How do you build an entire film upon a lie that you are not only living, but that you don’t really condone? This was the dilemma for Lulu Wang, a filmmaker who has taken a life-changing fabrication and spun it into The Farewell, an autobiographical film about her cancer-stricken grandmother who is none-the-wiser thanks to her family’s decision to keep her in the dark.
It’s an ethical matrix that raises questions of morality, but also challenges cultural differences at a time when the world is in dire need of some empathy. “The purpose of the film is to explore how to approach differences with grace,” says Beijing-born Wang. “I think that we’re living in such polarised times right now that we often look at things in black-and-white. People are so combative – even with people that they love – and instead of asking where the other side is coming from, we immediately attack as a way to defend ourselves.”
Wang and her parents migrated to Miami when she was six, leaving behind her grandmother and remaining family. When news of the cancer broke some six years ago, the choice to keep it a secret was reached under the Chinese belief that fear shortens a person’s life rather than the illness itself, a decision that adult Wang strongly opposed at the time. “I still don’t think that it’s necessarily right,” she says. “But I’ve come to accept it and understand it more through the process of making this film.”
Wang’s on-screen surrogate, Billi, is played by Awkwafina, a rapper-turned-actor who has stolen scenes in the likes of Ocean’s 8 and Crazy Rich Asians but never shouldered the weight of a dramatic lead. “At first I was looking at actresses that had an introverted perspective,” Wang says of her unconventional casting choice. “But I think that when you have someone who’s normally so extroverted, so funny and strong, that when they break, there’s something even more heartbreaking about it.”
It’s a revelatory performance from Awkwafina, who not only delivers whole chunks of the film in Mandarin (she was born and raised in New York), but also the film’s heavier, more guttural moments with real assurance. “She didn’t know if she would be able to cry – she’d tried to cry in movies before and it had never happened,” Wang recalls. “But once she was on set, she was really able to tap into that sense of loss. We’ve all lost someone at some point.”
Wang’s dedication to her family through her storytelling is what makes The Farewell so remarkable, and though the experience has been deeply upsetting, she has developed an unexpected sense of gratitude for the last few years. “The lie has allowed me to make this film, allowed me to go back home for three months and spend time with my grandma. I haven’t spent that kind of time with her since I was a little kid,” she says. “I don’t think that she ever imagined in her lifetime that she’d be able to see me do what I do. In many ways the lie has been a huge gift for all of us.”
The Farewell receives its UK premiere at Sundance London on 1 June. For more info visit picturehouses.com
The post ‘We’ve all lost someone at some point’ – Lulu Wang on The Farewell appeared first on Little White Lies.
Picture the scene: in the bucolic English countryside, a frog and a bear peek between the branches of an old tree. “A bear in his natural habitat,” the furry one observes. Dubious, the green guy replies, “You’re not a natural bear.” Despite his static features, the bear truly looks surprised.
His friend persists, explaining that “real” bears have teeth and bones, not fake fur and magenta noses. To this, the bear claps back. “I’ve got a newsflash for you, kid! You’ve got a wire on your arm!” The frog is astonished, mouth agape. “I’m sorry!” the bear repents. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He adds, sweetly, “I believe in you.”
In under two minutes, this dinky bit of improv captures so much of The Muppets’ eternal charm. It’s got their silly, surreal sense of humour. It showcases Kermit the Frog and Fozzie Bear’s wholesome friendship (nourished by the real-life bond between puppeteers Jim Henson and Frank Oz). And it exemplifies The Muppets’ inimitable knack for bridging fantasy and reality – a capacity that some folks, at the time, still doubted.
In 1978, The Muppet Show was an established international hit. However, its stars had only appeared on studio sound stages, as seen on TV sets. Kermit and Fozzie’s screen test, described above, had to prove two things: that The Muppets could blend into real-world environments, and that Henson’s hands-on magic would be just as mesmerising on the big screen. It worked. Before long The Muppet gang were riding bikes, driving cars and stealing hearts in the first of many feature films.
The Muppet Movie opened in the UK on 31 May, sandwiched neatly between The Warriors and Moonraker. Directed by TV journeyman James Frawley, the film recounts Kermit’s voyage from a Mississippi swamp to a Hollywood backlot, where he and newfound friends Fozzie Bear, Miss Piggy, Rowlf the Dog and The Great Gonzo realise their dream of singing, dancing and making people happy. Consider it an origin story for the original MCU: the Muppet Cinematic Universe.
Well, it’s “sort of, approximately” how The Muppets got started, Kermit tells his nephew Robin in scene one, at the world premiere of their film-within-a-film. Over the ensuing 90 minutes, The Muppet Movie oscillates from family comedy to rollicking road movie, with psychedelic songs and genre parody scenes in between. This eclectic approach is core to the troupe’s playfully subversive credo.
From end to end, there’s witty wordplay (see: ‘I Hope That Something Better Comes Along’), silly sight gags (a literal fork in the road) and meta references aplenty (Dr Teeth reads the screenplay, later used to locate Kermit and co). Characters frequently address the camera, and the film ends with jilted Sweetums literally breaking the fourth wall – bursting through the cinema screen, shouting, “I just knew I’d catch up with you guys!”
Forty years on, Jerry Juhl and Jack Burns’ postmodern humour occasionally feels outdated. First-time audiences today likely won’t recognise Milton Berle, Telly Savalas, HB Haggerty and the mid-century stars whose effect was sadly temporary. On the other hand, cameo appearances from Carol Kane, Steve Martin and Orson Welles retain their original appeal and cinematic value, making the film a fount of nostalgia for many viewers.
But the practical effects remain impressive. An $8m budget – the equivalent of more than $31m today – meant that, when it came to movie magic, Henson’s team could shoot for the stars. Actually, creating a shooting star effect was quite cheap and easy (it’s just a fairy light on a wire). The film featured two reveals that were far more astonishing. See: Kermit’s feet.
It may seem quaint, even trivial now, but in 1979 getting a hand puppet to dance and cycle with ostensible head-to-toe autonomy was a remarkable exploit – Roger Ebert even mentioned it in his glowing review. Though Kermit had been cruising (albeit with visible wires) since The Muppets Valentine Show in 1974, here he got upgraded to a full-scale Schwinn, operated marionette-style from a moving crane above.
To set Gonzo sailing on a bunch of balloons, effects whiz Franz “Faz” Fazakas built a radio-controlled stunt double for the bold, daring… whatever. Henson himself even spent five days underwater, performing the singing, banjo-strumming, full-bodied Kermit in the unforgettable ‘Rainbow Connection’ sequence.
The technology used in The Muppet Movie prefigured Henson’s The Dark Crystal, Fraggle Rock and in his Creature Shop. From the 60-foot version of Animal to the pint-sized Robin, almost every effect was captured in camera, imbuing the film with an enchanting believability that holds up today – even in comparison to some advanced CGI. But all the remote controls and stunt vehicles in the world can’t make a film compulsively watchable without a strong heart – and, Henson might add, an ethical compass – to guide it.
Full of warmth, devoid of cynicism, The Muppet Movie is an earnest testament to friendship. Despite their complex quirks and fascinating foibles, The Muppets share deep commitment to their dream and, moreover, to each other. They may look like a felt-and-glue menagerie, but they model joy, grief, confusion, anxiety, tolerance and forgiveness – palpably human sensations – with total sincerity. Maybe it’s only movie magic, but it’s a dream worth believing in.
The post The Muppet Movie at 40 – Jim Henson’s fuzzy testament to friendship appeared first on Little White Lies.
Michael Dougherty and Ken Watanabe on ‘Godzilla: King of the Monsters’ & the Essential ‘Godzilla’ Movies
Millennium Falcon: Smuggler’s Run Review: What’s It Like to Fly the Fastest Hunk of Junk in the Galaxy?
NOTE: This post will contain spoilers for The Twilight Zone's "Blurryman". If I had my druthers, you would not read anything about this episode until seeing it for yourself. If you want a quick, non-spoilery review, please read the headline again and get watching.
Is "Blurryman" the best episode of The Twilight Zone's first season? I'm finding it hard to come up with a better pick. I was a big fan of "The Comedian", the episode that kicked off the reboot, and I also enjoyed "Not All Men" a great deal. But pound for pound, moment for moment, "Blurryman" has to be my favorite. It's not without its faults (hoo, boy, am I conflicted about one element in particular), and I'm not entirely sure it sticks the landing that it's aiming for, but it's a helluva lot of fun to watch - even when it's not totally adding up.
Here's my problem: it's basically impossible to discuss this episode without getting into spoiler territory. I'll do my best to maintain any surprises that don't need to be discussed, but even a basic plot description will ruin the episode's excellent opening for you. Consider this your final warning if any of that matters.
Still here? Alright, cool. "Blurryman" begins with a very stressed-out Seth Rogen sitting in his apartment, futiley attempting to incorporate a number of studio notes into his character's latest screenplay. He knows he'd like to fit a "mushroom cloud" into the script, but whoever he's answering to isn't feeling it, and it appears he'll need to jettison the moment completely...until, inspiration strikes: he'll move the nuclear explosion up to the opening of the screenplay, using it to set up the story that follows. Just as he starts plucking away at the keyboard, his wife (Betty Gabriel) enters, walks him over to the window, and shows him that a nuclear disaster has occurred outside. The camera swerves to the left, and there's Jordan Peele's Narrator, delivering his tenth opening monologue of the season. But this time, things play out differently: Peele stops the take and asks for a rewrite. This opening narration simply isn't working. The writer (Zazie Beetz, who will go on to be this episode's lead character) is summoned to the set, and we're treated to a lengthy back and forth between her and Peele about The Twilight Zone, Rod Serling and what the episode's message actually needs to be.
Yes, for its first season finale, The Twilight Zone goes full Meta.
I'm gonna consider everything that happens after that opening to be super-duper spoilery, so I'll refrain from laying it all out here. Suffice it to say that Sophie's Twilight Zone-loving character has found herself in the Twilight Zone, and that the blurry figure seen haunting the production's soundstage is very determined to speak with her. That conversation happens eventually, but getting there will involve a whole bunch of weirdness.
Where other episodes of the new Twilight Zone felt heavy-handed or painfully obvious, "Blurryman" feels playful and genuinely mysterious. It also feels far more compact, a fact surely owed to its relatively brief 37-minute runtime (for the love of God, Twilight Zone, get rid of the hourlong runtimes between seasons, I'm begging you). It's also legitimately funny, with Peele playing an exaggerated, bloviating version of himself to great effect; with all the justified hoopla surrounding his talents as a writer/director, it's been easy to forget how brilliant he can be onscreen, and this episode serves as a welcome reminder (as if we needed one). I was also a big fan of Beetz in this episode: she sells some truly baffling moments, and conues to be a compelling and welcome screen presence. More of her in everything, please.
I mentioned the episode having issues, and I suppose we should address those, as well. For starters, I'm still not onboard with The Twilight Zone being so F-bomb friendly (I've explained why here, if you'd like to hear more on that). If the series jerked the reins on that element just a bit, I really don't think it'd do anything but improve things. Secondly, there's a very prominent CGI effect in the final moments of this episode that isn't entirely convincing, which is a problem given that it's the moment the episode's been building up to all along. One final gripe: the messaging here's a bit muddy. I'm not certain I fully understood the mechanics of the episode or the resolution it arrives at, but I suspect a second viewing (which I'm very much looking forward to) will clear some of that up for me.
All in all, "Blurryman" is a helluva way to wrap The Twilight Zone's imperfect first season. It does something no other episode of the new Zone has done yet, it keeps viewers on their toes, and it does all of that while still striking a decidedly fun tone, even when it's angling for "scary". Here's hoping that future installments of this series are similarly interested in playing with the formula. Surprises are why we tune into The Twilight Zone to begin with, and "Blurryman" is filled with them.
Ma is almost here. Get your tickets now!
Obsession thrills have been having a moment in cinema lately. This year alone, Greta has Isabelle Huppert acting as an unorthodox would-be foster mom while The Perfection, well...The Perfection has a lot going on. This week brings the opening of Ma, in which Octavia Spencer really does not want to drink alone. It's an understandable trend in an era when social media connects us all but we're still oddly estranged from each other. Those of us who have been fortunate enough to forge friendships probably have varying degrees of intimacy. Ever been so tight with someone that you share mannerisms? Cigarettes? How about bedfellows? Probably not intentionally, and that certainly wasn't what Mildred "Millie" Lammoreaux had in mind when she befriended Pinky Rose in Robert Altman's 1977 arthouse drama, 3 Women. Cadence-wise, Altman's psychodrama marches as a cult horror film might, operating on both a lack of clarity and on incrementally unnerving trespasses.
Set in a desolate Californian desert town, the film centers on Millie (Shelley Duvall) and Pinky (Sissy Spacek) working at a senior health spa, with the third woman Willie (Janice Rule) entering the story later on. As the tagline explains, "1 woman became 2/2 women became 3/3 women became 1." That's honestly how it goes.
The story starts with Millie aiding the elderly through water exercises, with Pinky watching through a nearby office window. From her first moment onscreen, Pinky reveres the lanky brunette. Millie is assigned to train Pinky on the job, and they become light acquaintances. Shortly after that, Millie walks behind two other co-workers, having a full conversation with neither of them. While nothing she says really requires a response, the other young women don't acknowledge her presence at all. In fact, any time Millie starts a conversation, those nearby simply circumvent her; they occasionally sneak snickers and glances at each other in reaction to her presence, so this isn't a "she was someone else's subconscious the whole time" situation. Despite her vast knowledge of McCall's recipes and meticulously color-coded outfits, Millie is friendless. That vulnerability, in a straight horror joint, would make her the perfect candidate for cult recruitment. Luckily (unluckily?) she gets Sissy Spacek instead.
Loneliness and a loss of self embroiders itself into the larger thematic tapestry of the movie. Visual fetishes of twins and mirrors suggest reflections of each woman in the others. Depth of field does a lot of the heavy lifting; rather than going the split diopter route, Altman chooses to position the actresses within the frames of carefully angled windows and looking glasses, allowing multiple women to occupy the same screen space while remaining at odds with each other. It all serves to make the most benign tone take on an ominous bent, also a common trapping of cult horror and frenemy thrillers like Single White Female and The Hand That Rocks The Cradle.
Pinky's desire to belong is evident early on: she trails behind twin co-workers as they leave the aquatic center, even changing her cadence to step in line. Despite being broke, she eats at the more expensive hospital cafeteria across the street from where she works, just to get a chance to eat with Millie. It's at that lunch where Millie posts an ad for a new roommate. Pinky gleefully answers, and it's off to the races after that.
From this point on, Pinky racks up cringe-worthy social overreach like so many of us do, except it's intensely focused on one person. The first strange event is a relatively benign one. At the end of orientation day, Pinky thanks Millie with an intimate hug, something far more familiar than what Millie expected. She recovers quickly and adjusts her hair. Pinky is just the hugging type, is all. These are the things we tell ourselves when confronted with strangers acting as if they know us like that. Soon enough, yellow flags turn to red flags: borrowed clothes and longing stares turn into stolen diaries and forged social security numbers. Millie shrugs it off as just an eccentric personality, like Rosemary Woodhouse would shrug off a tannis root necklace. Pinky is, on the surface, just goofy. She squeals at the sight of a teepee, chugs a full beer, and lets out a symphony of burps, all to the embarrassment of Millie. Despite the weird vibes Millie gets (and she does sense this: tight reaction shots of Shelly Duvall confirm her unease throughout the 124 minute runtime), her diary entry just calls Pinky "strange." Tolerance of Pinky's slowly intensifying behavior is easily justified: Millie is just glad to have someone around. How much will we allow when reaching out to touch someone, anyone, just to have them touch back?
That's not to say that Millie's a doormat. She asserts herself as any roomie would, insisting that she be asked for permission before Pinky borrows her clothes, chiding her for leaving messes around the apartment. At one point, she snaps at Pinky out of guilt for messing around with a married man. "What do you know about anything? You don't do any of the things you're supposed to do. Well, I tell you what. If you don't like the way I do things around here, why don't you just move out!" This tension accelerant turns the relationship into a full-on grease fire. Pinky jumps from a railing into the pool, hitting her head and falling into a coma. Millie is overcome with guilt afterward and waits hand and foot on her recovering roommate. What crawls in the film's beginning becomes a gallop; Pinky has changed. This third act turn has all of its escalation packed into half an hour. The takeover comes fast and furious: Pinky starts cavorting with the same people that Millie has unsuccessfully tried to befriend. She's taken up smoking. She writes in her diary of wanting to trace her parents, but refers to Millie's surname to do so. She dresses like her roommate. Things have gone from strange to alarming. Willie, the third of the titular Women, enters in from the periphery of the plot and brings the pressure to a head, culminating in a near-fugue state climax of blood and hysteria.
By the time the credits roll, all three women have dissociated from themselves in order to collectively form a more complete femme archetype. While Altman's ending is a fitting conclusion for Pinky, Millie, and Willie, the triple fusion of three into one wasn't inevitable. Pinky's encroachments were incremental, and Millie's tolerance of each one runs parallel to the slowly boiling frog fable. Ain't that the way of it? When you're tweeting "New year, new me" and wading into a fresh identity (or settling into one that you knew was always under the surface), the transformation isn't a Wolf Man-esque seismic shift. You wade into the waters; first a toe, then the foot, other toe, other foot, and so forth until you're fully submerged into your new persona. Or someone else's.
With every passing year, the dividing lines between animation and live-action break down a little bit more. Who’s to say what’s a cartoon and what isn’t, when we’ve got pre-viz cinema from the MCU situating real characters in invented environments and the photorealistic Disney remakes plopping computerized images in our real world?
To further complicate the debate, here comes the trailer for The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance, a prequel to Jim Henson‘s 1982 feature. Henson was considered a pioneer at the time for championing live-action animatronics over any other jiggery-pokery, and this new film will carry on his mission.
Director Louis Leterrier has been vocal about his commitment to creating characters through old-school puppetry, and the distinctly off-putting effect has been duly replicated here, the mutated rodentia moving with the same herky-jerky quality of their ’80s forebears. But again, these real characters have been immersed in a CGI wonderland making it difficult to discern the boundaries between reality and the digital.
Taron Egerton, Anya Taylor-Joy, and Nathalie Emmanuel voice a trio of “Gelflings,” mythical creatures hailing from the world of Thra (though, in a truer sense, they come from the Uncanny Valley). They set out on a grand mission to recover a talisman of great and terrible power to use in the battle against the Skeksis, vulture-dragon-lizard monsters at the heart of childhood nightmares stretching from Gen X to the millennials.
These locked-away traumas will all be set free when the prequel arrives on Netflix, shaking loose the fearful memories of snapping beaks and karo-syrupy flesh long since buried. In this critic’s opinion, it’s about high time, too; too much nostalgia-bait seeks to coddle its audience with warm remembrances of childhood, instead of hauling the most frightening bits out of our psychological vaults.
The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance will appear on Netflix in the US and UK on 30 August.
The post Your childhood nightmares lie in wait in The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance appeared first on Little White Lies.
John Hawkes on the ‘Deadwood’ Movie and Wanting to Spend More Time With These Characters
When the plot synopsis for Andrea Berloff’s new crime picture The Kitchen first dropped in 2017, it sounded pretty good: Tiffany Haddish, Melissa McCarthy, and Elisabeth Moss would play mob wives taking over the dirty business after their husbands get thrown in the slammer, gradually incurring the wrath of the competition.
Widows, but a comedy? Two tickets, please! Except that the trailer, unveiled just this morning, suggests things won’t be that simple.
The Kitchen is most assuredly not a comedy, playing straight the same premise previously explored by Steve McQueen last fall, as our heroines overcome the odds and societal gender stereotypes to run with the big boys. Facing chauvinism, a squeeze on their personal finances, and gun barrels from both sides of the law, they’ve got no choice but to toughen up and face the world.
With some assistance from the men they allow into their orbit — Domhnall Gleeson appears to be some sleazy small-time crook, giving Moss’ character a helping hand — they formulate a plot to rip off the alpha dogs and get theirs. Of course, men like this don’t usually appreciate having their money stolen, and they won’t hesitate to hurt a woman just because of her gender.
The trailer emphasizes the film’s roots in the world of comics, having been born as a series for indie publisher Vertigo. Strange to see Moss snappin’ necks and cashin’ checks — as strange as it is to see Haddish keeping a straight face for an entire feature run time — but if it worked for McQueen, there’s no reason it won’t work here.
The Kitchen comes to cinemas in the US on 9 August, then the UK on 20 September.
The post Mob wives strike back in the new trailer for The Kitchen appeared first on Little White Lies.
László Nemes has a boyishness at odds with the hellish and confrontational nature of his two feature films. Sunset is the follow up to the film that in 2015 announced Nemes on the world stage as the youngest director to premiere in competition in Cannes. The Auschwitz-set Son of Saul involved being locked into a camera angle that mimicked the point-of-view of its lead actor, resulting in a feeling of immersion in chaos without recourse to the relief of an overview.
Sunset uses the same technique this time to follow a young woman in Budapest in 1913 as she doggedly pursues the mystery of her parents’ death on the cusp of World War One. We dived in at the deep end with Nemes – for whom bursts of eloquent feeling seem continually close to surface – and talked about destructive humanity, the logic behind his point-of-view technique, his objections to current trends in cinema and technology, and his grandmother Klara.
LWLies: Both your films are very dark. Where does your bleak worldview come from?
Nemes: I guess that’s my central European way of looking at things. Are there many reasons not to see the world as bleak? The 20th century was very interesting and mysterious because it started as a very promising age and in a matter of a few years we turned a promise into a nightmare. I’m really interested in how much destruction there is at the height of civilisation, and how the human soul can be linked to the soul of civilisation, and what forces are at work.
Do you have any insights into what it is about humanity that caused us to nosedive?
There’s a central mystery to the fall of civilisations. Rome wasn’t destroyed by the Barbarians, Rome was destroyed from within. In a way, our civilisation was also destroyed because the promise and the sophistication, and the illusion of goodness was proudly, in a very intimate way, linked to a willingness to self-destroy. The forces of construction and the forces of the downfall cannot be separated.
It’s clear how one can look at bleak political outcomes and wars and to feel despair but in Sunset the betrayals and the violence feel much more interpersonal. Is that how you think things are between people?
Well, did you ever read Kafka? There’s a constant obstacle for human beings to decipher and understand the world that’s around us. I’m interested in how much cinema nowadays, especially in the last 30 years, has communicated to the audience – the internet is still doing it and the television is doing it – how much control we have on our world, how much understanding we have of our world. There’s this almost narcissistic optimism in that. But I feel, on the contrary, that we are failing to measure our limitations and the fact that we cannot have a god-like point of view on the world.
Cinema today – by jumping from angles, from points of view, always giving the right amount of information and the right vision when it’s needed for dramatic purposes – gives the audience the impression that they control, they can judge, and they can understand. I think, on the contrary, I have a responsibility to my audience to take them on a journey that is also by themselves, and show that you cannot always open all the curtains. There’s a labyrinth in our life, and there is a limitation to our understanding. This film is about the desire to understand, but that there are limits to this understanding.
So how do you triumph over all of these limitations and make a film?
I put myself at risk. I’m trying to push the boundaries of film language as I feel the grammar of cinema has come to sort of conventionalise a set of expression. I’m challenging that and I’m hoping to do so by making films like this. It’s always a challenge for me as a filmmaker and for my crew to bring about these visions in a very practical way. Also, on the level of the thought, it’s always a question, it’s always a risk, it’s always the constant dance on the edge of the abyss.
What do you mean in practical real terms by dancing on the edge of the abyss?
You don’t know whether you can, as a filmmaker, succeed in making a film that’s so much about the labyrinth and the frailty of our perception. It’s about the labyrinth of the human mind and in this case this young girl, who seems to be extremely innocent and fragile but it’s a journey to her. It’s this kind of filmmaking that doesn’t do coverage. We actually have choreographed shots that can last for a minute, for two minutes that have a beginning, middle and an end more-or-less.
I don’t do coverage really so it’s not in the editing phase that I invent my movies. I invent it before, and on the set, it’s more of a conceptual work at the beginning. I think in movie-making its important to take the decisions beforehand and not push them back to the editing room. That’s a different kind of work, and I think that my way of working is really pushing myself to the limits of the feasible.
Does that mean that the editing stage is really quick?
It’s not quick, but it’s quicker than what people nowadays are used to, because nowadays more and more people are shooting on digital. They have hundreds of hours of material. and that’s actually, for me, more of an editing job. I think that filmmakers should force themselves to take decisions before and not keeping those to afterwards.
You seem at odds with a lot of trends.
Yes. I don’t do it just to be a rebel, I do it because I feel that’s what’s right and that’s what the audience deserves, it’s to not to be kept in their comfort zone, but to be challenged because I think that’s how you bring meaningful experiences to the audience.
Which filmmakers have brought meaningful experiences to you?
A lot in film history. Fifty years ago, it wouldn’t have been a question that different directors have very different stylistic and directorial points-of-view and their directing of the actors should not be the same. What we have today is more of a standardised approach, even the format now is almost exclusively widescreen without reasons for that. In the past I can talk about Antonioni for example who really tries to leave a place for the viewers to immerse themselves in the experiences that he creates. He doesn’t have to explain everything and he takes risks with the storytelling because he knows that that’s how you push, how you challenge the viewer.
Have you any particular favourites by Antonioni?
I like L’Avventura, I like all of his films basically. For example Blow-Up is something that I really feel close to, or even The Passenger. I think I could talk about all of them. Or L’Eclisse – I guess those are my favourites.
At what age did you realise what your guiding interests were and what helped you to be where you are today?
That’s a difficult question, I don’t really know how to answer it. I mean, different impressions of arts, from painting to films to photographers – a lot of different impressions that I carry with me, or literature. I’m interested in worlds that have a very real feel but at the same time the overall experience can create a fairytale impression in your mind, like in Kafka’s books, or magical realism. I like when it’s very real but has an overall feeling of a subjective experience.
Do you have any particular hopes for your films once they’re finished and people are watching them?
Just that people should have less preconceptions about movies. The internet prepares them for immediate knowledge, of a set of preconceptions and pre-existing thoughts and attitudes – almost like a very short description of something that should make sense. I really hope that we can come back to a more human, meaningful experience and let go of the spiral of computers, and data and impressions and superficial imagery that’s constantly keeping us in a state of frustration. I just want the viewer to sit back and maybe forget… forget their phones.
Sunset is released 31 May. Read the LWLies Recommends review.
The post László Nemes: ‘I’m trying to push the boundaries of film language’ appeared first on Little White Lies.
Hungarian director László Nemes arrived from out of the blue when his debut feature Son of Saul was dropped into the 2015 Cannes competition line-up like it was no big thing. It’s a singular, bold initial missive which dares to take its cameras into a hauntingly detailed recreation of the Nazi death camps, shot almost like an RPG computer game, albeit from behind the main subject rather than adopting his POV.
The film was a certifiable hit, but it soon became a talking point, as some questioned whether its technical rigour overshadowed the substance of its daunting subject matter, and also whether this sensory-driven, experiential mode of filmmaking was the correct fit for material that needs to be handled with kid gloves.
Nemes sticks to his formal guns with a less historically controversial follow-up that’s equal parts dazzling and baffling. Sunset takes place in a rapidly industrialising Budapest of the 1910s as the shadow of war hangs over Europe. The film quite literally follows destitute milliner Írisz Leiter (a fabulous, steely turn from Juli Jakab, who is in virtually every shot), as she returns to her hometown from Trieste in an attempt to untangle the roots of her rotten family tree. Her parents were killed in a fire when she was aged two, she was put up for adoption and, as such, she has many questions about who she is and where she came from. There may even be an estranged brother lurking in the shadows.
The family’s opulent hat emporium, Leiter’s, was ceded to Vlad Ivanov’s Oszkár Brill, who awkwardly welcomes Írisz back to her spiritual home, but advises she leave immediately as if he knows of something terrible sitting on the horizon. It would be futile to relate any more details of its byzantine and addictively compelling plot line, just to say that the unshakable, unsmiling, unstoppable Írisz shares more than a few traits with modern noir sleuths like Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe.
This is an ultra-compelling page turner of a film in which each scene delivers us to the next crumb in the winding trail. It’s more like a sunrise than sunset, as Írisz moves from a state of total darkness to one where she is gradually bathed in the light of personal knowledge – however sinister and violent that occasionally may be.
It’s admirable that Nemes has made a film with the incessant momentum of a well-oiled Singer sewing machine as it clacks along at a relentless pace. He attempts to place us in the shoes of his heroine. Sometimes it works, such as when dialogue from surrounding persons fades in or muffles out as she passes by. Yet the plot does rely too heavily on Írisz overhearing many private conversations, which feels like Nemes and his co-writers Clara Royer and Matthieu Taponier are cheating both themselves and the audience.
Eventually, it’s the mode of the telling which becomes more interesting than the story itself. At about the half way point, there’s a scene which appears to double back on much that has come before it, but the film carries on regardless. While Nemes appeals to the viewer to just come along for the wild ride, more and more of these odd moments stack up, as if you’re being punished for trying to follow all the bobbing and weaving. Two-and-a-half hours positively flies by, but after the fact, when you’re done swooning over this gorgeous object (and the many, many extraordinary examples of headwear on show), it’s these strange little plot holes which stick in the craw.
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Joining the ranks of The Breakfast Club and Mean Girls, Olivia Wilde’s Booksmart celebrates the trials and tribulations of being a teenager in the final throes of high school. But how well do its stars, Beanie Feldstein and Kaitlyn Dever, know their teen movie history?
We sit down with the actors for a quick-fire pop quiz, putting their high school movie knowledge to the test…
The post Who Said That?! – A Teen Movie Pop Quiz with Beanie Feldstein and Kaitlyn Dever appeared first on Little White Lies.
At the beginning of Ma, we see 16-year-old Maggie (Diana Silvers) driving with her mother Erica (Juliette Lewis), a U-Haul trailer attached to the rear of their car. They are moving from California back to Erica’s childhood town in the boonies of “bumfuck” Ohio. This is a delicate time for Maggie: adolescent, virginal, abandoned by her father, and upended from her San Diego home to a place where she knows nobody.
So when director Tate Taylor shows this young, vulnerable woman taking her first tentative steps into the disorienting, alienating corridors of her new high school, it is clear that this is a crucial moment for her, where things could easily go very wrong very fast. In fact the opposite happens: she is quickly befriended by Haley (McKaley Miller, Andy (Corey Fogelmanis), Chaz (Gianni Paolo) and Darrell (Dante Brown), whom she joins in celebrating their typical teen rites of passage with drinking, revelling and young love.
Things might have turned out so differently. They did, after all, for Sue Ann (Octavia Spencer), a bitter middle-aged veterinary assistant who invites the teens to party in the basement of her home, free from the unwanted gaze of the local police. Hospitable if rather tightly wound, Sue Ann seems determined to relive her own lost youth through these guests young enough to be her children (and who come to refer to her as ‘Ma’).
Yet this den mother and mistress of ceremonies remains deeply damaged by her own high-school experience, less salubrious than Maggie’s, from back when she was their age. Still scarred by a past humiliation that is only gradually revealed in flashback, Sue Ann stalks the teens with increasingly malicious intent, seeking both friends to stave off her loneliness, and a twisted revenge on her own contemporaries through the next generation.
The result is a suspenseful and darkly funny mix of the private disco inferno from The Loved Ones, the intergenerational vendetta from A Nightmare on Elm Street, and some bunny-boilerplate thrills and torture porn tropes, all involving an unhinged mama and her perverse desire to pass down her own teen trauma. Taylor takes his good sweet time ratcheting up the tension before revealing the full extent of Sue Ann’s crazy. The effect of this slow build is not just to bring the house down with the film’s over-the-top conclusion, but also to focus on Sue Ann’s character over twin timelines, so that she is as much sympathetic figure of tragic circumstance as monstrous mother from hell. ‘Ma’ has had it tough, as has Maggie’s own mother, both in different ways faced with a world of broken dreams and harsh realities.
Times are different now. Though coming of age in the same haunts as their parents and testing their limits in a similar fashion, Maggie and her friends seem to be making a better fist of growing up. In contrast with the previous generation where the boys called the sexual shots and the girls were expected to be servile, now pleasure is demanded as much by the girls, and only when they are ready for sex – and with greater knowledge of what they are doing. Indeed, Ma shows a current generation where the kids seem alright, and if they too may grow up to be scarred, that is down less to themselves than to parents whose own unresolved problems represent a toxic inheritance.
The post Ma appeared first on Little White Lies.
‘Final Space’ Season 2 Trailer Sees the Return of Olan Rogers’ Epic Animated Sci-Fi Series
The Young Stars of ‘When They See Us’ on What Angered and Inspired Them about the Story
The 2004 remake of Dawn of the Dead has been on my mind a lot lately, for two key reasons. One is the release of Brightburn, which the marketing would have you think was a James Gunn film even though he neither wrote it (his brother and cousin did) or directed it (that would be David Yarovesky, who blessed us with the terrific "Inferno" music video from GOTG2). The film's concept - "What if Kal-El turned into Michael Myers instead of Clark Kent?" - could have originated with someone's (Gunn's?) reaction to Zack Snyder's Man of Steel, where Superman's reckless use of his powers in the film's third act conceivably wiped out more innocent people than any movie slasher ever has. As Snyder made his feature debut directing Gunn's script for Dawn (which featured a store called Metropolis!) it's fun to think about the two of them possibly talking about Supes one day and then going on to make their own distinct versions of the basic story later on in their careers.
The other reason I kept thinking about it is because of these idiotic petitions to remake the final season of Game of Thrones, or recast Batman with someone besides Robert Pattinson, or whatever else nutjob "fans" have decided to project their unhappy lives onto in between the time I write this sentence and the article goes online. And that is because a much younger (read: dumber) me with a surplus of free time on his hands distinctly remembers signing an online petition to boycott the (then) upcoming Dawn of the Dead remake by "some commercial guy and the writer of Scooby-Doo", believing it to be a slap in the face to George Romero. Not only was his 1978 original one of my all time favorite genre films (and remains so), but the filmmaker had only managed to get one film made in the past decade, so it seemed insulting that Hollywood would rather cash in on his work rather than give him a job. "Under no circumstances will I support this film!" 23 year old me thought.
And I guess that technically remained true, as I went to see a free screening of it in Boston about a week before its theatrical release, figuring I'd have more ammo to talk people out of buying a ticket if I actually saw it, and wouldn't have to give it a dime to find out just "how bad" it was. Unfortunately for my very noble intentions, as it turns out the movie was pretty damn good, winning me over almost instantly with its terrific pre-credits sequence and keeping me on board thanks to its stronger than expected mix of characters, exciting action scenes, and - most importantly - a script that wasn't just rehashing Romero's scene for scene. While I've always admired Tom Savini's Night of the Living Dead remake for lulling us into a sense of deja vu with a very similar first half before pivoting into uncharted territory, Gunn and Snyder went even further and barely kept anything at all from the version I knew and loved.
In fact everything they reprised could be summed up in less than a paragraph. Both films, naturally, concern some survivors of a zombie outbreak holed up in a mall, and two of the survivors are a black cop and a blond woman. But the characters themselves are very different; Sarah Polley's Ana is nothing like Gaylen Ross' Fran, and while they are embodying a similar type of role there is very little about Ving Rhames' Kenneth that recalls Ken Foree's Peter. In fact, Foree himself shows up in a cameo/tip of the hat as a TV preacher who gets to re-deliver his iconic "When there's no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth" line, rather than go the obvious route of letting Kenneth say it, which further distinguishes that character from Foree's original. And the other folks aren't similar at all - plus there are far more of them in the remake; around a dozen as opposed to the original's four.
This allows the film to succeed or fail on its own devices rather than living in the shadow of its predecessor. I still prefer the original, yes, but I can also watch the two films back to back with minimal restlessness, which isn't something I can say about, say, Rob Zombie's Halloween, which restages any number of sequences directly taken from John Carpenter's original. In that film, and so many other remakes of the 00's, I can never get sucked into the update, as it's constantly reminding me of the film I likely prefer, and as a result I spend half my viewing time thinking "Why am I even bothering? I can just go watch the original." But here, outside of those few jokey nods (which occur relatively early, for the record), the film has its own identity and carves its own path; that sort of "Ugh, no. In the original they did THIS instead..." thinking can't ever really intrude unless you're actively looking for excuses to hate on it.
And like I said, I was indeed in that group when I sat down in that Boston multiplex, only to change my attitude rather quickly. There was just too much for me to like, in particular its motley group of characters, which felt more in line with the original Night of the Living Dead than the smaller, more familiar group in Dawn - all given enough to do that I cared when they died, a feat that escapes so, so many zombie movies past and present. I'm not sure even Romero has ever given a bonding situation as much as I loved as the one between Kenneth and Andy (Bruce Bohne), who is stuck in a gun shop across the street and communicates via wipe board. The two men play chess and send each other updates without ever speaking directly, and it's legitimately heartbreaking when they get him a radio (via courier dog!) and, within seconds of hearing his voice for the first time, find out he's been bitten.
Also, as someone who usually rolls his eyes at the nearly obligatory "The humans are WORSE!" angle in zombie films, I flat out loved growing to like CJ, played by the great Michael Kelly. As the mall's security chief he's an asshole when we meet him, at first not even wanting to let Rhames and the others enter, only to agree to let them in but lock them up so they don't "steal anything" (he takes his job very seriously!). But over the course of the film he softens to them, backs them up when necessary, and - sniff - dies a hero, blowing himself up with a huge swarm of undead so that the others can escape. And there's no other evil human really, either - Ty Burrell's Steve is a rich jerk, yes, but apart from being a coward he never does anything truly despicable (on the bad guy scale he's somewhere between Cooper in NOTLD and, well, Kelly's character). As much as I love the original, I've always kinda lost interest once a bunch of pirates show up out of nowhere to provide the impetus for them to leave - I actually prefer this one's version, where they decide to move on from their would-be paradise only for things to go south.
In fact, that third act "we're leaving the mall" sequence is one of the few times I found myself mentally comparing this one to the original, and it's interesting the context was "they improved it". That said, it's a shame that Snyder and Gunn opened themselves up to two easy criticisms that the original did indeed do a better job with. One is the use of the mall itself; while Romero and his team managed to use the big department store and several of its little ones for various action sequences and character beats ("robbing" the mall's bank for poker money always sticks out as a charming gag), this Dawn seems content to stick its characters in front of a coffee shop for what seems like 75% of their time in the mall. There's no real sense of geography we can ever learn from their location, the bigger setpieces take place in areas that aren't mall-specific, like a parking garage, and even when they offer up a brief wish fulfillment "let's make the most of our living situation" type montage it's curiously light on using the material wealth at their disposal. Two characters are seen trying on luxury clothing and Steve uses the electronic store's demo equipment to film/watch himself having sex with one of the others, but that's about it - most of the other slice of life snippets (two of the guys playing basketball, the younger characters/lovebirds peering through a telescope at night, etc) could have taken place anywhere.
The other easy complaint is that it's not a particularly scary film, but that one's more defensible - they were clearly making more of an action movie version of a zombie outbreak tale. All you have to do is look at Snyder's subsequent films to know that he's more excited by guys throwing punches than swinging kitchen knives, so over time it's less and less of a surprise to watch this and discover that it only has a handful of legit scary moments (unless you are like my wife and scared enough by the basic *idea* of zombies to freak out over their appearance regardless of how they act). But it's still very much the odd man out in Snyder's filmography; it has some of his slo-mo stuff (usually of bullet casings hitting the floor) and goofily on-the-nose soundtrack selections (namely "People Who Died" over the credits), but thanks to Gunn's script and the budget (far less than half of anything he's worked with since) it never feels like a "Zack Snyder film" as we know it today.
Then again, since I like it more than anything he's made since (300 being the only other one of his films I can say I really like, with Watchmen being a mostly decent attempt at something I'm not sure anyone could have pulled off in a feature film and everything else being... mostly watchable, at best?), I guess that only helps its case as one of the better horror updates, if not ever at least from the remake-heavy 2000s. Since it's more likely that younger folks have actually seen both versions (unlike say, The Fly), I find myself using it more and more as a good example of the best way to go about remaking a horror movie - while carefully noting that I don't PREFER it, lest the listener tune out anything I have to say after. I'd love to read Gunn's original script (it had at least two uncredited rewriters) as I suspect I'd like it even more, as I am more in tune with his sensibilities than Snyder's*, but as it stands it's an engaging and fun take on the material that has held up quite well over the years. And its success helped Universal agree to fund Romero's Land of the Dead the following year, while never making a sequel (or even another movie with Snyder, for that matter), so even if I hated it, I'd at least have to give it some respect for that much. Everyone - except whoever started that boycott petition - wins!
*Indeed, on the commentary Snyder laments not showing Jake Weber's character shooting himself, as if any sane viewer would want to see that. No surprise from the guy who'd later consider showing Batman being sexually assaulted in prison.
Fandom can often seem the worst aspect of any given media franchise today. While most fans are positive about what they love, many aren’t, and toxic voices easily drown out the rest. Many fandoms are affected by this kind of rot, but the rot itself always exhibits the same characteristics - vicious hatred towards art that doesn’t meet their tastes, capitalistic ownership over creators, and entitlement to have a say in how art is made. It makes being a more-positive fan exhausting, and it has the potential to turn creators off creating things altogether.
We’ve seen fans strike back at creators many times in recent years, with varying degrees of rancidity and success. Mass Effect 3’s ending was trashed upon its release, with fans successfully demanding an expansion from developer BioWare making its ending more thoroughly explicit. Misogynists and racists have attacked a broad range of titles for their increased diversity, most visibly Star Wars and Marvel, blending invisibly with fans merely bilious over how their favourite characters’ stories went, and completely failing in their attempts to curb progress. DC fans have lobbied Warner Brothers for years over a “Snyder Cut” of Justice League, the existence of which is doubtful at best. The film adaptation of Sonic the Hedgehog has been delayed to accommodate fan rage over its protagonist’s design, incurring additional VFX costs that almost definitely won’t be matched by additional box office. And most recently, a petition to remake the final season of Game of Thrones has topped a million signatures.
Look, if you’re unhappy with a movie or a season of television, I get it. We all invest a lot of emotion in stories - that's literally the entire point of stories - and it can be crushing when they don’t turn out how we want them to. The underlying anger behind fan petitions and other “fan actions” frequently appears to be caused by fans not getting what they, specifically, want. Some say that outright, like a Game of Thrones petition signature quoted by Deadline, saying (somewhat ironically) “I would like to see the best in people, not the worst.” Others make broad, nominally craft-related complaints (“the writing is terrible!”), but when pressed, frequently can’t back them up without admitting that they just don’t like the outcome of the story.
We see a lot of similar traits in these backlashes. Many incidents centre on the culmination of countless hours of storytelling, spread over multiple years, generating so much emotional investment that the mere existence of an ending will be anticlimactic regardless of the actual content. Bringing long-running stories to an end is hard, and it’s near-impossible to please everybody, especially when they’ve had years to formulate their personal dream endings.
When creatives become publicly associated with their creations in audiences’ minds, the whiplash from praise to blame can be stunning. The flat structure of social media amplifies and grants outsize visibility to extreme opinions, while allowing fans to spew their rage directly at those “responsible”. And when there’s overlap between the fan community and already-toxic online hate elements, it becomes all the worse. The inevitable end result of all this is fans petitioning the creators of their favourite works to remake those works, or hand them over to someone who will.
I could write (and in a couple cases, have written) entire essays defending the various choices made by Game of Thrones’ showrunners, or Mass Effect 3’s developers, or Rian Johnson, or even the makers of Sonic. I like many of those choices. Those that I don’t like, I can still mostly respect. Those I don’t respect, I can always understand as the result of creative or budgetary constraints. Art is hard to make, especially at a budget and visibility level enjoyed (or suffered) by the work we’re talking about here. But this debate, such that it is, runs deeper than any one person’s reasons for liking or disliking specific creative decisions.
Honestly, there’s only one way to respond to this particular kind of anger: tough shit. It’s not your story; you’re just listening to it.
Despite Comic-Con rhetoric to the contrary, movies, TV shows, and games do not belong to the fans, and fans do not have control over the storylines - nor should they. It’s not even a matter of who would make the “better” decisions; it’s a matter of who’s telling the story, and producers, writers, directors, and developers are the ones doing that. They’re the ones working their asses off (if I see one more clueless Internet personality calling a creative team “lazy,” I will scream) for our entertainment pleasure, and demanding changes to fit your personal taste is ridiculous and disrespectful to their work.
Storytelling media is art made by individuals to their own taste, then put out into the world in the hope that it’ll fit others’ tastes. If it does, great; if it doesn’t, too bad. Some stories succeed, while others fail, and others still sit somewhere in the middle. There is no way at all to tell a story in a way that pleases everybody, whether it be a billion-dollar franchise or a bedtime story. With franchises as popular as Star Wars or Game of Thrones or Mass Effect, with that many characters and plot threads, you’re lucky if you please half your audience.
Some people would claim that displeasing audiences is a dereliction of transactional duty - a revealing opinion clearly tied to the continued commodification of storytelling. There’s been a shift, of late, from stories as art to stories as product, or worse, as service. The rise of user-created content on the internet over the past decade or two further muddies this situation, truly making it seem, in many eyes, like anyone has the right - nay, the duty - to demand changes to other people's work.
These people often take the “consumer rights” road, claiming that they have the right to get the product they wanted. With the same casual entitlement that one might send a hairy soup back to the kitchen, they’ll snap their fingers and ask creators to do it again, but better this time. But unlike an actual television, you can’t return a TV show claiming it doesn’t function as advertised, because the quality of art is entirely subjective. Nobody gives you a money-back guarantee that you’d be satisfied with where a story goes - it’s a story, and it’s exempt from the kind of consumer rights that exist around, say, faulty spark plugs or salmonella-infected food.
This has resulted in what, to anyone who’s ever created a work of art, is something of a capitalist nightmare. If creators listened to every individual complaint about our art, they'd go mad, and indeed, it's only recently that they have been doing so. Social media makes individual responses more intrusive and present, and it has fomented awful pressure between creators and audiences. Angry fans brandish their wallets and demand change, because they spent $12 on that ticket, God damn it, and they deserve to be unreservedly happy with the result.
That’s a pointless waste of energy, considering that outside Kickstarter scenarios, consumers don’t directly fund the creation of work at all. But personal pressure is a powerful weapon against storytellers, who tie their self-worth to their work as creators just as tightly as media corporations encourage fans to tie their identities to it as consumers. When marketing and society reinforces to you just how important it is that You Love This Thing, it’s easy to view unexpected or unwanted developments as personal attacks. After all, you love that thing. It is you, and you it. This kind of entitlement - one cultivated by decades of shifting culture - helps cause the trouble the creator-consumer relationship now has. It’s not limited to huge corporate products - see the outrage whenever indie creators make something they want to make, as opposed to what The People want them to - but the culture has been led by them.
Life is full of disappointments. If you thought a television show was able to crush your dreams, wait until you discover careers, or relationships, or your own life choices in general. Sometimes we just have to take disappointment on the chin and move on. It’s a key life skill, and one that will only become more important as the world teeters toward difficult compromises becoming necessary for our very survival. If you’re disappointed with yourself, you can try to work on that. But there are a lot of things you can't change in life, and unless you’re personally commissioning it, "somebody else’s art" is among those things.
Art isn’t a democracy, and it’s not driven entirely by the free market, either. If it weren’t for being created by individuals, no bold choices would ever be made, and art would cease to be interesting. As a result, art is seldom enjoyed equally by everyone. That’s just part of the unwritten contract between creator and viewer. We all wish that films and TV shows and other media were perfect. But what’s perfect for me won’t be perfect for you, and vice versa. Your favourite movie will be someone’s least-favourite movie, and your most-hated movie will be somebody’s most-adored. All artists can truly hope to do is to make art that’s true to their own intentions. The fact that some fan campaigns have worked against that is a troubling precedent.
We moved on from the Star Wars prequels, and in time, we’ll move on from the rest of this stuff too. You don’t have to like something to accept it, and you don’t have to hate something to criticise elements of it. If you’re unhappy with a show or a movie, you’re every bit within your rights to be grumpy. Write a review. Rant to your friends. Hell, “fix” the situation for yourself and make your own damn movie, if that’s your jam. But don’t expect it to be remade in any official capacity just to appease you. If you don’t like it, you don’t like it - and that’s fine. Take a breath and learn to live with it.