My Thoughts on Promising Young Woman

This feels like it's been a long time coming. Not Promising Young Woman's actual release, although it does feel like an eternity since the trailer dropped back in December of 2019, but the film itself, with its combination of topical subject matter and bold approach. Emerald Fennell's slick showrunning consistently one of the best things about Killing Eve's second season, and so her directorial debut has been hotly anticipated. It's a film that has proven divisive, and its subject matter will understandably be triggering for some, but its gung-ho approach and refusal to compromise has made it one of the talking points of the last few months. So let's talk about it

Cassie Thomas lives a fairly standard life as a medical school-dropout working in a coffee shop and living at home. At night however, she's something of a vigilante, luring in "nice guys" with a fake drunk act, after which they take her home and.... the less said about the plot, the better. This is a film that massively benefits from going in cold, so if it's not in the trailer, it won't be in this review. It's clear from quite early on that Cassie is fueled by rage and looking to right a past injustice, and this is the force that drives much of the film. Again, it's a film that very directly deals with a difficult subject matter, and although Fennell refrains from any graphic depictions, the frequent, open discussion of sexual assault might be tricky for some viewers and that's absolutely fine. This is a film that takes aim at a larger system, one that enables harmful behaviour through weak justifications, damning silence and a general lack of support. As Cassie gradually works her way through the list of people who perpetuate the cycle that caused her so much pain, the film is able to find its rhythm, building and releasing tension carefully as it doles out its hard-hitting insights

A huge part of that is the cast. Carey Mulligan is arguably the best she's ever been, filling Cassie with righteous anger and deep-seated sadness that comes out in every look, gesture and expertly delivered line. Fennell's decision to cast Cassie's cavalcade of nocturnal targets as fresh-faced actors with a natural likeability is a masterstroke as well. Adam Brody, Christopher Mintz-Plasse and Max Greenfield perfectly perpetuate the idea that anyone could be a predator, no matter how many times they assure you they're a "nice guy". This casting is doubly effective when Bo Burnham turns up and sows doubt into both Cassie and the viewer. Can he be trusted, or will the film's carefully constructed pattern prove Cassie right and deny her actual happiness and fulfillment?

The tone is expertly handled, too. Fennell manages the white-hot fury under the candy-coated surface so masterfully, and the thrill of the film comes from how deftly it bounces between rom-com sweetness and something much darker. The two moods swap around so quickly and frequently that, by the hour mark, they're closely intertwined, and Fennell has managed to create a sense of genuine, palpable danger. The music plays a huge part in that, from disarmingly sugary pop like Paris Hilton's Stars are Blind to a bone-shakingly haunting rendition of Toxic in the much-discussed third act. That climax won't be spoiled here but when Fennell does show violence after holding back for so long, she lingers on it, forcing the viewer to look and fully consider what this means for the story and the culture it's commenting on. The reveals are shocking but never surprising, and that's where this film works best. The heaviest plot beats are ones that the viewer might be able to predict purely out of familiarity with the way society tends to treat such accusations, and the fact that we're at a place where that's possible is the thing that Fennell mourns most of all

And that's ultimately what the film is. For all of its stylish thrills, puncturing moments of comedy and white hot primal screams of rage against a world that seems incapable of improving, Promising Young Woman inevitably feels like an expression of grief. The ending uses Juice Newton's Angel of the Morning as an anthem for a justice steeped in remorse, going out on a supercharged high that feels absolutely true after everything that the film was building towards. It ends on a powerful note, not a definite conclusion or a catch-all solution, but a stinging social comment that lingers long after the credits roll

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

My Thoughts on Minari

Lee Isaac Chung's Minari has been attracting heavy praise since its premiere at Sundance last year, and somewhat unsurprisingly, it's become a massive hit on the awards circuit. Most contentiously, it won Best Foreign Language Film at this year's Golden Globes, which is slightly ridiculous, because this is explicitly a film about an immigrant family's pursuit of the American dream, and goes on to suggest that the essence of America is the multitude of cultural specificities that the country is composed of. It is absolutely an American film, and the notion that stories about POC don't belong in that category is frankly ludicrous. Minari tells the story of the Yi family as they travel to rural Arkansas in the early 80s in search of a new life. From there, the film eases into the poetry of the everyday, as father Jacob tends to his land, kids David and Anne adjust to their new life, and grandmother Soon-ja is flown in to lighten the load

Minari is a film about small routines, little gestures that build into larger payoffs. Farming, parenting and assimilation are all large commitments that take effort and patience to yield successful results, and Chung revels in these processes. The film is light enough to weave tones together in a way that never risks losing consistency; it flirts with natural comedy, deeper drama and the earnest rhythms of life that translate perfectly onscreen. It's a careful blend established early on, something that allows the film to ease closer and closer into the huge emotional insights it doles out in the third act. Like a great farmer, Chung knows that good things take time

The film has an organic, observational structure, almost like the audience has stumbled across this story by accident. This is bolstered by the cast, who present themselves in such an organic, natural way. It's like watching a real family onscreen, but standing back and looking beyond the illusion proves valuable as a way of seeing just how much effort each member of the cast has put into making it look so seamless. It's a perfect recreation of life, and it's on top of such a believable foundation that they're able to construct a portrait of the American dream that never feels anything less than true. Special mention to Alan Kim, whose performance conveys a level of depth and eloquence that marks the arrival of a hugely exciting screen presence that I can't wait to see more of

The film excels in moments of specificity, and the huge notes of truth and emotion in the third act just wouldn't be possible if Chung hadn't sowed the seeds early on. So much of Minari is rooted in his own upbringing, and he translates so many little nuggets of everyday magic that feel specifically his. The result of this is pure cinema, not diluted or compromised by an attempt to capture anything other than his own experience. It finds great universality in doing this, and the film ensures that the viewer is absolutely invested from the start. Stories like this matter, in society and in cinema. Especially after a year where so much of the conversation has been about blockbusters, about when No Time to Die is going to be released, or if Black Widow is going to drop on Disney+. Those films have their place but Minari strikes gold by skewing smaller, by delivering earnest, intelligent cinema at a time where it couldn't feel more needed. It's warm, lovingly crafted and massively valuable. It becomes a masterpiece through its quiet moments, and although its insights are delicate, they're no less impactful for it, and their effect is bound to be felt in the decades to come

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

My Thoughts on The Devil All the Time

 

Adapted from Donald Ray Pollock's 2011 novel, The Devil All the Time has proven to be a real talking point. With a cast like that (Spiderman! Batman! Pennywise!) and content that seems ripe to provoke, it’s hardly surprising to see it attract so much heat. Even less of a surprise is the fact that it’s proving to be so divisive, only natural considering the seemingly unholy marriage of style and subject matter. A loose, eerily quiet crime saga set in the town of Knockemstiff and involving a pair of murderers, a corrupt sheriff and a paedophile priest, it goes without saying that The Devil All the Time is a typically heavy piece of work from Antonio Campos, last seen helming the similarly provocative Christine.

The story of Tom Holland’s Arvin, a troubled young man sitting square in the centre of the aforementioned rogue’s gallery, The Devil All the Time uses a kind of mosaic structure to build a world around its morally divided hero. It’s a slow, patiently told story, stewing in sticky Southern heat and taking great pleasure in setting up small details to set off greater tragedies. It’s grim from the start- something signalled by an early crucifixion- and although it’s tempting to dismiss it as bleak or hopeless, that’s not entirely accurate. Instead, it plays like an elegy for a nation that’s lost its way, quietly and deeply tragic. That’s where Arvin comes in, growing up into a doomed world without realising that he doesn’t have a chance to change it. That he tries anyway is what fuels the desperate hope at the heart of the story, transforming The Devil All the Time into something uncomfortably, nakedly human.

Holland is outstanding as Arvin, showing previously unseen levels of soul and vulnerability. It’s an exercise in range that seems long overdue from Holland. Ace as he is in the most recent Spider-outings, his Arvin feels like a revelation, all deep-seated trauma and stinging moral confusion. It’s a thrill to watch as he goes positively primal in the film’s standout scene, his nail-bitingly tense confrontation with Robert Pattison’s slimy preacher. Pattison gives another bravura turn in his ongoing streak of belters, all venomous charm as he spits his lines through a Southern drawl that would be laughable if it wasn’t so bone-chillingly sinister. Another standout is Sebastian Stan as the paunchy, stoic cop tasked with bringing justice to this deeply twisted world. He’s thoroughly corrupted himself, of course, and Stan plays his nervy jadedness with aplomb.

The world of Knockemstiff feels simultaneously alive and dead, bustling with the energy of what feels like a legion of lost souls desperately scrambling for redemption. In fact, the film’s only real issue may be that it’s too sprawling, and some characters- namely Mia Wasikowska’s shy, god-fearing Helen- get lost in the expanse of the story. It’s a shame too, with how well Piercing showcased her ability to handle such dark material with nuance and relish. The same could be said of Eliza Scanlen’s Lenore, who often threatens to turn into a plot device, only saved by the fact that this is Arvin’s story, and as such, the version of her that exists is explicitly the one that he sees, something that gives the film a kind of subjectivity that makes her relatively thin characterisation slightly less of an issue. Not that the film struggles with all of its female characters, with Riley Keogh adding another wonderful turn to her rapidly increasing repertoire.

Ultimately, The Devil All the Time is destined to provoke, upset and divide, but I'm not sure that's a bad thing. It might just be the opposite, with the film succeeding so well in sowing an atmosphere of unease and depravity that to come out the other side unscathed is to miss the point entirely. It deals with dark, contentious themes but with a lightness of touch that ensures that Campos never descends into puerile shock tactics. And while it might be divisive now, it's not impossible to imagine that, in retrospect, it'll be considered what it so clearly is: a work of genius. An oppressive, deeply troubling work of pure cinema 

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

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

★ ★ ★ ★ ★