The Card Counter (2021)

 ☆ ☆ ☆ ½

The Card Counter (2021) – P. Schrader

I have to give credit to Paul Schrader for this screenplay – it has an elegance and simplicity that weaves “current events” and philosophical weight together in a way that honours his long-standing themes and still holds together as a commercial entertainment. However, I am not sure these were the right actors to pull it off. Oscar Isaac is fine, although subdued, as the casino-haunting lead with the need for redemption (due to tragic past actions) but Tye Sheridan seems less capable of embodying the naïve young man seeking revenge for transgressions against his family.  Tiffany Haddish is only along for the ride as the conduit to high stakes poker games (and eventual love interest) – we don’t see into her character. Willem Dafoe has only a glorified cameo, looking somewhat John Boltonesque.  What might this have been with other more astute players, one can only guess. Schrader is a matter-of-fact director (although First Reformed showed a tendency toward intense surrealism that I didn’t notice in the past) – would another director have turned the screws tighter on the emotional pain inherent here? Scorsese (who produced) might have made something more operatic but that might not have honoured the impulse toward Bresson that Schrader clearly followed. Although the locations are drab and the action largely muted as in Bresson (save for a few flashbacks)  – and the use of poker tournaments as a plot device brings with it an inherent tension (and win/lose emphasis) – the film doesn’t quite capitalise on its promise.   

 

The French Dispatch (2021)

☆ ☆ ☆ ½

The French Dispatch (2021) – W. Anderson

By now (and this is his 10^th feature), the Wes Anderson film is instantly recognisable. A sort of camp and twee approach with excessive attention to little details that evoke a feeling of nostalgia for the way things used to be. The look of a Richard Scarry book – but for adults (Anderson doesn’t shy away from sex or violence, but they are somehow made cute or absurd). The French Dispatch contains a triptych of stories based on the conceit of a Kansas newspaper publisher’s son (Bill Murray) moving to Ennui, France to publish stories from abroad for the readership back home.  Fast forward 30 years and Howitzer, Jr. (Murray) has passed away, stating in his will that the current issue of the magazine must be the last.  We are then treated to three stories (after a bit of a ramble by Owen Wilson): 1) Benicio del Toro as a murderer with a life sentence who becomes an abstract artist, with Léa Seydoux as his (naked) muse/prison guard, Adrien Brody as the art dealer who cultivates him and Tilda Swinton as an agent for the big collector who purchases his work; 2) Frances McDormand as a writer for the magazine who advises young people (including Timothée Chalamet and Lyna Khoudri) about their (Paris ’68 styled) manifesto and gets somewhat too involved; and 3) Jeffrey Wright as a reporter recalling an episode where he was invited to dinner by the police commissaire (Mathieu Amalric) to taste the delights of the police chef (Steve Park) who later creates poisoned delicacies (with radish) to rescue a young boy from kidnappers.  I had high hopes for the film after an opening nod to Jacques Tati but for all their spirited art direction and set decoration, alternating film stocks, stylised subtitles, and witty references, the stories tend to drag and sag in the middle, never quite cohering into a delicious confection like The Grand Budapest Hotel, 2014 (to which there is something of a family resemblance here). All told, this is a perfectly typical Wes Anderson film but not the best place to start with his oeuvre.

 

Sumo Do, Sumo Don’t (1992)

 ☆ ☆ ☆ ½

Sumo Do, Sumo Don’t (1992) – M. Suô

Amon checked this out of the library and it was fun to watch it as a family.  A classic underdogs-make-good comedy using the traditional formula that sees a bunch of oddballs rally to beat a team of obnoxious bullies.  The big difference, of course, is that the sport here is sumo wrestling which is pretty weird, even if it is Japan’s national sport.  The focus is on a university sumo team which has lost all of its members and is in danger of being de-registered.  So, the professor who serves as coach has to recruit students to join up for the year’s competitions, the students don’t have to be fat and the main character is played by former idol Masahiro Motoki (later seen in Oscar winning Departures, 2008). Comic relief is offered by Naoto Takenaka, whose character gets diarrhea every time he feels stressed.  So, you can see the type of humour on display here.  It is also surprising (or not) to see just how dated a 1992 film can be, with some of the sexist jokes falling extremely flat these days (and fortunately over the heads of the kids).  Of course, it is still a “feel good” film, because you really do want this assortment of outsiders to triumph -- and, as everyone can foresee, they do. 

Eye of the Devil (1966)

 ☆ ☆ ☆

Eye of the Devil (1966) – J. Lee Thompson

I thought I had possibly stumbled upon an unheralded horror film from the mid-60s, starring David Niven and Deborah Kerr (with Sharon Tate and David Hemmings in minor roles) – and I had but despite its promise, the film suffers from poorly managed pacing that somehow undercuts any shocks or horror.  There is still some ominous and spooky ambience here and some echoes and previews of other better known horror films.  For one, having Deborah Kerr in the lead and sometimes in peril but always very anxious really does evoke the classic (and better) film The Innocents (1961) based on Henry James’ Turn of the Screw. For another, the plot that finds David Niven returning to his ancestral castle because the grapes have died on the vine for a third year in a row and he must perform a certain pagan rite to salvage things really does foreshadow The Wicker Man (1973 version please), also a much better film.  Although Hemmings also seems to have a role in the rite in question (along with a bunch of eerie hooded men and Donald Pleasance as the head priest), it isn’t quite so clear how Tate is involved (although she may be a witch). The black and white cinematography on location at Chateau de Hautefort in Dordogne, France is pretty fab and the proceedings are thereby provided with a suitably gothic flair. But all in all, this is a missed opportunity because somehow the suspense and forboding that should have been there in spades have somehow dissipated with the loose plotting and somnambulant pacing.

 

Last Night in Soho (2021)

 ☆ ☆ ☆ ½

Last Night in Soho (2021) – E. Wright

Although there are clearly aspects of his work that would fit with auteur theory, it seems easier to view Edgar Wright’s films as purely commercial endeavours. They aim to be crowd-pleasing and cater to the audience’s surface needs. His collaborations with Simon Pegg and Nick Frost (Shaun of the Dead, 2004; Hot Fuzz, 2007) were funny enough and Scott Pilgrim (2010) was certainly camp enough, playing to the hip crowd, but I wasn’t sure what to make of Baby Driver (2017), considering it more style than substance, a slick piece of genre work that again strove to signify its hipness rather than doing more than that.  Last Night in Soho (filmed in 2019 but released in 2021) is similarly slick and commercial, teasing the audience with the sexiness of its leads (Thomasin McKenzie and Anya Taylor-Joy) and a Swingin’ London vibe but instead careening into psychological thriller territory with a Me Too-styled critique of the Sixties. McKenzie plays a “country mouse” (Eloise) who comes to the Big Smoke to study fashion design (present day) but when she lets a bedsit from aged Ms. Collins (Diana Rigg) she begins having visions/nightmares of Taylor-Joy as a wanna-be singer (Sandie) who is instead forced into prostitution and potentially murdered.  For all intents and purposes, it seems that Eloise is going crazy for most of the film, a concerning and downbeat narrative that is nevertheless filmed with colour/style/flash. The plot does rescue itself from this dead end but never quite manages to deal with all of the issues it raises in a satisfying way.  It seems content enough to mention the terrible treatment of women (and to show it) rather than necessarily to digest things fully (Should we have sympathy for the murderer, that is?). At the same time, Wright the stylist has a lot of fun with the Sixties soundtrack and the casting of Rita Tushingham, Terence Stamp, Margaret Nolan, and of course Rigg, all British stars from those (possibly not so good) old days. To conclude, I’m ambivalent about this film which I enjoyed for its shiny surfaces but disliked for its unwillingness to dig too much beneath them.

 

The Bureau (2017; Season 3)

 ☆ ☆ ☆ ½

The Bureau (2017; Season 3) – E. Rochant

Season 2 ended with the shock capture of Guillaume Debailly a.k.a. Malotru a.k.a. Paul Lefevbre (Mathieu Kassovitz) by ISIS/Daesh in Syria/Iraq.  Most of the third series observes his isolation/torture/attempts to escape and also DGSE’s attempts to rescue him (led by Raymond Sisteron (Jonathan Zaccaï)), even if only to prosecute him for being a traitor.  We also follow Marina Loiseau (Sara Giraudeau) who has returned to France from Iran (after very nearly being assassinated), traumatised and perhaps unfit for another mission. Team leader Henri Duflot (Jean-Pierre Darroussin) supports her and Marie-Jeanne (Florence Loiret Caille) is promoted to be his assistant. The series does contain a few shocks but there is a slight feeling of desperation here, as the plot-lines lead some characters to take uncharacteristic actions (in my view). Sure, there is intrigue a-plenty, but for the first time in The Bureau this can feel a little forced. The ending of the last episode, a noir-existential reverie, for sure, feels as though it was anticipated to be the finale for the entire show (reinforced by the fact that nearly all of the plot lines have been wrapped up).  Yet, somehow there is a fourth season…

 

The Wrong Box (1966)

 ☆ ☆ ☆ ½

The Wrong Box (1966) – B. Forbes

British black comedy that finds John Mills and Ralph Richardson as brothers who are the last surviving members of a “tontine” in the 1880s that will award a generous pay-out to the sole survivor. Richardson is an insufferable bore while Mills is a crazy old coot; they haven’t spoken in 40 years. Naturally, their respective (adopted) children are keen to get their hands on the boodle. Richardson’s kids include Peter Cook and Dudley Moore as well as Nanette Newman. Mills is supported by Michael Caine (and “king of the dramatic pause” butler Wilfrid Lawson). The plot is convoluted as both Richardson and Mills are suspected dead from time to time and their offspring hope to conceal this secret (if true) from the other family. Cook goes so far as to secure a blank death certificate (from dissolute doctor Peter Sellers) for use if Richardson goes first (and the date can therefore be amended). It gets pretty wacky and, of course, might be taken the wrong way by those who see funerals as a sacred rite. Not always laugh out-loud funny but it has its charms in that sly and droll British way.