Eavesdropping At The Movies

A film that offers a beautiful evocation of community, as Riz Ahmed's drummer suddenly loses most of his hearing and joins a retreat for the deaf, Sound of Metal also feels regrettably, and unforgivably, dishonest in some of the ways it engineers its story. In this respect, we disagree over one of the film's key scenes, but agree about what it goes on to depict in the final act. Despite the severe problems we have with the film, it has pleasures to offer, including an outstanding central performance from Ahmed, whose wide-eyed, puppy-dog expressions transparently convey fear, anger, worry and determination, sometimes all at once. For Ahmed alone, it's worth seeing Sound of Metal. Recorded on 11th April 2021.

The fourth entry in Legendary's MonsterVerse, the first crossover in the series, sees a journey to the center of the Earth and Hong Kong made the playground of its titular colossi. In this cinematic universe seeking to challenge Marvel et al., Mike finds visual splendour and an ambition to reach for something a little more meaningful than your usual blockbusters. Indeed, the character of Godzilla, in particular, is well-known to derive from Japan's horrific experience as history's first and only target of nuclear warfare, and Mike argues that the MonsterVerse seeks to continue to use its creatures as giant metaphors that punch and breathe fire, unleashed by humanity's insatiable consumption and arrogant claim on the natural world. José isn't that impressed with this reading, but finds things to enjoy, particularly the beautiful imagery - though, he argues, while it demonstrates incredible skill and craft on the part of the artists who created it, art is precisely what it lacks. But luckily, although we butt h

At the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in 1968, riots erupted when thousands of anti-Vietnam War protestors clashed with police. Seeking to crush the energetic counterculture, the US government put on trial a group of eight defendants, some political organisers, some cultural radicals, some with hardly any influence, a pacifist, and a Black Panther, hoping to convict them for conspiracy to incite the riots. Aaron Sorkin's writing is a good fit for this story, the disparate group of defendants arguing amongst themselves sharply, and many scenes flowing beautifully towards their own internal climaxes; the same cannot be said of his direction, the film lacking much visual flair and instinct for expressive imagery. We revisit our common theme of British actors playing Americans, José finding more fault with it here than Mike does - we can, at least, agree that Sacha Baron Cohen's accent is atrocious, his Abbie Hoffman a weak point. Mike expounds upon how much he hates himself for how much he likes Sork

Anthony Hopkins is magnificent as The Father's title character, an old man losing his grip on reality to dementia, in debut director Florian Zeller's adaptation of his own stage play. We discuss the techniques the film uses to situate the audience within the mind of a dementia sufferer, and whether they lose their potency as the film develops. The Father's origins on stage are obvious in its sparse setting and focus on dialogue, and we suggest that the raw power of seeing the performances live, an immediacy, is lost here - though the cast, particularly Hopkins and Olivia Colman, are impressive nonetheless. Mike argues that the film somehow lacks enough plot to even fill its 97-minute duration, and would have worked better as a short film - José suggests that it ends up in cliché. Still, for a while at least, it's an extraordinarily effective dramatisation of what it might feel like to suffer from dementia, convinced of your own mental acuity while contradicted by everyone and everything around you. The Fathe

A gentle drama about Korean immigrants making a life for themselves in 1980s Arkansas, Minari's tone is consistently light, despite some of the upsetting events that occur. Mike argues that it reflects a child's perspective of life, protected by their parents from the worst of life, or simply not understanding the darkness in what they experience - writer-director Lee Isaac Chung based the film on his own upbringing on a farm in Arkansas. José identifies strongly with the story, commenting on the similarities and differences with his youth as a Spanish immigrant to Canada. Minari is a good-natured film with no room for cynicism, and, for José, a joyous experience to watch. Recorded on 28th March 2021.

In 2017, Justice League, DC's answer to Marvel's continuing Avengers crossovers, flopped. Director Zack Snyder had left the film several months before release, his role taken over by MCU regular Joss Whedon, and significant changes were made in an attempt to lighten the tone of what had so far been a rather bleak series. Immediately, talk erupted of a director's cut - the so-called Snyder Cut - that would represent Snyder's true vision, uncompromised by studio executives' fears and directives. Initially no more than a meme responding to that film's quality, it was given oxygen by Zack Snyder's insistence that it did actually exist, and it now reaches us via online streaming in the age of Covid-19. There's perhaps no other set of circumstances in which it would have been made real - on top of the original budget, the creation of this director's cut cost some additional $70m - but what an opportunity to compare and contrast two versions of the same film. At four hours in length, this is a version of Justice Le

Frances McDormand and a cast of non-professional, real-life nomads unite to explore the life of the modern American itinerant in Nomadland. We consider the line between fiction and reality, the non-professionals who appear bringing their real experiences and stories with them, and discuss what drives a person to their way of life. Like director Chloé Zhao's previous feature, The Rider, Nomadland is a textural, contemplative film, and perhaps one that grows in stature upon reflection - while José loved every moment, Mike was bored by the tempo, but finds much to praise nonetheless. A film worth taking the time to sink into. Recorded on 21st March 2021.

The story of a civil rights activist who deserved a biopic long before now, told from the perspective of the man who killed him. Fred Hampton chaired the Illinois chapter of the Black Panther Party, and using his oratorical skills and powers of persuasion formed the Rainbow Coalition, a political movement in which black, white and Puerto Rican organisations combined and worked together. Hampton was identified as a threat by the FBI and his death is considered an assassination under COINTELPRO, the FBI's illegal programme of disruption of domestic political organisations. He was killed in December 1969 at the age of 21. We ask whether it's a problem that Judas and the Black Messiah frames his story as part of his murderer, William O'Neal's. For José, the entire story is badly conceived, as Hampton should be the clear focus; for Mike, the problem is in the execution, with O'Neal underdeveloped - but it's possible that this informant thriller genre structure is what allowed the film to get made in the first pla

Ethics and truth in the land of documentary come under the microscope in our discussion of Dear Zachary: A Letter to a Son About His Father. Filmmaker Kurt Kuenne's love letter to his childhood friend, Andrew Bagby, is a sensational and moving film that you should know as little as possible about before watching. It's exceptionally effective, built out of a combination of interviews, home footage, still photos and more, masterfully edited to generate emotional affect - but despite its qualities, there are real issues fundamental to its form. It's a hybrid of two types of film that find themselves in competition here: it's a documentary, a form about openness and truth; and a thriller, withholding information until it reshapes everything you've learned so far. It's a tension that may well be impossible to avoid - to resolve it might be to totally change Dear Zachary from the deeply personal, passionately made film it is. The story Dear Zachary tells is powerful, moving and utterly gripping, and the conversati

First-time writer-director Noah Hutton imagines, in Lapsis, a near-future gig economy dystopia that isn't that different from our own. Unable to pay for his brother's healthcare, Dean Imperial's Ray takes on contracting work for a Google-esque tech giant, hiking through forests laying cables. Imperial's performance is a standout, his Ray always sympathetic and legible, and Hutton's sketchy, piecemeal world-building suits the film - until it doesn't. Lapsis creates a recognisable milieu and has a leftist politics with which we broadly agree and are happy to see, but as its story develops it wants to evoke the feeling of doom one would expect of a revealed conspiracy, without the burden of having to bring together its disparate subplots and building blocks in order to explain anything. Despite our reservations, we enjoyed Lapsis and are glad to have seen it, and are keen to see what comes next for Noah Hutton and Dean Imperial. Recorded on 14th March 2021.

An expensive flop in its day, The Day of the Locust maintains a cult intrigue for its critique of Hollywood and descent into madness. It's new for both of us, and we discuss the qualities its cast brings, what could be better about its industry commentary, its moments of surprisingly graphic violence, and who, or what, its titular locusts are. Recorded on 28th February 2021.

We explore a wonderful Taiwanese film that Netflix forgot it had, A Sun. An intimate yet epic drama about the effects of a single mistake that reverberate through a family and down the years, it's gorgeously lit and shot, and although it feels as long as it is, every moment is earned and valuable. It asks fundamental questions of its characters and of us, the most important of which is: What does it mean to be a good person? Recorded on 21st February 2021.

Our two-part discussion of Rocky concludes with a look at the entire series of eight films, including the two Creed movies. It's a series that's deeply interested in its own history, regularly referring to it in montages of characters' memories, journeys back to iconic locations, and the reintroduction of one particular character in Creed II. The series rewards its audience for its investment, although despite featuring a soap opera-like series of melodramatic plot developments over its many films, almost everything that refers to a previous film refers to the first one. Other than the events of 1976's Rocky, which laid the foundation for the series, only Apollo Creed's death and Ivan Drago's defeat in Rocky IV have lasting impact on later films. We discuss how, following his superhero-like physicality in the Eighties, the character of Rocky is brought back down to Earth in his old age, his body ravaged by time, his life broken by loss. And we think about how the milieu evolves over time, the music, for inst

In this first of our two-part discussion of the Rocky films, we look at the film that began the series almost 50 years ago. There's a lot about 1976's Rocky that... isn't that good. John G. Avildsen's direction is drab, the story basic, the themes rudimentary - but with that comes a roughness and a sincerity to the whole affair that might be just what makes it work after all. Sylvester Stallone's Rocky is a physical brute, softened by his unusual - and unusually pretty - features, his inability to avoid trying to befriend any animal that crosses his path, his demeanour that's at once confident and shy, and his intellectual simplicity. José argues that the boxing is a diversion, a Trojan horse within which to sneak Rocky and Adrian's love story. And we think about the character of Apollo Creed, his use as a substitute for Muhammad Ali, and why he couldn't have been white. Rocky was a phenomenon upon its release, an immediate cultural touchstone that contains images and scenes so iconic that, five decades on,

Why this film was made... is rather beyond us. News of the World invokes the era of fake news in name only, its premise - following the Civil War, a former Confederate captain travels the American south reading out newspapers for a living - interesting in principle but almost entirely ignored in favour of a by-the-numbers, surrogate father-daughter road movie. Paul Greengrass' direction, eschewing the style and energy that made him famous, is barely an impersonation of that of classic Westerns, full of landscapes and sunsets, signifying nothing; Tom Hanks is as tediously noble and upstanding as ever, his character's supposedly shady past alluded to rather than detailed, allowing us to feel pleased for his redemption without ever having to dislike him for what he needs to be redeemed for. Helena Zengel, the German youngster who plays Hanks' mysterious companion, is a highlight, a presence you can't take your eyes off - though her character is as thinly sketched as everything else. News of the World is bad, bu

Mike Nichols and Elaine May, whose partnership in the 50s and 60s helped define American comedy, collaborate on a film for the first time in 1996, as director and screenwriter respectively, giving us a comedy so sharp and outrageous that José's laughter made Mike miss half the dialogue. An adaptation of the French farce, La Cage aux Folles, The Birdcage sees Robin Williams' South Beach drag club owner, Armand, attempt to force his life into the closet for one night, for the sake of his son, Val, whose deeply conservative in-laws are set to visit for dinner. But Nathan Lane's flamboyant Albert, Armand's longtime partner, is unable, and at first unwilling, to participate in the subterfuge as requested, and chaos ensues. The Birdcage relies heavily on stereotypes - it's not only theatrical but a farce, in which everything is heightened - and though they're enjoyably insane in themselves, the film's brilliance is in how it reveals the real people within them, people whose love and pain are rendered sensitively a

A pro-union, pulpy noir in 1957, not long after the House Un-American Activities Committee was at its height, is nothing to be sniffed at, even if its stance is to align union interests with business, and blame most of the bad things that happen on organised crime. The Garment Jungle dramatises the infiltration of the mob into New York's Garment District with arguably surprising elegance, particularly considering its shaky production in which the first director, Robert Aldrich, was fired and replaced with Vincent Sherman. We discuss its significant use of location filming, implied - or otherwise - moral failings of its characters, Robert Loggia's driven union organiser, the lack of quality of its dialogue and acting, and what appeal there is in it today, beyond an academic interest in the period. It has, after all, been lovingly restored as part of Columbia Noir #1, a six-film boxset - but we're glad it has. Recorded on 7th February 2021.

John Smith's 16-minute short, Citadel, gives voice to the City of London - Prime Minister Boris Johnson's voice, specifically. Filmed during the first few months of lockdown in 2020, it builds an oppositional portrait of British life under Johnson's blustery leadership - it's Boris Johnson vs. the British people, and the City vs. the British people. But in tying Johnson to the City, it ignores his shockingly unsympathetic stance, for a Tory leader, towards business - summed up succinctly in his overheard comment in June 2018: "Fuck business". Late on, it depicts the British public as lambs to the slaughter as Johnson decrees they must return to work, but while Smith employs a soundtrack of outdoor construction, the homes he is able to show us are suggestive of the middle class, their inhabitants likely able to work from home. Still, Smith only has so much to work with, stuck at home as he is, and Citadel is an evocative and concise film, cleverly conceived, shot, and edited. Its simplifications are small in

A young, destitute couple seek survival and stability in Yuzo Kawashima's 1956 drama, Suzaki Paradise: Akashingō (in English, this subtitle is given as Red Light, or Red Light District). Tsutae and Yoshiji spend their last few yen on a bus to anywhere, ending up on the outskirts of Tokyo's red light district, separated from it only by an ominous bridge that is spoken of by the locals as though fearful, dreaded, even mythical. They take to their new home differently: Tsutae easily finds work as a waitress at a bar, comfortable for reasons that become clear; Yoshiji, a former office worker, has trouble adjusting, and, though it's not put into words as such, spends much of the film depressed. We discuss the portrayal of Tokyo's unfortunates, their attitudes to life and to each other, and the tightrope Kawashima walks between wallowing in poverty porn and sentimentalising the couple's situation. The motif of the bridge is a potent one, recurring throughout, and we consider how it's used, what it signifies, and

A key film in Paul Newman's career that gave us one of cinema's most iconic lines, Cool Hand Luke is known to both Mike and José - but previously seen by neither. The reasons that it became a cultural touchstone remain crystal clear, despite it failing, to a significant degree, to grab us as it might. We question the authenticity and purpose of Luke's rebellion, the depiction of prison life, and the flimsy Christian allegory that tirelessly insists upon itself. The brutality perhaps seems unfairly tame today, an unavoidable consequence of coming to the film more than fifty years late, but its comedy still works beautifully and Newman's charm has gone nowhere. It's a fantasy, we conclude, for the privileged - an ultimately mortal fight against The Man, the point of which may very well be its lack of focus and clarity of purpose. Jesus was crucified for our sins; will we be recounting the story of Luke in two thousand years? Only time will tell. Recorded on 16th January 2021.