Only God Forgives Review - Or - Godlywood

Plot

Exiled American Julian Thompson (Ryan Gosling) is the proprietor of a Bangkok fighting club that masquerades as a cover for his family’s drug distribution business. After his brother Billy (Tom Burke) is killed in revenge for murdering a prostitute, Julian’s mother Crystal (Kristen Scott Thomas) flies in to the country to oversee her family’s own vengeance. However, the murders have also drawn the attention of police chief Chang (Vithaya Pansringarm) who deals justice with a supernatural proficiency.

There's red in these pictures. There's red everywhere. Red

Review

Enigma is a powerful tool, but it can also be an actively distancing one if over or misused. While Only God Forgives tells you next-to-nothing time and again, with the contextual validity of every scene and shot questionable and contentious, it still remains utterly engrossing. Perplexingly so. The only thing sparser than dialogue from start to finish is the fuzzy warmth of human affection: scenes linger languidly; shots bare on for what should be discomfortingly long periods of time; images smash edit into one another with little reason and less explanation. The entire production is an aesthetically dichotomous trip-out seemingly designed exclusively to bemuse, confuse and even bore.

And yet it’s utterly entrancing.

It was described by early patrons at Cannes as equal parts vapid and pretentiously self-indulgent on director Nicholas Winding Refn’s part and it has to be said that Only God Forgives – like 2001: A Space Odyssey and many others before it – is one of those films where complete despondency from an audience is understandable. Whereas Drive was a vehicle for Ryan Gosling’s silent charms, here he is a simple brooding accessory to Winding Refn’s unyieldingly exclusionary and yet visually and symbolically engorged filmmaking sensibility. It’s a style that will understandably exhaust and tire many – as indeed happened with Drive – but for those who swallow it whole with eyes and mind left unguarded it’ll leave you delirious in its wake.

Winding Refn’s style can be painstakingly slow and Only God Forgives marks the evolution of that. Characters frequently stare into very little or nothing at all and this coupled with the equal parts vibrant and unsettling cinematographic stylings of Larry Smith – here drowning the film in contrasting primary colour washes and neon evanescence – makes for an experience as narratively ambiguous as it is visually overwhelming.

Red like violence or red like the passion of dance?

Dealing unflinchingly with the issues of masculinity, guilt and consciousness, Only God Forgives holds no punches in its exploration of one man’s entirely abstruse and quite possible literal purgatory. Not forgetting sexual suppression and depravity, that old stickler, never before better lighted or more stylishly presented. As odd a notion as that may seem.

Only God Forgives drips in artistic flourish as much as it does the blood and gore of ultra-violence. ‘Stylish’ will doubtlessly becomes synonymous with the film as stylish it undoubtedly is, fusing exotic lighting with stubbornly unconventional use of the camera to present the film like some foreign fruit, as indeed the sultry backdrop of Bangkok will be to many. And therein lies it’s potential downfall; if for even a second you slip out of Winding Refn’s trippy spell or lose track of the escalating intertwined symbolism, it’ll all seem utterly pointless. And indeed superficial and thematically pretentious.

Only God Forgives experiments with its audience as much as it does the technical tenets of filmmaking.

In much the same way that the film’s technical and narrative merits depend entirely on the individual’s willingness to accept them, so does Ryan Gosling’s performance. He’s done the silent, hard-man shtick before (he effectively wrote the book on it in Drive) but here he’s so silent and so sculpted as to seem positively wooden. Is he even acting? It’s a question that’s – rightfully – already been asked. He spends so much of the runtime staring mostly blank-eyed and stone-faced that to the passer-by or equally ostricised viewer, he may very well be doing nothing at all.

Red like...like...like sex or something. Symbolism, guys.

He also isn’t even the go-to silent warrior this time around. That honour belongs to the exhilarating Vithaya Pansringarm as Chang: a potentially supernatural force of brutal justice – an angel of death – seemingly able to conjure a katana out of nowhere, whose every look, glance and action oozes a sense of unrepentant malevolence and undeniable power.

If Only God Forgives appeals exclusively on the allure of Gosling alone then it may not be the film for you, both if you find his performance entirely lacking and if you believe it belies a more complicated brooding intensity, drowning in the neon symbolism that so characterises the entire production. The real acting heavy-duty is dealt by the captivating Kristen Scott-Thomas who, as Julian’s mother Crystal, provides arguably the sternest psychological test for both her son and the audience, challenging him physically, mentally, emotionally and sexually in an escalating, yet ever muted and symbolically subdued, conflict that invariably ends in violence. Depending on where you fall in regards to accepting Only God Forgives’ languorous ways, the mid-way dinner sequence involving mother & son will either be yet another under-acted, poorly paced and pointless scene or a master class in the subtleties of psychological conflict and tension.

Theirs is a battle of minds, whereas the rest is a storm of fists, blades and blood.

Only God Forgives couldn’t be less a ‘film for everyone.’ The violence is extreme (including a torture scene that puts Saw to shame), absolutely nothing is explicit, characters are ceaselessly ambiguous, narrative beats are indolently slow and the entire production drowns in both heavy-handed and ethereally vague symbolism. And yet it’s also stylistically extraordinary, with a pitch-perfect synthed soundtrack and, for those in the appropriate state of mind, filled with intensely fascinating characters that clash and bleed together in a plot as infinitely interpretable as the concept that drives it.

BLUE! Oh yeah there's blue too. Red versus blue. Symbolism is so...symbolic.

Verdict

Stylish, violent, perplexing, exciting, disgusting and thought provoking in equal measure. Depending on your appetite for the vague and understated, it’ll feel like either cinematic heaven or hell.

5/5

The trailer moves quickly, the film doesn't. Be warned:

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The Wolverine Review - OR - Rageboy

Plot

At the crux of WWII, Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) finds himself a POW in Nagasaki, Japan and saves his morally conflicted officer from being leveled along with the city. Back in the present day, crushed following the events of X-Men: Last Stand, he has exiled himself in the wilds of Canada. However, when he’s tracked down by the man he saved all those years ago – the billionaire tech giant Yashida (Hal Yamanouchi) – and whisked off to Japan to say goodbye, he finds himself embroiled in a family warfare that will push him harder than he’s ever been pushed before.

Imagine that this a sequel to Les Misérables and laugh.

Review

The current dynasty of Marvel comic book movies owes a healthy debt to the X-Menfilms of the Noughties. Along with Spiderman, it was the mutant crew that first led the foray onto our cinema screens and if it wasn’t for their success who knows where those Avengers fellas might be. It’s a shame then that since the phenomenal X2 (2003), the series hit a damning low (outside of First Class) capitulated by the capricious, rancid, cheesy mess of X-Men Origins.

But now Hugh Jackman is back, donning the metal claws and meaty chops of Wolverine for the sixth time, in James Mangold’s The Wolverine.

And rest assured: it’s better than Origins. But then so is being sodomised in the ear-hole.

Jackman’s Wolverine has never gotten the treatment he deserves so it’s a relief to say that The Wolverine goes someway to rectifying this issue. While it may feel several shades different to an X-Menfilm (the mutant presence is oddly…muted), the Logan of Wolverine is the all snarling, all scowling, ultra-aggressive, woefully messed-up anti-hero that comic book and movie fans alike have been clamouring for.

She's a baddie incase you couldn't guess. Face tearing...s'weird.

On occasion at least. The rest of the time he’s a mopey, self-pitying, grating presence, wallowing in his own stern faced misery extrapolated upon by the numerous pace-breaking and almost entirely disingenuous flash-sideways (?) to the ambiguously extant Jean Grey (Famke Jansson). Yeah, we get it, Wolverine can’t die. And yeah, we get it, that’s got to kinda suck when you see everyone that you know and care about die around you. It’s an interesting moral conflict with enough meat on its bones to drive a film…but it’s flogged like the deadest cow, almost comical in its lack of subtlety.

Fortunately then the action is furious and frenetic, rapidly changing pace, setting, target…everything. While the CGI may stink to high-heaven – the $100 million budget apparently invested entirely in white vests – Wolverine is littered with stand-out action set-pieces including a brutal duel on top of a speeding bullet train that’s as exciting as it is inadvertently hilarious. Ninjas and Yakuza goons come and go, swing and shoot, cry and die with wanton bloodless abandon as Logan murders his way from North to South. His motives may be questionable (note: entirely vague), something to do with…something about honour and…something, but at least the journey is exciting and loud enough to keep things interesting.

It ultimately all feels more than a little pointless however. Yeah, ol’ Logan learns a few lessons while marauding throughout rural Japan, but the entire production feels far more akin to a tangential sub-plot than a central narrative.

'Let's dance,' says the tango master.

‘Directionless’ is a surprisingly apt description for a film that, ostensibly at least, quite simply moves from North to South. Several characters seem to forget quite where their loyalties lie or even what their point is – Harada (Will Yun Lee) especially: an epic ninja warrior who just…wait, who does he work for again? Dialogue is oftentimes hammy and the plot twists itself in knots with mounting intrigues that ultimately make little sense when all added together for a climax that’s as disappointing as it is bizzarely predictable.

Wolverine lives and dies on the strength of its action scenes and rare witty exchanges, so for the 30/40-minute stretch in the middle where literally nothing happens outside of a contrived romantic entanglement, it becomes an intensely labourious watch. While Wolverine’s treatment of Japanese culture is paper-thin bordering on insensitive at times – Logan’s experience is like a checklist of foolish gaijin mess-ups, the gaijin fool – at least the country and its cinematographic framing is quality, a frequently beautiful distraction during the production’s less ragey moments.

Talking about ragey moments – and nuclear opening not withstanding – it’s a pleasant relief to see a summer blockbuster that doesn’t treat cities and the general essence of humanity with the same care that a child invests in its Legos. This particular film is about Wolverine and sticks very closely behind his shoulder throughout. Battles are intense and focused, particularly following Logan’s much-touted ‘weakening’, and you’ll never feel closer to Hugh Jackman’s scowly face. Literally.

And just a heads-up: there is a scene after the credits. And depending on your attachment to the mutant crew, it could be the most exciting scene of the film.

On set of Take That's next music video.

Verdict

The Wolverine seems like it was never quite finished; a film that needed an extra lick of paint each step of the way to production. As it stands, it’s not quite a superhero film, not quite an X-Men film and not quite a thoroughbred action film: the bastard child of a summer choking on the intensity of grandiose action. Overall, a thoroughly decent, vein-popping watch for series’ fans and summer burnouts alike.

3/5

Hurdy gurr:

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Pacific Rim - OR - Smashing Orgasm

Plot

In the not too distant future (where all of the best things happen) a trans-dimensional rift opens in the floor of the Pacific Ocean because of reasons, unleashing an apocalyptic herd of enormous monstrous alien beasties called Kaijus with one thing on their mind: the destruction of humankind. To fight back, scientists around the world create nuclear powered skyscraper-sized Exoskeleton mech-suits called Jaegers. Let battle commence.

In the future, everything will be shiny. 

Review

The beautiful thing about monster movies is that, when they’re done right, they can tap into that inner ten year-old everyone carries within them (for men at least), when nothing was cooler than smashing your toys together and arguing over who’d win in a fight. Guillermo del Toro’s latest film – Pacific Rim– is this idea with a $180 million budget behind it, coupled with a cheeky dash of Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots by way of Godzillaand writer Travis Beacham’s seaside musings.

And that’s pretty much all you’ll ever need to know.

The term ‘B-Movie’ normally refers to a very specific genus of film: niche genre, self-deprecating, normally a bit icky and often ‘so bad its good.’ Outside of the latter, Pacific Rim is your prototypical B-Movie, albeit one on a majestically ridiculous scale.

Pacific Rim is to subtlety what broccoli is to a T-Rex: useless and probably separated by millions of years of evolution. The Jaeger’s have such gloriously OTT, cine-fantastic names – Crimson Typhoon, Sister Eureka – that you could swear they’re the amalgamated mechanical offspring of every 80s action hero, complete with weirdly tiny heads; cities are destroyed for filler; dialogue is delivered with constipated intensity; stuff and colours and noises and stuff and explosions and stuff just happens, always and forever from beginning to aquatic-come-trans-dimensional end.

That is Pacific Rim. And it’s absolutely glorious.

And aerobics will be INTENSE. And shiny.

The ‘science’ behind how it all works is suitably pointless and baffling – something about technology called The Drift and duo (or trio) pilots that are ‘drift compatible’; there’s lots of talk about brains and neuro-whatsits so you know it’s important – characters deliver lines of imperiously ponderous dialogue with remarkable, fantastic conviction (Idris Elba’s magically named Stacker Pentecost is a wizard at this) and the action is quite possibly bigger than anything before it.

Crumbling cityscapes have become a bit blasé this summer and while Pacific Rimtakes it all up a notch (as it does with pretty much everything else, both literally and figuratively) the brain-melting action sequences can become a bit exhausting, not to mention indistinguishable. The lines between victory and defeat are blurred to say the least. It suffers from that Transformers-esque problem wherein there is so much happening – so many explosions, collisions, fluorescent goops, trains, planes and automobiles – that it can be hard to both understand or care about what’s currently assaulting your eyeballs.

Like most films of this scale and gravitas, Pacific Rim is so wholly focused on going big that it forgets about anything smaller than a skyscraper, losing all focus on character based issues and ignoring any human tragedy in the wake of the most recent crumbling cityscape. Characters are a few degrees less than one-dimensional for the most part, with Mako Mori (Rinko Kikuchi) – co-pilot on the USA’s rejuvenated Jaeger Gipsy Danger – offering the only legitimately engaging human story amongst the cavalcade of pubescent beasty doodles and Power Ranger Megazords. The ostensible main character, Charlie Hunnam’s growly Jaeger veteran Raleigh Becket, does a decent enough job of helming the film but is about as interesting as white on paper, his ‘rivalry’ with Chuck Hansen (Robert Kazinsky, of previous Eastendersfilm bewilderingly enough,) the Australian captain of Striker Eureka, is comedy gold in its short-lived one-upmanship.

And sea levels will shrink. And shine.

But then again, that’s exactly the point. Pacific Rim is Guillermo del Toro reminding us how much fun smashing your toys against one another once was (or is) and in that it undoubtedly excels. Just when things seem like they cant get any bigger, one of the demonic trans-dimensional hellbeasts sprouts wings to become Batman’s worst nightmare and apparent scourge of the moon. You can’t help but wonder whether, if given free reign to just keep on making the film, del Toro would’ve happily given Earth and Mars arms and claws and set them to fight in some epic toothy brawl.

Visuals are naturally important in a film where everything that isn’t computer-generated can be found on Ron Perlman’s forehead (here playing black market Kaiju giblets dealer Hannibal Chau) and in this respect Pacific Rim similarly excels. The CGI and all that techy wizardry is commendable, but it’s the film’s art direction and aesthetic coherence that takes home the plaudits. There’s far too much on show to fully explore here (shockingly) but with each Jaeger and Kaiju retaining a unique design while still working as a collective entity – drawing inspiration from various war-machines and animals respectively – and the production design offering a flawless interpretation of a near-future world, Pacific Rim frequently threatens near total immersion. Until, y’know, it all gets destroyed.

Bottom line, this is a film where colossal robot’ dad-run through cities wielding ships as swords. You’ll either know if that’ll work for you or not.

Oh, and kudos on GLaDOS.

Captured, the brooding intensity of a (shiny) adolescent goliath.

Verdict

Pacific Rim sets out to do one thing and to do it well: entertain. As an entity it’s utterly daft, but it’s gloriously, explosively, nostalgically, engagingly daft. The perfect summer film.

4/5

The shiney shines:

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