Chris At The Pictures

Bill Condon’s Mr. Holmes finds our eponymous detective in a reclusive, contemplative mood. This is not your Benedict Cumberbatch or Robert Downey Jr., rushing about solving mysteries with much gusto and extravagant flair, but something altogether new. Sir Ian McKellen stars as an aged Sherlock (93 years old, to be precise) returning to a quiet life on the coast where he aims to live out his final years tending to his bees, all the while attempting to unlock the memories that will help him recall his final case. The story flits – somewhat haphazardly – between the English coastline and Holmes’ adventures past in Japan and London, the ancient sleuth utilising his present company (Laura Linney a put-upon housekeeper Mrs. Munro and Milo Parker as her son Roger) to sew the torn pieces together again.

To describe the central performance as show-stealing is to understate how all-encompassing and invigorating McKellen is as a creaking, grumbling Sherlock. The usual displaying of honesty over heart that Conan Doyle’s character is known for remains, but also an exudence of the sensibilities notable in a slowly-softening grandfather. This is both utterly compelling and also achingly honest for anyone who has sat and heard stories delivered by a beloved yet wavering grandparent in their dotage.

Linney and Parker are completely believable and constantly engrossing as the mother/son duo that slip in and out of love with the arrival of Mr. Holmes, the former disapproving of his apparent effect on the latter’s behaviour. Linney reminds us all why she was Oscar nominated not once, not twice, but three times, whilst Parker displays remarkable prowess as the precocious Roger, wandering curiously in the wake of Sherlock, never once intimidated by his reputation or put off by the detective’s grumpy disposition.

The mystery itself is as intriguing as any classic Doyle story, leaving the audience and our cast of characters guessing all the way as it leaps backwards and forwards in time from pre-blitz London to post-war shorelines. Period detail is a given in almost any Sherlock Holmes story, but here it feels more inviting than intrusive, providing a well-groomed backdrop to the story that doesn’t run amuck, not repeatedly reminding you that you’re in the past, as so many period pieces do. Said detail is bathed in Tobias Schliessler’s gorgeous golden cinematography and enveloped in Carter Burwell’s score, which is understated yet affecting in the right places with the timing of a meticulously-assembled pocket watch.

Here lies the cinematic equivalent of a tale told by a wise grandparent: some of their delivery is a little shambolic and the odd piece is missing, but an important fable lies at the centre. In the case of dear old Mr. Holmes, it is this: truth, logic and vigilance must remain ever-present, but the knowledge of when and how to use them in co-ordination with faith, understanding and gentleness is greater still.

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

I have a troubled relationship with Zack Snyder, sort of like an apologetic parent. Of his cinematic oeuvre300 was a standout; something that took the source material and actually did a few new and interesting things with it. Then Watchmen (which did nothing new) and Sucker Punch (which did lots of things, most of them wrong) made me have to apologize on his behalf, hoping that the next thing he did actually meant something and was something I could be proud of him for. Then he made Man of Steel, which I absolutely loved and have chosen to defend against the horrible and undeserved critical kicking it was given. So now the dust has settled, and his new work 300: Rise of an Empire is here.

First of all, let me get this out of the way: Zack can only be held accountable for one of this films’ problems, namely the writing. Besides that, I absolve him of blame for everything else that contributes to the head-ache-inducingly dull ‘gorefest’ that is this movie. The whole ‘slo-mo’ trick mid-way through a fight sequence was fairly inventive and interesting back in 2007, but here it is just plastered over every single sword fight. A characters’ every other slash will suddenly turn into a tortuously long and over-drawn mixture of angry facial expressions and spurting blood with all the speed of a slightly tired snail.

Even the blood itself is dull (which is saying something, because there is a literal tidal wave of it in the movie) and is all done in CGI so unconvincing it looks more like a digital simulation of raspberry jam. The whole gimmick of a slow-motion sword stroke followed by gushing of blood over the camera means that every battle sequence (of which there are too many) becomes repetitive and boring very, very quickly, almost to the point of sending me to sleep. There could be something to be said about the comic-book aesthetic, but sadly since the visual treat of 300, they’ve turned it up to eleventy-stupid, with every battle accompanied by at least two thunderstorms, lightning cracking the sky every three seconds.

The dialogue too is pretty ropey, a mixture of overly masculine shouting, very loud and boring speeches apparently designed to rouse the men, and Eva Green’s Darth Vader-esque growling and grumbling (consisting of entire lines pinched from Return of the Jedi). All this however, is preferable to our lead character, Themistokles (newcomer Sullivan Stapleton) who has the all the charisma of Shia LaBeouf without any of the talent. The lack of talent in the acting can also be heard in the incessantly pounding musical score in which composer Junkie XL has decided to steal his friend Hans Zimmer’s score to Man of Steel and remove the brass section completely, leaving behind a nonsensical barrage of drums that contributes nothing.

The narrative follows Themistokles and his men as they battle Xerxes’ navy whilst the Spartans battle the Persians at Thermopylae. As this takes place alongside that of 300, the two stories are interwoven with a certain degree of panache, although the few shots we do see of Gerard Butler as Leonidas just makes me miss his camp, oil-slickened presence even more. Also returning from the previous film is Lena Headey as the Spartan queen, her experience from Game of Thrones making her much more believable as the headstrong leader of a warrior race than before.

300: Rise of an Empire is a mess of blood and swords and shouting and a whole pile of narrative missteps (including perhaps the most ill-judged sex-scene in film this decade) which does nothing to add to the original and serves only to remind us how fun it was. Zack, I await Man of Steel 2 with narrowed eyes.

1.5 Stars

Not knowing a great deal about the subject matter and aware of poor reviews, it was with some trepidation that I approached ‘Diana’, despite having enjoyed director Oliver Hirschbiegel’s (Downfall) and leading lady Naomi Watts’ (The Impossible) previous outings. As far as the good stuff goes, I had a great seat, could easily see the film being beautifully projected onto the screen and the small audience was impeccably behaved throughout…unlike me. 

From around the 2 minute mark, I cringed, sighed, tutted and made a wide array of embarrassed noises and gestures in response to the gold-coated disaster occurring on-screen. The film opens with a prolonged tracking shot of the Princess of Wales walking through her hotel, the cinematographer taking great care to mask her face, building and building the anticipation for around a minute until we get the money shot: she turns to the camera and any sense of mystery just dies because all anyone can think is: ‘Oh look, it’s Naomi Watts in a wig’. Why Hirschbiegel didn’t fire his casting director when they suggested Watts for the lead role is a mystery to me, as her face looked so unlike Diana that it prevented me from becoming immersed in the film.

Having a lead with the wrong face is forgivable, (Sir Anthony Hopkins as Nixon, anyone?) but continually shoving that face towards the camera in around ninety-nine percent of the shots in almost pornographic detail, flaunting various wigs, head tilts and a simpering, rom-com poster level smile is a crime. The script commits the equally deplorable act of forcing accomplished actors to deliver lines in an awkwardly monotonous fashion that makes Hayden Christensen look like the master of charisma. The historical accuracy of the film is questionable at best, not quite sinking to the revisionist levels of Madonna’s ‘W.E’. , but skipping over the controversial events in the manner of walking on eggshells.

I have to admit the film did at least contain a coherent plot (the only praise likely to appear on the DVD), and the scenes of Diana surrounded by an army of paparazzi were well-executed, the strobe effect of camera flashes and the indistinguishable cacophony of voices creating a genuine claustrophobia that just served to remind me how much the director can do when given difficult subject matter. By the time the film drew to its’ end and the infamous events of that night sixteen years ago unfolded, the car crash had already happened…I’d witnessed every atrociously-written, poorly-acted and bum-numbingly dull second of its 113 minute run-time.