Category: 2020s

Wolfs (2024)

Jon Watts | 1hr 48min

So reclusive are the two fixers at the centre of Wolfs that even their names are kept from us. Their identities are their jobs, requiring them to override any moral inhibitions they might harbour to maintain a stoic, unflinching professionalism. Personal relationships are similarly out of the question, or else they might find themselves easily compromised by conflicting loyalties. According to George Clooney’s pragmatic specialist, this line of work requires a “certain level of monasticism” – so when he and Brad Pitt’s sardonic contractor are incidentally hired to handle the same job, their forced partnership threatens to steer both off track.

The snarky repartee flows freely in this buddy comedy-thriller, fuelled by a chemistry that was established between the two veteran actors long ago in Ocean’s Eleven. There is no question as to the competency of these professionals, but their mutual jabs at each other’s work ethic do reveal petty egos underlying their suave composure. Unfortunately, this is not the sort of job which can handle too much distraction either. After a Manhattan District Attorney’s brief affair with a younger man ends in disaster, the mess they have been tasked with cleaning up quickly spirals out of control, leading them on a chase through New York City and into the middle of a gang war over a stolen drug shipment.

Although Austin Abrams isn’t quite Clooney and Pitt’s equal here, he injects a bewildered, guileless humour as their naïve tagalong, finding himself in over his head more than anyone else. The single night setting only elevates the farcical caper further, escalating its stakes faster than he can keep up. Even if for a brief period, an oddball family dynamic forms between these three men as Clooney and Pitt find themselves strangely protective of the ‘Kid’ and develop a begrudging respect for each other. Nowhere is this better illustrated either than their run-in with an old criminal associate from the Albanian mafia, seeing them quickly take control of the tense situation and act with perfect synchronicity to save both their necks.

Stealth, cunning, and a solid dose of charisma are clearly essential qualities for these fixers, and quite unusually for Jon Watts, Wolfs showcases a visual stylishness which matches their crafty street smarts. One might almost mistake this for a Steven Soderbergh thriller with lighting this atmospheric, spreading a clean ambience through luxurious hotel interiors and shedding dingy hues from neon signs in diners. The nightclub set piece is also a standout in this respect, flooding the dance floor and exterior with a red wash that screams danger while glass chandeliers dangle over the partying crowds. It is refreshing to see Watts flex his filmmaking talents beyond the restrictions of Marvel Studios here, and this extends to his execution of creative visual gags as well, often playing out with sharp comic timing in thoughtfully staged wide shots.

Though the storytelling eventually gets tangled in a convoluted web of conspiracies, the development of Clooney and Pitt’s relationship maintains a brisk momentum, even adopting a Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid dynamic as the unlikely partners begin to realise that they can only rely on each other. Without resorting to derivative, sentimental shortcuts, Watts’ nod to the Western classic’s iconic ending thoughtfully pays homage to one of cinema’s greatest duos, similarly offering these lone wolves a shot at redemption through genuine camaraderie before they face the fire. Clooney and Pitt can easily command the screen alone, but together they become a magnetic force of undistilled charisma, rising above stubborn independent streaks and egos to appreciate the playfully invigorating nature of companionship.

Wolfs is currently streaming on Apple TV Plus.

Horizon: An American Saga – Chapter 1 (2024)

Kevin Costner | 3hr 1min

Though promised as a prosperous homestead for westward-bound families, the Arizonan frontier town Horizon is marked with bloodshed from the moment its foundations are outlined. Even after its surveyors are brutally massacred by an Apache war band asserting their territory, colonisers continue to flock to the flourishing settlement, ignoring the danger which skirts its borders. It shouldn’t come as a shock then that four years after its establishment, the same tribe should launch a devastating assault, burning the settlement to the ground and slaughtering its residents. From this horrific violence, Kevin Costner spins out several narrative threads among Horizon’s survivors – but at such an early point in his epic saga, even this major incident cannot account for every subplot that wanders through the film.

Maybe this is to be expected though from a film which announces itself as the first chapter of a four-part series, each instalment of which is expected to be roughly 3 hours long. The Lord of the Rings series seems to be a fair comparison in terms of story structure, though where The Fellowship of the Ring brought a sense of closure to its lengthy narrative setup, Horizon: An American Saga – Chapter 1 is not so robustly constructed. Costner is playing the long game here, promising to eventually intersect subplots that for now dangle without any destination in sight, and steadily working through each at a patient pace.

As such, the fact that Horizon faltered at the box office and failed to make up its extravagant budget is no real surprise. The genre subversions that we typically find in contemporary Westerns like Django Unchained or The Revenant are nowhere to be found here, and the extraordinary run time has undoubtedly turned away many who weren’t already put off by its Chapter 1 subtitle. Perhaps if Horizon was released in the era of Dances with Wolves, it would have found a more receptive audience, though it is also clear that Costner’s adoration of John Ford roots his narrative even deeper in Hollywood history.

The stories which emerge from the Apaches’ raid on Horizon draw the strongest parallels to Ford’s films here, seeing the widowed Frances Kittredge and her daughter Elizabeth survive the massacre by hiding underground, and eventually find refuge at Camp Gallant with a detachment of the United States Army. Despite some initial tension around non-interventionist beliefs, romance begins to bloom between Frances and First Lieutenant Gephardt, while Elizabeth warms to the younger outposted soldiers. With their dark blue uniforms pressed against Utah’s red rock landscapes, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon asserts itself as the primary influence on this storyline, as Costner delicately considers the complicated relationship between love and duty.

Also carried over from Ford’s 1949 film are the moral divisions that emerge within Native American tribes, yet which are considered with far more nuance in Horizon. Where the older generation promotes co-existence with the settlers, emerging leader Pionsenay seeks to drive them from their territory, fearing that his people will soon be displaced. Anticipating reprisal from the elders, he and his war band that attacked Horizon strike out on their own, clouding their idealism with visions of war and retribution.

Meanwhile on the other side of this struggle, the vengeance which orphaned survivor Russell seeks against the Apaches effectively models him after virulently racist gunslinger Ethan Edwards from The Searchers. With his parents dead, the closest Russell has to mentors are the two hunters he has teamed up with, both driven by a hateful bloodlust that risks sending the young boy down a similar path. When they fail to successfully track the raiders who destroyed Horizon, the nonchalance with which they resolve to simply ambush whatever other Native American village they come across is chilling. The question of Russell’s own moral conscience hangs heavy over his scenes, setting up a compelling character arc that will likely resonate through future sequels.

The dusty plains of the Old West are clearly ripe for mythologising, and Costner continues to use its gorgeous vistas in a disconnected subplot concerning a wagon train set for Horizon, although its late entry into the film leaves it severely underdeveloped. Instead, it is our complete departure from the badlands altogether which ushers in a far stronger storyline, trekking across the snowy alpine terrains of Montana and the vibrant autumnal forests of Wyoming. After shooting her abusive partner, escaping with her baby Sam, and adopting a new name, Lucy inadvertently attracts the psychotic Sykes Brothers to the peaceful town she has set up a new life in. It seems inevitable that the burgeoning relationship between her roommate Marigold and horse trader Hayes should get tangled up in this looming danger as well, eventually forcing the couple to take Sam and flee town.

Casting himself in the role of Hayes, Costner does not necessarily stand out within this enormous ensemble, yet he still channels the passion he has for the project at large into this lonely, vulnerable gunslinger. Together with Marigold and Sam, the three become a makeshift family who discover a rare sort of love, and whose paths begin to verge on Horizon towards the end when a promotional leaflet winds up in their hands.

The plot movements are slow, and the scope is so vast we may doubt whether they payoff will be worth it, but from Chapter 1’s foundations it seems unlikely that Costner is navigating this story without a grand vision. His use of natural light and helicopter shots offer plenty for us to visually feast on while the pieces gradually fall into place, as does his impressive array of rural locations, defining his historical legend not by a single town, but by America as a whole. With all these elements considered together, Horizon announces itself as a project of ambition so majestically bloated that it threatens to dilute its own focus, yet which still etches out the beginnings of a sprawling, mythological saga refusing to be defined by a single perspective.

Horizon: An American Saga – Chapter 1 is currently streaming on Stan, and is available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Alien: Romulus (2024)

Fede Álvarez | 1hr 59min

We are barely ten minutes into Alien: Romulus when orphaned miner Rain learns the first Alien film’s key lesson – labourers owe nothing to corporations that treat them as expendables. The five years that she has been contracted for have come to an end, but the sheer number of people who have perished under Weyland-Yutani quickly douses her dreams of leaving for the distant, utopian planet of Yvaga III. With the company short staffed, her contract is renewed, and she is not to be released from servitude for another five years.

Next to the xenomorphs, the corporation has always been the biggest threat of this sci-fi series, and Fede Álvarez continues to blur those lines between humanity and monster here in Alien: Romulus. To the untouchable bureaucracy, this extraterrestrial species is not to be left to its own devices, but exploited for biological warfare – or as is the case here, genetic engineering. Evolution’s natural processes are far too slow for Weyland-Yutani’s grand ambitions after all, and the key to designing the ideal human for space exploration seems to lie in the aliens’ resilient DNA. That the space station Renaissance which once hosted these dangerous experiments also contains the cryostasis equipment Rain needs to reach Yvaga III doesn’t just bring her into conflict with a primal, destructive force of nature. This deep into space, her corporate superiors continue to exert their ruthless will upon seemingly insignificant lives, remaining both oblivious and apathetic to the incredible threat it is reckoning with.

The crew of runaways joining Rain on this mission range from cannon fodder to deeply sympathetic allies, leaving the bond formed between our protagonist and her adopted synthetic brother Andy as the only relationship worth our attention. Cailee Spaeny’s star continues to rise in the wake of Priscilla and Civil War, displaying an intelligent pragmatism while carrying a deep grief for her late father whose legacy lives on in Andy’s programmed dad jokes. As the humanistic android, David Jonsson stands out even more with his furrowed brow and steadfast warmth, though it is when he accepts a Weyland-Yutani computer chip to improve his physical capabilities that he strikingly manoeuvres his focus into a cold, corporate expediency.

The setting from which the film takes its name also mirrors this sibling conflict, stranding Rain and her ragtag crew in the twin modules which make up Renaissance – Romulus and Remus. Continuing the franchise’s trend of referencing Greco-Roman mythology, Álvarez alludes to the two brothers who were raised by wolves and established Rome, before Romulus ultimately killed Remus over the city’s foundations. This is the allegory which underlies Weyland-Yutani’s vision for the future, comparing the xenomorph’s extract to the she-wolf milk which strengthened and nurtured the infant brothers into pioneers of civilisation. On a far more chilling level, it is also this transgression of nature which binds both species together as one, producing an atrocity which manifests the corporation’s monstrous rejection of its own humanity.

Álvarez certainly does not waste his opportunity to play in the realm of body horror here either, crafting the thrills and grotesqueries which the Alien series has always specialised in. The fleshy cavity of one xenomorph’s cocoon drips viscous fluids, suggesting more than just a distant correlation to human genitalia, and Romulus delivers one of its most creatively suspenseful set pieces when combining the creature’s acid blood with a temperamental, zero-gravity environment. The industrial futurist production design makes for a solid visual accomplishment here too, beautifully illuminated with pulsating light sources that pass characters through blazing orange hues and gloomy shadows.

That Romulus occasionally gets caught up in its own nostalgic references to previous Alien films is a disappointing symptom of modern franchises at large, though it is thankfully not a dealbreaker here. The care and imagination which Álvarez brings to the sci-fi source material lets his film stand on its own, offering a mythological slant to this universe which embellishes and warps millennia-old archetypes. There in the unnatural distortion of our social and biological identities, Romulus disturbingly probes into our human drive for greatness, as well as the inhumanity which threatens to cannibalise us in the process.

Alien: Romulus is currently available to purchase on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Wicked (2024)

Jon M. Chu | 2hr 41min

As vibrantly scintillating as Dorothy’s journey to Oz was in 1939, the land itself was one of fantastical, faraway dreams, not so much revealing a lived-in civilisation than a vision of near-utopian perfection. This is the Oz that has cemented its iconic place in pop culture, archetypal enough for other artists to fill in its gaps with their own creative spins, yet none have come as close to its legendary status as Stephen Schwartz’s Broadway musical. Much of this is due to the perseverance of one unlikely friendship within its politically charged setting, and now that Wicked has taken to the screen, this fable is expanded to elaborate, epic proportions fitting of its narrative stakes.

Of course, such sweeping ambition is evident right from the moment Part 1 is tacked beneath the opening title, revealing that Jon M. Chu’s adaptation only covers the musical’s first act. It isn’t hard to see the financial incentives that might have cynically motivated this decision, yet the opportunity to let the story breathe and illustrate its world in more detail is far too appealing. Glimpses into Elphaba’s childhood through the opening number ‘No One Mourns the Wicked’ effectively bring greater insight into her sympathy for persecuted animals, and a brief diversion in ‘One Short Day’ similarly builds out the history of Oz itself by way of two spectacular cameos.

Even more impactful though is the intricate visual design which reimagines Oz beyond Dorothy’s dream, skilfully blending the steampunk aesthetics of the stage show with the Art Deco whimsy of the classic Hollywood film. The digital effects are far from weak, allowing for some sweeping long takes which fly across the fictional land, though it is no coincidence that many of the strongest set pieces here are executed practically. The majestic, geometric architecture of Shiz University is especially suited for Wicked’s superb musical numbers, spinning across hamster wheel-inspired library shelves in ‘Dancing Through Life’ and sinking us into the gorgeous green and purple lighting of the Ozdust Ballroom. For the sheer coordination of its editing and choreography though, ‘What is this Feeling?’ stands out as the clear highlight, mounting Elphaba and Glinda’s simmering rivalry in split screens before exploding it across the university’s dining halls, classrooms, and courtyards.

It is virtually impossible to fault the casting too, though this is no surprise given the intense behind-the-scenes competition which saw many talented actors miss the cut. Jeff Goldblum proves his eccentric, animated charm to be a perfect fit for the Wizard, and Jonathan Bailey’s Fiyero exudes a rebellious charisma which believably appeals to both the status-conscious Glinda and principled Elphaba.

Still, only so many words can be written before inevitably praising our two leading women. One of Wicked’s greatest joys is in watching a lifelong bond form between polar opposite personalities, and both Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande understand this intimately, bringing a reciprocated chemistry to their duets that spans contempt, joy, and deep, abiding love.

Where Grande’s bubbly improvisations make for a constant source of amusement and further elevate songs like ‘Popular’, Erivo takes on a greater share of the film’s dramatic weight as Elphaba. Having believed since childhood that her magical abilities were to be shamefully suppressed, she shields a desire for acceptance behind quick wit and guarded suspicion, only to let that hopeful innocence burst forth upon learning that these powers may be the key to finding her place in Oz. Though sung with profuse joy, the foreshadowing of her eventual infamy in ‘The Wizard and I’ only deepens the tragedy of her character arc, ultimately bringing us to its crux at the showstopping finale.

Also accompanying Elphaba’s journey are hints at a sinister, oppressive force lurking within Oz, often manifesting as propaganda and outright censorship of the animal population, and growing more apparent the closer she gets to meeting the Wizard. These minor details strengthen Wicked’s political allegory, so that by the time she is within reaching distance of her goal, the moral dilemma she and Glinda face to either join the system or challenge it is poignantly well-earned.

‘Defying Gravity’ thus arrives as the dazzling culmination of all their insecurities and convictions at the end of Part 1, and it is virtually impossible to imagine this as the mere midpoint of a film which would then anticlimactically progress to the musical’s second act. Though some muddy visual effects threaten to blur Elphaba’s flight into nondescript blurs, Chu pulls off her rise as the Wicked Witch of the West with brilliant spectacle against a cloudy, orange sunset, and Erivo too displays breathtaking musical command over the final chorus and iconic battle cry. Having already established itself as a theatrical phenomenon, this splendid combination of talents effectively claims Wicked’s cultural status within cinema as well, enchanting larger audiences with its stirring, resonant tale of Oz’s most celebrated and reviled inhabitants. The groundwork has been marvellously laid for Part 2, and the outlook is promising.

Wicked is currently playing in cinemas.

Smile 2 (2024)

Parker Finn | 2hr 12min

There is always the risk when turning a standalone horror film into a series that the core concept quickly wears thin, especially when such a firm narrative template has already been set. Smile 2 does not quite diverge from its predecessor’s steady, downward slide into tortured psychosis, and yet Parker Finn’s ambition has nevertheless grown, pushing his demonic metaphor for trauma into the realm of substance abuse and celebrity.

Pop star Skye Riley is the target of the smile curse this time around, suffering horrific visions throughout the week leading up to her comeback tour, which she rests her hopes for public redemption upon. It has been one year since her struggle with drugs led to the death of her boyfriend in a violent car accident, and although she has been on a path to recovery, bad habits are reemerging in the form of painkiller dependency and compulsive hair-pulling. It is initially easy to brush off her drug dealer Lewis’ erratic behaviour as a bad trip too, but after witnessing his bloody suicide via a gym weight to the face, it gradually becomes clear that the entity which haunted him is now threatening to send her reeling back into the dark, terrifying recesses of her mind.

We can see from the outset that Finn is swinging even harder stylistically here, as an 8-minute long take tracking police officer Joel’s attempt to deal with the curse picks up where the first film ended. We are hitched entirely to his distorted perspective, briefly passing by a hallucination of Rose’s burning body before entering a drug den where he intends to pass off the affliction. Every blunder here is heightened by the urgency of Finn’s camerawork, and when we finally make the leap to Skye’s point-of-view in the main storyline, these uneasy visual stylings barely let up. Close-ups narrow in tightly on Naomi Scott’s panicked expressions and flashbacks slice through in sharp cutaways, though even more chilling are their hallucinatory ingresses into Skye’s everyday life, stalking her wherever she goes with those stretched, sinister smiles.

This sequel’s shift to New York as the setting only adds to the malaise as well, flooding moody interiors with ambient lighting and turning the iconic cityscape into the subject of recurring, upside-down tracking shots. Although Skye is surrounded by people here, Finn is constantly emphasising her loneliness among crowds, leaving very few people she can turn to who don’t brush off her meltdowns as delusional relapses. Clearly the supernatural parasite knows how to play on this emotional isolation to feed on her suffering, taking the form of an obsessive fan severely overstepping boundaries, and later a troupe of grotesque, twisted dancers crawling in sync through her apartment.

Being the second film in the series, Smile 2 is also more liberated from the need for exposition, keeping the lore to a minimum while moving this story along through visual inferences and discomforting ambiguity. As Skye’s mental state rapidly declines, we begin to see the dysfunctional version of her that not only hit rock bottom a year ago, but which also claims a special place in her nightmares. That the smile entity chooses this as its most hostile form speaks deeply to her self-loathing, and perhaps at the root of her torment, it is this which keeps her from breaking free of its ruinous cycles.

Very gradually, reality slips from between Skye’s fingers, and Finn thrillingly paves the way to an apocalyptic finale which raises the stakes for a promising sequel. To relive one’s deep-rooted, psychological trauma is a frightening prospect on its own, and in Smile 2, he once again proves his ability to immerse us in that disorientating, self-sabotaging mindset. For it to be trivialised and gawked at on the world stage, however – that may be enough to shatter even the most ascendant of celebrities.

Smile 2 is currently playing in theatres.

Disclaimer (2024)

Alfonso Cuarón | 7 episodes (45 – 55 minutes)

When journalist Catherine Ravenscroft first receives a mysterious novel called The Perfect Stranger in the mail, she is struck by the disclaimer – “Any resemblance to persons living or dead is not a coincidence.” The deeper she delves into the pages too, the clearer these resemblances become, and the revelations are deeply mortifying. Secrets she believed were buried deep in her past have been immortalised in ink for the world to see, and she immediately understands the threat it poses to every aspect of her stable, successful life.

This is only the start of widower Stephen Brigstocke’s plans for revenge though. The Perfect Stranger was written by his late wife Nancy, inspired by the grief she and Stephen both felt over the passing of their son Jonathan twenty years ago while he was travelling in Italy. They do not have a lot of information to go off, but after discovering erotic photographs of Catherine taken the night before his death, it doesn’t take long for them to reconstruct their version of events. To distil them into literary form, some truths may need to be twisted a little – but what good storyteller doesn’t smooth over such trivialities for the sake of a greater point?

Alfonso Cuarón’s unravels these layers with great patience in Disclaimer, keeping us from the reality of Jonathan and Catherine’s relationship until the final episode, yet the subjectivity of such accounts is woven into the series’ structure from the start. Two duelling voiceovers are established here – Jonathan’s speaking in first person, suggesting an inability to move on through its past tense reflections, and Catherine’s running an internal monologue via an omniscient, second person narrator. It lays bare the deepest thoughts of everyone in her family, but its direct, reproachful tone refers to her alone as “you”, as if framing her at the centre of a novel – which of course she very much is.

There is a third perspective here too, though one which takes the form of flashbacks rather than narration. This account belongs to the book itself, and by extension Nancy, who in her grief has desperately tried to make sense of her son’s profoundly unfair death. Cuarón wields excellent control over his non-linear storytelling to build intrigue here, particularly when it comes to the younger Catherine’s seduction of a stammering Jonathan and the provocative development of their holiday fling. With her husband Robert away on business, leaving her to care for their 5-year-old son Nicholas alone, this younger, unexperienced man seems like the perfect opportunity to escape the confines of marriage and motherhood.

At least, this is the version of Catherine that Nancy would like her readers to believe. As if to position us as observers looking through a peephole, Disclaimer uses iris transitions to formally bookend these flashbacks, effectively sectioning off this subjective rendering of events within their own idyllic bubble. In true Cuarón style, the camera romantically floats around Catherine and Jonathan’s interactions with tantalising intrigue, and grows particularly intimate when she finally ensnares him in her hotel room. Conversely, the cold detachment of his lingering shots in the present-day scenes underscore Stephen’s schemes and Catherine’s torment with a nervous tension, grimly witnessing the emotional isolation they have caused each other. Although Disclaimer falls behind Cuarón’s established visual standard, his command of cinematic language is still far greater than most television series, no doubt thanks to the contributions of co-cinematographers Bruno Delbonnel and Emmanuel Lubezki.

As the consequences of Stephen’s devilish sabotage and Catherine’s desperate attempts to salvage some dignity take the spotlight in episodes 5 and 6, the pieces carefully move into the endgame, setting up the climactic collision of both characters. Kevin Kline and Cate Blanchett’s performances are no doubt the highlight here, respectively capturing the roguish nihilism of a grieving misanthrope and the gut-wrenching trauma of a woman escaping his torment, though truthfully there is barely a weak link in Cuarón’s cast. Sacha Baron Cohen, Kodi Smit-McPhee, and Leila George are all given their moments to shine, while Lesley Manville in particular works wonders with her limited screen time as Nancy, subtly hinting at a bitter jealousy that transcends mere vindictiveness. As we follow the tangled threads of perspectives, not only are we led to challenge her biased presentation of Catherine and Jonathan’s characters, but Stephen too must question the foundation of his retribution – the conviction that his seemingly happy family held no responsibility for its own destruction.

After all, were those erotic photographs not just incomplete fragments of reality? And what is The Perfect Stranger if not Nancy’s disingenuous attempt to piece them together, assembling whatever pattern affirms her own assumptions? When Catherine finally gets a chance to speak about the events leading up to Jonathan’s death, her recollection is astonishing in its uncomfortably vivid detail, seeping through the flashback’s muffled sound design and visceral camerawork. Perhaps even more importantly though, it is also a complete shock to the beliefs we hold about virtually every single character, especially seeing Catherine’s implicating narrator latch on to another as they similarly face the inconceivability of their own redemption.

“Nothing can purify you. Nothing can absolve you. Ahead of you there’s nothing.”

What Cuarón leaves us with is more than just a lesson on the confounding subjectivity of storytelling. Disclaimer is a testament to the influential power of words themselves, granting us the ability to win sympathies, destroy lives, and even rewrite our own memories. There is little that can take them back once they have been put down in ink. Just as troubling as the guilt for what we have done is the shame over what we have said – and perhaps for those claiming to be passive witnesses in the matter, who we believed.

Disclaimer is currently streaming on Apple TV Plus.

Rebel Ridge (2024)

Jeremy Saulnier | 2hr 11min

When Marine Corps veteran Terry returns to the Louisiana police station where the $36,000 intended for his cousin’s bail has been confiscated, Chief Sandy Burnne and his colleagues are not prepared for the hell about to be unleashed on them. Jeremy Saulnier’s narrative has barely raised the heat past a gentle simmer up until now, matching Aaron Pierre’s cool performance with an equally composed pacing, though it is only matter of time before that patience wears thin. The police officers’ assumption that he lacks combat experience simply because he never served overseas during his military career is a dire mistake. Like so many action heroes of cinema history, Terry proves himself more than capable, using his unique set of skills and tactical wits to take down an entire squad.

Still, vengeance does not arrive through bloody carnage for this veteran. Violence is merely a non-lethal means to an ends, and so despite its proliferation in Rebel Ridge, the total fatalities remain remarkably low. Terry never killed a man during his service, and he is not going to start a John Wick-style rampage now, mowing down leagues of enemies before reaching a final boss. Institutional corruption must be dealt with at its source, and through his unlikely alliance with law student Summer, he begins to embrace a new fight for justice.

Of course, this is all purely tactical for Terry. Right from the opening scene when he is rammed off his bicycle by officers Marston and Lann, it is clear his identity as a Black man factors deeply into his careful interactions with the police. He is not going to pick any fights that he knows he is going to lose, and he is certainly not going to aggravate anyone looking for an excuse to detain or shoot him. In response to their extreme brutality, he responds with the least amount of force necessary, ironically demonstrating the ideal behaviour they should be modelling. Where Saulnier’s 2015 film Green Room veers far more heavily into gore and horror, Rebel Ridge makes for a far more sobering thriller, understanding the nuanced stakes that lie in this conflict beyond life and death.

Unfortunately, the dedication to murky, ambient lighting which gave Green Room such a distinctive visual character is largely absent here, leaving Rebel Ridge struggling to aesthetically set itself apart from the fray of modern action movies. At least beyond the remarkable fight choreography creatively tailored to Terry’s no-killing principle, Saulnier delivers a small handful of locations that play to his stylistic strengths, illuminating the police evidence room with a subtle blue wash and later piercing the darkness of the courtroom basement with green and orange light sources. Scenes like these do much of the heavy lifting when it comes to imbuing the setting with a sense of peril, hinting at the insidious exploitation lurking beneath the police force’s veneer of law-abiding respectability.

After all, the prejudice that Terry experiences is not an isolated incident. What starts as a quest to free his cousin inevitably gets wrapped up in a much larger conspiracy at play, raising suspicions when an unidentified whistleblower points Summer towards a strange anomaly in police records – over the past two years, many people who committed misdemeanours were held in jail for exactly 90 days before being released. The exposition which peels back the mystery here drags a little, though the payoff in Terry’s final confrontation with Burnne and his lackeys is certainly worth it, ultimately revealing where individual loyalties truly lie. Our veteran hero only may be alive due to his combat expertise, though physical conflict alone is never going to heal a broken system. Patience, discernment, and cunning are virtues embodied in his pursuit of justice, and superbly carried through in Saulnier’s tense, brooding storytelling.

Rebel Ridge is currently streaming on Netflix.

Joker: Folie à Deux (2024)

Todd Phillips | 2hr 18min

When Todd Phillips created his own trauma-ridden version of Batman’s greatest nemesis in 2019, audiences were as polarised as the citizens of Gotham City. To a disillusioned minority, Arthur Fleck was an icon of bitter anarchy, seeking to tear down the broken system which drove him and so many others to madness. To critics, he was simply a glorified criminal, claiming the spotlight with little substance to back up his words and actions. This divide becomes the central tension in Phillips’ sequel, seeking to parse out the nuances missed by both sides in the debate over Arthur’s soul – and yet in doing so, Joker: Folie à Deux has met an even more troubled reception than the first.

Of course, part of this comes down to the perceived emasculation of our antihero, diverging from the tough guy persona he had artificially crafted for himself as Joker. Criticisms targeted at the duology’s surprising shift into the movie-musical genre are slightly more justified, especially given how hit-or-miss many of the numbers are, though even these condemnations fail to account for their sheer vibrance and passion. Phillips is no stranger to ambitious swings, and if there was ever a supervillain to make this leap into song and dance, then it is surely the one whose schtick is highlighting life’s senseless absurdity through colourful, extravagant theatrics.

It also makes sense that Phillips should credit Francis Ford Coppola’s maligned musical One from the Heart as a major inspiration here too, featuring similarly remarkable visual craftsmanship while drawing criticisms of ‘style over substance’. Both films float by upon expressionistic dreams of romance, detaching its characters from any recognisable reality and entering a realm that exists only in their elated minds. A brief nod to The Umbrellas of Cherbourg hints at this early on in Folie à Deux, but by the time Arthur is waltzing through the grounds of a burning Arkham State Hospital with fellow patient Lee Quinzel and singing an elaborate rendition of ‘If My Friends Could See Me Now’, we are fully immersed in their ecstatically unhinged delusions.

Unfortunately, the inconsistencies that plague Phillips’ direction of these scenes also happen to be among Folie à Deux’s most unflattering blemishes. Many great musicals are able express subdued emotion in duets without simply cutting back and forth between close-ups, but this is exactly the trap that he falls into here, leading to a sharp disparity between magnificently staged showstoppers and softer, blandly shot ballads. Additionally, songs that play out in creaky whispers waste the talent that comes with Lady Gaga’s otherwise inspired casting, while Joaquin Phoenix’s pitchy vocals are downright weak.

Still, Phillips is as confident as ever when it comes to his dystopian worldbuilding beyond the musical numbers, adeptly building upon the first film’s dingy ambience and grimy production design. Arkham State Hospital is one of two primary locations explored here, damning our protagonist to a hellhole flooded with murky green hues and heavy shadows, while maintaining an eerie elegance in long takes navigating its narrow hallways. The prison’s claustrophobic framing also strikes a dramatic contrast against the openness of the courtroom where Arthur revels in the limelight, violating the judge’s orders at every turn and reducing it to a circus where his Joker persona can deride the entire bureaucratic system.

Even then though, we are left wondering – what is this all for? Arthur’s indignation does not expose any hidden evil so much as it offers a cathartic release, but that too seems dubious when he is confronted by the innocent victims of his own actions. Luckily from among his throngs of fans, Lee emerges as the woman to put such insecurities to rest, effectively embodying that fetishisation of high-profile criminals which celebrates their iconography rather than understanding their humanity. “I want to see the real you,” she murmurs as she ironically paints Arthur’s face with clown makeup, and her glitzy musical influence only serves to further shape his identity to her vision of provocative sensationalism.

Phillips has never been a filmmaker who trades in subtlety, and while this has led to a series that aggressively beats its heavy-handed message home, it has also created some of the strongest imagery from any comic book movie in recent years. As the climax pulls Arthur through the streets of Gotham in a Children of Men-style long take and swallows him up in the dystopian monstrosity he has inadvertently created, we are reminded of what is truly at stake here. Not just “Gotham’s soul”, as The Dark Knight once operatically proclaimed – on a much smaller scale, Folie à Deux possesses a twisted kind of sympathy for broken individuals who respond to one evil with another, and a crushing lack of faith that righteous, even-handed justice will ever be served.

Joker: Folie à Deux is currently playing in cinemas.

The Substance (2024)

Coralie Fargeat | 2hr 20min

The first time that fading Hollywood actress Elisabeth Sparkle injects the fluorescent, black-market drug that is the Substance, her metamorphosis is shocking. As she writhes in agony on her bathroom floor, her skin bulges with the birth of new bones and organs, and her irises split like regenerating cells. Along her back, a large, gaping slit opens, and from it a creature is born. Stumbling towards the mirror, we adopt this newborn’s perspective, our eyes adjusting to its bizarre existence. There, we witness Elisabeth’s younger, more beautiful self ‘Sue’ come into focus, successfully reclaiming youth from the wrinkles, sags, and insecurities of middle age.

There are several caveats which come with the use of this drug, chief among them being the time limit – seven days in the young body, seven days in old, or else there will be severe side effects. “What is taken by one, is lost by the other,” we are frequently reminded by the distributor’s deep, disembodied voice, and upon this simple warning, director Coralie Fargeat builds her allegory for the physical deterioration of ageing bodies. Any attempts to recklessly cling to youth will inevitably be felt further down the track, forming destructive, self-loathing habits which give our younger selves greater reason to scorn us.

Fargeat builds a cartoonish mirror world of old-fashioned chauvinism, typified in Dennis Quaid’s sleazy producer who leans into wide-angle lenses and devours a bowl of prawns in the most vicious manner possible.

The Substance is not overly subtle in its metaphor, nor does it need to be. Elisabeth lives in a cartoonish mirror world of 1980s pop aesthetics and old-fashioned chauvinism, working closely with a sleazy producer who embodies every misogynistic stereotype of America’s entertainment industry. He leers uncomfortably over us in wide-angle lenses, physically invading our personal space and tearing into a bowl of prawns with all the etiquette of a salivating dog. His firing of our protagonist and subsequent casting call for “the next Elisabeth Sparkle” only feeds her self-doubt – but with this rejuvenating drug on the market, who better to take her place than Elisabeth herself?

Clean, sanitised production design, conforming wholly to unified colour palettes and strong geometric shapes.

Contrary to what Fargeat’s win for Best Screenplay at Cannes Film Festival may suggest, the writing may be the least interesting aspect of The Substance. This is not to say that it lacks a compelling narrative, but the strength of this psychological horror bleeds through the visual storytelling, often carried along without dialogue by the dynamic editing, subjective camerawork, and brilliantly unhinged acting. Especially for industry veteran Demi Moore and rising star Margaret Qualley, The Substance displays both of their strongest performances to date, playing two sides of one woman simultaneously envying and revelling in her youthful glamour.

Beautiful formal mirroring between Elisabeth and Sue, carried through in Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley’s magnificent, parallel performances.

Fargeat too clearly has an admiration for the human form, though her camera refuses to submit so cleanly to the objectification it is criticising. The allure and repulsiveness of our physical bodies are woven deeply into each other here, and as Elisabeth comes to realise, we cannot indulge in one without eventually confronting the other. Extreme close-ups of dissolving tablets, needles puncturing flesh, and the Substance’s physiological effects blend seamlessly with the augmented sound design and distorted synth score, and their collective impact is largely magnified by Fargeat’s aggressive, rapid-fire montage editing. It is no coincidence that she is directly referencing Requiem for a Dream here, comparing the processes of beautification to an uncontrollable drug addiction. As much as the older Elisabeth despises her other half, still she is compelled to keep chasing that high of soaring confidence and attention, thus feeding the loop of self-abuse.

“You’re the only lovable part of me.”

Darren Aronofsky is a strong influence in the editing here, particularly in the rapid-fire drug montages.

The dual visual styles that The Substance establishes for both women draws a harsh dichotomy here. Where Sue luxuriates in smooth, slow-motion photography, Elisabeth’s shame is amplified by handheld camerawork and grating jump cuts, viciously wearing away at her mind and body. Bit by bit, we see pieces of both personalities bleed out into the world as well, alternately polishing and contaminating interiors designed to sanitised, Kubrickian perfection.

Sleek, slow-motion as we hang on Sue’s movements…
...degrading into shaky, handheld camerawork as we adopt Elisabeth’s perspective.

Just as several decades’ worth of Elisabeth’s posters are stripped from the film studio’s bright orange hallway to make room for its newest star, so too is her image torn down from the billboard outside her penthouse window, and ultimately replaced with a larger-than-life model shot of Sue. This apartment is the only remaining space that truly belongs to Elisabeth, and so much to the revulsion of her younger self, she believes it is hers to degrade into filth and chaos any way she pleases.

Fargeat borrows Kubrick’s patterned carpets and hallways from The Shining to craft this brilliant piece of production design, visually reflecting the fall of one woman and the rise of another.
Strong compositions of idiosyncratic interiors, transforming Elisabeth’s pristine penthouse apartment into a filthy extension of her breakdown.

Still, as much as these women furiously complain to the drug distributor about each other, both are firmly reminded of their equal culpability for their afflictions – “Remember you are one.” Elisabeth’s single, withered finger that results from Sue’s first attempt to push the limits of the Substance is only the beginning as well, revealing the long-term effects of those poor choices we make when we are young.

The more Elisabeth transforms into a spiteful, grizzled hag, the more we are reminded of the Evil Queen in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, jealously comparing her deteriorating beauty against a more youthful replacement. By the time The Substance reaches its final act too, Fargeat fully embraces these fable-like qualities, though not without a nauseating edge of dark, ironic humour. Where the body horror begins with Darren Aronofsky as its primary inspiration, it gradually mutates into Cronenbergian visions of grotesque monstrosities, rendered in practical effects that grow progressively more depraved.

This is the least of the body horror on display – Fargeat revels in the beauty and grotesqueness of the human form, submitting us to both extremes.

The bookended return to Elisabeth’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame makes for a surprisingly poignant conclusion to The Substance, escaping the bloody chaos to mourn her dehumanisation, even if just for a fleeting moment. Self-acceptance is a rarity in this industry of extreme beauty standards, so the point at which it is fearlessly embraced reveals the slightest salvation within reaching distance of catastrophic disaster. For those so consumed by such superficial ideals though, perhaps the physical manifestation of one’s most hideous impulses is the only path to inner peace, tragically confining them to a hollow, obsessive existence where youth fades faster than it can ever be reclaimed.

The Substance is currently playing in cinemas.

Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes (2024)

Wes Ball | 2hr 25min

Although the primitive simians of the Planet of the Apes prequels take great pride in their distinction from humanity, the parallels drawn between both species are apparent. “Apes together strong!” chimpanzee Caesar proclaims in Rise, asserting that their union behind shared values of peace and cooperation will herald a fresh start for planet Earth, while in Dawn prejudiced bonobo Koba seeks vengeance for his past traumas.

These are parables of evolution, constantly tugging intelligent beings who strive for greatness between their most inspiring and destructive instincts, but perhaps most compelling of all is their primal need to congregate around a prophetic leader. Much like Moses, Caesar was saved at birth, led his people to liberation, and established a doctrine of ethical commandments. Now in Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes though, his legacy is splintered among quarrelling factions. Their fight over upholding versus exploiting his message bears striking resemblance to the religious schisms of human history, each seeking survival through conflicting interpretations of their ancestor’s teachings.

It is hard to ignore the impact that the departure of Matt Reeves and Andy Serkis has had on this franchise, especially given that their strengths were uniquely matched to its visual and technical innovations. Nevertheless, the new crop of talent that director Wes Ball leads in Kingdom is dedicated to building on their predecessors’ foundations, making incredibly expressive use of motion-capture technology while shooting on location to build out its post-apocalyptic world. Beyond the lush, overgrown city that young chimpanzee Noa calls home, Ball’s long shots marvellously establish dense forests, abandoned structures, and rushing rivers, taking our protagonist on a journey through the wilderness to rescue his clan from a party of ape raiders.

Noa does not immediately recognise the name shouted by these marauders, but the wise orangutan he encounters on this quest knows it well. They do not truly follow Caesar’s tenets, Raka claims, as he imparts the truth of this ape luminary upon his pupil. Meanwhile, their meeting with young human Mae endows them with a greater perspective of the world before the rest of her species devolved into feral savagery, establishing her as a model of redemption when one’s own people appear beyond saving.

Only when Noa finally reaches the coastal settlement where the ape raiders live do Kingdom’s considerations of idolatry and ambition start to take shape, as Ball introduces the Caesar-worshipping tyrant, Proximus. Large, rusted husks of ancient ships host his followers along the shoreline, standing tall as monuments of a once-great civilisation that fell its own ego, yet Proximus remains blind to their symbolic warning. To attain humanity’s former glory, he believes that apes must claim their advanced weapons technology, aggressively asserting themselves as the planet’s dominant species.

Like Caesar, Proximus genuinely admires human achievements, but lacks the same desire to break their cycles of cruelty and hubris. Conversely, Noa does not seek to become another Moses, but is rather modelled after another ancient prophet instead. Given his readiness to separate the virtuous from the wicked, as well as the arrival of a biblical flood in the final act, it doesn’t take a particularly deep reading into his name to identify whose arc he will follow in future instalments.

Noa’s characterisation may be underdeveloped at this point, but Ball’s allegory for human history is promising, shifting the series into a fresh era of cross-species relations. As this world approaches the one established in the original Planet of the Apes film, so too does it continue bearing greater resemblance to our own, revealing the primal impulses that underlie society’s thin veneer of intelligence. Despite feeling like a small step back in quality, Kingdom’s development of this majestic civilisation through the legacy of its ancestors is admirable, setting up a new generation of apes who simultaneously live under, respect, and seek to escape the long shadow of Caesar.

Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes is available to buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video, and is currently streaming on Disney Plus.