Let’s get the warnings out of the way. Brandon Cronenberg’s new film Infinity Pool has a run-for-the-hills or rub-your-hands-together-with-glee (depending on your temperament) checklist of extreme bloody violence, gore, graphic sex, nudity, bodily fluids, swearing, and disturbing scenes. Some of these were censored in the US R-rated release. Here in the UK, we got the film nice and uncut with an 18 certificate. I counted five walkouts at the screening I attended, either because people were offended, or because they considered it too strange.
Personally, I found it a bracing, gripping slice of gruesome sci-fi-horror nastiness. The story sets its satirical sights on the ultra-rich, who prove able to buy their way out of death sentences after accidentally (or deliberately) committing deadly crimes at a holiday resort. How do they buy their way out? By allowing a clone to be created to take the punishment for them.
Wet blanket failed author James Foster (Alexander Skarsgård) is placed in this unfortunate position, after succumbing to the femme fatale charms of actress Gabi (Mia Goth). James’s wife Em (Cleopatra Coleman) is horrified by the experience, but James is strangely cold about the whole thing. He is then drawn into a dark web of pseudo-cultish violence I won’t spoil, suffice it to say the question of whether he or his double got executed comes into play, since the double is cloned with the same memories, experiences, and feelings.
The holiday resort, situated on a fictional, strictly religious island that nonetheless is keen to gain tourist money, is surrounded by razor-wire to try and stop the rich holidaymakers causing trouble. Police despair of these rich narcissists wreaking havoc with the poverty-stricken locals. As this nightmarish premise is explored, the film asks bold questions about wealthy elites buying their way out of trouble. One rule for them and one for the rest of us is a familiar gripe, but this takes it to hedonistic extremes, resulting in an engagingly unsettling meditation on the nature of morality and mortality.
Performances are terrific, especially from Mia Goth, whose credentials as horror royalty are now all but solidified. Cronenberg’s trippy visuals are effectively disorienting, as the film proceeds down seriously disturbing rabbit holes. It shares a certain DNA with his previous film Possessor, as well as (inevitably) his father’s back catalogue, but still manages to feel fresh and intellectually challenging, alongside all the grisliness (a speciality of both Cronenbergs).
It doesn’t all work. Cleopatra Coleman’s character Em is never fully developed, nor is her marriage to James given any kind of serious dramatic weight. All we learn is that he married into publishing wealth, and thus got a leg up in the industry. However, these are minor gripes. Infinity Pool won’t be for everyone, to put it mildly, but for fans of this kind of extreme unpleasantness, it’s a singular and striking experience.
If you’re a fan of action films, and especially if you’re a fan of this series, then John Wick: Chapter 4 is nigh-on unmissable. I’m giving the film my seal of approval for doing exactly what it sets out to do, but that doesn’t mean I think it is unflawed. Also, if this kind of eye-wateringly violent, punchy, kicky, shooty preposterousness isn’t your clip of bullets then you might want to consider this an unsolicited Wick pic. However, it must be noted that as a piece of action cinema, the fourth instalment in Chad Stahelski’s incredibly popular series is expertly choreographed, stylishly directed, and, as ever, features a first-rate dynamic lead in Keanu Reeves.
This picks up where the previous film left off, with a set piece in the desert that pays homage to the famous blown-out match to sunrise cut in Lawrence of Arabia. Wick is on the run from all-powerful crime syndicate the High Table. One of their number, rich, arrogant, Frenchman the Marquis de Gramont (Bill Skarsgård), wages war on Wick, and his hotel-manager-for-criminals pal Winston (Ian McShane). The Marquis decides to force retired blind assassin Caine (Donnie Yen), a former pal of Wick’s with the instincts of Daredevil, into hunting his old friend. Also, there’s another bounty hunter called “Nobody” (Shamier Anderson) on Wick’s tail. Nobody sometimes assists Wick in his endeavours, but warns him that will change once the price on his head gets too big.
In Japan, Wick lies low with another old friend Shimazu (Hiroyuki Sanada), and that’s when the bodies start to pile up. Needless to say, all this fighting is getting on Wick’s wick. It rather got on mine too, given the interminable length of the act one climax. Quite understandably, Wick decides he’s had enough of this numbing tomfoolery, so tries to put an end to things once and for all by challenging the Marquis to single combat. This he does via the High Table’s elaborate rules, but getting to that point requires calling in a lot of favours.
Said favours result in other elaborate action scenes, including one involving a fat suited, gold teeth-sporting Scott Adkins (his character is called Killa — no, really) in a Berlin nightclub. Here clubbers continue their EDM bopping, despite the violent mayhem around them, thus solidifying the idea of action cinema as heightened stylisation akin to a musical, with similarly elaborate choreography. There’s also an incredible series of car chases, fights, and shoot-outs in Paris, including on the Arc De Triumph, up the stairs to the Sacré-Coeur, and — most astonishingly — in a tour-de-force overhead shot tracking Wick’s progress in a building disposing of various assassins with bullets that explode into flame on impact. Oh, and there’s also more “dog-fu”, though alas no “horse-fu” this time.
If all of this sounds like your brace of duelling pistols, for goodness’ sake don’t miss it, as you’ll doubtless find it immensely satisfying. Despite a self-indulgent running time (169 minutes), a rather underused Lawrence Fishburne, and suspension of disbelief proving all but impossible (it seems redundant to point out Wick should be dead many, many times over, no matter what nifty flexible Kevlar lines his stylish suits), I must confess this eventually won me over. Yes, it feels increasingly like an ultraviolent superhero fantasy, given the complete absence of visible injury on Wick for most of the film. And as usual, I kept wondering where the hell the police were. However, by the time I reached the satisfying finale, which weirdly reminded me of Barry Lyndon, I was well and truly bludgeoned into submission. I even liked the post-credits scene.
In short, although overblown, overlong, and ridiculous beyond measure, John Wick: Chapter Four will nonetheless please fans of the series and action fans in general. As a small footnote, I was sad to learn that the excellent Lance Remmick recently passed away. His character Charon has a small but vital role to play in this instalment.
Romantic comedies seem to have rather fallen out of fashion lately, but Rye Lane gives the genre something of a shot in the arm. It’s a lean, effective, cleverly directed debut from Raine Allen-Miller, featuring a winning pair of leads in Vivian Oparah and David Jonsson. Entirely shot in and around southeast London, mostly in Brixton and Peckham, it has a grounded feel that contrasts beautifully with the heightened visuals and colours. At a trim 82-minutes, it packs in plenty of laughter and feel-good moments, seasoned with just the right amount of quirk.
Opening with an overhead track above several unisex toilet stalls in an art gallery, the camera eventually comes to rest on a weeping Dom (Jonsson). He is “trying to have a private moment” of grief, as his rather uptight girlfriend of six years Gia (Karene Peter) has recently dumped him for his not-the-sharpest-tool-in-the-box best friend Eric (Benjamin Sarpong-Broni). Dom’s crying is overheard by the outgoing Yas (Oparah), whose curiosity is piqued. What follows is a Before Sunrise-style hangout, as the pair get to know each other, bond, swap stories of their respective exes, and plan a little payback. Comedic shenanigans ensue, but is love also in the air?
No prizes for guessing the answer, but Rye Lane is an offbeat delight, showcasing multicultural London to great effect, with extra nerdiness for locals (apparently, the journey taken by Yas and Dom is geographically accurate). Several memorable vignettes stick in the mind — an awkward barbecue featuring an amusingly bad rendition of Terence Trent D’arby’s Sign Your Name for instance — and there are plenty of other big laughs in Nathan Bryon and Tom Melia’s screenplay. Yas’s insufferably pretentious artist ex Nathan (Simon Manyonda) is a particularly ridiculous figure. The blithering nonsense he speaks about his art installation projects (“the mouth is the Stonehenge of the face”) had me in helpless guffaws.
Allen-Miller’s staging of fantasy flashbacks (with Yas and Dom present to comment on each other’s memories) is both stylishly surreal and oddly reminiscent of Powell and Pressburger films such as A Matter of Life and Death. That this channels such cinematic sacred texts, as well as obvious inspirations like Richard Curtis films (“Love Guac’tually” is the name of a burrito takeaway), gives it an appealing cine-literacy. Cinematographer Olan Collardy’s wide-angle lens imagery is also worthy of special mention. Oh, and look out for a cameo from a member of romantic comedy royalty that will have you rolling in the aisles. I should perhaps add a warning that the film has some very strong language, for those who were thinking of taking an easily offended relative.
Ultimately, as with all films of this kind, it stands or falls on the chemistry of the leads. Here the spark is palpable, with a charming awkwardness and knowing humour between the free-spirited Yas and the quieter Dom. His ambition to become an accountant may contrast with her ambition to be a costume designer, but inevitably, opposites attract. Soon the pair realise they have a lot more in common than they realised, and whilst the formulaic finale may hold no surprises, it remains a satisfying grand gesture in the tradition of the genre, causing audiences to leave the cinema satisfied at having enjoyed a modern romantic comedy that, for once, is both romantic and comedic.
65, the much-delayed sci-fi adventure from writer-directors Scott Beck and Bryan Woods (who wrote A Quiet Place), has been on the receiving end of some rather snooty reviews. These are rather unfair, to my mind, as this stripped-down slice of B-movie thrills does exactly what it needs to. It is functional and competent in a tab-A-fits-slot-B sort of way, without any big surprises, whilst delivering on its own modest goals. For that reason, I’m inclined to push back against the critical consensus.
The plot is predictable hokum involving a spacecraft from another human civilisation, sixty-five million years ago (hence the title). It crashes on Earth shortly before the unfortunate dinosaur/asteroid interface, with two survivors: Mills (Adam Driver), the pilot who was supposed to be delivering a load of cryogenically frozen travellers on a mission of exploration, and a nine-year-old girl, Koa (Ariana Greenblatt), the only survivor. Unfortunately, Koa doesn’t speak English, and the translating machine is broken, so communication challenges ensue.
Mills and Koa have to traverse a perilous landscape to reach the escape craft (which broke off from another part of their vessel during the crash landing). Along the way, they learn to communicate and bond, in between dinosaur attacks, nasty bugs, quicksand, geysers, claustrophobic collapsing tunnels, fiery chunks of pre-big one asteroid, and other assorted dangers. Also, flashbacks reveal a the regulation tragic backstory for Mills, whose determination to get Koa safely off the Earth has definite shades of the Ripley/Newt bond in Aliens.
Beck and Woods shamelessly rip off other sci-fi films too, including The Land That Time Forgot, Planet of the Apes, After Earth, and obviously Jurassic Park. But to their credit, the dino-action is a damn sight more menacing than anything in Jurassic World: Dominion. Visual effects are well done, and the film has a lean efficiency, not outstaying its welcome at a trim 93 minutes. Driver and Greenblatt are both pretty good too, given the limitations of the script. There are even a couple of decent jump scares. One dinosaur reveal involving a cave entrance is worthy of Spielberg.
Heavy-handed exposition, and needless captioning of Earth slightly condescend in the opening few minutes, but it seems churlish to complain too much about such flaws. Ultimately, 65 feels satisfying, albeit a little slight, because it follows through on its simple genre premise. It delivers a genuine sense of danger amid the survival adventure, without unnecessary deviation or complication. I doubt it will wind up on any best of 2023 lists, but for now, it’ll do nicely for those craving a sci-fi B-movie distraction.
One of my major goals this year was to write the first draft of my new gothic mystery novel. I can tell you that I have now completed this. It’s a twisty-turny murder mystery thriller with hints of the supernatural, and I’m rather pleased with how it turned out.
What’s it called?
Drumroll… The title isA Thorn in Winter. This title not only sounds suitably sinister but has a hidden meaning that only becomes apparent as the plot unfolds.
What’s it about?
It concerns a young woman who is being blackmailed. Upon learning her blackmailer is linked to a decades-old unsolved murder, she discovers an alarming personal connection to the victim, and consequently finds herself in deadly peril.
I don’t really want to get more specific than that at this point, as this is one of the most twist-laden novels I’ve ever written. At the same time, it delves into themes of infidelity, revenge, and even reincarnation. It ticks many of my gothic mystery trope boxes: Imperilled heroine, sinister locations, buried secrets (literally and figuratively), and supporting characters who aren’t quite what they seem. It’s a rollercoaster of suspicion and suspense, and I think it has some emotional heft too (there’s a melancholy romantic subplot of sorts).
“Modbridge” looks a bit like this. Photo by Beth Jnr on Unsplash
The bulk of the novel is set in the fictional town of Modbridge, with occasional visits to Plymouth. Modbridge is a small town based on the real town of Modbury. The name combines the two local towns of Modbury and Kingsbridge. The steep main road running through Modbury, with shops either side, is also a key location that inspired a similar location in the novel.
When can I read it?
Not for a while, as I’ll probably sit on this manuscript for at least a year, per my standard procedure, before looking at it again with fresh eyes. On the other hand, I’m about to polish up the novel I completed this time a year ago, The Hobbford Giant, with a view to submitting it to agents and publishers. So you are one step closer to seeing that one. Watch this space.
The latest entry in the DC superhero universe, Shazam! Fury of the Gods, is the sequel to an immensely likeable original, in which the titular character has lots of fun figuring out which superpowers he has, after a wizard (Djimon Hounsou) bestows them upon him. This one isn’t quite as engaging, but I still enjoyed it a lot more than I expected, given my utter weariness with the genre. Apart from anything else, I enjoyed the nerdy references to how the Shazam character has been called multiple other names in the comics (including, confusingly, Captain Marvel), as well as what I swear was a homage to renowned Italian horror directors Mario Bava and Dario Argento.
The plot? Atlas’s daughters Hespera (Helen Mirren) and Kalypso (Lucy Lui) have been trapped by wizards for centuries after they tried to enslave people on Earth. Unfortunately, a severed staff reacquired in a museum attack sees them freed again. Who can stop them? Why Billy Batson (Asher Angel) aka Shazam (Zachary Levi), and his super-powered foster children family, naturally. After also acquiring powers during the climax of the previous film, these children turn into superhero adults whenever they say the word “Shazam”, which as we discover in this instalment, is an acronym.
But all is not well with Billy. Suffering crippling bouts of self-doubt and imposter syndrome, he’s trying too hard to micromanage his superpowered companions (whose heroics aren’t playing as well in the media as he’d like). They prove a lot less than enthusiastic during Billy’s debriefs inside their mystical, Room of Requirement-ish lair, and its doors to parallel worlds, peculiar libraries, and magic pens. Billy doesn’t have too much time to brood over this unhappiness, given the threat to the world from Hespera and co. In the meantime, his best pal Freddie (Jack Dylan Grazer) discovers the new girl in school Anthea (Rachel Zegler) has taken an interest in him. Love in the air, in addition to flying superheroes.
Performances are all solid, with the child/teenage versions of the other foster children (Faithe Herman, Ian Chen, Jovan Armand, and Grace Caroline Currey) providing good support, along with their adult counterparts (Meagan Good, Adam Brody, Ross Butler, and DJ Cotrona), as well as their foster parents (Marta Milans and Cooper Andrews). There are a few fun cameos I won’t spoil, and director David F Sandberg helms the piece solidly. The special effects are spectacular and ridiculous, but I enjoyed the Harryhausen-esque monsters unleashed on the world in the later reels; an agreeable cacophony of cyclops, minotaurs, harpies, dragons, and unicorns (with the latter proving much more dangerous than their reputation suggests).
It all gets a bit overblown and predictable towards the end, but that’s easy to forgive on a big screen with seat-vibrating sound design. All things considered, whilst Shazam! Fury of the Gods certainly isn’t going to change the course of cinema, for a clutch of silly superhero thrills, you can certainly do a lot worse. There are also two end credit scenes — one mid-credits, one at the very end — for those who care about such things.
For some reason, Ti West’s Pearl — a prequel to last year’s enjoyable 1970s slasher throwbackX — took almost a year to reach the UK. I finally caught up with it at the cinema last night and have three immediate reactions: 1) The central performance by Mia Goth is outstanding, and ought to have been Oscar nominated, once again making me shake my head in dismay at the Academy’s refusal to acknowledge horror. 2) Pearl is significantly superior to its predecessor. 3) As both a horror connoisseur and cineaste, I loved it.
Of course, the word “horror” will immediately have turned off some audiences, and as usual, I always feel that’s a bit of a shame. Pearl is an exceptionally well-crafted piece of work, stunningly directed by West. It partly plays as a pastiche of classic Hollywood melodramas, whilst still being a strong, character-centred genre piece with all the vitality and relevancy required to raise this above mere self-indulgence.
The titular Pearl (Goth), who appeared as an old woman in X, is here a young married woman, awaiting the return of her husband (Alistair Sewell) from the frontlines of the First World War. She lives with her austere religious mother (Tandi Wright) and her invalid father (Matthew Sunderland) on a farm in Texas (the same farm seen decades later in X). Frustrated by her menial life and longing for escape, she dreams of becoming a movie star. A bohemian projectionist (David Corenswet) at the local cinema, who shows her silent porn films illicitly smuggled to the US from France, encourages Pearl to pursue her dreams, no matter who gets in her way. Unfortunately, Pearl winds up taking this rather more literally than he intended.
As is evident from early scenes of needless goose slaughter and simulating sex with scarecrows, Pearl is clearly a troubled character. Feeling increasingly trapped and oppressed, she’s a ticking timebomb. Her miserable relationship with her German immigrant mother echoes that of Carrie White in Carrie, but Pearl is more defiant, and her mother is a more rounded character too, with bitterness, regret, and pride bubbling beneath her sanctimonious demeanour.
What elevates this is telling parallels between 1918 and the present. For a start, the Spanish Flu is ravaging the world. People in masks, paranoid about germs and quarantine, are an all too relatable scenario given the events of recent years. This scenario adds to Pearl’s isolation, and her dreams of Hollywood mirror contemporary desires among the young to be influencers on social media. On top of this, universally relatable themes of ambition, broken dreams, sexual frustration, and feeling trapped feed into the narrative, making Pearl an even more compelling protagonist.
In addition to the obvious horror touchstones (Psycho, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Repulsion), West channels everything from The Wizard of Oz to All That Heaven Allows inhomage to old Hollywood, with opulent, overripe visuals, wipe edits, deliberately dialled-up performances, and a lush, sweeping music score by Tyler Bates and Tim Williams that apes the golden era of Max Steiner and Bernard Herrmann. But it is Goth’s presence as writer, executive producer, and most emphatically her onscreen performance, that gives this labour of love real dramatic heft. One tour-de-force monologue near the end, held in extended close-up, is particularly riveting.
Although Pearl works as a standalone film, West drops clever reminders that it is the second instalment in what is now confirmed to be a trilogy. For instance, Pearl’s attraction to the projectionist and his stash of secret porn echoes and foreshadows X, in which the Deep Throat-era filmmakers covertly making a porn film awaken Pearl’s murderous impulses once more. I’m now immensely curious to see where West takes this in the upcoming MaXXXine. In the meantime, Pearl comes highly recommended to horror fans, with Mia Goth’s increasingly impressive talent a wonder to behold.
After a brief scan of online comments from people (as opposed to critics) who have seen Jerzy Skolimowski’s EO, I feel the need to preface this review with two warnings for two very different kinds of viewer, lest I get it in the neck from either.
Firstly, if you’re an animal lover, do not go into this thinking it’s a Disney-esque tale of a donkey’s misadventures. There are violent animal cruelty scenes, some of them quite unexpected and upsetting, and this has a 15 certificate with good reason (that’s R, for US readers). Yes, Skolimowski cuts away from the worst of it (though he’s also pretty unsparing in depicting the occasional shock of graphic human-on-human violence), but it is still likely to cause upset to viewers of a certain disposition, even though they are likely to broadly endorse the film’s anti-animal cruelty themes.
This brings me to my second warning: Although subtle, it seems clear that EO is inherently pro-vegetarianism/veganism (though it is worth pointing out that Skolimowski eats meat). This theme has annoyed another section of viewers, so I’m adding a second warning. If you can’t see past this and appreciate EO as a piece of filmmaking, you’re best off giving it a wide berth too.
With that out of the way, my own view of EO, Poland’s Oscar-nominated entry for this year’s Best International Feature, is it is something of a masterpiece. (By the way, just to wave my objectivity credentials, I say this as an unrepentant carnivore.) EO is offbeat, surreal, and at times downright trippy, but it’s also poignant and absorbing throughout. The eponymous EO is a donkey who performs in a circus, looked after by his beloved Magda (Sandra Drzymalska). When the circus faces closure due to animal rights activists and bankruptcy, EO changes hands multiple times, travelling extensively and experiencing good and bad among various humans.
On paper, this ought to be contrived, credibility-stretching, and episodic. On film, it’s a mesmerising work of cinematic poetry. Although EO is obviously influenced by Robert Bresson’s Au Hasard Balthazar,it is also very much its own beast (for one thing, this is stripped of Bresson’s religious symbolism). Co-written by Skolimowski’s wife Ewa Piaskowska, the story ebbs and flows between comical, quirky, cruel, and enigmatic. The absurdity can be laugh-out-loud funny one minute (for instance, when EO briefly gets adopted as a football mascot), brutally violent the next (EO is beaten senseless by thugs supporting a rival football team), and sometimes take a peculiar left turn into finale-of-2001: A Space Odyssey-type weirdness. It ought to feel random, but somehow it isn’t.
Cinematographer Michal Dymek crafts some sublime imagery, including strobing circus performances, vivid landscapes, and one particularly eye-catching shot of EO on a bridge next to waterfalls at a hydroelectric plant. Nature in all its wonder and harshness is vividly rendered, with horses, owls, foxes, wolves, bats, birds, and more playing key roles in various sequences. But humans are harsher still, and one senses that by this point in his intermittent, eccentric career, Skolimowski has had it up to here with humanity. An insistent, propulsive score by Pawel Mykietyn adds the dramatic icing on a beautiful but melancholy cinematic cake.
EO isn’t without flaws. Isabelle Huppert turns up in a rather head-scratching sequence as a fading aristocrat, whose relationship with her gambling-addicted priest son isn’t adequately conveyed. (Is incest implied?) Sometimes suspension of disbelief gets a little strained too. But overall, this is a bold, magnificent piece of work, full of haunting imagery, with an ending designed to provoke. That the film has generated the kinds of reactions outlined at the beginning of this review indicates that it has succeeded.
Not to be confused with John Irvin’s 1984 John Hurt-starring horse racing drama about Bob Champion, Bobby Farrelly’s comedy-drama is based on a Spanish film called Camperones from 2018, which I confess I’ve not seen. Regardless of the source material, Champions is a diverting watch. The plot may be entirely predictable and familiar, but it’s engagingly told by a charming cast, anchored by a fine central performance from Woody Harrelson.
Harrelson plays disgruntled, cynical minor-league basketball coach Marcus, who knows his subject inside out but lacks a personal touch with the players. After an on-court altercation with his boss (Ernie Hudson) results in him being fired, and a drunk driving charge lands him with a 90-day community service sentence, Marcus winds up coaching a team of young people with learning disabilities. Of course, at first, he doesn’t think he can do much with them, but gradually he starts to bond with them. Then he gets sexually involved with Alex (Kaitlin Olson), the Shakespeare-loving sister of one of his charges, Johnny (Kevin Iannucci), who has Down’s Syndrome. The team improves, and there’s a chance for them to compete at the Special Olympics, but what happens when Marcus’s 90 days are up? Will he stick with his team, or move on to bigger opportunities with the NBA?
The Rocky-ish outcome is all but predetermined, and the film holds no surprises, but it hardly matters. Champions covers familiar ground with skill and amiability. What I know about basketball wouldn’t cover the back of a postage stamp, but as with all the best sporting films, it isn’t really about the sport. It’s about Marcus discovering his humanity, as he comes to care about a group of fabulous young people. Despite their challenges, they are depicted as smart, funny, independent, and courageous, yet also flawed, like all human beings. Mark Rizzo’s winning screenplay deserves credit for presenting such three-dimensional characterisation rather than lazy stereotypes, and also for the refreshing absence of pandering political correctness. Farrelly is also on fine form as director, presenting a rather more restrained offering than the works for which he is most famous (There’s Something About Mary, for instance).
In short, Champions is hardly going to change the course of cinema, but if redemptive sporting dramas are your thing, you can certainly do a lot worse.
Following my mostly inaccurate Oscar predictions (here, if you wish to see just why I should be stoned as a false prophet), it’s time to offer my two pennies worth on the winners. I should preface this with my usual Dillon Empire caveats.
1) No, I didn’t stay up to watch it. Never have, and never will. I have better things to do with my life than suffer through a nauseating spectacle of self-congratulatory celebrity back-slapping, especially as it’s normally served with a side order of humourless, virtue-signalling speechifying. Besides, here in the UK, the live broadcast is at stupid o’clock in the morning.
2) No, I won’t be commenting on dresses, celebrity gossip, or slapping (if there was any this year). I couldn’t give an airborne fornication about any of that stuff.
3) No, I don’t care about whose “turn” it is to win. That’s how we end up with daft situations like Al Pacino winning Best Actor for Scent of a Woman; an Oscar everyone knew was really for The Godfather Part II, Dog Day Afternoon, and so forth.
4) No, I don’t care about representation for representation’s sake (diversity issues need to be tackled in pre-production, not with condescending tokenism at awards ceremonies). I care about one thing only: Who was the best? A subjective judgement, but one that ought to be attempted without agendas, however noble.
5) Why do I care about the Oscars at all? I really wish I didn’t. It’s an illogical weakness, as I know it is highly corrupt and seldom rewards the truly deserving (see here for an article I wrote a couple of years ago that indicates just how rarely I agree with the Best Picture winner). But because I care, deeply, about the art of filmmaking, an inward part of me I cannot suppress caring about who wins, because it damn well ought to be about who is the best (see point 4). That makes me both an idealist and a cynic, I suppose.
With the above in mind, brace yourself for my not-remotely humble opinion on this year’s winners.
Best Picture — Everything Everywhere All At Once
Credit: A24
The big winner of the evening, Everything Everywhere All At Once, is a film that surprised me. I didn’t expect it to be more than a film that would later gain a fervent cult following, and yet here we are. And yes, I get that it is a landmark in Asian representation, which is why I find it all the more depressing that I disliked it as much as I did. The best thing I can say about this film winning Best Picture is that for the first time ever, the Academy has honoured a science fiction film (something it ought to have done back in 1968, for 2001: A Space Odyssey).
I desperately wanted to love Everything Everywhere All At Once. The barrage of bonkers multiverse-hopping surrealism ought to have been right up my street, and I must confess I did laugh at some of the film jokes (nerdy homages to 2001: A Space Odyssey and In the Mood for Love in particular). For the first hour or so, I went with it, but after a while, I started to feel nauseous. The hotdog gag was funny the first time, less so the 21,327,354th time, and soon I was eye-rolling rather than laughing (the BDSM gag I found particularly crass).
However, the last thirty minutes are what really sent me over the edge. It felt like a cinematic epileptic seizure of generational trauma sermonising, bludgeoning audiences into submission with ludicrously protracted, sentimental, right-on power-of-love platitudes in the face of an apparently godless, nihilistic universe. Frankly, it just did my head in.
So yes, I realise I’m in a minority, but Everything Everywhere All At Once is not a film I much cared for, to put it mildly (my original review is here, if you want more information on why). Of the nominees, I’d have preferred either The Banshees of Inisherin or Tár to win. But really, I wanted the subtle, profoundly moving Aftersun to triumph, and it wasn’t even nominated; an outrage as far as I’m concerned.
Best Actress — Michelle Yeoh (Everything Everywhere All At Once)
I’m a big fan of Michelle Yeoh, but I didn’t want her to win for this film. Yes, she’s good in it, but I desperately wish she could have won for one of her other great roles (Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, for instance). Apparently, it was Yeoh’s “turn”, but this ought to have gone to Cate Blanchett in Tár, out of the nominees. Equally brilliant is Frankie Corio in Aftersun, but she wasn’t nominated, alas.
Best Supporting Actress — Jamie Lee Curtis (Everything Everywhere All At Once)
Much as I love Jamie Lee Curtis, I didn’t think she deserved to win this (I wish she could have won for A Fish Called Wanda). If anyone from Everything Everywhere All At Once deserved to win this award it was Stephanie Hsu, but of the nominees, I’d have opted for Kerry Condon, whose contribution to The Banshees of Inisherin seems to have been largely overlooked. Or Angela Bassett, whose performance in Black Panther: Wakanda Forever was one of the few things I liked about the film.
Best Actor — Brendan Fraser (The Whale)
Credit: A24
I didn’t like The Whale. I found it stagey and unconvincing (more on why here). As for Brendan Fraser’s performance, it’s precisely the kind of scenery-chewing Oscar bait the Academy loves. Yes, divorced from such cynicism it’s a good performance I suppose, but the best of 2023? Not a chance. I’d have given this to Paul Mescal in Aftersun. His performance is so beautifully nuanced and heartbreaking that I simply forgot he was acting.
Best Supporting Actor — Ke Huy Quan (Everything Everywhere All At Once)
Ke Huy Quan is wonderful, but I think this ought to have gone to gone to Barry Keoghan, for his pivotal supporting turn in The Banshees of Inisherin. In many ways, he is actually the key character in the film, and his subtle, poignant performance beautifully draws out the layers of irony in the film’s screenplay. Speaking of which…
Best Original Screenplay — Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert (Everything Everywhere All At Once)
The best screenplay of 2023? Seriously? Better than Martin McDonagh’s sublime, darkly comic, achingly sad examination of male pride, the Irish civil war in miniature, and the other profound insights into the cruel ironies of the human condition? The Banshees of Inisherin ought to have won this, hands down. I’d have accepted Todd Field’s excellent work on Tár as a second choice, but this? I promised the Dillon Empire would go nuclear if the original screenplay Oscar went to Everything Everywhere All At Once. Launch codes have been issued to the relevant missile silos. Good luck out there.
Best Adapted Screenplay — Women Talking (Sarah Polley)
A welcome surprise, as I expected this to go to All Quiet on the Western Front(which I also liked, in fairness). Of the nominated films, I originally suspected Living deserved this most, but at that point, I’d not yet seen Women Talking. On balance, I reckon this was the right choice. Still, my real pick would have been Guillermo Del Toro’s Pinnochio, but that wasn’t nominated.
Best Director — Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert (Everything Everywhere All At Once)
I think by now my opinion of this film is clear enough, but I will concede it is well-directed. I’d rather this had gone to Martin McDonagh or Todd Field, of the nominated films. However, the real elephant in the room is the shocking omission of Charlotte Wells. Despite not being nominated, she would have been my choice.
Aftersun is one of the most remarkable debuts I have seen in years. It is sublimely crafted, with every square inch of every frame carefully thought through, blending opulent 35mm with Mini-DV footage to transcendent effect, but without drawing attention to itself in a way that detracts from the stunning central performances. That’s without even mentioning the astonishingly enigmatic final shot, which I suspect is destined to be celebrated in cineaste circles for decades to come.
Charlotte Wells, you were robbed. One day, the Academy will have to answer to God.
Aftersun. Credit: MUBI/A24
Best International Film — All Quiet on the Western Front
Best Animated Film — Guillermo Del Toro’s Pinnochio
On a much more positive note, I am utterly elated to see this rightly rewarded with Best Animated Film. I saw this in the cinema last Christmas, and was utterly captivated and deeply moved. I need to see it again, but I suspect it may wind up being my favourite screen version (no small praise, consider my love for the Disney animated take from 1940, and Matteo Garrone’s underrated adaptation from 2019). If you’ve not yet seen this, I urge you to do so.
Other Categories
Skimming over the other categories, I’ve not seen enough of the nominated documentary features to properly comment, but regarding the cinematography award, I sympathise with Roger Deakins’s view that this ought to have gone to Grieg Fraser for his work on The Batman. As Deakins asserts, that it wasn’t nominated is pure snobbery. Still, James Friend did fine work on All Quiet on the Western Front too, so of the nominees, he’s a solid choice. My pick? Hoyte van Hoytema for Nope, shockingly not nominated.
Beyond that, All Quiet on the Western Front snagged the production design award, which I have no issue with. The deeply tedious Avatar: The Way of Water had an entirely expected win for visual effects. I’d have opted for Nope, but again, that wasn’t nominated. Top Gun: Maverick also won best sound, but I’d have picked Tár, which featured particularly clever and subtle soundscapes. It wasn’t nominated.
Best music score went to Volker Bertelmann for his work on All Quiet on the Western Front. Personally, I found that score a tad intrusive. I’d have chosen Oliver Coates’s quiet, achingly beautiful work on Aftersun (which also includes his remarkable vocal-only reworking of Queen and David Bowie’s classic Under Pressure). But again, Coates wasn’t nominated.
To end on a couple of positive notes, it’s nice to see a win for the outrageously entertaining RRR with MM Keeravani’s Naatu Naatu in the original song category. Also, the best editing award for Everything Everywhere All At Once is one I feel it did more or less deserve, given what an absolute nightmare assembling that film must have been for Paul Rogers. Then again, I’ve just remembered Blair McClendon’s outstanding work on Aftersun, which — surprise, surprise — wasn’t nominated.
That’s it for this year’s Dillon Empire Oscar report/rant. I fully expect to be foaming at the mouth again this time next year, unless we get one of those rare years when I agree with the awards, and thus have very little to say.
Simon Dillon Books 