drama

Coming-of-age drama meets Cornish folklore. I loved the combination. Flora Hylton and Joel Sefton-Iongi, both making their debuts, are terrific as Evie and Adam, two pre-teens drawn to a disused tin mine and the knockers said to haunt it. Director Lucy Cohen uses the legend as a way into what the pair share, a missing father each, which she handles delicately. There’s a specific scene in Adam’s mum’s car on the cliffs which is very well done. And it’s a beautiful film: Rachel Clark’s photography is great throughout.

In the pantheon of 90s Grisham adaptations this one sits in the middle, some way below The Firm. The cast is overstuffed and even 135 minutes isn’t enough to find work for all of them. Voight is good value as Drummond, full of expensive false courtesy, and DeVito might be the best thing in it as Deck, the paralegal who keeps failing the bar. Claire Danes is good too, stuck in a subplot with no route back to the insurance case; the film keeps setting the trial down to go and check on Kelly Riker. The rest is genre-by-numbers, and it’s no surprise I forgot that I’d already seen it until I was a fair way in.

Really quite uncomfortable. Mia McKenna-Bruce is outstanding: in the film’s third act, the camera sometimes lingers on her face for minutes at a time, and they are some of film’s most powerful moments.

I’ve said before how much I enjoy films about institutional cover-ups and the legal and media process of uncovering them. Hadn’t got round to this one until now. My librarian tendencies will show when I say that the best parts are the archive-digging ones: church directories, the euphemisms in the personnel listings (sick leave, unassigned), four reporters slowly working out just how many names that adds up to. Ruffalo gives Rezendes the right kind of intensity. McAdams does things with greater calm but no less well. Liev Schreiber plays Marty Baron at roughly half the volume of anyone else in the room, and makes me wonder why we don’t see much more of him in big-screen roles.

Starts like the first chapter of a Murakami novel. Mundane daily life set out in patient detail. I was waiting for a talking cat to turn up. Wenders luxuriates in the routine instead. The cassettes, the sandwich on the same bench, the photographs nobody else will see, the tree seedlings.

The second half fills the character of Hirayama in without explaining him. His niece’s arrival nudges the routine sideways; his sister’s subsequent appearance hints at a complicated backstory. When she asks whether he really cleans toilets for a living, the nod he gives back is confident, proud, and tells you more than the tears that follow. The music is great; every cassette feels like a deliberate choice rather than a needle-drop for the sake of it.

A VHS staple, seen a hundred times. I first watched it as a teenager, around the time I was getting into the Clash; given how much of my taste Lloyd Dobler and Martin Blank went on to shape, I’m amazed I never started kickboxing.

I’ve rewatched a bunch of John Cusack films this summer and the running thread has been something like moral compromise. That doesn’t work here. Lloyd has no angle and nothing to trade. It belongs to James Court instead, secretly up to no good and justifying it in a terrible, burdensome way. John Mahoney never lets him stop believing his excuse, right through the prison visit. I miss him a lot. Such a talented actor.

Ione Skye is good, though this is Lloyd’s film. Romantic without ever tipping into sentimentality. The boombox got the glory and the memes but the last scene is the best in the film. The pair of them, future undecided, waiting to take off.

Corporate thrillers are my thing, and ones set in broadcasting doubly so. Mann films the CBS half with the tension he’d normally give a heist: lawyers, standards meetings, the slow discovery that the network absolutely, in fact, will fold. His characters keep fucking up their own shit on principle, and I’ll watch that every time. Crowe is very good as Wigand, all clenched jaw and short fuse. Pacino does a lot of stock Pacino, which is fine by me. But Christopher Plummer’s Mike Wallace is the best thing in it, vain and shrewd and a lot better at his job than anyone in the room wants to admit. At 157 minutes it isn’t flabby, though nobody would miss, oh, let’s say, fifteen of them.

Obsession, loneliness and grief, all routed through parochial matters: a visitor centre, a walking tour, a few plaqued rocks that a historically Important man once sat on to think. I don’t quite know what it’s like to build a life around something that disappears overnight, but Peter Mullan’s Kenneth gives me a strong sense of it. It runs with comedy and sadness at the same time rather than alternating between them and, similarly, Gazelle Twin’s score keeps a low hum of unease where otherwise there might be whimsy. A curious little film with lots to like about it, and a last act that goes somewhere I wasn’t expecting, shifting what was in balance more clearly over to one side.

The cultural awareness class demonstrating an appropriate slow dance to Hot Chocolate is the best joke in the film, and it happens in the first five minutes. The deadpan continues after that, but relatively thinly, and I spent much of the runtime waiting for it to come back at strength. Otherwise: humanising; at times uplifting; quite beautifully shot.

This review may contain spoilers.

Marty Mauser is a confidence man, and the film is built almost entirely out of his energy: when he talks the world seemingly rearranges itself around him. I spent the whole thing wanting him to fail to the point where it coloured my enjoyment of the film.

Some of that is the Safdie method pointed somewhere new. In Uncut Gems, Howard Ratner was unbearable in a similar way, but he was prey: always the smallest man (figuratively) in the room, owing money to bigger ones, hunted through every scene. The sympathy was more structural; you root for anything being chased. Marty has the wind behind him. He gets the components of the underdog (small man, big rivals, sport as the ladder out) while functioning as a predator on everyone within reach. I didn’t enjoy the mismatch.

The consequences do arrive but they’re a little more bureaucratic rather than escalating: too late to enter the Championship because of his own scheming, flying home with GIs because he’s burned his passage, missing the birth of his son. Every closed door in the last act is one he built himself.

And he never seems to notice. He talks his way past each of them exactly as he’s talked his way past everything else, right up to demanding a real rematch with Endo. The confidence man suddenly insisting on the genuine article, perhaps the neatest trick he pulls and, like me, if you aren’t charmed, the one worked on the audience rather than by the character.

Which leaves the recognition nowhere to happen except that final shot: hands clamped over the mouth that ran the whole con, glasses still on, weeping at a baby behind glass in a room full of other people’s children. It’s beautifully played, almost entirely through containment. It’s also the only available location for a humbling the film never dramatises anywhere the camera can see, and the readings I’ve come across all say the same things: trading fame for family, coming to terms, the repercussions sinking in, etc. I don’t agree. He didn’t trade anything. He ran out of options and then cried where nobody could watch him do it. And anyway, who’s to say fatherhood isn’t the next scheme he’s going to try to exploit?

Umpteenth rewatch and the nostalgia has gone recursive on me. Linklater made this in 1993, looking back mid-70s he half-remembered and half-invented. I’m now looking back thirty-odd years to a film that was already looking back, which means the object of my longing is itself an act of longing. Turtles all the way down!

I was reading Svetlana Boym last week and she’d call this the reflective kind of nostalgia: not trying to restore anything, just steeping in the ache of it, aware the ‘76 on screen never quite existed and that my own first watch has been smoothed by the same process. I get older, the film stays the same age.

What holds up is how little happens, and of course how completely that’s the point. It’s a last-day-of-school film where the freedom on offer is mostly the freedom to drive around. Nobody’s having the time of their lives; they’re circling the parking lot waiting for lives to start, which at seventeen is exactly what it feels like.

The boxy aspect ratio squeezes the Alps into a portrait shape, which makes the peaks feel tall rather than wide. It also means the landscape never quite escapes the two men at the centre of it. All perfectly fine stylistic choices yet I still spent the first twenty minutes wishing someone would open the curtains.

Narratively it’s straightforward, and there’s no reward in coming for the plot. Two boys meet in Grana; one leaves, one stays; they build a house together decades later. Directors Van Groeningen and Vandermeersch let it run to 147 minutes and not all of that is essential. The Nepal digressions are interesting but you could skip one and lose nothing. What accumulates instead is a study of class and social mobility working itself out inside a friendship: Pietro’s family can afford to consider adopting Bruno, and that offer is the wound the rest of the film and their friendship circles.

The two of them see the world in completely incompatible ways and understand each other perfectly, which is a harder thing to dramatise than it sounds, and the leads Marinelli and Borghi do it mostly in silences. It builds to something genuinely affecting and it looks utterly beautiful.

Third in the summer’s John Cusack rotation, and the first where he’s actively running the con rather than absorbing someone else’s. Nick Easter arrives with the whole thing planned, and the fun is watching him work rather than watching him decide.

Which makes him the odd one out. David Shayne in Bullets Over Broadway trades his principles away a concession at a time. Buck Weaver in Eight Men Out is ruined for a compromise he never actually made, done for standing in the room. Even Martin Blank, who at least chose his profession, spends Grosse Pointe Blank trying to reverse out of it. (Incidentally: one of my favourite films. Cannot wait to rewatch it.) Here, Easter is the one who got there first, and knew what he was doing when he did.

The film belongs to the excellent Hackman. Rankin Fitch (a name that simply screams “Grisham adaptation”) with his wall of monitors is doing what Cusack usually does: playing it straight while everything around him gets sillier. And, of course, the plot gets sillier by the minute.

Hoffman, sharing a screen with Hackman for the first time in their careers, is somehow given nothing to do. I’ve seen this film before but had very little memory of it, and I suspect that will be the case again should I ever press play once more.

That scandal that Field of Dreams turned into myth, this time told straight. Where the other film lets Shoeless Joe walk out of the corn to be forgiven, this one keeps things factual: how the 1919 White Sox actually threw the World Series, and how they were ruined for it.

Another film I’m mostly watching for John Cusack. Here he plays Buck Weaver, the one who knew the plan, stayed quiet and took nothing. And who still paid the same price as the men who sold out. Not the same as his other characters’ moral slides: here a decent man is ruined for being in the same room. You want him to escape it all and you know he won’t.

Incidentally Strathairn and Sweeney are both good here. Actors you wish the industry had handed bigger careers.

The sort of high-concept swing nobody risks any more (which is of course a small tragedy). What struck me most was this: do this exact film with football and it’d be insufferable, yet with baseball it’s earnest and earned. The mundanities of another country’s sport arrive here as something close to myth. We don’t have that for football. Partly the game’s class baggage, partly a national suspicion of taking it too seriously, of being caught intellectualising a thing that’s meant to be felt. Costner stands in a cornfield talking to ghosts and it plays straight. Try the equivalent featuring a centre-half on a wet Tuesday in the Championship and you’re looking at something vastly different.

Three stories, each with a flicker of something that never quite holds. Jarmusch’s deadpan usually finds the warmth under the stillness; here the stillness is mostly just… still. Whatever thread runs through them (family as obligation? as performance?) is far too faint.

Paolo Sorrentino gives us Toni Servillo as a president in his final months: a former judge who values truth and certainty above all, a man who ponders but does not dream. Several pressing decisions await him, but the film is less concerned with the verdicts than with the weighing. Underneath it all sits a grief he can’t resolve, for a wife whose infidelity he learned too late to confront. A straightforward premise, and a fascinating character study built on it. Servillo brings exactly the gravitas and indecision the part needs, holding the screen while doing, on the face of it, very little.

I can see exactly why people love this. It hands you a version of your seventeen-year-old self and asks you to forgive her, which is a generous trick. The complaints land too. Lady Bird is a brat, and the world Gerwig builds around her is conspicuously white and insulated in ways that are never interrogated. But Ronan and Metcalf are excellent, the latter astonishing at times. Gerwig directs tightly. Other directors would have added at least 15 minutes of exposition.

Cooper’s least showy film and for me his best. The stand-up scenes could have been a vanity exercise for everyone involved; instead they’re the most honest stretch of the film. I’ve enjoyed Arnett’s bluster for years but he’s doing something else here and it suits him. Dern matches him scene for scene and then some, especially in the back half once Tess stops absorbing and starts pushing back. They feel like two people who have actually been married. I really enjoyed this.

A film about storytelling. Incredible to look at. Seems to have been an enormous labour of love; I expect my rating will rise or fall significantly upon a rewatch.