Chris At The Pictures

We’re halfway through 2016, so here’s a rundown of the best and worst cinema has given us this year, starting with the gems…

In at Number 5, The Jungle Book: Jon Favreau’s adaptation of a Disney classic is a joy of fear and wonder. State-of-the-art special effects meet good old-fashioned adventure in this interpretation that promises to become the definitive Jungle Book for a whole new generation. Newcomer Neel Sethi commands the screen as Mowgli and holds his own fantastically against a voice cast starring Ben Kingsley, Bill Murray and Idris Elba: a real treat!

At Number 4, Captain America: Civil War, Marvel Studio’s colourful contrast to the gloom of ‘Batman v Superman’. Our favourite heroes come to a head when the world gets a bit fed up with their constant city-levelling antics, and the film, too, avoids the usual third-act world-busting boredom. For all the mighty clashes and bombastic battles, it’s the character moments that push Civil War into the stratosphere. It’s a proper summer blockbuster.

Number 3 is 10 Cloverfield Lane, a startling directorial debut from Danny Trachtenberg. A sort of mutant spin-off from J.J. Abrams original found footage sci-fi, 10 Cloverfield Lane is essentially a three-hander bunker drama. With standout turns from John Goodman as a creepy patriarch and Mary Elizabeth Winstead as the innocent (but far from helpless) prisoner, it’s a cinematic puzzle box that gives a firm middle finger to spoon-fed blockbusters.

In at Number 2 is Room: surrounded by awards’ buzz (and rightly so), Lenny Abrahamson’s film follows the life of Joy, a mother trapped in the confines of a single, tiny space, in which her son, Jack, creates an entire universe. Brie Larson and Jacob Tremblay are tremendously affecting with an unbelievable lightness of touch, the cinematography and music simultaneously beautiful and restrained. It is life-affirming, awe-inspiring storytelling with the most human of hearts.

And, the Number 1 best film released in UK cinemas this year so far: ‘Son of Saul’, Laszlo Nemes’ incredible journey into the darkest heart of the holocaust. With a camera permanently fixed to the face of Saul – a Jewish prisoner forced to work in the hellish landscape of the concentration camps – Nemes’ film looks evil in the face and refuses to flinch. It’s the kind of film that reminds us of a crucial function of cinema, and why we will always need it.

And now, from the sublime to the stinkers…

At Number 5 is The Forest: poor Natalie Dormer is stranded in the wasteland of this latest in a long line of ‘nothing’ films; mainstream horror fare that enters one ear and leaves the other with little impact or injury imparted on the way. With a yucky touristy feel and a finale that features the terrifying presence of power-bar wrappers, it’s a lazy and predictable bore.

Number 4 snuck in right at the very last second: Gods of Egypt is many things (unintentionally racist, noisily directed, badly written, atrociously acted), but on top of those, it gave us imagery we never expected (nor wanted) to endure, such as Geoffrey Rush pulling the sun over the horizon of a flat Earth, mid-battle with a space worm, and Gerard Butler fighting Nikolaj Coster-Waldau in glitzy Power Ranger armour.

In at Number 3 is Dirty Grandpa a film described by one critic as “a film that you shouldn’t see while you’re still alive”, and described by yours truly as having “levels of casual racism, homophobia and chauvinism the likes of which make the cast of The Inbetweeners look like Tumblr-loving social justice warriors”. Zac Efron looks embarrassed, everyone else just turned up for the cheque, but, sadly, Robert De Niro looks like he’s genuinely having fun. 

Number 2 sees another entry from Gerard “I’m going to bellow every line like there’s a needle of testosterone stuck in my arse” Butler: London Has Fallen. This concrete-headed sequel to 2013’s action smash-hit is so thuddingly inept in almost every conceivable area that its rampant xenophobia is the least of its problems. It’s too thick to be offensive and too clumsy to be entertaining.

And, at Number 1, the worst film of 2016 so far is the old reliable from Garry Marshall; Mother’s Day. This greetings card full of vomit takes place in a fantasy version of Atlanta with no black people and no recognisable human emotions, either. I spent every minute waiting for the racist grandma to stop shrieking, Julia Roberts to stop smiling grotesquely, and for Timothy Olyphant to reprise his role as Agent 47 in Hitman and put everyone (including the audience) out of their misery.

Jack (Jacob Tremblay) awakens on his fifth birthday in the ramshackle dwelling that is all he has ever known, all he has ever needed. Fuzzy faces in TV land, the bright glare of skylight and smiling eggshell snake are his entire world. His mother Joy (Brie Larson) decides the time has arrived to explain the world beyond Room, and how she hopes they can finally escape the box that has held her captive for seven long years.

Just reading back through that plot synopsis is a reminder that no amount of set up can possibly begin to describe what lies in store for viewers of Room, Lenny Abrahamson’s bid for the Best Picture Oscar. A description of a mother and son confined to a cramped prison doesn’t bring to mind a life-affirming love story, nor an exhaustive display of emotion from happiness to heartbreak, from terror to tenderness…but Room is all this and more.

The titular shed may constitute Jack’s entire experience of the world, but where we see limitation, he sees only expanse: simple details and tiny objects are plentiful stock for a legion of adventures. The cinematic universes of Marvel and DC have nothing on the sheer potential for storytelling that lies in every nook and cranny, and the searing reveal of the unlimited world beyond is suitably awe-inspiring.

Though ostensibly about music, Abrahamson’s previous feature, Frank, was never a whimsical riot, and to the same extent, Room is not a dark psychological thriller. Vision is gentle, meaningful (keep an eye out for a nod to Frank’s lonely carpet tuft), as is voice: both visuals and sound are shy but curiously so, peeking from behind corners looking for the passing of danger, the celebration of small victories. Too often do dramas attempt to show innocence through the eyes of age, but now the roles of youth and maturity are masterfully flipped head-over-heels.

The main viewport in this case is Jack himself, our constant companion. A lot has been said since the dawn of film concerning the many highs and lows, joys and struggles of child actors, but Tremblay makes it look effortless. Oscar snub? That’s putting it mildly. Emma Donoghue (writer of the original novel) has penned a script that Tremblay filters with the giggles and stomps of natural childish energy, but allows an additional shiver of artifice spawned from a life lived in unusual spaces.

Larson has always been an asset to any picture, even in those ill-befitting of her talent (see last year’s middling The Gambler remake) and under the spotlight of a leading role she fully demands your attention as guide, teacher and protector (all various ways of simply saying ‘mother’) as the story unfolds before the shared eyes of Jack and ourselves. 

Supporting acts are few and far between, but should not be underestimated: Joan Allen lands a stirring role as Joy’s distraught mother, and William H. Macy packs a metric tonne of presence into a near-cameo as a father unwilling or unable to accept his newfound responsibility.

Strangely, the filmic comparison that comes to mind time and again upon further reflection is Alex Garland’s terrific sci-fi ménage à trois Ex Machina. Both focus upon a young-minded prisoner forever curious to discover an exterior reality, melded with a recognisable but askance relationship between creator and legacy. 

Where the two differ is a matter of subtext: Ex Machina is an exploration of pure interpersonal play, whilst Room details human interaction with environment. Or, more specifically, the milieu of cinema-going itself. Like Jack, we are cut off from the outside world, concerned only with the characters, objects and events in our immediate proximity. Eventually we emerge, blinking in the glare of a world that – for all its boundless promises – will never quite hold the same allure, the same giddy frisson of that magic black box.