At this time of year, cinema is an embarrassment of riches – the films that could have been contenders on the Oscars run jostle for position with those that made the golden nominee enclosure. In another year, The Fire Inside, a plucky boxing biopic, might have been included in awards conversations – most particularly for Brian Tyree Henry’s multi-dimensional performance as a coach.
Charting the climb of Claressa ‘T-Rex’ Shields, a determined young Black teen from Flint, Michigan, who took herself to the 2012 Olympics and astonished her opponents and the boxing community, The Fire Inside is both a classic sports flick and a story of female emancipation. As written by Barry Jenkins and directed by cinematographer Rachel Morrison (who lensed Creed), it not only tells that underdog story but provides nuance and lived-in detail to Clarissa’s struggle that wasn’t just competitive, but influenced by race, gender, geography and economics.
Amazon MGM Studios
An impoverished girl growing up hungry and caring for her siblings while her single mom parties, Clarissa (played with steely gumption by Ryan Destiny) doesn’t have many options in dilapidated Flint. But she turns up at the boxing gym of Jason (Henry), a guy who teaches the neighbourhood boys to spar when he’s not a telephone engineer. Clarissa’s diligence and Jason’s care forms her into a champ, one who could fight for America at a global level, as well as inspire other hungry overlooked girls.
Jenkins’ screenplay gives space for Clarissa to have agency not only in fighting against older, more experienced opponents but in questioning sports funding (white competitors who wear makeup and cute outfits get sponsorship and endorsements, male athletes get more deals than female) as well as the importance of financial compensation for talent. She can win gold but she needs more than praise to feed her siblings, telling her boyfriend bluntly that ‘money IS recognition’. At the same time, Jenkins expands the roles of those around this champ; her mother is a mess of contradictions, her coach isn’t merely a hardass.
Amazon MGM Studios
Coach Jason, in the hands of Henry, is a warm, kind man who sees the opportunity sport presents to Clarissa and, without fanfare, does everything in his limited power to make it happen for her. That means taking on a fatherly, protective role and also stepping away when he needs to. In another, less crowded, year Henry would surely be planning his tux for Oscar night. As the two go for a second Olympic triumph, we see the cost of fighting for first when it’s not rewarded and the pressure on a teenager when she could be the ‘golden girl’ in every way. And though it ticks the sports movie bingo card (jogging in snowy streets, nailbiting matches, the threat of a fierce competitor), The Fire Inside succeeds in being about so much more – and reflecting audience real-life experience back at them.
Amazon MGM Studios
Words by JANE CROWTHER Pictures courtesy of Amazon MGM Studios The Fire Inside is in cinemas now
When we first meet Iris (Heretic’s Sophie Thatcher) she’s narrating a voiceover telling us about two epiphanies she’s recently had: one when she met her boyfriend Josh (Jack Quaid) during a meet-cute in a supermarket and another… well, that would be telling. Her second moment of truth comes when she and Josh take their robo-car to a luxury lakehouse in upstate New York for a weekend with friends. A tremulous woman with a candy-coloured kitsch wardrobe and cute retro headbands (kinda like a Stepford Wife, wink), Iris only has eyes for Josh. But when the wealthy owner of the lakehouse, Russian possible-mobster Sergey (Rupert Friend, pocketing scenes with a florid accent and mullet), tries to force himself on her, Iris sees red. The people pleasing demeanour gives way to rage, revenge, self-preservation: a new survival mode, if you will. Which is news to Iris, because – in a plot beat unconcealed by posters and trailer – she doesn’t realise that she is in fact a ‘companion’ robot and not a real girl. Now that Iris is off-programme and best laid plans have skittered into chaos, just how much damage can be done when your AI goes rogue?
Warner Bros. PicturesWarner Bros. Pictures
To say more, is to spoil the cheeky twists in a brisk, fun comi-horror about misogyny, tech fear and the salutary lessons of reading the small print. Once past the scene setting and narrative rules (Iris can’t lie, can be factory reset, is controlled by a phone app), Companion gets into its algorithm stride like a gen Z Ex Machina. The former good girl must fight her for her life as the friendship group unravels with the lure of money and Josh tries to control his fembot. That prompts jokes and jabs at incel culture, entitlement and the whining of a young, white man moaning that life is so unfair for him. Quaid treads a nice line between charming/charmless that he previously essayed successfully in Scream, while Thatcher aces the evolution of a naif to ninja. Lukas Gage and Harvey Guillén also bring sweet comic relief as a gay couple with a power imbalance.
Fast and loose – put any pressure on post-screening plot analysis and the wheels come off – Companion is a popcorn treat not designed to live long in the imagination once consumed. It’s not likely to instigate behavioural change, but it will entertain on a night at the flicks. Just turn your phone off…
Warner Bros. Pictures
Words by JANE CROWTHER Pictures courtesy of Warner Bros. Pictures Companionis in cinemas now
Some of the hard truths at the heart of Mike Leigh’s latest fall easily from the mouth of Pansy (Marianne Jean-Baptiste), a misanthrope London mother and housewife whose daily diatribe at, and about, other people hides a crushing depression and self-loathing. When she’s not furiously polishing the leather sofa in the lounge, Pansy is berating her layabout son, scolding her cowed husband or shouting at random people in car parks or the health professionals at the dentist and doctors. She even has a scowl and a harsh word for the pigeons and a passing fox that dare to enter her garden. By contrast, her sister Chantelle (Michele Austin) is a laidback hairdresser with the patience of a saint and a vibrant social life that involves her two grown, ambitious daughters. She sees the boiling rage and frustration emanating from her sister (Pansy of course criticises her hairdressing skills) but struggles to tell her sibling a hard truth; that Pansy clearly needs mental health support.
A reunion of Leigh and Jean-Baptiste after their collaboration on 1996’s Secrets And Lies, Hard Truths marks a return to the velvet glove punch of the auteur’s trademark observational dramedy. With cinematography by longtime collaborator Dick Pope, Leigh allows seemingly insubstantial suburban moments to be captured as Pansy goes about her day which accumulate into a sorrow for a woman who can demand to see the manager, that checkout assistants smile more and that her husband never eats fried chicken in the house but cannot ask for the help she desperately needs.
The success in making an audience care about such a curmudgeon who even criticises a baby for wearing an outfit with pockets is due to Leigh’s sly script (gently unpicking a deep-seated trauma in Pansy from her mother’s death) and Jean-Baptiste’s performance which is the very definition of powerhouse. She rightfully deserves the heat she’s currently getting on the trophy trail. Pansy is monstrous and ridiculous, yet funny (she has a point about the baby) and vulnerable. A scene in which the two sisters attend the grave of their mother is so brusquely affectionate that it is heartwarming as Chantelle tells Pansy something many audience members will recognise in their own family relations.
They say that we can choose our friends but not our family and in this bittersweet meander through a world many of us know intimately, perhaps that is the hardest truth of all.
Words by JANE CROWTHER Hard Truthsis in cinemas now
A talking point at Venice Film Festival for its epic running time (215 minutes including an interval), Brady Corbet’s uncompromising drama finally makes it to cinemas for audiences to decide if it’s as ambitious and empty as the building at the centre of it, or an Oscar-winning masterpiece. Following the life of Jewish architect László Tóth (Adrian Brody) over 33 years, Corbet’s opus tracks the story of America via immigration, anti-semitism, art and commerce.
Universal Pictures
Arriving into New York on a boat from Hungary in 1947, László’s and our first view of the Statue Of Liberty is inverted, setting the tone for a film that seeks to play with expectation. László makes his way to Pennsylvania and his cousin (Alessandro Nivola) who gives him shelter in his furniture making business. Called to the home of wealthy industrialist, Harrison Lee Van Buran (Guy Pearce), to create a library for his study, the Eastern European genius’ work is so starkly modern that Harrison is impressed enough to commission him to design a building. The creation of that brutalist building over decades as László’s wife and niece are brought from Hungary and the Tóths become the Van Buran family pets, is the life-work and angst of the film. László attempts to find perfection in draughtsmanship and reconnect with a traumatised wife (Felicity Jones); his benefactor shows his generosity and cruelty…
Universal PicturesUniversal Pictures
Corbet and Mona Fastvold’s screenplay is dense and chewy, giving Brody the opportunity to show off the soulfulness that won him an Oscar for The Pianist and allowing Pearce to entertain with dangerous bonhomie. The two men dance around each other; one trying not to be obsequious in gratitude, the other trying to conceal his darkness. Waiting for those factors to collide as the building begins to take shape on the hill is much of what drives the film, which thrums with tension – both emotional and aural, thanks to sound design.
Universal Pictures
Lauded by critics during the festival circuit, The Brutalist is likely to be diverse to paying punters. While some will thrill to the immersive, indulgent nature of Corbet’s detailed universe, others will be tested by its unhurried pace, esoteric themes and bum-numbing length. Even the precisely styled credits might annoy. But for those looking for the bombastic results of an auteur with a vision, The Brutalist is arresting cinema that offers a unique experience. Whether you like it or not, depends on your tolerance to the didactic nature of auteurism.
Words by JANE CROWTHER Photographs courtesy of UNIVERSAL PICTURES The Brutalistis in cinemas now
Bob Dylan has purposefully been an enigma for decades and James Mangold’s traditional biopic of a small window of his life doesn’t try to answer any questions about the troubadour – rather it unpicks the ambient influence swirling around the 19 year-old when he arrives in New York from Minnesota and takes the folk scene by storm. Kicking off in 1961, Mangold tracks Dylan from his beginnings through to stardom and up to the point when he ‘betrays’ folk music by plugging in an electric guitar at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival. The director admits that not everything in the film happened exactly as depicted (and apparently Dylan himself asked for a completely invented scene to be added to further fox audiences), but the result is an accomplished primer for newcomers to Dylan and an account that won’t irritate diehard fans.
Bob (Timothée Chalamet) first pitches up in NY in search of his hero, Woody Guthrie. Discovering the musician is critically ill in hospital, the wannabe visits him – the first time in many that Dylan puts his needs ahead of others. Woody (Scoot McNairy) is being cared for by the nicest man in folk, Pete Seeger (Edward Norton, emanating kindness) who takes the young songwriter under his wing. Dylan, still a gangly youth, impresses him as well as established folk star, Joan Baez (Monica Barbaro), setting him off on a meteoric rise to fame, prolific record making and a love triangle with Baez and Sylvie (Elle Fanning playing a thinly disguised version of Suze Rotolo). As Bob writes – and cheats and is selfish to the point that Baez tells him he’s an asshole – the world changes and informs his music; the desperation of the Cuban missile crisis, the freedom rides, Martin Luther King… The times, they are a-changing.
Chalamet had five years to perfect guitar, harmonica and Dylan’s scratchy vocals and his renditions of the classics are both spot-on and still retain an element of himself within them. As Dylan’s hair gets bigger and his jeans skinnier (via evocative costumes by Hollywood Authentic columnist, Arianne Phillips), Chalamet and Dylan infuse so that by the time he’s riding motorbikes around and behaving with the insouciance of a rock star brat, the transformation is entirely convincing. Similarly, Barbaro nails Baez’s sweet voice and zero BS attitude and Boyd Holbrook threatens to steal the show every time he shows up as sozzled man in black, Johnny Cash.
The highlight of the film is undoubtedly the ‘going electric’ moment at the ‘65 Newport Festival when, having watched Dylan do exactly as he pleases throughout his interactions, there’s a rebellious thrill in watching him purposefully plug into an amp in front of a horrified audience of acoustic fans. Once again, we’re not treated to any interior motivation to Dylan’s actions, ensuring he’s still a delicious enigma – a man who despite the biopic treatment, remains a riddle – as the title suggests, a complete unknown.
Leigh Whannell aced updating The Invisible Man in 2020 by making it a horror about domestic abuse and gaslighting, and he’s on the money again with another smart reinterpretation of a Universal classic monster. This time he takes the Lon Chaney jr horror and places it in 1995 Oregon where a young boy, Blake, lives in fear of his army vet dad and some unseen threat in the woods. Fast forward to modern day and Blake (Christopher Abbott) is a dad himself and married to a workaholic journalist and breadwinner, Charlotte (Julia Garner). In a neat role reversal, Blake is the primary parent to their kid, Ginger, complaining of Charlotte’s work impinging on family life, having put his own writing career on the backburner. So when a letter arrives declaring his missing father officially dead and his childhood home legally his, Blake suggests a family trip in a U-haul to clear out the remote cabin. He’s clearly forgotten a lot about his traumatic upbringing because the trio arrive in a no-phone-signal dense forest in the dark. The anticipatory dread that has pervaded the film from the start comes to fruition, as the family find themselves running through the woods pursued by something… and over a single night transformation will arrive for everyone.
Photography by Nicola Dove
Whannell excels in tension and Wolf Man is an exercise in ratcheting with jump scares, body horror and set pieces in the pitch black. But the aspects that make the concept truly frightening is the decision to show the shifting perspectives of hunter and prey – and the emotional clout that comes with that. As an audience we see the horror of a stalking man-creature from the POV of his would-be victims; and then, via disquieting sound design and instinctual VFX, the way dark-blind humans look like dinner to a predator. Wrapped up within this are themes exploring pandemic fears and infection, generational trauma and our anxieties about becoming the worst parts of our parents.
Photography by Nicola DovePhotography by Nicola Dove
Abbott, in a role originally scheduled for Ryan Gosling, brings a tortured pathos to a Dad trying to do his best and protect his family from himself, while Garner gets to flex her ‘final girl’ muscles. And Whannell makes popcorn-spilling use of the terror of an animal’s breath, an escape from a truck, the velvet darkness of an unlit house and the unknown source of upstairs banging. Though some may tire of the repetitive running between house, car, greenhouse, barn… the overall takeaway is one of a sharp, effective chiller with considerable bite.
Words by JANE CROWTHER Photographs by NICOLA DOVE Wolf Man is in cinemas now
Though it was released on New Year’s Day you may not have made it to the cinema to catch the latest potent fever dream from Robert Eggers – but you should make it your resolution to do so. Darkly designed to fill a big screen (it opens by descending an audience into pitch blackness and sounds of distress), the filmmaker’s reinterpretation of FW Murnau’s 1922 take on Dracula is a crepuscular, filthy and visceral vision of sexual obsession and the plight of women who speak up against predators. Yes, it’s about bloodsuckers and staking, but with current headlines it’s inescapable to not see a correlation between the claims of a young woman (Lily-Rose Depp) being dismissed and her realisation that only her own bravery will stop abuse.
Depp plays Ellen, a new wife to Nicholas Hoult’s solicitor in 1838 Germany, whose pallid complexion and nervous disposition are caused by the night terrors she suffers as a creeping, shadowy presence stalks her. When hubby is called away to attend to the needs of a client in Carpathia, a count ‘with one foot in the grave’, Ellen fears losing herself in the nightmares and moves in with friends (Aaron Taylor Johnson and Emma Corrin). Meanwhile, her husband undertakes the six week journey to the snowy mountains where gypsies warn of evil and Count Orlok (Bill Skarsgard) lurks in his inhospitable castle with nails like a Guinness World Record holder and a truly disquieting, fetid voice that is the aural equivilent of damp, decay, death. The fresh blood that willingly enters his home sets Orlok on a course of destruction to Ellen that takes in plague, exorcism and monster hunting courtesy of Willem Defoe.
Though the story may be familiar, Eggers’ reliably striking visuals are not; Skarsgard’s creature design is disgusting enough you’ll be sure you can smell him, while the cinematography recalls a Vermeer painting – characters often framed in doorways, tree-tunnels, gateways to heartstoppingly beautiful effect. Set pieces such as Ellen’s possession (Depp contorting herself, eyes as large as saucers), her husband’s welcome in Carpathia (thundering horse hooves in the snowy gloaming) and a city laid waste by disease are grotesque, gorgeous, grim. The detail of costume, set design and sound is richly layered, while Eggers’ cast are pitch perfect. Skarsgard is cornering the market in terrifying characters you can’t shake while Hoult’s terror in Transylvania is palpable. But the film belongs to Depp; as fragile as glass, tremulous and bruised – but also erotic, feral and ultimately, kickass.
Viewers who are not fond of rats or scuttling things might find Nosferatu intolerable, but for everyone else Egger provides a thrumming discomfort of terrible beauty that will haunt as certainly as Orlok himself.
Humphrey Bogart’s son with Lauren Bacall, Stephen, gave his blessing to writer-director Kathryn Ferguson’s documentary Bogart: Life Comes in Flashes which charts his father’s career and legacy via the instrumental women in his life; his mother and his four wives.
As the co-manager of the Humphrey Bogart Estate, you don’t want people to run roughshod over the image of someone who has been historically at such heights. I’m not famous, but my father was famous and somebody’s going to try to screw you over. They’re going to try to do stuff that you probably don’t want to have done. This has not been my life’s work, but it’s been important to me to do that. And in order to do that, you have to do trademarks. You have to do licensing. You have to do that legally. Or else it just goes to the public domain. So it’s a double-edged sword. You really have to do it, even if you don’t want to.
The estate gets a lot of requests and if the request was going to be the cookie-cutter bio of ‘movie, movie, movie, movie, movie, meets Betty [Bacall], movie, dead’ I wasn’t interested. I voiced one of those [Bogart: The Untold Story, 1997) before, and my mother did Bacall on Bogart for PBS. But the way that Kathryn [Ferguson] proposed us doing it was totally different from any biography I’d seen on anybody. And there aren’t many people who had a succession of women in their lives who have affected them so specifically. It was so incredibly different. And it turned out to be really spectacular. I am not a complete expert on my father at all. I worked for CBS and Court TV and NBC. I’ve been working my whole life – not at this. I never thought about his relationship with his prior wives [stage actor Helen Menkin, film actors Mary Phillips, Mayo Methot and Lauren Bacall]. So all of that was new to me.
Some of it was not new – like the footage I am in as a child [8 year-old Stephen is seen attending his father’s star-studded Beverly Hills funeral in 1957]. I remember, I had my hand over my face when I’m walking out of the funeral because I’m blocking it from the photographers. I’m not crying or anything. But I don’t remember during the funeral. I don’t even know if I remember that part, but I remember it because I’m seeing it on video.
I’ve been my father’s son for as long as I’ve been born, obviously. So I’m used to [the idea of having famous parents]. My friends were just friends. They may have been Liza [Minelli], Sammy Cahn’s kid Stevie… these were the people I hung around with, but they were just friends. I was just a normal kid. I only realised my parents were famous when I went to my father’s funeral – all those people, and all the press. Then all of a sudden it was over, and stuff started to happen. My whole life changed. We moved and lived in England for a while, and we moved back to New York. I had three dogs and a cat – and no more. We got rid of the dogs. We got rid of the cat. We got rid of the house. We got rid of the school. We got rid of the state. And we moved to England, and got rid of the country. And then we came back to New York. There were a lot of losses along the way.
It was annoying [to be known as the son of Humphrey Bogart] as a teenager, in my twenties, my thirties… It’s even annoying now! I would not introduce myself using my last name, because then I wouldn’t have to deal with: ‘Oh, are you…?’ But my close friends know who I am, and they know all of this, but they don’t care. That’s what’s most important.
My parents were probably one of the top five couples of the 20th century. You’ve got the Kennedys. You’ve got Edward and Wallis Warfield Simpson, and you’ve Charles and Di. They were right up there with these in terms of fame. So I think they just went through life knowing that. They went through their 12 years together knowing that. They stood out. But they always put their marriage first.
My father loved to sail [on his boat, the Santana]. I was not allowed to go on the boat until I could swim. I’d go down to the boat, and I’d be on the boat while I was in the dock, before he went out. It sank in San Francisco Bay, and a guy pulled it up, and fixed it up. He didn’t really change it. So I went on it then, when I wrote my book [Bogart: In Search Of My Father]. There’s footage in the film of me on Satana but I don’t remember this stuff. That’s the thing. I see it, and I say, ‘Oh, I did that. Yeah, I can see that’. But there’s no visceral memory of it within me. That’s a strange thing.
I don’t know what my father would think of the movie because it’s not all hearts and flowers. It takes a somewhat negative – especially by today’s standards – view of him. But he was tremendously proud of his work, and he loved his work. He loved making movies. That was what was most important to him. And making a living! He liked money – he liked the nice house, the nice boat, the nice car, and all that.
Did I ever consider following in my father’s footsteps? I’m not an idiot. Can you imagine becoming an actor, and having to live up to that hype? No way. Plus I’m not very good at it. My parents made me do it. They made me be in plays when I was in middle school. I played Bianca in The Taming of the Shrew in an all-boys school. And I played General Snippet in The Mouse that Roared, but I’m not very good, and I don’t really like being someone else. It’s not my thing. Although if [Bogart] had lived longer, who knows? I don’t know that he would have encouraged me. I might have gravitated to it just because you’re in that milieu, so why not?
I have no idea why my father continues to fascinate us. If I did, I’d be selling it, and I’d be a billionaire! It’s inexplicable. People have asked me that all the time. Yeah, he died young, and he was a fine actor, but even he says he didn’t know how he ended up the way he did.
He’s a movie star to other people but my father to me. When I think of him it’s in a sports coat. I think of him on a boat. He was around for such a short time in my life. I didn’t know who he was, which is why I wrote the book, and why we did the documentary.
You don’t have to be a parent or have been part of raising a child to feel the vibes of Marielle Heller’s adaptation of Rachel Yoder’s novel. But anyone who has ever played the hundredth mindnumbing toddler game in a day, cleaned up ankle-biter messes on rinse and repeat or prayed that the little darling goes to sleep in hour four of lullabies will feel seen watching Amy Adams, as an unnamed mother, lie facedown and aghast on the carpet of her living room while her child jumps on her.
Following the internal monologue of our nameless protagonist, Nightbitch introduces us to a woman who used to identify as an artist with a vibrant life in Manhattan and now struggles to find a clean shirt in a daily suburban routine of caring for her child while her sweet, feckless husband (Scoot McNairy) works away during the week. Heller depicts this as a relentless, machinery hum of monotony – the same hash browns for breakfast, the walk to the park, the fraught bathtime, the wind-down routine, the sleepless nights. The Mother dreams of shouting her real thoughts at former colleagues she meets in the supermarket who ask ‘Don’t you just love being a Mom?’, of running away from the sunny mums she meets at baby book club, of ripping her husband’s throat out when he returns to complain about his room service and tell her that ‘happiness is a choice’. Which is when a pack of dogs start showing up at the Mother’s door, when she starts to grow hair, likes eating a raw steak, when a nub protrudes from the base of her back like a tail… Is the Mother becoming something else?
With its flirtation with body horror (pus-filled sores are poked with needles), transformation and society’s rigid view of ‘good’ women, Nightbitch shares similar themes with The Substance. Tonally though, it’s a gentler rage against the machine. Fans of the book will perhaps feel that a certain cat incident lacks, ahem, bite, while the ferocity of Yoder’s societal critique is softened. But while the satire might be less savage, the commitment of Adams is not. In a truly vanity-free portrayal, she sticks the landing of playing a believable messy woman trapped in a maternal Groundhog Day and wracked with guilt for having wished for it. And when she’s digging into the back garden earth, nose pressed to soil and nails seamed with filth, she’s a feral, joyous creature that you’ll want to run the streets with.
Though it wants its doggy treat and to eat it, Nightbitch is nevertheless another encouraging step towards a world in which every type of woman and female experience is represented onscreen – and will certainly play like gangbusters at mother and baby screenings.
Words by JANE CROWTHER Nightbitchis in cinemas now
