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FILM Michael Armstrong Rory Kiberd Michael McDerm
ott Jack O’Higgins illustration: Alan Clarke 1917 Director: Sam Mendes Talent: Colin Firth, Andrew Scott, George MacKay, Dean Charles-Chapman, Benedict Cumberbatch Release: 10 January “There is only one way this war ends. Last man standing.” – Captain (Mark Strong) imparts advice to Schofield (George MacKay) in 1917, the stupendous war drama directed and co-written by Sam Mendes Has Sam Mendes just saved blockbuster cinema? As I write this, I’m still in a state of shell-shock from seeing this overwhelming film. Except, calling it a film doesn’t really seem to encapsulate the experience well enough. It felt more like a VR simulation, without being gimmicky. I’ve never seen a film more immersive. The plot is daringly simple. Straight away, we are plunged into the thick of the First World War, during Spring 1917 in Northern France. General Erinmore (Firth) sends two young British soldiers, Schofield (MacKay) and Blake (Chapman) on what appears to be a suicide mission. They are tasked with delivering a warning to a battalion who wrongly think they’ve got the better of the Germans, who have retreated. In fact, the battalion are walking into a trap, and won’t stand a chance if they advance. We follow the two soldiers throughout their ordeal in a race against time, staying tightly locked on their perspective, without so much as an establishing shot. And that’s pretty much it in terms of story. But from a technical standpoint, 1917 couldn’t be more complex. I didn’t know anything about the film going in. About 30 minutes in, I was so engrossed, that it only barely dawned on me that I’d been watching a continuous take that had been going on since the start of the film. Like Victoria, and Russian Ark before it, 1917 achieves impossibly long takes, the likes of which have never been seen on this scale. With no cutting, there’s no escape. We never leave the two men’s side, with the sense that we are actually there with them, each blast blindsighting us, each unexpected movement jolting us into vigilance. There’s no time to mourn the dead, our embattled protagonists just have to keep moving. By keeping the focus tight to the leads, Mendes and cinematographer Roger Deakins Jojo Rabbit Director: Taika Waititi Talent: Roman Griffin Davis, Scarlett Johansson, Thomasin McKenzie, Taika Waititi Release: 1 January 10-year-old Jojo Betzler (Davis) wants to be the best Nazi the Third Reich has ever seen. His bedroom is adorned with all kinds of Nazi paraphernalia, he greets everyone with an enthusiastic ‘Heil Hitler’ and he dreams of one day fighting on the frontlines for his Führer. With his father missing in combat, he’s created an imaginary friend in the form of Adolf himself. But when he discovers that his mother is sheltering a Jew called Elsa (McKenzie) from the Gestapo, his iron-clad fanaticism is tested. Jojo Rabbit bills itself as an ‘anti-hate satire’, which is a bit grand for a script this simple. The ‘satire’ never goes beyond ‘Nazism is really dumb’, which I mean, sure it is, but other words like ‘degrading’ and ‘genocidal’ also come to mind. Jojo never digs too deep into these aspects, preferring to depict Nazis as a bunch of misinformed goofballs, with Hitler as their insecure simpleton leader. There’re many broad jokes about Jews having scales or batwings. ‘Geez, Nazis sure are silly, AMIRITE?’ the film seems to scream. Taika Waititi’s smartarse humour works wonders when taking the piss out of vampire flicks and superhero tropes, but when put against the backdrop of The Third Reich, it comes dangerously close to downplaying the true horrors of Nazism. Thankfully, Waititi is such an accomplished director that Jojo Rabbit remains engaging and frequently funny (when it’s not making stale jokes about anti-Semitism). Basing the film around Jojo’s blinkered perspective allows Waititi to sidestep the most odious aspects of Hitler’s regime, letting him have his cake and eat it. But while Jojo Rabbit might profess that Nazism is stupid, that even a child can see through it, it’s completely disinterested in exploring why it thrived regardless. Maybe that’s expecting too much from a family film, but then again, there’s a reason why Nazi Germany isn’t a popular setting for children’s fare. JOH achieve an epicness that’s far more formidable than sweeping crowd shots and vistas. Chapman and MacKay are astounding. MacKay starts to develop the thousand-yard stare as their nightmarish journey progresses. This doesn’t feel like acting, it feels like reality. With such lengthy shots, and with terrain this realistic, there’s a sense in which this film must have become real, the actors’ exhaustion authentic as they crawl in the mud surrounded by scurrying rats. Also, 1917 was filmed sequentially, so when a character dies, that actor is really leaving the set. Like Dunkirk, the characterisation and backstory are minimal, which feels right in the identitydenuding context of war. Though considerable, the technical virtuosity doesn’t eclipse character engagement. The eschewal of backstory only intensifies the stakes. They’re human beings who want to live: that’s all that’s necessary. And while the technical feats are a marvel, they’re not obtrusive. This isn’t intellectual cinema, this is gut-level cinema, and it’s all the better for it. Surely there’s no other recent war film to hold a candle to this, not Saving Private Ryan, whose power wanes after the opening scene; nor Dunkirk, which seems bloodlessly schematic, and academic by comparison. As streaming services are encroaching, this is a great vindication of theatrically released cinema. 1917 must be seen on the biggest screen possible. Why shouldn’t the multiplex be home to original, artistic blockbusters like this, that aren’t part of a franchise? Let’s make this a massive hit, so that masterful directors like Mendes might not have to spend their time in service of Bond, or whatever tights-wearing superhero needs a seventh sequel next. RK The Lighthouse Director: Robert Eggers Talent: Robert Pattinson, Willem Dafoe Release: 30 January Robert Eggers’s follow-up to his much lauded The Witch is a fever dream yarn wringing the best out of its two protagonists. The Lighthouse sees Pattison (Winslow) marooned on a remote outpost in 1890s New England. We know he was a lumberjack and is escaping something, though we’re not quite sure what. His fellow stranded ‘wickie’ is Dafoe (Wake) who resembles our classic perception of a seafarer blending, the very best Captain Birdseye with a dash of beardy, boozy, Hemingway. They are cast in master and pupil roles with Pattinson tasked with the more menial jobs of scrubbing, sweeping, painting and polishing. “I ain’t no housewife, I ain’t no slave,” he protests, yet he’s beholden. Shot in black and white 33mm, its grainy and heightened effect calls to mind everything from Hitchcock’s The Birds to Eisenstein’s earlier explorations in the cinematic craft. The Lighthouse is drenched in atmospherics, the language sways into sea shanty style dialogue and archaic utterances set against the sonic backdrop of an almost incessant foghorn. It’s a see-saw relationship teetering on the brink of stir-crazy territory. And at its dark and rugged heart is a question of masculinity, between the mysterious Winslow and the seemingly above-board Wake. A storm threatens to ravage the island as does their power struggle. Like two old salty soaks, they get blathered, fuelling further tensions. Rolling throughout is a series of portentous omens which make us question the reality of the moment. The alluring siren pops up, as does the squall of the ever-circling, doughty seagulls. And, as for the light from the aforementioned house, its beams radiate a draw upon Wake. Whether this serves to illuminate or dazzle is something we fearfully edge towards discovering. The Lighthouse is truly out there on its own, most welcome, cinematic outpost, a shining example of fearless filmmaking. MMD 66