Chris At The Pictures: walton goggins
Showing posts with label walton goggins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label walton goggins. Show all posts

Tuesday, 20 March 2018

'Tomb Raider' - Review

3/20/2018 10:26:00 pm 0
'Tomb Raider' - Review

★ ★ ★ ★ ☆

Declaring Roar Uthaug’s Tomb Raider “the best video game movie yet” sounds like damning with faint praise, but there’s nothing half-hearted about this genuinely exciting action adventure starring Alicia Vikander. We begin with some less-than-promising expository narration from Lara’s presumed-dead father, Richard, played by Dominic West (a lucky escape considering that back in the days of the Angelina Jolie movies, he would have likely been the villain-of-the-week). Our titular heroine, refusing to accept her father’s death and take command of the vast inheritance awaiting her at Croft Manor, is living as a bicycle courier with a reckless streak and no direction. When her advisor, Ana, (Kristin Scott Thomas) finally persuades Lara to open her father’s will, she finds a Japanese puzzle box containing a clue to Richard’s whereabouts, and sets off to find him.

This and a contractual obligation of a coda are the only scenes that drag, but once Lara arrives in Japan, the film and its heroine hit the ground running and barely give up the pace from there. Soon she and her guide, Lu (Daniel Wu, armed with a roguish grin), are cast adrift on the shores of the mysterious island detailed in her father’s diary. They’re in a deadly race with Walton Goggins’ deliciously named corporate operative, Mathias Vogel, to find the tomb of a legendary genocidal queen.

Despite the fact we all know the studios involved will try their darnedest to wring a franchise out of this, there’s never a moment where Lara doesn’t feel an inch from death. Vikander brings a vulnerability to the eyes of the icon without diminishing her character’s agency or competence. It’s a performance that would be astounding for any mainstream action film, let alone this particularly cursed genre. Working in tandem with Vikander’s squared shoulders is a reliance on tactile sets and bone-crunching sound design really sells the grit and grime: what a thrill it is to see a blockbuster where the star appears to be in real danger!

While Vikander and her stunt work have the physical side more than covered, the emotional ground is less confidently broadcast. The screenplay takes little time to explore Lara’s feelings of abandonment but at least attempts to resolve them towards the climax. Most of the passion comes from Tom Holkenborg’s thrilling score, which truly comes into its own during a final temple run that attempts (and largely succeeds!) to ape an Indiana Jones set piece for the digital generation. For what is Indy solving “Jehovah begins with an ‘i’”, if not the kind of puzzle a player would be confronted with in a Tomb Raider game? Spielberg’s adventures were a clear influence on the original games, and those reference points have bled through to the rebooted series from 2013 (the story of which informs Uthaug’s film).

As those games were made with a concentrated effort to be more cinematic and narrative-driven, Tomb Raider’s transition from console to cinema feels less forced than previous video game adaptations, which often fall apart due to a lack of narrative (Street Fighter) or too much (the increasingly convoluted Resident Evil series). Like Duncan Jones’ Warcraft made use of the contemporary digital moviemaking landscape to bring its fantastical world to life, Tomb Raider plays to the strengths of the updated source material by balancing Lara’s personal struggle with the exhilarating derring-do we’ve come to expect. If all involved play their cards right with the inevitable sequel, adventure may soon have a new name.

Sunday, 10 January 2016

'The Hateful Eight' - Review

1/10/2016 07:29:00 pm
'The Hateful Eight' - Review



 ★ ★  ☆

Quentin Tarantino is admired by many as an adventurous director, someone who never lets himself feel trapped by the traditional constraints of narrative film-making, but if you’ve been following his career closely, you’ll often find he’s been directing ‘by-the-numbers’ for a long while. This manifests in several forms, be it the obsessive cataloguing of the films he’s proud of as ‘The xth Film by Quentin Tarantino’ or referring to sequels as ‘Volume 2’. Even the project he likes to write out of his history is titled Four Rooms. His latest film, The Hateful Eight, arrives adorned with similar legends: ‘The 8th Film…’, ‘see it in 70mm!’ etc. 

Sticking with the numerical theme, the questions I wanted answered going into the film were limited to just two: 

1) Would the super-wide, 70mm Panavision lend itself well to what is essentially a bunch of people grumbling at each other in a hut?

2) Is there some justification for the three hour-plus running time besides pure self-indulgence?

Personally, the answer to both queries was a resounding ‘no’, but that’s certainly not the be-all and end-all of the experience. 

First, the set-up: we open in the dead of winter in Wyoming, post-civil war. Bounty hunter John Ruth (Kurt Russell) and prisoner Daisy Domergue (Jennifer Jason Leigh) wend their way towards Red Rock, where the latter is set to face the rope. They are joined by Major Marcus Warren (Samuel L. Jackson) and soon-to-be Sherriff Chris Mannix (Walton Goggins) before taking refuge from the approaching blizzard in Minnie’s Haberdashery. Inside, they are confronted by a host of deceitful characters, one or more of whom secretly plan to spring Domergue. And with that, the stage is set for a sinewy, snowbound game of Cluedo, where the smallest detail and movement cannot escape scrutiny as each patron and their every move are placed under the watchful eyes of Ruth, Warren and Mannix.

Admittedly, the very idea of post-nineties Quentin Tarantino heading up a self-contained story relying heavily on small signifiers seems about as natural as Brian Blessed crooning a lullaby, and is often just as subtle. Yep, that means shrieked expletives aplenty! The post-civil war setting could feasibly lend itself to a narrative thick with relevance, but one feels more often than not that any comment on race-relations is suffocated by showboating. The deliberately outrageous, black-versus-white nattering comes to a head with a typically grim and grotesque story told by Major Warren to embittered general Smithers (Bruce Dern acting everyone else off the screen with his eyes alone).

Jackson slips into his commanding role as if taking a seat in his favourite armchair and Russell carries himself with rough-hewn charisma, but the limelight is snatched feverishly by Leigh as Domergue, spitting out great hunks of scenery from between her toothy witch’s gape. Goggins’ southern drawl garners a smattering of laughs early on, before the comedy crown is swiped by Tim Roth, sporting a British accent so ludicrous it makes the Queen resemble a cockney.

The much-advertised 70mm cinematography, far from framing the haberdashery and its occupants as an all-encompassing eye taking in a stage-play (indeed, the first performance of the screenplay was itself a stage reading) refuses to stop fidgeting. We flit from the face of one actor to another as they spew forth one outrageous line after the next, or simply circle the proceedings as a partially interested bystander.

The fast and loose emphasis on framing, character and dialogue permeates the first half: ninety minutes seem to crawl by. Rather than the spicy back-and-forth and quick-fire taste for blood we expect, the initial chapters are weirdly slack and occasionally dull, giving us an inscrutable build right up until Warren’s tale: the very epicentre of the film. Before…WHAM! Cut to the intermission.

When we pick up the story with a catch-up narration from the director himself, it’s almost as if the Tarantino who sent us to sleep in Deathproof and stretched Inglorious Basterds way past its due takes a shotgun blast to the chest. His body is kicked aside by his younger, fiercer self to make way for a second half that has everything we actually wanted: there’s tension, excitement, intrigue, a furious race to the finish line and before we know it the last hour has raced by in a sea of blood, sweat and fear. Agatha Christie meets Wes Craven, essentially. 

All the pretence of holier-than-thou, film geek prestige melts away and the Quentin we all know and love shines through…I only wish it hadn’t taken an hour and a half to do so. As a singular piece, The Hateful Eight serves as a passable romp, but more effectively as a showcase of a director at his best and worst.