Mank

Watched at the Ritz Cinema, Sydney, where it is now playing.

* * * *

I am the target audience for Mank, David Fincher’s Netflix-funded production of his dad Jack Fincher’s screenplay about Herman “Mank” Mankiewicz, a “screenwriter’s screenwriter” who won an Oscar for Citizen Kane. This film covers Mank (Gary Oldman) during the writing of that script, with flashbacks to his earlier Hollywood career and its intersection with Citizen Kane subjects William Randolph Hearst and Marion Davies.

I’m the target audience all right: earlier this year, I read Sydney Ladensohn Stern’s 480-page biography of Mank and his brother Joseph, The Brothers Mankiewicz; I’ve read more books about Orson Welles, Citizen Kane’s director (and a minor character in this film by screen time but a major one by impact) than about anyone else; I’ve even read John Houseman’s books about working with Welles, and Houseman is a major character in this film no matter how you gauge it. I love the golden age of Hollywood; I love these (real-life) characters; I love films about films. This film was meant for me, and I loved it.

Will you? Hard to say. But there’s more on Fincher and daddy Fincher’s minds than just a Hollywood story. Mank’s desire to write a classic film about the media mogul of his day – Hearst – reflects his growing realisation that realpolitik trumps idealism, and Mank is really a political film, striking out at propaganda, electioneering and fake news. Its vibe is old-timey – more on that in a moment – but it’s actually very timely.

Fincher has shot the film so that it looks, sounds, feels and smells like it was made at the time Citizen Kane was: the early 1940s. It’s a startling experience. From the contrast of the black and white images, to the (simulated, I suppose) grain of the film, to the period-appropriate fade-outs, to the fun inclusion of cue blips – those strange circles in the upper right corner of the screen that appear in old movies to alert the projectionist to a reel change – Fincher and his cinematographer Erik Messerschmidt nail the aesthetic of the period, and the sound design follows suit. But there’s more to the film’s 1941faux-verisimilitude: the screenplay itself is constructed as it might have been then, and thus is it acted. Every actor in the film is, essentially, giving the performance they would have given in 1941, before the naturalistic ‘method’ stormed in. The whole enterprise is highly stylised, and it totally works. Once you’re in – a process that took mere minutes for me – you’re in. The style remains but it’s never an obstacle, obstruction nor irritant: form follows function, beautifully.

All that clever acting is excellent acting, too. Gary Oldman makes Mank a gloriously happy alcoholic, steering clear of many of the type’s trappings. It’s not a flashy performance but a stable one, Mank as hero of his own story, which he was. This is not a take-down, and Oldman’s performance is not a grotesque: he, and the film, like Mank, and so do we. He’s talented, generous, idealistic and, most importantly, true to himself, something recognised in him by others.

Amanda Seyfried delivers a career-best performance as Davies, Hearst’s young mistress. Charles Dance plays Hearst not as a monster but simply a master – of his domain, of men, of his mistress – and subverts our sympathies in the process. There are fine performance from Arliss Howard as Louis B. Mayer, Sam Troughton as Houseman, and Tom Burke, from The Souvenir, as Welles. But the character sharing the most scenes with Mank is Rita, a young woman employed to attend to him – and keep an eye on him – as he writes Kane; she’s played by Lily Collins, superbly. She’s Emily in Paris, too, but I’ll take Rita in Victorville, where she and Mank co-exist.

Mank is one of the films of the year. It’s surprisingly gentle, loving, calm and graceful. It takes you to another world. Five hours after leaving the cinema, I’m still kind of there. It’s my happy place, and Mank is, for me, a feel-good movie, one made like they used to.

The Queen’s Gambit (Netflix)

My first produced play was a farce about intrigue among chess grandmasters. The climax, which I reckon was a bit of a coup de théâtre, involved the hero grandmaster facing off with the villain grandmaster over a game of chess. There was no board; the two characters stalked each other around the good guy’s living room, leaping onto furniture and barking out their moves: “Queen to rook five!” The entire match was played out, and if you were a deep chess person, theoretically you could follow it in your head, and it would be as suspenseful and fun as, say, the climactic sword-fight at the end of a production of Hamlet or Macbeth.

I cribbed the match from an actual one played by actual champions – I forget whom or from when. But I made sure to find a match that suited my players’ identities: I wanted the moves made to feel authentic, the kind of moves those actual characters would make. It was a long scene, and for people who couldn’t possibly follow the game in their heads (99% of us) there was a lot of jumping around and acting going on to keep them entertained; for the one percent (and that’s being very generous) that could follow the match, it played, I hoped, like the climactic boxing scene in a boxing movie, the final football game in a football film, etc.

So too, do the many chess games and snippets of, as played by the various competitors in The Queen’s Gambit, adhereto the sports movie formula: they are given enough screen-time to actually be appreciated, and are based on actual games that reflect the theoretical / fictional styles of the players. Chief among them is Beth Harmon, played spectacularly by Anya Taylor-Joy, an orphan in 1950s America who grows up to be a world champion. Her story is both a superhero girl-power adventure as she barrels her way up through the ranks of a very male sport, and an addiction drama: she loves her pills and, increasingly as I roll into the middle of the seven-episode limited series, her drink.

The period design is both gorgeous and a little over-the-top (most of the show was shot in Berlin-for-other-places, so there’s a lot of set dressing, both physical and digital, going on) and the same could be said for the drama. Subtle it is not. Nor nuanced. It’s the kind of show where a character is introduced by another character turning to a third character and saying, “Look, it’s X! He won the X tournament in 19XX and now he’s X.” Most of the dialogue is expositional and a lot of it is very clunky. One can see where most scenes, and most episodes, are headed. It’s unsubtle, obvious, on-the-nose.

But it’s also compelling, even compulsive: a classic Netflix binge. The plot is a page-turner (it’s based on a popular novel), Taylor-Joy is endlessly watchable, and the casting is really fun: every character, like Taylor-Joy, has an interesting-to-fascinating face. Most of the supporting cast are British, but their US accents are strong (as is Taylor-Joy’s) and they attack the material with gusto. It’s a sprawling drama with a lot of players and they’re all allowed to make their mark (and their move). In the main supporting role, of Beth’s adoptive mother Alma, Marielle Heller, best known as a director (Can You Ever Forgive Me?, A Beautiful Day In The Neighbourhood), is, as critics say a little too often, a “revelation.” In this case it’s true.

And then there’s the chess, treated seriously, with integrity, with respect. I suspect a lot of little girls will give the game a go thanks to this show (if they’re allowed to watch a show about an addict), and that alone is raison d’être. Pawn to Queen four!

The Trial of the Chicago 7

* * *

Everyone’s in Aaron Sorkin’s The Trial of the Chicago 7 (now on Netflix). Well, all your favourite dudes, anyway. Sacha Baron Cohen and Succession’s Jeremy Strong are on trial, in the wake of the protests at the 1968 US Democratic Convention in Chicago, as Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin. Eddie Redmayne and John Carroll Lynch are on trial too, as the more level-headed Tom Hayden and David Dellinger. Mark Rylance and Ben Shenkman are there trying to defend them, while Joseph Gordan-Levitt is across the aisle for the prosecution. Meanwhile, glowering from his high bench, there’s Frank Langella as the odious Judge Julius Hoffman. When he walked into the courtroom, my partner blurted out, “Perfect.”

Indeed. Langella is, on the surface – on paper – perfectly cast, and emblematic of the kind of film this is: everyone’s playing to their strengths, to the gallery, and to the moment. Watching the dirty deeds hurled at the ‘7’ by the government makes you angry, both for then and for now: nothing’s changed. My anger came with a side of very weird comfort: Oh well, it’s not as though the current US administration is the first to be horribly corrupt, vengeful, and willing to unfairly prosecute their own citizens. There’s precedent!

It’s a wiggy movie – that is, there are a lot of wigs, a lot of beards, a lot of late-60s gear – and not a very subtle one. But it is a spectacular history lesson that also reverberates perfectly for this moment, while also becoming increasingly entertaining as it goes on. Each of the cast are given multiple moments to shine, and if Baron Cohen’s accent is (very) dodgy, his essence is not: he is a modern-day Hoffman, constantly speaking truth to corrupt power through subversive comedy. The least obvious casting may be Strong as Rubin, given his short-back-and-sides work on Succession, but he is actually the film’s greatest delight. And Redmayne is the best I’ve seen him.

Surprisingly, given the clear-cut case for his casting, the one who doesn’t work is Langella. He goes full-on Disney villain, Sorkin lets him, and together they come close to ruining the end of the film, Langella flailing about cartoonishly, a bully come-upped. It’s a pretty dreadful, intensely over-done, schmaltzy ending, and you come out whistling a familiar tune: Sorkin remains one of the great American screenwriters, but a fledgling director.

I’m Thinking of Ending Things (Netflix)

* * * 1/2

Some people love Charlie Kaufman, in the way that others love Christopher Nolan and others Quentin Tarantino. He has a distinctive voice: whether it’s solely as the screenwriter – Being John Malkovich, Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind, Adaptation – or as auteur – Synecdoche, New York, Anomalisa or now I’m Thinking of Ending Things – Kaufman is grappling with very particular themes in a very particular way. And, as Once Upon a Time… In Hollywood was for Tarantino and Tenet is for Nolan, so Ending Things is very, very much a Kaufman work, and will appeal greatly to those who love him while running the clear risk of alienating those who don’t. Or to put it another way: if you’ve previously not grooved with Kaufman’s vibe, you’ll probably hate this.

I like Kaufman and I liked this, but not in the way that same of his acolytes clearly loved it. It’s full of ideas, it wears its literary and intellectual curiosity with pride, and it’s borderline incomprehensible. Twice – in the first and third acts – it essentially pauses the dramatic action for an incredibly lengthy philosophical / pop cultural discussion that may drive you to tears. And the more you know the references – including the 2016 source novel by Iain Reid- the more the film will work for you. It’s a kind of cinematic club, with enjoyable membership being contingent on knowing and liking the stuff that Kaufman does.

On the surface, a young woman, played by Jessie Buckley, accompanies her boyfriend, played by Jesse Plemons, on a dark snowy drive to visit his parents, played by Toni Collette and David Thewlis, at their farmhouse in one of the United States. In voiceover, she contemplates “ending things”, presumably with him. But nothing is as it seems, and the film keeps opening up, shifting perspective, re-framing expectations and ultimately re-jigging the entire narrative voice. It is, deliberately, a puzzle-box. References abound: Thewlis played the lead voice in Anomalisa, while Plemens seems to be deliberately evoking the late Philip Seymour Hoffman, who played the lead in Synecdoche, New York, the film of Kaufman’s this one most clearly resembles. But is he, or is Plemens just evolving into a Hoffman ‘type’? It’s a mystery, and to enjoy this film, mystery must be embraced.

That said, I listened to a podcast afterwards hosted by a couple of people who had read the book, and once I heard what they had to say, not only did the whole film make sense, it became deeply satisfying. Movies probably shouldn’t require outside research to ‘work’, but that seems to be the deal Kaufman’s demanding of us to come into his world, and why not? He’s an idiosyncratic outsider, his films break the rules, and this one has its own. There is a great deal of rigour and substance here, but you’ve got to be willing to dig for it; otherwise you may scratch your head until you’re bleeding.

Mention should be made of Łukasz Żal’s cinematography, which is superb. As he proved with Ida and Cold War, nobody shoots snow like he does, nor uses the 4:3 ratio to heighten the tension of emotional space.

La Belle Epoque, David Foster, Speed Cubers

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For a lot of (Non-French) people, French cinema is about romance, culture, gentle good humour, affairs of the heart, beautiful (and beautifully lit) locations, and nostalgia: the Amélie model. They’ll be well served by La Belle Époque, in cinemas now, one of those expensive, commercial French products that is geared to make big bucks outside of France. The pleasant surprise is that, while it delivers that Amélie package, it’s also rather clever, witty and gorgeously performed.

Daniel Auteuil, once my favourite actor, plays a sixty-something luddite cartoonist whose wife is having a mid-life crisis, and who finds solace in the arms of a tech/media/production company that allows him, via sets, actors and other production values, to go back to the night he met her, in a bistro, in 1974. It’s not quite science fiction, but is certainly adjacent: sort of Westworld meets The Truman Show meets… well, Amélie. It’s all very charming and delightful and will bring a smile to your dial. That makes it top entertainment for the current era. Auteuil is typically winning.

On Netflix are two new documentaries: David Foster Off The Record and The Speed Cubers. Both are pacy, surprising and fun. Foster is one of the most successful pop producers of all time – he’s produced Celine Dion, Michael Bublé, Chicago, Barbara Streisand, Josh Groban, Andrea Bocelli and so on, as well as Whitney Huston’s I Will Always Love You and the soundtrack to St. Elmo’s Fire – and most of his career-long collaborators weigh in, as well as his many daughters (from five wives). He’s a self-confessed problematic individual, which the film somewhat embraces, but it’s best enjoyed as a testament to an astonishing career. Meanwhile, The Speed Cubers follows the two fastest Rubik’s Cube solvers in the world as they head towards a showdown at the 2019 Speed Cubing World Championships. One of them is from Melbourne; the other is Californian, has autism, and hero-worships his rival. As with Foster, they are two of the most successful people in the world at what they do; neither, yet, have wives, let alone five, but who’s to say where success may lead them? Heartwarming, uplifting and surprising.

La Belle Époque                               * * * 1/2

David Foster Off The Record       * * *

The Speed Cubers                           * * * 1/2

Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga Review

If you’re a Eurovision super fan – like me – you can rest easy: Will Ferrell’s ambling comedy about a pair of Icelandic entrants is not a piss-take. Indeed, it loves Eurovision: if anything, the film is a celebration.

When I heard, a few years back, that Ferrell was planning this film, I got surprisingly anxious, not just that Ferrell was going to mock my beloved contest, but also that the film itself would operate as a gateway drug for Americans to discover, pollute and ultimately destroy the annual event. Seemingly aware of such a response, Ferrell stages two scenes where his character, Lars, yells at a group of four young Americans to, essentially, fuck off out of Europe: “We don’t want you here!”

Putting his money where Lars’ mouth is, Ferrell and director David Dobkin cast all of Iceland’s actors, a batch of funny Brits, and Canadian Rachel McAdams as Sigrit, Lars’ bandmate and the true protagonist of the film. It goes out of its way to not be American, and ends up, to its great credit, as a film for the Eurovision community, possibly to the exclusion of everyone else. This was never meant for the mall cinemas of Idaho (it’s a Netflix original).

It’s hardly Ferrell’s best work – it’s not even in his top five – and if you’re not into Eurovision there’s probably no reason to give it a whirl. It’s too long – possibly by half an hour – and there are flat patches. But if you’re a Eurovision fan you kind of have to see it. There’s one extended sequence, a gift for Eurovision tragics, that gave me my longest prolonged smile in… well, let’s just say since February. Or maybe since I saw Think About Things for the first time. If you know what I mean, you’ll want to see this movie, shaggy as it is.

* * * for the Eurovision Fan

* * 1/2 for everyone else

Jeffrey Epstein: Filthy Rich

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Survivor Sarah Ransome.

Jeffrey Epstein: Filthy Rich is another in an ever-growing line of excellent Netflix true-crime documentary series. Over four episodes, the show features moving interviews with many of Epstein’s survivors, law enforcement officials, journalists, lawyers and copious footage of Epstein’s world – the houses in particular – to paint a clear and vivid portrait of a monstrous predator and the system that enabled him. Many, many photos of Epstein with Donald Trump give the show an additional creepy edge. It’s very well done, tasteful and well-modulated, and a total binge. Even if you’ve read “all the articles”, as I felt I had, there is still great value in meeting the victims and seeing their provenance; Epstein preyed on the vulnerable, and Filthy Rich does a great job of contextualising the predator’s method of identifying and manipulating their prey.

The focus is on the subset of survivors from Epstein’s first wave of abuse, in Palm Beach in the 2000s, and the series is respectful of them, and thank goodness, because they’ve been exploited enough. Their lawyer, and the original Palm Beach Chief of Police, emerge as dogged, and humble, heroes. A few more survivors from later years emerge as the episodes progress, and by the end we’ve gotten to know them well. It’s their story, really, rather than Epstein’s.

We know how his story ends, and the show doesn’t attempt to push past that. Conspiracy theories are not the subject here, nor detailed accusations against a worldwide consortium of bad men (although Prince Andrew gets royally served), nor do we find out where in the world might Ghislaine Maxwell be. Those documentaries will inevitably follow. This one is probably all you really need.

Bad Education, The Clinton Affair, Trial By Media

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I’ve never enjoyed a Hugh Jackman performance like the one he gives in Bad Education (HBO, on Foxtel in Australia). As Frank Tassone, the real-life New Jersey school superintendent whose left-of-legal shenanigans start to be revealed by a dogged junior reporter for the high school newspaper, he is oily and charming, monstrous and delicately tender. It’s a tricky, challenging role in a movie that could have played as an issue of the week; instead, both performance and film are hugely entertaining.

Tassone is not quite a Richard III, or even a Richard Nixon, of the schoolyard; his villainy isn’t as well constructed, nor his delight in it so palpable. But like those two Dicks, his downfall is our delight, and watching him eloquently sweat as the noose tightens is ever more gratifying.

There’s an excellent deep bench around him, including Alison Janney, Ray Romano, Geraldine Viswanathan, Stephen Spinella and Alex Wolff. Cory Finley (Thoroughbreds) directs with a deft, light touch; I laughed a lot, and was sad for it to end. The Oscars have announced that streaming films will be awards-eligible; Hugh could get nominated here, deservedly. Great fun. * * * *

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The Clinton Affair, a six-part documentary series beginning Sunday the 24th of May at 8:30pm on SBS in Australia, examines the investigation into and impeachment of US President Bill Clinton in the 1990s. It is comprehensive, revealing and riveting, and, watched in our current era, operates on multiple levels.

As a portrait of the Clintons it is compulsive. They’re amazing characters, supremely intelligent and capable, but – in Bill’s case, anyway, – flawed, and what a flaw! The Monica Lewinsky incident stands as an historically stupid act, and in the era of #metoo, reminds us that ‘great men’ are always brought down by sheer, idiotic carnality.

As a document of the intense and relentless dirty tricks utilised by the Republican Party since the Clintons came to power, the series places the current US tribalism in a very clear context. Up until the Clintons, the series suggests, Republicans and Democrats had drinks together after a workday in Congress. Then came Newt Gingrich, and set the country on a highway to partisan hell.

Finally, seen today, the series is simultaneously a slice of nostalgia and a hard-hitting exposé of GOP hypocrisy. The party that tried to impeach the President for a sexual encounter supports Trump, who will outshine Clinton in corruption and deviancy on any given Wednesday. The attack on the Clintons was disgraceful, but also seems, viewed from today, as almost quaint: monstrosity in a less monstrous time.

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On Netflix, Trial By Media is a six-part, one-hour-per-episode documentary series examining six American courtroom cases, stretching back to 1984, where the media coverage of the trial became so omnipresent that it must be asked whether it influenced the outcome. Executive Produced by a heavily experienced team including Jeffrey Toobin, Steven Brill, George Clooney and Grant Heslov, it’s compulsive viewing, featuring reams of archival footage, interviews with copious associated participants (including, often, the lawyers on either side of a case) and a ton of research. Catnip for media, courtroom and doco lovers alike.

 

Unorthodox (Netflix) and Come to Daddy (Umbrella On Demand)

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Based on a memoir by Deborah Feldman, Netflix’s four part series Unorthodox is mostly compelling and occasionally frustrating. Newcomer and breakout star Shira Haas plays Esty (short for Esther), a young married woman who flees her orthodox Hasidic Jewish community in Brooklyn for Berlin, where her mother, who similarly escaped the ultra-conservative sect years before, lives. As she discovers a world outside the rigid confines of her own, her husband and his ne’er-do-well cousin are dispatched to bring her home.

There are a couple of time frames going on; besides Esty’s escape, we get flashbacks of her betrothal to her husband and her gradual disillusionment with her community. Those scenes are excellent, as are all the Brooklyn sequences, and very well acted – in Yiddish – by actors who certainly feel authentic to this highly specific milieu (they’re mostly from Israel). However, the Berlin scenes are far less convincing, with a lot of on-the-nose dialogue and performances.

This is intriguing stuff that rests tremendously on Haas’s tiny shoulders; she bears the burden with electric intensity. It’s refreshing to watch a show like this with an entire cast of ‘unknowns’ (outside of Israel, anyway) led by such a good one. She won’t be unknown for long.

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Like Harry Pott— oops, sorry — like Daniel Radcliffe, Elijah Wood (The Lord of the Rings) has spent his post-blockbuster-franchise life looking for weird. He finds it in spades with Ant Timpson’s Come To Daddy, a black comedy that’s blacker than most. Timpson is a New Zealander and this is his feature directorial debut, but he’s got a strong and truly eccentric list of other credits, particularly as a producer (Turbo Kid, The ABCs of Death) and as the founder of The Incredibly Strange Film Festival, which has been going since 1994. He’s clearly into weird cinema, and with Come to Daddy, he’s effectively made exactly the kind of film he likes to program at his own festival.

Indeed, it’s plainly apparent that his deep experience with freaky-film audiences highly informs his film. Come To Daddy seems literally made to be enjoyed as a late-night festival screening for a packed house; it has a number of moments designed (rather expertly) to elicit that contagious panicky giggling, partner’s arm-grabbing, oh-my-god-what-are-we-seeing? discomforted laughter wave. It’ll play differently in isolation on your device, but if you’re a fan of this type of film, you’ll appreciate those moments even as you wish you were sharing them with a half-drunk raucous audience of young festival hounds, the type who seek out Incredibly Strange every year at the New Zealand International Film Festival. (At the Sydney Film Festival, the similar sidebar is called Freak Me Out.)

Wood plays a thirty-five year old Beverly Hills music-industry wannabe who is summonsed to see his father – who deserted him and his mother when he was five – at his gorgeous remote coastal home. When he arrives he finds an abusive, alcoholic wreck of a man, but that’s just the set-up. As befits this quite specific sub-genre, a lot of crazy shit goes down. Timpson has a lot of surprises up his sleeve; one of them is very, very clever.

This is an unashamedly violent film, but never against women, and always in the spirit of the genre, which isn’t horror, nor comedy; black comedy is technically correct, but in spirit and intention, the best descriptor of all would be midnight movie. Intriguingly, it was shot on Vancouver Island, in British Columbia, Canada, with money from New Zealand, Canada and Ireland. It’s a Frankenstein’s monster, and not without wit and ghoulish charm. * * *

Come To Daddy is available to stream at https://www.umbrellaentfilms.com.au/movie/come-to-daddy/

Unorthodox is currently streaming on Netflix.