Jonathan Chern

Bodyguard – Review

After its premier on the BBC, Bodyguard recently arrived on Netflix with the same promise as political thrillers like The Honourable Woman and The Night Manager.

The plot picks up as PTSD-riddled Iraq War veteran David Budd (Richard Madden of Game of Thrones fame) is assigned to be the personal bodyguard of Home Secretary Julia Montague (Keeley Hawes and a clear stand in for Theresa May). It’s clear straight away that pacifist Budd’s personal politics are at odds with the person whose life he is now responsible for. Montague, who is jostling to become Prime Minister, has been politically defined by her support of curbing civil liberties in the name of combating terrorism, and has been accused of worsening the situation to give credibility to government actions – I told you she’s meant to be May. Despite the schism, Budd forms an affinity towards her after witnessing her more human side.

From here Bodyguard sets itself up with lots and lots to handle – terrorism, politics, intrigue, assassinations and conspiracies – and the question becomes how well can it actually handle all of this. Seemingly everything that could happen, does happen, and while this gives a rollicking rollercoaster experience, it does take an enormous share of liberties to allow this all to fit in the same plot.

“this works for a platform like Netflix, where the viewer can pause their stream for a quiet moment”

As the show about political intrigue turns into an espionage thriller, a murder mystery develops with more twists than it can handle. But can I complain too much, since it still kept me guessing at who did what even through all the contrivances?

In fact, despite its shortcomings, Bodyguard keeps you watching through its action. It develops at an alarming pace and doesn’t pause to take any breath. As an aside, this works for a platform like Netflix, where the viewer can pause their stream for a quiet moment. And as for the world of Bodyguard it serves to enforce the breaking pace that the story is unfolding at.

The pacing works to keep it all together – like a hurricane spinning and colliding umpteen plot points, not slowing down to allow them to fall to the ground with an understated thud. As absurd as the plot is, you want to figure out the mystery with the same frustrated vigour as the unhinged Budd. It keeps you guessing and, despite the reveal of clues being contrived, their deployment is paced well (that is until the final 15-or-so minutes of the series).

The ending is not only rushed, with a ridiculous amount of details being revealed in short time, its climax is insincere, underwhelming, and in fact annoying. It offers closure when none was deserved and gives (without giving too much away) an insulting expository monologue where the evil mastermind explains their whole plan all along.

Bodyguard could have been so much more – it could have been more politically tactful; its characters could have been less archetypal; it could made a more believable conspiracy which relates to actual-world goings-on. It already managed to pull so much of the hard stuff off. If its plot gave (or rather gave up) a bit more then it may have been one of the best political thrillers British television has produced.

What Links The Three Colours?

I arrived at the Three Colours Trilogy late. For years it had adorned my watchlist and been the gaping hole in my small smug cabinet of European art house. Trilogies are often the result of a more cynical, franchising side of cinema, so for cinephiles disgruntled with this fact emphasis is often put on spiritual successors where marketing isn’t as easy as it would be for Lord of the Rings of The Matrix. You may have the marvelous Cornetto Trilogy, but they speak English in that, so top prize for me, an intellectual was Krzysztof Kieślowski’s Three Colours.

Three Colours: Blue (1993), White (1994), and Red (1994) are based around the ideals of the French Revolution in a post-Cold War Europe. But the catch is that these high ideals are invested in smaller personal relationships and reflections on individual identity. Liberty isn’t as much about freedom of speech, but freedom to move on from one’s own past, and dynamically, equality is made about the power relationship between two ex-lovers. Typical of Kieslowski’s work, the place of high politics is melted into the expression of feeling in everyday life.

“you’d be mistaken to think Kieślowski’s trilogy is a celebration of the tricolore“

This is in the same decade that French filmmakers were making pictures like La Haine which – to quote Sartre on Fanon – ‘in the cool heat of rage’ lambasted the lack of equality, freedom or fraternity in 90s France.

Krzysztof Kieślowski, director of the Three Colours Trilogy

But you’d be mistaken to think Kieślowski’s trilogy is a celebration of the tricolore (Kieślowski was actually mistaken to believe the three colours of the French flag directly stood for the three ideals of the French republic). Admitted by Kieślowski himself, the trilogy’s title only took on the supposed themes of France because the money financing them was French. In truth, the themes are ones which one would read into the film and probably not infer without prior warning.

The word ‘equality’ is uttered only once in White, but one can still see the theme present. Rather than a celebration of egalitarianism, White is more a thought on inequality and what comes with it: inferiority, humiliation, and then the quest for revenge. The fraternity of Red is invested in an unlikely bond between a young open-minded model and an old retired curmudgeon – this is a trope that has been repeated again and again but rarely so naturally and unforced as here.

Kieślowski’s trilogy isn’t a study of French values (which one could quite easily argue have never actually been characteristic of the French state) but an excuse to take theoretical thoughts which we seem to hold in such esteem and see what can be traced of them in our personal lives.

That all being said, the films managed to connect themselves with a new post-Cold War Europe. In the first of the trilogy, Blue, we are constantly reminded of the new unified state of Europe, to the point where Julie’s (Juliette Binoche) composer husband made music in honour of the unification. But both he and their daughter die at the start, so as the world is moving forward, she is stuck in grief. The music her husband composed haunts her throughout the film: the frustration that she can’t move on, when everything else is.

“Typical of Kieslowski’s work, the place of high politics is melted into the expression of feeling in everyday life“

In White (1994) we see an immediately post-communist Poland emerge with a macho and hateful form of capitalism; meanwhile, the well-known fact that Eastern Europeans in modern Europe are often treated with disdain is teased when Karol (Zbigniew Zamachowski) complains about a French judge’s bias against him in a court proceeding.

Something the first two films feature are central characters going about to reinvent their identity, just as Europe at the time was doing. After losing their possessions, relationships, and really themselves – or at least their image of who they are – they seek to destroy in order to rebuild. Karol discards his diploma certificates on the Paris metro, just as Julie rips up her husband’s musical magnum opus.

The final film, Red, is more reconciliatory. The central character Valentine (Irene Jacob) isn’t as solipsistic as the series’ other protagonists. She’s more kind and altruistic. This may be because, unlike Julie in Blue and Karol in White, she doesn’t spend the whole film in a constant state of despair. But it would be a long stretch to describe her as ‘happy’. In Red Valentine hasn’t gone through any recent heartbreak, but she’s still lonely, and over the course of the film discovers the compassion she craves. Red embraces its kinder and gentler place among the trilogy by writing certain wrongs of the previous films and offering direct answers to the ambiguous endings of Blue and White.

“It is set in a world which seems just that iota too fanciful and dramatic“

Kieślowski deals with abstractions but bases them very much in feelings we know, which places the trilogy in some uncanny area which feels uncomfortably honest – past a point of rationality. It is set in a world which seems just that iota too fanciful and dramatic. The emotions feel relatable through the way the actors inhabit their melancholy. The reason the fraternity between the young Valentine and the old ‘bastard’ in Red feels so natural is because Kieślowski makes his films to follow his characters through certain events, and not to make a plot for characters to react to.

So what is the trilogy about? I’m sorry to Robespierre, but unlike the title suggests, very little is to do with the French state or political theorising. The trilogy is about identity (like most things are) as characters struggle to know themselves and know what they want.

But more than that, Three Colours is about compassion. The films are genuine empathetic attempts to understand the lives of the characters which inhabit the trilogy’s fanciful world. Kieślowski affords all his characters the right and ability to feel so much. Supporting characters have their own complex issues and he even puts out to make Julie Delphy’s selfish and vain Veronique from White relatable and tragic. The world of Three Colours feels uncomfortably like our own. The things that happen to characters don’t feel like plot points, but simply the flow of life; what matters most to them, in that point, is how they feel.

Grossed out

Fans of the Marvel Cinematic Universe should have been left stumped by the end of Infinity War. Yet – without giving too much away – the conclusions the film ends on are weightless, taking away the dramatic punch of the movie. Why? Because there’s a sequel around the corner and furthermore, certain creative actions of Infinity War (if followed through) would slash Disney and Marvel Studios’ future profits. This is a red line no Hollywood studio would cross.

The film has been criticised for its paradoxically sincere-yet-obviously-insincere ending, but one cannot blame the writers nor directors. The film, rather, is victim to the environment, where profits are more valuable than the endeavour which Infinity War teased us with. As a consequence of knowing what will come, the sense of peril in the film is not only seriously reduced, but the film feels almost insulting to our investment in it.

‘Cinema is not an industry; it is an art form’

For the record, I think Infinity War did nothing that wrong. It was the best film it could have been given the obvious artistic constraints of being made in the Hollywood system. With all the multiplex cinemas and the big Hollywood studios, the accountant steroid sequels and the red carpet film festivals, it’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking film through the language of money. But this illusion is disrespectful to the medium of cinema. Cinema is not an industry; it is an art form.

Of course, there is an industry built around cinema; just as there is around books, music, photography, and other forms of art. But in a capitalist culture, the medium – art – is transformed into an industry, and devalued by becoming a means to profit. Infinity War’s insincere ending is there because Hollywood did not treat the film with respect – the effect of this is on the films shown in our cinemas/streaming services. Paramount aren’t going to make an artsy film when they could throw another abhorrent Transformers film at us which will make £1 billion (I too am shooketh) at the box office.

The box office adds another dimension to cinema: it makes absolutely vivid the distinction between cinema as art and entertainment. Critics may despair, but Avatar – an exercise in maximised averageness–is the highest grossing film of all time. In market culture, cinema is arguably the result of what fans want, and I’m being a grotesque snob in denying the legitimacy of this. The recent musical The Greatest Showman split this debate wide open, with audiences and critics being as divided as the current Labour Party.

But such an answer isn’t good enough for Infinity War, a film trapped by studio expectations before it was even conceived.
The film industry in Hollywood began so filmmakers could use cameras which had been patented on the East Coast of America. Its birth celebrated a freedom of artistic expression without the constraints of budget. Hollywood was a place of escape from the callous realities of industrial America. It was a fantasy world; but very shortly, reality caught up.

‘Clearly, this approach to cinema does not only stretch as far as box offices; it is a culture that reinterprets film as not being something with inherent value’

One may look to the Golden Age of Hollywood with the view of those fantastic and colourful Busby Berkeley numbers. But beneath the thin veneer, studios became industrious factories for content where workers were religiously held to their demanding contracts; and putting other companies down became a top priority.

Clearly, this approach to cinema does not only stretch as far as box offices; it is a culture that reinterprets film as not being something with inherent value. Films speak and embody our cultural truth: capitalism. Despite the domination of money, people still want to watch films. An optimist may say people are voting with their wallets: what does it matter if Marvel will never harm its characters when people want to see more of them?

Image courtesy of: Coolcaesar, Wikimedia Commons

The Lemmy Died For Our Sins

It’s Saturday, 9 p.m. You sit alone in your halls. The phone buzzes. Upon the luminescent screen in golden letters appear the word: ‘Lemmy?’

It’s done. It’s over. Complex psychological changes have occurred turning you from introvert to extrovert. Your night will be changed… forever. Time to get ready: Shower? This is Lemmy. No one will be able to tell. Run down to the shops and pick up a four-pack of something horrible and a shoulder of Chekov.

Pres are an impromptu and small affair, but they always make the best pres. ‘Are we actually going to Lemmy?’ someone will ask in despair. Glare them down for their blasphemy! How dare they question Exeter’s deepest ritual in its hallowed (student) halls. Get silly drunk and forget what course you’re doing or where you’re from or what year you’re in (although obviously you’re a First Year), for the Lemmy is an egalitarian place where we can all live, love, and learn.

Ready to launch an assault on the night with your ragtag team of student bandits. From all over, the Lemmy’s glow is your north star. As you arrive, the zig-zag queue is one that is better scaled than followed. ‘Yeah,’ your look says to the bouncer, ‘I’m serious about this.’ The bouncer considers you and checks your student card. You’ve made it into an elite club, although, to be fair, letting you in by virtue of your student status isn’t exactly the highest of standards.

Lemmy is not, as has been claimed, the institution that we love to hate; it is the institution that we hate to love

You spend the first ten minutes by the bar, surprised by their sick deals on jagerbombs. The next ten minutes will be on the dance floor, before a consensus arises to get some fresh air.

Go outside and grab a biscuit off the ECU, asking whether it’s okay if you take advantage of them despite thinking everything they believe in is rubbish. As you go back in, your friend gets caught up arguing with one of them about gay marriage. You can’t be bothered, but this is Lemmy, and no one is left behind. Grab them (and grab another custard cream too) and go back through The Grove, not tempted by their overpriced and underwhelming chips.

Once again on the dance floor, now its time to set up camp. Make a little circle with some mates, preferably by a pillar – partially for a landmark for the stragglers and partially as cover when the fists start flying when S Club comes on. Time passes and the only thing reminding you that you’re not at a Year 9 disco is the amount of people getting off and the fact that your friend cannot seam two words together.

This year we students have abandoned Lemmy and the Lemmy died for our sins

Suddenly something happens. The atmosphere changes. A single lonely piano is heard. Could it be? Is it time yet? ‘I sit and wait’ – IT IS TIME – ‘Does an angel contemplate my fate?’ Robbie asks. The lights turn on and you can see the light and the queue for the cloakroom and everything makes sense! The night was a smooth operation, and you’re rewarded for your loyalty with a free jam sandwich.

Lemmy is not, as has been claimed, the institution that we love to hate; it is the institution that we hate to love. What made Lemmy wasn’t anything material – Fever, TP, Unit 1 and Move are all materially better. What made Lemmy was that it was reliable and easy if you’re a First Year and, more than that, Lemmy was one giant joke. But that made it. Lemmy may not be materially as good as the clubs mentioned above, but it has personality beyond any of them.

I’m obviously biased and sentimental: the refrain that made First Year ‘there’s always Lemmy’ is no more. This year we students have abandoned Lemmy and the Lemmy died for our sins. I can only hope that the only night cheesier than Cheesy Tuesdays returns at the beginning of next year and that hoards of Freshers will turn up, student card in one hand, drunk mate in the other, and dignity nowhere to be seen.

What’s the hype with Love Actually?

It was with a tremendous surprise to me that, when researching Love Actually, I found that it came out in 2003 to mixed reviews. The now-lauded staple of every true Englisher’s Christmas was not always the cultural sensation that it is now. Regardless, the classic status that has evolved in the decade-and-a-half since the film came out is not warranted. Love Actually should be submitted to the past, wiped from our Christmas traditions like the X Factor Christmas Special (or, just the X Factor).

Love Actually is a vapid study of love and romance. It tells us nothing interesting about the emotion, and instead plays into banal myths about it. What is so irritating about this is that the film proclaims this is what Love Actually is.

Love, according to Love Actually, is something people who have never spoken to each other share. Love, according to Love Actually, is the prerogative of men to hold over women. Love, according to Love Actually, blossoms when one party stalks the other so much that they are obliged to fall involve with their stalker.

It’s not just another cynical cash-grab using lazy tropes about love; it’s cynical cash-grab actually celebrating lazy tropes about love.

Sorry, but having an all-star cast is not an acceptable substitute for not writing interesting characters

Richard Curtis commits the cardinal sin he commits in each of his movies: he does not write female characters. He has females, but they’re not characters. They’re empty. They’re plot devices. They’re there for the men and boys in the film to ogle over.

He doesn’t write the men particularly well in this film either (how can you develop anyone when there are 24 or so noteworthy characters). But if you want to get a sense of his passive sexism in this film, pay attention to how much dialogue male characters are given compared to the female characters.

You may point to Emma Thompson’s character. Well done! That’s one character that actually has something semi-interesting happen to her. All the others have a male fall in love with them and then just accept their love, no questions asked, even in the cases where they haven’t even fucking spoken to each other.

Now a brief statement on the positive parts of the film. It was well acted and I think I laughed three or four times. The End.

Richard Curtis does not write female characters. He has females, but they’re not characters.

Well, not quite the end. I want to comment on another theme. Love, Actually has a certain English charm – which I can tell you, as a professional Englishman, does not exist. One of the cardinal sins of many middle-brow BBC-inspired British writers is the idea that their primary audience aren’t British. This in itself is not a bad thing, but what it inspires is a screen culture of pandering to others’ misconceptions of British life. As an aside, I would love to see a state-of-the-nation film colab between Richard Curtis and Ken Loach, whose conflicting ideas of Britain are almost civil war-inducing.

I wanted to comment on a feeling I got when watching the Love Actually. To someone born in the late-90s who cannot even remember the release of this film, it already feels quite dated. Though I don’t remember the film, I remember the England that it portrays. The sanguine land of Britpop, New Labour, and blissful ignorance of the still-pervasive class differences. It was a time that the Prime Minister could conceivably be a young bachelor and people listened to Joni Mitchell. That seemingly harmonious age has been brutally murdered in the past few years, but Love, Actually captures the feel of it. Ultimately, like the film, the age was a farce: only great if we chose to ignore the obvious blemishes.

Winter Wunderland: Does English football need a winter break?

For so many of us football fixtures are just another part of the Christmas holidays. Boxing Day would just be ‘the day after Christmas’ without the traditional match, and what better way to start the year than to watch your team on 1 January?
But what is common for English leagues is not the norm in most of Europe’s top divisions – Germany’s Bundesliga, France’s Ligue 1, Italy’s Serie A, Spain’s La Liga – where teams and players enjoy a winter break.

In England, Boxing Day and New Year’s Day fixtures means most years (including this year) Premier League clubs face the exhausting burden of having to play four games in little over a week’s period.

The fatigue suffered by many players in English leagues is not present for those on the continent, who have time off to spend on rest, recovery, and recuperation. Top European clubs embark on circuit training, travelling to train (often in warmer climates) to maintain endurance and fitness.

“lack of break hinders CHAMPIONS LEAGUE PROGRESSION”

The lack of a break arguably hinders English teams’ chances in the Champions League, coming into the round of 16 tired with baggage from their domestic league, having to face comparatively fresh opposition.

It is undeniable that players would benefit from a winter break, but the issue is muddier than that. One primary reason there is no winter break is to stop congestion over the rest of the season.
With some Premier League teams having to deal with up to four competitions post-New Year, the five or six Premier League games the winter break would omit would have to fit in somewhere in the busy schedule of the second half of the English season.
This would probably extend the season into June, which is just not practical – especially when international competitions take place over the summer, and players are still entitled to a four-week holiday away from the game.

“TV RIGHTS MUDDY THE ISSUE”

The issue is muddied even further when we remember that sovereignty over Premier League scheduling is exercised by television deals. The FA have said that, although they are favourable to having a winter break, it cannot be seriously discussed until the current TV rights expire. Clearly, any change would be tricky even before considering the sentimental value of the Christmas fixture.

England’s first division has a long history of outrageous Christmas matches: 1963’s Boxing Day saw 66 goals scored – including a 10-1 thumping of Ipswich Town by Fulham – and although Scotland no longer continue their domestic league over Christmas, their holiday history has been characterised by the infamous Rangers – Celtic Ne’erday derby.

This year, however, isn’t filled with many huge games – the most high-profile being Chelsea’s trip up the Piccadilly Line to Arsenal as the first game either side will play in 2018. The only other top six match-up is Liverpool’s visit to Arsenal three days before Christmas; considering the congested period, the teams near the top of the table might be content with avoiding one another.
The sentimentality of the Christmas fixture is undeniably powerful; there’s something magical about being able to pair football with festivities at this time of year.

“ARE WE READY TO GIVE UP OUR TRADITIONS?”

Despite Jürgen Klopp’s criticism of the tradition, his forefathers played a part in one of the most famous football matches in history – one that took place on Christmas Day itself. All the way back in 1914, English and German soldiers stepped out of their trenches to exchange gifts and, amongst the unimaginable devastation, find some pleasure. Incidentally, Germany won 3-2.
It seems rational and fair to employ a winter break, but for now, at least, the TV deals won’t allow it. Perhaps more importantly, are English fans ready to give up their tradition?

Remember This: Cabaret

It’s a warm summer’s day in a beer garden, two men, who until now were at odds, toast to the future and share sweet bonding moment. A boy starts singing a catchy folk song about nature. The two men turn to listen, appearing joyful and at ease. We, the audience, gaze on his youthful face for a few moments, then we see the other frequenters of the beer garden quietly listen and enjoy. Back on the boy, the camera pans down: and he is wearing a Hitler Youth uniform.

He continues to sing, the band behind him begins to play along. The music becomes more rousing and the lyrics more nationalist. Most of the beer garden join in, rising from their chairs and join in a fervent chorus: ‘Tomorrow belongs to me!’ Hysteria sweeps; an insidious hysteria that is sweet and exciting in its presentation, but is jingoistic and racist in its intention.

It’s easy to be swept up in the melody of a polite and innocent song, but what happens when we see the boy is a Nazi? For any post-1945 audience this is an immediate illusion-shatterer. The song we were just enjoying is used as a means of Nazi propaganda. Should we feel guilty or embarrassed? Yes. That’s the point. In a number of places in the the 1972 film Cabaret, director Bob Fosse uses shocks like this to make us question how easily we can passively accept prejudice.

Fosse uses shock to make us question how easily we can passively accept prejudice

For us, we can practice distance at the sight of a swastika. But for ordinary folks in 1931 Germany, where the symbol was not yet associated with war and genocide, how do you think they would have reacted?

The ‘Tomorrow Belongs To Me’ scene is deliberately provocative to dizzying effect. It reveals to us the uncomfortable truth of how easily propaganda can be accepted. As more people are galvanised by the song, it reveals its true intent bit-by-bit, until pretty much everyone in that beer garden is standing up singing along. Now it’s too late. They’ve been swept up by Nazi propaganda. It is difficult to imagine how the direction of this scene could be better. It reveals, mostly through its editing, the way in which propaganda operates.

The are only very few people unaffected by the song. We are shown reaction shots of an old man looking embarrassed, and the two men from earlier – outsiders English academic Brian (Michael York) and Prussian aristocrat Max (Helmut Griem) – take leave when witnessing the event.

The scene also serves as a microcosm for the film, in a way. Whereas the Nazis are benign in the first act, being kicked out of the Kit Kat Klub (where the central cabaret takes place), as the film goes on we see the Nazis grow in presence and prominence, until by the end even the Kit Kat Klub has accepted them and started to sing their song.

Only Brian is aware of the danger the Nazis present. His lover, cabaret dancer Sally (Liza Minnelli) is politically apathetic and Max underestimates their power. The cabaret is willfully ignorant that its way-of-life is about to die a very violent death and the characters that surround it are sanguine in their assumption they’ll be unscathed.

the cabaret is willfully ignorant that its way-of-life is about to die

The juxtaposition between the decodance of the cabaret and the violence of the Nazis is heightened as the film goes on. When at first the cabaret seems an escape for the political harshness of German society, it begins to become aware – shown through the almost metatheatrical role of Emcee (Joel Grey) – and while mocking the Nazis in their aesthetic, becomes entirely complicit in their promotion. There is a gradual blending of the two extremes of the cabaret and the Nazis until, in the final shot, Nazis sit in the front row of the Kit Kat Klub.

The cabaret, a symbol of the Weimar Republic, is laid back and ignorant of the imminent pressures it faces. This is its downfall. The cabaret is taken over by Nazis not through force and coercion, but through acceptance and apathy. This, historically speaking, is the exact same as the Weimar Republic. Remember, the Nazis rose to power democratically and Hitler was invited by President Hindenburg to be Chancellor; there was no uprising or revolution. It was a gradual transition whereby the most democratic system in the world at the time was transformed into the most infamous authoritarian rule.

Cabaret was written for the screen in America in the early 1970’s as the Civil Rights Movement was continuing against the stern Nixon administration and as the US was at war in Vietnam. It’s message was not only about the mainstream acceptance of Nazism in 1930’s Berlin, but also about the acceptance of widespread racism and a new agenda for neocolonialism in 1960s and 70s America.

Cabaret isn’t a love story set to the backdrop of a declining Weimar Republic; it’s a story about the decline of the Republic, and about how a few people failed to see what was happening right in front of them. Cabaret reminds us to be careful of the insidious nature of propaganda and, to make it relevant to today, never assume the far-right are benign in their intentions or their abilities.

Review: Thor: Ragnarok

It’s become a cliché now to describe something as fitting into a rich tapestry. Even in film franchises, the phrase is overused to describe any crossover. But in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, one humongous tapestry is being ~~woven~~ constructed. A whole universe to play with, and scores of memorable characters, both heroes and villains (and those switching between the two), there is a mathematical precision to the plot of each Marvel film, and how each fits into the Marvel meta-plot.

Thor: Ragnarok follows on from Thor: The Dark World (which came out ages ago and isn’t very good so no blame if you can’t remember it). In this film, Hela (Cate Blanchett), who happens to be the God of Death and sister to Thor (Chris Hemsworth) and Loki (Tom Hiddleston), attempts to install a tyrannous reign over their home world of Asgard.

In a plot with flare inherited from Guardians of the Galaxy, we follow Thor’s adventure, underscored by a whole load of general merriment and bantering, as he attempts to save the people of Asgard.

Arguably the funniest Marvel film yet, one should expect no less from director Taika Waititi, accomplished comedy director of What We Do in the Shadows and Hunt for the Wilderpeople, and all round funny man. The humour is recognisable from his quirky style and, for fans of his work, the cameos by certain recurring actors he uses are joyfully comforting, almost feeling like easter eggs.

The villain, Hela, is overly generic (albeit scary at times), yet this does not make too large a detriment. It’s clear the film is not about her. Rather, she serves as a MacGuffin for Thor’s development as a character. And the fact that this is thinly veiled does not detract so much from the story. Side villains like Jeff Goldblum’s comedically eccentric and ignorant gladiator-slave owner prop up the action when Hela isn’t around. One might say that the stakes never felt as high as they should have been, due to the constant undercutting comedy, but this didn’t matter. It was clear the creative types behind the film envisaged it as a comedy rather than a dark existential risk scenario (which is usually the sort of film Marvel tends to fail at).

a whole load of general merriment and bantering

With a few instances of dodgy and inexplicable character decisions taking you out of the film, the intelligent flow of wit and exciting overall characterisation is enough to reel you back in. Indeed, this was a film which at no point I found myself bored or checking my watch and at no point in the two hours did I think about going to the toilet. This is probably the most fun I’ve had in a cinema all year!

If for any reason at all, watch the film for Karl Urban’s cockney accent. Actually, rock monster Korg (played by director Taika Waititi in motion-capture) may be the most disarming voice acting of the past few years. The tapestry (there it is again) of hilarious and eccentric characters are fine additions to the Marvel Cinematic Universe and serve as welcome company for an inspired space adventure.

Thanks to VUE EXETER for providing this screening!

University: screen vs. reality

You’ve probably heard a lot about university: sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll and the rest of it. Is it really no work and all play? Representations of higher education have existed in pop culture since, well, a long time, and much of what we’re told about university is either conflicting or just plain impossible. Here to help you out, let’s look at the best portrayals of uni life on screen, singling out what they get right and what they get wrong.

Fresh Meat (2011 – 2016)

The insanely witty show captures a lot of what it’s like to be a student: people from all different backgrounds get grouped together and form a camaraderie. Some are posh and buy extra virgin olive oil, whilst others rely entirely on their student loan. Some turn up to uni with an armada of notches on their bedpost, whilst others turn up unaware of what that euphemism even means. What matters is that you’re all in the same place now. Fresh Meat does, however, take liberties in exaggerating the university experience. There is sex and there are drugs, but all things in moderation. University isn’t exactly the live-free-die-young cesspool of hedonism that Fresh Meat thinks it is (and Lafrowda wishes it is). You’re there to get a degree, afterall. Fresh Meat is a show written by people who left uni 20 years ago, and it shows (mainly because everyone in Fresh Meat dresses like they’re in the 90s).

Starter for 10 (2006)

Whilst Fresh Meat looks at where uni students are different from each other, Starter for 10 looks at where they’re the same. If you’re at the same university as someone, you probably got similar A-level (or equivalent) results and have similar academic interests. And through societies or your course, it’s easy to find like-minded people. Unlike Fresh Meat, this film does try to balance balance the academic side with the party side. “I need to be in a place where people have a passion for knowledge” James McAvoy declares in voiceover, and much is done to show that uni is, ultimately, about academia. It is a film where even the archetypal blonde is clever enough to appear on University Challenge. Most of all, Starter for 10 captures that when going to uni, you are entering a new world. There are new friends and relationships, new opportunities, and many begin to adopt a new outlook on the world.

Educating Rita (1983)

Starter for 10 flirts with the idea that there might be a cultural barrier between those who seek further education and those who don’t in a Britain so obsessed with class, but Educating Rita forces you to to gaze upon it. Like Starter for 10, Educating Rita is set in the 1980s and is largely a period piece about the place of intellectualism in Thatcherite Britain. Except, this film is made at the time and hence the script does not connect its themes with the modern era. Educating Rita isn’t as much about university life (it’s leading Rita is a mature student studying through the Open University), but it finds its place on this list because anyone who has ever said that they’re a student and been met with a scoff or a “why don’t you find a real job” will be able to identify with it.

The Riot Club (2014)

I don’t know; I’ve not been to Holland Hall.

Review: Dunkirk

Most war films show us battles, give us context, surround us in politics. Dunkirk does none of these. Dunkirk is a film that is not about a battle; it is about a retreat, and the little context and politics given is irrelevant. This is a film shown to us through the subjective lens of soldiers and civilians trapped in their dire situations, and what care would they have for what happens before and after the event when their only need is to survive.

In case you missed that history lesson or never stuck around to listen to your grandfather’s war stories, the French seaside town of Dunkirk was where, in 1940, hundreds of thousands of allied (mostly British) troops were trapped and surrounded by the German army. What came to help was not just the Royal Navy, but an armada of civilian ships and boats.

“It is a film that feels honest and yet subjective”

Writer/director (and auteur) Christopher Nolan follows three separate but interlinked stories within the chaos. “The Mole”, which lasts a period of one week, “The Sea”, which lasts one day, and “The Air”, which lasts one hour.

Each section shows us the events through the point of view of different characters. We see what they see. One of the more interesting things that comes from this is that Dunkirk barely even shows us a German soldier. The lack of personification of ‘the enemy’ sets out what sort of war movie this is. No option for a fight back – just make do with what you’ve got. If the antagonist isn’t shown, it can’t be defeated. In this way Dunkirk strips its characters of options without stripping them of agency. It is a film that feels honest and yet subjective. Brief moments of heroism do not glorify war in the way one of those old John Wayne movies would, but they are respected and appreciated all the same.

Christopher Nolan’s films have often been described as being cold and clinical. But Dunkirk moves you through another channel. Instead of the Spielbergian swelling of music and grandstanding monologues (seen in Saving Private Ryan), Dunkirk is scored by a ticking clock and the spoken words are few and far-between. For a film low on pathos, it nevertheless burrows to your heart by engaging your empathy by making you feel the character’s sense of despair.

The camera finds itself in places where it can command us to empathise with these people who are victims of circumstance. We are shown only what they can see. The dog fights are not explained with geographical precision but with confusion and desperation. The need to keep things tidy is chucked aside (as is the case with all of Nolan’s films) which separates this even more from other war films. Being right in the action with little exposition and little mapping of the scenes means Dunkirk does not pander to its audience in the way a lesser film would. It has been said of Nolan that he treats his audiences as if they’re not stupid (which again separates him from most blockbuster-makers), and with three interwoven plots told in a nonlinear sequence and a suffocated use of exposition, this is no exception. Still, however, it is surprisingly easy to follow.

How does this connect with the rest of Nolan’s oeuvre, I was asking myself walking out of the cinema. The king of the arthouse blockbuster has always made films heavy in their philosophical subtexts. Dunkirk offers little philosophy (no clowns yelling at you about nihilism *cough* The Dark Knight *cough*), in fact there seems to be no agenda at all. What connects this with his other works is his exploration of the cinematic medium.

“FOR A FILM LOW ON PATHOS, IT NEVERTHELESS BURROWS TO YOUR HEART”

The operation of the camera by accomplished cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema stretches the limits of what film can bring you. Nolan is a champion of celluloid, party because he is a cinematheque purist, and partly because it clearly suits the films he makes. With Dunkirk shot on 70mm IMAX film, there is a definite adoration-beyond-respect for the camera. Buster Keaton once filmed himself playing with a camera in his usual comedic sense, but what comes across is his love for a machine with the power of reaching so many. If Nolan ever featured in his own short film, the famously hands-on director would be inspecting a (probably IMAX) camera with the same curiosity.