Found Girl.

A couple of blurry / sub-par photos from the BFI London Film Festival!

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I was walking past Leicester Square on Wednesday after the disappointing The Girl on the Train and realised that all the commotion was due to the BFI film première starting!

My phone was, lamentably, on very low battery (biggest shortcoming of Samsung S4 goddamnit) and I was too far away to get good pictures, but here are the low-quality, grainy ones I was able to get!

 

Hi Draco! (sadly I didn't get to grab his hand like I did with his Harry Potter co-star five years ago!)

Jessica Oyelowo

The next few were me grappling desperately trying to get decent photos of Rosamund Pike with my phone's waning battery, all the way squealing 'ROSAMUND PIKE!!!' at the top of my voice.

This is from the next day, before my viewing of A United Kingdom: 

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And this was the Q&A with director Nicolas Pesce, after The Eyes of My Mother yesterday.

So yeah, I had an amazing time during the BFI Film festival! Love living in London. ♥♥♥♥♥

Hopefully next year, I'll a) see more than two films and b) have more battery on my phone to take better-quality photos ♥

Film review: THE EYES OF MY MOTHER (Nicolas Pesce, 2016)

My second film viewed at the BFI London Film Festival, a surprising choice for me, a horror movie!
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Francisca lives an unusual but tranquil life with her reticent father and hands-on surgeon mother, who teaches her all about dissection, secluded from the test of the village. One day, her sheltered upbringing is rocked when a man purporting to be a salesman murders her mother, thus triggering and endless sense of longing, as well as morbid curiosity about the human, within her. This fascination with human bodies and a desperate need not to be alone manifests itself in devastating ways.

Horror is not one of my preferred genres (FYI, those would be 1) romance, 2) drama, 3) comedy), and the influx of mindless torture porn titles a la Hostel in recent years has made me even more averse to it. But The Eyes of My Mother is one of those rare things: a horror movie with brains and a beating heart.

In Francisca, you have a beguiling protagonist, whose motivations for her destructive actions are not jammed down your throat with a ham-fisted tale of past tragedy, but instead, hinted at in Kika Magalhães's haunting performance. Throughout the film, and whilst carrying out villainous acts, her character maintains a placid, almost cold facade. Yet the more intimate scenes where she speaks to her dead mother, betray her true vulnerability. The film's ability to make us empathize with such a monstrous character really cannot be applauded enough.

It helps that Magalhães, who was consulted by Pesce throughout his screenwriting process, also got to inject parts of herself into the character she portrays. In a scene where she dances freely to a piece of music, this was one of the actress' mother's favourite pieces. Having this personal touches injects flavour into Magalhães' mesmeric performance, a welcome subversion of how females in horror movies are usually presented.

The black and white cinematography, selected because director Nicolas Pesce wanted to homage the movies of the 1950s that he adored (in a Q&A following the film, he revealed a penchant for Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, good man) suits the stark, bare set, and effectively conveys Francisca's heartbreakingly bleak view on the world. The jarring score adds to the sense of dread and discomfort that builds steadily throughout the film's 76 minute running time.

Nicolas Pesce, like Quentin Tarantino, is a director who loves films. His influences are peppered throughout the film, from the keeping a person barely alive held captive (evoking Takashi Miike's disturbing Audition), to the Alamodovarian underlying theme of the importance our parents play on our formation. Also like Quentin Tarantino, who's dextrous employment of the 'conceal and reveal' in Reservoir Dogs, Pesce fully understands that the best way to unsettle the audience is to not show them the darkest moments, but to leave it to their imagination.

Although Francisca's actions throughout the film are horrifying, the depiction of these are afforded surprising economy of expression; a murder will be indicated with a puddle of blood shown on the floor. The jumping from the serial-killing to the mundane also creates some off-kilter tonal jumps that evoke nervous laughter in the audience. However, there are some arresting images in the film, which impacts on a strongly visceral level.

Overall, The Eyes of My Mother is one of the most intelligent, haunting horror movies created. Pesce (who, depressingly, is only 3 months older than me) deserves a huge amount of credit for subverting the hoary horror movie tropes and put his own organic spins on them. In doing so, he has created Francisca, an enigmatic murderess for the ages.

8/10

Film review: MISSION MILANO [WANG PAI DOU WANG PAI] (Wang Jing, Jing Wong, 2016)

Wang Jing and Jing Wong's painfully unfunny spy spoof sees Andy Lau's Interpol officer Agent Sampan Hung joining forces with Huang Xiaoming's playboy entrepreneur to retrieve a 'Seed of God' which has been stolen from them by a shady Japanese crime syndicate, Crescent. Their mission sees them bounce from Macau to Milan before ending up in eastern Europe. Along the way is all manner of comedy of errors as the directors and writers try to desecrate the memory of all decent spy films by pastiching them, woefully.

I was intrigued by Mission Milano, mainly because I noticed that the broadsheet papers, which review about ten film releases a week, didn't review this title. Having watched it, I can see why. This is one of the cheapest, tackiest films I've ever seen. It's an OTT satire, and thus, the audience are not supposed to take things too seriously. I'm not sure the cast and crew are supposed to heed that advice so rigorously, though. Characters have a nonplussed look on their face for the majority of the film, even when a knife is pressed up against their faces. The props alone would give any Hollywood set director nightmares; even the knives which get thrown around look plastic!

There's a big case of 'you don't know what you're doing' which indicates that the film could have done with a European script consultant. The film title pays homage to Milan, an Italian metropolis. Yet the Bond-inflected score which runs throughout, has a distinctly Spanish flavour. Furthermore, one of the scenes is supposed to take place in AC Milan's final. Due to budgetary restrictions (something which is all too prevalent throughout the film), the filmmakers were unable to properly superimpose footage of such a busy match, and instead show shots of the football-going crowd that is half empty. AC MILAN'S FINAL WOULDN'T BE HALF-EMPTY, YO!!!

I'm sympathetic to the fact that Chinese films don't get the eye-watering funding that their Hollywood counterparts do, so they can't compete with them on elements like CGI. But if that's the case, Chinese film companies shouldn't strive to be making films like this, which require extensive amounts of CGI, and thus nakedly reveal the gulf in quality of special effects in American and Chinese movies. When there's a disconnect between ambition and means, the result is Mission Milano.

The cast are all pretty awful, save 16-year-old Nana Ou-Yang, who has the fresh-faced naiveness of an oriental Hailee Steinfeld, and was winning in her scenes. I don't blame the flat acting so much on the cast, as I do the thinly sketched / inconsistent characters. For example, Andy Lau's Agent Sampan is supposed to be a hard man and a suave lady's man, all in one (massive Bond rip-off). Yet at inopportune moments, he's found longing over his ex-wife. This isn't even a Casino Royale case of cause-and-effect, where his character is crusty because he was burned in the past. The film wants him to be both sensitive and frosty at the same time.

I would be lying if I said I was stony faced for the entire 102 minute running time. There were several occasions when I let out a splutter - often of disbelief at how much they were insulting the audience's intelligence with such a gaping plot-holes, and when the writers ran out of spy movies to send up, they turned to Star Wars, which took me by surprise. There were some cheap visual gags which tickled me, including a weird seduction sequence featuring some toe-sucking which quite frankly, I was amazed the BBFC passed at 12A (not the first time the BBFC have dubiously classified a 2016 Chinese film, now is it?). But overall, this is mindless,  tonally uneven, low-rent film making.

Barely anyone will see this film (there was only one other person in the audience other than me). And that's how it should be.

4/10

Film review: A UNITED KINGDOM (Amma Asante, 2016)

I've been making the most of the BFI London Film Festival - I saw this title today, and am seeing a horror movie on Sunday.

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Seretse Khama, the prince of Bechuanaland (now named Republic of Botswana) is studying Law in London, primed for return to his country as King. One night, at the London Missionary Society, he meets Ruth Williams, a British secretary, and the two instantly connect. A whirlwind romance follows, culminating in his proposal of marriage and for her to return to his homeland with him, which she accepts immediately. It being 69 years in the past, however, their union is met with opposition from almost everyone they know.

Amma Asante's previous film, the delightful Belle, touched upon similar themes as A United Kingdom, and the two films both capably balanced delivering a true-life romance that crossed barriers, whilst defeating the insularity and racism that meet the protagonist.

Both also clocked in at 104/105 minutes, illustrating that important stories that deserve to get the film treatment do not have to suffer from a stodgy running time in order to get the message across. In both Belle and A United Kingdom's cases, with their concisely edited scenes and unfussy screenplays, Asante clearly has enough faith in the stories she's delivering to speak for themselves, without the need for frills. And both films are better for it.

A United Kingdom wouldn't be half as enjoyable it was without David Oyelowo's fearless, heartfelt performance. When he addresses the people of Bechuanaland, you can positively see the turmoil in his eyes, as his character juggles his national duties and his heart. I'm not ashamed to say I was moved to tears on no less than four occasions when Seretse spoke powerfully. Oyelowo just has one of those voices; one of those screen presences. It did not surprise me to learn, yesterday, at the Gala Opening of the London Film Festival that he and Amma Asante have known each other for 18 years; she seems to know her subject intimately, and doing so helps her coax a performance of great emotional intelligence out of him.

The path of true love never did run smooth, but for Seretse and Ruth, it's considerably less smooth than usual. The two main characters never wallow in self-pity, but instead conduct themselves with the grit and resourcefulness that all pioneers of history need. Some of the scenes where their relationship is met with opprobrium are difficult to watch, such as when Seretse is racially abused by some yobs, who then call Ruth a 'slut'. But such scenes are only reflecting what actually happened. The way the director and writer, Guy Hibbert, retain the impact of these scenes without sensationalising such events, is impressive.

After baring her teeth in Gone Girl, Rosamund Pike is reliably great in a role closer to her typical habitat, playing the sweet Ruth Williams. She's terrifically still in the majority of her scenes, projecting a calm exterior, but the occasional tell-tale sign of body language (for example, a shaking arm) indicates that her character recognises the full force of what she's gotten herself into by marrying the Prince of a small nation and she’s terrified, yet, no matter how difficult, she's robust enough not to give up. 

The supporting players are all well cast, some of the standout performers being Draco MalfoyTom Felton as the villainous Rufus Lancaster (incidentally, he also played a bigot in Belle), Jack Lowden perfectly embodying Tony Benn’s social conscience (Benn’s first introduction in the film was met with a delighted gasp by the audience), and Only Fool's and Horses' Nicholas Lyndhurst as Ruth's disapproving father.

A United Kingdom also delivers an important history lesson about the apartheid in South Africa and the not-so-blameless role Britain played in enabling it, although it affords gratitude towards the trailblazers who were bold enough to stand up against what was clearly not right. The film also has more levity than you would expect in one about such a weighty topic, and towards the end, when Seretse delivers a glib one-liner (that was delivered to him earlier by Jack Davenport’s slimy government official), it was met with applause in the audience.

Amma Asante has made the first film of 2016 to blow me away. A United Kingdom is a testament to the redemptive power of love, and how in the face of hatred and small-mindedness, as long as the couple love each other, this love will triumph over hate. Admittedly, such a moral is hardly revolutionary, but delivering the message with this true, remarkable story, of two remarkable people, and such talented cast and crew, who clearly moulded this picture with love, renders A United Kingdom a lovely experience.

9/10

Film review: THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN (Tate Taylor, 2016)

Rachel, a depressed 30-something alcoholic, embarks on a destructive Groundhog Day of a routine: taking a train which goes past her ex husband's house and peering at his newfound state of matrimonial bliss with the woman he cheated on her with, and their baby.

A few houses down from this seemingly perfect family is another equally photogenic, younger, couple, Megan and Scott, who have a penchant for shagging in clear view of commuters. One day, on her usual voyeuring, Rachel notices that Megan has switched up sexual partners, and, bringing up dark memories of her own, she reacts adversely, getting wasted and getting off the train at the station where she used to live. A while later, Megan goes missing.

In the title role, Emily Blunt is fantastic, giving a career best  turn. Her Rachel would be laughable if she weren't so pathetic, sipping vodka out of a plastic bottle, scaring off other commuters with her slurred speech and still pining for a relationship that long outgrew her.

Due to blackouts she gets from her deleterious drinking problem, her memory on the night of Megan's departure is hazy, rendering her a compelling yet unreliable narrator. Usually such a beautiful woman, Blunt de-glams considerably to play Rachel, looking quite rough indeed. She also convincingly plays drunk, no mean feat, given most attempts to act inebriated usually veer into insufferable caricature (see: Jennifer Lawrence as Rosalyn in American Hustle). 

With a stagger and slurred speech, Blunt evokes sympathy from the audience for such a broken woman, particularly her impassioned drunken monologues, which could be given from many a hammered young woman I’ve encountered on the 11.15pm train home, haha. That she was completely sober during filming (Blunt was pregnant), renders her performance even more remarkable.

As the audience tries to discern fact from fabrication, Megan and Anna, Tom's new wife, enter the fray with their narratives. In the novel, the story is told from the P.O.V. of all three of these women, but in film form, such a fussy storytelling device is frustrating and distracting. The end product feels like a very poor man's Rashômon, not aided by an awful script that features, amongst other things, whiny voiceovers from Rachel and Megan, and clunky conversations between characters. Note to the screenwriter: lines like 'I'm not the girl I used to be', and 'I'm the mistress of re-invention' don't really suit the big screen. They'd be better suited to stage. Or a bad shampoo commercial.

Furthermore, every single character in The Girl on the Train, from the therapist who Megan was confiding in to the incompetent cop investigating the case, are unlikable. The three main males in the film were all quite misogynistic in their own ways, and thus, I simply wasn't engaged with the plot. You find yourself not really caring what happened to Megan, and whodunnit. Although the plot 'twist', when it hits, is as contrived as it is predictable.

Finally, the film suffers from a crisis of identity, as Tate Taylor wants it to be both sensual (sex scenes pepper the film, but they’re loveless, mechanical, and as a result, completely unerotic) and unsettling at the same time. What he actually gets is a movie that is both bland and dull.

Emily Blunt deserves a Best Actress Oscar nomination for her tremendously convincing depiction of a fragile woman. Whether she gets one remains to be seen, but sadly, I have my doubts; it is a strong year for Best Actress with buzz surrounding a three-way frontrunner status for Emma Stone in La La Land, Natalie Portman in Jackie and hopefully the eventual winner, Viola Davis in Fences (it's Viola's time!).

Usually, for an actress to get nominated for her performance in a thriller (a genre that is not really one of Oscars' preferred), the film has to have fared well with the moviegoing public, as Gone Girl (the third highest grossing 18-rated movie in the UK after 50 Shades of Grey and Wolf of Wall Street) and Girl with the Dragon Tattoo did. What those two films had, which The Girl on the Train lacks, was an extremely adroit director in the form of David Fincher, who's dexterous ability to manipulate the audience helped Rosamund Pike and Rooney Mara, respectively, give performances that transcended their films' pulpy roots.

Tate Taylor is, lamentably, a less gifted storyteller, seems to feel that, when all else fails, he can always go to Plan B: heavy-handed close-ups of Blunt's blotchy face. The actress deserves so much better than the director, or the film, have to offer.

5/10

Restaurant Review: VIBE GELATERIA BAR (Orpington)

Me and my friend had an hour to kill before Bridget Jones’ Baby last week so we gave Vibe, the latest dessert parlour to open in Orpington, our patronage. (To be quite honest, there are now more ice cream places than Orpington needs. After all, the town only has a population of 15,000!)

I complained about one of Vibe’s main competitors, Cream’s, for having idiots for sales assistants, but at least the quality of their ice cream was infallible. The same cannot be said for Vibe, which was selling something as crap as this for £5.50:

It probably looks harmless, but the ingredients had a distinctly C-list taste to it, as opposed to Cream’s, where I was wolfing down my ice cream due to the moreish components of the inventions. Also, if you just peruse over the menus of the two parlours, you’ll find that you’ll get much value for £5 at Creams’ than you will here. And the banana tasted off. Just saying.

The main thing that irritated me about Vibe, however, wasn’t the below-par ice cream, but the ‘service’ (if you can call it that) that we got from the pushy waiter. Because Vibe has just opened, they were doing a deal, which was all cocktails a fiver. Normally, I’d be all over that; there are precious few things that make me happier than a good cocktail. But, like everything in life that I enjoy, there’s a time and a place for everything. A weekday where both of us had work the next day wasn’t the time for a cocktail, so we politely declined. Yet, he still kept trying to pressure us into buying one.

This man seriously needs a lesson in consent. No means NO. A fiver isn’t much money by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s still OUR money, and up to us how to see fit how to dispense the money. If we said we didn’t feel like a cocktail, he shouldn’t have been so damn persistent. Especially when, in a desperate attempt to stay relevant, the cocktails were named after films, and the Word Art job on the menu was not the most enticing: -

‘Godfather’ is one word, just saying. And maybe they should have named one of the cocktails 'Enchantress', given that if this gelateria were an actress, it would be Cara Delevingne.

Something else which irked me was that when I got my phone out to take a photo of the creation, to point out how poor value for £5.50 it offers compared to Cream’s £4.75 creation, the waiter asked me to check into Facebook, to ‘raise publicity for Vibe, as it had just opened’.

Mate, do I look like a shill to you? And even shills get paid. If he wanted me to check in, he should have said they’d waive the fee of the (crap) ice cream, or throw in something free for us. I sure wasn’t going to publicly acknowledge I’d been to this hellhole on Facebook for free. Nothing for nothing in this world, mate. Nothing for nothing.

Final part of the rant: the manager of the restaurant was working that evening, cruising each of the tables to ingratiate himself with the punters. He spent more time with tables which were larger, which is completely fair enough, as by Law of Averages, there’s more people on that table that are likely to generate word of mouth about Vibe. But when he came over to our table, all we got was a brief ‘good evening?’ and before we’d had time to give a decent response, he’d bounced onto the next table.

I am not impressed with that. We may have been but two mid-20s girls who seemed reluctant to part with our money, and sharing one dessert between two of us, but we were still paying customers like everyone else there. The manager made a huge oversight by ignoring us. I can generate word of mouth too, mate. Ever heard of a blog?

It’s probably a tad injudicious of me to keep reviewing places in Orpington, and being a Jennifer Lawrence-in-American Hustle-esque cow in my appraisals, given I can see myself slowly talking myself into being a persona non grata in most restaurants in this suburban town.

But I’m not the type of customer who takes being mistreated lying down. And when I can pop to Tesco’s and buy myself a tub of Neapolitan ice cream and dust some sprinkles on top, why would I want to visit Vibe again? My own makeshift dessert would be infinitely more delicious and substantially cheaper than the crap they offer at Vibe, and graciously not come with a side order of ‘bad attitude’.

#ByeFelicia

Grade: U