★★☆☆☆
Two Stars

When Julianne Moore glided to the Oscars podium to accept her Academy Award for best actress this past March, she was carried there on the back of years of wonderful performances in brave, daring films. Still Alice, in which Moore turns in another tour de force as the titular Alice, is unfortunately not one such film. The film is staid, disjointed and inescapably naff, except for the few wonderful individual performances it features. Thankfully it’s smart enough to allow Moore to shine. What we’re left with is a terrific performance in search of a film.

Directed by husband-and-husband team, Wash Westmoreland and the late Richard Glatzer, the film follows the mental decline of a Columbia Linguistics professor after the discovery that she is afflicted by a form of early onset Alzheimer’s. The later revelation that her condition is hereditary places her deterioration at the centre of a dysfunctional family drama. She begins to forget words, faces, and places. In the film’s lone stylistic idiosyncrasy, the focus pulls in close to Moore, who expertly shows us the sheer terror at the centre of the blur around her. Glatzer and Westmoreland are at least able to serve Moore’s talent.

She struggles to convince her husband, played by Alec Baldwin, that her mental deterioration needs to be taken seriously. Baldwin is given little to do as the minor villain of the piece but delivers beautifully in his precisely underplayed final scene opposite Kristen Stewart, who stars in a supporting role as Alice’s daughter.

Stewart, too, is wonderful. As always, she’s an unpredictable presence on screen, filled with a nervous, lively energy. She listens, lives and reacts in front of the camera, rather than performing. Elsewhere, Kate Bosworth never quite elucidates the coherent core of her character, and the inexplicable texture of her face’s skin distracts amidst a cast of such expressive performers.

The film lacks momentum beyond merely watching Moore expertly navigate the different stages of Alice’s deterioration. It lays breadcrumbs here and there which later pay off in variably satisfying ways. The film feels listless, almost cruel, subjecting its protagonist to debatably unnecessary humiliations. It crawls to a close, but thankfully not before allowing Stewart and Moore to deliver a note-perfect emotional resolution.

The film’s made for television feel is matched by an uninspired, drab visual palate and a vaseline-smeared lens. The film findspurpose in its greetings-card level belief in the power of love and living in the moment, but doesn’t reach for much profundity beyond the obvious gravity of terminal illness, and the loss of self. A terrifying premise is squandered by the film’s unimaginative, prescriptive qualities.

More so than its similarly illness-based sibling The Theory of Everything, which also brought Oscar glory to Eddie Redmayne, the film dances uncomfortably around its elitism-laced premise. Still Alice locates its true tragedy in the loss of Alice’s greatness, as her superior intellect and revered brilliance gradually leave her. The film’s tastefully decorated open plan homes and Hamptons cottages are the stability against which Moore’s unpredictable descent is contrasted. The film seems overly concerned with the terror of reality impinging on a middle class idyll.

Beginning with 1995’s Todd Haynes collaboration Safe, through Boogie Nights, Magnolia, Cookie’s Fortune, Far From Heaven and 2007’s Savage Grace, Moore has delivered virtuoso performance after virtuoso performance. She continues to be awardable for practically any film she has deigned with her presence. Even this past year, her insane, dark, vanity-free turn as a narcissistic, damaged former starlet in Cronenberg’s Maps to the Stars deserved the lion’s share of recognition. It’s a far braver performance in a far better film than Still Alice, yet lacking the politeness required of any serious Oscar bait, and thus unfortunately overlooked. It’s to Moore’s credit that she is willing to take great parts in otherwise bland material, as she elevates the film above its limited aspirations. She treads a meticulously drawn line between tasteful and expressive.

If the film ultimately connects, it’s because it is smart enough to stay out of the way of its talented lead cast. It’s a competently made film with little to say, beyond advocating Moore as the greatest working actress in American cinema. It’s a shame her Oscar finally came to her for a film so entirely safe and undeserving of her. Hopefully the ‘cache boost’ attached to her new gold statuette will get more of Moore’s avant garde fare into multiplexes.

★★★★☆
Four Stars

It is monumentally refreshing to find a horror picture that not only holds its own against other landmark chillers, but that also earns a place in the pedestal of the year’s best cinema. The Babadook takes its medium seriously, borrowing and learning from electric horror puppeteers. There’s a touch of Lynch, Carpenter, del Toro, and even Friedkin all mashed up in its pithy 95 minute running time. Jennifer Kent has not only created a timeless villain in the eponymous creature (which will surely find its way onto Halloween-stocked shelves in upcoming years) but more importantly she has crafted a timeless tale of motherhood, childhood, and the deep gulf that lies between them.

Australian gem Essie Davis is Amelia, a single mother at the end of her tether trying to cope with the erratic and wayward mind of her young son Samuel (Noah Wiseman). Sam’s father died en route to the maternity ward when Amelia was giving birth, and thus Amelia’s relationship with her son is muddied by a complex entanglement of mixed emotions. He represents for her both the miracle of life and a brutal reminder of the searing pain of death. Occasionally we see Amelia’s grief-stricken interior unleashed at her son, whose incessantly curious questions and demands never allow her a second to herself. It’s implied that Samuel may be autistic or require some special attention, but his emotional needs are the same as any other child growing up without a father. Unfortunately the rest of the world – namely Amelia’s friends and Samuel’s school teachers – do not see it that way, and his disruptive nature continually gets him into trouble.

At night, Samuel clings to his mother for comfort, and she must routinely prove to him that there are no monsters lurking beneath his bed, inside his wardrobe, or watching from the shadows. Samuel’s paranoid imagination never lets up, and Amelia is regularly starved of a decent night’s sleep. At bedtime, Amelia reads to Samuel classic children’s tales, but one night she allows him to choose a book for himself. From the shelf, Samuel returns with a mysteriously dark and previously unseen book, The Babadook, which tells of a sinister shadowy being that will haunt and scare until its victims beg for death. Shocked and appalled, Amelia attempts numerous times to destroy the book, but each time it finds its way back into their home, and with each reading its narrative grows more and more twisted and personal.

Before long, Amelia and Samuel begin hearing and seeing the monstrous Babadook. It develops a taste for their home, and shows no sign of letting up. Kent is a master of suspense, and we very rarely of course see the creature itself – at least not in its entirety – which appears to resemble something of a cross between Murnau’s Nosferatu and Craven’s Freddy Krueger, only sporting a towering top hat and thick black cloak. What we do see of the Babadook is just enough to give us the creeps, and each of its harrowing appearances shoots up every single hair on the back of your neck (especially with its shrill ET-on-helium whisper). In the most potent of the Babadook’s visits, Amelia resorts to ‘shielding’ herself under her duvet covers, praying that this will somehow make the creature give up or disappear. It’s highly reminiscent of a child hiding from their nightmares, and it proves just as fruitless.

Is the Babadook a symbolic black representation of Amelia’s depression? Does it represent the growing abyss between mother and son? Does this ‘children’s book’ which Amelia reluctantly reads signify not only the breakdown of Samuel’s bedtime reading, but arguably the last remaining mutual connection between them? Freud would have a field day with this film. It seems that Amelia’s adult anxieties have populated and corrupted the innocent world of Samuel’s childhood via the creepy pop-up volume. Or maybe, worst of all, the Babadook doesn’t signify anything. Perhaps the Babadook is nothing more than a sinister spectral creature hell-bent on haunting and wreaking havoc. That’s certainly much more terrifying.

Young Noah Wiseman is something of a revelation; his pale-faced sincerity pulls all of the right strings. As the film (and Amelia’s mental deterioration) progresses, Samuel emerges more and more like the adult out of the two of them. Amelia thinks she can simply sleep off or hide from her demons, but it is Samuel who dares to tackle their issues head-on, bravely coming to the protection of his mother armed with home-made weapons and lionhearted courage. And we can’t ignore the masturbation scene in which Amelia, taking a moment for herself, is interrupted by Samuel as he bursts into her room. Is there something Oedipal going on here? When Samuel’s father died on the way to the hospital, did Samuel ‘replace’ him in some way as the dominant masculine figure in Amelia’s life?

Perhaps it’s just too reductive to attempt to compartmentalise a film like The Babadook, which succeeds on its own terms without invasive analysis. Jennifer Kent doesn’t want us to get bogged down in the details of where Amelia and Samuel went wrong. What’s important is how the madness and terror of the Babadook brings them closer together. The Babadook warns, “the more you deny, the stronger I get.” There’s no better or more poignant analogy for the problems the mother and son undergo as a family. The message is clear. You can’t just sweep your dysfunctional issues under a rug and hope that they’ll disappear; it’s no use for them to pretend that their troubles are invisible. The only way for Amelia and Samuel to overcome their difficulties is to confront them head on: to look them straight in the eye and proudly proclaim “we’re not afraid of you”. 

The Barbican Centre, that gargantuan, sprawling labyrinth of brutalism, has been an intriguing space ever since it opened its doors to the public in 1982. Not only does its location in the heart of the City create a stark juxtaposition between its muted, Orwellian concrete and the polished sheen of the surrounding glass skyscrapers, the Centre itself has played host to an array of noteworthy events – being as comfortable with offering both the Royal Shakespeare Company and the New York Philharmonic residency as it is with putting on the largest Bauhaus exhibition in the UK. 

The Centre’s Art Gallery is currently inhabited by an exploration of the personal collections of a number of post-war and contemporary artists – the first major UK exhibition to take this focus. The variety of movements and time periods covered by the exhibitions’ range of featured artists is impressive, yet is not quite reflected in the collections themselves. At times the gallery can seem somewhat bare, and, with only a small part of each artist’s collections featured, one cannot help thinking that the Barbican could (and should) have included more objects. Nonetheless, there is still enough here to give some insight into each artist’s taste. Interestingly, certain types of objects crop up repeatedly: rare taxidermy, pop culture kitsch, and eldritch dolls being particularly ubiquitous. 

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But this needn’t be a criticism of Magnificent Obsessions. There are plenty of other objects on show to ensure that the exhibition never becomes tedious or dull. Pae White’s exquisitely hung collection of Vera silk scarves, as well as Martin Parr’s wacky assortment of Soviet space dog memorabilia, are particular highlights. The layout also ensures that the whole experience never becomes monotonous. Upon entering the gallery, staff immediately inform visitors that there is no defined route to explore the exhibition, leaving one to wander through the different rooms freely. The fact that, rather than grouping the more organised collections together, the exhibition intersperses the organised with the more chaotic and hoard-like, ensures that visitors are kept on their toes as they pick their path through the gallery. Moreover, the objects that do recur highlight a shared interest of artists who, by working with different mediums and within different movements, share little else.

There seems to be something particularly attractive about stuffed six-legged goats and garish mainstream collectables. But Magnificent Obsessions never attempts to articulate exactly what this attraction is, instead preferring to leave interpretation of these collections largely up to the viewer. Apart from a brief outline of each artist’s life, major work, and their collecting habits, the exhibition offers little explicit information – the collections themselves take centre-stage. To some, the enigmatic exhibition that results will be highly enjoyable. To others, it may grow infuriating. To suspend our common desire to achieve full comprehension of our experiences, to bathe purely in the spectacle, is the best way to enjoy Magnificent Obsessions.

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Magnificent Obsessions: The Artist as Collector 

★★★☆☆

Three Stars

Get my 2016 Poldark calendar on pre-order. I shall start the new year with him windswept and galloping across Bodmin Moor. In February he can be rolling up his sleeves and glistening with delicious sweat down the copper mine. May seems like an appropriate month for skinny dipping in Porthgwarra’s bizarrely tropical waters. And in July, just in time for my birthday, I will be regaled with him wielding his scythe in the fields, all chiselled chest and baby-oil gleam. Swoon.

Poldark, as you may have gathered, is a very visual show. Between sublime scenic shots of Cornwall and jaw-dropping close-ups of the protagonist’s torso, it’s certainly a feast for the eyes. The man behind the sensual scar is Aidan Turner, who apart from being the star of my fervid dreams, has also featured in The Hobbit trilogy and BBC Three’s Being Human. His leading-man looks have proven a resounding success with viewers: a recent Twitter Q&A rapidly descended into a deluge of innuendo-ridden proposals. Naturally, the BBC has grabbed onto him with both hands, with Turner rumoured to have already signed a contract for five more years as the brooding heartthrob.

The character of Poldark has appeared on our screens before. He had his first airing on the BBC in 1975, with much the same premise as today. An officer in the British army, Poldark has been away fighting in the American War of Independence. He returns to discover that his father has died in his absence, and his lover, Elizabeth, is due to wed his cousin, Francis.

He resolves that the best way to deal with these problems is by taking his shirt off, cracking out a cheeky grin, and tossing back his thick, dark locks. Side note: there is so much enviable hair in this show. As if Poldark’s swishy black mop wasn’t enough, there’s also Demelza’s luscious auburn cascade and Elizabeth’s veritable mane of ringlets to contend with. Soz Francis, but if you want to play with the big boys, you’d better at least muster some sort of fringe.

Yet let it be noted that for all the gratuitous shots of Aidan Turner’s slicked-up torso, Poldark’s authority in the realm is in no way undermined by his smouldering looks. In Poldark land (aka 18th century Cornwall), old white men in funny wigs very much rule the roost. The sole preoccupation of the female characters, on the other hand, is to be the object of Ross’s affection. So are you Team Elizabeth or Team Demelza? As Ross lurches between them, the two heroines (his former sweetheart and his hired help, respectively) are pitted against each other for the audience’s support. I refuse to take sides.

Personally, my favorite character is Verity, Francis’s sister, who is hurtling at breakneck speed towards spinsterhood. Compassionate but reserved, her whirlwind affair with hot-tempered Captain Blamey came to a swift halt when her family learnt of his reputation. I’m hoping before the end of the series, Verity gets the happiness she deserves.

But oh, to be Ross Poldark’s ‘serving wench’! He only plucked you from urchinhood to sweep his floors and cook his tea, but then he makes you his wife and you get to do the same job for free. In return, he’ll buy you a book and help you practice your letters, because you’re a pitifully illiterate waif, and also he really cares about class inequality and stuff. When people ask him if he loves you, he’ll tell them the two of you ‘get on’. He might even concede that you’re pretty too, ‘in a way’. And when he finds out that baby Poldark is rapidly germinating under your bodice, in a sultry murmur he’ll say the words that every woman longs to hear – ‘you’ve redeemed me’. Cheers for that, Ross. I bet Demelza’s beginning to wish she’d unbuttoned that dress herself!

In the latest episode, the ladyfication process has begun for Ross’s former servant. The poor girl must learn, Pygmalion-style, how to do civilised things like walking in a straight line, instead of splaying her feet out sideways like the grotesquely gauche peasant she is. Society is at first shocked and appalled by the idea of this blithe little parvenu shacking up with Cornwall’s lushest bachelor. But then your girl Demelza saunters in for Christmas dinner looking insanely hot in a festive scarlet number, throws major shade at spiteful, spurned Ruth Teague, and sings a little folk ditty while everyone stares at her so intently you can tell they’re really thinking hard about stuff. Boom. All those harp lessons were for naught, Elizabeth. Nada.

That said, I can’t help feeling sorry for Liz. None of this is her fault and she’s clearly still hankering after a piece of the Poldark. But instead of draping herself across his bedsheets, she’s stuck in a loveless marriage to Ross’s incompetent cousin, Francis, who somehow thinks it’s appropriate to mither her for sex approximately tow minutes after she’s given birth. Ross still loves her back – evidently so – although he’s clearly finding some consolation in the arms of ‘people’s hero’ Demelza. None of this would have happened if you’d written poor Lizzie a letter, Ross. Even a hasty note. Just saying.

Irritatingly, all these interesting romantic bits of Poldark are frequently sidelined for some Important Business Plotline Which Probably Reflects Our World Today. The bankers are ruthless. The greedy mine owners won’t pay their workers a living wage. No-one will invest in Ross’s startup. These aspects of the show feel more like a distraction than genuinely engaging intrigues. It’s the love story which is really the main attraction here.

And let’s be honest: Poldark isn’t exactly a genre-defining period drama. The acting is a little patchy, the writing somewhat stunted and the plot development predictable. But I’m more than willing to give the show some credit. It’s an enjoyable, seductive romp with a broad appeal and some truly stunning locations. And most gratifying of all? Poldark makes sterile Sunday evenings spent watching Call the Midwife seem like a mercifully distant memory.

★★★☆☆

Three Stars

It is hard to hate Insurgent. Equally, it is hard to love it. The film inspires indifference, nothing more, nothing less. It falls conventionally into place alongside all teenage-fiction inspired movies which have unfortunately plagued cinemas since the pitiful Twilight Saga commenced in 2008. Since then we have endured a chain of predictable teenage supernatural- romance movies including Beautiful Creatures, Beastly, and Mortal Instruments amongst many others. More recently, and perhaps having achieved wider acceptance into the world of cinema is The Hunger Games.

It is a shame that Insurgent has been so widely compared to The Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins, author of The Hunger Games Trilogy, never attempts to conceal the brutality of the world which she has created and the message of her books is precise and powerful. Veronica Roth, author of The Divergent Trilogy however seems heavily aware of her teenage audience and the narratives are artificially fluid with an awareness of future screen adaption. The Divergent films will not break free from its predictable teenage-fiction label, because it bows to these conventions too easily.

Insurgent follows guilt-stricken Tris (Shailene Woodley) and pouty pretty-boy Four (Theo James) along their wanderings of the ruins of Chicago, in a world organised into ‘factions’ defined by personality traits. Before their 119 minutes of screen time comes to an end, Tris and Four manage to visit firstly Amity Faction, then the Factionless, the Candor Faction, and even the Erudite Faction. They’ve attempted to escape from bad guy Jeanine (Kate Winslet) and her magic box, and then attempt to fight Jeanine and her magic box. The film becomes rhythmical; intense conversation, fighting, running, intense conversation, fighting, running, and so on.

The scenes change rapidly; no conversation lasts for longer than five minutes, resulting in clichés and dramatic phrases hanging at the end of each passage. The insertion of haunting dreams about Tris’ past deeds, does nothing more than force Insurgent deeper into its teen-fiction genre. Conveniently there is always someone who can come to the rescue at the last moment, whether that be on a cargo train, at Candor headquarters, or in an experimental laboratory at the centre of the Erudite.

The problem however, lies more with the exhausted genre of the film, rather than the film itself. The narrative is interesting enough and quite entertaining. Lead actress Shailene Woodley is exceptional in her performance as fearless Tris Prior, and alongside her, the cast perform moderately well. The special effects are outstanding and the cityscape shots are remarkable in their detail and vivacity. Anyone not acquainted with the last ten years of cinema would find this film gripping and revolutionary in its visual material and narrative.

Elements of the story even come as a refreshing surprise; for instance, the unreliable personality of Four’s mother and the shifting allegiances of various persons. It is a pity however, that the unpredictable and original ideas within the film can be counted on one hand. Whilst having taken inspiration from The Matrix and undeniably The Hunger Games, this film marks a period in contemporary cinema where futuristic settings are starting to all look, sound and function in the same way.

Tris is a strong character, physically and mentally. She does not allow her relationship with Four to define her. Rather, she is constantly taking the lead and shows no physical vulnerability. Four, it seems, is much more emotionally enwrapped with her and passively follows through with her choices. The snorts of disgust I overheard in the cinema from a group of teenage boys after witnessing Tris’ new, shorter haircut highlight the alarming conventions which continue to dominate the image of women in contemporary film. If the female is to be a strong protagonist, then she must be generically beautiful, vulnerable and submissive to her male counter-part. Insurgent does not conform to many of these conventions, and for that, it is worthy of praise.

Yet as a whole, Insurgent doesn’t particularly stand-out. Indeed the film is more exciting than the novel and clears up some of the details at the end that don’t make a whole lot of sense; even if this sense of confusion still lingers at the end of the film-adaption. What exactly is the whole faction ecosystem testing? It doesn’t quite seem to add up.

But the fast-pace soon forces the viewer to forget about the details which aren’t entirely compatible. The film is engaging and amusing even if it seems to lack an emotional core. If you are looking to spend two hours on passive entertainment then Insurgent is the perfect choice for you! Begin the film without any expectations, and you may even be pleasantly surprised.

★★★★☆

Four Stars

Vengeance, violence, and the flames of passion: these are the order of the day in Wild Tales. Damián Szifron’s rambunctious collection of shorts links six stories through the assertion that the vengeful capabilities lying just under the surface of the common man could at any time boil over, and bring an end to orderly civilisation as we know it. The Argentinian Oscar-nominee premiered to a rapturous response at last year’s Cannes festival (with some sources alleging a ten minute standing ovation) but is only now opening to audiences around the UK. Good news, then – it was worth the wait.

The film is never truer to its mission statement than in the fourth segment, arguably the centrepiece. In it, a demolitions expert (played to perfection by Ricardo Darín) is being worn down to a nub by his circumstances. Experiencing difficulties at home and at work, it’s more than he can take when he finds his car being repeatedly towed by a corrupt corporation for supposed parking infractions. Herein lies the genius of the film – each segment sets up its characters in mundane situations which are utterly recognisable, from the car-towing to a serious bout of road rage, to an immaculately planned wedding reception which goes horribly awry. Wild Tales examines ordinarily-functioning members of society who are just a stone’s throw from total breakdown, and it’s the familiarity of these premises which give the film its universal appeal.

The meltdowns which follow are invariably a joy to behold, and to give away more plot details would be to spoil the glee with which we voraciously watch events unfold. Safe to say, though, that Szifron must be singled out for particular praise – he is the sole writing and directing credit for each of the six episodes, which is surely crucial to the stylistic and thematic cohesion that the film enjoys (an issue on which other anthologies, often with a different helmer for each story, stumble).

Szifron’s vivid imagination is on display throughout as he plays around with an assortment of genres (segments lean variously towards thriller, horror, melodrama) and structures (the first story is just a few minutes long, a flawless distillation of an idea, while others opt for a slow burn – or indeed a rapid, fiery, ultraviolent escalation) and through it all he never loses sight of the central examination of humanity’s potential to revert to its baser instincts. Composer Gustavo Santaolalla and cinematographer Javier Juliá also contribute to the film’s impeccable craftsmanship, and each dramatic set-piece (there are several which will leave you stunned) is beautifully shot and realised – on a technical level, the film leaves nothing to be desired.

That’s not to say that Wild Tales is faultless, however – maintaining the energy crucial to this premise for the full two-hour runtime proves a difficult task, on top of which there’s something inherently exhausting about restarting and committing yourself to six separate storylines. By the fourth or fifth segment, I was beginning to struggle to fully invest myself in the new scenarios, and it felt as though the film had lost a little of the first half’s giddy irreverence and fervent potency. I hesitate to place the blame with Szifron’s execution so much as the inherently problematic structure, and suspect that the film would have benefitted from having either fewer stories (one supposes there’s a reason 3 is something of a magic number for anthologies) or more narrative/character through-lines, if only to provide something to hold onto when going from one story to the next.

That said, Wild Tales at its worst still has a great deal to offer, and when firing on all cylinders (as it frequently is) the film is euphorically anarchic. Szifron’s directorial voice is a fascinating combination of Luis Buñuel’s satirical bite and keen sense of the line between absurdity and the banal, and Pedro Almodóvar (who, one is not surprised to discover, has a co-producing credit on this film): here, Szifron emulates Almodóvar’s ability to put his characters through the emotional ringer in colourful and sadistic ways whilst always treating them with the utmost affection and respect.

The result is a film which knows exactly when to pull the trigger, and send everything snowballing into uncontrollable violence. Wild Tales invites us to journey with its characters into oblivion, and how can we decline when the ride is this much fun?