Useless Takes

Alexander Payne’s The Holdovers, reviewed.

★★★★★

Bad Christmas films are something that generations will endure. Good Christmas films are something that generations will endear. Every year, bad Christmas films are watched (again), not enjoyed (again), and test patience (again). And then they will be watched the following year. Good Christmas films receive the same treatment, but they are enjoyed, and don’t test patience. Instead they leave a warm and fuzzy feeling permeating the soul, sometimes that feeling comes in the form of a sugary, sickly treat. But what’s even better than that is a warm and fuzzy feeling that comes from something that could only be described as the cinematic equivalent to the warmth of whisky doing it’s magic. This is Alexander Payne’s The Holdovers.

It’s 1970, and the Christmas season has arrived. The students of boarding school Barton Academy are getting ready to go home, except for the unlucky holdovers. Not only are they unlucky because they have to stay at school for Christmas, but designated curmudgeon of the school Paul Hunham (Paul Giamatti) has been assigned to role to supervise them. Paul and student Angus (Dominic Sessa) dive headfirst into a personality clash and a bond is found. Fill in the rest. Any kind of way of reciting this plot further would diminish the quality of the final product, for it reduces it to sounding like a dusty relic.

Giamatti, Sessa and Da’Vine Joy Randolph as Mary are the trinity here, a holy trinity indeed. Every so often, an ensemble comes along that feel like they were always meant to be together. Like the soul mates of acting. The chemistry in this triangle works because they all get to be imperfect creatures, and all get to display their feelings. No one here feels dismissed. In other hands, some actors and filmmakers wouldn’t even try to look into the personality of Paul Hunham. A character who could have been written off as a mere grump is instead allowed to be a human being. Awards aren’t always the indication of good quality in this industry, but Giamatti delivers a career best performance. This is where he is meant to be, with his (acting) soul mates.

The vintage edge does not diminish The Holdovers of a luxury in having modern sensibilities. A sad truth can probably found in the knowledge that if this was indeed a product of the time it emulates, Randolph’s Mary would’ve probably been placed on the bench – only being brought out to play when the story revolving around Paul and Angus needed forward momentum. This film spits in the face of the magical Negro trope. Mary is provided with more distinction and personality than that. She may often be the peacemaker, but she too has her own life. With a well-realised life comes joy, pain, highs, and lows. Randolph refuses to just be the role of ‘alcoholic, grieving mother’, she gets to play with all of these joys and pains.

The Holdovers looks and sounds like a product of yesteryear. This was an artistic choice from Payne that could have been a useless gimmick with no purpose other than to be cool and quirky. It might be a gimmick, but it is hardly useless. The aesthetic operates as a overt self-awareness of the story’s characteristics. It’s almost like Payne knew the Hal Ashby and Dead Poets Society comparisons were going to arise, so why not take ownership of the similarity? It also allows the film to act as time capsule. “History is not simply the study of the past, it is an explanation of the present.” The Holdovers is a study of the past, but also has a grasp of the present mood.

Payne chose David Hemingson to craft the screenplay here, who will become a new name to look out for. One must adore a script that refuses to lower its own intelligence. Paul’s love of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius is particularly amusing, as he decides it’s the perfect Christmas gift for all. Speaking of Meditations, Paul probably fancies himself a stoic, but his temper proves otherwise. As he is history teacher of profound knowledge, the references here come fast and come sharp. The high-level wit reminds one of Frasier, also cheekily playing with jargon of intellects.

We are encouraged to see things from different perspectives, and are encouraged to change how we perceive the problems of others. Paul says “I find the world a bitter and complicated place, and it seems to feel the same way about me. I think you and I have this in common” as he pours his heart out to Angus. How beautiful The Holdovers is – two souls with a shared bitterness about the world bond over this, and in doing so a bit of that bitterness vanishes. Just a bit.

David Fincher’s The Killer, reviewed.

★★★★☆

“Stick to the plan. Anticipate, don’t improvise” narrates Michael Fassbender’s killer. Whether the killer likes it or not, improvising is something he will have to dabble with. As for David Fincher, he indeed sticks to the plan. This graphic novel adaptation is a meticulous thriller that is taut in every way possible.

The killer is on a hit job in Paris, but after failing to fulfil the act he has been paid to do – move he must. So follows a rigid and chaptered structure of storytelling, as Fassbender’s killer globe trots from one guest star to the next. He seeks revenge upon finding his punishment for failure… disagreeable.

Alongside Fassbender is Tilda Swinton, Charles Parnell and Sala Baker, who is especially a beastly delight. A brawl sequence between Fassbender and Baker is choreographed to feel so raw and brutal. This is refreshing at a time the elegant sheen of John Wick begins to wear thin. Fassbender’s approach to his performance matches the film’s tone in its restrained nature.

After Mank, Fincher wanted to go back to what he was really good at. He chose to stick to the plan, that plan might not be the one he made for himself, but it’s the one he’s good at. The Killer is a self-reflective, personally meditative piece of filmmaking. It’s so self-reflective and metatextual in its use of Fincher’s techniques that it becomes comical.

The Killer chooses a route not too dissimilar to Rear Window in a voyeuristic nature. It allows itself to sit, to breath, to watch, it recognises the reality of the profession for a hitman is doing exactly that. Thrills are earned through patience and creative discipline, not grenades of gratuitous gimmicks.

Incorporating an array of songs by The Smiths into the music here was an audacious choice. Such choice had a high favourability of being a jarring stunt, but the diegetic fusion of the songs means they melt into the film’s DNA immediately. What we hear, the killer hears – and what he happens to hear is Morrisey blurting a baritone whine about the world. Upon wide release of The Killer, wait until a vast swathe of young men will (suddenly) pronounce themselves (long-time) fans of The Smiths. That’s (not) going to be fun.

It’s troublesome that for a project that is the grail of amalgamation from this renowned filmmaker, The Killer is bound to leave little cultural impact. Gone Girl had a rabid feminist messiah as villain, this has a guy who likes The Smiths. There’s an underlying hollowness to the affair throughout. That metatextuality should have been put to more use in acknowledging its own self-reflectiveness as being self-importance.

The Killer acts as a critique of the very characteristic it displays in itself – cold meticulousness. It’s about one man’s journey of learning to be a part of this world, rather than live above and outside of it. For being one of the many is superior to being one of the few. In the end, he’s human and needs to be loved. Just like everybody else does.

Emerald Fennell’s Saltburn, reviewed.

★★★★☆

The year is 2006, and scholarship dreg Oliver (Barry Keoghan) is on his way to Oxford University only to find his world turned upside down after toff Felix (Jacob Elordi), with whom he is infatuated, invites him to stay at his family’s obscenely privileged retreat Saltburn for the summer.

Oliver loves Felix, that is if love is the same as infatuation. But as time goes on, so too does Oliver’s longing lust for Felix, but he’ll just have to settle with watching from the sidelines (or through the door crack), having “vampire” sex with Felix’s sister (Alison Oliver), and non-vampire sex with cousin Farleigh (Archie Madekwe). Rosamund Pike and Richard E. Grant play the part of insufferable creatures so well. Insufferable aristocratic creatures, and insufferable parental creatures.  Oliver becomes cosy with the Catton’s, a helpful relationship indeed for when death occurs…

Cinematographer Linus Sandgren never allows the naturalistic lighting to dimmish the vibrancy of anything that pops, just as he did with La La Land. Both films glow with primary and secondary colour, but there’s still a grounded sense of reality.

Emerald Fennell displays an undying sense of confidence in her material here even when that confidence goes against her own sanity, never backing down from depravity when a more unimaginative director would have. This kind of confidence in the grotesque is rarely seen in British filmmakers today, but if Fennell is going to be the next Ken Russell then I welcome the descent into depravity. Who ever said British drama had to constantly be an onslaught of rag mop dullness? Slurping that water was grotesque, but hardly dull!

The screenplay seldom cares about structural discipline. For most of the runtime, we loiter and linger at Saltburn just as they do. This is a point where Fennell’s confidence in her material could have reigned it in. The supposed twist ending is hardly a twist at all, and the “reveal” was left too late, leaving any impact it could have had being neutered. As an audience, we should have been allowed to get on board with the bigger picture earlier.

I’m not entirely sure what the purpose of a mid-2000s setting for this was, other than to allow a setlist of songs like that to seem justifiable. In all honestly though, who on earth cares? Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s Murder On The Dancefloor playing over the credits will make sure you leave with a spring in your step, but you’ll be wondering if you should have one after what you just witnessed.

Saltburn is hardly a deep dive look into the excess privilege of the wealthy elites of our country. In fact, it’s not unfair to suggest its not saying anything about class privilege at all other than “look how obscene this all is!”. It is however a beautiful gateway of perversion and depravity to seep back into British cinema, as well as a headliner film of an up-and-coming subgenre… wealthsploitation.