Days of Heaven (1978): Classic Review

When viewing the earlier work of any director, it is often interesting to note the creative hallmarks and tendencies manifested within their films which later went on to define their directorial style. Terence Malick is no exception to this, with earlier works like 1974’s Badlands and the subject of this very review, Days of Heaven exemplifying the grandiose themes and characteristic handheld filming style which are such a staple of his best known works, Tree of Life and The Thin Red Line, on a smaller, less heady scale.

His 1978 romance drama Days of Heaven is an exercise in sheer visual poetry. It follows a fresh-faced Richard Gere as Bill, a labourer on a farm in the pre-WWI Texas Panhandle. He convinces his lover Abby (Brooke Adams), with whom he pretends to be siblings to avoid gossip, to marry the wealthy, but dying, farmer (Sam Shepard), who owns the land on which they work. This is following the farmer’s realisation of having fallen in love with Abby, after which he invites her and her ‘siblings’ to stay on at the farm despite their placement coming to an end, and thus she decides to marry him in order to eventually benefit from his estate. It’s impossible to ignore the strikingly spiritual lens through which Malick paints the tale of Bill and Abby, and the love triangle they find themselves in. Every scene is drenched in soft, dream-like pastel hues from the glorious sunsets which feature so heavily in the breathtaking Oscar-winning cinematography Néstor Almendros delivers. It’s no surprise that I keep stumbling upon article after article hailing it as one of the most beautiful films of all time.

It goes without saying that the sprawling setting is one of the film’s integral characters, particularly in the film’s climax, during which nature offers an angry and tempestuous commentary on the behaviour of our protagonists. We are certainly given a sense, as this film progresses, of the stoicism and imposing permanence of nature, in comparison to the temporality of fleeting emotions and the crossing of paths. Of course, this isn’t an idea scarcely explored in cinema, but there are few films which approach it with a feeling of such unnerving omnipresence.

Aside from the film’s incredible beauty and thematic brilliance, the pathos of the love triangle is handled excellently, with the voiceover of Bill’s teen sister, Linda, providing a thoughtful and omniscient commentary on proceedings. The predominantly handheld style adds to the surreal, heavenly quality the film possesses, cementing Malick as one of the most philosophical filmmakers of the 20th century. I was also particularly interested in the many angles Malick opts for which view the protagonists from behind or at a distance. In combination with the voiceover narration, this creates a voyeristic lens through which to view the characters, only further enhancing the sense of the immeasurable strength of nature which underpins the film.

Ennio Morricone’s sweeping score was simply incredible in accompanying the nuanced emotions at play and providing even more weight to the events of the narrative. Ultimately, it channels the idea of loss and loneliness that the film deals with and infuses the Texas landscape with even more visual allure. What makes the film so compelling is how obliquely it deals with the plight of the central characters, constantly placing them at a distance through the narration, which feels particularly retrospective at times. Its unmistakable beauty and interesting parallels drawn between love and nature make it one of Malick’s greatest achievements; a film to be revered for its detached, yet immersive narrative approach.

Nocturnal Animals: Review

Tom Ford’s Nocturnal Animals is surely a contender for being one of the most beguiling, well-crafted and explosively gripping films of 2016, containing some of the year’s most outstanding performances and one of its most original narrative structures. My first time viewing it was an intense and truly memorable cinema experience, and one I haven’t been able to stop thinking about ever since. Featuring appearances from the ever-mercurial Amy Adams and Jake Gyllenhaal, as well as career-defining turns from Aaron Taylor-Johnson and Michael Shannon, the acting in Nocturnal Animals is nothing short of exceptional, and truly a cornerstone of the film’s brilliance.

Perhaps most crucial to its composition is its split narrative, dividing events into three distinct timelines: how these events intertwine is, in some ways, apparent, and in others far more vague, relying on viewers’ own judgement and willingness to delve into the many mysterious and carefully-placed meanings that can be drawn from aspects of the story. We are introduced to Susan (Amy Adams) at the film’s outset, upon whom the film was originally based in Austin Wright’s 1993 novel, Tony and Susan. She is a successful art gallery director who seemingly has everything she wants, but as things progress we come to realise the hollow, passionless nature of her relationship with her caring but distant husband, Walker (Armie Hammer) and her dissatisfaction with her current situation. She unexpectedly receives a delivery from her ex-husband, Edward (Jake Gyllenhaal), containing the manuscript for a novel he has completed writing, Nocturnal Animals, with a request that she read it. As Susan begins to read, the ‘violent’ and ‘sad’ content of the story visibly troubles her, and this is where the lines between narratives begin to blur.

As well as the present day timeline in which Susan reads the novel, interspersed with the growing uncertainty and fragmentation of her everyday life, the events which take place within the novel are also played out before us. The novel details of father and husband, Tony Hastings, and his vengeful journey after he and his family are violently terrorised by a miscreant group on an isolated highway, fronted by the terrifying and unhinged Ray (Aaron Taylor-Johnson). His plight is assisted by the jaded and cynical town sheriff, Bobby Andes, who is determined to bring the perpetrators of the unsavoury events endured by Tony and his family to ‘justice’. Michael Shannon’s spine-chilling delivery of this role completely brings the novel segment to life, and when coupled with Aaron Taylor-Johnson’s portrayal of Ray, a real, palpable sense of fear is created which doesn’t let up for the entirety of the film, and is a mark of Tom Ford’s directorial prowess.

Essentially, the audience experiences the enthralling story of Tony Hastings unfold at the same time as Susan, and this where the film’s genius lies. Whilst exploring this narrative, we are also presented with Susan’s flashbacks to her failed relationship with Edward. Her initial adoration of Edward’s romantic, idealistic, but directionless personality later turns sour, as warned by her almost prophetic mother, who guarantees her daughter that she will eventually come to desire the ‘bourgeoisie’ luxuries she so vehemently rejects in her youth. This is where we start to question the extent to which the events which take place in Edward’s novel symbolically embody the anguish he felt at the tail-end of his relationship with Susan, a relationship he didn’t want to leave and was ultimately snatched away from him with minimal compassion, tact or consideration.

Visually, the film is striking and clinical, ultimately mirroring the coldness with which Susan apparently discarded her former marriage and every aspect of the life that came with it, in favour of her new found indulgent and financially-secure lifestyle. It is edited intelligently, in such a way that ideas are planted which allow the viewer to speculate on the atmosphere between the estranged couple and how the novel’s contents represent Edward’s insatiable desire for revenge, and the trauma his experiences with Susan caused him. The decision to cast Gyllenhaal in the roles of both Edward and Tony was a shrewd one, perhaps initially providing audiences with a lot to absorb and make sense of, but paying off hugely in terms of building this dichotomy between Edward’s experiences, and the emotional weight they carry internally.

Nocturnal Animals is only Tom Ford’s second directorial effort, succeeding 2009’s well-received A Single Man, and suggesting the presence of a truly great new director. His roots in the fashion design industry are clearly manifested in the film’s style, which enhances Susan’s character arc wonderfully. Tonally, Nocturnal Animals is electrifying, tense and frightening, combining elements of horror with drama to create something delightfully unusual. Watching it can be described as like having a stone in your shoe, with its many uncomfortable scenes making for intensely riveting viewing. If your experience with it is anything like mine, you’ll be squirming in your seat throughout its duration, consumed with awe at just how deeply the events of the film resonate with both the characters and the audience simultaneously. The carefully-considered interlinking of narratives, breathtaking performances and complimentary artistic direction have combined to create one of those rare films which floored me on first viewing, and one which I hope will be firmly cemented in the collective consciousness of filmgoers and new directors as a benchmark for cinematic creativity.

Network (1976): Classic Review

‘I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!’

Network is arguably one of the 1970s’ most underrated gems, and pleasantly surprised me in how alarmingly relevant and fantastically entertaining it is. This isn’t to say I wasn’t expecting it to be good – it is allegedly one of Paul Thomas Anderson’s favourite films, after all – but before hearing it praised by the legendary There Will Be Blood, The Master and Punch-Drunk Love (to name but a few) director, I didn’t know an awful lot about it. It’s a film that truly excited me on many different levels, so naturally I’m incredibly glad it was brought to my attention.

The film’s premise is particularly intriguing, following the cultural phenomenon which ensues following a news broadcast issued by the titular TV ‘network’, Union Broadcasting System, during which the show’s leading anchor Howard Beale begins to ramble erratically about his plans to commit suicide live on the next episode of the show, on the brink of his retirement. Keen to capitalise on the skyrocketing ratings the show garners as a result of Howard’s unprecedented popularity, UBS finds itself embroiled in a complex web of conflicted morals; some members more so than others. In the middle of it we find Howard’s longtime friend and network president, Max Scumacher, who appears to oscillate between condemning the exploitation of Howard’s apparent mental instability, and pursuing his own interests, namely in the form of his cutthroat colleague, Diana (Faye Dunaway), who ardently purports Howard’s ramblings as a potentially lucrative segment of the show. Much of this film’s enjoyment comes from Faye Dunaway’s gloriously sociopathic performance in this role, with her ruthless delivery completely stealing the limelight and adding a tangible feeling of electricity to every scene she appears in.

Peter Finch’s highly-charged performance as Howard Beale is excellent, creating a constant sense of suspense as to what each of his energetic, nihilistic, anti-establishment live rants will consist of. These infamous broadcasts, as well as the film’s explosive ending, culminate in a fascinating satirical commentary on sensationalised journalism, and the exploitative media, which is perhaps more relevant than ever in the increasingly uncertain and tumultuous world we live in.

If you’re familiar with the work of Paul Thomas Anderson it’s not difficult to see why Network influenced his style so heavily. Its relentless pace, ensemble cast and the lens through which it examines the murky inner workings of a seemingly glamorous industry are all very characteristic of PTA, highlighting just how seminal Network is. Its message rings ever clear, brought to life by one by a screenplay which is both dry and cutting. The troublesome relationship between Max and Diana was of particular interest to me in the latter section of the film. Max’s brusque but truthful condemnation of Diana’s fixation with success and the soulless and uncaring brutality of the television industry is completely enrapturing, as he brands her a ‘humanoid’ who is ultimately on her way to being ‘destroyed’ like so many of her colleagues. In Network, Sidney Lumet has created an exhilarating and masterfully dark satire of the news, its production and its consumption. Its memorable performances, timeless morals and scathing humour makes for a viewing experience which is not easily forgotten.

This post also features as part of The Mancunion newspaper, where I contribute regularly.

American Honey: Review

I’m not sure where to start when it comes to discussing American Honey, as it appears to have polarised audiences to the extent that the only way to ascertain its quality, or lack thereof, is to watch it for yourself. The appeal of this film is seemingly very personal, with its array of vibrant and memorable characters providing us with an invigorating story of fractured America and disenchanted youth, at times touching on poverty and race in a far more subtle, yet hardened fashion than many directors attempt. American Honey isn’t unlike director Andrea Arnold’s 2009 British council estate-set, Fish Tank, in which a similar ensemble of deprived, socially-isolated characters attempt to find a place in the bleak and destitute urban backdrops they find themselves in. Evidently, in her attempts to capture a snapshot of life and the essence of the human spirit, Arnold is incredibly adept when it comes to creating believable and genuinely affecting drama.

We are introduced to the titular ‘American Honey’ at the film’s opening, in the form of 18 year old Star, who has taken on the role of caring for her younger brother and sister in the absence of her neglectful mother and stepfather. From the very outset we are given a sense of the financial hardship and deprivation of the most basic of amenities that Star and her siblings have to deal with. This is clearly a backdrop they were born into, and has thus become the norm, indicated by the way she routinely and nonchalantly rifles through trash in the opening shots, in the hope of finding unspoiled food to feed her family. In a chance encounter with Jake (Shia LaBeouf) at a gas station, Star is offered the opportunity to leave behind everything she knows and join a rag-tag group of misfit youths who travel across the Midwest and sell magazines. This is where the bulk of the film’s events take place. Throughout the film’s run time, not only does Star find herself becoming more and more involved with Jake, the unpredictable rogue who sparks her interest in joining the group initially, but also learns more about herself, her own capabilities, her disillusionment with America’s white middle classes, and the sheer scope of the world which lies beyond her uninspiring hometown setting.

Star’s journey is a joyful and liberating one, but isn’t without its moments of struggle and contemplation. Much of the beauty of the experiences shared by her and the others is elicited by the incredible cinematography which underpins the film. It captures individual moments in a visually-captivating, yet fragmented style, working to translate the subliminal emotions of each scene in an unceremonious way and thus act as a viewing platform into what could easily be real life unfolding before us. It feels almost cliché to point out, but I did truly lose myself to the point where I forgot I was watching a film, and it’s moments like this which remind me of the power of film as a medium of escapism. Some of the most memorable shots didn’t even contain any dialogue, any character interaction, or even any people, often focusing on the backs of heads, or aspects of nature; glowing city lights, insects flying through waist-high grass, the turquoise and orange hues of a fading sunset. The camera lingers on the smallest, yet most breathtakingly beautiful details, in the same way the human eye would, which is something I have noticed tends to divide opinion, but it is undeniably ambitious.

Despite its heady and exhilarating feel, the film often exudes a potent sadness. There is definitely a sense that most of these characters are broken in some way, yet Arnold respects her audience in the way we are never forced or manipulated into liking them. Each character is presented as nothing more or less than an imperfect person trying to figure out where they belong, exhibiting the capacity for love, mistakes and above all a yearning for acceptance, like any of us. It is on this basis that we are able to empathise and appreciate these characters and their many facets, and the reason why American Honey was such a pleasure to watch. Its sprawling, unscripted nature isn’t something that will appeal to everyone, but if anything I’ve said here appeals to you then don’t hesitate to see it. It’s not often cinema is as refreshingly raw and unadulterated as this.

Swiss Army Man: Review

‘Maybe everyone’s a little bit ugly. Yeah, maybe we’re all just ugly, dying sacks of shit and maybe all it’ll take is one person to just be okay with that.’

If you were to be skeptical about the premise of directing duo, The Daniels’ (Dan Kwan and Daniel Scheinert) widely-discussed new comedy drama, Swiss Army Man, I wouldn’t blame you. People’s reactions tend to be fairly consistent when they hear about a film detailing a friendship between a lonely man stranded on a desert island and a flatulent corpse (not only a flatulent corpse, but a flatulent corpse played by Daniel Radcliffe, I might add). Certainly one of the more unconventional films of the year, Swiss Army Man was greatly surprising in its effective use of simplistic toilet humour to create a genuinely affecting drama with huge emotional resonance.

The casting choice here was of particular interest to me. Paul Dano’s standout performances in 2007’s There Will Be Blood and 2006’s Little Miss Sunshine cemented him as a fantastically gifted, yet underrated, actor, and the uniqueness of his role in Swiss Army Man compared to his other films only further increased the appeal of this film before I saw it. As expected, Dano absolutely brought this film to life, quite literally, as it follows the gradual unfolding of his character Hank’s relationship with Manny, the aforementioned corpse which washes up on the shore of the island he finds himself stuck on. Together, they discover Manny’s various bodily ‘powers’ which aid Hank’s survival on his journey back to civilisation. Hank’s eccentricity confirms Dano’s natural aptitude for playing the outsider, and the bizarre nature of the pair’s father-son dynamic makes for some very interesting characterisation. As a blank canvas of sorts, Manny’s naive, almost childlike view of the world and the social constructs and conventions which form the basis of our collective consciousness are both entertaining and enlightening. The screenplay was clearly written with a view of attempting to shine a spotlight on our shortcomings as a society, and the negative attitudes many have towards taboo subjects such as masturbation and bodily functions. Despite being somewhat inconsistent in his acting ability post-Harry Potter, Daniel Radcliffe excelled in this film on both a physical and emotional level, especially when taking into account the demanding and likely unfamiliar territory of playing a corpse.

In terms of cinematography, the film is a joy to watch, with The Daniels’ direction allowing for a creative and experimental visual style which takes advantage of the leafy and picturesque forest environment where the bulk of the action takes place. Its inventive use of a charming folk-infused soundtrack which, surprisingly, made use of the actors’ own voices was another excellent decision, adding to feeling that it never took itself too seriously. With this in mind, however, the ending was the film’s main weakness, drawing out the drama for longer than was warranted, to the point where the humour and flair which worked so well was lost for a little while, and some levity was required to round everthing off succinctly. Some sort of meta joke would perhaps have worked better in place of some of the events which occurred in the last quarter of an hour.

Despite the minor structural and tonal issues towards the end, Swiss Army Man is a true accomplishment in terms of both originality and effective screenwriting. Any film which manages to create genuinely meaningful messages from such unabashedly unsophisticated humour deserves to be commended. The film is ultimately tied together by the interesting juxtaposition of Hank’s jaded, melancholic yearning to live, rather than just exist, and Manny’s desire for the same thing despite his complete lack of knowledge and experience. Combining vibrant visuals with distinctive performances and one of the most unexpected premises of 2016, Swiss Army Man is simply a must-see.