Chris At The Pictures

Moonlight begins with a statement by song: Boris Gardiner’s Every N****r is a Star. The star in this movie’s galaxy is Chiron (Alex Hibbert/Ashton Sanders/Trevante Rhodes), a young black man struggling with his sexuality. Based on a drama school project by playwright Tarell Alvin McCraney, the film takes the form of three distinct acts that track Chiron’s journey from childhood, through adolescence and into adulthood. These segments in turn are constructed of vignettes so delicate and tender you daren’t breathe, lest they shatter.

Flat-out racism and refusal to engage with diverse narratives aside, I cannot understand the mind-set of critics and audiences who declare nothing to connect with here. Whether it’s the question of how we choose to identify versus the labels placed on us by others, how masculinity takes many different forms, the interlinking between sexuality and expression, or even subtle notes on depression and anxiety,Moonlight offers so much to discuss with barely a word spoken. Mahershala Ali (long may he reign) provides the major mouthpiece as Juan; a drug dealer who dispenses wisdom to a young Chiron (nicknamed Little). It’s through Juan’s calm intonation and the prolonged silences of pain by each incarnation of Chiron (incidentally, all three leads are perfect) that gives the film such a profound voice despite a deference to showing, not telling.

Every single moment of exquisite heartache is elevated by James Laxton’s cinematography. The colours meld and blur and burn, a kaleidoscope of cool blues and searing purple that are incredible even when removed from the context of a film that gifts us so many indelible images. Director Barry Jenkins has shown me things that cinema has never offered before: a romantic jukebox denouement reserved for two men, a complete lack of white speaking parts, and the sight of a muscled black man crying that isn’t played for comedic effect, even remotely.

This complete contrast with any film I’ve ever seen before is probably my favourite thing about a film full of astonishing elements. I have a terrible habit of referring to other films an awful lot, but Moonlight is so different that I have almost no frame of reference, and I can’t understate how exciting that is. The one allusion I could find was a comparison with this year’s A Monster Calls, which I said empowered every lonely child to “admit their quietest truth at thunderous volume”. Moonlight is the flipside; expressing the loudest components of self-expression and character as a mere whisper.

I’m not about to say I had a ball with it, because that wouldn’t be entirely true: I think one could argue that some of the narrative might fall into place a little too neatly. I’m tempted to say that’s not necessarily a bad thing – given how the minorities represented are so rarely given any kind of narrative justice – but I am aware that saying so might come across as patronising.

While its general themes are infinitely successful, its specificity is still occasionally difficult for someone so far from its frame of reference…but I don’t consider that an issue. For those who do understand these experiences, who have had their background, sexuality and racial identity used as the basis for prejudice, Moonlight is going to be unspeakably important. The specific periphery of Jenkins’ film is what makes it so special, what makes it feel like a story where, for the briefest instant, the outside world may as well not exist; a welcome escape indeed.

The year is 1984. The Thatcher government is in power, and the miners’ strike is in full swing. A group of Lesbian and Gay activists see that they share common ground with the oppressed miners and take it upon themselves to join the cause of a small mining town in Wales, despite fierce opposition and prejudice from within their own ranks and those of the miners respectively. This is the story of Pride, a comedy drama told primarily through the eyes of Joe (George MacKay), who joins LGSM (Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners) unbeknownst to his firmly right-wing parents.

The real key to Pride is the simply wonderful performances from everyone involved. The cast is star-studded and bursting with a selection of characters that always have enough screen-time to feel well-rounded without getting in the way of each other. While George MacKay as Joe may be the central character, through whom the audience is dealt the greatest emotion, the beating heart of the film is Bill Nighy as Cliff, leader of the Welsh miners. Indeed one of the more enduring highlights is a very simple scene between Nighy and Imelda Staunton, in which very little is spoken aloud but everything that needs to be said is poured into the frame.

The film wears its politics proudly on flags and banners probably visible from space, and while it may appear that the antagonists are painted as mean or cruel, sadly one cannot escape the fact that these are real people that really did say those things. The film is not itself condemning them deliberately: through their own lips and actions are they condemned.  Though it may be assumed that a leaning towards the left may help in one’s enjoyment, I’d argue that anyone with a beating heart and soul can find something or someone to root for, be it LGSM or the miners or (hopefully) both.

While the trailers and poster campaign may lead some to believe that the story may perhaps soft-pedal the darker elements, this is clearly not the case, because you will find yourself crying as well as laughing. There is no way that this story cannot be told by glossing over when things went wrong or when horrific blows are struck, and the film does its utmost to avoid painting everything with a saccharine sheen that presides over far too many contemporary comedies. While sumptuously shot, neither the frame or those within it are clean-cut or blessed with perfect make-up and physique at all times.

An essential selection of 80’s music featuring Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Bronski Beat, Dead or Alive and many others also elevates the soundtrack above the usual ‘some songs the director thought sounded good’ fare. It does everything to enhance the feel of the period (notably when the characters find themselves deep in the neon-veined London gay bars) and supercharge the feel-good powerhouse that burns at the centre of the film, hopefully leaving you with a beaming smile that threatens to split your face in half.

Pride is, quite simply, a joy to behold; a film that brings an important story to an entire generation who will know little to nothing about it, whilst shedding new light on the events for those that dismissed it the first time round. It is imbued with the spirit of love and freedom, asking the viewer to root for the side of good: it is the noblest form that cinema can take.

5 stars

Concussion is the debut feature from director Stacie Passon. It is the story of forty-something mother Abby (Robin Weigert) who – after receiving a blow to the head with a baseball – realises that her life is going nowhere and she wants to find the one thing in life that’s worth it. Feeling distanced from her high-flying wife Kate (Julie Fain Lawrence), Abby sets herself up as an escort and begins a series of encounters with a varied array of women.

The key to the film is Weigerts’ central performance, which is terrific, perfectly capturing someone in a state of complete non-committal and someone who is reaching for something more. The other characters all put in decent performances but all are upstaged by her. All the characters and their dialogue are written in such a way that you genuinely believe that these are real people. This is something further enhanced by the fact that everyone in the film actually looks like a normal person and not just a bunch of over-glamorised Hollywood ‘babes’.

The love scenes themselves are a sight to behold, the intimacy of the camera showing just the right amount but holding itself back in just the right places to prevent the film from just becoming voyeuristic. All of this is offset incredibly well by the alternation between a total lack of music or a pulsing, powerful underlying musical score from Barb Morrison. The cinematography throughout the film retains a cool iron grey, almost photo-realistic feel that keeps the focus on the characters while also keeping up the realistic appearance of the film. 

One of the most surprising aspects of the film is the first half, which gives the audience cause to laugh on several occasions, and – for me at least – contained a lot more comedy than most self-proclaimed comedies I’ve seen lately. The only problem is that this feels rather disjointed when compared to the much more serious second half, and the scenes in-between waver a little as the film tries to decide on which direction it wants to go. This could be seen as a reflection of Abby’s uncertainty, but I’m not sure it’s completely intentional. The film is also slightly too short, meaning that the ending leaves you wanting just that little bit more time to fully comprehend what’s going on.

Concussion is a scorchingly erotic and powerfully intimate drama depicting a woman who wanders seemingly aimlessly through life and the women either in her position or growing up in a similar state all meeting in the middle to share brief but life-altering moments together. It’s a film that isn’t afraid to show intimacy between people that haven’t been ‘smoothed-out’ by Hollywood and treats a well-developed, realistically depicted homosexual relationship with the same level of attention and care as a heterosexual one, and for that it should be applauded.

4 Stars