Apple TV Plus – Scene by Green

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.

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.