REVIEW: Hanna (dir. Joe Wright)

Cast: Saoirse Ronan, Eric Bana, Cate Blanchett, Jessica Barden, Olivia Williams, Jason Flemyng

We are deep in the Scandinavian wilderness: the land of Narnia and countless Grimm fairytales. A half frozen river chortles harmlessly through the plains, and on its banks baby bears roll carelessly in the snow. But something is stirring in the trees, and we catch a glimpse of a child huntress, barely in her teens, with white hair and icy blue eyes. She has stolen upon a magnificent elk, and with the whip-thud of an arrow she dispenses with her quarry. This is no child, this is a killer… this is Hanna.

This opening seems to tell us everything we need to know about Joe Wright’s Hanna: the story of a teenage girl (Ronan) trained from birth to be the perfect assassin. But as she stands over the elk, pistol in hand, and pulls the trigger, the title of the film – HANNA – explodes across the screen in vibrant red and white, reminiscent of Michael Haneke or some angry German punk video. Joe Wright isn’t going to stick to the rules here; he is taking us somewhere new, and we are strapped in ready to go.

Hanna’s father, Erik (Bana), is a rogue CIA agent who has escaped to this remote wilderness, and dedicated his remaining days to training his daughter in the art of self-defence. Now that she has come of age, he decides to let her out into the world to meet her fate – a twisted CIA operative, Marissa (Blanchett), who will stop at nothing to kill her. Hanna and Erik break up and agree to meet in Berlin once Marissa has been killed, but this difficult and lonely journey takes Hanna halfway across the world, through hidden desert bunkers, strange gypsy countryside, and looming industrial strongholds.

Being critical, the story is familiar and many of the occurrences and plot points are too convenient. But this film isn’t about jaw-dropping twists or eerie realism; it is about taking the classical elements of an action thriller (escaping from bunkers, hiding from German double-agents, smuggling away on ferries, etc) and blending them with an exciting and adventurous vision. Joe Wright mixes elements of fantasy, hyperrealism, and music video to create the sort of action thriller that Danny Boyle would be proud of. Long, choreographed chase sequences are broken up by striking, languid road trip settings; all accompanied by a thundering electronic score courtesy of The Chemical Brothers.

Physically Hanna is superhuman, and is capable of extraordinary strength and agility. But mentally she is a child, threatened by the size of the world, and the sheer number of people and distractions in it. Nobody could have played this role but Saoirse Ronan. She is a captivating cross between Catherine Deneuve and some bewitching Gaelic Goddess. She is effortlessly unaware of the camera’s obscuring glare, and always seems to float above the earthly machinations of  “acting”. She is unreachable, and utterly compelling.

This film channels the haunting fantasy of the Brothers Grimm, with the hazy, colourful power of Lolita, and the thumping action of a Bourne film. It is not an original story, and in other hands it might have appeared trashy; but Joe Wright is in great shape, and a string of successes has given him the confidence to break out into a new and energetic style. His vision, along with Ronan’s near flawless performance, elevate this interesting story into one of the must-see films of 2011.

REVIEW: I Saw the Devil (dir. Jee-woon Kim)

Cast: Byung-hun Lee, Min-sik Choi, Gook-hwan Jeon, Ho-jin Jeon, San-ha Oh, Yoon-seo Kim

Jee-woon Kim's crazed vengeance thriller follows the bewildering cat-and-mouse conflict between Kim Soo-hyeon, one of Korea’s most ruthless secret agents, and Kyung-chul, the psychopath that murdered his wife. We are introduced to the serial killer almost immediately, and Kim captures him soon after, meaning that mystery and suspense are quickly dispensed with. The ensuing story takes its queue from a surprising act: after beating Kyung-chul half to death, Kim nurses him back to health and leaves him with a thick wad of cash. The good cop has broken bad, he isn’t interested in the death or imprisonment of his wife’s killer, he wants to play…

As Kyung-chul preys on new victims and attempts to lay low with accomplices, Kim regularly appears to provide another agonising and tortuous beating. Kyung-chul slowly realises that he will never escape the unpredictable punishments of his ghostly nemesis: the hunter is now the hunted, and his face, frozen in fear, becomes the mask of his many victims. He escapes, of course, and Kim is forced once again to hunt him down before the desperate murderer can kill another of Kim’s dearest intimates.

Jee-woon Kim doesn’t bother too much with subtlety or realism (there are severed heads tumbling out of forensic briefcases, for heaven’s sake). Instead he concentrates on eking out a truly haunting thrill from the long, mundane battle between the bumbling psychopath and his ghostly, grieving tormentor. It is a masochistic vision that takes great pleasure in the slow and methodical instruments of violence and pain. The moral story revolves around the futility of vengeance; and by the end of the film we really are numb to all the anger and violence.

The only respite we are given from this bleak and horrific vision is the maniacal sense of humour that skips in and out of scenes like Macbeth’s porter. It is a grotesque hysteria that only adds to the chilling tone of the film, but that doesn’t make it any less funny in the moment. Watch out for the moment that Kyung-chul agonisingly attempts to remove a screwdriver from his hand, only for the handle to pop off instead!

Kim’s relentless vision would be even less watchable if it weren’t for the superb performances of his leading men. Byung-hun Lee (a precociously talented actor who looks barely half of his 40 years) is superb as the broken cop. He has the capacity to appear entirely in control – a hero – and then in the flicker of an eyelid he descends into violent madness. He is utterly convincing as the grieving man who is only just learning what he is capable of.

When we first meet Min-sik Choi, our rampaging psychopath, it is only Kim’s sledgehammer bluntness that alerts us to the fact he is a madman at all, so innocent and charming is his demeanour. But as we sink deeper into his grasp, Choi finds alarming new ways to lower himself further into the mind of the beast.

REVIEW: Thor (dir. Kenneth Branagh)

Cast: Chris Hemsworth, Natalie Portman, Tom Hiddleston, Anthony Hopkins, Stellan Skarsgård

It is difficult to watch this spate of Marvel films without sensing the derision with which they will be viewed by future generations. The way we snigger at Thundercats, so the teens of tomorrow will stare at us with revulsion when they discover that we not only survived a period of history where Iron Man 2 was considered the crowning highlight of the summer, but we were actually proud of it!

Thor, this year’s Marvel blockbuster, feels much the same as Iron Man 2 last year, and Captain America isn't going to break the mould when it is released in July.  The creative team behind this bland and forceful slagheap have picked the pockets of Hollywood’s recent success stories: the epic fantasy of Peter Jackson, the bullying energy of Michael Bay, and the tongue-in-cheek humour of Gore Verbinski. I am not especially enamoured of any of these Hollywood icons, so the pillaging of their respective muses is of trifling importance to me. But it is strange that the same legions of fanboys that flock to see their films also constitute the very demographic that allows this vacant and farcical Marvel franchise to sully their names and own our summers.

Thor is the headstrong son of Odin, King of Asgard and the unofficial figurehead of the ‘Nine Realms’. As Odin ages and his authority over the realms weakens, the Asgardians’ nemeses the Ice Giants begin to grumble, and another galactic war seems inevitable. Thor, persuaded by his silver-tongued brother Loki, tries to take matters into his own hands; but he succeeds only in speeding up the descent into war, and getting himself banished to Earth without his trusted hammer. While Loki steals to power in Asgard and slips towards the dark side, Thor must use his time in exile to grow into a reliable leader, so that he can return home and battle the forces of darkness.

The film… oh wait, he trots around after Natalie Portman while he’s on Earth… is the cinematic equivalent of diamante: it dazzles, but in a cheap and chintzy way. During the opening section we are given the entire history of intergalactic conflict in about thirty seconds; and I was too busy thinking up gags like, “where was this brevity in Hamlet, Kenneth?” to bother picking holes in the daft background narrative. After the history lesson, we retire to the floating, bronze and glass city of Asgard – the “brightest star in the firmament”. Somebody, somewhere, is proud of the art direction and animation that brings this city to life, but it just looks like a Lord of the Rings fan film. Even in three-dimensions it looks two-dimensional; and the costumes are a laughable cross between Spartacus and The Rocky Horror Show. In this setting, the twin delights of Anthony Hopkins and Tom Hiddleston (one of our country’s finest young talents) seem awkward and, rightly, ashamed.

When Thor arrives on Earth, Branagh substitutes CGI for cheap gags as our mighty hero is felled by a tazer and then a tranquiliser dart. Natalie Portman and Stellan Skarsgård are far too talented for their hopelessly under-developed comic book characters; and we breathe a bigger sigh of relief than Thor himself when his allies arrive from Asgard to take him back to the realm of turgid animation.

It seemed, for a while, as though graphic novel adaptations were reaching their own post-modernity. Fanboys were becoming aware of their own existential choices, auteurs were twisting the old clichés into something closely resembling art, and The Watchmen finally got its big screen debut. But this Marvel series proves that there are still millions of people who want nothing more from a summer blockbuster than the costumes and characters of their youth, filmed in 3D with expensive animation techniques. Well they are welcome to it. I for one will be spending the summer outside, looking forward to an autumn filled with pretentious, award-hungry indie flicks.

REVIEW: The Way (dir. Emilio Estevez)

Cast: Martin Sheen, Emilio Estevez, James Nesbitt, Deborah Kara Unger, Yorick van Wageningen

Tom is playing golf with his Country Club buddies in California when he receives news that his estranged son Daniel has been killed in a storm in the Pyrenees. Daniel was one day into the famed ‘Camino de Santiago de Compostela’ – an epic two month pilgrimage across the mountains from France to Spain, to the supposed resting place of St James. Tom travels to France to collect the ashes; and after a tormented, sleepless night he decides to take the trip in Daniel’s place, wanting to better understand the son he never knew.

But Tom is not alone for long, for the pilgrimage is a busy route populated with the world’s devout, overweight, and nicotine addicted. Joost is a sensitive and powerful Dutchman hoping to lose enough weight to persuade his wife back into the bedroom; Sarah is a sardonic Canadian with a smoking problem and a difficult past; and Irishman Jack, despite the torrential flow of words pouring from his mouth, is suffering from a rare case of writer’s block. These troubled souls – attracted to Tom’s aching, stubborn silence – form a makeshift gaggle, and help one another on their respective journeys.

Estevez’s script never quite does justice to the indescribable beauty of the pilgrimage. For each of the lonely souls that trudges through these mountains, the journey is an ethereal challenge: mundane and desperate, yet brilliant and life changing. But Estevez imposes a traditional narrative of highs and lows that will be enjoyed by even the most hardened of Hollywood hacks. This is supposed to be an adventure of discovery; but the route is all too familiar, the destination all too obvious.

The script is overly wordy, filled with twee clichés and simple emotional responses for actor and audience alike – do “sad”, do “elated”, do “flustered”. Long sequences that could have been beautifully rendered in silence are filled with the blabbering dialogue of a filmmaker too scared to film quietness in all its untameable beauty. Similarly, Estevez uses crass ghostly hallucinations to evoke the painful feelings of loss and guilt from which Tom is suffering; and every time ‘ghost Daniel’ appears on screen you can almost hear the frowns of those viewers hoping for a touch of subtlety.

But somehow, despite the simple and sometimes obtuse storytelling, there is something strangely intimate and mesmerising about this film. Estevez and his father, Martin Sheen, have a clear artistic chemistry, and a rare level of honesty that translates beautifully onto the screen. Sheen is excellent as Tom: he is fragile and confused, but still ruddy and headstrong. His explanation, to his doctor, that he is “going overseas to bring Daniel home” is a peculiarly American, almost military reaction to grief. We watch the walls of his California Country Club life come crashing down around him, and we know he is scared, exhilarated, and somehow relieved by it all.

Another reason for the mesmerising beauty of the film is the physical location of the pilgrimage. This long, meandering path has been etched into the ridges and fields of the Pyrenees for hundreds of years, and it doesn’t require a religious sensibility to feel overawed by the calm, gentle power of the area. It is not a beauty on the scale of the canyons of Utah or the mountains of Montana, but it is an unassuming beauty that lends the film a sense of eternal hopefulness.

REVIEW: Sucker Punch (dir. Zach Snyder)

Cast: Emily Browning, Abbie Cornish, Jena Malone, Vanessa  Hudgens… you get the picture

When Baby Doll tries to murder her drooling, abusive stepfather, she accidentally kills the angelic younger sister that she was trying to protect. She finds herself interred in an impossibly cold, creaking asylum; and locks herself away in an imaginary world to escape the pain. But as she moves around this alternate reality she quickly realises that she has jumped out of the frying pan and into the smoke-stained harem of a ruthless, sleazy pimp called Blue Jones. Fortunately, she discovers allies in the form of her alluring peers: Rocket, Sweet Pea, Blondie, and Amber.

Baby Doll decides to escape from the harem (and the asylum of her reality) with the help of her new accomplices. One essential part of her plan is to distract onlookers with her extraordinarily mesmerising dance routines; but in order to do this, she must remove herself to yet another plane of her imagination. It is this third and final plane that, one presumes, first got Zach Snyder’s juices flowing. It is an alternate reality that sees the burlesque girls dressed in all manner of military and “school girl” attire, brandishing heavy metal weapons and fighting everything from dragons to Nazi zombies. It is so far ‘over-the-top’ that I am amazed Snyder managed to keep it inside the Earth’s atmosphere for long enough to milk a few expensive Los Angeles lunches out of it.

The world will immediately judge this film with Snyder’s CV of comic book adaptations in mind; but this really has more in common with the disjointed stories and simple ‘level’ structures of early video games. The characters unlock new “worlds” and gather “tools” that will aid them in the final mission against the “big boss”. And with Hollywood’s recent myopic fascination with graphic novels, it is almost refreshing to see a filmmaker taking at least some inspiration from the aesthetic (but not the narrative) of retro video games.

Unfortunately, the video game vibe and bizarre fantasy world drown out what could have been an intriguing, noirish story of female teenage vengeance. There is something in the asylum/ harem stories that could have resulted in a fascinating film: a sort of Girl, Interrupted/ Sin City hybrid, with a gang of Lolitas tearing around a neo-noir dystopia reeking revenge on all the adults that have hurt them. But Snyder’s thirst for attention and dick-swinging enormity means that we spend far too much time stomaching the preposterous concoctions of Baby Doll’s deepest imagination instead.

The aesthetics of the film mirror this point perfectly. The first two levels are reminiscent of The Watchmen: using just the right amount of CGI to make the world feel fantastic and “graphic”, but permeating with enough reality to evoke the dirt and ageing smells of an asylum or harem. But when we are thrust into the final plane the CGI just feels tinny and weightless. When CGI is done well it can be an exciting and affecting tool, but when it is done badly it is a bore. It doesn’t matter how “big” the thing on screen is (an army of monsters, a burning cathedral, etc), it is too divorced from anything real to have any value: it is only so many pixels, and it is meaningless.

Emily Browning’s china Baby Doll is a pleasure to watch. Her quivering lip and watering eyes hide a terrifying capacity for calculated violence; she is a cross between a Happy Tree Friend and some darling tween heroine from a Nickelodeon cartoon. The other performances are half-etched: swaying between over-emotional and under-dressed, and usually merging the two.

One thing you cannot deny is the unflinching madness of Snyder’s idea. He isn’t apologising, stuttering or toning things down. As is often the case with this man, he is screaming at the top of his lungs, with a huge smile on his face.

REVIEW: Source Code (dir. Duncan Jones)

Cast: Jake Gyllenhaal, Michelle Monaghan, Vera Farmiga, Jeffrey Wright

I won’t mince words: Duncan Jones’ Source Code is a poor film and a disappointing follow up to his debut feature Moon. Where the latter was stylish and striking, the former is muddled, over-bearing, and obvious. I will give you a synopsis and some thoughts, but only because I feel compelled to do so (it is my default setting), and not because the film is worth discussing or arguing over.

Sean Fentress is on his way to work on his usual Chicago commuter train, with the same people he sees every day, and the same pretty friend, Cristina (Monaghan), that he always manoeuvres himself to sit opposite. But for some reason Sean cant remember a thing about his life: he doesn’t have a clue who all these people are, and he thinks he should be flying a helicopter in the Gulf. Is he mad? No. He is actually Colter Stevens (Gyllenhaal), a helicopter pilot for the US air force.

Stevens has been drafted into a new Top Secret military intelligence programme – Source Code – that manipulates brainwaves, allowing specially selected soldiers to inhabit the bodies of people who have recently passed away. Sean Fentress, along with Cristina and everybody else on the train, died when a terrorist bomb exploded onboard; but it was only a calling card for an unstoppable atrocity planned for downtown Chicago later in the day. Stevens is forced to relive the final 8 minutes of Fentress’ life over and over again until he finds the bomb and reveals the identity of the terrorists. But this is no easy task when he is also trying to find out what has happened to his own body (why isn’t he still flying a helicopter?) and falling in love with Cristina despite being told repeatedly by his superiors that he is only reliving a memory, and she is already dead.

Doesn’t that sound exhilarating? Doesn’t that sound like it could be spun out into an extraordinary psychological action thriller that would have Inception fans prolapsing all over the cinema? Well that may be the case, but the answers to all these exciting premises are as dull and disappointing as you could possibly imagine. As you read my little teaser, your 21st Century brain was registering the most obvious resolutions and dismissing them out of hand, because nobody makes thrillers without interesting twists anymore, right? Well Duncan Jones does, and if you rifle through the waste bin in your brain and find those obvious, boring answers, you will have just spoiled the ending of the film for yourself.

Admittedly, the first half hour of the film, before we begin to worry about where it is all going, is perfectly enjoyable. The basic structure of reliving the same 8 minutes is fairly exhilarating; and it is interesting to feel real anxiety, rather than just suspense, at the knowledge that your hero is going to blow up again in a few minutes. At first the subtle tweaks to the aesthetics and foundations of each replay ensure that the story doesn’t feel stagnant or repetitive; and Jake Gyllenhaal’s “watchability” manages to Spackle over any remaining cracks or worries.

But if you are sitting in the cinema waiting for the terrorist plot to escalate into some electrifying ‘Michael Bay’ catastrophe, while also shaking with anticipation at the thought of some Aronofsky/ Lynch psychological conspiracy thriller… then I just feel sorry for you. The terrorist plot is gallingly, almost offensively, simple; and the psychological element is half-baked and thoughtless. After the masterful consideration and patience of Moon, it seems that Jones has chased the stars and forgotten the gruelling hours of development needed to ensure a truly engaging thriller.

During the climax of the film, as Stevens and Cristina stare at all the naïve faces around the train carriage, Colter remarks, “look at all this life”, and Cristina suggests that if she knew she only had a minute to live, “she would make every second count.” I didn’t cringe, but only because my face was frozen into a mask of incredulity. Where did all the early promise go? How could a collection of talented filmmakers with a decent budget fail so completely to create a film that was in any way interesting or watchable?

To add insult to injury, Jones has also completely reneged on his artistic responsibility to find a cohesive visual framework through which to portray his vision. Moon was a Sci-Fi gem, harking back to the classics of the genre but subverting and invigorating them with new life. It was an astoundingly beautiful fugue to Solaris and Space Odyssey, and it marked the arrival of a new composer of light and images. Source Code has no integrity, no passion, no courage, and no patience. It is a pile of drivel, and surely Jones knows it.

REVIEW: The Extraordinary Adventures of Adèle Blanc-Sec (dir. Luc Besson)

Cast: Louise Bourgoin, Mathieu Amalric, Gilles Lellouche, Jacky Nercessian, Nicolas Giraud

French directors have a strange habit of flirting with Hollywood – blowing a few kisses and getting everybody hot under the collar – but then turning heel, shaking their tail feathers, and shimmying back to Gaul without a hint of reluctance or regret. Godard allowed generations of Oscar voters to pin their flags to his mast before proclaiming that the Lifetime Achievement Award they handed him “meant nothing”. Jean-Pierre Jeunet had the Thirty Mile Zone creaming for more after Amelie and A Very Long Engagement, but then waited five years to create Micmacs, a film so impenetrably “French” that it never made it beyond the festival circuit in the US. Even Renoir graced Los Angeles with his presence for a few brief years before returning to his beloved homeland. Compare that to British or German filmmakers (Hitchcock, Mendes, Wilder, Lubitsch, etc) who cancelled their return ticket the moment they glimpsed the Pacific through the Santa Monica haze.

Luc Besson is no different. Leon catapulted him into the cradle of the stars, and The Fifth Element seemed to confirm him as a major force in global blockbuster cinema. But thirteen years later, and with very little to show for himself in that space of time, he has created a peculiar and whimsical Gallic fairytale that will almost certainly, almost intentionally, not make it across the Atlantic.

The Extraordinary Adventures of Adèle Blanc-Sec is a wonderfully absurd, decadent farce without a smidgen of style or class. Adèle is a brazen bombshell of a heroine: she has the sort of ringlets and curves that have weakened men’s knees for centuries, and her brown eyes smoulder and purr until they flash with feisty energy. A director flirting with Hollywood might have had her racing around some Dystopian metropolis on a 15,000bhp motorbike, or guiding a gang of time-travelling pirates through Gary Oldman’s brain. But Besson isn’t flirting anymore… he isn’t even playing hard to get.

Adèle’s extraordinary adventures see her Raiding a Tomb™ so that she can enlist the help of a Pharoah’s physician to cure her ailing sister. The physician’s death, a few thousand years ago, is a hurdle that might intimidate a lesser hero, but not Adèle. She knows an ancient Parisian doctor who has mastered the ability to bring creatures back from the dead; but by the time she returns to Paris, the senile doctor has already bitten off more than he can chew bringing a pterodactyl back to life. The rest of the film continues in this farcical (and I don’t use that word negatively) mould, as the pompous and huffing Inspector Caponi hunts  the deadly dinosaur and our maverick heroine across the Arrondissements of 1911 Paris.

At the opening, Besson is bursting with energy and eager to tell his story, but he isn’t really sure where to begin. We follow a number of openly irrelevant characters and catch snippets of information on the doctor’s metaphysical powers and the raising of the pterodactyl, before zoning in on our heroine being lowered into the Pharoah’s tomb. From here, Besson never looks back. The long sequence in the tomb is pure Indiana Jones, without even a hint of irony or a twist of originality, but it perfectly frames the energetic nonsense and slapstick that is to come.

Spielberg and Lucas knew what they needed to do with Indiana Jones: thread the story from one chase to the next as seamlessly as possible. It is a shallow and predictable technique, but it is undeniably entertaining when done properly. That is what Besson did with The Fifth Element, and he has not lost this rousing and erratic ability over the past decade. Of course, the worldly archaeologist Jones travelled all over the planet, and it is harder to make a series of chases feel dramatic when the characters are running around in circles through the streets of Paris. But Besson has created a magical and surreal Paris that perfectly suits the tone of the story, and the fact that the same locations show up repeatedly only adds to the absurd, pantomime vibe. The zipping speed of the storytelling even drips down into the minutiae of the editing: with panning cuts and visual cues ensuring that the story never calms down for a second.

When a film skips along with this sort of energy and rhythm, it is hardly surprising to find that it also possesses a natural humour. A director who knows how to race through a story must have a masterful control of timing, and this lends itself perfectly to great visual comedy. Add to this the hysterical quality of the performances from Mathieu Amalric, Gilles Lellouche, and Jean-Paul Rouve, and you have a thoroughly enjoyable, irrasicible French farce.

This film feels much closer to Jean Pierre Jeunet than Luc Besson; and indeed Besson’s bulky compatriot might feel his feathers have been ruffled by this assault on his artistic territory. Besson has forgone any of the darkness of his iconic earlier work, and has thoroughly embraced the folkloric fantasy of Jeunet’s vision. The makeup is grotesque, reminiscent of Punch & Judy puppets in some antique Romany travelling show, and the whimsical treatment of this iconic city owes much more to Amelie than Leon.

In the end, this is not a return to the global stage for Besson; but it is a delightfully entertaining French film with a giant imagination and a tiny audience… and who’s to say that isn’t exactly what he was looking for?