Back in April, Their Finest depicted the British Ministry of Information backing a feature film about the civilian nautical craft evacuation of Dunkirk during World War Two. Now, Warner Brothers has spent a hundred and fifty million bucks on the same subject, and Britain gets a very expensive bonus slice of inspirational propaganda. Reserved, dignified, proud and brave, Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk is nothing if not very, very British.

I have to admit, I didn’t know about the civilian-aided evacuation effort, and the fact that it features in two prominent films this year might say something about our need for everyday heroes. It was an extraordinary event and it is given extraordinary technical respect here; this is a film where superlatives concerning the technique can’t help but get a bit heady. Utilising practical effects – real planes and boats from the era, including some boats that actually took part in the actual evacuation – Nolan has made a heartfelt connection with the past. It must have been something to launch those nearly hundred-year old vessels on a recreation of their proudest day. It must have given Nolan goosebumps…

…which is more than I can say Dunkirk did for me. I was blown away by its technical audacity, and I’m also in thrall to its intricate screenplay, which not only tells the film’s central story from three perspectives, in three different time-frames, but also allows for multiple interpretations of the same events, allowing for the subjectivity of memory. I learned a lot and was maybe a little inspired. But I cannot say I was moved. The human beings in the film function much as the boats and planes do; they are pieces to be shifted around on Nolan’s magnificent (IMAX!) canvas rather than memorable individuals. There are two exceptions: Mark Rylance’s stoic pleasure-boat captain makes a dignified impression, and Tom Hardy’s fighter pilot is fully realised, despite the actor’s face being covered in a massive pilot’s mask.

For the rest, though, the grunt soldiers who actually bear the story’s spine – I found them interchangeable to the point that I didn’t actually realise that there are three young leads. They’re all “fresh faces” – their names are Fionn Whitehead, Aneurin Barnard and Harry Styles (he of One Direction) – and they didn’t land an impression on me. For all I could really tell, what happened to each of them happened to a bunch of them – they were simply more and more of the 400,000 soldiers on the beach, rather than three we were meant to care about. Their anonymity gave them universality while undercutting their emotional weight.

The film is full peril, danger and death, but I can’t recall a single drop of blood. Unlike every big-budget war film since Saving Private Ryan, it doesn’t stylistically crib Saving Private Ryan. The carnage is portrayed less graphically and eschews the “bullet zip” and sped-up camera effect that  made Ryan’s scenes so devastating. It’s a little more old-school, a little more… British.

I appreciated the supreme virtuosity of the film, but I wasn’t really needing it in my life (except as an incredibly staged history lesson). While bravery is always a noble theme, nothing about Dunkirk speaks to the here and now. It’s timeless, classical filmmaking on a massive, modern scale, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Or, daresay I, ‘tis nothing to be sneezed at.

A fun observation: Kenneth Branagh, as the highest-ranked officer on the beach, must have the tightest performance area of any actor in a big epic since the naval commanders on the bridge of Tora Tora Tora! Stationed at the end of the “mole”, Dunkirk’s long pier, Branagh occasionally takes a step over here, and, later… perhaps a step back. Cuppa tea, anyone?


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Their Finest

Their Finest Hour and A Half
Directed by Lone Sherfig

Preview Screenings in Australia over the Easter long weekend; opens April 20th

*** (out of five)

Lone Scherfig loves to fetishise Britishness. In her masterpiece, An Education (2009) she presents a fabulous and slightly fantastic 60s London; in The Riot Club (2014) she gets right into the taffy and the toffee at the snootiest club within Oxford University. Now she gives us a dreamily romanticised London under the blitz. It’s suitable for a romantic and slightly ludicrous drama – as this is – but one can imagine the matte painted bombed-out streetscapes and central-cast Old Londoners With War Relief Tins seeing Ken Roach, Danny Boyle or any one else with a penchant for grit or realism puking in the aisles. Bombings – and bombing victims – are rarely this pretty.

That said, the subject of Their Finest is filmmaking, and, during the course of the film, we see plenty of instances of the craft’s artifice, so perhaps that of the film we’re watching is highly deliberate. Indeed, there were a few times, as we watch a film get made and then that film (that “film within a film”), that the film (this one!) seems to be going deliberately meta – but one cannot be sure, since the tone of the film itself seems unsteady; it is rocked off its hinges by a brutal shift in the third act.

Their Finest Hour and A Half
Directed by Lone Sherfig

Until then it’s a very enjoyable romp through familiarly enjoyable territory. Catrin Cole (lovely and very period-friendly Gemma Arterton) is a Welsh cartoonist drafted into screenwriting for the Ministry of Information. She ends up writing “the women’s dialogue” (and, of course, much more) for a propaganda picture first designed simply to boost morale, then elevated to being used as a direct entreaty to get the US to enter the war. The power of cinema indeed! Unfortunately for her, the film, and us, she also has to navigate a love triangle, which is completely unnecessary and stretches the film at least twenty-five minutes beyond breaking point.

It’s a pity, because much of the film, and certainly the premise, is great. Watching how digestible propaganda was made at the highest levels of the British war effort is fascinating, and one doesn’t doubt the authenticity of all of the scenes involving that activity’s nuts and bolts. It’s the love story that doesn’t ring true.

Incidentally, Bill Nighy gives yet another perfect performance as a British actor. Loverly!

Their Finest Hour and A Half
Directed by Lone Sherfig



You can watch CJ’s video review of Land of Mine on his web show Watch This here: 

CJ Reviews ‘Land of Mine’

**** (out of five)

My fingernails were being bitten down to the quick, by my teeth, because the young German soldier’s fingers were jittering. I was watching the Danish entry for Best Foreign Language Film at this year’s Oscars, Land Of Mine, and it was a white-knuckle ride.

Here’s the context for the story: at the end of World War 2, about two million land mines littered the Danish coast. The Germans, occupants of that small nation for nearly the entire war, figured the allies would storm the beaches, try and take it back. That didn’t happen. When the war ended, as part of the reparations treaty, Germany had to supply soldiers to Denmark to find, diffuse and dispose of all those land mines buried in the sand. They sent, effectively, 2,000 boys – the youngest possible soldiers, sixteen year olds with wispy whiskers and baby faces. The land mines, of course, were live and lethal. Boys blew up.

In terms of tension and suspense, who could possibly imagine a better set-up? Writer / director Martin Zandvliet, however, gives us much more than a bloody horrorshow. By focusing on the growing relationship between Danish Sgt. Carl Rasmussen (Roland Møller) and his squad of 14 young Germans tasked with clearing one particular beach over three months, Zandvliet forensically examines issues of vengeance, forgiveness, compassion and humanity – specifically, how different we really are, and how different we are willing to believe we are. Pretty relevant stuff for 2017, no?

We first see Rasmussen beating a German soldier as he walks out of Denmark with his colleagues. The German was trying to leave with a Danish flag, and the burley, very manly Rasmussen is livid. “This is my country!” he screams as he rains down blows. “Not yours! You are not welcome here!” And, despite his brutality, who can blame him? These were his oppressors, his home-invaders, the savage barbarian destroyers of his entire world – and everything was unequivocally their fault. Why shouldn’t they take a beating?

But should they get blown up on the beach? Well, why not? They bloody well put the bombs there in the first place, didn’t they? These are the moral, ethical and deeply humanistic value questions at play. Rasmussen – assumedly single and childless, living on a beachside farm with his dog – is a tough nut, but these are boys under his charge, and they’re getting their arms blown off. Is compassion inevitable, or are the wounds of the world’s worst crime impossible to bandage?

Møller is spectacular in the role of Rasmussen. His physique, his thin moustache, the way he wears his khaki uniform and his prominent insignias, the way he tends to the fist he injured beating the German at the film’s beginning, all point to a career soldier who still mostly has his shit together even as the world has gone insane – mostly. His character arc across the film is beautifully structured and he modulates it precisely and unsentimentally (as you imagine Rasmussen himself would). Møller got out of prison in 2002 after spending four and a half years inside for ten assault convictions; until now, he has almost exclusively played hard-core criminals, as he himself was. He justly won Denmark’s highest acting honour last year for his portrayal of Rasmussen.

The filmmakers shot at some of the actual beaches involved, and, during production, found a real mine. How perfect, and perfectly sad.