Month: October 2020

Woman of the Photographs

Posted on by Paul Risker

This Japanese romantic-horror, set in a small town near the coast, follows solitary middle-aged photographer and retouching artist Kai (Hideki Nagai), who out on a forest trek encounters social media model and sponsored influencer, Kyoko (Itsuki Otaki). They meet abruptly when she falls off a verge trying to take a photograph, leaving a noticeable bloody scar on her chest. Unexpectedly, the two strangers do not go their separate ways, and when she observes him retouching a customers photograph in his shop, she asks him if he can erase the scar in her pictures. But when her social media profile suffers a drop-off in fan engagement, she begins posting images that show her imperfect beauty. Confusion sets in as she loses sense of the real versus the manufactured version of herself.

The early impression of Woman of the Photographs is of a gentler type of comedy, subverting our expectations of a darker tale. The cinematography and performances play to the beat of a humorous rhythm, and the interaction between the pair as Kyoko tries to engage with the silent Kai, who flinches at her touch, is wryly amusing. They offer the perfect juxtaposition of energetic sociability and detached stillness. Watching her work her way into his life, staying overnight without any physical intimacy, Kushida reveals his hand.

The art of the film in one regard is the unspoken. An emphasis is placed on observing how Kai nonchalantly responds to her presence, the etiquette of his actions, gestures and habits forming a strong sense of who he is. This goes together with a few scenes with an unnamed customer, played by Toshiaki Inomata, whose daughter has passed and who knew Kai’s father. He speaks sparingly of not only his own personal tragedy, but gives us an insight into the solitary middle-aged man, and why he’s only able to engage with women by way of retouching their photographs.

Kushida’s skill is appreciating the value of words and silence, albeit using as few words as needed. The verbal restraint gives the emotions of the characters a weight, not only because it’s how Kai communicates, but it emphasises the internal world they all inhabit.This is a mental space that we must see and acknowledge, from which moments rich with feeling emerge. Inomata’s character illustrates this when he’s sparing with his words in an earlier scene, that informs a sensitive moment he shares with his wife later on.

40 minutes in and the unsettling horror begins to emerge, although from the beginning the film feels deliberately askew. Unlike Jud Cremata’s single-shot American horror, Let’s Scare Julie (2020), Kushida embraces the edit. He’s not interested in smooth cinematography, he wants the jagged edges, he wants to use the back and forth cutting to jostle us. In addition, an exaggerated sound design almost echoes the noticeable scratching sound of Kai’s Photoshop pen in the early scenes. This approach makes the normal everyday world we can see onscreen feel odd, and goes beyond aesthetic to tap into a deeper idea of the levels of consciousness.

It is fair to say that Woman of the Photographs stylistically contrasts our mental versus our physical reality. It conveys something human – to be physically present in one place, but be elsewhere mentally and emotionally. There are moments late in the film where Kyoko appears to exist on two planes – in Kei’s apartment above the shop, but also in the sea, a place he would photograph her. She slips between a conscious awareness of her surroundings and the subconscious of her imagination. Lost in the imagery that relates to the confusion and pain of placing an emphasis on how others see her, and the way the interaction between the water, objects and her body are symbolic.

The female customer who introduces Kyoko to the idea of image manipulation says, “I believe that myself reflected in the eyes of others is my true self… We can love ourselves only through others’ eyes.” The themes and ideas at the heart of the film are unlikely to decrease in their relevance, cautioning us to the danger of finding a sense of self-worth and acceptance through others. Instead we need to show ourselves compassion and understanding so that we can discover a sustainable feeling of personal value.

For many of us, there is a deep intimacy we share with Kyoko’s experiences. Kushida is touching upon human nature and its inevitable vulnerabilities that are a common source of anxiety. In this context, Woman of the Photographs is a horror story about what it is to be human. Its visual playfulness and ideas many of us can relate to through social media interaction and a basic need to be loved and accepted, makes it difficult to not be enraptured and unsettled by this impressive feature directorial debut.

Woman of the Photographs played at Arrow Video FrightFest Digital Edition 2.

Borat Subsequent Moviefilm

Posted on by victorfraga

Fourteen years have passed since Borat first ‘VERY-NICEd’ and high-fived his way across America and onto the big screen. For individuals, things have arguably changed for the better. Life expectancy, poverty, Tthird Wworld inequality – by these metrics, we’re on the up. Realistically, however, in terms of the big picture, the world is unequivocally in the toilet. It’s either melting or on fire, depending on your latitude, and the global pandemic is again accelerating just in time for Christmas. Political discourse has stagnated, a well poisoned by the pernicious influence of social media and Donald fucking Trump sits athrone this empire of dirt. Kanye West is still a thing.

It’d be funny if it wasn’t so depressing. “Satire is dead”, they cry. Morris can’t be bothered. Iannucci has abandoned us for space (see television series Avenue 5). We have been left to inherit the world that we deserve. What better time for the return of Borat, to hold an unfiltered mirror to the pigsty reality of the US of A?

Alongside the recent television show Who Is America?, Borat Subsequent Moviefilm is a statement of intent from Sacha Baron Cohen. He, at least, is sticking around. He has publicly cited the insidious rise of racism as his rallying point for his recent reactivation. Whilst the showy villainy of Trump and his Twitter rants have been drawing fire, the Overton window of acceptability has been opening in the wrong direction under this cover, normalising everyday hate speech and racism. As the character of Borat proves, it takes very little prompting to get the great white American public to stray into deeply racist bigotry. The sheer willingness of otherwise average folk to enter these grounds is astounding and should unreservedly be challenged – now more than ever.

The premise of the film neatly incorporates the intervening years since the original film. Following its release, Kazakhstan has been pilloried as a laughing stock and Borat interned at a work camp by the country’s Premier. However, following the unpleasantly measured tenure of the Obama administration,Trump and a host of right-wing world leaders are in and the premier wants to be acknowledged by this ‘strongman’ club. Borat is retrieved, cleaned up, booted and suited to go on a diplomatic mission to bribe vice-president Mike Pence as a means to this end.

The main thrust of the film is thus targeted towards Trump and his lackeys but there is a lot of ground covered on other timely themes. Racism, yes, but also the role of social media in perpetuating QAnon, Holocaust and coronavirus conspiracies is explored. Female rights, reproductive or otherwise, are handled by the inclusion of daughter Tutar (Maria Bakalova). Much has been made elsewhere of Bakalova’s winsome performance but the real magic is how her presence allows for the continued hoodwinking of a public that recognises Borat from his last voyage, together with a broad range of other disguises for Baron Cohen.

Borat himself is the big ticket item, though, and fortunately America does not lack for prepper-type Southerners or persons otherwise sheltered from the cultural aftershocks of his first outing. Best of all is the sequence involving Jerry and Jim, two hunter-types encountered in the empty streets of the US lockdown. Borat ends up staying with them for an indefinite period, apparently establishing a friendship that belies belief. They call him out for his own conspiracy beliefs whilst being totally indoctrinated to the batshit QAnon stuff. Quite how this is managed by the production team is unknown. A how-it’s-made follow-up in the style of the BBC nature documentary post-shows would be fascinating but likely impossible. It’s a marvel how they manage to get such good camera coverage. Besides, better to see the Wizard of Kazakhstan in all his majesty and not the soft-spoken, erudite figure behind the curtain.

Beyond stunting on the unsuspecting public, there are a lot of scripted elements in either the dependably shabby Kazakhstan settings or the makeshift camps of Borat and Tutar. For a film that places Baron Cohen at the forefront, it’s a team effort behind the scenes and there are a whopping eight names on the screenplay credits. Their attention to detail really sells these more artificial moments – a Disneyfied retelling of the Melania story and a Kazakh government-issued guidebook to keeping a daughter are particular highlights. Similarly impressive is the way that people or events are encountered and elaborated upon in successive scenes for an evolving narrative. A chance cupcake treat leads to a pro-life Christian pastors, leads to a recurring prop that symbolises their family bond. To reveal any more would be churlish.

Sacha Baron Cohen vehicles are gifts that keep on giving, with the almost equally entertaining fallout that follows. Much has been made of the Rudy Giuliani debacle but the film’s actual crescendo, back in Kazakhstan, is more entertaining by miles. Altogether, there is a clear case to be made for Borat’s return and it is handled with aplomb. If your whistle is whetted for more hapless members of the public being taken unawares, the criminally underrated Nathan For You series is possibly a lot funnier and shares some DNA with Borat 2, having had some episodes helmed by director Jason Woliner.

Borat Subsequent Moviefilm is out now on Amazon Prime:

Let’s Scare Julie

Posted on by victorfraga

Following her father’s death, Emma (Troy Leigh-Anne Johnson) and her younger sister Lilly (Dakota Baccelli) have moved in with her cousin Taylor (Isabel May) in a pleasant and quiet suburban American neighbourhood. She discovers her cousin and her friends, Madison (Odessa A’zion), Paige (Jessica Sarah Flaum) and Jess (Brooke Sorenson) enjoy playing and filming scary pranks. When Taylor tells Emma a spooky story of the house opposite that’s rumoured to be haunted, Madison suggests they sneak on over and scare the new neighbour Julie, who is home alone. It will be the last prank they play, as the night is plagued by strange incidents, and one by one, they begin to disappear.

Let’s Scare Julie is a chamber piece, consisting of a small cast of characters that aside from a single scene, unfolds in one setting (inside or on the grounds of Taylor’s house). The first 32 minutes of set-up, more than a third of the film is pure adolescent silliness, although it does introduce us to the group dynamic, as well as the ghost story that will become more than a scary story. It’s likely to provoke disinterest from some audiences as much as it engages others.

We feed off the energy of the characters who humorously bounce off of one another. Madison, the wicked trickster of the group juxtaposes with Emma’s mellow nature, and the other characters fit somewhere between the pair – towards the playfulness of their trickster friend. Whereas young people in other genre films, including Halloween (Carpenter, 1978) could feel put on, these characters feel genuine teenagers, and in spite of the adolescent silliness it’s enjoyable being in their company.

Cinema is storytelling one shot at a time, and whenever a film features an uninterrupted take, it draws attention. Let’s Scare Julie joins the company of films including Rope (Alfred Hitchcock, 1948) and Victoria (Sebastian Schipper, 2016), that have abandoned the edited form of cinematic storytelling. The continuous take however becomes a double-edged blade, and Cremata would have been wise to follow in the footsteps of Orson Welles, who used the continuous take in the opening tracking shot of Touch of Evil (1958), or Martin Scorsese, who used it to follow Henry Hill’s walk through the nightclub in Goodfellas (1990). The point is to not be as restricted in its use, but to understand that you cannot will it to replace the cut, if the edit is required.

The omission of a cut allows the dialogue exchange between Emma and Taylor in one scene to develop a connection or shared moment. In the larger ensemble scenes, its absence creates a flow of consciousness, not only real time, but a rhythm that’s dictated by the characters. This is one reason why they feel genuine teenagers because the removal of the edit removes the artifice of cinema, snd allows for a natural flow and rhythm.

Yet the cinematography conflicts with the narrative when it forcibly condenses the timeline of events as Taylor, Madison, Paige and Jess attempt to pull off their prank on the unsuspecting Julie. It’s an issue that an edit would have resolved were it not for Cremata’s commitment to the uninterrupted take, and it creates a nagging preoccupation with the events not fitting comfortably in the timeline.

Let’s Scare Julie is an enjoyable experience from start to finish, whose simple premise is complimented by both the continuous shot and the claustrophobia of the chamber piece. An effective touch is the combination of suspenseful scenes that we witness versus those we only hear over a phone, or hear second hand from one of the characters. Cremata appreciates the visual, but he also values the effectiveness of obscuring our sight, and forcing us to engage in the horror with our imaginations.

There inevitably comes the moment where we find ourselves asking what’s the finish? The creativity of the film beckons an imaginative close, but Cremata understanding the limitations of choice, decides to not go with the ending that it’s an elaborate prank, that would risk leaving us feeling cheated, and goes with one that protects the film. It’s regrettable that he fails to capture that gasp of horror and make use of the music on the credit score that wakes us from this nightmarish tale by lingering a tad too long on his beloved uninterrupted take. By it’s conclusion, the admirable creative ambition that merges the simplicity of narrative and the creativity of form tries to reach beyond itself, and Let’s Scare Julie reveals itself to be what it is – a simple ghost story.

Let’s Scare Julie premiered at the FrightFest Film Festival:

African Apocalypse

Posted on by victorfraga

Heart of Darkness is an English language classic and a staple of A level and university syllabi. The novella, published in 1899, chronicles the descent into barbarism of trading-post demityrant Kurtz, committing to page a glimpse of the real world atrocities committed unto African natives by colonial Europeans. The journey of its protagonist upstream of the Congo River inspired Francis Ford Copolla’s classic Apocalypse Now (1979). Therein, a parallel river journey during the Vietnam War to depose a similarly ruthless Colonel Kurtz was used to highlight how little had changed in the rules of engagement for invading forces, almost a century later and Geneva Conventions be damned.

The sorry tale of this war resonates throughout the global consciousness, having taken place in an era of widespread photojournalism and home television sets. Agent Orange. My Lai. Self-immolation. These are the concepts synonymous with modern day imperialism. Vietnam’s population was literally decimated through millions of civilian and combatant casualties and schoolchildren the Western world over are inducted into this folly. Yet, these numbers pale in significance to the repeated genocides in Africa during the tritely named ‘Scramble for Africa’ of the late 19th century.

Where is the outcry? Any attempt to introduce the matter to British schooling is quietly rebuffed, lest the misplaced gammonistic nostalgia that fuels the country abates. Cursory googling informs that these events are similarly ignored by France and Germany, although Belgium is soon to include these dark chapters to their curriculum. African Apocalypse aims to further disrupt European colonial complacency and illuminate the lasting impact of colonialism in Niger. These details may be exiled to shuttered reference rooms in the Northern Hemisphere but in Niger the people explicitly remember their humiliations, passed down in oral legend from survivor to son. Specifically, the massacres and violence committed at the hands of French captain Paul Voulet on his expedition to unify French colonies in Africa. He is a real world analogue to Kurtz with a stranger than fiction arc. The documentary follows his trail of destruction in modern day Niger, a narrative road cobbled with Nigerien testimonies of personal loss and tragedy.

The film is helmed by journeyman documentary director Rob Lemkin but you could be forgiven for thinking that it is the brainchild entire of Oluwafemi Nylander. Front and centre of the camera, Femi is an Oxford university philosophy student who went to Oxford university and the opening heavily leans on his presence at Oxford university, as if this pedigree gave the material more weight. Establishing scenes tend towards the clichéd. Femi in a library. Femi by the statue of Cecil Rhodes. Femi on his darkened houseboat, poring over archive material by flashlight. These moments read more like an episode of CBBC’s Newsround than anything else and so it is a marked improvement when the film touches down in Niger and Femi links up with minders Amina and Assan to begin the journey.

The stories that they encounter are harrowing and show the ongoing pain of a people who have been cut and bled and press-ganged into the service of a foreign power. Interviews with average people are intercut with daguerreotype images of maimed tribespeople and voice acted readings of thematically appropriate Heart of Darkness passages or writings from key historical figures. Together, it creates a kind of mood piece of a documentary; a fireside retelling of Voulet’s odyssey rather than a cut-and-dry factual approach. This fits the nature of the interactions with the Nigerien people. Indeed, there is an ethereal quality to seeing folksong and dance interpretations of Voulet’s massacres. It is almost a mythologising of the man, a deification to explain the inexplicable force of gunpowder and steel in Europe’s conquest of the continent.

However, the efficacy of these storytelling elements varies through the course of the piece. Femi’s solemn and sibilant narration is at times affecting but the grating insistence of addressing Voulet directly as ‘Paul’ and questioning his motives as if in conversation wears thin. Similarly, Femi shoulders the weight of responsibility for the atrocities as a European himself but it seems insincere – a stance taken because it feels like he should. An interesting moment comes when his guides upbraid him for this aloof outlook. They accuse him of collecting and collating these stories of heartbreak, passed down generations, with impassivity.

The film is at its most vital when examining the ongoing impact of French colonialism in Niger. The velvet glove of foreign aid, investments and university scholarships has replaced boots on the ground as a means of maintaining French interests in the region and Niger’s role as France’s backyard uranium mine is explored. There are many similar stories that should be dragged into public reckoning but these are unfortunately jettisoned in favour of the Voulet story. Perhaps most wrenching of all is a segment in a local school. We are used to seeing footage of African schools on Comic Relief or other fundraising drives but rarely are the children themselves heard from. Here, they understand all too well what has been done to their people and weep openly for familial losses. The wisdom and understanding with which they discuss the systemic bruising of Niger and Africa as a whole puts the sheltered and ignorant children of Europe to shame. This documentary could happily sit in any future UK curriculum and should be lauded for its unflinching and graphic detailing of a forgotten despot. It is a depressing and unfortunate reality that many more will remain unremembered.

African Apocalypse is on BFI Player on Friday, October 30th.

The lights continue to shine at the Black Nights!

Posted on by victorfraga

The year of 2020 has posed enormous challenges for the film industry, but that has not prevented the only Fiapf-accredited A-category film festival in all of Northern Europe from reinventing itself. The 24th edition of PÖFF, which takes place for more than weeks between November 13th and November 29th, will be a hybrid event. Festival director Tiina Lokk commented: “Some of the changes that are being prepared will actually rewire the Festival’s DNA, making it more digital, networked, ubiquitous and inclusive than ever before!”

In total, there will be four competitive strands: the Official Selection Competition, the First Feature Competition, the Baltic Film Competition and Rebels Without a Cause (showcasing experimental cinema). There will also be several non-competitive strands and supporting festivals: KinoFF (for Russian audiences), Youth and Children’s Festival Just Films, PÖFF Shorts and a special selection of German movies (Germany is this year’s focus region). In total, the Festival intends to screen around 200 movies, half of which are available to watch online! To boot, the entire event will be dotted with seminars, workshops, masterclasses, and panel discussions with very special guests, as part of the Industry@Tallinn & Baltic Event.

A very large chunk of both the films and industry events will be available to press and professionals regardless of the their geographic location. This is something entirely new and unprecedented!

According to Hannes Aava, Programmer and Head of Press and Communications, “PÖFF is looking to continue its mission of highlighting quality auteur cinema, supporting independent filmmakers and their films from all over the world to reach a global stage, offering a first platform and audience to their films and a chance for reviews and sales companies / other festivals’ attention”.

.

Diversity is the key

Hannes also highlights the diverse nature of the event: “The Official Selection, First Feature. and Rebels With A Cause competitions that are mostly screening new discoveries having their world, international and European premieres in Tallinn, offering the global industry and press a mix of films that our team finds artistically and culturally relevant. We are also hoping to be continue the succession of events signalling a return to filmmaking, cinema going and cultural exchange”

The Official Selection Competition includes 25 movies from every continent. Several movies address the demise of the Soviet Union – a sensitive topic in a country with a bumpy relationship with their Russians neighbours and their very own Russian minority (which make up nearly 30% of the Baltic nation’s population”. Other topics include a female perspective of WW2 (Henrik Ruben Genz’s Erna at War), a very peculiar and personal type of protest in Mongolia (Byamba Sakhya’s Bedridden), a star-struck teen in the Philippines (Antoinette Jadaone’s Fan Girl), a literal tropical avalanche in Bogota (Erwin Goggel’s Thread of Return) and even a movie about loneliness during lockdown (Mika Kaurismäki’s Gracious Night; also pictured at the top of this article). Just click here for more information.

Tiina Lokk explains: “It is a miraculous feeling to announce such a large and geographically, stylistically, and culturally diverse program. These are strange times and we hope that by screening a bigger selection than usual, we will at least provide the filmmakers a platform to exhibit their creations.”

Two journalists from DMovies will be live at the 24th edition of the Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival, unearthing the most innovative and thought-provoking made in every corner of the planet exclusively for you!

Held

Posted on by Paul Risker

Characters with their backs against the wall are an impulsive hook on which a filmmaker can engage their audience. Playing on or sensationalising a common fear of entrapment and loss of control however, can create a swell of frustration. Directed by Chris Lofting and Travis Cluff, from a screenplay by lead actress Jill Awbrey, Held is a misguided effort, a mix of success and failure. By scratching at a deep social desire for equality and change, they fail to immerse us in the plight of its female protagonist from start to finish. Where they succeed is in creating an effective piece of provocative filmmaking, that asks us to decide how we feel in response.

On their nine-year wedding anniversary, Emma (Jill Awbrey) and Henry (Bart Johnson) are looking to reignite the spark in their relationship. They take a vacation to a isolated luxury rental home, complete with smart house features and integrated security, in an isolated and nondescript part of America. Waking the next morning, they find themselves trapped inside. A voice tells them that they’re being watched, and if they are obedient, they will be able to leave unharmed, but it warns them that disobedience will have consequences. With an intimate knowledge of their marriage, the mysterious voice requests that they role-play the perfect couple, even as fractures in their relationship are revealed.

Hitchcock spoke about how you come in at the last possible moment, and leave at the earliest convenience. Held opens with an unnecessary scene that remains so. The only possible explanations for its inclusion are to tease us about why this is happening to Emma and Henry, or because it’s part of Emma’s character development. There are problems with either explanation. The twist isn’t well disguised, and we watch in vain, hoping the film will find a creative way around what we expect will happen. This negates the effectiveness of any attempt to tease us about a possible connection between her past trauma, and their entrapment. Neither is it character development – the only purpose it serves is to position Emma as a victim. The trauma of sexual violence explains her nervous disposition, but when it’s revealed that she has cheated on Henry, it throws our perception of her character into conflict.

A scenes necessity is decided by the story being told, and a comparison of note is Rose Glass’s Saint Maud (2019), which begins with a brief flashback into the character’s traumatised past. It’s a teasing look into the reason for her religious conversion, and forms a narrative that reflects on the theme of faith as solace. Lofting, Cluff and Awbrey fail to build on Emma’s opening trauma, and they only complicate matters by presenting her first as a victim, then as an adulteress. Ironically, given who has written the screenplay, Emma is symbolic of the genre’s habitual nature to brutally use women as an object for suffering, either sexually violated, or as a punishment for their sexual choices and indiscretions.

Eventually, control becomes the core theme of the film, showing little restraint in its patriarchal rhetoric. Women are objects who belong at their husband’s side, and it’s he, the man who controls the marriage. Women must be obedient and show their husband love. Held’s male characters and not the film attack gender equality, and dismiss it as misguided political correctness.

The story space, especially in genre and horror cinema plays to nightmare scenarios. In this context, Awbrey’s story is a nightmare, a push back against the deep social desire for equality and change. Emma, like so many women before her, notably the ‘final girl’ must survive the conflict into which she is thrust. This asks questions about female empowerment and strength through genre cinema. Is the only way a woman can be empowered through violence? If it is, then it’s not an exception. The western genre is all about strength and empowerment through a propensity for violence, by overcoming the antagonist’s violence.

While the conflict between the social and the anti-social remains timeless in the western, even if it is male dominated, a woman subjected to male oppression and violence in horror cinema complicates matters. Lofting, Cluff and Awbrey’s nightmarish push back should be uncomfortable because compared to slasher films, it has a heightened self-awareness of gender politics. Held relies on one’s own interpretation of empowerment through violence and suffering. It leaves it to up to us to decide whether we see a woman empowered or a victim of objectification.

The inability to disguise the twist compromises the film and never allows the truth of what we witness to be exposed. It’s a moment that would flip what we’ve seen, throwing up uncomfortable questions about control and violence that have moral ramifications. Held is watchable, but it feels as though it has been abandoned by its writer and directors. In this final cut, it’s still in search of itself as either a simple genre picture, or under more studious authorship, something more thoughtful.

Held played at Arrow Video FrightFest Digital Edition 2.

Our dirty questions to Jennifer Sheridan

Posted on by victorfraga

Before making her debut feature Rose: A Love Story, Jennifer Sheridan worked mostly for television, both as an editor and as a director. She directed the television series The Snow Spider, plus she has edited prestigious and popular series such as Cuckoo, The League of Gentleman and Crackanory. Rose: A Love Story is Sheridan’s directorial feature debut.

Rose: A Love Story is a British psychological horror, which premiered at the BFI London Film Festival earlier this month. The titular character (Sophie Rundle) and her partner Sam (Matt Stokoe) live an isolated life in a remote woodland. Rose is coping with a mysterious illness, which prevents her from leaving the house. When they cross paths with two strangers, their seclusion and secret is threatened.

In conversation with DMovies, Sheridan discussed her career move, “falling in love” with a story, and making a film in the dense Welsh woods in 15 days!

…

.

Paul Risker – Why film as a means of creative expression? Was there an inspirational or defining moment for you personally?

Jennifer Sheridan – Ever since I was a child, who basically wore out every VHS tape they ever owned. Once I fell in love with a film, I watched it over and over again. It was just falling in love with stories and I always quite liked dark and edgy stuff. I always liked adventure films like The Goonies (Richard Donner, 1985), and strange films like Beetlejuice (Tim Burton, 1988). So that’s probably where it started – just a love of films as a child.

I was into editing for a long time and I made that my career for many years. I loved it, but there’s something about directing that gives you an extra level of control over a story. You’re more in the moment with it, and it’s a much more immediate way of telling a story, whereas in the edit everything has been shot and it’s just putting it together in the best way.

There’s a lovely exciting pressure of being on a set and working with actors and a crew, and having to make something in that moment that I just find it absolutely thrilling. I love it!

PR – It’s a commitment to make a film, requiring you to give up a period of your life. What compelled you to believe in this film and decide to tell this story?

JS – I’ve made 13 short films, and part of that was me trying to figure out what my directorial voice was, and what genre I was most excited by, because I love horror and I love comedy. I get excited by so many different things that I was worried that my career would never progress, because people would not know where to place me. They wouldn’t be able to say, “Oh, that’s a Jennifer Sheridan type film”, because my films kept changing [laughs].

When I read the script for Rose, it felt the perfect story for me at that time in my career because I’d done so much groundwork in my short films. I’d built up a skill set, and with every short film I’d tried to push myself in a different direction, to learn something new about filmmaking or storytelling. So when I read Rose, I felt much more confident that I could do a good job of directing it. I was thought, “Yes, this feels within my wheelhouse. I know I could do a good job of this. I really want to take on this challenge.”

From a realistic point of view, there were also very few locations, very few cast members, and it was a horror film, which are generally a little bit easier to get funded. I thought if I’m ever going to get to debut as a feature film director, Rose feels like a very good opportunity for that to happen.

Everyone hopes to make feature films at some point, not everyone obviously, but most filmmakers hope to. There’s no guarantee you’re going to get there, and so you have to be a hustler in so many different ways. As passionate as you are about the story, and you have to be because you’re going to live with it, and I’ve lived with Rose for four years. You have to love the story and you have to feel like it’s one you can do justice to as a director, otherwise it’s not worth that much of your life. You’ve got to do it for the right reasons, and there were other factors involved, but just the fact that we could probably achieve it on a small budget was another.

PR – The images of the landscape early in the film capture a feeling of its grandeur and isolation. Was it an intention to tap into a yearning many of us share for distance from our society?

JS – Let me tell you. The forest in Wales where we shot was so beautiful and incredibly isolating, not just for the characters of the film, but for us as a crew. There was no phone signal and you felt completely cut off from the world. We were heavily snowed in, and it was like being untethered from the modern world for a bit – it was incredible.

It does something quite unusual to your brain when you’re living in nature. You get a new perspective because you’re not being hustled and crowded by the modern world and all of its technology, that having grown up in London I’m used to. I wanted that to translate into the film.

The landscape was so important to the feeling of isolation and independence from the rest of the world when you shut yourself away because you have a job to do. In Sam’s case, it’s keeping them alive and protecting Rose, and protecting people from her. He’s made that his job and they’ve obviously come to this place for a very specific reason, and I’m glad that’s coming through.

PR – In a story that teases or tries to mislead the audience, is there a challenge or time pressure of knowing when to open the film up to the audience?

JS – As an audience member myself watching films, that’s part of the joy of it. One of my favourite films, Jaws (Steven Spielberg, 1975), is a brilliant film, but you don’t see the shark for so long. I love holding off those reveals, but the timing of it is the biggest challenge, no doubt about it. And with Rose, I showed the almost finished edit to some friends in the industry to get their opinions on it, and some of them had seen things in it that I hadn’t even intended.

I know I definitely did some intentional misleading with Sam locking her in the house – was he keeping her hostage, what’s going on here? Part of the enjoyment of watching a film is trying to figure stuff out, but yeah, there definitely comes a point where you go, “Okay, just tell me now because this is ridiculous’ [laughs]. Hopefully we got that balance right with Rose.

PR – Would you agree that we could liken the film to a chapter in the middle of a book?

JS – Yeah, I think you’ve observed Rose well there in that it does feel like a chapter. There’s definitely something coming after that we’re not showing, and is left in the audiences imagination to make up their mind. You know it’s probably not going to go great, but what then happens is sort of up to you because it’s such a concentrated story in a way.

It’s so much about Rose and Sam, the journey of their relationship, and them not coming to terms with reality, but trying to pretend that everything’s going to be okay. A series of events unfold that tests that and keeps challenging the idea that they’re going to be fine, that they can make it work.

For me, that’s so much about what life is. One sets-off in life hoping for the best and obviously things come along to challenge that. Look at the situation we’re in now, everyone’s feeling challenged. So it’s nice in a way that it feels so concentrated about them and you don’t even know what’s going on in the wider world. You don’t know if anyone else has what Rose has, what other people are doing. I hope audiences are going to enjoy being part of something that almost feels very in the moment. You’re in there with them, and it almost follows day-to-day.

PR – Do you perceive there to be a transformative aspect to the filmmaking process, in which you change as a person?

JS – Before I made Rose I wasn’t sure, I doubted myself. I was reading so many books to try to glean from the perspectives of other filmmakers, to get any insight I could into what I might have to expect doing something like this, because it was a huge challenge. We only had 15 days to shoot and we couldn’t afford to do pickups. I felt I had to nail it and I put so much pressure on myself.

Having since made Rose and done a television series, it has allowed me to feel more comfortable in my decisions. I definitely have more confidence as a director because you make calls so often, and when those calls payoff, you think, “Oh, I do know what I’m doing” [laughs].

You’re always learning and that’s part of why I love it because it’s always a challenge, and the challenges are ever changing. I think that’s what makes it so exciting. I definitely feel like I’m not the person I was when I started making Rose – it has changed me dramatically. I’ll never be able to undo what that film has done to me. I can now only go forward in my life, in the hope that I can do something just as great, if not hopefully greater, and progress because it was such a wonderful experience.

.

Jennifer Sheridan is pictured at the top of this interview. The other two images are stills from her debut feature.

Luxor

Posted on by Redmond Bacon

From her taxi driver to hotel staff to chance acquaintances in ancient ruins, Hana (Andrea Riseborough) seems to know everyone in the historic Egyptian city of Luxor. Staying in the gorgeous Winter palace hotel — a Colonial-era resort that would easily fit into the 1920s setting of The Mummy — she has returned to the beautiful town in order to look for something.

But what is it? Is it romance? Closure? Possibly both, or something else entirely. It’s hard to say with the enigmatic Luxor, which basks in arthouse tropes in order to reflect upon the difficulty of the human condition and overcoming trauma. Eschewing conventional narrative in favour of reflection and contemplation, it’s a clever, self-reflexive film boasting yet another fine performance from Andrea Risebourgh.

Hana is an aid worker and doctor, who in her time working in the Middle East, seems to have come across genuine suffering and brutality. She’s also suffering from memory loss; even claiming to have forgotten her trip to the great city of Abydos — a city we are told no one forgets in a rush. She criss-crosses the bustling modern streets of the city as well as the empty, gorgeous ruins, the camera unafraid to cut to the landscape and ancient drawings as a means to connect her with the world around her.

Operating in arthouse territory reminiscent of Michelangelo Antonioni and Alain Resnais’ existential vacations, Luxor is filled with long pans, silence, and empty spaces. The storytelling is also elliptical, especially when it comes to matters of sex, director Zeina Durra showing us everything but the act itself. By reducing the passion of the moment, Durra intellectualises the experience of romance and connection, making us really think about what it means to revisit a place of pain while searching for something new.

Luxor

While initially appearing to fall into common white-people-in-North-Africa tropes seen in dozens of Hollywood productions, Luxor actually interrogates (and celebrates) the setting of the film instead of simply using it as a backdrop for Western anxieties. London-born director Zeina Durra — who is of Bosnian-Palestinian-Jordanian-Lebanese descent — seems to actually understand the magic of the city, a place rich with both Egyptian and Islamic history.

It’s all held together by the central performance. It’s hard to think of a more consistently brilliant and varied actress than Riseborough. Even when she takes risks that don’t quite meet their targets, her work proves her willingness and ability to really get into the skin of her characters. At first, Hana seems like a conventional Brit abroad, staying in a posh hotel while profusely apologising to the bellboy for not having any change for a tip. But Riseborough slowly allows this facade to crack, opening herself up to the possibility of experience, change and renewal.

There are several moments that simply follow her as she wanders off from a group and stares into the distance, processing the landscape while thinking deeply about something. In the hands of another actor, these moments may came across as banal or as pretentious, yet Riseborough manages to keep our attention and see the world alongside her. Luxor-iating (sorry) in its surroundings, this is a slow and patient character work that rewards close attention.

Luxor is out in virtual cinemas on Friday, November 6th. On Sky Cinema and NOW on Wednesday, June 23rd.

On the Rocks

Posted on by victorfraga

When Laura (Rashida Jones), a young New York wife and mother doubts her husband Dean’s (Marlon Wayans) fidelity, she confides in her larger-than-life playboy father Felix (Bill Murray). Encouraging her to pursue her suspicions, she and her father tail her husband and play amateur sleuth.

Director Sofia Coppola and actor Bill Murray reunite after first working together on Lost in Translation (2003). It’s also a return to the idea of characters reaching a crisis point in their lives, that forges a connection between Murray’s fading movie star in the Park Hyatt, Tokyo, and Jones’s New York writer.

Every story is about connections, if only because characters lives are impacted by the cause and effect of not only their own individual choices, but those of others. Coppola is drawn to the idea of connection and disconnection with a more deliberate intention than just characters arbitrarily impacting one another’s lives. The fading movie star Bob, whose marriage is in crisis, and Jones’s writer struggling with a mental block, is a subtle touch of perhaps unintentional awareness. In stories, whether it be a script or a book, the life of the character is laid out, whereas everyday life is a series of arbitrary, instinctive, even confusing choices.

Both films are about the fragility of connections, that specifically touch on themes of the longevity of marriage and monogamy. In each film Murray’s characters are unfaithful, while Scarlett Johansson and Rashida Jones’s characters both look to their future with uncertainty.

Coppola and Murray reuniting offers a temptation to overlook the connection between On the Rocks and Somewhere (2010). Stephen Dorff’s divorced movie star reconnecting with his daughter Cleo (Elle Fanning), echoes the theme of the longevity of marriage. Felix and Laura’s escapades, during which she questions her father about his infidelities, echoes the nurturing of a father-daughter bond in the earlier film.

The themes of connections and disconnection are not only present as themes and ideas in Coppola’s films, but they give a context to her filmography. On the Rocks is a return to a more energised storytelling, following the restrained energy of The Beguiled’s (2017) emphasis on sexual repression. The energy of the comedy in On the Rock’s connects to the vivacious side of Lost In Translation, when Murray and Johansson go out on the town one night, but contrasts to its contemplative nature. It also contrasts to Somewhere’s slower-paced energy. What we find with Coppola’s latest film is a mix of connection, and not necessarily disconnection, but the contrast in tone of the storytellers voice.

The dynamic of the actors in a comedy determines whether the film lives or it dies. Murray and Jones’s rhythm is impeccable, the glances and gestures complimenting the humorous back and forth dialogue. Coppola shows an understanding of how to temper the comedy. She picks her moments when to transition from eccentricity to absurdity, that does not undermine the serious themes and emotions that lie beneath its playful exterior.

On the Rocks is a film that knows how to have fun, and package up weightier ideas. We may laugh along with Felix and Laura’s escapades, but this is a story that on a deeper level reflects on how the natural desire to be wanted can create a struggle with the journey of a relationship as lust tames. It’s also about how fear provokes disconnection, the need to talk, and to be cautious thinking we know how someone sees us or how they feel. On the Rocks engages with the trials and tribulations of love and human nature to be not only be remembered for the laughter, but for having something truthful to say about imperfect beings daring to love.

On The Rocks is available on Apple TV+ from Friday, October 23rd. It’s also showing in selected cinemas.

Cordelia

Posted on by Redmond Bacon

Antonia Campbell Hughes plays the eponymous character, a distracted actress still reeling from a terrorist attack on the Underground. One of the very few survivors, she compares herself to a rat, unsure how to reassemble her life. Yet she still believes that she has her life under control, rehearsing for a play in the West End that has the potential to revitalise her wayward career. But when her twin sister (also Hughes) skips off to Bruges for the weekend with her new boyfriend, Cordelia finds herself far more vulnerable than she thought. Constant phone calls, with no voice on the other end, do little to alleviate her anxiety.

Director Adrian Shergold has a great knack for constructing unsettling moments that make us think one step ahead of our characters. Men seem to appear out of nowhere; first mere faces in the crowd before slowly coming into Cordelia’s rearview. One innocuous meeting between Cordelia and an old friend on Millennium Bridge is filled with portent; both sides skirting around the issue with passive aggressive politeness.

Cordelia

Yet, she isn’t totally impervious to people of the opposite sex, lulled by the melancholic cello sounds of her upstairs neighbor Frank (Johnny Flynn). He accosts her at a coffee shop, and asks if the music bothers her. When she replies that the music is beautiful, he invites her for a drink in an empty Soho joint.

Musician-actor Johnny Flynn puts in a fascinating performance, relying on his good looks to give us a false sense of security before slowly revealing the tortured man underneath. Constantly talking about his failed music career, which once spanned concerts from Buenos Aires to Moscow, his overt friendliness feels almost immediately like a trap. Yet she only sees his vulnerability, seemingly happy to find someone she can confide her deepest concerns in.

Their doomed romance unravels in a bizarre, interesting way, its denouement occupying the last third of the film. With its focus on feminine paranoia as well as its dark vision of London, Cordelia evokes classic British 1940s psychological thrillers such as Gaslight (1940, 1944) ,as well as early Hitchcock. Dim lamps and dark interiors give Cordelia’s flat a murky feeling, the streets of Soho consisting only of the iconic overhanging lamps. Characters are often shot head on, making them feel like part of the furniture.

Yet the supporting cast are subsumed by this world. British luminaries such as Joel Fry, Alun Armstrong and Catherine McCormack are given little chance to stand out. Michael Gambon for example, is severely under-utilised as one of Cordelia’s neighbors, briefly introduced before barely being seen again. These types of thrillers, especially of the old-school variety, thrive on prying and nosey neighbours — providing ironic levity to an otherwise grim experience.

While worth watching for its well-constructed sets and foreboding production design, creating a convincing portrait of a dark and gloomy London, it can’t corral its mood into something energising. Much like its lighting, Cordelia is too dim to electrify the audience.

Cordelia is in cinemas on Friday, October 23rd. On Sky Cinema and NOW on October 19th (2021). Also available on other platforms:

A Common Crime (Un crimen común)

Posted on by Paul Risker

One stormy night, an agitated young man knocks loudly at the door of the home of Cecilia (Elisa Carricajo), a middle-class economics lecturer. Separated from her husband, Cecilia lives alone with her young son. The man who knocks at her door is Kevin (Eliot Otazo), the son of her housekeeper, Nebe (Mecha Martinez). Frightened, she doesn’t answer, and when she learns that the police ‘disappeared’ him, she’s forced to confront feelings of guilt.

The premise is a simple one, which director Márquez and co-writer Tomás Downey’s stripped back emphasis on the dramatic, especially in the first act, echoes. The film opens with a focus on home and work life as a series of processes that characterise Cecilia’s everyday life, that frames the story as a meeting between art and life.

A Common Crime is realism without the heavier notes of kitchen sink drama. This presentation doesn’t permit the story to either escape, nor transcend the mundane of everyday life. It also compliments the inescapable guilt Cecilia will experience and the inescapable reality of systemic inequality. The latter allows the film to resonate not only with Argentinian audiences, but internationally, as systemic injustice remains a confrontational issue.

In comparison to her housekeeper, Cecilia is a person of privilege, and yet with an impending interview for a new role, she infers a feeling of fragile self-doubt. But is this self-doubt genuine when both her academic colleague and her mentor are reassuring of her professional progression? Any self-doubt serves the purpose of juxtaposing class problems. In a dinner scene, her colleague tells her husband that success at the upcoming interview is vital to Cecilia’s future. Listening to her friend explain this, she retracts the food from her mouth, spilling down her chin and on to her plate. The scene takes place after Cecilia has learned of Kevin’s murder, and finding the food unpalatable is symbolic of middle-class guilt, and the nausea of trivial middle-class problems.

There is clearly the crime committed by the police, but Cecilia’s decision is not borne not out of malice, nor an intention to harm Kevin, but out of fear. We watch her look out the window, crouching down to stay out of sight as he bangs on the door and calls out. We’ve only been briefly introduced to Kevin in one scene, and Márquez encumbers our point of view so that his identity is unclear. He positions us to identify with Cecilia’s fear, and not what we will later learn is a fearful Kevin seeking refuge.

We are unable to condemn Cecilia – there is no crime for her to answer, and yet we feel conflicted. Márquez, Downey and Carricajo merge the warmth of Cecilia’s maternal nature with an intellectual coldness. What makes her compelling is the mix of warmth and cold, of kindness and sternness as a mother and educator that allows for her to provoke these necessary feelings of conflict in the audience. We sympathise with her, but together with her colleagues, she frames the compromised integrity of the intellectual community by the class system. Their middle-class privilege has an air of nepotism, individualism and ignorance, with an interest in nurturing intellectualism over any genuine sense of social awareness and engagement.

The image of Cecilia cowering in the dark is about silence and an ignorance towards the realities outside of her own social experience, as much as it’s about fear. The guilt after learning of Kevin’s murder should be Cecilia’s awakening to what is a common crime, yet her response appears to be partly self-centred. She has empathy for Nebe, but is unresponsive to the reality of systemic crime. Even as we look to the seemingly mutual respect Cecila and Nebe share, this can be reduced to the usefulness to her middle-class employer.

Márquez and Downey’s interest in observing the character, rather than heightening the emphasis on the events, however significant, serves to remind us that life goes on. It’s not that there is an indifference to death and suffering, rather it’s that our emotional response to death is superseded by the instinct for self-preservation. Cecilia’s feelings of guilt are genuine, but the characters and events are orchestrated to offer a social critique of the class system, that’s also a universal criticism of the failure to protect the vulnerable in society.

A Common Crime impresses as an aesthetic piece of filmmaking. Minimising a reliance on the cut not only compliments the observational nature of the film, but shows Márquez’s craftsmanship. The action revolves around the static camera as characters move in and out of frame. The background is filled with activity and draws our attention from the character in the foreground. As one would pick up on nuanced detail in a painting, Márquez treats the cinematography as a transitional form of painting. The images are framed not like cinematic shots, but as individual paintings that are in a state of transition. Not only does art meet life in A Common Crime, but film meets painting.

A Common Crime played at the BFI London Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. It’s out on various VoD platforms on Friday, April 9th, via Sovereign Film Distribution