We don't deserve Christopher Nolan. His career has been built upon giving us small character drama hidden amongst humongous genre flicks, which is exactly what Steven Spielberg used to do better than anybody. Christopher Nolan is the second coming of Steven Spielberg. And yet all we seem to want to do with him is pick apart the plot holes and logic jumps his movies seem prone to. Granted, when we start to analyse the logic and rules of Inception's dream theory and dream robbers, it begins to unravel on itself. But to do that, we have to neglect the fact that the movie is really about the much smaller issue of Leonardo Dicaprio's relationship insecurities that just so happens to be represented through this immense spectacle. We also love to tear apart his love for exposition; to explain his complicated concepts with lengthy dialogue. Granted, this is a storytelling technique often frowned upon for its tendency to grind the narrative to a halt and, depending on the density of the exposition, confuse and alienate the audience. But Christopher Nolan is all about the complete opposite of that. He actively refuses to let his films halt when delivering exposition, often having them occur while the event he's exposing is taking place. He understands that timeless reason we go to the movies: to escape. If you're sitting on a roller coaster and take time to really soak in your surroundings, you'll notice the machinery and how it's operating, and if you focus on that, a piece of you won't be able to enjoy the ride as much as if you just fucking went with it. People are already starting to pull apart Insterstellar's final act, claiming that it spends so much time establishing its science to eschew all of it for an emotional conclusion. Like there was ever any science to begin with. Interstellar doesn't have a science, it has a concept. It's a concept that has groundings in science, but ultimately its intent isn't to teach you about the inner machinations of inter-dimensional travel, but to use the idea of inter-dimensional travel to tell a very small story of why a human being is compelled to survive even in the most dire of odds. Just fucking go with it.
To be entirely fair, I wasn't expecting Intserstellar to be as minimal at its core as it was. Having done my best to avoid as much advertising for it as possible, all that I was aware of was that Earth was depleted of its natural resources and Cooper (Matthew McConaughey) was leaving his kids behind to search the universe for a new home. I was expecting the film to be focused more on the species than the individual. Because as much as I just hammered home the point that Christopher Nolan's films are always smaller than they appear, they're still generally focused on the big concept. And I wasn't entirely emotionally on board with this movie at first. I'm a very selfish person when it comes to environmental sustainability. I say that I don't give a shit because I know nothing monumentally devastating is going to happen in my lifetime, and I don't care enough about the species to give thought to who comes after me. The truth is I'm just scared. I'm scared to stop and research and potentially acknowledge the possibility that our planet is declining on a curve faster than we think; that a time might come when there simply isn't a contingency plan. But what I don't joke about, what I openly care about, are the people close to me. Their lives are important to me. I don't think I'm very alone in this, and Christopher Nolan seems to agree. Interstellar is about saving the human race second, and about Cooper saving his daughter first. It's literally represented in the film as Plan A and Plan B: Plan A is to find a sustainable planet in enough time to get Earth's dwindling population out of there immediately, and Plan B is to use the frozen embryos on board the ship to repopulate humanity. This attitude results in a film built upon countless immensely moving, tiny human moments. My personal favourite occurs about a third of the way through the movie. Cooper walks past the bedroom of one of his crew mates, Romilly (David Gyasi). Romilly is staring at the wall, having trouble comprehending the idea that there's only a few centimetres between him and a vast sea of nothing that can kill him in seconds. It's so decidedly unreal. Cooper gives him his earphones, and as Romilly puts them in his ears, rainfall and thunder fill the deathly quiet. Romilly closes his eyes and breathes deep, and Cooper leaves the room.
At its core, Interstellar isn't about all the ways a human can survive, but all the reasons a human would want to survive. Cooper is easy to understand: if he doesn't live, then his family dies and he never sees his daughter again. It's simple, but it adds incredible weight to the film's more scientific moments. One of the three potentially viable planets previously visited by astronauts that could be their new home sits on the fringes of a black hole. The difference in gravitational pull means that every hour spent down there is seven years up here. Cooper, Brand (Anne Hathaway) and Doyle (Wes Bentley) touch down to assess the viability of the planet. As Brand gets closer to the information needed, Cooper realises that the landmass in the distance is actually a colossal approaching tidal wave (gravity and black holes, you see). Brand jeopardises the mission by refusing to leave without collecting the data, leaving them riding the wave. The crash kills Doyle and water logs their ship. I began to sweat as Cooper and Brand yelled at each other about whose fault it was. Every minute they spent waiting to leave was costing them days and months. When they get back to the space station, Romilly greets them. "It's been 23 years," he says almost too calmly. As if the crushingly devastating weight of that reality wasn't enough, Cooper proceeds immediately to watch all of the video messages his family had sent over the last two decades. Because in light of what just went down, this is the only thing he cares about. It's a glorious long take that focuses solely on Cooper's face as he runs the entire gamut of emotion: delirious laughter at seeing his children grow up to uncontrollable tears as he realises he wasn't there to see any of it. His son, Tom (Casey Affleck), grows up, gets married, starts having children and comes to terms with the fact that his dad must no longer be alive and that he has to let go. The consequence of human error is felt in overwhelming magnitude; mere minutes ago, Cooper and Brand were yelling about a waterlogged spaceship while Earth ticked on mercilessly. Tom says goodbye, the screen goes blank, and after a few seconds, switches back on. Cooper knows who it is immediately. "Hi Murph (Jessica Chastain)," he whispers, as he looks upon the adult face of the daughter whose heart he irreversibly broke when he left for the mission. "Today is a special day," Murph says. "Because you said that we might be the same age when you got back. And today, I'm the age that you were when you left me." Just let that sink in.
And that's only just Cooper. Interstellar has a bit of a weird conclusion to its second act, in which Matt Damon shows up and kind of fucks up everything for everyone. I was trying to reconcile the subplot's inclusion into the story, and at first, I saw it born from a feeling of necessity to give the film an easily-identifiable villain. But that's unfair and untrue. It may partly serve that purpose, but its grander goal is to explore the darker side of humanity's drive to survive. His inclusion in the film's cast was kept a secret (a move that I think has strengths and weaknesses), and his introductory scene involves him being awoken from suspended animation and breaking down in tears at the sight of another human face. "Pray you never know how good it feels," he says of that moment. It's after this that he briefs the team on the supposedly habitable planet he summoned them to. During this, the ship receives a transmission from Murph, who has just found out that Brand's father (Michael Caine), the man who convinced them to leave everything for this mission, the man who created Plan B only if Plan A didn't work, was a liar. On his deathbed, he admits that even if they can find another habitable planet, it's impossible to move Earth's population there. Plan B was the only option that there ever was. Cooper and Brand are stunned. But Dr. Mann knew. He knew that humanity would never band together to save their species if it didn't mean saving themselves too. I sure wouldn't. Professor Brand sacrificed a huge part of his humanity for the good of a species, if you choose to see it that way. In light of this new information, the mission changes for Cooper. This planet is supposedly habitable, so the job is done, and it's time to get the fuck back home to Murph. Only it isn't habitable, obviously. Dr. Mann lied, because the harsh reality that he was one of twelve people sent out to find a new home and that, through pure luck of the draw, he was sent to one giant, frozen cloud, was too much for him to bear. He didn't want to be alone, so he pressed the "This is a Good Planet. Come Here" button, knowing full well the degree to which such a decision could fuck up the mission. Because even in the face of extinction, he didn't want to be alone and forgotten. Could you blame him? It's such an ugly, raw human thing to do, and it's truly stomach-churning because it is no less human the the film's more beautiful scenes. It's showing us the other side of the same coin.
In my opinion, this is far and away the best performance of Matt Damon's career. He projects a gut-wrenching image of a man truly at his wits end. He is pure and unrelenting determination from the moment he attacks Cooper, and totally ignorant to the futility of his actions. The two men wrestle and punch each other in astronaut suits in a fight scene that's pretty fucking ridiculous to watch, but don't mistake this for an unintentionally hilarious moment. It's supposed to look stupid. There is so much happening on a grander scale, so much at stake, and yet humanity is still just two guys in big suits awkwardly smacking the shit out of each other, because it's what one of them thinks he should be doing. Mann starts headbutting Cooper's helmet to crack it. Cooper pleads with him, "There's a 50-50 chance that your helmet will shatter too!" Mann pauses. "Those are the best odds I've had in years." There's no stopping a man who has seen the other side of the abyss. He steals a shuttle and heads back to the space station, with the intent of heading to the last potentially habitable planet and surviving his legacy. Cooper and Brand place overrides on the ship to prevent him from automatically docking. Mann does it manually. Of course, his human calculations are off, and the ship refuses to air lock. Matt Damon bears the face of a man who doesn't fucking care, because rational thought shit itself and died long ago. The air lock fails. The shuttle blows up. Dr. Mann's legacy dies. There's a point earlier in his plot where he recites a Dylan Thomas poem previously read by Professor Brand. As he spoke the words, "Rage, rage against the dying of the light", I desperately wanted him to stop. He was tainting the beauty of Professor Brand's recital. He was turning a rallying cry to fight to the dying breath for what you believe in to a...well, a rallying cry to fight to the dying breath for what you believe in. And then I realised the purpose of Dr. Mann leaving his employees with that piece of poetry was to leave them with their own interpretation of it. Accompanying Cooper, it's a mission statement to never forget who he's fighting for, and to never relent or compromise. But accompanying Mann, it's changes to an insensitive, cowardly endorsement to fight tooth and nail to save yourself, regardless of the consequences. Even accompanying Professor Brand himself, in light of his dishonesty, the poem changes shape once more, pushing him to leave what makes him human behind so that a species doesn't go extinct. And it's in this that Interstellar perhaps impresses most strongly the fact that Dr. Mann is not a villain. He's just the other side of our coin. "Do not go gentle into that good night."
So, I picked one of Interstellar's big twists really early on. Many of its early scenes involve young Murph talking about a ghost she believes is haunting the house, sending her messages. Particular books are falling off the shelf of their own accord, messages are being sent in Morse Code and eventually, coordinates are provided in dust that sets Cooper off to finding NASA and his mission. Later in the film, she speaks of her ghost and how her father always assumed she called it a ghost because she was scared, and how that was inaccurate. She called it a ghost because it felt like a person, and I immediately knew that somehow, Cooper was the ghost. What I couldn't work out was why he would send the message that Murph deciphers: "Stay." And I couldn't work it out because, even though the film had sold me on thinking small within a big situation, I was still thinking too big. I was trying to work out how "Stay" could be some sort of assurance that Earth would be okay in the end, when what it really was was Cooper begging with himself not to leave his daughter. And when that realisation came, so much more of the film came into focus. Earlier, Cooper and Brand are arguing because there's two planets left to explore and they only have fuel for one if they're to also get home. The aforementioned Dr. Mann is broadcasting a signal, a more favourable sign in Cooper's eyes. The up until now unmentioned Edmonds' planet stopped broadcasting a while back, but his planet showed much promise before that. It's a tricky choice to make, until Cooper throws into the mix that Brand was involved with Edmonds, and that love was clouding her judgement. "Yes Cooper, the thought of possibly seeing him again excites me," Brand says, after putting forth the idea that her heart knows Edmonds planet is habitable because love is a science that we simply haven't yet come to understand. It was what I initially thought to be a throwaway speech (knocked out of the fucking park by Anne Hathaway), until the film's revelation locked it firmly back into place. Cooper may be the biggest idiot out of everyone in this film. The final shot reveals that Brand was right. Though, for reasons unknown, Edmonds isn't alive (old age? Relativity rearing its cruel head once again), his planet is well and truly habitable. Adding to this is the fact that, to get back to the ghost, Cooper never believed Murph. He humoured her by telling her to apply scientific theory to her belief, but all she really needed to do was follow her heart. And she was right. You don't need a much bigger indicator that real science doesn't play a pivotal fucking role in the heart of this flick. I haven't gone into the hows or whys of Cooper being the ghost, and frankly, I don't want to. It works entirely within its own logic, and that's all that should matter. Earlier in the film, Romilly uses a pencil pushing through a folded up piece of paper to explain wormhole theory (yes, it's from Event Horizon. No, that shouldn't be seen as a bad thing). I'm dumb. The audience is dumb. I need the Event Horizon lesson. We need the science distilled into these simple analogies so that we can understand its context in the greater narrative. You know, the whole reason we're watching a movie in the first place. There's two ways a conclusion to this could go. The first is a half-hour lesson on how Nolan's fourth-dimensional time travel works. The second is Cooper simply saying, "They found a way," so that the film can focus on the idea of him spending what feels like two years in space to come home and have to say goodbye to your daughter who is now dying of old age, the same daughter he fucking promised he would see again. I know which one I want more.
And the movie's not done ripping every emotion out of me either. The film's conclusion left me feeling broken, and I couldn't quite pinpoint why. For all intents and purposes, it was a happy ending. Or at least, the happiest ending it could be. Earth hadn't found a new home, but it had found a way to get Earth's population into space and it's all within their power to take it from there. So why didn't I feel happy? A night's sleep brought the answer. Cooper spent the whole film adamant that his actions were for his daughter first and humanity second, a sentiment I was able to get behind immediately, but in the final act, he comes to realise he can't save his daughter without also saving humanity, sacrificing a literal lifetime in the process. Without initially realising it, Christopher Nolan had torn apart my apathy for our species. And as if that wasn't enough, Cooper's monumental sacrifice was just to get us off Earth. The problem isn't solved. It's up to us to finish the job. He gave up everything for us to have a second chance. And after saying goodbye to his old, dying daughter, he heads off to find Brand, wherever the fuck she is. He enters the film lamenting that humanity was once a proud explorer, and he leaves the film as its new generation. He has to search. As the final shot shows, Brand is alive and breathing the air of our new home. But the wormhole to her is now closed. There's no folded up piece of paper from Saturn to another galaxy now. Cooper let go of watching his daughter grow up so we could have the tools to save ourselves. Your opinion of Interstellar is your own, and I wouldn't even begin to think I had the ability to make you think differently of it. But personally, I'm so grateful there are still people that have the ability (read: money) to create films so full of ambition, and ideas, and love for the craft, and love for us, even if they're imperfect experiences. When the majority of Hollywood productions can't get much further than "What if, like, Dracula was, like, a superhero?", I'll more than happily take one film that shoots for the heavens with zero care for how far it falls short. It's just icing on the cake that it shatters the stratosphere. Stop getting stroppy about the science and just go see a movie. Christopher Nolan is one of the few people left making them.
P.S. I couldn't find a logical place to put this following thought:
1. Topher Grace getting a tyre iron out of his car as Casey Affleck's truck approached was another hilarious, yet overwhelmingly powerful human moment of someone standing so steadfast and strong in defence of something they think they should stand for, regardless of how silly they know their actions to be. Like, what is he really going to do with that thing?
There's a moment in Frank Miller's masterpiece The Dark Knight Returns where Jim Gordon is talking to the new police commissioner about being at Pearl Harbour. He talks of the perception the world had that the soldiers that day were heroes; men immediately ready to lay down their lives for their country. He follows that up with how untrue it was; how they were not an army, but a scared bunch of young men deathly afraid of dying. But then Roosevelt's voice came through the radio, talking of the immeasurable bravery that the American infantry were displaying in the face of such insurmountable odds. It was a declaration that couldn't be further from the truth, but that didn't matter. Because it projected an image that got those frightened young men on their feet to win the war. Fury opens with a stark image of a man on a horse slowly approaching from the horizon. If this were a Western, this would be our introduction to the stoic hero-of-few-words. But as the horse gets closer, the rider doesn't appear to be dressed in American gear. It's hard to fully discern, but he appears to be German. And sure enough, as his journey continues and the camera pans with him, we find that he's directing the horse through a graveyard of American tanks. It's an image that's hard to digest: the enemy is being framed as the hero moving through dead heroes framed as enemies. It becomes even harder to swallow when the All-American saviour moves silently off the top of one of the tanks to tackle the German to the ground and stab him repeatedly in the face. This is our real hero: a man who weakly slides back into his hidey-hole, where his subordinates yell and cry and curse for the unseen battle they were the only survivors of, bar one of their crew, half of whose face lies splattered on the floor. World War II is still almost universally painted as America's finest hour in our media, and it should. They did a bang-up job of upholding the ideal of freedom. But as the aforementioned Don 'Wardaddy' Collier (Brad Pitt) says, "Ideals are peaceful. History is violent." Fury seems to aim for a different goal than its peers. It highlights the fact that American tank operators were fiercely outmatched by superior German technology, and in doing so, suggests that our perception of them as heroes was false. It was important that they were seen as heroes, because it was an image that won the war, but the reality is that they were not heroic. They were human.
Perhaps the best example of this occurs after one of the film's many skirmishes. Wardaddy has made multiple attempts at instilling in the new blood, Norman Ellison (Logan Lerman), that if he intends to survive, and to uphold his promise to keep his crew mates alive, he needs to kill. Norman's in the deep end, though. He was drafted from a desk job, and killing another human being is not a concept he can even begin to grasp. Why should he? But under Wardaddy's watch, that will not do. A surviving German soldier is found, and brought out in the open to be beaten, tortured and executed. Wardaddy calls it off, and demands that Ellison shoot the man in the back, for he cannot know that he will uphold his promise until he sees him kill. Ellison refuses. "You kill him, or he kills you!" Wardaddy shouts in Ellison's face, as he circles and slaps him. Eventually, he puts him in a choke hold, and forces his hand to grip the six-shooter, a cowboy's weapon of choice. Ellison pleads for Wardaddy to let him go, tears running down his face. A shot rings out, the German drops face first to the ground, Wardaddy lets him go and walks away. The image we're seeing is the hard and strong Sergeant dropping a necessary truth on the green-faced rookie. But the reality comes when Wardaddy walks away from the crowd. He crouches low to the ground, his hands begin to shake and tears well in his eyes, and he has to take a few deep breaths before he can compose himself and get back up. Killing that man hit him just as hard as it hit Ellison. But that doesn't matter, because as far as Ellison and everyone else is concerned, Wardaddy is the hero who kills to keep everyone else alive. And it works. When Ellison next sees German infantry, he doesn't hesitate to pull the trigger, shouting "Die, you motherfuckers!" as he plugs the men with lead. It's false courage, but that doesn't matter, because as far as everyone else is concerned, he's now the hero that they all are. There's what one does when in front of others, and what one does when nobody is watching. Both are crucial to one's identity.
Further illustrating this is a very long scene in the middle of the film, where the American infantry take occupancy of a small town. Wardaddy and Ellison find a woman and her teenage daughter hiding in their home, and Wardaddy takes the opportunity to show some kindness and offer some eggs, so that he and Ellison may have a brief moment of reprieve from the horrors waiting outside. As the woman makes breakfast, Ellison and the young girl share a moment of mutual enjoyment in the bedroom ("They are young, and they are alive," Wardaddy says). The whole thing is taken one step too far though, turning into a warped, hollow and, from the outside looking in, false family portrait. Eventually, the rest of the crew bomb in to crash the party they weren't invited to. Bible (Shia LaBeouf), Gordo (Michael Pena) and Grady (Jon Bernthal) take deliberate and disgusting measures to ensure that Wardaddy's attempt at a small memory of home is ruined. They abuse and humiliate Ellison and the young girl, and recount the actions they had to take during a particularly horrific mission that brought them closer together, concluding by pointing out that Ellison, seemingly Wardaddy's new favourite, wasn't there. Eventually, Wardaddy has had enough, and reacts violently. Gordo is ashamed and says as his voice breaks from the tears, "I'm sorry...I'm just drunk." The alcohol was the only thing that let him project the image of who he really was in that moment, and it's not until much later, when the young girl has lost her life to a German bombardment and Grady and Ellison are alone, that Grady can muster the courage to apologise for his behaviour. "You're a good man. We may not be...but you are." The film regularly takes time to show us behind the curtain, and above all else, I have a strong respect for its courage to suggest that these heroic figures we hold up aren't who we think they are, especially because of the fury (come on, Aaron) that such a suggestion could bring. But what really resonates is the suggestion that follows this, which I'll get to in a moment.
Unfortunately, what threatens to derail this stark and brutally honest portrayal of humanity in war is how "movie" much of the narrative is. The idea that this humongous series of events and character arcs occur over the space of 24 hours is really hard to believe. Let's go through a few. It's 1945, and the Allied Forces are well and truly on their way to victory, and a desk clerk who has never seen combat has been drafted to co-pilot a tank. Within the space of an hour or two, that desk clerk goes from vomiting after seeing half of a man's face plastered to a wall to running and gunning with the best of them. In less than 12 hours, a tank crew is the sole survivor of a battalion after a skirmish, move into another battalion, and become the sole survivor of that battalion after another skirmish. Minutes later, they roll over a lone landmine in the middle of a crossroads, where there just so happens to be a group of 300 SS soldiers making their way towards them. It's simultaneously frustrating and satisfying that everything in between these awkward story beats is so good, and this final act is no exception. It's already being misinterpreted by many, which is a shame, because it makes the film's point better than any other moment. 300 SS are on the march towards them, and the tank's tread is busted. Up until now, every action they've taken has had survival, however brutal, or cowardly, or necessary, at its core. But as they're trying to work out where they can hide, Wardaddy has a change of heart. "I'm staying," he declares, and after a moment of protest, his crew decide to stay as well. It's so uncharacteristically heroic of them that many have seen it as the film back-peddling on its point to deliver a traditional, heroic, Hollywood climax. I humbly disagree. There's no denying that the decision to stay and man a doomed assault outnumbered and outgunned projects a decidedly heroic image, but don't forget everything the film has said up until this point. In this moment, Wardaddy hears his own version of Roosevelt's Pearl Harbour speech, and sees an opportunity to be the hero that the world sees him as. He's not a hero. He's trying to be one. And in his crew's eyes, they see Roosevelt, and they stand up in support of the fact that in this moment, reality is secondary.
Fury's final image gave me much pause for thought. The camera gives us a top-down view of the titular tank, starting with an extreme close-up and gradually receding until we can see the carnage that these "brave few" wrought. Innumerable German bodies lie in a ring around one battered American tank. What a great photo for the papers. What an image it sends. But it's only that: an image. The crew of Fury held their ground well, and in that they had a brief moment of heroism, but eventually the reality of their situation circled around them and one by one they were picked off. Grady catches a rocket with his stomach. Bible pokes his head out of the hatch, weapon and battle cry at the ready, but gets shot in the eye before he can get a single word out. A grenade falls into the tank and goes unnoticed for a second too long, and Gordo reflexively hugs it to protect his crew. Wardaddy catches three sniper bullets in the chest and arms, and falls back into the tank as the remaining SS advance. Ellison knows death approaches - literally, in this case. "I want to surrender," he says. "Please don't," Wardaddy replies. "They'll torture you bad and they'll kill you bad." Ellison begins to cry. "I'm scared." Wardaddy looks at him with empathy. "I'm scared, too." He tells Ellison to get out of the tank through the bottom hatch and hide. As far as the SS are aware, Wardaddy is the only man left. Ellison gets out just as the Germans throw two grenades through the top hatch, digs a hole for himself beside the tread and waits. As the Germans celebrate their victory, a light is shone on Ellison. Up until now, the German army has mostly gone faceless: the obscured, hidden evil hiding in the grass, or behind a window, or inside of a tank. In this moment however, we see a face in full profile, and it's a young German soldier, roughly the same age as Ellison. The two stare at each other for a long moment, both looking incredibly fearful, before the soldier switches his light off and walks away. The two shared a moment. They were both projecting false images of bravery for the sake of their men, and in that shared recognition, they allowed a shred of true humanity. When the coast is clear, Ellison crawls back into the tank to say goodbye to his crew. Eventually, some American infantry find him and he's on his way home. "You're a hero," one soldier says to him as he pats him on the back. But we know that's not true. Ellison isn't a hero. He just looks like one. But that's what matters. We were in the tank with those men; we know how it really went down. But the world doesn't, and it's here that I get back to the film's subsequent suggestion that I held off on earlier. The world only sees that final image: pure evil stood up against to its dying breath by the righteous good, and the lone war hero who survived the ordeal. And though it may seem that Fury is humanising these people in order to say that they aren't heroes, in reality, it's humanising these people in order to accentuate their heroism. The crew of Fury stared death in the eye with fear in their hearts, to show the world that they were brave, and sure, and true. It may not be true, but for all the world knows, it is. That is all. Oh, and Fury's really good and you should go see it.
What We Do In The Shadows
The best thing about This Is Spinal Tap is that the musicians that were the focus of the mockumentary were actually pretty fucking good. Conversely, the best thing about American Movie is that the filmmaker who is the focus of the documentary knows so much about good films. He just can't make one. If these people were total morons, there wouldn't be any fun to the films. Watching dumb people fail is sad. Watching just-slightly-out-of-touch people fail is hilarious. Jemaine Clement and Taika Waititi know this. The New Zealander vampires that are the focus of mockumentary What We Do In The Shadows are good at what they do. Or at least, they were. The comedy of the film stems from their resistance to fully adapt to the changing world. They plead with bouncers to invite them into the clubs rather than just demand a cover charge, but end up having to concede with the struggling pub down the road that is begging anybody to come in. When introduced to Google, one of them asks if he can find a really nice scarf he lost in the 1700s. Comedy also comes from the characters' very matter-of-fact attitude towards their existence. One casually discusses the social faux pas of being a Nazi Vampire post WWII ("I don't know if you know this, but we lost"). The housemates who have been living together for hundreds of years bicker about having to keep the place clean ("We're fucking vampires! We don't do dishes!"). Zombies aren't slow, shambling mindless killing machines, they're just really boring people that eat flesh. Honestly, I'm struggling to find things to talk about with this flick. I don't want to keep talking about funny scenes, because they're far better experienced by watching the movie. Your capacity to enjoy it is wholly dependent on your taste. It's silly, but it's whip-fucking-smart, and this sort of humour is totally my thing. A man is mauled by a werewolf, and the police are clueless. "There have been a string of wild dog attacks, occurring each month. It's got the people pretty scared. We've managed to apprehend one of the perpetrators," a cop says as she brings over an adorable retriever. "Unfortunately, he will have to be put down." Another cop walks the dog over to the mangled body, points at it and says irritably, "Look at what you did." I lost my shit. If you don't lose yours, then bah humbug to you.
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
People are going to say Michael Bay ruined Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, even though his role as producer was probably not to have much of a creative hand at all, but to throw a few stacks of cash at it and get back to making the new Budweiser commercial called Transformers 4: Age of Extinction. People are going to say it ruined their beloved childhood franchise, even though the franchise never had any artistic integrity. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles has only ever existed to sell toys. The only iteration of it that ever existed for something more was the comic it was born from, and even then, that was more of a parody of Frank Miller's Daredevil and Sin City than anything else. TMNT Inc. has only ever wanted you to buy the action figure, so getting all up in arms because you don't like someone's delivery of it is like getting mad at Coke for not bringing Lemon Coke back the way you remember it (but those fuckers really didn't bring it back the way I remember it). And if I'm going to buy the action figure, what I require is a group of fun-loving turtles eating pizza, getting goofy and kicking some butt. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles gave me exactly what I wanted. Yes, the plot is beyond moronic, but it has no less intellectual depth than any of the iterations to precede it. Yes, a fart joke probably will have you rolling your eyes, but try not to forget that this is primarily aimed at children. Or at least, it seems that way about 60% of the time. The movie has one big speed bump: Shredder. He looks like someone duct-taped a bunch of kitchen knives to his arms for one, but the more prevalent hang-up is that he's just so fucking brutal. Which is really the only part of this film that feels like a Michael Bay movie. One of my biggest issues with his handling of the Transformers franchise, apart from, you know, everything about them, is that the fight scenes often amount to not much more than the heroes getting the shit kicked through them, begging the question: Who is this fun for? Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' second act concludes with Master Splinter being beaten to within an inch of his life by Shredder. Slow-motion masturbatory angled shots show Shredder's fist connecting with the frail rat over and over, and I once again found myself asking: Who is this fun for? Wouldn't the children be a little disturbed? I know I was. The same goes for the final fight: the Turtles getting kicked in the stomach repeatedly until they just happen to win. Luckily, the movie makes the same mistake most superhero reboots are making these days of not bothering to develop the villain, which in this case turns out to be a blessing. Whenever Shredder isn't on-screen, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is a lighthearted, well-produced, masses-satisfying good time at the movies. The term "popcorn movie" has been bastardised in my opinion. We've become too accepting of the demographic-targeting flicks that get peddled out to us year after year. We go and see Transformers 7: The College Years and tell ourselves it's because we've seen all the others and it'll do until something better comes along. It's time we stopped. We don't have to see it to hold us off until something better comes along. Go do something else. There's so much great media out there that is bold, and different, and challenging, and worth experiencing right now. And when you're in the mood for something light to pass the time, aim a little higher and see something like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Cowabunga, dudes. Cowabunga.
Sin Titty 2: A Dame to Kill For
Sin City is almost 10 years old. Back then, we were still moderately impressed by CG being used to create a comic-book effect, Robert Rodriguez wasn't using his backyard to make movies and Frank Miller was regarded as one of the greatest comic-book writers of all time, not that racist fuckhead in the fedora. I liked Sin City a lot. I'm a big fan of noir, hyper-violence and boobies, and Sin City delivered in spades. But I didn't feel like it was a world that I at all had to revisit. The film as a whole felt like one conclusive speech on the noir genre, and anything following that would be a needless retread of worn ground. Enter Sin City 2: A Dame to Kill For. Once again operating as an anthology of interweaving stories, get ready to be treated to two hours of the same characters doing the same things, making the same points, ending up at the same conclusions. Except the cat's out of the bag this time around. We get it: Sin City either turns good people into bad people or dead people. Unless you're a woman, in which case you're either pure evil or a punching bag. Nothing new is said about this universe. Hell, one of the stories doesn't even involve any of the others. It's just there until it's over. It's the wrong movie at the wrong time as well. In a culture that is finally starting to wake up to the rampant misogyny in our media, putting out a movie full of characters that hate women isn't the wisest move (yes, I'm aware sexism is a regular trope of the noir genre I recently praised). It's your dad trying to fit in at your birthday party; the cinematic equivalent of Channing Tatum thinking he's only cool if he one-straps his backpack, parks in a handicapped zone and calls a kid he finds uncool gay. It's a curious beast though, because the only character in this film that receives a shred of what could be considered a character arc is a woman. It may be obvious that the at-first terrified and helpless Eva Green will wind up being the baddest of the bad, but in a film that either expects you to instantly remember a character's motivations from the first film or just declares "Fuck it", it's refreshing to watch a hint of development. Then again, she's naked the entire film, which is not even slightly an exaggeration. Now, I'm not one to decry two hours of nude Eva Green, but what does it say of your movie when you're only willing to let a woman have some depth if she's got her tits out? What does it say of your movie when the most I got out of it was relief that there's still one person with some say in Hollywood that cares about Mickey Rourke? What does it say of your movie when your sixty-five million dollar production only makes two on its opening day? Go home, Sin City 2. You're drunk.
Gone Girl
The most interesting thing about Gone Girl is that in any other film, the big twist would come in the last five minutes. Here, it comes in the first 30, and the following 150 is an examination of how these people then deal with that information. I'll continue that thought in a bit. There's a scene very early in the film that takes place the day after Nick Dunne's (Ben Affleck) wife, Amy (Rosamund Pike) disappears. He's trying to collect himself to make a press statement when Amy's parents arrive. Her mother says she only got ten minutes sleep, a statement that would normally indicate the lack of sleep was due to distress. When she gets up in front of the cameras, though, and pulls palm cards from her pocket, a different picture is painted. Nick barely managed to speak for 15 seconds, and was so all over the place that he smiled for the cameras beside the photo of his missing wife. Amy's parents immediately switch to stoic gazes as soon as the flash bulbs are pointed their way. Her mum didn't sleep due to worry, but preparation. They were ready for this. They're playing a role. We live in an age where people are more interested in living vicariously through other people's scandals than focusing on sorting out their own shit. And honestly, when such a large percentage of our media is inviting them to do just that, who could blame them? So if a nation is being invited to invade someone else's life through their TVs, PCs and smart phones, they're going to want the biggest bang for their buck. And who's going to look more villainous in the aforementioned situation? The husband acting irrationally because the situation he is in is eliciting irrational behaviour? Or the parents executing their roles with almost cinematic precision? Over time, Nick comes to realise this. When he's next in front of the camera, his behaviour is calculated, to send a message to the people he needs on his side: us. We don't want reality. Reality is boring. We want to be someone else, to play a role. That is what Gone Girl is about at its core: who we are is rarely who we want to be. Most of us come to terms with that, make peace with the reality of our situation. Some of us don't. Some of us see meeting a new person as a chance to be a new person. But what happens when you like the person you're pretending to be more than the person you are? What happens when the person you're with only knows the person you're pretending to be and comes to love that person? What do you do? What happens when time takes its toll and you inevitably, powerlessly, start to slip back into the person you are? What happens when you start to find out the person you love, the person that you're a different person for, turns out to also be a different person from the person that you love? Do you feel betrayed, even though you're guilty of the same betrayal? What happens when your entire life has been built upon being someone the world wants, regardless of the fact that it's anything but who you know yourself to be? Such an existential dilemma weighs heavy on the mind. But are the actions you take a result of insanity, or exhaustion? What if you've been doing this for so long, that you're unable to remember who you really are? What if the real you is whoever you need to be in that moment? But more importantly, what do you do when the most important person in your life finds this out? Do you know them well enough to know what they'll do? Or are they just like you? That's about as much as I can say without totally ruining Gone Girl's surprises. David Fincher has made yet another technically flawless film, that brings a disturbing coldness in its perfection. It's not everyone's cup of tea, but it is 100% mine. Rosamund Pike fucking owns her role, as does Ben Affleck, as does Tyler Perry bizarrely. As does everybody. Fincher's work post-Fight Club has been stellar (Zodiac is my personal favourite), but up until now, none have approached recapturing the truly disturbing depths that a human being is willing to go to for what they want. What they think they want. What they think they need. Which is rarely what they deserve. Cheers, Dave.
Annabelle
The best thing I can say about Annabelle is that it's not trying to be a shameless cash-in on the success of The Conjuring. Where its former was a love letter to the haunted house flicks of the late 70s and early 80s, it is a love letter to the demonic possession and devil worship flicks of the late 60s and early 70s, and the film is very different as a result. But the worst thing I can say about Annabelle is one of the worst things one can say about a horror movie: it's predictable. I'm tempted to just link to my review of The Conjuring and label Annabelle as "The Opposite", but that's not entirely fair. I have genuine respect for it for not being a typical lazy second instalment, even if it doesn't really work. Additionally, as it's helmed by the Director of Photography for The Conjuring and Insidious, the film looks fucking amazing. There are some scenes that work solely because of its shot compositions. But a pretty face doesn't help you if you're fucking boring or crazy, and Annabelle is a bit of both. The key to you being affected by a horror movie is your willingness to suspend your disbelief; to accept that this is taking place in an alternate universe where logic does not exist. Annabelle breaks this right out the gate by having the gall to suggest that anyone in their right mind would want that fucking freaky doll on their shelf. Its second crime is spending way too long throwing bad dialogue at you to make you care about its characters. The Conjuring almost didn't need a set up: this family is whole and loving, therefore I care. Annabelle didn't need to be any different, and yet there is scene after scene establishing that this couple loves each other, but are under some strain, but everything will be okay after the baby is born, but the husband is away a lot at medical school, and on and on and on. If you can't continue to develop the audience's love for the characters during the spooky scenes, then you need to reassess your characters. It's also disappointing to see the genuine progression of the horror genre in The Conjuring by having the father immediately receptive of his family's terror scrapped here for the usual "the house is just going bumpies, quit worrying" shit. When you know why a scene exists and roughly how it's going to end, you've lost your audience, an especially damning trait for a horror movie. So imagine my surprise when the film suddenly makes the revelation that the doll may not be possessed by the ghost of a girl, but by the ghost of a girl who was possessed by fucking Satan. This leads to two amazing scenes: one involving a basement floor and the other involving one of the only times in the film that the doll moves "independently". I won't spoil them, but they hint at what the film could have been. When you start dealing with Satanic Cults and devil monsters, you start to delve into the silly. Here's the thing, though: if you grab that silliness by both of the proverbial horns, you will lose the serious dread and terror of The Conjuring, but in turn, you could gain the fun-loving haunted house ride that is Insidious, a brilliant film for different reasons. Annabelle is caught in the middle, and winds up being not very good at either. I'm loathe to keep comparing, but it loses almost all of The Conjuring's love for subtlety and silence, and it's also got some seriously stale and kind of offensive tropes (I thought film was done with the benevolent, wise, slightly magic black woman whose purpose is to provide exposition and then die for the white protagonists). Annabelle isn't a total piece of shit, but it also isn't very interesting. And I think the only thing worse than a bad movie is a good movie falling short of its potential. Humph.
Watching Guardians of the Galaxy was a bit of a weird experience for me. For the first time in over ten years, a scene made my heart leap into my throat and I found myself thinking, "Man, I want one of those!" It was an arrow that an alien whistled at to control. With a tune more than a little similar to Ave Maria, he wastes a field of enemies in seconds. It's a movie made for twelve-year-olds, and I cannot stress this enough. I'm not saying this movie is targeted at twelve-year-olds, I'm saying that it is made for twelve-year-olds. The Goonies was made for twelve-year-olds, and the reason we can enjoy it just as much as the twelve-year-olds is because there's always a part of us that's still twelve. Marvel's Cinematic Universe was built on a risk. Not many people knew who Iron Man was before Iron Man. But nobody knows Guardians of the Galaxy. This was a make or break situation for the studio. Casual movie-goers who are sitting on the fence, starting to feel alienated by all of the, well, alien stuff happening in the over-arching narrative, are going to be swayed one way or the other by this movie. Then again, was it such a risk? Marvel approached Guardians of the Galaxy the same way they approached Iron Man: Get a good director, get good writers, get good actors and watch the money come in. James Gunn has done something special here, though, something that nobody has yet done. What I'm about to say, I do not say lightly: James Gunn has made The Goonies for this generation.
All superlatives aside, James Gunn was a weird choice for me. Not that I, like you, knew who the Guardians of the Galaxy were before this movie was announced. The announcement that it would be a humourous, slightly sarcastic and more importantly, fun, super hero flick was promising, but James Gunn? His two previous movies, Slither and Super, were very well made, but they, Super in particular, were cynical to the point of alienation at times. I was afraid his attitude would bleed into Guardians of the Galaxy and create a movie that thought having fun was making fun of the fun-lovers. I was wrong. The movie opens with a young Peter Quill (Chris Pratt) in a hospital, listening to a mixtape made for him by his mother, who is dying of cancer in the opposite room. She passes before he takes her hand. Later, Quill, now a galactic thief who prefers the name Star-Lord, has been arrested and sees a prison guard listening to his tape player. He confronts the guard, who's far more interested in Blue Swede's Hooked on a Feeling. Even without the opening scene as context, it's pretty clear that this item is something beyond dear to Star-Lord. In another movie, this would have been a moment of power for the protagonist. Here, the guard beats Star-Lord into the ground with an electric rod as Hooked on a Feeling bleeds into the soundtrack and we're walked through the prison in question, as inmates beat each other mercilessly, someone tearfully watches a video recording of her family on the outside and our so-called heroes continue to fail. It's the absolute perfect balance of sarcasm and sincerity.
Guardians of the Galaxy's other greatest strength is that, for a film with a gun toting raccoon, none of its characters become gimmicks. The gun-toting raccoon has some of the film's most emotionally heavy moments, in fact. What's the last super hero movie you can recall in which all five of its protagonists cry at least once? These characters are monumentally flawed. They murder without a second's hesitation. Star-Lord risks freezing to death in deep space to save the life of Gamora (Zoe Saldana), only to try and use it as a pick-up line seconds later. A scene that, traditionally, would feature the hero finding the right combination of words to stir his team to go once more unto the fray here turns into a negotiation session to try and stir his team into just "giving a shit." This is followed by the classic slow-motion hallway scene, in which the team walks to certain doom. But here, one is yawning, one's wiping his nose on his arm, the other is pulling at his crotch. It seems simple, but the key to good characters lies within their ability to be relatable. The reason most people can't get into Superman is because he's so far and away from who we are. Comics writer Grant Morrison had to give Superman mortality and a death clock before he became interesting. Even the villain of Guardians of the Galaxy, Ronan (Lee Pace), has more development than most. He stands in defiance of his superior to pursue his dreams of being a genocidal freak, and when he stands against Drax (Dave Bautista), who wants to see him dead for killing his family, he exudes menace with a personality. "I do not recall killing your family," he says as he pushes his boot into Drax's face. "And I damn well won't recall killing you." Star-Lord spends the whole film trying to get anybody to call him by the nickname his mother had for him, and when the man with the gun in front of him says, "It's Star-Lord", he beams and says, "Finally." It's not played for tears, but we feel moved anyway, because every facet of the film is tying back to characterisation. Hell, the talking tree man, Groot (Vin Diesel), who can only say, "I am Groot", ended up making me cry for the simple fact that the writers refused to not let anyone have their moment.
After the aforementioned opening scene of Guardians of the Galaxy, I was a little worried I was sitting down to another super hero movie that was going to take itself too seriously. Within less than two minutes, the film's over-sized title was splashed on the screen, while down at its last tenth, Star-Lord was dancing in an empty cavern to Redbone's Come and Get Your Love, and I knew I was watching something special. Like the movies Star-Lord would have grown up watching before being abducted into space, Guardians of the Galaxy uses sad scenes not to make you feel sad, but to make you feel more for the characters. Rocket Raccoon (Bradley Cooper) sits down at the end of a battle, puts his over-sized gun on the ground beside him and starts to cry. Drax the Destroyer sits beside him and pets him, something that takes Rocket by immediate surprise. It's clearly something that he's never experienced before. God, you couldn't stop my tears. But it's an event with an affectionate smile on its face. I was happy to cry. It doesn't quite escape the one problem inherent to the Marvel movies. Though each film introduces a different world-destroying object, with the overall aim of them coming together to make the Infinity Gauntlet for The Avengers 2, in movie speak, it means that every film has a token MacGuffin. They handle it the best way possible here, though. Tying into the film's prevalent cynicism, none of the protagonists give a shit. Star-Lord literally refers to it as the Maltese Falcon, and quasi-villain Yondu (Michael Rooker) starts speaking gibberish to get another character to stop talking when he tries to dump exposition on him. I imagine it would have been tempting to play it safe with Guardians of the Galaxy, to merely pepper the self-referential humour into it the same way Thor: The Dark World did. Instead, they latched onto it with full conviction, delivering a movie with five violent, cynical, morally-questionable jerks that it then asks us to fall in love with. But we do, because as Star-Lord says, "I may be an a-hole, but I'm not 100% a dick." It's also, verbose character analyses aside, a ridiculously entertaining good time at the movies. Marvel have been putting out quality films one after another, but they've finally made one that's going to be memorable. My inner twelve-year-old could not be happier. Go see it. See it twice.
How good it feels to watch a good movie. Watching Calvary made me realise how often I have to work to find something I enjoyed about a film. So many of my opinions start with "I enjoyed it, but..." or "There were some good qualities to it, but..." or "It was fucking balls." If you don't intend to finish reading this review, at least finish this sentence: Calvary is excellent and reminded me why I'm still desperately in love with this medium. I hesitate to use this phrase, because it sounds like a dopey marketing line, but there are three criteria for a film to wholly win me over: I want to cry, I want to laugh, and I want to think. I don't know about you, but that's why I go to the movies. Calvary opens with the line, "I first tasted semen when I was seven years old," spoken by an unseen man in a confessional booth to Brendan Gleeson's Father James Lavelle. It's a small collection of words that cuts deep with implication. Cue the tears. Father Lavelle pauses before replying, "Certainly a startling opening line," with just the right amount of suggestion that this movie might be aware that it's a movie. Cue the laughter. What follows is a recount of a five-year-long period of sexual abuse at the hands of a catholic priest, a priest who has since passed away. But this victim's thirst for vengeance hasn't gone away. "There's no point in killing a bad priest," he says. "I'm going to kill you because you're innocent." Because he wants to be heard, his story told, whatever the cost. Cue the thoughts. In five minutes, I got everything I search for. And merry fucking Christmas to me, there was still another 95 to go.
The Catholic church hasn't been the most popular of late. As more and more evidence of its countless covered-up incidents of child abuse has been revealed, the church has found itself at the ire of much of the world. I think one of the reasons I love Calvary so much is that it has the stones to stand bravely in front of the angry mob in defence. Father Lavelle theorises in one of the film's later scenes that people spend too much time focusing on sin, and not enough on virtues, going on to cite forgiveness as a particularly underrated quality, which stems from the film's central idea that spirituality and faith have never been the problem. Organisation of them has. Father Lavelle certainly isn't a perfect man. His daughter's attempted suicide stemmed from his abandonment of her following the death of his wife/her mother. During a conversation with a boy considering joining the army, he puts forth his belief that joining the army during peace time is psychopathic, and the action only of someone who wants to know what it's like to kill someone. Putting aside the fact that the boy is considering joining the army to quell his violent thoughts towards the women who reject him, this is a powerfully judgmental attitude for a man whose career is built upon leaving judgement to the big guy in the sky. But in the end, he's just another flawed human trying to do his best in a world that wants to see him suffer like it suffers. The film begins with him receiving the knowledge that he will be dead in seven days. He's pretty sure he knows who it was on the other side of the confessional booth, but that doesn't stop him from conducting his regular business of wandering through his small Northern Island community desperately trying to fix the broken lives surrounding him. And while these pathetic miscreants need his help, they refuse to show it. A pleasant conversation with a young girl is interrupted by her father, horrified that her daughter found herself alone with a priest. Because he's seen the news. He knows what every priest is up to. But it wasn't Father Lavelle who shipped priests out to the missions after they were caught touching children. It was the church. The same church that Father Lavelle goes to in order to seek guidance about his would-be assailant, that bogs him down in the politics and nuances on the confidentiality of a confessional. The same church that provides him with an assistant that understands nothing of the people in the community and strikes like a rattlesnake at the first sign of a rich man offering them money. In a drunken stupor, Father Lavelle asks him why he's even a priest. The next morning, his assistant is heading back to the city and says he didn't realise he hated him so much. "I don't hate you at all," he replies. "It's just you have no integrity. And that's the worst thing I could say about anybody." Notice he didn't say faith, or belief. Almost as if God, or what God represents, is what comes after you've sorted out becoming a decent human being.
The thing is, Father Lavelle never explicitly states during the film that he even still has faith in God. He could be forgiven for not. Calvary takes place in modern-day Ireland, a country in a deep financial crisis. The people Father Lavelle spends most of his time with are the people most affected by this recession: those that can't leave. It's through these people that we run a gamut of caricatures representative of an entire disenfranchised people. There's the married man who accepts and encourages his wife's unfaithfulness because it's the only way they can remain happy, who happily plays a game of chess with the man his wife is sleeping with. There's the atheist doctor who questions Father Lavelle's faith by telling him the story of one of his patients: a young girl whose surgery was botched, who woke up deaf, dumb, blind and paralysed - unable to scream, as he puts it. There's the American author who wants to kill himself before old age robs him of dignity. There's the homosexual rent boy who tries to make others uncomfortable to hide his own insecurities. There's the young man serving a life sentence in prison who is desperate for forgiveness not from remorse, but fear in what death brings. And so on. One of them is the aforementioned victim of sexual abuse with a gun in his hand, but in reality, they've all been raped by their country and the faceless ones that run it. Even the one person in the community that is able to leave isn't really able to escape. Michael Fitzgerald (Dylan Moran) seems to be embroiled in the series of banking scandals that accompanies Ireland's financial woes, but he knows he's going to come through it relatively unscathed, because why wouldn't a rich man get off scot free? This prompts Father Lavelle to ask why he's bothered to call upon him if he doesn't feel guilty. "I don't feel guilty," Michael replies. "But I feel like I should. Same thing, isn't it?" And then he pisses on a priceless painting in front of Father Lavelle just to show that he can. That's a pretty good summary of his interactions with the people of his parish. They desperately want help, but they don't want to admit it. And the only person that can help them is a representative of a dying organisation that is just as sinful as everyone else. Father Lavelle sits in a bar, and the bartender casually says, "Your church is on fire." Everyone gathers at the flaming building, though not to show support or farewell their second home. They gather to watch a building burn and to see if this man has broken yet.
About halfway through Calvary, Father Lavelle is visiting the aforementioned young prison inmate, Freddie Joyce (Domhnall Gleeson), who speaks of the girl he cannibalised. "She said she'd been abused before. So I said, "Well, once more isn't going to make any difference, then."" It ran my blood cold. He says he becomes God when the light in their eyes goes out. "No, you don't," Father Lavelle replies. "No, you don't." Freddie follows this up with a beg for forgiveness. This fucking piece of shit wants forgiveness. But doesn't he, like all people, deserve at least the chance to say he's sorry, if he truly thinks he is? "God made me, didn't he? So he understands me. He must do. Don't you think?" Father Lavelle gives one of his few insights into his faith. "I think if God can't understand you, Freddie, no-one can." With procedural grace, Calvary concludes with the reveal of the man who wants to see Father Lavelle dead. It may come as a surprise to you. To me, he was representative of the entire community. Father Lavelle asks his assailant why he had to kill his dog, an act that stands out as particularly horrific in a film that wallows in the depths of humanity. The gunman is mortified. "Why would I kill a dog? I love dogs." And in that moment, utterly true ugliness is revealed. People will hypothesise the identity of the dog killer, but to me it doesn't matter. In the same way that this man is representative of the community, the killer of Father Lavelle's dog was all of them. And in the face of his death, he couldn't even attribute the loss of his companion to the result of a mentally-imbalanced sexual abuse victim. There was someone much more level-headed in the community who just wanted to see him suffer. Perhaps like they were suffering, perhaps not. But the movie isn't content to end there. The gunman asks if Father Lavelle cried for his dog. He replies, "Yes." The gunman asks if Father Lavelle cried for the children raped by the Catholic church. He replies, "No." And, if I'm being honest, neither did I. When the innumerable counts began to pour out, I recognised it as loathsome, I felt sick and disgusted towards an organisation abusing its power, and then I moved on. As did Father Lavelle. It took a gun being pointed in his face to take notice. But even then, what will this do? What will it achieve? Calvary is content not answering this question, or any of its questions. It brought them up. The rest is on us. So what do you believe?
We abuse the phrase, "Inspired by true events". A lick of similar events does not warrant marketing your film as more truth than fiction to the point that it needs proclamation of such. Do you know what the true events of The Conjuring were? A bed lifted a bit and a married pair of exorcists kicked the spooky ghosts out, a far cry from the dead dogs and demonic possession put behind the disclaimer of truth. Is this a bad thing? Not necessarily. Purporting your film to be grounded in truth is a surefire way to drive sales up, and The Conjuring was a fantastic horror flick that may not have been as successful otherwise. But you don't get one without the other, and "Inspired by true events" has also been slapped on Deliver Us From Evil to drive sales up, though not to expose quality, but to make bank on a bad movie. I'm a fan of writer-director Scott Derrickson. He's steadily built a career on offering different horror films. In 2005, he made The Exorcism of Emily Rose, which was as much a horror movie as it was a courtroom drama, and in 2012, he made Sinister, an overwhelmingly bleak ghost story with expertly-crafted scares and excellent use of Super 8 film footage. Deliver Us From Evil continues his trend, though only on paper. It promotes itself as a blend of procedural cop dramas and exorcism movies, which, to its credit, it is. It's also everything that is wrong with both.
Joel McHale is in Deliver Us From Evil. Anyone who's seen the TV show Community will immediately recognise him as its protagonist, Jeff Winger. For a show built upon the idea of breaking down and parodying genre, it's more than a little ironic that in Deliver Us From Evil, he plays the wise-cracking cop sidekick with a death clock above his head so straightfaced. Perhaps if the movie had at least a degree of self-awareness, it would have been digestible. But it approaches its watered-down stereotypes with such conviction in the hope that on premise alone, it's a success. Rather than build upon the strengths of its genres, it falls entirely on their tropes. Three soldiers read some Latin on a wall in Iraq and bring a demon back to New York, which proceeds to spread the word and murder some folk. Police officer Eric Bana is put on the investigation, and he just so happens to have lost his faith, so of course he doesn't believe in any of this "exorcist mumbo jumbo crap". You can see the end of the film as soon as it begins, and predictability is an instant killer in mystery and horror movies. The thing is, if it sought to examine or deconstruct the tropes inherent to these genres, it could have been great. But there's a scene in which Eric Bana goes to see one of the possessed, who's been locked in a jail cell marked "Crazy Person". She's clearly under the influence of something other than your run-of-the-mill heroins. Her eyes are not a human colour, her face makes scurvy look like a mild skin condition and she keeps drooling a thick, goopy, grey liquid. Her voice is not a human voice. There is something clearly and obviously not human about her. But Eric Bana is completely shocked when she flips out and bites a chunk out of his arm. When he's the only one noticing flash images of bleeding people and the sound of children laughing when he and his partner are viewing CCTV footage and he doesn't immediately assume something supernatural is afoot, it's all serving to make its reliance on stale genre all the more apparent.
It's not entirely without merit, however. The demon is a huge fan of The Doors, for one. It exclusively uses the lyrics and music of Jim Morrison and Co. to screw with Eric Bana, at times to genuinely unsettling effect, so if you find yourself wishing you were stubbing your toe on a corner repeatedly rather than watch this piece of trash, you can ease the pain a little with the knowledge that there's a good song just around the corner. Also, bizarrely, the third act of the movie is really good. And that's not by comparison. It's the one moment during the whole film that the merging of both genres is done to good effect. The main possessed man spends most of the film possessing others, wearing hoodies and taunting Eric Bana's daughter by scratching her floorboards. And then a traditional haunted house scene of objects acting independently is punctuated with a home invasion and kidnapping. This is followed by a scene in which the spooky dude is standing ready and waiting in Eric Bana's home, making delicious dark threats. His body is covered in phrases and symbols scratched into his skin. And Eric Bana finally realises that in his disbelief, he is powerless, and he lashes out violently. Something snapped in my head and I realised I was enjoying it. This is followed by the film's climax: a step-by-step, true to life walkthrough of an exorcism that mirrors a cop drama's interrogation scene. The exorcist explains all of the different stages they will go through, and they proceed to do just that. He taunts the demon, the demon taunts back, it gets violent, he gets the demon's name and with that, expulsion. In the same way that a cop and his suspect trade veiled threats that escalate to violence, until the cop gets his information - the name of a demon, in this case. And then the movie ends. It's not often that a film's last third redeems its first two, and it certainly doesn't here, but if you make the mistake of sitting down to this cinematic turd, rest assured you can wake up in the last half hour.
All of this is to say if you can even be bothered to sit down to it in the first place. Don't mistake my praise for an overall statement of enjoyment. I did not enjoy Deliver Us From Evil. It's the worst thing you can say about a film: it's boring. Films regularly take dull topics and present them in a way that defies our preconceived notions and alters our perceptions. Deliver Us From Evil doesn't care enough about you to even try. It's a cop drama that forgot to include a mystery. It's a horror movie that forgot to include scares. Or maybe it's choosing not to, in the hopes that its defying genre to blaze a new trail. But its not pulling from what makes genre effective. Scenes begin to generate classic horror movie tension only to punctuate them with a dull cop cliche. Take the aforementioned home invasion scene: Eric Bana's daughter is awoken by scratching on the ground. Her toy owl begins to roll across the floor on its own, occasionally stopping to stare at her and hoot. The door slams shut. This should be building to something other than a jerk in a hoodie standing in a hallway. They don't even bother to put a loud noise on the soundtrack to at least get a jolt from the audience. Because Law & Order wouldn't. But Law & Order isn't about fucking demons. When the end of a so-called horror film's second act is a knife fight in a stairwell between a muscled-up douchebag and a red-eyed monster man, that's the cue to vow never to watch an "Inspired by true events" horror movie again, get up, walk out and salvage what's left of your Sunday afternoon with something a little less moronic. It's what Eric Bana would want you to do.
