REVIEW | Malcolm & Marie

2021 | 1hr 46mins | Drama, Romance | Rated 15 | Dir. Sam Levison

Rolling with the pandemic punches that necessitated the temporary shutdown of their HBO show Euphoria, Zendaya, the show’s star, suggested making a film to Sam Levinson, the show’s creator. Levinson got writing, and using the crew from Euphoria, Malcolm and Marie was shot under covid-compliant conditions during the summer of 2020.

 

The film begins when hot young director, Malcolm (John David Washington) and Marie (Zendaya) his partner, a former actress, return from the premiere of Malcolm’s new movie. Malcolm is giddy with the success of the night and wants to carry on the party, but he forgot to thank Marie in his pre-movie speech. Marie, who has supported Malcolm through the gestation of the film is naturally cross about this, and so begins a night of impassioned fighting between the couple that covers such diverse subjects as sex, artistic authenticity, the role of the critic, the entertainment industry and what it means to be a person of colour working in it. 

Malcolm & Marie is shot in chic, high key black and white on film, like a perfume advert, and begins with a classic block of credits. These choices are striking, but they are also clichés. Starting his film in this way, Levinson is either tongue-in-cheek, or lacking in self-awareness. Once we meet Malcolm though, what is going on becomes clear. Malcolm is someone for whom an encyclopedic knowledge of cinema is a significant part of his personality. Across the film, Malcolm brings up a litany of directors from the past, with very few contemporary references, and he shows disdain for people who lack the understanding that he has. The clichéd style perfectly skewers the type of film maker that Malcolm apparently is. These style choices are exactly the kind of affectations Malcolm would be unable to resist putting into one of his own films, to ape the style of his heroes. Levinson is satirising this overly reverent form of film making. One might think that Levinson is articulating his own frustrations as a director through the angered Malcolm. However, as Malcolm builds his tower of self-importance and the arguments progress, his pretentions appear ever more ridiculous and it seems inconceivable that Levinson could align himself with the character. So, when Malcolm vents his feelings about the inadequacies of critics and their approach, rather than this being a targeted attack on critics, it really is part of a larger attempt to deflate the pomposity of filmic discourse — of both critics and professionals in the industry.

The dialogue of Malcolm & Marie feels overworked and unnatural, as though the characters have rehearsed the points their argument will cover, having prepared long, dramatic and verbose rebuttals. Through their magnetic, overwrought performances, however, John David Washington and Zendaya make it all sound believable. The chemistry between the pair is strong enough even to make their toxic relationship holding together appear conceivable, despite the animosity on show. This is a difficult movie to enjoy, though: watching the pair repeatedly point score against each other, and with little respite, the film becomes exhausting.

- Oliver Carey

REVIEW | The Shape Of Water

2017 | 2hr 3mins | Drama, Fantasy | Rated 15 | Dir. Guillermo del Toro

It has been three years since Guillermo del Toro’s The Shape of Water (2017) emerged onto cinema’s screens and three years until I finally chose to watch this ‘acclaimed’ Golden Lion winning masterpiece. What took me so long, is a question that plagues me even as I write this, for del Toro had created a spectacle of the Beauty and the Beast fairy tale and what emerges is a film that has defied any categorisation by genre. Instead, we are swept into a land of paradoxes. 

This motif has followed del Toro across his filmography, because he blends realism with fantasy. It is through this sleight of hand, done with subtly, that we barely notice the city of Baltimore, USA, set somewhere in the 1960s, is not a true depiction of the post-war American experience that it first seems.

The Shape of Water has a layering of a romance, thriller, drama and fantasy which should have been stifling for a viewer to watch yet, del Toro turns each of these tropes on its head. So, by splattering in the violence that thriller’s offer and combining this with love, sex and, monsters what emerges is a violent love story. However, when we dive deeper, we begin to understand that del Toro’s portrayal of a ‘monster’ and a woman falling in love is in actual fact a tangled exploration of what it means to live in a world which denies you a place and, more importantly, a voice.

Viewers first notice this absence of a voice through its leading heroine Elisa (played by Sally Hawkins). Elisa is a mute, communicating via sign-language, her speech shown on the screen through vivid yellow subtitles. Her reality is filled with people, their noise and the space they occupy within her world. But, she is lonely. It is through this loneliness that the need for her to feel accepted by someone other than her peers becomes recognisable. She is desperate for connection and as the film progresses, for love too. This is why the relationship between the ‘monster’ (Creature) and Elisa is paramount to the understanding of del Toro’s masterpiece. The relationship grows by intrigue first. Elisa initially notices the Creature in passing. She and her best friend and colleague Zelda (Octavia Spencer) are completing their routine cleaning of the secret scientific facility they work at. It is inside one of the laboratories that Elisa first notices the Creature. Much like Elisa, a viewer is intrigued due to the way del Toro has filmed the scene. The camera moves almost like a body through water, always shooting from below or in the centre of the screen – never from above. As the Creature is brought into the science lab, we notice the way the camera circles around all cast members, gliding between them and focusing on the face of the laboratory’s head of security, who is attempting to command the room with his voice. As we watch, the camera tracks the movements of those individuals important to the scene: Fleming (David Hewlett), Robert Hoffstetler (Michael Stuhlbarg), Elisa and Richard Strickland (Michael Shannon). However, the camera is always moving much like a body, a creature, would if they were swimming through the sea.

Nevertheless, as the scene continues Elisa is swept up by her intrigue. As she approaches the Creature, she hovers her hand across the tank he is imprisoned in and listens to his muffled cries. Not only does this leave a viewer deeply empathetic towards the Creature it also echoes the sentiment of entrapment both he and Elisa feel in their respective circumstances. This sense of entrapment is then made overtly apparent to a viewer when she touches the tank. When Elisa presses her hand against the glass the Creature’s cries increase and fill the laboratory. This alerts the lab staff who promptly remove her and Zelda from the room. Despite this, Elisa is then left with the echoes of the creature’s fear. Much like him, Elisa longs to cry out. She is isolated in a world of noise because she cannot communicate through sound, only movement. It is this difference that makes her appear weak to those who populate her world but, Del Toro teaches us that there is strength in difference. We merely need to look.

Overall, The Shape of Water feels like a film of indulgence. It is a delicious ride into something forbidden and haunting but, ultimately, beautiful. Once again, del Toro has triumphed in his vision to combine the fantastical with what is real, leaving a viewer with heightened emotions of longing and compassion because we are made to realise what is left unspoken, in the silence, is just as powerful as the noise that surrounds our daily lives. All we need is to be still in the silence to understand the beauty that the world offers.

- Megan Brady

FOCUS | We Need To Talk About Kevin

2011 | 1hr 52mins | Drama, Thriller | Rated 15 | Dir. Lynne Ramsay

Flushed with uncertainty, dread and often confusion; 2020 has given us a plethora of emotions to fixate on. As we enter the most festive of months, during which the colour red is spotted almost everywhere; let's take a look back on a piece of cinema also gushing with this primal of colours.

‘We Need to Talk About Kevin’ speaks for itself and invites any audience to be forced to have at least once conversation about it afterwards. My partner, quite understandably, didn’t really have the words to express his feelings at the end of the films. Me, on the other hand, could not stop talking about it.

All of the action is to the point, much like Kevin’s weapon of choice used throughout most of the film and finally ‘showcased’ at the finish. Every action shown on screen is building the dread I spoke of at the beginning, that something awful is going to happen. Yet, the minimal dialogue is just as punchy, ruthless and a testament to the heart wrenching emotion behind the pivotal characters of Kevin and his mother Eva, despite their seemingly being no emotion behind their eyes whatsoever. The way the director hints at the tragic and disturbing crescendo to come by throwing (very literally at one point) the colour red in our faces is often. Yet, as you’re concentrating so hard to decrypt the relationship between mother and son, you may miss it.

At the beginning of this story, we see red being used as a symbol of life as Eva takes part in ‘La Tomatina’ festival in Spain. The sheer mess and unclean nature of this festival may prove to be the biggest first clue of the mess to come later on in her life, but you cannot deny the colour red representing sheer joy and passion for Eva’s previous life. This festival also marks the time when she meets Kevin’s father, Franklin which means that the red hue plastered on our screens during this meeting could represent the start of creating a life for a woman; a life that fills Eva with burden and struggle.

As soon as Kevin’s character enters his quietly turbulent teenage years and Ezra Miller’s eerie and captivating performance is upon us, you can’t help but feel uncomfortable and nervous watching him. With behaviour so erratic and manipulative on a good day, even a simple task of making a jam sandwich becomes entrancing for us. Of all the sandwich fillings to use, I suspect that jam was not chosen on a whim. Such a trait of innocence, reminding us that Kevin is still just a child as he splatters the sweet spread on his bread. Some viewers might connect this innocent action as lazy, however as we’ve watched Kevin grow up throughout the film, we have come face to face with his overwhelming sense of curiosity and the consequences that follow. Making this sandwich may be just a simple task of nourishment for you and I, but for Kevin it is an opportunity to play with patterns, push past the normal protocols in life. Arguably, you could say that he has been doing this quite successfully since his early years and his main motive has been to antagonise his mother, Eva. However, the one thing I loved about the jam sandwich scene is that I was witnessing a moment with just Kevin and his mind. He has no audience, it is just him, his motor skills and his imagination; a combination that proves unstoppable and dangerous in the scenes to come. 

At this point, I feel like if I continue, I should include the disclaimer ‘Symbolic Spoilers Ahead!’. Instead, I urge you to watch this piece of cinema and try and spot any tell tale clues that may translate into something more than just a prop, costume choice or location. This is the thing I love most about films of this nature and this genre. Everything has meaning, you just have to be willing to look for it.

- Melissa Swain

REFLECTION | For Sama

2019 | 1hr 40mins | Documentary | Rated 18 | Dir. Waad al-Kateab & Edward Watts

I put off watching For Sama for far too long. A documentary that I knew contained horrors of the Syrian conflict that would no doubt shock, disturb and upset me as I watched it. Of course, I was right. Just one of the countless indicators of my privilege as a white, British, middle-class male that this film frankly illuminates; simply choosing not to engage with something that will make me sad. Continuing to live in peaceful ignorance. For this, I am ashamed.

However, my personal feelings are abhorrently irrelevant compared to the events of For Sama. The footage is solely captured by the film’s creator Waad al-Kateab, a journalist based in Aleppo, and is structured as a message to her daughter: Sama. Beginning with her days at university, documenting the peaceful protests that would eventually escalate to the full Aleppo uprising against the militant Syrian government (led by Bashar al-Assad), Russian airstrikes and Islamic Extremists. Caught in the middle of this mortifying, seemingly never-ending conflict were the rebels and inhabitants of Aleppo – refusing to flee and give up their city as it crumbled around them, as so many others understandably chose to do. Waad was at the heart of it. Relentlessly filming everything she could, knowing all too well the significance of raw, unedited footage. Led by her doctor friend Hamza, her small group constructed a makeshift hospital and devoted themselves to saving lives and protecting the injured. In the absence of a government that has even the slightest inclination to protect its people, Hamza, Waad and their friends became the last hope of salvation for the people of Aleppo.

Let me be clear, some of the imagery Waad records at the hospital is some of the most harrowing and heart-breaking imagery I’ve ever seen on film. The camera does not shy away from the numerous dead children – nor does it neglect the tears of grieving mothers nor the cries of young boys mourning their brother lying dead in their arms. And so it shouldn’t. This is not entertainment. This is life in the modern day. No number of news reports or statistics can give you even a shred of empathy compared to overwhelmingly visceral experience that For Sama provides. Yet still, for all the tears you may spill and for all the aching your heart can handle, it is still incomparable to the real thing. Watching this film, I personally believe, is the least you can do.

While the footage was as painful as I expected, it is not what makes For Sama a 5-star watching experience. For at the heart of all this death and desolation is Sama. Having proposed in their makeshift hospital, Hamza and Waad get married. Their wedding is small and improvised; at one point they jokingly suggest to keep the music loud to drown out the exploding shells coming from the streets outside. Soon, Waad falls pregnant. Despite her internal moral struggle with the notion of raising a child in a warzone, nine months later she gives birth to a baby girl: Sama. For Sama, as it titularly suggests, is a letter from Waad to her daughter – at points begging her forgiveness for keeping and raising her in such an inhospitable environment. Waad speaks directly to her daughter’s future self, explaining how the sense of duty felt by her and Hamza to help, protect and serve the people of Aleppo was too strong to ignore.

The bravery of Waad, Hamza and their friends cannot be overstated, nor can the content of their character or the strength of their spirits. In a crumbling city, covered in blood and ash, they refused to run away. Somehow, they continue to laugh and smile while the walls shake around them. As food and supplies become sparse, Waad’s best friend is overjoyed when her husband surprises her with a persimmon, before joking that the siege can continue as planned now that she has her fruit. She also runs an underground school so that the local children can still access some form of education. In an effort to create a sense of community, her husband buys some art supplies and organises an art session in which the children paint an old bus. When asked what happened to the bus, his five-year-old daughter replies that it was ‘hit by a cluster bomb’. No matter how much paint or fruit the adults can throw at their situation, even the youngest members of their community know all too well the tragic reality.

This is the balance of For Sama. Adversity in the face of despair. Sheltering and nurturing life while surrounded by death. Sama herself is not only the offspring of two ferociously devoted and wholeheartedly endearing parents, but a beacon of hope. One piece of footage shows Hamza, Waad and Sama sneaking back into Aleppo to help their friends. When they arrive, Waad remarks how, most of all, her friends were happiest to see Sama; her smiling face welcome respite to the constant terror they faced. The girl born in hellfire, living to see another day.

- Ewan Cadwallader

REVIEW | Happiest Season

2020 | 1hr 42mins | Romance, Comedy, Drama | Rated 12 | Dir. Clea DuVall

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a queer gal in possession of good taste must be in want of more films with lesbians in them.

Anyone who knows me will confirm that I have been excited for this film for almost two years: Clea Duvall, directing Kristen Stewart, in a lesbian Christmas movie! That’s right ladies, we now have TWO whole Christmas lesbian Christmas movies! And unlike Carol, this one seems cute and funny and not a sombre reflection on- wait…

So let’s backtrack:  The film is about Abby (Kristen Stewart) who is invited to spend Christmas at her girlfriend Harper’s (McKenzie Davies) family home, where Abby plans to propose.  The catch? Harper is not out to her high strung traditional family yet…   Now here that the film diverts from expectation:  The majority of the marketing made it out to be a cute romp with Dan Levy at peak Dan Levy, awkward misunderstandings, sneaking shenanigans and Alison Brie shoving people - a sort of queer National Lampoon.  Though the film does feature all the fun stuff, there are a lot of painful moments as well.  For every silly scene of Abby ducking into linen closets, there will be a scene of Harper distancing herself from Abby, leaving her neglected and lonely. 

The film has received criticism for being a bit of a bait and switch: expect cute lesbians, get PTSD from your own coming out trauma.  Which I cannot really argue against, there are some really heart-wrenching moments, especially from Aubrey Plaza, who plays the towns black sheep as the only out lesbian, and Harpers ex…. Plaza is a personal highlight in this film however, this character could easily take on a villain role given her electric chemistry with Stewart, but she manages to blend her classic Daria energy with a sincerity and emotionality that makes this a really wonderful performance.

Kristen Stewart was probably born for this role: awkward lesbian.  She has great chemistry with Davies and Levy and works well as the emotional heart of the film - I spent the majority of it wanting to give her a hug whenever she stands awkwardly alone at parties abandoned by the woman she loves.  This film isn’t all cheery happy fun, and I do think people should go into it with that knowledge - WLW ladies: you will have Vietnam war style flashbacks to your own awkward coming out experiences, be prepared.

BUT.  Just because this film isn’t Elf levels of whimsy it should not be dismissed, after all if you don’t watch the second half of It’s A Wonderful Life wouldn’t you say that actually “It’s a sucky life!!” like Phoebe in Friends?  Though there are some moments that feel a little too real - the film makes a point of reminding you that this is a real issue and “everyones coming out story is different, but they all deserve to be told.”

So while it may not be the silly joy filled ride you were expecting, it is a wonderful film with actually a second scene where Alison Brie shoves people!  I found myself laughing more or less as often as I did wanting to tell Abby everything’s okay.

My main criticisms would be that there are some clunky gaffs and we spend too much time with Harpers stuffy parents and not enough time with the central couple or Dan Levy; for a queer film, the LGBT characters do not hold enough screen time.  Having said that, this is a wonderful addition to the queer Christmas catalogue.  Now if we can just remake Die Hard with Beanie Feldstein…

- Lucy Smith-Jones

REFLECTION | Queen & Slim

2019 | 2hr 12mins | Crime Drama Romance | Rated 15 | Dir. Melina Matsouka

Education – it goes a long way. That was my initial reaction to Melina Matsouka’s romantic road crime drama, Queen & Slim, and one that I still hold to this day. Although released in 2019 it was not a film I had heard of until the summer of 2020, when protests erupted in the aftermath to the murder of George Floyd and subsequently flooded the mainstream news outlets across the globe. Social media turned, rightfully, into platforms to enable – not disable – the voices of the marginalised communities and it was upon these sites, whilst absorbing all the information I could about various movements, predominately Black Lives Matter, that I stumbled upon a cultural resource. 

This resource came in the form of a list, a list of films, to help educate those who had never seen the brutality of the American police force translated onto the screen before. To say I was curious is an uncomfortable truth to have to write, but one I write, nonetheless. I, a white woman, like many people living in the privileged west, know of racism, know victims of it, and know it still exists very much in the structures and attitudes of our society whether consciously acknowledged or not. To say it was an uncomfortable watch is not a dishonest review but one that does not give justice to the film or the portrayal of its leading characters: Queen and Slim, played respectively by Jodie Turner-Smith and Daniel Kaluuya. The 132-minute run time centres on a young black couple who go on the run after killing a police officer during a traffic stop. This is a tag line and one you will often see in descriptors surrounding this film and its plot. Queen & Slim offers us much more than an awareness to police brutality and racial injustice in America and the remaining west, it offers us tenderness. This is found in both the depiction of what it means for a man to take another’s life as well as, in the budding relationship, and bond, forged between two people who, in different circumstances, would not have ever seen each other or spoken again. 

It is within the tender moments of Matsouka’s direction, that arrive and depart much like the camera refractions from the costal shots, that allow the audience the opportunity to engage in a conversation not only about race, and the continuously failing ‘justice’ system of the United States, but of the moral implications of the triggering event that she directs. We, much like the characters involved, are made to feel as those what we saw was the truth despite everyone having their own version of the event that took place: the killing of a white police officer. What Matsouka sets up is a scenario we are all very much aware happens and choose to let slide: American police officers performing arbitrary traffic stops on the black community. As the second scene begins, we are pulled into the film by its direction, the camera focusing on the couple from the front of the car as Slim drives and Queen plays with his phone, distracting him so he swerves. Kaluuya and Turner-Smith find a natural rhythm with each other as they adopt the dialogue that Lena Waithe, the writer of the film’s screenplay, produced for them to use. It is within these comfortable moments, in the laughter and teasings of the characters as they awkwardly try to navigate each other’s space, that Matsouka’s skill as a director comes into fruition. We, much like the black community that Queen and Slim belong to, begin to feel comfortable. It is only in the jarring moments of the deep-rooted racism that the United States perpetuates, that we remember an uncomfortable truth that is many people’s realities: black people are not allowed to become comfortable in a world designed for white western privilege. 

What then follows is an event that we have come to anticipate but not correct in American culture, a white police officer pulls his gun and fires to stop Turner-Smith’s character, Queen, from filming her and her date from being harassed by him, someone who is meant to protect and serve all American citizens. Yet, what jolts us as an audience how the scenario flips itself so that the white police officer is the one to end up dead on the ground as Slim grabbles with him to get the gun away, leading it to fire and, consequently, kill the police officer whom they are being harassed by. All of this occurs within the first 15 minutes of the film and what is most startling to me is not the killing of a police officer, although that was unexpected and horrifying despite his racist behaviour, but the look in Slim’s eyes as he realises his life is over: he killed a white cop.

It is in the initial aftermath of the killing, when the screen turns black and scene three begins as a title sequence, that we hear the voiceover of Queen and Slim as they argue over what to do. We all know from the start that as soon as the trigger was pulled their lives would be on a countdown to their deaths, rapidly accelerated by the events that take place across the run time. What we did not know is that throughout the course of this film, the heightened emotions and pressures of being killers on the run would allow these two people who had an awkward first date to fall in love, sharing parts of themselves to each other that they both have previously neglected to share. It is in Queen’s last words: ‘can I be your legacy?’ that cut the deepest for me as a viewer because as we watch their lives run out in front of us, we know this could have been prevented. What we can take away from Queen & Slim is the tenderness and compassion nearly all the characters they interact with on the road show them in some various ways or forms. They may not be the nicest, or most pleasant people, but they come together displaying a form of kindness that we should all learn from and move forward with. The poet and essayist Audre Lorde said it best when she wrote: 

‘’We must each of us recognise our responsibility to seek those words out, to read them and share them and examine them in their pertinence to our lives. That we not hide behind the mockeries of separations that have been imposed upon us and which so often we accept as our own... For instance, ‘I can’t possibly teach Black women’s writing – their experience is so different from mine’. Yet how many years have you spent teaching Plato and Shakespeare and Proust? Or another, ‘She’s a white woman and lesbian, what would my husband say, or my chairman?’ Or again, ‘This woman writes of her sons and I have no children.’ And all the other endless ways in which we rob ourselves of ourselves and each other.’’

It is within these words that I hold hope, because to share in another’s experience is to express an understanding of something outside of yourself. Much like the beginning of this review I echo the statement that education goes a long way, but I shall add to it now too. Education goes a long way but so does compassion, and that is what Queen & Slim depicts but also teaches its viewers.

- Megan Brady

REVIEW | Whiplash

2014 | 1hr 46mins | Drama | Rated 15 | Dir. Damien Chazelle

Despite the attempts of countless artistic hopefuls, the pursuit of ‘greatness’ is a task accomplished by a mere few. Are those who find success to be thankful only for their talent, or is credit due to those who persistently push them towards stardom? Focusing upon the competitive nature of jazz musicianship, Whiplash (2014) brings to light the perils of competing in a concentrated ring of talented musicians and the consequences of obsession.

As an aspiring jazz musician prior himself, writer-director Damien Chazelle provides an autobiographical approach to his rendering of 19-year old freshman Andrew Neiman (Miles Teller), a dedicated jazz drummer with a desire to rise above the rest. Resenting the mediocrity emulated by his father (Paul Reiser) - a failed author-come-teacher with a lack of ambition - Neiman enrols at the esteemed Shaffer Conservatory, a school fit to rival Julliard. The intensity of the competition between his peers affirms Neiman’s desire to push the limits of his talent and prove his worth; articulating the struggle to surface in a murky sea of wannabe successes.

As the film begins, we are engrossed by darkness. Our other senses are dulled as the harsh sound of a mounting snare roll grows in volume and pace. Chazelle himself noted for the New York Times that the drum strikes mimic the spine-tingling “ricochet of a machine gun”; and the intensity is suitably matched. Dim light floods the frame as a final strike silences the building roll. A lone soldier resides behind his drum-kit artillery, and resumes his display of warfare. That is, until a silhouette emerges from the shadows; this is Terence Fletcher (JK Simmons), the overbearing conductor of Shaffer’s famed Studio Band and the man that Neiman must succeed to impress. What follows is a painstaking display of the relationship between sadistic teacher and over-determined student, which is not too far removed from that of a grunt and his Drill Sergeant; a relationship that swiftly deteriorates from one of chivalry and respect to one of abuse and resentment.

Mirroring that of a warzone, a knuckle-biting intensity remains throughout the film. As we can never be sure of a soldier’s wellbeing, neither can we be of Neiman’s. In jazz legend, Jo Jones historically threw a cymbal at Charlie Parker, an act of violence rumoured to have been the catalyst for Parker’s success. To filter out the weak, Fletcher treats his students with similar vigour; in Neiman’s case, a chair replaces the cymbal weapon. Barking orders to his students as if he taught dogs, Simmons successfully emulates terror in his distinctive portrayal of a man eschewed by his desire to find the Parker to his Jones. The almost grotesque nature of his expressions, twisted by anger and passion, are enough to send dread through any spectator - the caricature of the fearsome tutor inevitably aligning with one’s own school-day memories. Hurling torrents of homophobic slurs and aggressive remarks towards anybody who dare step a toe out of line – or out of rhythm – Fletcher asserts himself as a force not to be reckoned with. He is an object of fascination for our eager-to-succeed protagonist, and for Chazelle’s attentive audience.

Starring in his role of Andrew, Miles Teller’s engaging performance effectively conveys the determination of a dedicated artist, without sacrificing any naïvety and arrogance. Surprisingly, Neiman’s traits are ultimately unlikeable, a daring decision made by Chazelle that aligns our empathy not with his personality, but instead with his burning desire to succeed - a trait that is buried deep within each and every one of us. With this desire, however, comes its drawbacks. Neiman sacrifices familial relationships in favour of his obsession, building a wall between himself and those around him. Indeed, as there is no room for family in his life, there seems to be no room for anybody – Andrew puts an abrupt end to a blooming relationship with cinema usher Nicole (Melissa Benoist), insisting that his devotion to drumming would drive her to resentment (although it is clear that in his eyes, it’s another rejection of mediocrity). Inevitably, he is left alone. The lack of distraction from rehearsal causes his sanity to plummet as his devotion grows crazed – he drums until blood-soaked plasters fall from blistered fingers, and ice water is pigmented red as a fist plunges deep within. Late for a competition, in a moment of intensity, a hire car is T-boned by an oncoming truck. Andrew crawls helplessly from the wreckage - his determination to continue despite his bruised face and limping step is exemplary of the perils associated with absolute obsession, a theme effectively explored.

Although tension reigns fiercely within the film’s sequences of action, it is the moments of tenderness which ultimately provide heart and sincerity. From sharing popcorn with his father in a dark cinema to laying alone in his dorm, headphones feeding him the music of his idols, we come to know Neiman inside and out by the film’s final chapter. Editor Tom Cross’ impeccable pacing of action and recovery never lets a moment of near-unbearable tension escape – a feat which leaves hearts racing even as the curtains draw. The structure of Whiplash (named after Hank Levy’s jazz standard repeatedly rehearsed) is supported by Justin Hurwitz’s sublime soundtrack and score which blends moments of furious jazz with more tranquil melodies. Hurwitz injects aspects of his own musical language into the film’s score, which are recognisable within Chazelle’s earlier feature Guy and Madeline on a Park Bench (2009) – which, unsurprisingly, also revolves around the world of jazz and those within it. The director’s passion for his filmmaking craft is unmistakably obvious, just as Neiman with drumming – and thus, each aspect of Whiplash ties seamlessly together to forge nothing less than an outstanding cinematic experience.

- Cat Lawler

DISCUSSION | Pan's Labyrinth

2006 | 1hr 58mins | Fantasy Drama | Rated 15 | Dir. Guillermo Del Toro

Not a cute fairytale, but the product of imagination of the broken child.

No one knows if the other world we see in the movie is real or if it is just Ofelia’s imagination. I personally lean towards the second interpretation. Why would I say that? Because there is only one character who can see it all.

 

Ofelia is the main character of ’Pan’s Labyrinth’ and always feels alone. Her Dad has died and now she has to move with her pregnant mother to her sinister stepfather’s place. He seems to be one of the worst villains in the history of cinematography.

To stop her loneliness and despair, Ofelia creates her own world where she acts as a brave and adventurous girl and she sees a fairy, a fawn like the god, Pan, and other creatures. Initially she isn’t even surprised which suggests that she was prepared to see them because she made them up herself. The fawn asks her to complete 3 tasks so she can return back to her real world and finally meet her true father. 

In addition, the storyline takes place in 1944 in Spain during the Civil War where the real world looks scary, dark and too dangerous for a 10 year old girl. People are dying fighting for their country and her Mum dies after giving birth to a son. Nothing seems normal anymore. I assume the story she created in her head is a method to escape this awful reality. Despite Ofelia’s attempt to do this she still dies. She refuses to sacrifice her brother even though the centaur says it’s a crucial part of opening up another world but Ofelia is adamant.

 

At the end of the movie she realises she cannot let anyone hurt the only person she loves (except for Mercedes who Ofelia thinks is dead) even though it means staying in the real world, full of pain. 

Ofelia dies and sees the world she was dreaming of where she meets her mother who is alive and her father who has been waiting for her to return. A smile on Ofelia’s fading face tells us she is finally happy. 

- Kseniia Pozdeeva