Short Review: ‘Free Fire’ (2016)

A one-trick pony.



What begins as a film with punchy promise soon becomes a dull shoot-out. This is unfortunate, because Free Fire is loaded with potential, especially given the intriguing early scenes of the film. There’s the fantastic arms deal set-up, which introduces us to each of the characters (some more distinct than others), as tensions escalate over a stock mix-up. Then there’s the delightfully uneasy moment that the guns are tested, and characters visibly jump. How disappointing, then, that when bullets start flying for real, all excitement is lost. Irritatingly, characters are slow to die and never seem to die properly. They rarely change cover, and when they do it actually breathes a little bit of life into the film. Mildly silly one-liners are bandied about here and there, but quickly lose their ability to crack a smile. Free Fire is a film that overstays its welcome, and makes you forget that it was even welcome in the first place.

Review: ‘Raw’ (‘Grave’) (2016)

A refreshingly female-focused bloodbath.


Julia Ducournau‘s coming-of-age film Raw has reportedly made audiences at certain film festivals faint with horror. In reality, the film is hardly that gruesome, and its unfortunate reputation should not distract from excellent craftsmanship and its complicated expression of the feminine rite of passage.

This is an impressive feature debut from Ducournau, who utilises lead actress Garance Marillier’s performative flexibility. Who else could make the leap from vegetarian virgin to cannibalistic seductress in such a brief space of time, and still retain the character’s integrity? Interestingly, this film shies away from the classic female monster trope, instead rendering our protagonist as an entirely sympathetic one, caught between the virtuous ideal and the monstrous instinct. Rather than inspiring terror herself, our protagonist’s tragic journey leaves us most concerned for her shame.

It is no coincidence that this film is set at a veterinary college. There is a sly suggestion that there is no difference between the animal and the human – even that a raped monkey suffers the same trauma as a raped woman. The film goes further, suggesting that it is explicitly the women who share this connection. The animal isn’t insidious, it just follows its natural drive – and likewise our leading women take different approaches to combating their urges with their moral compasses. Raw challenges the notion that a woman with desire is a monster, encouraging us to see the human smile behind the bloody lips. This is a masterfully feminist film, and should not missed.

Review: ‘Get Out’ (2017)

A compelling satire about racial tensions in the US and everywhere.


“You can ask a white person to see the world through the eyes of a black person for an hour and a half.” Those are the words of director Jordan Peele, a perfect summary of his impressive debut, Get Out. This is a film that dances between nervous laughter and fear, an elaborate metaphor for the modern nightmare of living in a black body.

There is an astute fixation with sight in this film. Protagonist Chris is a photographer, using his eyes to create art. What we see as viewers is shown through his own (often harrowing) point-of-view shots. Peele uses lines of sight to magnify the imbalances of power – who is allowed to look, and at what, becomes crucial. Eyes play a significant role, too, in revealing the way that black bodies are objectified. After all, race is often perceived by what is seen, and indeed, Chris visibly relaxes when he finds himself in the company of a blind man. This character claims to be indifferent to colour, not unlike the white liberal parents who manage to erase and deny the reality of the black experience.

Perhaps most unsettling is the presence of the uncannily delighted black servants in the family. These characters have been stripped of their collective history, and without it they are socially white, failing to recognise any of the black cultural codes when Chris interacts with them. Notably, the oddly-dressed Logan matches Chris’ fist-bump with a cordial handshake. All horror films require a villain, and here it can only be whiteness. This is a radical film in the sense that white people are ultimately held accountable for every subtle prejudice, every fetishisation and attempt to reprogram black people for white purposes.

A lot more could be said about the film’s deliberate subversion of classic horror tropes. Horror has traditionally meant an attack on otherness, though possibly this otherness has never been quite so eloquently expressed. The last few moments of the film even acknowledge viewer expectations while gently side-stepping them, providing a satisfying resolution to the tension. Get Out will make white viewers cringe and squirm, as it absolutely should. Finally, black men have been given a protagonist that evades stereotypes and attacks systematic oppression. His insurrection is a raw, poetic defiance.

Review: ‘A Silent Voice’

Beautiful and gut-wrenching, a portrait of adolescence.


[Content Warning: This film deals with suicide. If you need help please call Lifeline Australia on 13 11 14.]

A Silent Voice is a film that gently reaches in and shakes us awake. It may be beautifully drawn and elegantly stylised, but its subject matter is raw, tangible, and ever so real.

The film concerns a bully, named Shōya. He’s scruffy and rude, and the cruelty he inflicts upon his peers is absolutely brutal and almost difficult to watch. We shouldn’t be drawn to like him, but we are. This isn’t a two-dimensional villain, this a child coping with a lot of pain. One of the most confronting scenes involves his mother trying to burn his earnings out of desperation – she loves him, but she hurts him, because she herself is hurt, and so it goes around in circles. As a teenager, Shōya buries his own suffering by refusing to even form connections, never peering too closely at those surrounding him – indicated by the literal crosses scrawled carelessly over the faces of everyone he can’t see. The camera in this film mimics the claustrophobia of social anxiety – it skates dizzily past dozens of Shōya’s peers. The only time the camera pauses is when it captures a glimpse of the isolated-yet-charming Shōko.

Shōko is the other key character, a deaf girl who was Shōya’s primary victim as a child. She is bewilderingly kind despite her suffering, and bravely refuses to sink to the level of her tormentors. Her patience is the perfect bridge to teach Shōya how to become friends with others and to forgive, even if that is something she cannot do for herself. Her sweetness is something of a double-edged sword, however. At times, it is as though she has almost no agency, and for a character who ought to be a central protagonist, she is often sidelined. Similarly, the secondary character Ueno has a complicated developmental arch that doesn’t necessarily result in her redemption. She floats somewhere between enemy and friend throughout, but perhaps that is exactly the point. The film also has some difficulty with pace, occasionally feeling drawn-out, particularly towards the end.

A Silent Voice is a film of actions and consequences. The protagonists are so unable to forgive themselves that they both attempt suicide – and the topic is undertaken with extraordinary self-awareness. Suicide is not a mere plot-point, it is the film’s undercurrent, constantly threatening to rear its ugly head. From this pit of internalised hatred, the question is posed of whether one can be absolved of past misdeeds, and whether one should be. Nevertheless, this film is visually beautiful, with a springtime colour palette and appropriate scenic design. One of the most tragic scenes is Shōko’s clumsy attempt to convey her affections for her friend – an awkward manifestation, but a very true-to-life one. It seems strange that a film bound by the unreal conventions of animation could possibly be so palpable, but it is. A Silent Voice will tug at your heart-strings until there is nothing left. Its strongest point is that it never strays too far from its authentic vision of young people, their struggles and salvation.

Review: ‘Things to Come’ (L’Avenir) (2016)

“The future seems compromised.”


Mia Hansen-Løve’s latest directional accomplishment features none other than the esteemed Isabelle Huppert, proving that together they can do no wrong. Things to Come is an uncannily perceptible portrait of an aging woman whose domestic life is dramatically overturned. Hers is a transitional journey, marked by resilience in the face of an existential crisis.

The first thing we notice about our protagonist, Nathalie, is how much she values the study of philosophy. Academia gives her meaning, and her students gives her purpose. Notably, her house is littered with books – cramming the shelves, resting on cabinets, piled on tables. Yet her work is constantly interrupted by her unwell mother (played to perfection by Édith Scob) whose calls become increasingly frantic, increasingly frustrating, increasingly sad – until they finally cease. Then the husband is gone, and Nathalie is free, but alone.

The film is gently paced throughout. For instance, Hansen-Løve recognises that we don’t need to see the mother’s death – the look on Huppert’s face is enough. Show, rather than tell, seems to be the principle here. Nathalie grieves the losses in her life, privately, but refuses to be conquered by them. She focuses on other pursuits – bonding with her new grandchild and reconnecting with a radical ex-student of hers, refusing to fall in a heap. How impressive to be so strong, and how eye-opening that she had to be. Things to Come is a meditative reflection on middle-age, and, concurrently, a snapshot from the life of an intellectual. It remains confined to a singular vision; a vision which expands until it pulls us inside. This is a modern sensation, a tour-de-force from start to astonishing finish.

Review: ‘Colossal’ (2016)

Sometimes small actions create big ripples.


Colossal is completely self-aware of the classic monster-movie format. It is humorously self-parodying, but wisely does not mock the genre. Instead, it chooses to redefine it. This time, audiences are not faced with a vengeful beast seeking to destroy a city, but rather a displaced giant unintentionally wreaking havoc. The giant is also, surprisingly, an unemployed train-wreck called Gloria (Anne Hathaway) – and what better way to humanise a monster than to literally render it as a person?

The film has an interesting definition of what it means to be hard-up – Gloria miserably wanders around a dilapidated-yet-impressive looking mansion, complete with a swimming pool – while Elizabeth Cotten’s ‘Shake Sugaree’ plays unironically. Apart from this somewhat odd presentation of poverty, Hathaway is a believable alcoholic, complete with her slurred speech and washed-up appearance. There are a bundle of laughs to be had, mostly at her expense as she staggers hopelessly through each day, until a drunken display of bravado at the park turns tragic.

Tonally, Colossal manages to glide effortlessly from fun monster-rampage to sombre verisimilitude. Time is deftly telescoped, manifesting itself as changes in Gloria’s environment and attitude. This is a tale split between two worlds, each with an array of parallel consequences stemming from the same problem – an inability to take responsibility for one’s actions. When Gloria does hold herself (and others) accountable, it is powerful, freeing and refreshingly feminist. For a film that supposedly revolves around a terrifying behemoth, Colossal stays sensibly grounded in the lives of its human protagonist. This is a film that knows people are much larger than giants – and more interesting, too.

Review: ‘The Neon Demon’ (2016)

As beautiful as it is horrifying.


It’s an old tale from Greek mythology – when the handsome Narcissus saw himself reflected in the pool, he fell in love with his own image. In the twenty-first century, narcissism permeates our daily lives – in magazines, in selfies, in clothing. Somehow, vanity became a virtue – a concept that Nicholas Winding Refn’s The Neon Demon brutally deconstructs.

Young model Jesse (Elle Fanning) is initially fresh-faced and eager, but is soon confronted with the bitter, sardonic personas of her new peers. It becomes increasingly obvious that the fashion world is one that fetishises youth, but Jesse quickly learns how to take advantage of her beauty. Indeed, her appearance is really all that she has – she is not particularly intelligent or skilled in any other way. In the world of The Neon Demon, beauty is truly all that matters, it is “the highest currency”. And from the establishing shot, beauty is interwoven with death – after all, what is dead can still be perfect to the eye, and the living counterpart is sometimes just as hollow. Men play a secondary role in the fashion industry – they are gatekeepers, photographers, but never the stars, and disappear entirely from the film’s second act. Women are allowed to triumph – but only if they fight tooth-and-claw in what is, transparently, a dog-eat-dog microcosm.

This is a surprisingly low-budget film, given the amazing visuals. Colour is used wisely; predominantly blue, like the pool of Narcissus, and red – the colour of menstrual blood and lipstick. And the entire film is held together by an exciting electro-synth score, designed by Cliff Martinez. Despite the heavy subject matter, there is also an amazingly dark sense of humour present, even if it is occasionally a little heavy-handed and overstated. We are never told exactly what the titular Neon Demon is, but we can ascertain that it has something to do with the cutthroat fashion industry, the lure of pride and the not-so-innocuous heroine herself. In the end, the real threat is posed by the other women, creatures of malice who would do anything to have Jesse’s enigmatic “thing” – the unattainable quality of innocence.