It’s a comforting notion, the idea that we each need to forgive ourselves for the wrongs we’ve done in order to heal and move forward. Everyone deserves to be happy, right?
But is that forgiveness ever really ours to give? Tomaz (a
remarkable Alec Secareanu) doesn’t think so.
Making her feature debut as writer/director, Romola Garai
delivers an entrancing horror show concerned with sexual politics, cowardice
and proper punishment.
Tomaz is living a destitute existence as a day laborer in
London, picking up gigs as he can and sheltering at night with others like
him—mainly refugees wordlessly sharing space in an abandoned building. He used to
live in an unnamed but war torn European nation, and his dreams are still
haunted by the experience.
A chance encounter puts Tomaz in the path of Sister Claire
(Imelda Staunton, relishing her small role). She introduces Tomaz to Magda
(Carla Juri, Wetlands),
who needs help with the house that’s falling down around her and her ailing, bedridden
mother.
From there, Garai toys with familiar horror elements—the decrepit
building as metaphor, the horrifying relative hidden away—but you can never
predict Amulet’s secrets.
Juri is hypnotic as the reluctant, wearied, lonesome Magda
and her slow growing chemistry with Tomaz creates a quietly seductive force for
the film. Clearly Tomaz should leave, there is something powerfully unhealthy
happening in this house. But maybe this is his path to happiness? Maybe he can help?
That’s how the film traps you, because Secareanu is terribly
empathetic and because it is his point of view we share. His performance is full
of understated power and, paired with Juri’s resigned sensuality, it holds your
interest.
Garai braids two mysteries together, the one Tomaz is living
and the one he’s keeping from us. That second secret haunts his dreams and,
little by little, he convinces himself that unraveling the mystery in this
house might free him from his past.
The delivery is measured and creepy, and though the final act feels simultaneously tidy and nonsensical, the mysteries themselves—not to mention a trio of excellent performances—more than satisfy.
Honestly, I’m not digging this title, yet it somehow fits.
For the story of an intellectual giant, Radioactive seems too easy, too cheesy, and a bit dismissive. Similarly, the film itself becomes a sum of often conflicting parts, flirting with greatness while chasing too many bad pitches.
Rosamund Pike stars as Marie Sklodowska Curie, the Warsaw-born scientist who became the first woman to win the Nobel Prize, the first person to win it again and the only person to win it in two different scientific fields. Her groundbreaking work in France with husband Pierre Curie identified two new elements (polonium and radium) and the theory of radioactivity itself, leading to world-changing advancements in medicine and, of course, warfare.
Director Marjane Satrapi (Persepolis, The Voices) seems intent on honoring Curie’s spirit via the most experimental film treatment she can get away with. Animated graphics attempt to illustrate Curie’s theories on atomic movement, while tones are jarringly shifted with futuristic vignettes that glimpse the more devastating consequences of radioactivity.
Too often, Satrapi is hamstrung by screenwriter Jack Thorne’s overly broad and simplified adaptation of Lauren Redniss’s source book, which is itself a work of original art, photographs, graphics and text. Bringing such hybrid energy to the screen demands a unified vision from writer and director, but Satrapi and Thorne seem at odds whenever they try to expand their scope.
Pike is the unifier here, with an instantly engaging and fully formed portrait of a genius understandably ferocious about defending her work from being usurped or dismissed by male colleagues. Pike humanizes Curie with a mix of defiance and insecurity, frank sexuality and a fierce commitment to husband Pierre (Sam Riley, in a thoughtfully understated and effective turn).
The third act addition of Anya-Taylor Joy as the Curie’s eldest daughter Irene (who would also win a Nobel Prize in Chemistry) only cements the film as being most resonant when it is the most personal.
And it can’t go unnoticed that in these science-denying times, Curie’s story is a needed reminder of the importance of pursuing knowledge, of research and researchers.
Curie was one for ages. Radioactive does suffer from scattered elements, but ultimately turns in watchable, satisfying results.
You know what, 2020 is just going to be remembered as its own horror story. I mean, filmmakers have a lot of competition if they think they can scare us more than real life right now. Still, we’ve seen a decent batch of horror: Blood Quantum, The Droving, Time Out of Space, The Hunt and more. What more, you ask? Well, we’ll tell you. Here are our favorite horror films of the first half of 2020.
5. The Invisible Man
Instead of the existential ponderings that generally underscore
cinematic Invisible Man retellings,
writer/director Leigh Whannell uses this story to examine sexual politics,
abuse, control and agency.
It’s a laudable aim, but the reason
it works is casting.
Whannell’s script is smart, with much needed
upgrades to the invisibility formula as well as the havoc wrought. But the
success of The Invisible Man is almost
entirely shouldered by Elisabeth Moss, who nails every moment of oppressed
Cecilia Kass’s arc.
At its core, The Invisible Man is an entertaining B-movie horror propped up by contrivance. Whannell’s aim is to give the story new relevance, and thanks to Moss, his aim is true.
4. The Other Lamb
The first step toward freedom is
telling your own story.
Writer
C.S. McMullen and director Malgorzata Szumowska tell this one really well.
Between McMullen’s outrage and the macabre lyricism of Szumowska’s camera, The Other Lamb offers
a dark, angry and satisfying coming-of-age tale.
Selah’s (Raffey Cassity) first period and her commune’s
migration to a new and more isolated Eden offer the tale some structure. Like
many a horror film, The Other Lamb occupies
itself with burgeoning womanhood, the end of innocence. Unlike most others in
the genre, Szumowska’s film depicts this as a time of finding your own power.
The Other Lamb does not simply suggest you question authority. It demands that you do far more than that, and do it for your own good.
3. Gretel & Hansel
Sophia Lillis (IT) narrates and stars as Gretel, the center of this coming of
age story—reasonable, given the change of billing suggested by the film’s
title. The witch may still have a tasty meal on her mind, but this is less a
cautionary tale than it is a metaphor for agency over obligation.
Alice Krige and her cheekbones
strike the perfect mixture of menace and mentorship, while Sammy Leakey’s
little Hansel manages to be both adorable and tiresome, as is required for the
story to work.
Perkins continues to impress with
his talent for visual storytelling and Galo Olivares’s cinematography heightens
the film’s folkloric atmosphere.
There’s no escaping this spell. The whole affair feels like an intriguing dream.
2. The Lodge
Several Fiala and Veronika Franz follow up
their creepy Goodnight Mommy with this “white death” horror that sees a
future stepmom having a tough time getting to know the kids during a weeklong,
snowbound cabin retreat. Riley Keough is riding an impressive run of
performances and her work here is slippery and wonderful. As the unwanted new
member in the family, she’s sympathetic but also brittle.
Jaeden Martell, a kid who has yet
to deliver a less than impressive turn, is the human heartbeat at the center of
the mystery in the cabin. His tenderness gives the film a quiet, pleading
tragedy. Whether he’s comforting his grieving little sister or begging Grace
(Keough) to come in from the snow, his performance aches and you ache with him.
There’s no denying the mounting dread the filmmakers create, and the three central performances are uniquely effective. Thanks to the actors’ commitment and the filmmakers’ skill in atmospheric horror, the movie grips you, makes you cold and uncomfortable, and ends with a memorable slap.
1. Swallow
Putting a relevant twist on the classic
“horrific mother” trope, writer/director Carlo Mirabella-Davis uses the rare
eating disorder pica to anchor his exploration of gender dynamics and, in
particular, control.
Where Mirabella-Davis’s talent for building
tension and framing scenes drive the narrative, it’s Bennett’s performance that
elevates the film. Serving as executive producer as well as star, Haley Bennett
transforms over the course of the film.
When things finally burst, director and star shake off the traditional storytelling, the Yellow Wallpaper or Awakening or even Safe. The filmmaker’s vision and imagery come full circle with a bold conclusion worthy of Bennett’s performance.
If you paint the wings of a sparrow (or stitch a star to
his jacket) the rest of the flock will no longer recognize him. The other birds
will swarm and peck him until he plummets back to the earth. This is just one
of the horrific lessons a young boy learns as he desperately searches for
anywhere or anyone safe in war-torn Eastern Europe.
The Painted Bird is a
nearly three hour long misery epic that follows this young boy, unnamed until
the final shot of the film, looking for home during World War II. His parents
have left him in the care of an elderly woman as they flee the Germans. But his
banishment to the countryside cannot spare him from the horrors of the
holocaust.
This film is hard to get through. Forty viewers walked out of its 2019 Toronto Film Festival showing. I would’ve walked out too, given the chance. The opening scene finds the young boy (Petr Kotlár) being chased through the woods. Another group of boys catch him. They rip away the small pet gripped in his arms, so quickly that it’s hard to identify, and they set it on fire. As he is beaten, the boy turns his head and watches his pet run in screaming circles until it dies. And then it gets worse.
What follows is a brutal parade of the worst humanity has to offer. Domestic abuse, graphic violence, multiple instances of animal abuse and death, rape, child abuse and rape, and more. Then the war crimes start around hour three.
The tale is an adaptation of Jerzy
Kosiński ‘s 1965 novel of the same name, which made one
of Time’s 100 Best Novels lists. Though lauded, the book is no less
controversial, and is just as riddled with cruelty.
Directed and adapted by Václav Marhoul, the final product is beautifully shot in black and white. But the lack of color doesn’t make the rotten core of The Painted Bird any less pungent. Without color, Marhoul creates gut- wrenching scenes all the more visceral by adding textures like wet eyeballs on a dusty floor or the violent placement of a bottle that made me retch.
I won’t let it go unmentioned that while violence and depravity are the overarching themes, women have some of the worst characterizations in The Painted Bird. They are either mothers or depraved sexual deviants, or mothers of dead children who have since become sexual deviants. A few are witches.
Everyone is painted darkly, but with more male characters there are more opportunities for men to be shown in shades of gray.
The real conflict at the center of The Painted Bird is
understanding how we use art to honestly bear witness to our cultural horrors.
I cannot and would not recommend this film to anyone, it was too awful to
watch. But you could argue that this is precisely why it must be seen.
The Painted Bird is a well-shot, well performed, and incredibly moving piece of cinema that is peppered with familiar faces (Harvey Keitel, Stellan Skarsgard, Julian Sands). You simply have to be willing to go where it wants to take you. And all of those places are dark.
Kelly Reichardt films tell a story, but not in the
traditional Hollywood sense. She draws you into an alien environment, unveils universal
humanity and shows you something about yourself, about us. There’s usually a story
buried in there somewhere. In this case, it’s about two outsiders in 19th
Century Oregon who find friendship.
And a cow.
Cookie (John Magaro) is a gentle soul, not properly built
for the fur trade. (You saw The
Revenant, right?) He’s a baker at heart, not that he gets to do much
baking on a trapping expedition with hungry, volatile, hunt-weary men.
He holds no value for these men, and has nothing in common with them. But somehow he sees a kinship with the naked Chinese man he stumbles upon as he forages for mushrooms in the woods.
It’s sweet and sad the way Cookie and King-Lu (Orion Lee)
fall into a relationship. King-Lu has ambitions. He opens Cookie’s eyes to
opportunities he’d never had the courage to consider. Through these characters
Reichardt demonstrates how fragile, lovely and heartbreaking hope can be.
Working again with regular collaborator Jonathan Raymond,
whose novel the two adapted, Reichardt keeps you pulling for her heroes. The
narrative lulls you with understated conversations and observations while the meticulously
captured natural beauty onscreen beguiles. Within that, we see the potential of
a young country through the eyes of Americans determining the dream.
Reichardt explores loneliness in all her films, the sense
that we are each simply and inevitably alone, though we struggle against it
regardless. This exploration isn’t hurried. It breathes. She emphasizes the longing
for connection in every quiet moment with her characteristic use of lighting,
the way she frames nature and the naturalistic performances she draws from Lee
and Magaro.
William Tyler’s lonesome score offers something both
mournful and tender, which is fitting. Although these men’s very existence in
this place testifies to hardy ambition, Reichardt lingers on moments of gentle
camaraderie.
When Kelly Reichardt tells a story, she breaks your heart. She does it slowly and quietly, but it’s broken nonetheless.
If your experience with Norwegian horror has you expecting Lake of Death to bring on the blondes and the folklore – you’re halfway there. The coifs check out, but writer/director Nini Bull Robsahm trades some homeland roots for flashes of decidedly American inspiration.
It’s a bit curious, since Robsahm (Amnesia) is updating the 1942 novel (and 1958 film) De dødes tjern– which is credited with kickstarting Norway’s interest in the horror genre. Clearly, a cabin in the woods can be creepy in any language.
A distracted Lillian (Iben Akerlie) brings a group of friends and one dog to a remote lakeside cabin for one more getaway before the place is sold. Her gang is ready for a good time, but Lillian is still haunted by the memory of her twin brother Bjorn, who disappeared one year earlier after taking a walk in these very same woods!
One of Lillian’s friends hosts a paranormal podcast, which is Robsahm’s device for filling everyone in on the local legend of the lake. You can get lost in its serene beauty, they say, lose touch with reality, and maybe even get the urge to kill.
Mysterious happenings, paranoia and suspicion ensue, but Robsahm sets the brew on a very slow boil, taking a full hour before we get one well developed visual fright. Lillian’s sleepwalking, hallucinations, and frequent nightmares lay down an overly familiar framework that’s peppered with music stabs and repeated name-dropping of horror classics from Evil Dead to Misery.
As an attempt to bridge generational horror, it’s all very commendable but little more than workmanlike. Robsahm has better success with her commitment to the lake’s spellbinding beauty, and with her repeated trust in cinematographer Axel Mustad.
Shooting in wonderfully earthy 35mm, Mustad creates a gorgeous tableau of woods and water, evoking the dreamy atmosphere required to cash the check written by the lake’s urban legend.
There may be little that surprises you in Lake of Death, but a sterling partnership between director and cameraman makes sure you have a fine souvenir from the visit.
Here’s the thing about horror movies in 2020: they have to one up 2020. This year itself is such a horror show, it’s hard for cinema to keep up.
Writer/director Eric Bress (The Butterfly Effect) does what he can with the supernatural war tale, Ghosts of War.
Five WWII soldiers are ordered to hold tight in a French mansion circa 1944. It’s an isolated estate, once a Nazi stronghold. Terrible things happened there, and even though the surroundings suggest luxury, the mission may be the most dangerous the platoon has ever faced.
It reminds me of that time earlier this year when COVID trapped a Bolivian orchestra inside a haunted German castle surrounded by wolves.
So the film has that to compete with. Of course, the other
thing Ghosts of War has going against it is the surprisingly engaging
and unfortunately underseen Overlord, a
WWII horror show that drops us alongside a handful of soldiers into war torn
France just in time to find zombies.
Very little is more fun than Nazi zombies.
But Bress isn’t interested in zombies. Instead, he explores
the madness that weighs on men who’ve done the unthinkable by trapping them in
a situation where they must face their demons.
Kyle Gallner delivers an appropriately haunted performance
as one of the soldiers—each of whom Bress characterizes with quick, shorthand
ideas: the nut job (Gallner), the smartypants (Pitch Perfect’s Skylar
Astin), the hero (Theo Rossi), the big talker (Alan Ritchson), the leader who’s
in over his head (Brenton Thwaites).
Gallner and Astin are the only cast members given the
opportunity to differentiate themselves from the pack as the platoon stumbles
upon evidence of the haunting. Bress and his ensemble stumble here, rarely
developing any real dread, infrequently even delivering the jumps their quick
cut scares attempt.
Ghosts of War makes an effort to say something meaningful.
That message is waylaid by confused second act plotting and a third act reveal
that feels far more lurid and opportunistic than it does resonant or haunting.
Bress tries to take advantage of the audience’s preconceived notions in order to subvert expectations, but he doesn’t have as much to say as he thinks.
Let’s start with this piece of obviousness: Charlize Theron
can do anything. From indie dramas to bawdy comedies to badass action, Theron
commits and convinces.
In Netflix’s The Old Guard, she plays the leader of a
small but immortal group of soldiers eluding capture while trying to train a
new member. It’s Book One in a series, and that can be a dangerous spot for a
film because that tends to mean a lot of exposition and not enough conflict.
Not here.
Greg Rucka adapts his own source material and director Gina
Prince-Bythewood makes the most of his screenplay and her cast.
She flanks Theron (spectacular, obviously) with actors who
are, first and foremost, talented actors. The fact that they make for
believable mercenaries is a really excellent bonus.
The ever versatile Matthias Schoenaerts gives the film its aching heart while KiKi Layne proves herself to be as convincing here busting heads as she was at drawing tears in If Beale Street Could Talk. Though it’s unfortunate he couldn’t have stolen a little more screen time, the great Chiwetel Ejiofor is a welcome presence, as always.
So what Prince-Bythewood does is surround Theron with other talented actors whose versatility compliments hers. This brilliant move let the filmmaker take a somewhat by-the-numbers superhero tale and tell it with a restraint that takes advantage of her cast’s flexibility and talent.
In Prince-Bythewood’s hands, The Old Guard explores the same universal themes mined in most superhero films, but she tells the tale as a taut and tactical military experience. The understatement makes the action sequences stand out, the filmmaker requesting your close examination of each bout and each battle, whether hand-to-hand, bullet-to-brain or saber-to-throat.
It pays off, delivering a thrilling action movie that doesn’t
disregard your brain. Even better, this is a movie that tugs at your emotions
without the need for swelling strings or sentiment to convince you.
That’s what happens when one formidable women pulls together a group of similarly skilled badasses.
