheatley’s comic sojourn Sightseers than it ever does to Kill List. The metaphors are there, but High-Rise feels too comic when it should deliver a killer blow.

As Laing, Hiddleston is our way into this complex full of complexes, but he’s perhaps a little too polished and chipper, lacking the menace to sell Laing as just another mind about to succumb to the ego. More watchable are Irons’ hammy omnipotence and Sienna Miller’s unchecked vampishness as Laing’s neighbour/lover Charlotte. The tower block is full of actors with potential, but the potential is only realised on occassion; for every solid Elisabeth Moss, there’s a hammy James Purefoy lurking nearby. The cast’s MVP is Luke Evans, delivering a star turn as Wilder, a lower-dwelling resident and documentarian determined to investigate why the tower’s residents are turning on each other. It’s apt that Evans’ performance is the strongest here; his character is the one in search of the truth, but his eventual failure in that regard is also the failure of High-Rise. There’s never any sense that there’s any good reason architecturally, psychologically or financially for Royal’s sky-high experiment to fail. The second act of the film feels less like a narrative and more like a long montage of power failures, fighting and looting. It all goes on so long that the third act rolls in like an inert piece of fast food, undigested and blatantly artificial. Ballard’s novel brought smarts and shocks; Wheatley barely manages the latter. By the time the voice of Margaret Thatcher crackles on the soundtrack before the credits roll, it’s become clear that High-Rise is stuck in a time warp. That might be a great cue for Portishead to deliver an oddly moving take on ABBA’s ‘S.O.S.’, but it’s not enough of a hook on which to hang a Ballard adaptation. The lights are on, but this block’s been long since vacated.

Review: Midnight Special (2016)

Director: Jeff Nichols

***

This review was originally published on Scannain.com

Look at a trailer or poster for Midnight Special, and the name of one director will spring to mind. It’s unlikely to be that of its own director (and writer) Jeff Nichols, and that’s the way he wants it. When a new generation of directors raised on the movie brats get their hands on sufficient talent and budget, their original influences can dominate the landscape. In the case of Midnight Special, Nichols not only demonstrates a love and knowledge of the work of Steven Spielberg, but reminds us that his work is more than the PG-13-baiting list of favourites that immediately springs to mind. Spielberg’s legacy is determined largely by his capacity to entertain the masses, but this inclination tends to overlook his capacity for dark, adult thrillers. You don’t even have to look to Munich or Bridge of Spies for proof; the Indiana Jones series and Jurassic Park owe some of their reputations to the subversive dark streak that runs through the Bearded One’s CV. Midnight Special borrows its plot from some Spielbergs, and its tone from others, blending them into an effective reclamation of his oeuvre for all audiences.

We open in Sugarland Express territory, with Roy (Michael Shannon) and his friend Lucas (Joel Edgerton) hiding out in a motel, away from the law. With them is Alton (Jaeden Liberher), who Lucas and Roy have just kidnapped from the religious sect led by Calvin Meyer (Sam Shepherd). Like his namesake, Calvin is convinced the future is predetermined, specifically in the multilingual ramblings that periodically emerge from Alton, who has become an oracle to the cult. Alton may or may not be Roy’s son, but that’s as much certainty as we get in the early scenes. The boy is privy to some variety of paranormal abilities, but at first the film is less concerned with his powers than with Roy and Lucas’ efforts to keep him from the cult. As Roy, Lucas and Alton race to get further away, glimpses come and go of Alton’s abilities but, until the climax, Midnight Special plays out for the most part like a chase thriller in the early Spielberg mould (Think Duel or the aforementioned Sugarland Express). Roy and Lucas know of Alton’s abilities, as does Roy’s wife Sarah (Kirsten Dunst). On their trail is FBI investigator Paul Sevier (Adam Driver); much like Sevier, the audience learns of Alton’s abilities and influence second-hand (Ideas of secondhand witness run throughout; even nominal kidnappers Roy and Lucas watch reports of Alton’s abduction on the news). Nichols is too talented a writer and director to show his hand too early, and so builds anticipation by revealing the truth bit by bit. The interviews Sevier conducts with members of the cult hint at a possible armageddon, but even they can only speculate. The thrill comes from the unknown; the growing desire to find out Alton’s identity, be it alien, fallen angel or something else entirely, is Midnight Special’s lifeblood.

Roy helps Alton elude the authorities like Elliot helped E.T., but the narrative isn’t the only thing Midnight Special has in common with Spielberg’s film. The most identifiable trait it shares with his work is the care the characters have for one another. With the sect, the FBI and the military all bearing down on them, the familial bonds at the heart of the film are its most endearing and memorable aspect. Roy, Sarah and Lucas’ concern for Alton is uncynical, unquestioning, and certainly not naive. All are risking their lives for this little boy who may not even be a boy, but their connection to him is all that counts. There are hints that Roy and Sarah’s relationship is recovering from a Spielbergian absent-parent trauma, but it’s never over-elaborate or overplayed. It helps to have fine actors like Dunst and Shannon (The latter impressing in a relatively straight-and-narrow role) playing against Liberher, delivering a likeable turn shorn of any precociousness. Interestingly, Edgerton may be the best of the lot. Between his performance in his directorial debut The Gift and his unpolished everyman turn here, Edgerton is proving to be a subtle chameleon. This cast carry the film along, the gradual build echoing a similar approach to the final reveal in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Midnight Special is pacy, though the final edit is a bit of a mixed bag. Individual moments of tension see Nichols wrangle tension out of proceedings by extending them by a precious few frames before a sudden cut. Yet, individual precision can’t overcome the fact that some supporting characters and plot details are left wanting. Audiences might be left wanting by the eventual reveal; even coming from the director of Take Shelter and Mud, two films that revelled in their final ambiguities, this one will prove divisive.

It’s tricky to argue that Midnight Special does much new with the Spielberg mythos. There are interesting age-reversals at work in some of the roles (Compare Driver’s fresh-faced authority figure with Shannon’s craggy protagonist), but the basic narrative points are a little too indebted to what came before. Still, there’s a simple unabashed magic at work here, recalling a time when ambition and talent worked over predictability. A familiar taste, perhaps, but it’s made from wholesome ingredients.

Review: Triple 9 (2016)

Director: John Hillcoat

**

This review was originally published on Scannain.com

Triple 9 opens on a meeting in a car in an underground location. The participants are a mix of shady cops and ex-marines, shrouded in darkness, the occasional facial feature barely illuminated by a red light outside. The three men in the car, Terrell (Chiwitel Ejiofor), Gabe (Aaron Paul) and Marcus (Anthony Mackie) are going over their planned bank heist. Their four man crew (the fourth being Norman Reedus’ getaway driver Russel) will enter the bank in central Atlanta, sweep through the place, get what they want and leave before the police can arrive. There’s just one problem: no-one’s told these guys there in a second-rate double-cross thriller with pretensions. Haven’t these guys watched Scorsese or Mann? If they did, they’d know this just can’t end well.

The oeuvres of Martin Scorsese and Michael Mann are just two figures in whose shadow Triple 9 skulks. The heists and police procedural aspects are steeped in a moral turpitude that’s nothing new to director John Hillcoat. Granted, Triple 9 doesn’t share or need the same level of bloody-minded decay and destruction as The Proposition or The Road, but it can walk the walk as well as talk the talk. The opening credits establish the cops and robbers in this narrative web; at one point we see mob boss Irina Vlaslov inspect a couple of bound soon-to-be corpses in a car boot. Irina is played by Kate Winslet, chewing the accent and clearly having a lot of fun. Her performance is one of two sources of relatively levity in Triple 9, the other being Woody Harrelson in a typically focused-yet-relaxed drawl as Detective Allen. He’s investigating how Terrell and his crew committed their broad-daylight heist, and for whom they committed it. Allen can’t see how they’re linked to Irina yet, but the film will go to great lengths to resolve itself, even if it takes all too quick a route to get there.

Triple 9 has ambition, but we’ve visited this territory before; there are Training Day-esque crooked cops (no-one plays these kinds of guys quite like Clifton Collins Jr.), a Russian mob straight out of Eastern Promises, and a surfeit of character arcs and plots to try to juggle. Writer Matt Cook is aiming for the grandeur of Heat, but Triple 9 has been compromised somewhere along the way. It clocks in at just under two hours, but there’s an inescapable feeling of lacking. When Irina sends Terrell and co. on another job, more personal stakes get involved. Irina blackmails Terrell into doing her bidding with their familial bond (Gal Gadot gets little to do as Terrell’s ex/Irina’s sister). Moreover, the team decide that they need to pull a ‘Triple 9’ in another part of town (shooting a cop in the line of duty) to distract from their heist elsewhere, and Marcus nominates his new partner Chris (Casey Affleck) as the target. It’s difficult to place whether the script or an overly-tightened edit is to blame, but as enemies turn on allies and vice versa, it’s difficult to muster much enthusiasm. Too many characters are scrambling for oxygen, and while there are solid performances aplenty, there’s nothing in the screenplay to make most of them stand out. Hillcoat at least delivers crunchy action, with a midsection raid on a drug-dealer’s hideout making for riveting viewing. Still, something with this much talent and determination to punch above its weight should be more memorable. By ticking a few too many procedural boxes, Triple 9 sells itself too short.

Review: Deadpool (2016)

Director: Tim Miller

*

This review was originally published on Scannain.com

 If one were to read this critic’s review of Guardians of the Galaxy, you’d find a lament for an edginess that the film thinks it has, but which it ultimately forgoes for superhero formula. To sum up the experience of Deadpool, try reading that GOTG review at the top of your voice. Compared to GOTG, Deadpool has a pottier potty mouth, a sassier swagger and even less originality. But who cares? The young people like seeing sarcastic lunkheads getting seven kinds of crap kicked out them to the strains of DMX, or so it seems. For all that, even the sight of Ryan Reynolds’ titular hero (emphasis on the ‘tit’) getting pummelled couldn’t make Deadpool worth the effort for anyone outside its target market.

(Before we go any further, DMX’s ‘Party Up’ is almost twenty years old. Can we park the whole ‘retro music choices’ lark already? You may think you’re appealing to the hipster audience, filmmakers, but you’re just being naff. Enough already)

(And if you think the interjection of knowing asides like this is annoying, just wait till you see the number of times that fourth wall is bulldozed in Deadpool. ‘Cause, y’know, sarcasm is a higher form of wit, ‘n shit.)

Since fanboys balked at his mistreatment in X-Men Origins: Wolverine, a Deadpool solo project had been mooted and booted a number of times. What has arrived, then, is the Deadpool the fans must have wanted, right? Possibly, if that means a horrible walking id with zero self-consciousness and even less likeability. Likeability is not a prerequisite, but being an anti-hero implies we’re on his side through all his douchebaggery. The woes of Wade Wilson, later to become Deadpool (Reynolds) are hard to care about when even the worst of situations seem to work out for this jerk. Through the oh-so-subtle medium of flashbacks, we watch this renegade tough guy use his sarcasm and muscle mass to intimidate people, and to seduce tart-with-a-heart Vanessa (Morena Baccarin). Their initial flirtations comprise mostly of jokes about their abused childhoods. The only place these two should be heading is to a psychiatrist.

Instead, they’re off to bed, with a montage showing them bumping uglies on various occasions. If your height of wit or commentary sees your central pair swapping roles on International Women’s Day (Get a good mental image there. Yeah, that’s it, there you go.), it’s safe to say you’re not out to please all and any potential audiences. Deadpool wears its R-rating with pride, blending severed body parts, jokes about paedophilia and several doses of smugness into a sickly sludge. All of the ‘naughty’ stuff (That is to say, the silly sex-related stuff that might get undemanding 15-year-olds snickering) might have boasted a little more bite if the film’s anarchic sensibilities had managed to hide its generic structure a little better. Though boasting a smaller budget than other Marvel superhero outings (A flaw the film points out, but that doesn’t excuse the cheapness of its sets or gags), it still cleaves to the origin story template, complete with a weak explanation of the hero’s name, references a-go-go to other heroes in its shared universe (Surely we all inhabit the same universe? Can’t we all just get along?!) and a CG-heavy climax. Throw in a couple of lesser X-Men for support  and a gratuitous Stan Lee cameo, and you’ve got yourself a Marvel movie, but now with 100% extra sass mouth. That sass completely fails to cover up the familiar flavour.

As both lead and producer, Reynolds is clearly invested in this character, and he certainly sells the portrait of Deadpool as ego personified. The problem is the rest of the film loves Deadpool as much as he loves himself. When Wade receives a cancer diagnosis, Vanessa strives much harder to find a conventional cure than he does. He’s then offered a miraculous, but naturally-shady cure by Ed Skrein’s villain, Ajax. The plan goes awry (natch), and Wade ends up with the accelerated healing powers that make him Deadpool, but his initial concern is his scarred and burnt appearance. No-one told this guy that not every superhero can look like Hugh Jackman, who is constantly name-checked in a blurring of realities and timelines that confuses more than it amuses. Feature debut director Tim Miller brings little visual pizazz to proceedings (The bullet time-aping opening credits, in which Miller’s listed as an ‘overpaid tool’, may be the high point), so it’s up to the infantile script and Reynolds’ laidback charm to pick up the slack. It’s the classic Superman problem: how can one feel invested in something that cannot be killed? Superman had some weaknesses, but Deadpool’s only kryptonite is his own inflated sense of self. Not knowing how to do anything else besides placate its protagonist, Deadpool buries itself in blood and one-liners.