I can’t wait for people to see the movie. We’ve been baking this cake for a long time, and now it’s time to serve it.
- J.J. Abrams
It’s been ten years since Star Wars was last on the big screen and fans have now been waiting for over thirty years to find out just what happened to Luke, Han and Leia. The release of Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015, dir. J.J. Abrams) however, is much more than simply a momentous occasion for cinema’s most famous franchise, the permeation of Star Wars into popular culture combined with the fervour of its fan following makes the release of this film a moment of cinematic history – what happens next? The critics, and arguably more importantly the fans, decide.
The Force Awakens is very much an episode for the next generation. With enfant terrible J.J. Abrams at the helm, it is refreshing to see a director brave enough to take on the, what is now, almost a mythic story and put his own stamp on it, and creating the first female lead is a fantastic start. While Daisy Ridley as Rey doesn’t have the charisma of some other action/sci-fi female leads (thinking in particular of Jennifer Lawrence in The Hunger Games), Mark Hamill wasn’t exactly the fully formed product back in 1977 either. What’s more important is the casting of a relative unknown, allowing these new episodes to evolve outside the whirlpool of the Hollywood star system.
Among the other new characters are rebel Stormtrooper Finn (John Boyega) and ace pilot Poe Dameron (Oscar Isaac) on the light side, with Vader-in-training Kylo Ren (Adam Driver) on the dark. Finn in particular is a breath of fresh air, offering a new perspective across the galaxy’s social strata as well as being refreshingly unskilled in the arts of fighting and flying.
As director of the first reincarnation in the intergalactic saga J. J. Abrams has both the best and hardest job in cinema. The pressure to deliver must have been enormous and I’m overjoyed that it did. After spending the few days after the release date but before seeing the film in paroxysms of terror whenever scrolling past articles or overhearing Star Wars chatter – don’t worry I’m not going to drop an S-bomb now – it was a thrill and a joy to see the film’s twists unfold naturally on-screen.
The amount of time that we’ve been waiting for Episode VII makes it hard to review it without being overwhelmed. With further viewings and as new episodes unfold, time will tell how well The Force Awakens holds up... Compulsive viewing, a thrilling and triumphant return for Star Wars; may the force be with you, always. ****
- Have you thought of what animal you’d like to be if you end up alone?
- Yes, a lobster.
The Lobster (2015) is director Yorgos Lanthimos’ debut feature film in the English language, and it’s a relief and a joy that his characteristic dark and surreal humour translates. Much like in Dogtooth (2009), Lanthimos creates a distinct and absurd setting, a world tightly governed by rules and with clear authority figures. As a result his characters are less than individuals. The dialogue is mostly factual and David (Colin Farrell) in particular offers very few extraneous details. Indeed, even in the closing credits some of the most memorable characters are recalled purely by their function: Hotel Manager, Loner Leader, Short-sighted woman, Lisping Man, Limping Man.
This self-definition by role is explored more widely throughout the film. Designated a failure by being unable to maintain a relationship, David is taken to an isolated hotel and given 45 days to find his true love or else be turned into an animal of his choice. Throughout this Lanthimos suspends the viewer in an equilibrium of knowledge and mystery. Just enough information is seeded to know the outline of the society we find ourselves in, but more than enough is also kept back. The clinical luxury of the hotel supports this suspended understanding. Aesthetically well-considered with just the right amount of opulence to disturbing cult-like details it is familiar and unfamiliar; uncanny.
Looking far from the peak of physical perfection, Farrell presents a fantastically morose and dead-pan anti-hero. Accompanied by his brother (a previous hotel guest who didn’t make it and was transformed into a Border Collie) he initially enters the hotel with a grim yet resigned determination to find a partner but transforms under these conditions into an individual, a free-thinker, rebelling against the universal binary codes of single/couple.
Lanthimos has assembled an impressive cast and Farrell is superbly supported on-screen. Olivia Colman, taking a break from the warm, bubbly characters we so often see her play is perfectly cast as the robotic Hotel Manager. One of her highlights has to be the duet sequence with her husband which is particularly unnerving. John C. Reilly and Ben Wishaw, two of David’s fellow guests add humour and camaraderie as well as projecting alternative paths of destiny.
Despite being split into two distinct sections, The Lobster is characterised by wild changes in tone. Opening with a third-person voiceover, switching between absurd humour and strong bloody violence, these changes in tone unsettle the viewer making us as powerless as David. Similarly to Dogtooth the only way to escape this madness is to make a physical sacrifice. Willing to blind himself for love, he escapes the machinations of performative relationships but also, tragically, falls into their trap.
An amusing, disturbing, engaging and incredibly imaginative feature, The Lobster also won the Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival 2015. The latest in a strong series of films from Lanthimos I can’t wait to see what he comes up with next. ****
Ghosts of the past return to haunt 007 in Spectre (2015, dir. Sam Mendes), the latest outing for the iconic Bond franchise. A shadowy organisation responsible for a number of atrocities and headed up by Chistoph Waltz as the villainous Oberhauser, has a new plan directly involving the British Secret Service, and seemingly, only one man can stop them.
The idea to link previous Bond villains from the Daniel Craig era – excepting Dominic Greene from The Quantum of Solace (2008, dir. Marc Forster) for obvious reasons – is a good one. One of the most confusing and unbelievable things about the franchise is the lack of continuity between the films. Surely foiling so many devious plots has to make 007 some enemies and it’s an interesting twist to see the bad guys as organised, if not more organised than MI6.
Indeed Mendes takes this further. In calling directly on the Bond legacy he highlights how the character of James Bond has changed, heralding Daniel Craig has a Bond for the modern era. The fight sequence on the train for instance recalls From Russia with Love (1963, dir. Terence Young). Craig fights very much in the style of Connery. Both bulkier Bonds their brutality in hand-to-hand combat is far from the more dashing aesthetic duels of Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan. Saying that, there is something very Roger Moore about the way Craig tumbles from a collapsing building only to find himself cushioned in his fall by a dilapidated sofa – the only thing missing was a wry quip.
Similarly it is interesting to compare the central threat of Spectre to previous Bond films. From nuclear warheads to Soviet military technology and strategic satellites, Bond has always provided an interesting reflection of national paranoia and now it is surveillance. Planning international acts of terrorism by using international governments’ own surveillance programmes, Mendes illustrates the threat of this intangible weapon on screen through the character of C (Andrew Scott). A viper in the nest, Scott is an appealing villain, upsetting the order of the home team, particularly M (Ralph Fiennes), with his ambitious and aggressive reforms.
Where Bond glaringingly fails to move with the times, however, is its continually disappointing portrayal of female characters. Monica Bellucci’s cameo feels more like a token gesture – a publicity stunt – that Bond is finally, albeit briefly entangled with a woman of his age. Quite frankly it’s embarrassing. Other action films have created substantial roles for women – the partnership between Furiosa and the eponymous Max in Mad Max: Fury Road (2015, dir, George Miller) being a prime example – why not Bond? The frequent and inconsequential seduction of women is throw-away, adds little to the story and only binds Bond closer to the misogyny he is still renowned for.
One of the most disappointing things about Spectre is that it doesn’t fully explore the potential of the narrative. The Spectre of the trailer is darkly alluring, an intriguing conspiracy but the film simply jumps from action to action without the necessary pauses to explore this further. What’s more, key character interaction and relationships are similarly rushed. ‘Bond girl’ Madeleine Swann (Léa Seydoux) is as tied up in the Spectre mystery as Bond but her experience and past is never voiced except in a few lines of clumsy, expositional dialogue.
While the action sequences are as impressive as ever, they are inadequate hooks on which the rest of the narrative is hung on. Well shot, exquisitely choreographed and exciting to watch, sadly CGI and high-octane action can’t make up for the unfortunate sinkhole at the centre of Spectre, a poorly executed plot. ***
Guillermo Del Toro’s vision for Crimson Peak (2015) is of a true “Gothic romance”, the sort of world you can “get lost in”. Sadly, sumptuous costume design, decadent high Gothic sets and a shimmering all-star cast do not a good Romantic horror make. Though Gothic literary heritage casts long, evocative shadows over the film, a lack of narrative drive and abundance of aesthetic at the expense of intrigue, leave Crimson Peak strangely underwhelming.
Set in New York at the turn of the 20th century we meet our ink-spattered heroine bent over the manuscript of her novel; a story about ghosts, not romance. Del Toro immediately evokes Jane Austen, even having his characters make the comparison on screen. And it is the world of Northanger Abbey (1817) that we find ourselves immersed in.
When a tall, dark and mysterious stranger comes into town to see Edith’s (Mia Wasikowska) father on business, the two seem bound together by fate, or is it something else, something more sinister? The old world collides with the new as the elusive Sir Thomas Sharpe (Tom Hiddeston) and his eerie sister (Jessica Chastain) return back to England with Edith as Thomas’ bride. From the bustling streets of New York we find ourselves in a much starker and windswept landscape, to a decrepit mansion on the isolated moors of Cumberland.
It is here that the Gothic nature of the story unfolds. On the immediate reveal of the collapsing mansion, the central hole in its roof through which leaves then snow tumble indoors, the blood red viscous and gelatinous clay bubbling through the floors of the ancient house, Edith realises she has got considerable less she bargained for. But when bloodied ghosts start appearing to her in corridors, linen cupboards and bathtubs, Edith realises something is very wrong with the Sharpe’s and begins to investigate further.
Mia Wasikowska is brilliant, if over-comfortable in her role as Edith. While she captures the Romantic heroine very ably, she is held back by the scope of her character. Seemingly trapped in indecision as to just how plucky his heroine should be, Del Toro falls between both camps, empowered with agency and imagination but also inflicted by love. Surely if there is a stand out performance in this piece it would have to Jessica Chastain’s portrayal of Lucille Sharpe. The Lady Macbeth of the piece her transformation from demure to unhinged is well realised, if a little rushed.
Saying Crimson Peak is his first film in the English language in the ilk of Pan’s Labyrinth (2006), Del Toro seems to have shot himself in the foot. The supernatural without the rich historical and magic realism allusions just doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. The ghosts, while innovative in their appearance, add very little in comparison to the mysterious and ancient presence of Pan.
Indeed, Crimson Peak is more a classic Gothic romance in a literary sense than a filmic one. Aesthetically stunning (costume design in particular has got to be a hot Oscar tip) the direction falls into clichéd horror build-ups without a sustained element of fear. Similarly, despite the promising set up of Edith’s mother’s prophecy, the blend of dramatic ironies in the film feels mismatched. The Sharpe’s true intentions are revealed at an odd point. The viewer is made aware of their nefarious ways while still in America then once they return to England, the film potters along, losing any intrigue built. Besides Edith’s discovery of the wax recordings, the final denouement, though satisfying, comes as a bit of a rush.
A strangely disappointing outing from Del Toro, Crimson Peak fails to hit the mark. ***
Stranded on Mars when a manned mission goes wrong, Mark Watney (Matt Damon) has limited rations, limited resources and as for help, well it’s only 140 million miles away.
Ridley Scott’s latest sci-fi creation, The Martian (2015) is a survival movie with no baddies and where science saves the day. Starring a heavy-weight cast including Matt Damon, Jessica Chastain, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Sean Bean and Kristen Wiig, it’s a high-production drama-thriller charting one man’s battle to endure and ultimately escape from an alien world.
One of the most striking aspects of the film is the total isolation Mark’s (Damon) experiences. Using GoPro cameras in numerous strategic positions of the interior Hub set, Scott captures his reality at incredible close-hand. Moreover, Mark actively interacts with these cameras, performing to an imagined future audience as he goes about his daily survival routine. This casts a shade of dark humour across the narrative. Initially desperate to interact with fellow human beings, he begins a video diary to create a transient stream of communication albeit on a different time stream.
This isolation is compounded by the inhospitable atmosphere of the red planet itself. Whenever Mark ventures outside the safety of the Hub he is forced to don practical attire for the environment. This includes a full body, air-tight suit and a large, domed helmet. His experience of his surroundings is therefore always one-layer removed; unable to touch, smell, hear, taste, his vision is also moderated through the screen of his visor.
Mark’s isolation is therefore in microcosm. Just as he is alone on Mars, he is alone, trapped within his own body. Indeed, Scott takes this one step further, playing with the reflections created on the helmet’s visor. Throwing back distorted and bulbous images of his surroundings, even the viewer cannot fully share his experience.
While these extensions of isolationism are subtly evoked, beyond the mesmerising way it looks The Martian displays little clarity of vision elsewhere. The overall tone feels muddled between survival-thriller and discordant, faintly jock-like humour. Whereas in Thelma and Louise (1991), Scott masters the transitions between comedy and suspense, The Martian bubbles along in its uneasy marriage of pragmatic survival problem solving and ‘dad jokes’. The Disco soundtrack throws up a similar dissonance. Not so much a bold decision by the director as a grating, diegetic mix tape, its self-conscious quirkiness falls flat.
The film is structured around three parallel story lines and flits between Mark on Mars, the reaction on Earth and the rest of his crew returning home without him. In directly comparing the reactions of these different groups, Scott maintains a lively pace. Indeed, one of the most crucial aspects of the plot is that there is no precedent for a human being marooned on an alien planet. The reaction of Kristen Wiig’s NASA PR character is particularly interesting. Whereas the others can be largely subsumed into pro-space, pro-science, ethical stand points, she points out the potential bad press this could create for the space agency, initially suggesting a cover-up. These challenging questions force the viewer to interrogate censorship and spin as well as highlighting that NASA’s continued endeavours are ultimately based on their goodwill.
However, this aspect could have been explored much further. While it is exciting to see clever people working together to solve the same scientific problems, it does get repetitive and the film would have benefited from more than the central conflict of man combating nature with science.
Big names, big budget and very big and beautiful landscapes are not enough to cover up the central discord at the heart of The Martian. It is becoming a common trend in blockbusters to supplement plot holes and weak dialogue with stunning visuals and special effects, and while the film has a lot going for it in style, the substance just doesn’t take that giant step to meet it. ***
The Scottish play is back on our screens, and Justin Kurzel’s Macbeth (2015) starring Michael Fassbender and Marion Cotillard, is very much an adaptation for our times. Despite taking a traditional setting, this is a more introspective vision focusing on the traumatic causes of madness, power and greed than straightforward manipulation.
Opening with the funeral of Macbeth’s infant child and launching the viewer into the immediate chaos of bloody battle, it is an intense assault on the senses. And so it should be. The translation of Shakespeare to screen has a chequered legacy. From the liturgical to the abstract, with a happy medium in between, Kurzel’s traditional yet modern twist on Macbeth occupies a separate and powerful space, separate from the play.
One of the most interesting aspects of the feature is Kurzel’s presentation of the passage of time. Using a combination of slow-motion, sped-up action, time lapses and long panning shots across the blasted heath, time fluctuates to suit both mood and action.
The opening battle scene is shocking in its realist brutality. As Macbeth’s forces charge at the enemies of the King, everything slows right down in high definition detail before speeding up as the opposing armies smash into each other. Indeed, it is Macbeth’s experiences in war which shape his future. Afflicted by the death of his child, the slaughter of his friends-in-arms and the disassociating violence of war, Kurzel presents this post-traumatic stress as a key factor in his descent into madness.
This pragmatic, psychological interpretation carries over into depiction of the more supernatural elements of the text. Both Banquo’s ghost and the knife are undeniably physical. Kurzel blurs the boundaries between interior monologue and public speech. When seeing his dead friend Banquo at the feast Macbeth can barely contain his horror, to the confusion of the court. Whereas in the text this is a moment of soliloquy, the film plays with his paranoia as we are unsure whether the courts reactions are real or similarly imagined.
The witches, or weird sisters, also tread this line between the imagined and real. Refreshingly uncaricatured they appear at key moments in the plot, always on the fringes and always outdoors. Cackling banished their prophecies are as much tragically self-fulfilling as guiding while holding a powerfully unsettling presence in the film.
Michael Fassbender and Marion Cotillard are masterful in their roles. Ably supported by a fantastically astute cast, they both have a vulnerability which can so often be brushed over in the presentation of Shakespeare’s most iconic creations. Fassbender’s descent into madness is done subtly but with an edge of real, unhinged nerve. Effortlessly holding the viewer’s gaze, this is Shakespeare’s language as it is meant to be experienced: in mesmerising and chilling performance.
The shade to Macbeth’s debatable light, Cotillard’s Lady Macbeth is similarly unclichéd. Motivated by greed and lust for power, she is also a vulnerable figure and her ‘Out damnèd spot’ speech, shot alone in the chapel of their previous residence, stands out as a point of paralysed grief amid the tumult of charged, and ever charging action.
One of the most impressive things about Macbeth is the strength of Kurzel’s aesthetic vision. More than just ‘the Scottish play’, this Macbeth comes from a fully formed society, with culture, religion, tradition and belief. From the costumes and interior sets, to the swirling mist of the landscape itself, this is a fully-formed world and horrifying delight to enter into. ****
Liminal (adj.): occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.
The liminal framing of shots in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974, dir. Tobe Hooper) create a voyeurism. One of the classic slasher horrors, this stylistic reference point sustains the film’s palpable tension keeping the viewer in an uneasy suspense.
The film’s key dramatic moments hinge on terrible discoveries. From the gang’s decision to pick up a hitchhiker, inviting him into the van through the sliding door, to the revelation of Leatherface’s slaughterhouse lair, each character crosses a threshold and is irrevocably altered by what happens within.
Liminality also refers to a transitional process. Originally relating to ritual, it is that disorientating middle-stage where the participant has begun but is not yet changed by the completion of proceedings. Often structured around passing through a threshold, it is that moment of uncertain waiting that The Texas Chainsaw Massacre evokes.
Pursued by Leatherface, Sally finds sanctuary in a nearby house, pressing herself up against the slammed door for protection, unaware that she is sealing herself into the same tomb as her friends. Hooper subverts the liminal framing here, having Leatherface smash his way through the threshold to his victim trapped inside.
This perpetual crossing of thresholds also reflects the imaginative leaps of horror the viewer is required to make. In the final torture scene, Grandfather and Sally are framed through the wide doorway into from the dining room into the living room with the kitchen door open behind. The viewer does not cross the threshold to join them but rather gazes through, witness to the horror but distant.
This layering of doorways and windows is repeated throughout, foreshadowing the horror to come. When the gang pull up to Drayton ‘the cook’ Sawyer’s gas station there are four layers of vision present: the truck’s left window, then it’s right window, Drayton’s open front door and also an open interior door in the house behind.
The different lateral spaces this creates, seals each of the characters into their own level of perception. Drayton, having the most ‘space’ and furthest from the camera being the most aware of what will unfold. Hooper repeats this exact shot when Drayton forces Sally into his own vehicle. This time at night,the visual foreshadowing is striking in its reversal of power.
Sally escapes from her tormenters by leaping through windows. Symbolically rejecting the ritual she has been forced into, she leaves via an alternative exit. In the film’s final shot, clinging to the hood of the pickup truck as the driver looks through the window behind him we share her ecstasy but also her fear. In looking back, the driver leaves the threshold open for future encounters.
Horror tropes abound in David Robert Mitchell’s live-action feature début It Follows (2014). With supernatural activity, teen sex and plenty of well-timed jumps, while the premise feels familiar, innovative filmmaking imbues the film with a welcome originality.
Jay (Maika Monroe) gets a nasty surprise after sleeping with Hugh (Jake Weary), he’s passed something on, something a bit worse than an unfortunate case of HPV, Jay is going to be followed by something, and when it reaches her, it will kill her.
It’s a classic ‘hunted’ horror/thriller but Mitchell makes excellent compositional choices to frame this familiar narrative. The use of wide angle, long shots swamp Jay in her surroundings, making the viewer check around the screen for her and foreshadowing her paranoia later in the film. The grey tinted colours wash us with suburban malaise about to be rudely interrupted.
For saying the viewer knows what expect, each of the film’s inevitable dramatic incidents feel fresh and throw a new shade of horror onto the reality of Jay’s situation. Indeed, there is something very disturbing about the slow shuffling walk of It, that It never rests, It never stops, It is always walking in a straight line towards you. Framed in centre screen facing the camera, It approaches the viewer as it does Jay, and Mitchell holds this shots for as long as they’re worth.
Indeed, the subtlety and restraint of It Follows are admirable. Favouring slow burning creep over in your face slasher gore, Mitchell has created a chilling tale that lingers on in the mind.
Maika Monroe is excellent as Jay, giving the viewer what they want, and more. As the central female lead in a horror she truly delivers, but also brings a refreshing vulnerability beyond the physical. The agoraphobia and paranoia which invade her consciousness signal a shift in cinematography from grey, exterior light to an artificial interior glow.
A memorable film for all the right reasons, It Follows surely foreshadows a promising career for Mitchell. Innovative, entrancing and actually very scary, the early Twin Peaks-esque aerial forest shots with overlaid synth had already got me on board. ****
In a tiny apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, New York, a mother, her six sons and one daughter are locked inside by their tyrannical father. Nicknamed ‘The Wolfpack’ and discouraged from making any contact with the outside world, the Angulo brothers learn about society through their extensive film collection. In this cramped space they create their own magical world, re-enacting their favourite films, complete with costumes and props, to escape the horror of being locked in.
The Wolfpack (2015, dir. Crystal Moselle) documents the family’s life using a combination of home videos, one-to-one interviews and films the family’s day-to-day routines. It is an inherently voyeuristic concept; the viewer looking in on their extraordinary confined existence.
The main focus of the documentary is the brothers’ obsession with films. From transcribing the entire screenplay of Pulp Fiction, to creating an elaborate Dark Night Batman costume from cereal packets and yoga mats, their dedication to film is astonishing. A way to process the forbidden outside world, The Wolfpack is a testament to imagination. The viewer is treated to recreated scenes from the brothers’ all time favourite films including Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction and The Dark Night. They have genuine raw talent and quite clearly enjoy what they are doing, but there is an undercurrent of great sadness to the humour of the re-enactments which the director does not properly address.
Moselle chanced upon the six brothers while walking down First Avenue in Manhattan on one of their few forays into the outside world. She became friends with them, bonding quickly over movies, and only later found out that they had been confined to their apartment for fourteen years. This fascinating context is never acknowledged in The Wolfpack, and it is to its detriment.
Moreover, the documentary has an inherently assured familiarity with its subjects. The huge transitions in the Angulo brothers’ sheltered lives to their freedom are rushed with the familiarity of one who already knows their story, leaving the viewer unable to process the deeper emotions behind this.
Similarly, while Moselle has identified one of the most interesting things about the boys in their obsession with films, it feels overdone at the expense of exploring the reasons how this came about. We learn it was their father—the man responsible for this situation—who introduced to them to film, but that is all. As a result, their passion for film is reduced to a gimmick; a hook to draw move-goers in, knowing that they will relate to it.
A very moving and unique situation that unfortunately does not translate into a good documentary, The Wolfpack feels mined for audience reaction rather than exploring the deeply tragic story that doubtlessly runs much deeper than it appears. ***
Hailed as the film signalling Pixar’s magnificent return to form, Inside Out (2015, dir. Pete Docter and Ronaldo Del Carmen) explores the quintessentially Pixar theme of growing up, and elevates it to the next level.
A young girl faces new challenges when she leaves her childhood home behind and moves with her parents to San Francisco. Inside her head, Joy, Sadness, Anger, Fear and Disgust – her chief emotions – decide how best to cope with this new world and the trials of growing up.
A strikingly simple concept yet delivered with incredibly innovation and humour, Inside Out is a sophisticated examination of the human psyche and how, as human beings, we are ruled by our emotions. Amy Poehler is indefatigable as Joy, channelling Lesley Knope, her effortlessly sunny attitude is endearingly likeable, holding the rag-tag crew of emotions together.
The film examines nuanced emotional concepts, exploring the importance of sadness as well as joy. Although essentially two-dimensional characters, the personified emotions reach beyond their remit, especially Joy, with an important, genre-subversive message; that it’s ok to feel down sometimes.
The juxtaposition of Riley’s ‘real life’ experiences with the landscape of her psyche is well realised and flits seamlessly between the two. The subconscious, imagination land, abstract thought, long-term memory, Dream Productions Inc. and of course Bing Bong, physicalise different parts of human thought in incredibly creative ways. It’s an overwhelmingly attractive world to the viewer, forcing us to imagine the inner-working of our heads as well as considering the feelings of others in more depth.
Introspective by nature, Inside Out creates an extraverted world of emotion. Funny, thought-provoking, exhilarating and moving, it is surely to become a future Pixar classic. *****
August: Osage County (2013, dir. John Wells) begins with its biggest star, the original character actress, Meryl Streep. It’s an immediate shock to the viewer, shorn short hair, withered sunken eyes and clutching a low-burning cigarette in her talon, this is not the glamourous Meryl Streep of the red carpet, and isn’t that refreshing.
Adapted by the original playwright, Tracy Letts, for the screen, August: Osage County is a powerfully dialogue-driven, domestic drama. When long-suffering father and husband Beverley Weston (Sam Shepard) goes missing, leaving his wife, Violet (Streep) alone in the house with the newly-hired help, their daughters converge on the family home to try and repair the damage.
A showcase of female acting, August: Osage County examines the complex conflicts and power struggles in their relationships; an all too rare thing in today’s filmic landscape. Set on the sprawling plains of the Mid-West, Wells draws inspiration from original pioneer settlers as the house becomes an outpost settlement, all rules thrown aside as the women battle for independence and dominance.
Julia Roberts more than holds her own against Meryl Streep. Playing her eldest daughter, Barbara and looking refreshingly unpolished in a baggy plaid shirt and jeans, she seems to act all the better for it. Each of Violet’s daughters are fully fleshed out characters with their own hopes, dreams, desires and fears and seeing their interactions when dragged back to the claustrophobic family home is mesmerising.
The transformations Streep goes through as Violet are startling. In allowing the viewer to see characters’ most defensive and most vulnerable moments, Wells creates a complex acting space, almost Shakespearean in its use of eavesdropping as a plot point. From her fully done up fearless matriarch act to her drugged up state, Wells frames Streep at subtley different angles to identify her state of mind. As the family discover her dancing downstairs, for instance, he isolates Streep in the foreground, her family fading into the background.
These complex character developments make watching August: Osage County an incredibly immersive experience. Like a fly on the wall we see the family’s most public and most private moments; and no one holds back in their own home. The dinner scene is particularly visceral, never has the exclamation “That was my casserole!” sounded so bloodthirsty. The tone swings around so wildly and with such acting talent sat around that table it is impossible to look away, no matter how personal it becomes.
Indeed, “truth-telling”, as Violet puts it, dominates the film. The hard-hitting revelations keep coming and the confrontations between characters crackle with tension. As the bridge between the generations, the burden of the confessor falls on Barbara, slowly revealing how this burden may have contributed to making Violet the way she is. In trying to protect their family, both mother and daughter become trapped in a vindictive role, each striving to be the hardest, the strongest, the last one standing.
Unrelenting in tension until almost the very end, sadly it is the conclusion which lets August: Osage County down. One too many “is that the end?” shots leave the viewer with the completion of Barbara’s narrative but wrongly overshadows Violet’s. Nonetheless, a terrifically intense and beautifully crafted drama, August: Osage County is unmissable. *****
A sadistic serial killer (Vincent D'Onofrio) takes one of his victim’s sons as his protégé, attempting to teach him the tricks of the trade and mould him into a killer.
Filmed in such a confined space (the majority of the film takes place in Bob’s house cum graveyard), Chained (2012, dir. Jennifer Lynch) takes two very disturbed and unearthly characters and naturalises them in a world of their own making. Bob rules Rabbit’s (Eamon Farren) existence completely; renaming him and making him into his slave/accomplice. Lynch conveys Rabbit’s battle to surpress his true feeling with great tension. The continual threat of violence and extreme psychological trauma keeping the viewer in constant suspense
The colour palette is cleverly matched to the film’s themes. Against the largely muted world of Bob;s house, the yellow taxi cab forms a lurid contrast. Using mainly browns, yellows and oranges there is a sense of decay to the setting which is juxtaposed with the broader angled shots and brighter images of Rabbit’s life with his mother.
Lynch continually revisits the sites of Rabbit’s trauma, playing with Bob’s control to affect his perspective. In recreating the same angles in the garage, for instance, as when Rabbit first arrives there as a child, the viewer is forced to confront the true horror of his situation.
This is in contrast to the importance of dreams, memories and voices in Chained. Both Rabbit and Bob have vivid dreams, returning to previous trauma. Evoking the Gestalt Theory, neither of their lives can ever be understood without the structure of their trauma; an interestingly pathetic interpretation of Bob’s brutal characterisation.
An interesting thiller with a strong concept, it would have been nice to see more of Bob’s background. While Lynch teases us with intriguing dream sequences it remains too hazy to have a substantial hook. ***
The Guest (2014, dir. Adam Wingard) is an unconventional home invasion thriller. With elements of sci-fi, bloody violence and a deeper line of moral questioning, it marks an interesting, more art house turn for the slasher horror director.
An all-American family grieving the loss of their eldest son are surprised when a man claiming to have served alongside him turns up on their doorstep. He soon makes himself indispensable to them, in more ways than they realise.
Out of the Abbey and into America, Dan Stevens (Downton Abbey) stars as the eponymous soldier, David. A bit of a transition from 20th century British country houses, Stevens nevertheless flourishes in a contemporary setting. His accent is strong but the charm which ostensibly endears him to the Peterson family has no lasting impact on the viewer. However, the focus and intensity of his outbursts is well captured and what initially seems to be blankness in those ice-chip eyes evolves as the film progresses to become carefully studied programmed robotic responses.
Anna (Maika Monroe), the Peterson’s only daughter forms the moral compass of The Guest. As the cross hairs of conspiracy begin to move over David, Anna takes agency, leading the investigation and really coming into her own.
Wingard capitalises on the dramatic irony to draw out the tension throughout the film. The camera focuses in tight on facial expressions when Anna confronts David’s apparent deception; balancing the viewer’s emotions on a knife edge almost as impressive as the one David conspicuous fondles throughout.
What really shows potential, however, is how The Guest backs up its hackneyed home invasion premise with morally probing questions into the power of influence and manipulation.
With the Petersons, Wingard presents to the viewer a typical American family. Sure, they have their difficulties – a teenage daughter going off the rails, a son in trouble at school, a father drinking one too many bears on an evening – who doesn’t? Ingrained in this all-American lifestyle is a level of deference paid to the military. The photos of the Peterson’s eldest son are all in military uniform, even juxtaposed with the stars and stripes and the ease with which the family accept David is linked to the trust they place in him as a soldier and his duty to protect and serve the nation.
David is an extreme example of reprogramming undergone by soldiers to make them ready for battle. He runs to broadly moral parameters, but in a very black and white sense. Wingard critiques this process through the character of Major Carver. Sent to retrieve his ‘subject’, when Anna points out that the military shouldn’t have done experiments on psychopaths the Major responds unblinkingly that “by all accounts he was the perfect soldier.”
The action sequences really come into their in the climactic third act and Stevens begins to revel in the part of David, visibly enjoying the greater freedom of expression. A shadow of Wingard’s horror background appears in the ridiculously elaborate high school Halloween maze chase, taking the viewer out of the carefully constructed realism to that point.
An interesting change of pace for Wingard, The Guest is a well-constructed and well-acted thriller. The overall look of the film feels carefully considered, it’s just a shame that some of the more subtle and surprising plot points don’t shine through brightly enough. ***
Ceremony, Symbolism and Kingship in Shakespeare’s Henry V
The presentation of the monarchy is entrenched in ceremony. In Shakespeare’s Henry V, the public role of the king is constructed through symbols and ritual. Consequently, tradition and the legacy of kingship dominate the character of Henry V. However, despite his awareness of the illusionary nature of ceremony, Henry becomes consumed by his public role, thus jeopardising his individuality. The public expectation informs the private identity, creating a vacuum of emotional truth as the symbolically, historically and theatrically real overrule the transient self.
The ceremonial spectacle of the royal entry is designed to inspire subjects as well as being a crucial means of establishing political power. Although defined by Kipling as a monarch’s formal reception into a city, characterised by pageantry, the first entrance of the monarch is also a significant instance of ritual in Henry V. Indeed, many productions cut the Prologue, opening instead with Henry’s entrance at the beginning of I.ii. The stage direction—“Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, BEDFORD, CLARENCE, WESTMORLAND and EXETER” —suggests a procession, with the King in attendance, however, in his 1989 Henry V film Kenneth Branagh introduces Henry individually, with the king entering alone. Branagh builds suspense with regal trumpet flourishes; framing Henry in silhouette against the opening double doors. Moreover, the viewer is denied a glimpse of Henry’s face, instead Branagh uses a tracking shot following behind Henry. Consequently the first time that his face is seen is when he is seated at the throne, portraying the all-important first glimpse of a king surrounded by the regalia of royal ceremony.
Indeed, Branagh plays heavily on the symbols of monarchical ceremony, emphasising the crown, the throne and using contrasting light and dark to build momentum and majesty in a visually striking sequence, employing the visual to signify the political and thus crafting a “world of fantastic allegory [...] as a means of presenting a programme of political ideas”. Consequently, the ceremonial spectacle of the monarch’s entrance becomes a means of establishing power through visual grandeur.
Henry’s power hinges on the elevating effect of ceremony which emphasises his difference from the common man. In Branagh’s interpretation of the St. Crispin’s Day speech, the king is centrally situated, raised above his men in a low angle-shot. The bright red, blue and gold costume recalls the heraldry of the nobility, thus using ceremonial costume to “reaffirm his difference”, signalling his importance as leader. Indeed, this plays to the public expectation of the medieval warrior-king, with the ability to “lead in battle” and “defeat the enemy” being essential components of a successful monarch. However, verbally, ceremony acts in this instance to unite rather than divide, as Henry uses the ritual of the rousing pre-battle speech to motivate his men.
Through the use of the future tense, the present becomes ceremonialised, prophesising a legacy of heroism to motivate his soldiers:
He that shall see this day and live old age
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’ (IV.iii. 44-48)
The corporal focus—“sleeve”, “scars”, “wounds”—physicalises the impermanence of temporary glory, uniting the soldiers through their shared pain and memories. Consequently, despite the visual spectacle of Henry symbolically elevated above his army, thus marking out the monarch’s power through difference, the need for unity overrides individual empowerment, purporting a social equality achievable through glory on the battlefield:
But we in it shall be remembered.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers –
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile
This day shall gentle his condition – (IV.iii. 59-63)
The repetition of the plural pronoun “we”, creates a sense of solidarity and inclusiveness, ceremonially binding the army together. Moreover, the potent rituals of warfare are proven powerful enough to overcome the rigid medieval social structure—“gentle his condition”—implying a nobility found in battle. Therefore, ceremony’s role in reinforcing traditional power structures through empowering an individual is subverted, defining instead a codified form of interaction between monarch and subject, inviting unity.
Yet there is a discrepancy between the ideals of monarchy and heroism portrayed by Henry in public ceremonial acts with his behaviour in private. He is undeceived by the power of ceremony, instead acknowledging instead its façade:
And what have kings that private have not too,
Save ceremony, save general ceremony?
And what art thou, thou idol ceremony?
What kind of god art thou, thou suffer’st more
Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers? (IV.i. 211-215)
The significance of the stage direction “Exeunt Soldiers” (IV.i.) preceding the soliloquy allows Henry to expose his true emotion, as rather than performing to a crowd of subjects in need of inspiration, he is free to voice his true thoughts and concerns on the eve of battle. The repetitive syntactical structure and use of rhetorical questions creates a more natural tone of speech. Moreover, whereas, in the St. Crispin’s Day speech the repeated “we” builds to a climax, binding together the English troops in a frenzy of patriotism, here repetition is more deconstructive. The repeated “what”, for instance, breaks down the certainty of Henry’s thoughts suggesting his paralysis and doubt. Consequently, the apparent stability brought about by ceremony is jeopardised.
Indeed, Henry continues to question the construction of his superiority over his subjects. In drawing comparison across the estates between “king” and “private”, the social order becomes transparent, merely a product of symbolism and “general ceremony”. Moreover, Henry’s further destabilises ritualised social barriers by mingling disguised amongst the foot-soldiers on the eve of battle:
I think the king is but a man as I am. The violet smells to him as it doth to me.The element shows to him as it doth to me. All his senses have but human conditions. His ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet when they stoop they stoop with the like wind. (IV.i. 97-102)
Henry’s self-awareness of the illusion created by ceremony is made evident as he stresses the core similarities between himself and the men. They are united by their humanity; the use of synaesthesia stressing their shared experiences of the world. Moreover, the switch to prose adopts a more natural tone, suggesting something less contrived, rehearsed and coloured by ceremony than verse. However, there remains an undercurrent of patronisation in Henry’s speech. The verb “stoop” suggests he is lowering himself in behaving in this way. Similarly, he only feels close to the men through their most basic sensory experiences, the implication being not on a cultural or intellectual level. Furthermore, by introducing himself to Pistol through a pun—“Harry le roi”(IV.i. 48)—as well as the self-referential use of the third person—“in his nakedness he appears but a man”, (IV.i.100)—Henry seems to relish his trickery. Therefore, although such a connection to his foot-soldiers may well exist, it is only through conscious self-debasement that it is achievable. Indeed, the dramatic irony of his disguise reinforces this interpretation, as the audience shares in his joke, generating an exclusive laughter at Pistol’s expense, and thus reinforcing the elevating, if transparent role of ceremony.
Consequently, Henry’s manufactured public role comes to parallel the theatrical processes of the actor. Both are performing, consciously presenting an image to their audience. Indeed, the entire play is highly meta-theatrical, both through its deconstruction of ceremony and in its structural framework. The Prologue, for instance, exposes the short-comings of the theatre, which although transformative in the audience’s imagination, remains the humble “wooden O” in reality. (Prologue, 13) Laurence Olivier explores the same duality of performance of the actor/monarch in his 1944 Henry V. Drawing on Jorgen’s concept of the “theatrical mode”, Olivier merges the theatrical and the filmic. For instance, the reconstruction of the Elizabethan stage sets the tone of a recorded theatrical production, yet the cuts to a frantic backstage area and to Olivier, composing himself before he steps onto stage and becomes Henry, renders the theatrical self-consciously so.
Consequently, both the actor-Henry’s self-conscious theatricality and the character-Henry’s self-conscious performance as king create a “hyperreality” in which illusion and the symbolic precedes the tangibly real. Indeed, this inward collapse of meaning renders the omnipresent symbols of kingship meaningless to Henry, merely constructs to uphold a crumbling illusion:
I am a king that find thee, and I know
Tis not the balm, the sceptre and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farced title running ‘fore the king,
The throne he sits on, nor the pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world;
No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,
Not all these, (IV.i. 232-240)
In listing the concrete objects which have come to symbolise monarchy in physical form, their true banality is exposed. Furthermore, through this deconstruction, the link between the signifier and the signified becomes purely arbitrary, reflecting Henry’s disillusionment. From a performance perspective, this listing gives the potential to demonstrate Henry’s weariness; the commas creating a heavy, monotonous rhythm despite the delicate regal images of “gold and pearl”. Consequently, ceremony is proven only to be powerful in its effect, the impact on the crowd, rather than on the subject, losing the potency of its appeal through repetition.
Yet ritual is inherently repetitious by nature; an event or action can only become ceremonial through repetition, by connecting past practices to their present continuation. Consequently, ceremony can be seen has inherently Whiggish, mapping the now using “linear logic leading from past to present”, so that events or rituals “across long spans of time [can] be sewn together in a common story of success”. Therefore, although seemingly hollow, over time such symbols ossify monarchical power in the solidity of established tradition. Indeed, Cartelli suggests that far from being meaningless representations, ritual and tradition are means by which we can “express and secure the values which make life not simply endurable but significant”; in repeating, we fix meaning. Moreover, Henry employs this historical dimension of ceremony to strengthen his kingship, freeing himself from the negative precedent of less popular leaders. The “crisis of monarchy” under Richard II in particular had highlighted the need for a strong king in order to sustain stability. Yet despite his awareness of his place within this tradition, Henry is careful to also stress the singular nature of his power:
When I do rouse me in my throne of France,
For that I have laid by my majesty [...]
But I will rise there wish so full a glory
That I will dazzle all the eyes of France (I.ii.275-279)
The repeated assertion of his autonomy through the personal pronoun “I”, and the possessive pronoun “my” in opposition to the entire French nation distances Henry from previous kings’ exploits, highlighting his power as a young, new and dynamic monarch. Indeed, the images of dazzling bright light suggest rebirth and renewal, thus consciously moving away from the tainted legacy of Richard II. Similarly to the links established by Shakespeare between the history plays sequence through “innumerable cross-references”, Henry’s self-identification within the ceremonial legacy of kingship is crucial not only to his idea of the self, but to the public perception of him as a successful monarch. Indeed, Henry VIII’s conscious employment of Henry V’s legendary victory at Agincourt in his own French campaign in 1544 proves the importance of the ceremonial “model” of kingship.
However, in investing in the ceremonies of kingship to portray the self, although superficially, Henry comes to define himself purely in relation to the previous ceremonial incarnations of kingship, thus arguably compromising his identity as an individual:
Upon the king! ‘Let us our lives, our souls, our debts, our
careful wives, our children and our sins, lay on the king.’
We must bear all.
O hard condition, twin-born with greatness,
Subject to the breath of every fool, whose sense
No more can feel but his own wringing. (IV.i. 203-208)
Whereas previously the othering effect of ceremony privileges Henry, there is now a sense of isolation in his elevation. The anaphora of “our” builds to a climax of desperate abandon as the weight of tradition and the pressure of his public role overcomes his need for a private self. Indeed, the monarch had significant responsibilities to his people, “the whole social and political order rested on the respect of the law by the king and the obedience and co-operation of his subjects”, thus sidelining individuality in favour of the need for a strong, monarchical figurehead. Moreover, the “serial topicality”, of Henry V suggests it is a play overwhelmed by the weight of its own tradition. The play has become so temporally malleable that the “political act” of its staging precedes individual character development. However, this desire to personalise and individualise Henry could be read a symptomatically anachronistic, reflecting modern desires rather than contemporary practise. Indeed, Stern emphasises the modern editor’s urge to individualise characters, whereas in practise Shakespeare’s characters were written with “mass-produced qualities”, fitted to specific actors in his company. Consequently, it could be argued that the symbolic function of Henry’s character as the inspiring, patriotic warrior-king precedes any modern desire for individuality.
Yet for Henry V to be meaningful, even just on a purely political level, audience identification with the character of Henry is crucial, a connection that is inherently based on Henry’s personality. As Rabkin argues the “ultimate power [of Henry V] is precisely the fact that it points in two opposite directions”, poised between two personal interpretations of Henry’s character, whether “ideal monarch” or “Machiavellian militarist”. Although Henry does act emotionally as well as stately, he is constantly informed by the public implication of his thoughts and actions. Despite Branagh’s attempts to portray a man who is more conflicted than Olivier’s king, in both portrayals the role of the ceremonial king outplays any emotional integrity. For instance, in both films the wooing of Katherine should be a private affair, enabling Henry to finally express emotion away from the battlefield. However, his status as king politicises the union, which becomes more of a military alliance than a heartfelt declaration of love:
O fair Katherine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart I will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue. Do you like me Kate? (V.ii. 104-6)
The language barrier between Henry and Katherine runs as a comic vein throughout, yet it also crucially reinforces their relative power position in terms of the war. The turn-taking is hugely unbalanced with Katherine often replying with one line to Henry’s lengthy speeches. Although this does reflect Katherine’s limited grasp of English, it also sinisterly echoes her powerlessness to reject Henry’s advances. Her constant referrals to Alice in her native French—“Que dit-il – que je suis semblable à les anges? ”(V.ii. 109)—could be interpreted as her eagerness to understand, but also exposes her vulnerability and lack of awareness in contrast to Henry’s sophisticated and insistent wooing. Indeed, despite Branagh’s attempts to lighten the scene through comically delivered asides, he fails to completely remove the sinister underlying tones, leaving the viewer with a saccharine, contrived and unsavoury ending to the film.
Consequently, Henry is not a “public man who is privately whole” but a man personally torn apart by the public implications of his thoughts and actions. Although arguably there is a theatrically formulaic aspect to the ending, which merely conforms to the “stock ending of romantic comedy” by concluding with a marriage, the pessimistic epilogue negates such a theory:
Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crowned king
Of France and England, did this king succeed,
Whose state so many had the managing
That they lost France and made his England bleed, (V.iii. 9-12)
In focusing on the future King Henry VI, Shakespeare stresses that the larger progression of ceremony and monarchical inheritance precedes the needs of the individual in an isolated moment; the public outplays the private one last time.
Therefore, ritual has political resonance, empowering the monarch through difference as well as uniting his loyal subjects. Despite Henry’s disillusionment with the repetition of what he perceives as increasingly meaningless ceremonial symbols, ritual is still proved to be an effective political tool, despite its superficiality. Yet the excessively public focus of ceremony undermines Henry’s individuality. The personal is repressed by the public as the ceremonially real precedes individuality and emotional truth. Consequently Henry becomes trapped in a self-conscious theatricality, acting the part but denying the self.
Mass hysteria sweeps through an uptight girls’ school when one of the students dies under unusual circumstances. As strangely ethereal fainting fits spread through the school like wildfire and the teachers refuse to intervene, The Falling (2014, dir. Carol Morley) delicately tiptoes between over-stimulated schoolgirl hysteria and a more sinister, supernatural explanation.
Sadly The Falling falls significantly short of its interesting premise. Morley’s flirtation between possible explanations is short lived, underdeveloped and frankly disappointingly unconvincing. Florence Pugh puts in an exceptionally strong début performance as Abbie, casting a spell over the viewer as they are drawn into her world. It’s easy to see how she could influence those around her and her obsessively close bond with Lydia (Maisie Williams) is a well-observed portrayal of female teenage friendship.
However, once the narrative thrusts Lydia into the limelight, the film goes somewhat awry. Williams’ performance feels overdone and heavy handed, failing to the fill the void of charisma left by Abbie. In typical teenage angst, everything is perfect or terrible, yet all delivered by Williams in the same monotone whine. You can almost hear her reading the lines off the page making the idea that she may be instilling this mysterious Munchausen’s syndrome completely unbelievable.
While it is possible to read Williams performance as indicative of Lydia’s pretence—she is constantly ‘acting’ to those around her— it is so tonally jarring and continually disrupts the film’s dream-like atmosphere. Indeed, even in interactions with minor characters Williams stands out whereas the other schoolgirls seem much more believable.
Yet Morley creates and maintains an impressive colour palette for the film and the viewer swims through autumnal tones of green, grey and blue and brown. Nicely muted with a deep saturation level, visually The Falling works well as a period piece. This almost nostalgic atmosphere is pierced however by the strange soundtrack choice. Tracey Thorn’s light pop echoes discordantly, breaking any sense of mounting tension with immature overtones.
Morley’s inspiration for The Falling is drawn from so many films I love that it’s hard to see exactly where it all when wrong for me. Perhaps the fact that the incredibly talented Maxine Peake is so massively underused was a contributing factor. All the subtlety and smallness of her performance as Lydia’s agoraphobic mother is drowned out by Williams overacting. But ultimately it has to be down to the face that The Falling is so incredibly unbalanced. What could have been an interesting and provocative mystery drama is lost in a haze of mismatched performances and a disappointingly cowardly ending.
More time to be spent on performance and narrative, and much, much less time of flashy yet shallow camera work. **
The Nordic ‘blanc’ returns to challenge the Nordic Noir with the snowy idyll of the Alps and a young family’s skiing holiday in Force Majeure (2014, dir. Ruben Östlund). What begins as a pleasant trip takes a sour turn when an avalanche nearly hits the hotel and the family unit are torn apart by a crucial fight or flight moment.
While the mother, Ebba (Lisa Loven Kongsli) protectively draws her two young children towards her to face the inevitable together, the father, Tomas (Johannes Kuhnke) grabs his iPhone and gloves and does a runner. As the dust settles and it becomes clear all is well he returns sheepishly to his family and faces the consequences of his split-second decision.
A heavily dialogue-driven drama, Östlund uses this incident to explore questions of gender and loyalty. As a result of his actions Tomas undergoes a crisis of the modern man. In not instinctively protecting his family he feels he has betrayed his wife (a sentiment heavily shared by Ebba) and cannot cope with the consequences. Ebba initially goes in on the attack, and we agree with her; he selfishly abandoned his wife and children to save his own skin. However, when another male voice is brought into the, by now, strangely public account, the concept of force majeure becomes a factor of influence.
In legal terms, a force majeure clause frees both parties from liability or obligation when an extraordinary event or circumstance beyond the control of both parties prevents one or both parties from fulfilling their obligations. While the avalanche can doubtlessly be considered a legal ‘act of God’, it is the key difference in the parents’ reactions that makes Tomas so questionable.
Indeed, Östlund draws us deeper into the debate, moving beyond gender to explore Tomas’ latent trauma. For example when skiing in the isolated peaks with his friend Mats (Kristofer Hivju), he experiences overwhelming flash-backs to the site of trauma. The Gestalt theory argues that trauma disrupts thought and memory patterns so much that the original pre-trauma structure cannot be reformed by the brain to process information. Here, the avalanche distorts Tomas’ behaviour and thoughts, preoccupying his every movement around his family.
There is some deliciously dark humour to be found in these moments, which gets more into its stride in the film’s second half. Tomas’ breakdown in the hotel corridor is particularly well framed, reaching absurdist heights as the janitor has to be summoned to let the weeping, semi-naked Tomas back into his room. The hotel is an interesting space and used by Östlund to create a claustrophobic and controlled area: none of the characters are in a private, relaxed space throughout the film, simulating a bubbling agitation beneath the surface.
Sadly the force majeure premise is not quite strong enough to withstand its 120 min running time. The after-effects of the avalanche are infinitely more interesting than the holiday before it, yet the feature feels more balanced between these two halves than it probably should be. It similarly takes its time to finish off. The family become lost and separated in a blizzard? An inexperienced coach driver weaves a bus-load of holidayers down a rocky precipice? Either of these could be, and indeed feel like, satisfying endings. While Östlund is right to hold on to the film’s final dark mirror-image of its theme, the drawn out ending is fatiguing. ***
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