-- a selection of short-form reviews of the films I have watched this week --
Dumplin’ (dir. Anne Fletcher, 2018)
✭✭✩✩✩
Uplifted by the wistful music of country-lyricist Dolly Parton, director Anne Fletcher achieves a warm and often-hilarious story of early womanhood, despite sitting within a reliably comfortable genre. Haunted by the inspiring, childhood memory of her deceased Aunt Lucy, Willowdean “Dumplin” Dickson rises above expectation to compete in the state pageant contest, defying the prejudices of her zealotic mother, Jennifer Anniston (whose performance, as with We’re the Millers, does exhibit a growing versatility). Hokey and self-flattering, it is nonetheless a picture that will leave you grinning.
Uplifted by the wistful music of country-lyricist Dolly Parton, director Anne Fletcher achieves a warm and often-hilarious story of early womanhood, despite sitting within a reliably comfortable genre. Haunted by the inspiring, childhood memory of her deceased Aunt Lucy, Willowdean “Dumplin” Dickson rises above expectation to compete in the state pageant contest, defying the prejudices of her zealotic mother, Jennifer Anniston (whose performance, as with We’re the Millers, does exhibit a growing versatility). Hokey and self-flattering, it is nonetheless a picture that will leave you grinning.
The Magnificent Ambersons (dir. Orson Welles, 1942)
✭✭✭✭✭
Off the back of Citizen Kane, Orson Welles' second feature is an adaptation of the nostalgia-imbued The Magnificent Ambersons, now a rightful classic of American cinema. Looking to turn-of-the-century Indianapolis as its scene, the once magnificent Ambersons are now seen in their decline – as much in affluence as their legacy (characterised by the indolent, manipulative George Minafer) – unable to keep above the rising wave of industrialism and fresh social perspectives. It is a chapter of American life magically captured by Welles’ inventive and inimitable approach to filmmaking, a kind of boldness that cannot be found elsewhere.
Off the back of Citizen Kane, Orson Welles' second feature is an adaptation of the nostalgia-imbued The Magnificent Ambersons, now a rightful classic of American cinema. Looking to turn-of-the-century Indianapolis as its scene, the once magnificent Ambersons are now seen in their decline – as much in affluence as their legacy (characterised by the indolent, manipulative George Minafer) – unable to keep above the rising wave of industrialism and fresh social perspectives. It is a chapter of American life magically captured by Welles’ inventive and inimitable approach to filmmaking, a kind of boldness that cannot be found elsewhere.
Flores (dir. Jorge Jácome, 2017)
✭✭✭✩✩
Two meditative, young soldiers lead us through the sub-tropic, indigo wilderness of the Azores, a Portuguese island whose infestation of hydrangeas (albeit a common flower) has dramatically forced the entire population to exit. As if dreamt from The Day of the Triffids, or maybe trimmed from Chris Marker’s Sans Soleil, Jácome contemplates local identity and territorial belonging alongside the resistance of its flower population to be contained. Highly thoughtful.
Two meditative, young soldiers lead us through the sub-tropic, indigo wilderness of the Azores, a Portuguese island whose infestation of hydrangeas (albeit a common flower) has dramatically forced the entire population to exit. As if dreamt from The Day of the Triffids, or maybe trimmed from Chris Marker’s Sans Soleil, Jácome contemplates local identity and territorial belonging alongside the resistance of its flower population to be contained. Highly thoughtful.
The Other Side of the Wind (dir. Orson Welles, 2018)
✭✭✭✩✩
Orson Welles is vulnerable in The Other Side of the Wind. Intended as a Hollywood comeback – after years of studio exile, floating between European financiers – the project is of significant value, envisioned as a critique of the sweeping “American New Wave” and the wreckage of its classical, formalist past. (Welles never completed the picture, at least not in his own lifetime, leaving behind nearly 100 hours of footage and a workprint consisting of assemblies and a few edited scenes.) It is a film occupied by filmmaking – its two-hour length focused on that ‘making’ itself, neither growing nor unravelling – whilst transmitted across 8, 16 and 35mm formats, colour and monochrome. Welles’ narrative recollects the events leading up to the death of ageing film-director Jake Hannaford (“the Ernest Hemingway of the cinema”), whose final picture – an unfinished, experimental arthouse – is intended to revive his ailing career, but instead points to his own, drunken disillusion. The Other Side of the Wind is chaotic, unfocused, a portrait of the artist who is slowly receding into the twilight zone.
Orson Welles is vulnerable in The Other Side of the Wind. Intended as a Hollywood comeback – after years of studio exile, floating between European financiers – the project is of significant value, envisioned as a critique of the sweeping “American New Wave” and the wreckage of its classical, formalist past. (Welles never completed the picture, at least not in his own lifetime, leaving behind nearly 100 hours of footage and a workprint consisting of assemblies and a few edited scenes.) It is a film occupied by filmmaking – its two-hour length focused on that ‘making’ itself, neither growing nor unravelling – whilst transmitted across 8, 16 and 35mm formats, colour and monochrome. Welles’ narrative recollects the events leading up to the death of ageing film-director Jake Hannaford (“the Ernest Hemingway of the cinema”), whose final picture – an unfinished, experimental arthouse – is intended to revive his ailing career, but instead points to his own, drunken disillusion. The Other Side of the Wind is chaotic, unfocused, a portrait of the artist who is slowly receding into the twilight zone.
They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead (dir. Morgan Neville, 2018)
✭✭✩✩✩
Half a reflective counterpart to the making of The Other Side of the Wind, half a misconceived elegy, Neville’s documentary serves as parrot to the trials and tribulations of Orson Welles’ career – only glancing at the details of production, most of which are edited so as to appear more frenetic or loose than they actually were. Sporadically narrated by Alan Cummings – whose British accent is peculiarly offkey against the American of Welles and his crew – the documentary flits between nice-sounding phrases and offcuts from the picture itself, compiling little more than a nostalgic memory fest. It is a documentary whose presence – unlike Burden of Dreams to Werner Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo, or Lost in La Mancha to Terry Gilliam’s Don Quixote – sits deep in the shadow of its source material.
Half a reflective counterpart to the making of The Other Side of the Wind, half a misconceived elegy, Neville’s documentary serves as parrot to the trials and tribulations of Orson Welles’ career – only glancing at the details of production, most of which are edited so as to appear more frenetic or loose than they actually were. Sporadically narrated by Alan Cummings – whose British accent is peculiarly offkey against the American of Welles and his crew – the documentary flits between nice-sounding phrases and offcuts from the picture itself, compiling little more than a nostalgic memory fest. It is a documentary whose presence – unlike Burden of Dreams to Werner Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo, or Lost in La Mancha to Terry Gilliam’s Don Quixote – sits deep in the shadow of its source material.
The Stranger (dir. Orson Welles, 1946)
✭✭✭✩✩
Continuing an in-depth foray into the works of Orson Welles is The Stranger, a tense, crime noir that he would later claim to be his least favourite of all his works. It is a genre picture, delivered with signature flair and intrigue; uniquely, it was the first Hollywood picture to present documentary footage of the Holocaust (its appearance in the film is stark, yet oddly adrift from the crisp, manufactured nature of the film itself). It is very entertaining and skilful, but provokes nothing more than what it sets out to do – delivery a good story.
Continuing an in-depth foray into the works of Orson Welles is The Stranger, a tense, crime noir that he would later claim to be his least favourite of all his works. It is a genre picture, delivered with signature flair and intrigue; uniquely, it was the first Hollywood picture to present documentary footage of the Holocaust (its appearance in the film is stark, yet oddly adrift from the crisp, manufactured nature of the film itself). It is very entertaining and skilful, but provokes nothing more than what it sets out to do – delivery a good story.
Lost in La Mancha (dir. Keith Fulton and Louis Pepe, 2002)
✭✭✭✭✭
Terry Gilliam’s newly completed The Man Who Killed Don Quixote is documented here as one long, protracted wheeze of exasperation and torment. Having already accomplished several of his most enduring legacies – including Brazil, Twelve Monkeys and The Fisher King – Gilliam arrived in Spain in August, 2000, to shoot the script of “The Man Who Killed Don Quixote” (which had already been in preparation for over ten years). At the onset to production, an ominous lull is radiated from amongst the crew and actors – the situation is not terrible by any means, but neither is it perfect. Smiles quickly fade as the days trickle: unrehearsed extras, the deafening-roar of F-16 jets, in addition to devastating weather conditions and the injury of its leading star, Jean Rochefort, slowly paralyse any chance of its delivery onto the screen. Gilliam is the conductor to an orchestra that is slowly drifting out of key, crumbling before his very eyes. It is a fascinating examination of the top-heavy grandeur of believing in a dream (one that, however bad it may be, is restored by our foreknowledge of its eventually completion in 2018).
Terry Gilliam’s newly completed The Man Who Killed Don Quixote is documented here as one long, protracted wheeze of exasperation and torment. Having already accomplished several of his most enduring legacies – including Brazil, Twelve Monkeys and The Fisher King – Gilliam arrived in Spain in August, 2000, to shoot the script of “The Man Who Killed Don Quixote” (which had already been in preparation for over ten years). At the onset to production, an ominous lull is radiated from amongst the crew and actors – the situation is not terrible by any means, but neither is it perfect. Smiles quickly fade as the days trickle: unrehearsed extras, the deafening-roar of F-16 jets, in addition to devastating weather conditions and the injury of its leading star, Jean Rochefort, slowly paralyse any chance of its delivery onto the screen. Gilliam is the conductor to an orchestra that is slowly drifting out of key, crumbling before his very eyes. It is a fascinating examination of the top-heavy grandeur of believing in a dream (one that, however bad it may be, is restored by our foreknowledge of its eventually completion in 2018).
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