Film Reviews Thread
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I'm on a roll, so why stop? 
Name of Film: The Kingdom (Peter Berg, 2007)
It's not every day that I'm stumped by a film...and the Kingdom managed to do it for all the wrong reasons. The plot was straightforward, the camera work - though shakey - was fine, the acting solid - I just simply didn't know what to make of it.
Okay, let's get plot details out the way: Terrorist detonate two bombs in a compound full of foreign oil workers in Saudi Arabia. The first to bring in the rescue teams, the second actually targeting those rescue teams. Thing is, an FBI agent is killed in that second explosion, and thus the FBI back home go into 'revenge' mode. Afraid that that's exactly what it'll be seen as, the higher-ups nix any FBI incursion into Saudi Arabia, but of course, they go ahead and risk it anyway. This puts them on the trail of Abu Hamza, a notorious bomb-maker, terrorist and generally unpleasant bloke. However, when their convoy is attacked, and another of their number kidnapped and tortured, they have to go and get him back.
The films inherent - and most obvious - problem is that it has absolutely no idea what it wants to be. It flits from being an action/drama, to being a political thriller, to a murder/mystery and then back again. The inherent problem with an ADD-suffering movie such as this is that, inevitably, that condition is transposed onto its audience. Thusly, you'll probably only be paying attention when the speakers are spitting gunshots at your ears, and thus will be confused as to just why your ears are being berated so.
Its a problem that doesn't lie with most of the composite parts. In fact, it almost certainly stems from the fact that there are two screenwriters, who appear to have totally different agendas. Most likely - though this is merely speculation on my part - Matthew Michael Carnahan scribed it as a political thriller. Then along comes Michael Mann to...well, 'action it up', so to speak. And thusly, imbue the film with the aforementioned attention disorder.
The thing is, there are some very good things about the film. First and foremost, the core performances - when you actually notice them going on - are rather good. Of particular note is Jennifer Garner. who - above the always excellent Chris Cooper and Jamie Foxx - shines as the damaged femme fatale, who's not just in it for the patriotism. Jason Bateman - king of the memorable movie bit part - actually manages to extend his acting chops to the full 110 minutes, and he's actually rather pleasant company for the duration.
Next, the action sequences - with Mauro Fiore's camera shaking like crazy, but still somehow retaining focus - are brilliantly concieved, and pulse-poundingly executed. Of particular note is the closing portion of the movie, which ditches the politics (well, I suppose FBI agents shooting muslims is political, but whatever...) completely and gets going on the balls to the walls action. It's an almost non-stop action sequence for the final 20-or-so minutes of the film, and it's edge of your seat stuff, from the initial highway shoot-out to a terrifying and brutal three-way brawl with Garner and a hog-tied Bateman on one side, and a rather large, aggresive Saudi on the other. It almost (repeat, almost) makes up for the unfocused first and second acts.
Ultimately, though, you still walk out feeling more than a tad unsatisfied. Perhaps you wanted intrigue...perhaps you wanted some kind of anti-**** (that's, The War Against Terror, by-the-by) commentary, but whatever you wanted from it, it doesn't really deliver it. Which is unfortunate, considering this film had plenty of potential to be an enjoyable autumn time-waster. See it if you've got nothing better to do, or have already seen the Bourne Ultimatum.
Rating Out of 10: 6
Name of Film: The Kingdom (Peter Berg, 2007)
It's not every day that I'm stumped by a film...and the Kingdom managed to do it for all the wrong reasons. The plot was straightforward, the camera work - though shakey - was fine, the acting solid - I just simply didn't know what to make of it.
Okay, let's get plot details out the way: Terrorist detonate two bombs in a compound full of foreign oil workers in Saudi Arabia. The first to bring in the rescue teams, the second actually targeting those rescue teams. Thing is, an FBI agent is killed in that second explosion, and thus the FBI back home go into 'revenge' mode. Afraid that that's exactly what it'll be seen as, the higher-ups nix any FBI incursion into Saudi Arabia, but of course, they go ahead and risk it anyway. This puts them on the trail of Abu Hamza, a notorious bomb-maker, terrorist and generally unpleasant bloke. However, when their convoy is attacked, and another of their number kidnapped and tortured, they have to go and get him back.
The films inherent - and most obvious - problem is that it has absolutely no idea what it wants to be. It flits from being an action/drama, to being a political thriller, to a murder/mystery and then back again. The inherent problem with an ADD-suffering movie such as this is that, inevitably, that condition is transposed onto its audience. Thusly, you'll probably only be paying attention when the speakers are spitting gunshots at your ears, and thus will be confused as to just why your ears are being berated so.
Its a problem that doesn't lie with most of the composite parts. In fact, it almost certainly stems from the fact that there are two screenwriters, who appear to have totally different agendas. Most likely - though this is merely speculation on my part - Matthew Michael Carnahan scribed it as a political thriller. Then along comes Michael Mann to...well, 'action it up', so to speak. And thusly, imbue the film with the aforementioned attention disorder.
The thing is, there are some very good things about the film. First and foremost, the core performances - when you actually notice them going on - are rather good. Of particular note is Jennifer Garner. who - above the always excellent Chris Cooper and Jamie Foxx - shines as the damaged femme fatale, who's not just in it for the patriotism. Jason Bateman - king of the memorable movie bit part - actually manages to extend his acting chops to the full 110 minutes, and he's actually rather pleasant company for the duration.
Next, the action sequences - with Mauro Fiore's camera shaking like crazy, but still somehow retaining focus - are brilliantly concieved, and pulse-poundingly executed. Of particular note is the closing portion of the movie, which ditches the politics (well, I suppose FBI agents shooting muslims is political, but whatever...) completely and gets going on the balls to the walls action. It's an almost non-stop action sequence for the final 20-or-so minutes of the film, and it's edge of your seat stuff, from the initial highway shoot-out to a terrifying and brutal three-way brawl with Garner and a hog-tied Bateman on one side, and a rather large, aggresive Saudi on the other. It almost (repeat, almost) makes up for the unfocused first and second acts.
Ultimately, though, you still walk out feeling more than a tad unsatisfied. Perhaps you wanted intrigue...perhaps you wanted some kind of anti-**** (that's, The War Against Terror, by-the-by) commentary, but whatever you wanted from it, it doesn't really deliver it. Which is unfortunate, considering this film had plenty of potential to be an enjoyable autumn time-waster. See it if you've got nothing better to do, or have already seen the Bourne Ultimatum.
Rating Out of 10: 6
guys...what are the scariest films you could recommend?
preferably something not too slow (e.g. Shinning...which whilst awesome...was a bit slow at times)...for the person who wants to watch them , i quote: "can you get some f* up korean/japanese films"? Any recommendations? im prob gonna obtain 28 days later again, maybe the Omens and Resident Evil? Already seen Jacobs ladder (not scary at all
?), Grudge 2 and 1-2 others. I heard Dead Silence was also scary? What about Hostel/Hills have eyes? those scary? Help will be greatly appreciated.
preferably something not too slow (e.g. Shinning...which whilst awesome...was a bit slow at times)...for the person who wants to watch them , i quote: "can you get some f* up korean/japanese films"? Any recommendations? im prob gonna obtain 28 days later again, maybe the Omens and Resident Evil? Already seen Jacobs ladder (not scary at all
?), Grudge 2 and 1-2 others. I heard Dead Silence was also scary? What about Hostel/Hills have eyes? those scary? Help will be greatly appreciated.
I watched it in the cinema and spent most of it hoping the scary bits would end. 
Dark Water (Jap version) is the scariest film I have seen. I rewatched it last week and it didnt scare me as much but that was down to me already knowing what happens I guess.
Its a very slow builder tho and ideally you need to watch it in the dark with the sound loud.
Hostel is awful - as I keep saying
SAW is worth watchign if you like proper gore tho.
Its a very slow builder tho and ideally you need to watch it in the dark with the sound loud.
Hostel is awful - as I keep saying
SAW is worth watchign if you like proper gore tho.
after watching the first 20mins of The Grudge 2 i was no longer afraid of them...i just sat there on the bring of smiling at the "monsters"...same for the whole of the 1st film. thank you for the suggestions of Dark Water and Devils Backbone and that LPK suggestion...not really sure about Saw though. Anything else?
exocist and blair witch?
Name of Film: Ratatouille (2007, Brad Bird)
There's something truly and wonderfully magical about Pixar. No matter how fantastic their previous instalment was, you can bet your liver, kidneys and gall bladder that their next will at the very least equal it, if not surpass it. And with Ratatouille, you know they've proven the rule after the first ten minutes - of the actual feature, not the absolutely superb short, Lifted, that precedes it; which is worth the entry fee all by its onesies.
Story-wise, it delivers a swift and rather deft middle-finger to all the post-modern irony that's being chucked about in animation these days. Remy lives in the country-side, and dreams of becoming a big city chef; and despite astonishing senses of smell and taste, he's presented with a rather minor hitch - he's a rat, and thusly humans won't let him near a kitchen without attempting to exterminate him. That doesn't stop him from wistfully pining after celebrity chef Auguste Gusteau's creations on television. Eventually, he gets a little too bold for his britches, and gets his whole colony chased away to Paris; and in a series of rather unfortunate mishaps, Remy finds himself washed up below Custeau's high-class restaurant. Cue his run-in with Linguini, a garbage-boy at Gusteau's restaurant; like Remy, he longs to be a chef, only he has none of the skill to do so. The two form an unlikely partnership, and start to wow critics across Paris.
It is, pure and simple, rather brilliant; unashamedly surreal, yet at the same time strangely plausible. And to boot, it's hilarious. From the slapstick antics of Remy controlling Linguini through his...eh...hair - 'this is strangely involuntary!' cries Linguini rather fretfully - to the fantastically choreographed set-pieces; if you don't choke out at least one laugh, you probably forgot to bring along your soul. There's a joy to it, a real sense of fun that a lot of the animated dross these days is lacking.
That's not to say there aren't any rather cranial jokes amidst the lunacy; though they aren't quite as thick and fast, they're still there. The poking fun at critics is both playful and poignant, without the mean-spiritedness that, say, Lady in the Water had; and the moments that have a stab at the French are exactly the same - 'We don't mean to be rude, but we're French!' being an inspired piece of scripting. There's also the superbly fleshed out characters, each one with a unique, and frequently hilarious backstory - including a sous chef who's served time, only no-one knows for sure as to why.
On the technical side - if you actually have time to notice such things whilst your sides are splitting - Pixar have once again produced something of a visual masterpiece. The world they've created is so rich, so full of detail and life, that sometimes I found myself honestly wondering if I wasn't looking at an actual photo of a Parisian corner restaurant, or rain-soaked canal banks. The food, too, looks actually edible; a huge amount of detail has been thrown at that particular aspect, and it really does shine. The end result of this is that it sucks you in - detail has a habit of doing that - and makes you really believe in the characters that populate this rather wonderful world. They've also concocted a clever way of putting across the sense of taste through celluloid; using music and rather colourful pieces of rather abstract animation to show the zings and tangs of cheese, wine and all kinds of other flavours. It's a wonderful idea, and superbly - yet sparingly - applied.
This is not to say, however, that it's all brilliant; my beefs with the movie are three-fold. First, and possibly of least overall consequence, is the visualisation of Paris; which is clearly tainted by the Hollywood view of the city. Everything is so clean, so wonderful, so idyllic; even the sewer below the restaurant has a certain quiet charm to it! But obviously, this is Bird trying to juxtapose Remy's lowly start against what he's aiming for, and thusly is forgivable.
The second, however, really isn't; and that is that outside the core trio of human characters and their pseudo-antagonist - Lou Romano's Linguini, Jeneane Garafolo's Collette, Ian Holm's head-chef Skinner and Peter O'Toole's Anton Ego respectively - the voice talent is rather flat; and given the richness of the lungs being lent to their other outings, this came as something of a disappointment.
The third, and probably my biggest problem, is the ending; if Pixar have ever made a film that called for something of a 'downer-but-we'll-still-be-okay' ending, this was it. Problem is, director/screenwriter Brad Bird somehow found need to douse it with a rather soppy water cannon. It's not a bad ending; I'm just saying a little bleakness, artfully applied might have made it a superior film.
Still, these things are hardly more than minor quibbles; I came out of the cinema with a grin on my face, and strange yearning for the ratatouille dish created at the end of the film. It's a film that's frequently funny, occasionally touching, and will plaster a smile across your face for a good long while afterwards.
Rating Out of 10: 9
There's something truly and wonderfully magical about Pixar. No matter how fantastic their previous instalment was, you can bet your liver, kidneys and gall bladder that their next will at the very least equal it, if not surpass it. And with Ratatouille, you know they've proven the rule after the first ten minutes - of the actual feature, not the absolutely superb short, Lifted, that precedes it; which is worth the entry fee all by its onesies.
Story-wise, it delivers a swift and rather deft middle-finger to all the post-modern irony that's being chucked about in animation these days. Remy lives in the country-side, and dreams of becoming a big city chef; and despite astonishing senses of smell and taste, he's presented with a rather minor hitch - he's a rat, and thusly humans won't let him near a kitchen without attempting to exterminate him. That doesn't stop him from wistfully pining after celebrity chef Auguste Gusteau's creations on television. Eventually, he gets a little too bold for his britches, and gets his whole colony chased away to Paris; and in a series of rather unfortunate mishaps, Remy finds himself washed up below Custeau's high-class restaurant. Cue his run-in with Linguini, a garbage-boy at Gusteau's restaurant; like Remy, he longs to be a chef, only he has none of the skill to do so. The two form an unlikely partnership, and start to wow critics across Paris.
It is, pure and simple, rather brilliant; unashamedly surreal, yet at the same time strangely plausible. And to boot, it's hilarious. From the slapstick antics of Remy controlling Linguini through his...eh...hair - 'this is strangely involuntary!' cries Linguini rather fretfully - to the fantastically choreographed set-pieces; if you don't choke out at least one laugh, you probably forgot to bring along your soul. There's a joy to it, a real sense of fun that a lot of the animated dross these days is lacking.
That's not to say there aren't any rather cranial jokes amidst the lunacy; though they aren't quite as thick and fast, they're still there. The poking fun at critics is both playful and poignant, without the mean-spiritedness that, say, Lady in the Water had; and the moments that have a stab at the French are exactly the same - 'We don't mean to be rude, but we're French!' being an inspired piece of scripting. There's also the superbly fleshed out characters, each one with a unique, and frequently hilarious backstory - including a sous chef who's served time, only no-one knows for sure as to why.
On the technical side - if you actually have time to notice such things whilst your sides are splitting - Pixar have once again produced something of a visual masterpiece. The world they've created is so rich, so full of detail and life, that sometimes I found myself honestly wondering if I wasn't looking at an actual photo of a Parisian corner restaurant, or rain-soaked canal banks. The food, too, looks actually edible; a huge amount of detail has been thrown at that particular aspect, and it really does shine. The end result of this is that it sucks you in - detail has a habit of doing that - and makes you really believe in the characters that populate this rather wonderful world. They've also concocted a clever way of putting across the sense of taste through celluloid; using music and rather colourful pieces of rather abstract animation to show the zings and tangs of cheese, wine and all kinds of other flavours. It's a wonderful idea, and superbly - yet sparingly - applied.
This is not to say, however, that it's all brilliant; my beefs with the movie are three-fold. First, and possibly of least overall consequence, is the visualisation of Paris; which is clearly tainted by the Hollywood view of the city. Everything is so clean, so wonderful, so idyllic; even the sewer below the restaurant has a certain quiet charm to it! But obviously, this is Bird trying to juxtapose Remy's lowly start against what he's aiming for, and thusly is forgivable.
The second, however, really isn't; and that is that outside the core trio of human characters and their pseudo-antagonist - Lou Romano's Linguini, Jeneane Garafolo's Collette, Ian Holm's head-chef Skinner and Peter O'Toole's Anton Ego respectively - the voice talent is rather flat; and given the richness of the lungs being lent to their other outings, this came as something of a disappointment.
The third, and probably my biggest problem, is the ending; if Pixar have ever made a film that called for something of a 'downer-but-we'll-still-be-okay' ending, this was it. Problem is, director/screenwriter Brad Bird somehow found need to douse it with a rather soppy water cannon. It's not a bad ending; I'm just saying a little bleakness, artfully applied might have made it a superior film.
Still, these things are hardly more than minor quibbles; I came out of the cinema with a grin on my face, and strange yearning for the ratatouille dish created at the end of the film. It's a film that's frequently funny, occasionally touching, and will plaster a smile across your face for a good long while afterwards.
Rating Out of 10: 9
Michael Clayton
In recent years, Tony Gilroy has become something of a virtuoso in writing slick, intense, and foremost, smart thrillers. The advertising for his latest outing, "Michael Clayton", tells us "the truth can be adjusted", and the dichotomy of right and wrong, pitted against what is true and false, is an ever-recurrent theme of the majority of Gilroy's other works (including The Devil's Advocate and the Bourne series).
Whilst Jason Bourne veers on the edge of veracity, Clooney's considerably more complex Clayton lands firmly between what he purports to be justifiably distorting the truth (or "fixing", as he calls it), and as becomes his test, exposing the truly wicked, dirt sheet cover-ups of his superiors.
Michael Clayton opens with what one could easily dismiss as an overly-wordy, mightily confusing, dare I say pretentious monologue, and whilst it initially left a sour taste in my mouth, you'll be laughing at yourself twenty-five minutes later as things begin to unravel. This opening scene very much embodies the essence of the film - it mystifies, and might even disgust you briefly (as it unapologetically references sequences later in the film), but once Gilroy's smoke subsides, the film satisfies in every way a film of this ilk should.
From the very outset, Clooney is sure to play his role as calmly and sedately as possible - he even appears to be lacking affect at times, but like the narrative itself, Clooney's titular character is a slow-burner, but when he kicks, he kicks with all the might of a football striker. We learn very quickly that Clayton is a "fixer", deftly cleaning up the messes of his law firm's clients, and in this respect you'd think Clayton might be a bit of a scumbag, but Clooney resists cracking the cocksure smile, and enjoys a seemingly loving relationship with his son, so it's hard to dislike the guy, especially once the credits roll. Furthermore, when you compare Clayton with near enough anyone else in this film, he's a veritable angel.
Clayton is, like many of us, a slave to the wage - he has his own monetary problems, as well as being divorced, but employs a stiff upper lip that doesn't quite put Gary Cooper to shame, but it's not far off. Furthermore, the fact that Clooney is able to pull this off without appearing emotionally shallow is commendable to say the least - Clayton smoulders under the surface, never quite snapping or exploding, but we're made aware that the sour broth is well and truly simmering.
However, as straight-laced as Clooney plays it, he is undoubtedly outfoxed by the brilliant Tom Wilkinson, who plays Clayton's mentally ill colleague with such relentless intensity, such a schooled-tenacity that Clooney's restrained turn-in simply pales in comparison. Wilkinson takes a character that could very well have, given the nature of his crimes, dragged the film down into sheer parody, but he makes the character his own, and quite simply outdoes everyone occupying the screen with him. The fact enough that I have yet to mention Tilda Swinton or Sydney Pollack's roles in this film is a testament to the fact that they are (with no disrespect intended to them), in the greatest sense, entirely ancillary when compared to Wilkinson's attempt.
It is at Wilkinson's arrival that the film gains the traction it was so desperately crying out for, as Clayton is charged with keeping his ill colleague in check, and subsequently uncovering his law firm's macabre attempt to win a class-action lawsuit. The film encounters a tonal shift in its second half, transforming from what was simply a smart legal drama to an invariably more intense outing, as Clayton becomes embroiled in a life-and-death battle of wits, his "way of the pen" pragmatism being pitted against a rather hefty blade. Clayton faces off against the world, against persons more resourceful and more combative than himself, forcing Clayton to wear his thinking cap and do what he does best - use it to rectify a highly volatile situation.
For all of its nail-biting tautness, perhaps the tie-off is a little too neat, and relies on a level of staginess that some viewers will simply scoff at, yet I sympathised with and understood Clayton's motivation so much that I found it largely inconsequent. Coincidence is just one of the many elements abound in the film's closing minutes, yet it isn't so unbelievable as to doom the film entirely, if at all. The final moments end with all the declivity of a Scooby Doo episode, but the rest of this piece is so intelligent and tightly-plotted that one is willing to forgive Gilroy.
Michael Clayton won't provide you with the fantastical imagery of The Devil's Advocate, nor serve up the wildly exaggerated thrills-and-spills of the Bourne series, but as far as Gilroy's writing goes, it could be far, far worse. Indeed, it could be Proof of Life, or it could even dare to be Armageddon. What pushes Clayton steps ahead of its potentially rudimentary material is the performances - Clooney is as steely and enjoyable to watch as always, and Wilkinson is simply unforgettable. The written material may not be Oscar-calibre, but Wilkinson's performance just may well be. If you seek an intelligent tale of morality and intrigue, look no further than Michael Clayton.
Rating: 8/10
In recent years, Tony Gilroy has become something of a virtuoso in writing slick, intense, and foremost, smart thrillers. The advertising for his latest outing, "Michael Clayton", tells us "the truth can be adjusted", and the dichotomy of right and wrong, pitted against what is true and false, is an ever-recurrent theme of the majority of Gilroy's other works (including The Devil's Advocate and the Bourne series).
Whilst Jason Bourne veers on the edge of veracity, Clooney's considerably more complex Clayton lands firmly between what he purports to be justifiably distorting the truth (or "fixing", as he calls it), and as becomes his test, exposing the truly wicked, dirt sheet cover-ups of his superiors.
Michael Clayton opens with what one could easily dismiss as an overly-wordy, mightily confusing, dare I say pretentious monologue, and whilst it initially left a sour taste in my mouth, you'll be laughing at yourself twenty-five minutes later as things begin to unravel. This opening scene very much embodies the essence of the film - it mystifies, and might even disgust you briefly (as it unapologetically references sequences later in the film), but once Gilroy's smoke subsides, the film satisfies in every way a film of this ilk should.
From the very outset, Clooney is sure to play his role as calmly and sedately as possible - he even appears to be lacking affect at times, but like the narrative itself, Clooney's titular character is a slow-burner, but when he kicks, he kicks with all the might of a football striker. We learn very quickly that Clayton is a "fixer", deftly cleaning up the messes of his law firm's clients, and in this respect you'd think Clayton might be a bit of a scumbag, but Clooney resists cracking the cocksure smile, and enjoys a seemingly loving relationship with his son, so it's hard to dislike the guy, especially once the credits roll. Furthermore, when you compare Clayton with near enough anyone else in this film, he's a veritable angel.
Clayton is, like many of us, a slave to the wage - he has his own monetary problems, as well as being divorced, but employs a stiff upper lip that doesn't quite put Gary Cooper to shame, but it's not far off. Furthermore, the fact that Clooney is able to pull this off without appearing emotionally shallow is commendable to say the least - Clayton smoulders under the surface, never quite snapping or exploding, but we're made aware that the sour broth is well and truly simmering.
However, as straight-laced as Clooney plays it, he is undoubtedly outfoxed by the brilliant Tom Wilkinson, who plays Clayton's mentally ill colleague with such relentless intensity, such a schooled-tenacity that Clooney's restrained turn-in simply pales in comparison. Wilkinson takes a character that could very well have, given the nature of his crimes, dragged the film down into sheer parody, but he makes the character his own, and quite simply outdoes everyone occupying the screen with him. The fact enough that I have yet to mention Tilda Swinton or Sydney Pollack's roles in this film is a testament to the fact that they are (with no disrespect intended to them), in the greatest sense, entirely ancillary when compared to Wilkinson's attempt.
It is at Wilkinson's arrival that the film gains the traction it was so desperately crying out for, as Clayton is charged with keeping his ill colleague in check, and subsequently uncovering his law firm's macabre attempt to win a class-action lawsuit. The film encounters a tonal shift in its second half, transforming from what was simply a smart legal drama to an invariably more intense outing, as Clayton becomes embroiled in a life-and-death battle of wits, his "way of the pen" pragmatism being pitted against a rather hefty blade. Clayton faces off against the world, against persons more resourceful and more combative than himself, forcing Clayton to wear his thinking cap and do what he does best - use it to rectify a highly volatile situation.
For all of its nail-biting tautness, perhaps the tie-off is a little too neat, and relies on a level of staginess that some viewers will simply scoff at, yet I sympathised with and understood Clayton's motivation so much that I found it largely inconsequent. Coincidence is just one of the many elements abound in the film's closing minutes, yet it isn't so unbelievable as to doom the film entirely, if at all. The final moments end with all the declivity of a Scooby Doo episode, but the rest of this piece is so intelligent and tightly-plotted that one is willing to forgive Gilroy.
Michael Clayton won't provide you with the fantastical imagery of The Devil's Advocate, nor serve up the wildly exaggerated thrills-and-spills of the Bourne series, but as far as Gilroy's writing goes, it could be far, far worse. Indeed, it could be Proof of Life, or it could even dare to be Armageddon. What pushes Clayton steps ahead of its potentially rudimentary material is the performances - Clooney is as steely and enjoyable to watch as always, and Wilkinson is simply unforgettable. The written material may not be Oscar-calibre, but Wilkinson's performance just may well be. If you seek an intelligent tale of morality and intrigue, look no further than Michael Clayton.
Rating: 8/10
30 Days of Night
David Slade's adaptation of Steve Niles and Ben Templesmith's cult series of horror comics is a curiosity, a film that is certainly uneven, but also a film that swings from cliché-riddled fare to moderately enjoyable shtick. The opening shots, which convey the epic setting of Alaska in the most alluring fashion, instantly remind one of John Carpenter's fantastic remake of The Thing, and provide the hope that Slade can make the most of the snow-kissed environment, just as Carpenter did twenty-five years ago.
It's simply unfortunate that the film is so fickle by its own nature - the protagonist, Eben Oleson (Harnett), is the morally unambiguous Sherriff of the Alaskan town in question, a man far too certain of his own prissy ideals to invite any interest whatsoever. It's not as though one is asking for an anti-hero character either, as that would be just as unsatisfying, but Harnett's character (as well as most of the other characters) lacks depth, and we never really get to know (and therefore empathise with) him. If the "goody-two-shoes" ploy wasn't repugnant enough, Harnett's rather alienating, uninspired acting only reflects how wooden his character is.
As a band of vampires descend upon the quaint town, 30 Days of Night becomes a tiresome exponent of horror film stock elements - the fake-out scares, the red herrings, the strained love story - it's all there in great, despicable abundance. To further ridicule the viewer, the trite love story is interspersed amongst the painfully-slow moving plot. Even as the first human is slaughtered by the vamps, viewers, and moreover, gore-hounds, are cheated out of any excitement through hackneyed editing and antagonists shrouded in darkness. Hell, Slade even threw the "let's have the enemy pace past the foreground whilst our protagonist, in the background, fails to notice" technique in there.
It isn't long before Ben Foster (simply credited as "the stranger") appears on the scene, and is, in a wildly preposterous scene, promptly arrested for attempting to order some fish, of all things. Regardless of how much Foster impressed in 3:10 to Yuma, he, and the lines he's given, are guffaw-inducing, and he even spouts a classic crazy-loon bad omen for good, cheesy measure.
Things eventually do get moving, and what Slade captures best perhaps is the sense of community among the residents of the town, although hasn't the time to dwell on it before the beasts begin slaughtering the town, again, rather frustratingly disguised by deceptive lighting and cinematography. That said, the score is appropriately loud and brash, and certainly adds to the erratic and frenetic atmosphere of the action scenes. As negative as this review appears, the film is full of subtle touches such as this, including deciding to have the vampires speak in their native tongue, subtitling their verbiage - it's something different, and it works.
Scenes of rancid dialogue and cutaway deaths fill a large portion of the middle of the film, accompanied by a largely disinteresting survival story that, when it's not tiresome, borders on ludicrous, such as our protagonist's encounter with an infected child. Furthermore, the film seems to take large leaps in its chronology, and before we know it, it's the eighteenth day of the thirty-day blackout, when I hadn't a clue that they'd moved past the third. Ah, yes, the most logical explanation is that this is a Grindhouse film and it's that dreaded missing reel gimmick again...No? Shucks.
One must return to Harnett's character - the man is a walking cliché - for instance, as another character seeks to take on the vampires in a last stand, Harnett prohibits him, insisting that he do it instead. Throw in a sacrificial death and one of the surviving members becoming infected and you've got what's nothing more than a bog-standard monster flick.
Only in the final third of the film does anything really hit home - the action pieces become more elaborate, and the violence more graphic. In fact, I felt genuine surprise and disgust as one poor individual had his neck dented in by an axe, with Slade down-right refusing to cut away.
As both sides prepare for their last stands amid a fire-fuelled finale, our heroes comes to the chilling realisation of the gravity of their situation, and both this, as well as the epic imagery of the fire and snow, is a nice hark back to Carpenter's aforementioned film. Naturally, the finesse of that film isn't present here, but it's not a bad attempt.
The real kicker for 30 Days of Night comes with its ending - in one sense, it's completely ridiculous, and will invite collective sighs among many cinemagoers. The subsequent payoff, however, is a smart, counter-Hollywood move that, as someone who hasn't read the comics, genuinely surprised and entertained me, and raised my opinion of the picture by a considerable amount.
30 Days of Night is a deeply flawed, unoriginal film, but manages to rectify a sizable portion of its foibles in the final third of the film. At first, the antagonists are cheaply cloaked from our view, their vicious attacks shown only in brief, yet as the film progresses, Slade ratchets both the action and graphic violence up, and despite the disinteresting and two-dimensional characters, delivers some surprises along the way. Slade's film does little to shake up the horror genre, but is purportedly faithful to the comics, and that should be enough for fans of both the source material and the genre in general.
Rating: 5/10
David Slade's adaptation of Steve Niles and Ben Templesmith's cult series of horror comics is a curiosity, a film that is certainly uneven, but also a film that swings from cliché-riddled fare to moderately enjoyable shtick. The opening shots, which convey the epic setting of Alaska in the most alluring fashion, instantly remind one of John Carpenter's fantastic remake of The Thing, and provide the hope that Slade can make the most of the snow-kissed environment, just as Carpenter did twenty-five years ago.
It's simply unfortunate that the film is so fickle by its own nature - the protagonist, Eben Oleson (Harnett), is the morally unambiguous Sherriff of the Alaskan town in question, a man far too certain of his own prissy ideals to invite any interest whatsoever. It's not as though one is asking for an anti-hero character either, as that would be just as unsatisfying, but Harnett's character (as well as most of the other characters) lacks depth, and we never really get to know (and therefore empathise with) him. If the "goody-two-shoes" ploy wasn't repugnant enough, Harnett's rather alienating, uninspired acting only reflects how wooden his character is.
As a band of vampires descend upon the quaint town, 30 Days of Night becomes a tiresome exponent of horror film stock elements - the fake-out scares, the red herrings, the strained love story - it's all there in great, despicable abundance. To further ridicule the viewer, the trite love story is interspersed amongst the painfully-slow moving plot. Even as the first human is slaughtered by the vamps, viewers, and moreover, gore-hounds, are cheated out of any excitement through hackneyed editing and antagonists shrouded in darkness. Hell, Slade even threw the "let's have the enemy pace past the foreground whilst our protagonist, in the background, fails to notice" technique in there.
It isn't long before Ben Foster (simply credited as "the stranger") appears on the scene, and is, in a wildly preposterous scene, promptly arrested for attempting to order some fish, of all things. Regardless of how much Foster impressed in 3:10 to Yuma, he, and the lines he's given, are guffaw-inducing, and he even spouts a classic crazy-loon bad omen for good, cheesy measure.
Things eventually do get moving, and what Slade captures best perhaps is the sense of community among the residents of the town, although hasn't the time to dwell on it before the beasts begin slaughtering the town, again, rather frustratingly disguised by deceptive lighting and cinematography. That said, the score is appropriately loud and brash, and certainly adds to the erratic and frenetic atmosphere of the action scenes. As negative as this review appears, the film is full of subtle touches such as this, including deciding to have the vampires speak in their native tongue, subtitling their verbiage - it's something different, and it works.
Scenes of rancid dialogue and cutaway deaths fill a large portion of the middle of the film, accompanied by a largely disinteresting survival story that, when it's not tiresome, borders on ludicrous, such as our protagonist's encounter with an infected child. Furthermore, the film seems to take large leaps in its chronology, and before we know it, it's the eighteenth day of the thirty-day blackout, when I hadn't a clue that they'd moved past the third. Ah, yes, the most logical explanation is that this is a Grindhouse film and it's that dreaded missing reel gimmick again...No? Shucks.
One must return to Harnett's character - the man is a walking cliché - for instance, as another character seeks to take on the vampires in a last stand, Harnett prohibits him, insisting that he do it instead. Throw in a sacrificial death and one of the surviving members becoming infected and you've got what's nothing more than a bog-standard monster flick.
Only in the final third of the film does anything really hit home - the action pieces become more elaborate, and the violence more graphic. In fact, I felt genuine surprise and disgust as one poor individual had his neck dented in by an axe, with Slade down-right refusing to cut away.
As both sides prepare for their last stands amid a fire-fuelled finale, our heroes comes to the chilling realisation of the gravity of their situation, and both this, as well as the epic imagery of the fire and snow, is a nice hark back to Carpenter's aforementioned film. Naturally, the finesse of that film isn't present here, but it's not a bad attempt.
The real kicker for 30 Days of Night comes with its ending - in one sense, it's completely ridiculous, and will invite collective sighs among many cinemagoers. The subsequent payoff, however, is a smart, counter-Hollywood move that, as someone who hasn't read the comics, genuinely surprised and entertained me, and raised my opinion of the picture by a considerable amount.
30 Days of Night is a deeply flawed, unoriginal film, but manages to rectify a sizable portion of its foibles in the final third of the film. At first, the antagonists are cheaply cloaked from our view, their vicious attacks shown only in brief, yet as the film progresses, Slade ratchets both the action and graphic violence up, and despite the disinteresting and two-dimensional characters, delivers some surprises along the way. Slade's film does little to shake up the horror genre, but is purportedly faithful to the comics, and that should be enough for fans of both the source material and the genre in general.
Rating: 5/10
Things We Lost in the Fire (2007, Susanne Bier)
Halle Berry is a great actress when she wants to be, yet has encountered a distinct poverty of meaty roles in recent years, instead opting for high-budget, high-concept studio pictures. Alas, "Things We Lost in the Fire" is something of a salvation for the actress who performed so memorably in Monsters Ball. Alongside the ever-brilliant Benicio Del Toro, Berry reminds us here that she can add dimension to a character, herein conveying an unrestrained sense of heartbreak with maturity and fiery zest.
The central theme of the film is coping, and moreover, surmounting one's problems, as Audrey Burke (Berry) experiences the irredeemable loss of her husband, Steven (Duchovny). Audrey is struggling to deal with her loss, even neglecting to let people know of the tragedy. The picture Bier paints is a highly authentic depiction of the fallout surrounding catastrophic loss, and amazingly, she also succeeds in engaging the viewer.
Jerry Sunborne (Del Toro), a long-time friend of Steven's, is a picture of depravity himself - a Heroin addict, yet, particularly in his interactions with Steven and Audrey's children, is a rather likable fellow. Del Toro narrowly manages to sidestep the clichéd "addict with a heart of gold" routine, remaining just distant enough to rouse a little unease.
At Steven's wake, and through a series of flashbacks, we gather the impression, at least at first, that he was nothing short of a Saint, and enjoyed a flawlessly happy family life. Fortunately, Bier employs the good sense to add layers to this dynamic, introducing a conflicting force, who happens to be Jerry himself. Steven was relentless in helping Jerry quit drugs, even visiting him at the sacrifice of his own family's happiness. In his life, Steven was wedged firmly between his decades-long friendship, and his family - it's a conundrum which spins the web that the rest of the film clings to.
Naturally, the death of Steven, the only stabilising force in his life, hits Jerry hard, violently knocking him off of the wagon. Furthermore, this occurs at a time at which Audrey, who seems to have few, if any friends, needs an emotional crutch - her family life is extremely strained, and she needs Jerry as an outlet, yet he is himself battling the uphill struggle of recovery.
In what is a materially strange spin, Audrey asks Jerry to move into the house, and in an even more bizarre spin, Audrey isn't offering it as charity - she is in fact taking charity from Jerry, who offers his company to help rebuild her life, and vicariously, rebuild his own.
As such, Bier, with all the subtlety of a mortar strike, postulates the possibility of Jerry becoming a surrogate patriarch to this now-fractured family unit. Thus, there is the standoff - two down-and-outters attempting to rebuild their lives, whilst one battles a drug addiction and the other the constrictions of raising a family.
The relationship between Jerry and Audrey is an incredibly curious one - she almost seems to use him at times, at one point quite literally utilising him as a substitute for her husband. Does Jerry feel as though he's betraying his deceased friend? Even though there's little-to-no sexual tension, the situation is unabatedly awkward, and it's clear what is ticking over in Jerry's mind. Curiously, though, Audrey brings Jerry his clothes, as well as breakfast every morning, and perhaps she feels the need to fill the void left by her widowdom.
The idea of Jerry serving as a surrogate is posited in very clear terms - Bier fortunately hazards no attempt to shy away from or disguise this fact, and the viewer feels less insulted as a result. Naturally, this angle forms the film's central, and ultimate conflict - Jerry simultaneously fights his habit and tries his hardest with Audrey's children, even accidentally upstaging his departed friend in one instance.
This dynamic is a test of the cohesiveness of this new, synthesised unit - Audrey is grief-stricken and angry, and this battles against Jerry's genuine attempts to help her cope with the transition of her new life, and as such aid himself. Together they stand, and divided they fall - Audrey's growing ambivalence causes Jerry to lose his own grip, and this co-dependence is almost systematic in its prevalence - one falters and the other does so almost immediately.
As cinematically accomplished as Things We Lost in the Fire Is, as the situation becomes more depraved, Bier manages to retain a certain grittiness, with our characters briefly foraying into the seedy, drug-addled underbelly of their town. Del Toro's performance is equally gritty and authentic as he attempts to once-and-for-all conquer his demons - his Jerry is as heartbreaking as he is well-acted.
The film does begin to lose its steam in the final scenes, namely with an overly-sentimental dinner scene, yet steamrolls this with one of marked intensity, showcasing Berry's acting chops at their most mature and schooled, thus allowing much-needed catharsis for her character.
By its end, Things We Lost in the Fire does become too bogged down in predictable sentimentality, but in the overall scheme of the narrative, it never takes a melodramatic, or predictable sexualised approach to the friendship between Jerry and Audrey. This is a story of friendship, overcoming demons, and coping with loss - nothing more sensationalised than that.
An Oscar contender this film should not be considered, yet it still retains a noted authenticity, as well as allowing Berry in particular to deliver one of the finest acting roles of her career. This film is compelling thanks to its avoidance of contrivances that lesser films would have exploited, and should be commended for that.
Rating: 7/10
Halle Berry is a great actress when she wants to be, yet has encountered a distinct poverty of meaty roles in recent years, instead opting for high-budget, high-concept studio pictures. Alas, "Things We Lost in the Fire" is something of a salvation for the actress who performed so memorably in Monsters Ball. Alongside the ever-brilliant Benicio Del Toro, Berry reminds us here that she can add dimension to a character, herein conveying an unrestrained sense of heartbreak with maturity and fiery zest.
The central theme of the film is coping, and moreover, surmounting one's problems, as Audrey Burke (Berry) experiences the irredeemable loss of her husband, Steven (Duchovny). Audrey is struggling to deal with her loss, even neglecting to let people know of the tragedy. The picture Bier paints is a highly authentic depiction of the fallout surrounding catastrophic loss, and amazingly, she also succeeds in engaging the viewer.
Jerry Sunborne (Del Toro), a long-time friend of Steven's, is a picture of depravity himself - a Heroin addict, yet, particularly in his interactions with Steven and Audrey's children, is a rather likable fellow. Del Toro narrowly manages to sidestep the clichéd "addict with a heart of gold" routine, remaining just distant enough to rouse a little unease.
At Steven's wake, and through a series of flashbacks, we gather the impression, at least at first, that he was nothing short of a Saint, and enjoyed a flawlessly happy family life. Fortunately, Bier employs the good sense to add layers to this dynamic, introducing a conflicting force, who happens to be Jerry himself. Steven was relentless in helping Jerry quit drugs, even visiting him at the sacrifice of his own family's happiness. In his life, Steven was wedged firmly between his decades-long friendship, and his family - it's a conundrum which spins the web that the rest of the film clings to.
Naturally, the death of Steven, the only stabilising force in his life, hits Jerry hard, violently knocking him off of the wagon. Furthermore, this occurs at a time at which Audrey, who seems to have few, if any friends, needs an emotional crutch - her family life is extremely strained, and she needs Jerry as an outlet, yet he is himself battling the uphill struggle of recovery.
In what is a materially strange spin, Audrey asks Jerry to move into the house, and in an even more bizarre spin, Audrey isn't offering it as charity - she is in fact taking charity from Jerry, who offers his company to help rebuild her life, and vicariously, rebuild his own.
As such, Bier, with all the subtlety of a mortar strike, postulates the possibility of Jerry becoming a surrogate patriarch to this now-fractured family unit. Thus, there is the standoff - two down-and-outters attempting to rebuild their lives, whilst one battles a drug addiction and the other the constrictions of raising a family.
The relationship between Jerry and Audrey is an incredibly curious one - she almost seems to use him at times, at one point quite literally utilising him as a substitute for her husband. Does Jerry feel as though he's betraying his deceased friend? Even though there's little-to-no sexual tension, the situation is unabatedly awkward, and it's clear what is ticking over in Jerry's mind. Curiously, though, Audrey brings Jerry his clothes, as well as breakfast every morning, and perhaps she feels the need to fill the void left by her widowdom.
The idea of Jerry serving as a surrogate is posited in very clear terms - Bier fortunately hazards no attempt to shy away from or disguise this fact, and the viewer feels less insulted as a result. Naturally, this angle forms the film's central, and ultimate conflict - Jerry simultaneously fights his habit and tries his hardest with Audrey's children, even accidentally upstaging his departed friend in one instance.
This dynamic is a test of the cohesiveness of this new, synthesised unit - Audrey is grief-stricken and angry, and this battles against Jerry's genuine attempts to help her cope with the transition of her new life, and as such aid himself. Together they stand, and divided they fall - Audrey's growing ambivalence causes Jerry to lose his own grip, and this co-dependence is almost systematic in its prevalence - one falters and the other does so almost immediately.
As cinematically accomplished as Things We Lost in the Fire Is, as the situation becomes more depraved, Bier manages to retain a certain grittiness, with our characters briefly foraying into the seedy, drug-addled underbelly of their town. Del Toro's performance is equally gritty and authentic as he attempts to once-and-for-all conquer his demons - his Jerry is as heartbreaking as he is well-acted.
The film does begin to lose its steam in the final scenes, namely with an overly-sentimental dinner scene, yet steamrolls this with one of marked intensity, showcasing Berry's acting chops at their most mature and schooled, thus allowing much-needed catharsis for her character.
By its end, Things We Lost in the Fire does become too bogged down in predictable sentimentality, but in the overall scheme of the narrative, it never takes a melodramatic, or predictable sexualised approach to the friendship between Jerry and Audrey. This is a story of friendship, overcoming demons, and coping with loss - nothing more sensationalised than that.
An Oscar contender this film should not be considered, yet it still retains a noted authenticity, as well as allowing Berry in particular to deliver one of the finest acting roles of her career. This film is compelling thanks to its avoidance of contrivances that lesser films would have exploited, and should be commended for that.
Rating: 7/10
Sicko (2007, Michael Moore)
Love or hate Michael Moore, it’s difficult to deny that he knows how to make a persuasive, and more to the point, entertaining documentary. Whilst his Fahrenheit 9/11 was far less compelling than the wildly witty Bowling for Columbine, Moore’s latest film, Sicko, a scathing commentary on the American health-care system, seeks to return Moore’s acerbic wit and relent in pushing the political trundle-wheel.
Moore’s jovial tone is very much abundant mere moments into Sicko, highlighting the absurdity of the American health care system with his customary whimsical flair – the fact that a man had to, through financial constraints, choose to re-attach only one of his two severed fingers, is both disgusting and preposterous. Thus, Sicko is a darkly comic pastiche, a sprawling portrait of a number of deeply unfortunate individuals dealt a foul hand by the health-care system, voiced by Moore’s usual sarcasm and inquisitive sentiment.
The film also seeks to infiltrate those within the insurance and health-care industry. Do all of these persons advocate the unfair conditions of the system itself? No, and Moore is smart enough to reflect this balance – we meet the seedy, dirt-slinging bureaucrats, as well as the sympathetic individuals who are themselves disgusted with the current system.
Moore is masterful in his exposition of the down-right disturbing – those in positions of power in this system are gambling with people’s lives – the stories we are told are truly heartbreaking, and one must question the morality of those high up in the industry. As the few individuals with consciences step forward to atone for their acts, Moore asks us – what is the price of a life?
Perhaps Sicko’s only faux pas is its insistence to approach the rather disinteresting conspiracy angle. Fortunately, Moore doesn’t dwell on it long enough to become trite and tiresome, promptly returning to the real meat of the documentary – the very intimate, personal, and touching stories.
Whilst it serves Moore well to consider the health-services of other nations, such as Canada, the United Kingdom and France, Moore’s visits to these locales are fleeting and serve as little more than supporting statements to his original argument. Moore fails to point out any inherent flaws in these systems, but he can be forgiven considering that, even with their flaws, these systems clearly put the American one to shame. As Moore points out – the French, even with their penchant for fatty foods and wine, live longer (on average) than Americans. Their health care system, compared even to the British and Canadian systems, is delightful, second to none.
Furthermore, I have to commend Moore’s attempt to usurp the antagonistic relationship between the French and Americans, even positing that “perhaps we’re told to hate the French because we might like what we see”. It’s a wonderful concept, and considering the diametric opposition of their respective health-care systems, the precept holds a surprising amount of weight.
Moore does wield an emotional meat-hook in the latter parts of the film, introducing us to a number of maltreated September 11th voluntary rescue workers, yet the nature of their work is ancillary to the point Moore is making, and the point he makes (that not even rescue workers can receive adequate health-care) is highly relevant, and moreover, highly disturbing. Moore possesses the intellect not to dwell on the actual events of September 11th, and even when he does so, it is contrasted with a considerably more substantial loss – the tens of thousands of Allied soldiers lost in World War 2. Never does Sicko become a sickeningly-patriotic or jingoistic attempt to validate the American tradition, nor douse itself in political values – Moore, for the most part, tells it how it is, with little bias and genuine sympathy.
Moore is no stranger to making bombastic, overblown statements, and Sicko is no different – he illustrates the irony of the American system by visiting Guantanamo Bay, whereby suspected terrorists receive greater health-care than the aforementioned rescue workers. Moore takes his point to its most ironic, hilarious and extreme, yet once again, he raises a valid point, doing so in a way that is both memorable and easy to digest.
In less cartoonish fashion, Moore and his cohorts visit Cuba, where a considerably more worrying and taxing question is raised – in a country with only a fraction of the resources of America, how is it that everyone can receive adequate, affordable health-care, whilst Americans still struggle? It raises questions about the bureaucracy of the American system, and for a fleeting moment, causes Moore’s conspiracy theories to seem slightly less futile. Moore’s visit to Cuba, through its shocking slap to the American face, disgusts, and frankly leads one to enjoy residing outside of America.
By its end, Sicko does delve into sentimentality, rather dramatically displaying a stagey meeting between the Cuban fire service and the American voluntary rescue workers. Yes, it borders on saccharine, and diverges almost entirely from the purpose of Moore’s documentary, yet as with the French instance, it seeks to bridge the cultural gap and say “we’re all human beings, and we’re all in the same boat”. It’s a nice idea, and whilst Moore needn’t break out the violins like he almost does, it doesn’t leave too sour a taste in the mouth, and certainly doesn’t last for too long.
Michael Moore’s Sicko is a very inverse, inward criticism of America’s health-care system. As with even Bowling For Columbine, it’s not perfect – Moore omits certain facts in lieu of fast-paced, memorable sound-bytes, but his various set pieces are more often than not amusingly unforgettable, as well as entirely relevant. Sicko delivers a crushing blow to the current system, and very clearly illustrates that this system is in much need of an overhaul. Moore’s finest moments are the personal ones, speaking to those well and truly devastated by the existing precedent, and they certainly provide the most weight to his cause. Moore is a true voice of our time, and his latest polemic is a welcome instalment.
Rating: 9/10
Love or hate Michael Moore, it’s difficult to deny that he knows how to make a persuasive, and more to the point, entertaining documentary. Whilst his Fahrenheit 9/11 was far less compelling than the wildly witty Bowling for Columbine, Moore’s latest film, Sicko, a scathing commentary on the American health-care system, seeks to return Moore’s acerbic wit and relent in pushing the political trundle-wheel.
Moore’s jovial tone is very much abundant mere moments into Sicko, highlighting the absurdity of the American health care system with his customary whimsical flair – the fact that a man had to, through financial constraints, choose to re-attach only one of his two severed fingers, is both disgusting and preposterous. Thus, Sicko is a darkly comic pastiche, a sprawling portrait of a number of deeply unfortunate individuals dealt a foul hand by the health-care system, voiced by Moore’s usual sarcasm and inquisitive sentiment.
The film also seeks to infiltrate those within the insurance and health-care industry. Do all of these persons advocate the unfair conditions of the system itself? No, and Moore is smart enough to reflect this balance – we meet the seedy, dirt-slinging bureaucrats, as well as the sympathetic individuals who are themselves disgusted with the current system.
Moore is masterful in his exposition of the down-right disturbing – those in positions of power in this system are gambling with people’s lives – the stories we are told are truly heartbreaking, and one must question the morality of those high up in the industry. As the few individuals with consciences step forward to atone for their acts, Moore asks us – what is the price of a life?
Perhaps Sicko’s only faux pas is its insistence to approach the rather disinteresting conspiracy angle. Fortunately, Moore doesn’t dwell on it long enough to become trite and tiresome, promptly returning to the real meat of the documentary – the very intimate, personal, and touching stories.
Whilst it serves Moore well to consider the health-services of other nations, such as Canada, the United Kingdom and France, Moore’s visits to these locales are fleeting and serve as little more than supporting statements to his original argument. Moore fails to point out any inherent flaws in these systems, but he can be forgiven considering that, even with their flaws, these systems clearly put the American one to shame. As Moore points out – the French, even with their penchant for fatty foods and wine, live longer (on average) than Americans. Their health care system, compared even to the British and Canadian systems, is delightful, second to none.
Furthermore, I have to commend Moore’s attempt to usurp the antagonistic relationship between the French and Americans, even positing that “perhaps we’re told to hate the French because we might like what we see”. It’s a wonderful concept, and considering the diametric opposition of their respective health-care systems, the precept holds a surprising amount of weight.
Moore does wield an emotional meat-hook in the latter parts of the film, introducing us to a number of maltreated September 11th voluntary rescue workers, yet the nature of their work is ancillary to the point Moore is making, and the point he makes (that not even rescue workers can receive adequate health-care) is highly relevant, and moreover, highly disturbing. Moore possesses the intellect not to dwell on the actual events of September 11th, and even when he does so, it is contrasted with a considerably more substantial loss – the tens of thousands of Allied soldiers lost in World War 2. Never does Sicko become a sickeningly-patriotic or jingoistic attempt to validate the American tradition, nor douse itself in political values – Moore, for the most part, tells it how it is, with little bias and genuine sympathy.
Moore is no stranger to making bombastic, overblown statements, and Sicko is no different – he illustrates the irony of the American system by visiting Guantanamo Bay, whereby suspected terrorists receive greater health-care than the aforementioned rescue workers. Moore takes his point to its most ironic, hilarious and extreme, yet once again, he raises a valid point, doing so in a way that is both memorable and easy to digest.
In less cartoonish fashion, Moore and his cohorts visit Cuba, where a considerably more worrying and taxing question is raised – in a country with only a fraction of the resources of America, how is it that everyone can receive adequate, affordable health-care, whilst Americans still struggle? It raises questions about the bureaucracy of the American system, and for a fleeting moment, causes Moore’s conspiracy theories to seem slightly less futile. Moore’s visit to Cuba, through its shocking slap to the American face, disgusts, and frankly leads one to enjoy residing outside of America.
By its end, Sicko does delve into sentimentality, rather dramatically displaying a stagey meeting between the Cuban fire service and the American voluntary rescue workers. Yes, it borders on saccharine, and diverges almost entirely from the purpose of Moore’s documentary, yet as with the French instance, it seeks to bridge the cultural gap and say “we’re all human beings, and we’re all in the same boat”. It’s a nice idea, and whilst Moore needn’t break out the violins like he almost does, it doesn’t leave too sour a taste in the mouth, and certainly doesn’t last for too long.
Michael Moore’s Sicko is a very inverse, inward criticism of America’s health-care system. As with even Bowling For Columbine, it’s not perfect – Moore omits certain facts in lieu of fast-paced, memorable sound-bytes, but his various set pieces are more often than not amusingly unforgettable, as well as entirely relevant. Sicko delivers a crushing blow to the current system, and very clearly illustrates that this system is in much need of an overhaul. Moore’s finest moments are the personal ones, speaking to those well and truly devastated by the existing precedent, and they certainly provide the most weight to his cause. Moore is a true voice of our time, and his latest polemic is a welcome instalment.
Rating: 9/10
Saw IV (2007, Darren Lynn Bousman)
I have tolerated, and dare I say, thoroughly enjoyed the “Saw” series up to this point – with the voluminous amounts of gore, the abject morality, and most of all, the outrageous, preposterous twists, the series served to revive the long-stale horror thriller genre. Unfortunately, by its fourth instalment, Saw has become a dead, flogged horse in of itself – it hasn’t quite become a parody yet, but the final five minutes of Saw IV are so audacious, so complacent in their mockery of the viewer that the eighty solid preceding minutes are almost nullified entirely. Leigh Whannell, writer of the first three Saw films, is absent from this fourth instalment, and it is abundantly, painfully clear.
Following the electrifying finale of the third film (which served as the natural ending to the series), Jigsaw (Tobin Bell) and his accomplice Amanda (Shawnee Smith) are now dead. Jeff (Angus Macfayden), the protagonist of the film, was left trapped, set to play another game in order to save his daughter’s life.
Saw IV’s opening scene (which is also its best) is Jigsaw’s gruesome autopsy (featuring impressive special effects, no less), with returning helmer Darren Lynn Bousman choosing rather interestingly to shoot the scene in monochrome, allowing even greater contrast for Jigsaw’s crimson viscera. It is at this moment that a tape coated in wax is discovered in Jigsaw’s stomach, setting in motion another series of games, but not in any way you could possibly imagine.
As you can expect, an array of fresh faces are thrown into the mix, no doubt serving as protagonists for the fifth and sixth Saw films which, regrettably, have already been greenlit. Whilst they’re largely arbitrary characters, one Agent Strahm (Scott Paterson) is of mild interest, and certainly looks the part as the abrasive, impassioned officer that he is. The film’s one true mystery is postulated very early on – evidence suggests that Jigsaw and Amanda had been grooming another accomplice. It’s a scenario that will intrigue, confuse, and ultimately frustrate many Saw fans, but up until the final moments, Bousman leads us on a welcome deception, merely faltering at the final hurdle.
Fan favourite Sergeant Rigg (Lyriq Bent), who made fleeting appearances in Saw II and Saw III, is now the object of Jigsaw’s virulent life lessons, kidnapped and given ninety minutes to save the life of an old friend. From this point, Saw IV serves to follow Rigg as he trots around a number of grotty locations, intercut with the investigating officers’ attempts to track him down, and uncover who the next apprentice is. Formulaic it may by now be, but it’s enough to keep fans of the series glued to their seats, and that’s exactly what these films are about – fan service.
Perhaps I’m desensitised, yet I simply didn’t find Saw IV to be that vile. Yes, the opening autopsy scene will leave some cinemagoers gasping, yet CG spurts of blood in later scenes are never as terrifying as squibs, and much of the violence is spliced together at such a frenzied, hyperactive pace that you’ll have to wait for the DVD in order to search for those important severed limbs and headless stumps. No doubt, an unrated DVD is on the horizon, yet would it have hurt for the film to have been given an NC-17 rating rather than the comparatively tame R certification? I guess it would have.
As much the “everyman” as Rigg can endeavour to be, and by no fault of actor Lyriq Bent, some of his actions seem rather awkward and uncharacteristic. For instance, at once stage, Rigg could very well save a woman from a precarious situation, yet, as Jigsaw instructs him, leaves her to save herself. Through the logic of the film’s final twist, it would not have been possible for the new accomplice to have been watching Rigg at this stage, and so not only could he have rescued the woman, but also summoned the authorities. It’s frustrating, to say the least.
Ideologically speaking, Jigsaw’s methods appear to be faltering also – his mantra, whilst still ridiculous, at least made some sense in earlier instalments, whilst in this film, a number of poor saps are dealt unfair, unwarranted ends, often with no explanation as to their crimes, and at other times, for no apparent, justifiable reason. That said, in what is one of the more interesting aspects of Saw IV, we learn a great deal more about Jigsaw’s life before his torturous crusade began – we learn what truly drove him to these means, yet it arguably serves to denigrate his integrity. After watching Saw IV, you may think of Jigsaw less as an omnipresent, twisted genius, and more as a depressed psychopath.
The Saw series both relies, and thrives on convergent, all-encompassing finales, and the fourth entry into the series is no different. A number of different angles – some returning characters, our obsessed protagonist, and of course, the elusive accomplice - meet for the “final test”, which begins promisingly, effortlessly laying waste to and otherwise incapacitating half of the characters we’ve been following for the last 80 minutes.
Where the film falls apart is in its closing moments – the Saw films revel in gloriously deceiving the viewer, yet Saw IV doesn’t gloriously deceive as much as it shamelessly swindles. The final test is telegraphed in such a way that it near enough guarantees total annihilation of everyone involved, and worse still, as audaciously as anyone could ever be, the person behind it all along steps out from the shadows, utters “game over”, and saunters off, damning not just the pile of bodies in their wake, but the thoroughly disgusted audience aswell.
The film’s final test was all about patience, but by the end credits, I’d well and truly had it with Saw IV – for all of its logical fallacies and overly-frenetic editing, I could tolerate them in lieu of the film’s insulting ending, which presents an entirely non-sensical individual to continue Jigsaw’s work. It almost feels as though Darren Lynn Bousman is laughing at us, and frankly, I don’t get the joke. Saw IV’s great irony, and simultaneously, Liongate’s smartest marketing ploy, is that the series needs another sequel, if only to rectify this film’s almighty blunder, as well as finally deliver the answers that Bousman promised, and failed to.
Rating: 6/10
I have tolerated, and dare I say, thoroughly enjoyed the “Saw” series up to this point – with the voluminous amounts of gore, the abject morality, and most of all, the outrageous, preposterous twists, the series served to revive the long-stale horror thriller genre. Unfortunately, by its fourth instalment, Saw has become a dead, flogged horse in of itself – it hasn’t quite become a parody yet, but the final five minutes of Saw IV are so audacious, so complacent in their mockery of the viewer that the eighty solid preceding minutes are almost nullified entirely. Leigh Whannell, writer of the first three Saw films, is absent from this fourth instalment, and it is abundantly, painfully clear.
Following the electrifying finale of the third film (which served as the natural ending to the series), Jigsaw (Tobin Bell) and his accomplice Amanda (Shawnee Smith) are now dead. Jeff (Angus Macfayden), the protagonist of the film, was left trapped, set to play another game in order to save his daughter’s life.
Saw IV’s opening scene (which is also its best) is Jigsaw’s gruesome autopsy (featuring impressive special effects, no less), with returning helmer Darren Lynn Bousman choosing rather interestingly to shoot the scene in monochrome, allowing even greater contrast for Jigsaw’s crimson viscera. It is at this moment that a tape coated in wax is discovered in Jigsaw’s stomach, setting in motion another series of games, but not in any way you could possibly imagine.
As you can expect, an array of fresh faces are thrown into the mix, no doubt serving as protagonists for the fifth and sixth Saw films which, regrettably, have already been greenlit. Whilst they’re largely arbitrary characters, one Agent Strahm (Scott Paterson) is of mild interest, and certainly looks the part as the abrasive, impassioned officer that he is. The film’s one true mystery is postulated very early on – evidence suggests that Jigsaw and Amanda had been grooming another accomplice. It’s a scenario that will intrigue, confuse, and ultimately frustrate many Saw fans, but up until the final moments, Bousman leads us on a welcome deception, merely faltering at the final hurdle.
Fan favourite Sergeant Rigg (Lyriq Bent), who made fleeting appearances in Saw II and Saw III, is now the object of Jigsaw’s virulent life lessons, kidnapped and given ninety minutes to save the life of an old friend. From this point, Saw IV serves to follow Rigg as he trots around a number of grotty locations, intercut with the investigating officers’ attempts to track him down, and uncover who the next apprentice is. Formulaic it may by now be, but it’s enough to keep fans of the series glued to their seats, and that’s exactly what these films are about – fan service.
Perhaps I’m desensitised, yet I simply didn’t find Saw IV to be that vile. Yes, the opening autopsy scene will leave some cinemagoers gasping, yet CG spurts of blood in later scenes are never as terrifying as squibs, and much of the violence is spliced together at such a frenzied, hyperactive pace that you’ll have to wait for the DVD in order to search for those important severed limbs and headless stumps. No doubt, an unrated DVD is on the horizon, yet would it have hurt for the film to have been given an NC-17 rating rather than the comparatively tame R certification? I guess it would have.
As much the “everyman” as Rigg can endeavour to be, and by no fault of actor Lyriq Bent, some of his actions seem rather awkward and uncharacteristic. For instance, at once stage, Rigg could very well save a woman from a precarious situation, yet, as Jigsaw instructs him, leaves her to save herself. Through the logic of the film’s final twist, it would not have been possible for the new accomplice to have been watching Rigg at this stage, and so not only could he have rescued the woman, but also summoned the authorities. It’s frustrating, to say the least.
Ideologically speaking, Jigsaw’s methods appear to be faltering also – his mantra, whilst still ridiculous, at least made some sense in earlier instalments, whilst in this film, a number of poor saps are dealt unfair, unwarranted ends, often with no explanation as to their crimes, and at other times, for no apparent, justifiable reason. That said, in what is one of the more interesting aspects of Saw IV, we learn a great deal more about Jigsaw’s life before his torturous crusade began – we learn what truly drove him to these means, yet it arguably serves to denigrate his integrity. After watching Saw IV, you may think of Jigsaw less as an omnipresent, twisted genius, and more as a depressed psychopath.
The Saw series both relies, and thrives on convergent, all-encompassing finales, and the fourth entry into the series is no different. A number of different angles – some returning characters, our obsessed protagonist, and of course, the elusive accomplice - meet for the “final test”, which begins promisingly, effortlessly laying waste to and otherwise incapacitating half of the characters we’ve been following for the last 80 minutes.
Where the film falls apart is in its closing moments – the Saw films revel in gloriously deceiving the viewer, yet Saw IV doesn’t gloriously deceive as much as it shamelessly swindles. The final test is telegraphed in such a way that it near enough guarantees total annihilation of everyone involved, and worse still, as audaciously as anyone could ever be, the person behind it all along steps out from the shadows, utters “game over”, and saunters off, damning not just the pile of bodies in their wake, but the thoroughly disgusted audience aswell.
The film’s final test was all about patience, but by the end credits, I’d well and truly had it with Saw IV – for all of its logical fallacies and overly-frenetic editing, I could tolerate them in lieu of the film’s insulting ending, which presents an entirely non-sensical individual to continue Jigsaw’s work. It almost feels as though Darren Lynn Bousman is laughing at us, and frankly, I don’t get the joke. Saw IV’s great irony, and simultaneously, Liongate’s smartest marketing ploy, is that the series needs another sequel, if only to rectify this film’s almighty blunder, as well as finally deliver the answers that Bousman promised, and failed to.
Rating: 6/10
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