Category: 2018

Ryan Coogler | 2hr 14min

The type of world building that Marvel Studios has refined over the past decade through a sprawling universe of superheroes and world-ending threats is certainly an impressive feat, and yet there is too often a tangibility and imagination lacking in its design that sacrifices creativity for mass appeal. The arrival of Black Panther, the 18^th instalment in the franchise, does not so much shake up the genre as it sensitively applies a singular, artistic voice, unimpeded by the demands of a studio to undercut tension with cheap quips and grind its pacing to a halt for the sake of fan service. The world building that Ryan Coogler delicately crafts here is not based on crossovers or cameos, but is instead revealed through Wakanda’s rituals, politics, people, and perhaps most importantly, the striking visual design that ties each of these together.

Perhaps the greatest instance of this manifests early on at the Warrior Falls, a grand set piece that Coogler reveals through a slow tilting of the camera upwards to reveal a set of steep cliffsides, swarming with Wakandans robed in bright regalia. Across these rocky surfaces, vivid, earthy colours are weaved through intricate costume designs that divide the kingdom up into tribes, and while little time is spent expositing where each stand in relation to each other, we learn just enough to understand the expansiveness of this world.

The Border tribe, recognised by its bright blue textiles, are the first to leave T’Challa’s side when civil war erupts, while the Mountain tribe, clothed in brown leather and furs, distantly isolate themselves in Wakanda’s snowy alps, and adopt the mannerisms of wolves. That W’kabi and M’baku, the main representatives of both communities, carry their own fully-realised character arcs through supporting roles is a testament to Coogler’s remarkably rich storytelling in Black Panther, efficiently implementing an impressive level of formal detail that sets the stage for the central, political conflict.

It is in the clash between the ideologies of T’Challa and his cousin, Killmonger, that Coogler grounds his narrative in questions surrounding the distribution of Black resources and power, though his development of a truly great cinematic villain lies in more than just his motivations. Michael B. Jordan swaggers into every scene in a blaze of fury, pain, and confidence, naturally drawing followers to Killmonger’s cause with compelling ease, but as we discover in his background as a U.S. Navy Seal, he is also a master strategist, patient and cunning in his manipulations. As he takes power, Coogler’s camera quite literally turns Wakanda on its head, beautifully silhouetting him against a scorching fire before following him into the throne room with a daunting, upside-down tracking shot.

Binding T’challa and Killmonger together though is a shared love of their people, as we see their own respective devotions and sorrows rise to the surface during their brief pilgrimages to the ancestral plane. For T’Challa, an open, African prairie lit by a vibrant aurora of blue and purple lights becomes the setting where his insecurities of ascending to the throne emerge, mixing practical sets and a computerised backdrop to create a stunningly ethereal set piece. That vibrant night sky appears once again when Killmonger enters the plane, shedding a cool, gentle light over the scene, though in his vision the grasslands are swapped out for his childhood apartment, inciting a vengeful, trauma-driven anger rather than a gracious acceptance of his father’s death.

Back in Wakanda, Killmonger’s vulnerability manifests as violence, driving a vicious anger through Coogler’s tactile, thrillingly choreographed fight scenes. The blinding exception to this is the final clash between hero and villain, unfolding right after an epic battle fully earned by the political divisions sown throughout the film. The decision to set these inky black, digitally rendered characters against a dark environment is poorly conceived to begin with, but there is also an artificial weightlessness to their movements, sadly typical of a lot of modern CGI action scenes.

This is ultimately a lone blemish on a film which otherwise excels in its visuals though, as Coogler relishes building intricate set pieces based around unique architectural designs, such as M’baku’s throne room of hanging wood and panoramic mountain views, or the Korean casino that looks straight out of a David Fincher film. It is in the latter that Coogler stages one of Black Panther’s greatest scenes, hanging round, yellow bulbs from the ceiling to shed a dim glow over the red and gold room, and then kicking it up a notch with a camera that flies across its levels in a single, long take, smoothly shifting its focus between the smaller skirmishes inside the larger battle. Adding significantly to these scenes is the pounding score from Ludwig Göransson, often mixing African drums, flutes, and chants with more contemporary orchestral music, and thereby creating a sound that matches the Afro-futuristic designs of Coogler’s mise-en-scene.

Black Panther may not break the mould of its genre like The Dark Knight, but there are still lessons to be learnt here with the adaptation of classic superhero conventions into abundantly rich, thoughtfully drawn settings, offering new, specific depths to familiar archetypes. There is a great deal of pride written into its characters, but with that comes a pain that feels deeply personal to Coogler, sensitively explored through dramatically stylised environments and conflicts. That it carries the distinctive artistic mark of a director with clear adoration of its source material, cultural context, and above all, cinematic potential, fundamentally makes for a Marvel movie that stands among the studio’s finest, and certainly its most visually adventurous.

Black Panther is currently streaming on Disney Plus.

Luca Guadagnino | 2hr 32min

It takes a lot of nerve and great deal of ambition to even consider remaking the masterpiece of Italian Giallo cinema that is Suspiria, and it was particularly unexpected in 2018 to hear that Luca Guadagnino would be the one to do so following his coming-of-age film, Call Me By Your Name. The Dario Argento influence here is ultimately as minimal as it could be though in a film that takes the title and narrative of his most famous work. Guadagnino is far more interested in delivering his own take on its twisted fairy tale of witches and curses, accomplishing a very different beauty in the deep red hues that don’t so much leap off the screen through vivid neon lighting as they do draw us into a deep, dreary reverie. This is not Technicolor expressionism like the original, but rather bleak, washed-out surrealism, playing heavily on occultist iconography and performative rituals that angle its story in a more psychological direction.

This is of course connected to the second major change between the two versions of Suspiria, which lifts the tale of witchcraft out of its vibrant, German fantasy and transplants it into the German Autumn of 1977, which saw an abundance of terrorist activity spill out from the Cold War. Guadagnino’s thematic aspirations are clear, drawing parallels between these historical attacks and the spate of magical murders steadily killing off the girls of Berlin’s fictional Markos Dance Company. There is also the added character of Dr. Josef Klemperer, whose investigations into the school’s strange occurrences lead him into a subplot concerning his own tragic past in World War II. Unfortunately, it is whenever Guadagnino goes off on these tangents that his filmmaking takes a backseat to political ponderings that never fully connect. That Tilda Swinton also disappears so completely into the gender-bending role of Klemperer while simultaneously playing Madame Blanc and the vile Mother Markos is certainly an impressive turn from her, and yet this too adds up to little more than a frivolous quirk in the film’s formal construction.

Where Guadagnino does effectively leave his artistic mark on Suspiria’s legacy is in the rhythmic, surreal editing of its most unsettling scenes, especially in one nightmarish montage of shattering mirrors, dancing lights, and blood-smeared walls. Even more audacious than this is one scene’s intercutting between American student Susie’s elegant dance practice and her peer’s agonising demise at the hands of the school’s witches. Alone in the building’s rehearsal room of distorted mirrors, her limbs painfully contort into excruciating angles, and as Guadagnino revels in the body horror, he visually compares the sight to Susie’s rhythmic dance, flinging her arms and legs in similarly abrupt motions.

Indeed, much of the choreography to be found in Suspiria is almost ritualistic in its unity and repetition, and as the presence of the school’s ruling witch coven grows in power, so too do these dances become more maniacally Satanic, to the point that the students are forming occultist symbols with their bodies. Here in the final act, Guadagnino’s red colour palette finally explodes in full force, washing elegantly performed rituals in a dazzling crimson hue, and creating truly gorgeous images of moving bodies that he disappointingly ruins almost immediately with some bizarre creative choices. The jittery low frame rate, slow-motion, and digital blood splatters at least show Guadagnino’s interest in experimenting stylistically, but as a climactic pay-off, these are simply just messy flaws. It would be easy enough to say that he might have been better off adapting other material that plays more to his talents, and yet even so, it is still worth appreciating his take on Suspiria for what it is – an ambitious but ultimately chaotic plunge into chilling supernatural occultism and blunt political horror.

Suspiria is currently streaming on Amazon Prime Video, and is available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Steve McQueen | 2hr 10min

Whether he is constructing an anthology series as enterprising as Small Axe or a character study as singularly focused as Shame, Steve McQueen rarely aims for anything less then hugely ambitious storytelling, though in the forward momentum of Widow’s energetic narrative, he crafts what is his most sprawling film yet. When professional thief Harry Rawlings’ plot to rob mob boss Jamal Manning leads to the death of him and his crew, the shrapnel ricochets through Chicago’s crime rings, political campaigns, and most crucially, the grieving women who the deceased left behind. They were never fully aware of their husbands’ exploits, and neither do they really even know each other, and yet just as McQueen efficiently wraps a number plot threads around each other, so too does he unite his ensemble around a second heist targeting tipped political candidate, Jack Mulligan.

In effect, this is Steve McQueen’s take on a Michael Mann urban crime drama, as Widows navigates the chaos and corruption of Chicago’s most powerful players with slick pacing and dynamic camerawork that keeps us from growing too comfortable in any one scene. The opening car chase that sees Harry and his crew make a panicked getaway from the police lands us right in the thick of the action, with the only time to breathe being in those aptly-timed cutaways to their modest home lives. The tension between these husbands and wives is evident, but compared to the shooting and explosions it is a peaceful refuge where we can begin to understand these characters outside the frenzy.

Most of all, it is in the flashbacks to Harry and Veronica’s marriage where we recognise perhaps the greatest loss that has taken place, and the grief which follows her in its wake. Though they evidently love each other, there is a melancholy hanging in the air hinting at some irreconcilable sorrow, and McQueen takes another leaf out of Mann’s book in washing these clean, modern interiors with pale blue lighting. Beyond Veronica’s home, McQueen’s colour palettes fall more into murky teals, bringing gorgeously lit warehouses, shooting ranges, and Chicago’s night-time exteriors into a realm of uneasy gloom.

In this dour setting, the criminals tearing apart the corrupt system are just as vile as those implementing it, leaving little room for ordinary citizens to live truly free, secure lives. The notebook that Harry left behind detailing the planned heist on Mulligan’s manor thus becomes a lifeline for the remaining widows to regain the financial security that their husbands once provided, and in following through on it, they consequentially undermine the tight-knit groups of powerful men who strive to keep them in their places.

McQueen capitalises superbly on the talents of his huge cast here, led by Viola Davis whose stern presence becomes the compelling centre upon which much of this narrative pivots. Her deadpan expression only barely masks the vulnerability and deep torment that her grief wreaks on her mind, exposing behind it a raw vulnerability that she knows she must hide to get by.

If anyone is Davis’ equal in this cast, it is Daniel Kaluuya’s vicious, psychotic mob enforcer, Jatemme, who even with his limited screen time is far more terrifyingly memorable than many more significant characters. If he isn’t carrying out Jamal’s dirty work himself by torturing a disabled man in a wheelchair for information, then he will happily let his henchmen torment targets for him, while he calmly sits and watches television in their home. At Jatemme’s most frightening, McQueen formally ties his energetic camera movement to Kaluuya’s simmering temper after the discovery of some subordinates who have been slacking off. His diminutive stature, cold eyes, and menacing stare down of the men who he is seconds away from shooting are all superbly captured by the Hitchcockian 360-degree shot circling them, suspensefully anticipating the burst of violence that we know is coming.

Because as compellingly written as these characters are, it is equally the daring visual choices that McQueen is making around them which lends such gravity to their motivations and actions. It is especially the spoilt privilege of Colin Farrell’s disinterested politician, Mulligan, which receives this stylistic bravado, as elegant tracking shots through hotels soak in the opulent décor, and elsewhere note the stark economic disparity between his mansion and the impoverished Chicago neighbourhoods he is meant to represent. In one unbroken take, McQueen fixes the camera to the bonnet of his car while he drives home from a rally, and in observing the changing infrastructure of its surroundings, it becomes apparent just how out of touch he is.

As Widows’ narrative bounces across Chicago through thickly plotted developments, McQueen patiently winds it towards the climactic heist that we have been waiting for since the start. Very gradually, the deeply entrenched noir roots of this plot reveal themselves even further, touching on The Third Man in the shady parallels between the deceitful Harry Rawlings and Harry Lyme, and calling on the meticulously executed robbery of The Asphalt Jungle in the final set piece.

By the time the political stakes of the film are settled between the wealthy elites and Jamal’s violent mob, there is no great hope that this city will be any better off than it was before, and yet McQueen does offer some solace in the newfound independence of Veronica and her associates who might finally be able to live out from under the shadow of these powerful men. This dip into genre filmmaking may not have been the most obvious move for McQueen at this point in his career, but the complex landscape of systematic, moral degradation that he so deftly builds through Widows’ rolling narrative and dazzling cinematography carries on the uncompromising style of storytelling that he has so shrewdly built his name on.

Widows is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Jia Zhangke | 2hr 17min

A monstrous volcano emerges from a landscape of flat, green fields, rising up in the background where mob boss, Bin, teaches Qiao, his lover, how to shoot a gun. “Anything that burns at a high temperature is made pure,” she ruminates, gazing at its beauty, and Jia Zhangke thus draws up the central metaphor which defines the three chapters of Ash is the Purest White. She suffers deep losses and hardships for the sacrifices that she makes, but rather than letting this intense pressure corrupt or embitter her attitude, she becomes assertive, kind, and clever – the purest version of herself. Where the trifurcated narrative structure of Jia’s previous film, Mountains May Depart, was slightly weakened by its lack of formal consistency, it serves a much greater purpose here in capturing the three stages of Qiao’s emotional growth, each represented by a specific colour.

In the year 2001, green is chosen to characterise Qiao’s youth, naivety, and inability to fully grasp worldly matters. It is there in the painted walls, stained glass, and mahjong tables where Bin and Qiao spend much of their time, but it is also present in the open fields when she is taught how to shoot a gun and, more significantly, the principles of the “jianghu”. This Chinese term lacks any direct English translation, but in remaining the only Chinese word left untouched and “pure” in the film, it retains a unique cultural significance. Traditionally, it has referred to the martial arts community of wuxia tales, and in more recent times it has been used in reference to criminal underworlds. But most importantly, it is spoken of here as an ethical code, through which its adherents persevere until they either break or strengthen in spirit.

Jia, still wearing his Michelangelo Antonioni influence on his sleeve, remains dedicated to the manmade architecture and natural landforms in his backgrounds, especially in his visual emphasis on the vast, green volcano protruding from a flat terrain. It forms a stirring backdrop to Qiao’s own grappling with the tenets of jianghu, reminding us of the intense pressure that may form within this otherwise isolated, apparently innocuous being. In an incredible long take towards the end of this chapter that showcases a tightly choreographed fight scene lit by neon green lights, we watch as Bin is violently beaten by assailants, this ordeal only coming to an end when Qiao interferes and puts herself at risk.

After taking that first step into the heat of the volcano, Qiao is whisked away from Bin for five long years, and takes the opportunity to mould her identity in the flames of hardship. Quite appropriately, this second chapter to her story becomes a passionate, fiery red. In a direct call back to Still Life, Jia returns to the Three Gorges Dam as the site of these ex-lovers’ reunion, once again using the slowly-flooding city to remind us that this is where cultural histories and personal memories come to die. Where this setting was permeated by a green haze in Still Life, it is now infused with a faint, yellow tint, and punctuated by bursts of red in furniture, flowers, costumes, and of course, the vivid Wushan Yangtze River Bridge, its façade appearing for a third time in Jia’s filmography.

It is surely no coincidence that the film which marks perhaps Zhao Tao’s best performance to date also demonstrates a particular interest on Jia’s part in the way she is blocked against other actors. Jia’s muse has always been a reliable vessel in conveying ambiguous, internal conflict, but never more so than in Qiao’s eventual confrontation with Bin, where she just cannot summon the respect to make eye contact with him. Though seething with feelings of betrayal, Zhao also brings a quiet confidence to Qiao’s recognition that the issue lies in his own brokenness, having buckled under the pressure of the jianghu lifestyle. Even as the décor of the hotel room where they meet is still painted in vivid reds, a green, neon light shines through the window, subtly reminding the ex-lovers of the innocent past they once shared, and pushing them on to some sort of resolution.

The cool, blue hues of the final chapter emerge almost immediately after this meeting, as if Qiao’s impassioned disposition has been suddenly lifted out of the volcano and doused with water. It is in the shift to 2017 though, nine years later, that we meet Qiao in her final, purest form, sitting as a high-ranking member of the jianghu which Bin once governed. After suffering a stroke from his alcoholism, Bin is now bound to a wheelchair and comes calling to Qiao for help, recognising her as the strongest, most dependable person in his life. The relationship that reignites between them isn’t romantic, but rather protective and considerate. Returning to the volcano backdrop where he taught her about jianghu all those years ago, she now teaches him how to walk again, returning the favour in a touching moment that brings their relationship full circle. Perplexed by her persistence in helping him despite all he has done to hurt her, she recalls the self-sacrificing principles of jianghu which he has forgotten.

“In the jianghu we talk about righteousness. You’re no longer in the jianghu. So you wouldn’t understand.”

Though each chapter in Qiao’s journey is separated by Jia’s shifting colour palettes, they are bound together by his return to the more naturalistic style of camerawork that governed his earlier films. Whether he is moving between characters in mid-shots and close-ups to capture the heat of an emotionally charged moment, or setting it back to absorb the full architectural weight of their surroundings, his long takes effectively preserve the realism of each scene, letting the progression of moods emerge organically without the manipulation of overzealous cutting.

As we see in the inexplicable insertion of a reality-shattering UFO though, Jia isn’t always able to muster up the formal conviction that he has shown in his strongest works, especially as this exact same device was used to much greater effect in Still Life. But at the same time, this film still stands among his most structurally impressive, as he instils its sound design, music, architecture, and colours with a soothing repetition that echoes down through all three chapters of Qiao’s life. Many of Jia’s previous movies might be more accurately described as landscapes than portraits, and yet it is in his interweaving of several complex, recurring motifs in Ash is Purest White that he creates an epic character study of feminine strength, and its moulding in the fiery heat of adversity.

Ash is Purest White is currently unavailable to stream in Australia.

Bob Persichetti, Peter Ramsey, Rodney Rothman | 1hr 56min

Just when we thought Pixar had knocked off its serious mainstream competition, a superhero movie from Sony astounded us all with an animation style unlike anything we had seen before. The comic book influence shines through in its split screens, panels, and onomatopoeia, and the urban street art styling raucously announces itself in its bold, at times even abstract, imagery. It is a perfectly curated aesthetic to accompany Miles Morales’ Brooklyn-based hero journey, which fittingly begins in an abandoned subway station scrawled with colourful graffiti. It is here that he is bitten by a radioactive spider, and it is also where that radioactivity starts to colour Miles’ world with vivid fluorescence.

There is no need to explain the existence of this radioactive spider in Spider-Verse, not just because it seems like such a natural phenomenon to emerge from this luminescent vision of Brooklyn, but also because the origin of Spider-Man is so baked into our culture, it has essentially taken on mythological significance. Of course, the path to becoming Spider-Man is just one template of the traditional hero’s arc, but Spider-Verse demonstrates how broadly its conventions can be applied to a huge range of culture and identities, tying them together under a common set of values.
 
Several times we see alternate versions of Spider-Man introduce themselves and their backgrounds in the same format, beginning with some variation of the line “Let’s do this one last time”, as if to assume their own story is the definitive one. Though each of their lives varied greatly before they took on the mantle, we recognise from the patterns in their introductions that they all share a set of characteristics which led them to becoming Spider-Man: a bite from a radioactive spider, the death of a loved one, and growth from that grief to become a fighter for justice. Establishing each of their identities in these theme-and-variation montages is an exceptionally imaginative way to bring form to this ensemble of characters, effectively defining their individual and shared traits without getting caught up in over-exposition.

With an outline of the journey to becoming Spider-Man effectively sketched out, a path is set for Miles. Likewise, a similar shadow path is set for Wilson Fisk, AKA Kingpin. He too is imbued with his own complete emotional arc motivated by the death of his loved ones, and in his struggle with grief he proves to be an effective foil to Miles. Here is a man who has suffered immensely, just like every iteration of Spider-Man out there, but rather than growing from it to defend others, he has let it fester into bitterness. He would tear apart New York City if it means getting his family back, and that indeed becomes his plan, but in the process of enacting it he unwittingly becomes the sort of violent, resentful monster that they would have despised.
 
Miles, on the other hand, comes to a similar crossroads when faced with his Uncle Aaron’s cold-blooded murder. Aaron is also a fully-developed character, complete with his own set of affable quirks and tragic flaws, but our discovery that he has a dark side only makes his death all the more impactful. “The hardest thing about this job is you can’t always save everybody,” Miles is told in his mourning. Learning this lesson is a rite of passage for the path Miles is on, and it is only when he falls into the pits of despair and builds himself back up from it that he is able to reach the final stage of his transformation into Spider-Man, becoming a mature, confident, and empathetic hero.
 
The following scene where Miles dives upside down into the shining lights of New York City is jaw-droppingly beautiful, but there is also a good reason for why this specific image feels like such a significant part of his journey. From the moment Miles first gets his powers and meets Peter Parker, the cinematography starts to get more experimental with its off-kilter angles and lack of orientation, at times losing all sense of up and down as Miles and Peter walks across walls and hang from ceilings. Without any gravity to hold Peter or the other Spider-Men down, they perceive an entirely new world, and it is in this moment when Miles finally embraces the title and responsibility of Spider-Man that he fully grasps it too, gliding weightlessly through the city, untethered from the Earth below.

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse is a rare breed of non-auteur driven film that displays a genuine affection for the art form, and producers Phil Lord and Christopher Miller can be given much of the credit for that. Their dedication to constructing its style from a blend of traditional and computer animation pays off immensely in the final product, lifting from conventional comic book styles while reinvigorating them with the sort of dynamic movement and effects that could only ever be rendered digitally. With one foot in the past and one in the future, Spider-Verse reflects its own deconstruction of the hero in its visual artistry, examining the patterns and core values which transcend cultures and generations to bind together those who engage in a common fight for justice.

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse is currently available to stream on Netflix Australia, and available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.