My Thoughts on Bacurau

With his 2012 debut Neighbouring Sounds, Kleber Mendonça Filho established himself as a filmmaker with a knack for creating beautifully constructed worlds full of compelling, well-drawn characters. Eight years later and two more films under his belt, this is perhaps truer than ever with Bacurau, his latest genre-bending tale of community in crisis. Winner of the Jury Prize in Cannes last year, it's a strange fusion of contemporary western and dystopian action film with a lot on its mind, and for the most part, succeeds as a pounding, provocative assault on the senses. The film revolves around the titular village in rural Brazil, which finds itself plagued by strange happenings- the water supply is rapidly receding, drones are tracking the townspeople's every move and the village itself is disappearing from the maps- all following the death of its 94 year old matriarch. The reason for these strange occurrences won't be spoiled here, but it's clear from the start that Mendonça Filho has his sights set on some seriously pressing sociopolitical issues

The film wears its influences proudly, boasting a style that feels like The Fog by way of Jodorowsky, but Mendonça Filho never lets them dilute the unique style he's been honing over the course of his career. The steady build of atmosphere, broad scope and the constant threat of violence are all tools he's been developing since Neighboring Sounds, and it really feels like he's figured out the perfect formula to use them with in Bacurau. It's a film that sees him lean further into grindhouse beats than the rest of his work, but this proves to be one of the film's great strengths: Mendonça Filho is angry, and he's not going to compromise in how he expresses it. He weaves genre pulp with social concern in such a fascinating way, brazenly matching real world horrors onto pulpy violence, and even if the results might not be for everyone, it is undeniable how confident he is in composing such a blend. It's a film that's unafraid to get its hands dirty, to plunge itself into grit and gore and genre, and although it burns slow, it gives off such a blistering heat that it's impossible not to look at

Perhaps most bizarre, however, is the shift in perspective around two-thirds of the way in, something that is both one of the film's great advantages and its most damning weakness. Subtlety is not a priority in this film, and in doing this, Mendonça Filho is making his point as explicit and obvious as possible. There is little nuance in this portion of Bacurau, and the broadness of it may sour the experience for some viewers, especially when the dialogue grows considerably more clunky and cumbersome. That said, there is still merit to be found in this change. The characterisation is deliberately grossly oversimplified, allowing Mendonça Filho to deliver some beautifully damning blows. It also allows him to effectively set up a gleefully wild finale. The climax is stunning: bloody, cathartic and gleefully chaotic, and the perfect payoff to the uneven but effective stretch of social commentary that preceded it. It is unrelentingly violent but strikes with such force that it's impossible not to admire the sheer audacity of it

Ultimately, Bacurau is a hard film to love. It's abrasive, audacious, and caked with gore, but viewers who stick with it will be rewarded. It's clear how much Mendonça Filho has grown and developed as a storyteller over the last eight years, effortlessly crafting a convincing world and letting it slowly erupt with chaos. It's brazen and bold, tackling the issues of modern Brazil in a uniquely cineliterate way. As an exercise in mood and atmosphere, it's as strong as anything to come out in the last five years. It is disturbing viewing, but those who persevere will find a film that is incendiary, thrilling and expertly assembled. It's a harsh film that shimmers in its sensitive moments and roars in its aggression. It is hypnotic, chaotic and incredibly special

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Let's Talk About Cinemas

I feel like we've been debating this topic, or some variation of it for a while. You know what I'm talking about: the experience of going to the cinema and watching a film. There's nothing better, right? The feeling of sitting in the dark, surrounded by other people, surrendering yourself to the power of film and disappearing into its majesty for an hour and a half. It's pure magic, ads and all, and yet I feel like every year, that experience is rapidly changing, and maybe not in a good way. Just to be clear, this is not (entirely) in relation to the current situation; it is what it is, and I've been contemplating writing a piece like this ever since about October of last year. That was around the time when Martin Scorsese declared that the Marvel movies aren't cinema, and although his comments bred accusations of elitism, I can't help but feel their relevance when I think about the future of going to the movies

Just to clarify, this is not an attack on tentpole films, and certainly isn't a specific criticism of Marvel or Disney. Those films have a place in the cinematic landscape, and I honestly don't have a problem with them. I like a blockbuster as much as anyone else, and for all of the gripes I have with those films, I do see them and enjoy them for what they are. I don't deny that they provide huge viewing events and I absolutely understand why they're so celebrated by so many people, and I'd never try to take that love away. That said, I worry about what big films do to the wider landscape of cinema, and the larger implications that has for going to see movies in the cinema. I'll let you in on a little secret: movies are a business, and no amount of waxing lyrical about Yorgos  Lanthimos or Akira Kurosawa on this blog will ever change that. The fact is that these movies make money, and that's okay. But the process of pumping out these huge blockbusters has some seriously adverse side effects on how cinemas operate and especially how they cater to audiences, and if Disney's not the only part of the problem, then their monopoly on the industry certainly isn't helping

The truth is that I don't want to live in a world where midbudget films aren't being pushed in the cinemas because they aren't as profitable as these titanic franchise properties. Personally, the cinema trips that excite me the most are the ones when I see a film that is clearly driven by a distinct creative voice. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is the perfect example, arriving in the late summer haze a glorious vision of a uniquely Tarantino kind of storytelling, one I gladly surrendered myself to and had an absolute blast with. Although that film is still arguably a blockbuster, it was so exciting because it felt organic, the kind of experience that cinemas are made to carry.

As much as I love Netflix as a platform and their ability to give more diverse films an audience they might not have had otherwise (Roma is the perfect example), I am also critical of the kind of reputation that they and other streaming services have given to these kind of midbudget films. Don't get me wrong, I applaud them for releasing films such as Marriage Story or The Irishman in cinemas as well, and I think that's a step in the right direction, but I don't like the growing mentality that some films are for the cinema and some are better viewed at home. Roma may not contain the dynamic, large scale action of Avengers Endgame, but its immaculate imagery and immersive sound are the perfect example of the kind of moving big screen magic that I eternally crave. It's becoming increasingly disheartening when I see films like Annihilation or Uncut Gems relegated to opening on VOD services in Ireland when they've opened in cinemas in other territories. And if they do get a theatrical release, it's often incredibly limited

And although the issue of Irish distribution is its own thing, the fact is that non-American markets are steadily becoming clogged with an overabundance of studio blockbusters. And again, this piece isn't inspired by the current situation, but thinking about the state of cinemas when they reopen doesn't exactly fill me with hope. It could mark a serious blow for this kind of cinema being easily accessible on the big screen, and that would make me very sad indeed. It's not all bad news though. Bong Joon-ho's Parasite getting a widespread cinematic release was awesome to see, the kind of recognition of international filmmaking and original storytelling that I think mainstream cinemas had been largely lacking. There's always art venues as well, always a safe bet for seeing some quality content as well as some great older fare, too. And when this is all over, I'd love to be able to march down to my local and see some good original content. I just hope that, going forward, there's greater appreciation for a larger variety of content on cinema screens. So when cinemas do open again, please support midbudget films and non-franchise films because they do need your support

Scoundrel of the Small Screen: Community (Season 1)

So I love TV, and I've been wanting to talk about it specifically on here pretty much since this blog began. And I have here and there (lest we forget the Tarkovsky-esque epic that was the Britcompilation), but I've always wanted to analyse shows season by season, and talk about the parts that make a whole. I love Dan Harmon's cult comedy Community. I've watched this show so many times, and I'm fascinated by it's season-to-season quality, with three great seasons, a questionable fourth one, a really good fifth one, and an underwhelming final one. And still no movie. There's so much to talk about with Community, and I think it makes for the perfect place to start with the TV deep dives. The more I watch this show, the more I love it. And how could you not? Whether you watch it casually or analytically, Community is one of the best comedies of the last decade. It's meta perfection, and going back to its first season reveals that it got off on an impossibly strong foot, even if it took some time for it to get into the pop culture stuff. Not that it matters a huge deal for a sitcom like this, but there are some spoilers ahead, so if you haven't seen Community and plan on watching it, proceed with caution

For those who don't know, Community is the story of Jeff Winger, a lawyer with a less-than-legitimate degree attending a community college in hopes of returning to his old life. When we meet him in the pilot, he's an utterly shallow human being, setting up a fake study group to impress Britta, a girl in his Spanish class. This backfires in the best possible way when people actually show up, invited by pop-culture aficionado Abed. I have to say, Community's pilot is one of the best I've ever seen purely for how good it is at introducing almost every vital element of the show. Every character's first introduction is strong, and the show promises to make good on its overall potential from Jeff's first Winger speech. It's one thing setting up a story in the first episode with the promise of developing it in a satisfying way, but it's a whole other ballgame to establish a show's entire personality in the space of 22 minutes. Doing this creates a starting point, not necessarily for the narrative but for the characters and the tone. Community may be a comedy but it is rich with feeling and beautifully layered, and the pilot establishes right from the beginning that the depth of emotion and sheer amount of detail are only going to be developed even more as the show progresses

That's not to say that there's no plot linking the episodes, because the entire season revolves around Jeff and his steady transformation into a better person. He's the focus of the main plot in almost every episode this season, with the rest of the cast either being central to his story in that episode or getting fleshed out in the subplot. The show excels at ensuring that they're all developed and instantly likable though, with early storylines about football star Troy, pious single mother Shirley and high-school overacheiver Annie quickly and effectively introducing them to Jeff, the audience, and more importantly each other. Over the course of the season, we get to know them as they learn to communicate as a group, and as a result, no plot feels throwaway. Most effective might actually be the gradual introduction to wealthy bigot Pierce. As a character, he's quite possibly the hardest sell, but the writers ensure that he never becomes a caricature. His attempts to bond with Jeff in the second episode and the heart-to-heart they have nine episodes later put emphasis on the fact that he just wants to be liked, and as a result you're immediately able to like and understand him

The show excels at these heartwarming moments from the first few episodes. Abed's attempts to connect with his father through the film he makes and Troy's return to football create natural comedy, but are both rendered with so much feeling that you never doubt the sincerity of the conclusions they come to. I'd also be remiss if I didn't talk about Troy and Abed as a duo. Right off the bat, their chemistry is irresistible, perfectly encapsulating the show's idea that it's important to develop relationships with people that are different to you. That idea comes up time and time again in Community, and I'll talk about it more in detail later, but it's clear from the start that celebrating and embracing how different people can form meaningful connections with each other is kind of this show's MO. It introduces characters you've seen before, but puts them into situations that force them to change their perspectives.

Debate 109 is the perfect example of this, with the push-and-pull between Annie and Jeff putting them in a situation that requires them to develop a better understanding of each other, fortifying not just their relationship but their individual arcs as well. Annie's development is arguably stronger in later seasons, but over the course of the first 25 episodes, we're effectively introduced to how unashamedly passionate she is, as well as her eternal desire to be treated as an adult. She doesn't change as much as some of the other characters in this season, but we see her become open to the idea of changing, of beginning to figure out who she is and how to go about becoming the person she wants to be.

The most focus is undoubtedly on the relationship between Britta and Jeff though. Their back-and-forth is great first episode to last, and watching them figure each other out as they're trying to understand themselves is genuinely compelling. I will say that the first season's only real slip-up comes in how it handles Jeff's relationship with statistics professor Michelle. She's a consistently weak character, and only really exists to up the stakes for Jeff and Britta. It's not that the romantic thread that runs through the show is bad, but it's never as interesting as any of the other plots in the season, and I'm glad that the show put less focus on it going forward, because it distracts from the things the show does much better

The first half of the season largely follows the same formula, with Jeff needing to help another member of the group with something and realising that caring about other people is the only way for him to grow and move forward. It's hugely effective and massively entertaining, particularly when the show turns its attention to Chang in episode 10. Where lesser shows would have kept him as a purely comedic side character until maybe giving him a standalone episode in the second or third season, the decision to give him so much humanity so early on is indicative of the warmth and empathy the show treats its characters with. People make each other better, and the mutual development of Jeff and Chang (not to mention the other characters in the two ace subplots), show the simultaneous development of multiple characters at the same time, and how Community is able to use that to its absolute advantage

This comes to a head in episode twelve, the show's first Christmas episode. This episode marks a huge turning point in Community, and it's here where the show's celebration of people's differences is at its loudest and most potent. This is made better by the interlocking character dynamics, where every character's actions impact how they relate to each of the people around them. Jeff defends Abed, but his intent to get into a fight upsets Shirley. He carries on anyway, supported by Pierce and Troy but repeatedly mocked by Britta. Annie is the first to attend Shirley's party, but inadvertently reveals that Jeff's going ahead with the fight. Ultimately, Jeff comes to realise the virtue of listening to the people that care about him, and Shirley realises that standing by the people that matter occasionally means supporting something you don't agree with. As a plot, it involves every member of the group, and although it begins by highlighting the key difference between all of them (religion), it ultimately ends in a shared experience that is both absolutely hilarious and hugely significant, showing how the group learn from each other and grow together

And although the episode that follows it isn't one of the show's best (although it does feature a great turn by Jack Black), it immediately toys with this idea. From the start, it challenges the show's conventions when they look completely set. The opening joke about Jeff's development and the group's shared recognition that change is healthy signal the flexibility of the show. True, it's just a bait-and-switch that leads to a hilariously out of nowhere Owen Wilson cameo, but it also uses how far Jeff has come to reflect on how far the show has come. This is something that happens more frequently in the second half of the season, where the show has introduced the fundamental ideas of its premise and is able to have a little more fun in remixing them. Later episodes make other characters the dramatic focus, keeping Jeff central but creating situations that allow the rest of the study group to progress further on their own, like Britta in The Science of Illusion or Abed in Contemporary American Poultry.

That episode is especially brilliant, not just as a Goodfellas parody but also as a perfect portrait of Abed as the heart and soul of the show. Abed is a great character. His problems don't come from himself, but from how he's perceived by other people, and if previous episodes allude to this, then Contemporary American Poultry tackles it directly. It's a fun homage that goes deeper, not so much exploring Abed's understanding of people as much as how he can alter their understanding of him, and the implications this creates. Abed's intricate understanding of the patterns of film and TV makes for some incredible jokes, but if American Poultry proves anything, it's that it's an equally effective tool for deepening the emotional stakes. Abed can shift the dynamics and ensure that everyone is happy, but it doesn't last and quickly becomes toxic. It's an effective way of cementing Jeff as the leader of the group, but it's also a clever use of genre savviness to fuel organic storytelling, and the first of many ace episodes that explore Abed's role as the heart of the group through his intense pop-cultural knowledge

Community excels at finding new angles from which it can develop the group's dynamic, and one episode, in which Pierce repeatedly fails to make amends with Shirley after a prank gone wrong is the perfect example of this. I love how it directly addresses the idea of the group's unique dynamic. The group can't force problems into solution, and watching Pierce and Shirley resolve their differences on their own leads to a moment that is both very sweet and delightfully subversive. I love how it challenges Jeff's role as the ultimate problem solver, letting Shirley and Pierce develop their relationship independent to the rest of the study group. That they also end up resolving Jeff and Britta's feud with some annoying teenagers is another wonderful touch

And then of course, paintball. I've rewatched Modern Warfare on its own a lot, but actually seeing it again in context reminds me of just how incredible it is. It's a wonderful piece of genre bending, but like most concept episodes, it works because of how it builds on everything that came before it. Underneath the wonderfully utilised references and the beautifully realised action is a really deftly written plot that develops Jeff's relationships with Britta and Shirley in a really interesting way. Even outside of this, this episode just rocks. It's a 22 minute action movie smuggled into a single-camera sitcom, and that's just cool. Of course it's a great parody of action tropes, but it also really works at face value, too. The action is well-constructed and dynamic, and the way the plot progresses through it is genuinely thrilling. Justin Lin brings the blockbuster thrills he excelled at with Fast & Furious to the small screen, with great action setpieces on top of the fantastic comic setpieces. He uses everything in this episode, and the way it creates wonderfully silly action out of everything from the glee-club's wily strategy to Chang's mesmerising entrance is just sheer perfection

The first season ends on a fairly strong note. Pascal's Triangle Revisited is a pretty solid conclusion, wrapping up all of the first season's major plot threads (Annie and Vaughn, Troy and Abed and that pesky love triangle), and setting up some new ones for the group's next set of escapades (Pierce and Troy living together, Chang becoming a student, Annie and Jeff sharing a kiss). It nails the atmosphere of a finale and also genuinely has that last-day-of-school vibe to it, too. I still think the show overestimated the romantic tension of the Jeff-Britta-Slater love triangle, but the finale manages to wrap that up without feeling cheap, so major points for that. I think it resolves everything the first season of Community set out to achieve. The characters feel like they've actually undergone a year(ish) of development, and seeing how far all of them have progressed in 25 episodes feels genuinely satisfying, and promises the audience that they'll only get more fleshed out going forward

As first seasons go, Community's is kind of the textbook example of how to ace it. Right off the bat it knows itself, its characters and its tone, and knows exactly how to develop them too. It's incredibly funny, heart-on-sleeve sincere and introduces the meta comedy in a way that never feels gimmicky. Later seasons would more mileage out of the pop-culture riffs and concept episodes, but I like how this run of episodes introduces it gradually, letting you get comfortable in its world before embracing its meta goodness. What surprised me going back to the first season though was just how subtle it is in playing with its established formula. Obviously paintball and the chicken finger crime plot are more obvious conceptual shifts, but the first season excels at toying with the conventions it sets up for itself in smaller ways as well. Community really subverts the "stick with the first season" caveat that shows are all too often stuck with, because almost everything in this introduction works. It's instantly funny, genuinely clever and really, really likable. I love how little time it took to be a masterpiece, and what's great about the first season, like all great first seasons of great shows, is that the really great stuff is yet to come. It's great!

I give Community's first season a 9/10

11 Movies to Watch in Quarantine

These are weird times. I know that's a massive understatement, but my God it's true. Things are tough, and scary and difficult, and I think everyone's figuring it out as they go along. I've seen a lot of people and websites posting recommendations of things to watch while in isolation, and I think that's a really nice idea. I decided to throw my hat into the ring, partially because there aren't too many new releases to review, but mainly because I want to share films that bring me joy and comfort, and hopefully they'll bring some to you, too. I tried to make this list as varied as possible, so that hopefully there's something for everyone. Also I'm not going to recommend downbeat films. I know some people take comfort in seeing a movie that depicts the end of the world, but that just doesn't work for me. The aim here is to give a shoutout to films that put a smile on my face, so that hopefully they can put one on yours as well. These are, in no particular order, 11 films to watch on lockdown that'll hopefully bring some comfort

1. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

Any Marilyn Monroe film is guaranteed to put you in a good mood, because they're just a perfect cinematic balm, but there's something especially great about Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. There are a lot of great musicals from the 50s that use comedy really well, but this is kind of the reverse: a fast-paced, snappy, absolutely wild screwball comedy that features some cracking musical numbers along the way. It's best remembered for the utterly iconic Diamonds Are a Girls Best Friend sequence, but even outside of that there's so much joy to be found in this movie. It's got a punchy, witty sense of humour and is gleefully unafraid to tip into batshit insanity. Marilyn is ace as always but I also love Jane Russell and her ferocious quips, and the chemistry they have together is pure, pure joy. It's just such a snappy, funny, stylish film that's bursting with fun and personality. It's a classic, and the perfect place to go if you just want a good laugh

2. You, the Living

This may seem like a bit of an odd one, and I'll admit that this film is not for everyone. I generally tried to avoid arthouse fare when compiling this list, because where something like Cries and Whispers may be foundational cinema, it's not exactly the most comforting thing in the world. The funny thing about Roy Andersson though is that there is something oddly soothing in his existential musings. He's so fascinated with the small frustrations and tragedies and moments of bizarre comedy that make up the human experience, and I think being able to watch these things on screen and recognise them just makes me feel better about being a person. Yes, this is also a film about the vastness of the void, but I think there is something very reassuring about how Andersson tackles it one short at a time. It's philosophical but it's not dour, with huge amounts of silliness and surrealism that actually make it a lot of fun. Again, this won't make everyone feel better, but for me, there's something very peaceful about this film, which suggests that sometimes laughing at how weird the universe is can make us feel less alone while we're living in it

3. Creepshow

Horror movies are kind of my go-to when it comes to comfort watching, and Creepshow is pretty much a huge love letter to the genre. Basically it's a collection of shorts that tell different bizarre tales, tied together by a really cool comic book aesthetic. This movie is a ton of fun, with a ridiculous sense of humour and a genuine passion for horror storytelling. Even if you're not a horror aficionado, there's a playfulness to Creepshow that's easy to get sucked into. Each of these shorts is over the top and silly, but they're all overflowing with creativity, courtesy of the legend that is George A. Romero behind the camera. It doesn't have the subtext that something like Dawn of the Dead has, but it's my favourite Romero movie because it leans into what makes horror movies fun. It embraces everything we love about the movies that scare us, and although there are some genuinely scary moments (the fifth short always makes me wince), it's guaranteed to put you in a good mood. Also Stephen King acts!

4. Body Double

Body Double is trash. And that's why it's incredible. Brian De Palma had a hot streak in the 80s of making these amazing, low-brow erotic thrillers, and although the quality is questionable, there's no denying how much fun these films are to watch. Body Double is my favourite because it embraces the De Palmaness of it all like few of his films do. It's essentially a rehash of Rear Window but hornier and not as good. It has an irresistible charm though, with so many bizarre choices that shouldn't work but really do, like the random music video in the middle of the movie. I'm not even recommending this with the so-bad-it's-good caveat either. It is exceptional at being what it is, and is exactly the kind of film that it wants to be. There are genuine moments of brilliant filmmaking here too, and they're delightfully mixed in with the crazy thriller elements and crass voyeurism. It's not a good film but it is a great one, so much fun and so fascinatingly weird that I'm just drawn to it every time I see it. It's just pure entertainment that transcends quality

5. Paper Moon

It's easy to write quirky films off as cloying or twee, but there's a real warmth to Paper Moon that makes it such an endearing favourite. It's a 1930s comedy caper made in 1973, but instead of making fun of that style, it fully embraces it and ends up delivering something really special. A lot of films that use quirkiness can be hit or miss in terms of their charm, and I think that's because they can hold people at a distance if there's nothing underneath the eccentric flourishes. Paper Moon feels so special to me because it has all the warmth and sincerity of an actual father-daughter relationship, and so it manages to stay genuine and feel real all throughout. It's also really, really funny, with a sharp back-and-forth that always manages to hit the mark. It's also really easy to rewatch, so even if you've seen it, it's a great one to watch again

6. Gambit

Michael Caine. Shirley McLaine. An ever-shifting plot, some sly comedy and an incredibly meta twist that happens in the first half an hour. Gambit's just fun. It's a pure caper, mischievous and funny, but it also has some really effective thrills, especially in the home stretch. This is a really cool film that I never really see people talk about, and that's a shame. It blends comedy, thrills and character so well, moving so fast and with so much fluidity. The two leads are ace, especially Shirley McLaine, who's just an absolute blast to watch. It's just such a slick film, funny without being silly and cooler than cool. If you haven't seen it though, I would say stick with it for the first twenty minutes or so. It may seem awkward, but amazingly that's actually intentional, and once the plot starts proper, it becomes pure fun that always leaves you guessing

7.  Best Years of Our Lives

Maybe the most uplifting film on this list? Best Years of Our Lives is pure optimism, acknowledging hardship and difficulty but remaining adamant in our ability to live through it. That might sound like a cheesy thing to recommend for a crisis, but trust me, it isn't. Yes, this is a story about soldiers returning home from war, but it forgoes easy cliches in favour of a genuine, lived-in feel and a real sense of sincerity. There's some brutally honest moments but they're always rendered through a lens of love, so ultimately, you've got this fantastic story about the strength of the human spirit. It's also refreshing in how much it celebrates people. It's a faith restorer for sure, finding beauty in our ability to keep going no matter what. And that just gives me hope

8.  Paddington 2

Obviously. Okay, it's no secret that Paddington 2 is a masterpiece, and it's highly likely that you've seen it already, but.... watch it again. It's so sweet and so warm and just so full of goodness. Kind of like Best Years of Our Lives, it's a film that champions acts of kindness. And just as it threatens to tip over into sugary schmaltz, it presents a smorgasbord of genuinely hilarious jokes. Hugh Grant is a pure delight here, playing one of my favourite movie villains ever. It's just so cool to have a film that's so unironically sweet, you know? It never fails to put me in a really good mood, and if you haven't seen it, you need to remedy that ASAP. Run a double bill with the first one and you're in for an absolute treat

9. Free Fire

Ben Wheatley is, by and large, not the best director to watch if you're stuck in one place, but Free Fire is a gleeful exception, embracing the chaos to deliver what is essentially a 90 minute shootout. Bullets and wisecracks fly and the cast are ace in what is a near perfect action gem that is nearly entirely contained to one building. It's electric, sharp and thrillingly unpredictable, taking a relatively minimal premise and running wild with it. It's a burst of pure adrenaline, proof that you don't need flashy spectacle to create great action. I love action films that do a lot with very little, and Free Fire is very much that. I love how it uses the razor-sharp exchanges of quips to further the carnage instead of massive setpieces. If you want pure, fast excitement, I really can't recommend this enough

10. Delicatessen

I would have said Amélie, but given that it's maybe my favourite film ever made, it felt a little too obvious, so I'll give Delicatessen a shoutout instead. This is perverted, warped, cartoony madness. It's hysterical, bouncing between pitch black comedy and breezy surrealism, and it almost plays like a messed-up fairy tale. True, it does (tangentially) deal with the apocalypse, along with some other dark subjects, but it always feels fun, and it's got a weirdly beautiful happy ending. It's just chaotically fun, and if you want a movie to transport you to a place you've never been before, look no further than Delicatessen and its decrepit apartment complex filled with lovable weirdos. The fusion of broad horror and twisted comedy never fails to crack me up. It's just the perfect cult treat, and it fills me with crazy glee. Also I watched it for the first time during this quarantine, so take it from me, it's a good 'un

11. The Straight Story

It's just so nice. David Lynch is a master of the surreal, but this is by far his friendliest film, dropping the oddness for a meandering, whimsical road trip. It's just a really wholesome film, and I love the focus on the simple things. It's masterfully put together and really easy to watch, as Richard Farnsworth's easy to love hero drifts from town to town on his tractor. There's some really moving insights here on ageing and life and family, and there's a genuine power to it. It's a sleepy road poem that anyone can watch and enjoy. It's just a good film, contemplative but not dry, warm but not twee, and stunningly well observed. I love this film so much, and I think it's the perfect way to pass an afternoon 

My Thoughts on The Invisible Man

Universal's Dark Universe was one of the most disappointing IP launches in recent memory, floundering right out of the gate with the unanimously shat-on disaster that was The Mummy. In many ways, it was a bold decision to continue with the classic monster reboots, although reframing them as self-contained stories was undoubtedly a clever move. Helmed by Upgrade's Leigh Whannell, The Invisible Man has the unenviable task of following up the one of the Cruiser's darkest hours, and that's something that it absolutely achieves. Like many Blumhouse productions, this is a film that takes studio horror and shows us what it can be, refusing to rely on lazy jumpscares and generic setups to make an easy profit. This is one of the strongest high profile horrors in years, which isn't bad when you factor in its $7 million dollar budget. Of course it helps that, like every good horror, it's actually about something, this time using the idea of the invisible man to tell the story of a toxic relationship, with Elisabeth Moss' Cecelia desperately trying to fend off her apparently dead, suddenly invisible abusive boyfriend, tech mogul Adrien Griffin

This turns out to be a great move on Whannell's part, as he mines horror from gaslighting, emotional torment and the frustrations of not being believed, and the result is something that's genuinely scary. It also takes cues from the psychological thriller, building an atmosphere of unsettling uncertainty and knowing when to puncture it with a well placed shock. Surprise is a key motif in this film, and part of its freshness comes in its unpredictability; although plot points are well telegraphed, the film excels at presenting them in a way that not only feels sudden, but also possesses an element of genuine danger. The threat always feels real in The Invisible Man, and that's down to the film's fusion of the recognisable and the alien: the grim feeling of knowing what's coming but never quite being able to stop it, or even predict how it plays out. Points to Whannell for refusing to ever show the audience the central relationship in a positive light as well. Not once is there a montage of fond memories, or even an implication that it was ever anything but toxic, and it's Whannell's refusal to rely on that kind of cheap storytelling ploy that lets him imbue the horror with so much weight.

There are genuinely shocking moments in this film (a central restaurant setpiece will surely gain notoriety), but it's the sustained sense of tension that makes each of them resonate, something only amplified by the less-is-more sensibilities that Whannell demonstrated in Upgrade. Of course, none of this means anything without an equally strong central performance, and Elisabeth Moss absolutely delivers on that front. She's the best she's ever been here, bringing so much intensity and vulnerability without ever defining Cecelia as just a victim. There is so much empathy in this performance, but it's also so visceral, taking the bone-deep horror at the centre of the story and drawing it to the surface, with a physicality that convinces even when she's acting against the air. She is the crucial ingredient in what makes this film work, the anchor that convinces even when the high-concept threatens to slide towards silliness. Her commanding presence also negates the film's only real issue, which is the breakneck pace the plot progresses at, often feeling like Whannell is forcing the plot to a conclusion. It's never a major issue, but it does feel like everything is compressed pure information, despite its considerably roomy two hour runtime, and the film feels like it's moving at a sprinter's pace for most of its run. Again, it's only a slight distraction, but the sheer concentration of information can get slightly exhausting, even if it is only noticeable when the thrills slow down

Thankfully, that's a seldom occurrence in The Invisible Man, a film that takes every opportunity to deliver a surprise and ensures that each one resonates. It's a deft reinvention of the Universal Monster film after the disappointment of The Mummy, and is proof positive that these stories can lend themselves to modernisation in the right hands. The horror feels thrillingly prescient, reframing the terror of an invisible threat in a way that is utterly unpredictable but all too familiar. Elisabeth Moss is every inch the perfect horror hero, delivering arguably her best performance ever, and it's her fearless embodiment of this character that gives this film such a sting. She makes this her own, and she easily joins the pantheon of the ace female horror leads we've seen in the last few years. It's slick, it's thrilling, it's got some really sharp ideas that linger after the credits roll, and it's tonally tight. I'll admit that I wasn't expecting much of The Invisible Man, but I'm happy to say that I was very much surprised

★ ★ ★ ★

My Thoughts on About Endlessness

Roy Andersson is back. After wrapping up his Living trilogy back in 2014 with the wonderful A Pigeon Sat on a Branch Reflecting on Existence, cinema's most singular surrealist has returned with About Endlessness, 78 minutes of his trademark philosophical comedy delivered in a series of shorts exploring the silliness, horror, tragedy and beauty of being a human being. About Endlessness is business as usual for the mischievous filmmaker, and it should go with saying that it won't make converts out of those who aren't already devout members of the church of Andersson, but it's a short, sharp shot of arthouse bliss, lacking a definite plot but packing plenty of gorgeously dry insights about the oddities of the everyday

The shorts explore the mundanities of existence; in many ways the title is the best indicator of what the film is about (endlessness, natch). Each one is rendered in Andersson's signature style: minimal camera movement, drab colour palette and a hyper-specific focus on the bizarre, but they're also playful, surprising and full of mischief, spryly bouncing along from one observation to the next with deadpan glee. Each short focuses on the vastness of existence, the emptiness of the void and what we choose to fill it with, and although stylistically the film is very much rooted in Andersson's classic tightness and austerity, there's a great amount of tonal fluidity in this film, which can pinball between a pitch-black depiction of an execution by firing squad to a spirited musical number with absolute ease. Andersson effortlessly flits between tones as he flicks through this gorgeously constructed picture book, but it's the images themselves that really resonate. The tableaux range from the blacker-than-black comedy wrung from a nightmarish crucifixion to the unfathomable beauty of a couple floating above a destroyed city, but even the seemingly minor images hold weight; my personal favourite being the hilariously unfortunate shot of a father tying his daughter's shoes in the midst of a monsoon, although special mention goes to the utterly unexpected appearance of one of the 20th century's most evil tyrants

The prevailing themes of About Endlessness are all classic Andersson, reducing the most bizarrely relatable moments of the human experience down to their most crucial elements, and the power of these vignettes echoes across the whole film. It is simultaneously powerful and ridiculous, but the greatest surprise is how it confronts the issue of faith. This is explicitly a film about the great forces of the universe and the extent to which we believe in them, but for all of his gleeful pranks, this is something that Andersson tackles with great contemplation. It's not so much that he knows when to laugh and when to stop laughing, but that he knows how to poke fun at the grander parts of the universe while still understanding their importance. Most importantly is that it isn't navel gazing nonsense: when he says something here, there is truth to it, and the final observation, in which one character openly remarks on the wonders of the universe, really does hit home even when it should feel preachy. The film very much sees Andersson work within his niche but again he proves why he carved it in the first place, showcasing just how well he's able to work out of it to deliver a true experience in the way that only he can

 How much of it works does of course depend on the person, but Andersson's sheer devotion to the offbeat is absolutely undeniable. It's early days yet, but it's fairly unlikely that About Endlessness will be usurped as the strangest film of 2020.

★ ★ ★ ★

My Thoughts on True History of the Kelly Gang

2016's Assassin's Creed was a rare misfire for Justin Kurzel, one of the true punks of modern genre cinema, which is unfortunate considering the brutality of 2011's Snowtown and the blazing reinterpretation of 2015's Macbeth. So it's exciting to see him back on form with True History of the Kelly Gang, a fiery reframing of the life of the outlaw Ned Kelly. This isn't the first film to tackle this story, with Kelly having been played by everyone from Heath Ledger to Mick Jagger, but it's certainly the most striking. Kurzel's take on Kelly is entirely from his perspective, following his life in three crucial stages. It also completely tears up the rulebook, telling Kelly's story the way he probably would have done so, a fitting move considering how vital the idea of making your own legacy is to the story

True History of the Kelly Gang is pure punk poetry, revelling in the anarchic bliss of Kelly's antics and finding haunting beauty amid the chaos. It's a hardcore film, with jolts of unrelenting violence and disarming moments of black comedy peppered throughout the film. These stylistic choices bring their own kind of brilliance, with bombastic punk music and blinding strobe lighting amplifying the soul searing fire at the heart of the story. This is cinema of the elements, drawing its bite from the stark natural imagery to propulsive effect, and the result is Werner Herzog by way of Pete Shelley, both anarchic and awe-inspiring on its journey through the inferno. True, this particular blend won't be to everyone's taste, but the fusion of arthouse and genre sensibilities is undeniably hypnotising, with Kurzel using that stinging bite to cut through to something pure and powerful. Throughout the film, Kurzel is musing on the act of telling history, using the Kelly story to meditate on the extent to which we get to choose how the world remembers us. What gives this film so much strength is that it doesn't feel like it's being told in retrospect; less of a chronicle of the past and more the story of a life told by the person living it.

The bloody, brutal brilliance is propelled by George McKay's beguiling turn as Kelly: unflinching, intense and physical, but with a deep lying vulnerability that makes his gradual destruction that much more tragic. McKay transforms the punk poetry into flesh, blood and muscle, supercharging every side of Kelly with pure electricity. His Kelly is an outlaw and a storyteller, a killer and a poet, and it's McKay's refusal to play the role in any one way that gives it so much blistering brilliance. This mesmeric lead performance is bolstered by a stunning supporting cast. Russell Crowe spits salty verse with a surprising sense of humour, while Nicolas Hoult is disarmingly brilliant as a leering constable, but it's Essie Davis who stands out as Kelly's mother, all fire and ferocity with a deep reservoir of love at the centre. Special mention also to first timer Orlando Schwerdt as young Ned Kelly, who smashes youthful naivety and blistering bravado together with unnerving ease

Kurzel's film is an act of cinematic alchemy, a fusion of elements from all across the spectrum that finds harmony in chaos. It brings together colonial horror, eloquent punk, haunting natural beauty and grindhouse pulp to make something truly special. This is Kurzel cementing himself as one of modern cinema's craftiest madmen, bringing together so many things that shouldn't work, yet absolutely do. It's as provoking as it is highly entertaining; a shocking take on the Ned Kelly story that rewrites the rules and delivers something that feels truly singular. It's familiar pop culture building blocks stacked in a way that feels fresh, pure punk bliss that reminds us that history always matters, even when the way it's told is as radical and irresponsible as this. It's also just a wildly fun time, revelling in the excitement of the Kelly gang's exploits without ever glamorising them. True History of the Kelly Gang is white hot brilliance, an undoubtedly niche but highly enjoyable treat that rings with the unmistakable tone of both poetry and entertainment
★ ★ ★ ★