FILM DOODLES

“Tangerine” is a neon-tinged whirlwind of human emotions. The main charatcers are two transgender women Sin-Dee (Kitana Kiki Rordiguez) and Alexandra (Mya Taylor) but their galloping story is never defined by their unconformist sexuality. The emphasis is never on where they are situated on the gender spectrum but rather on the inherently human emotions of jealousy, loyalty and disappointment.  The ladies do, of course, exude oodles of sass, but rather than it becoming a source of ridicule, it is used as a means of empowerment. Their excess is enviable due to its utter and undefeatable honesty.

Furthermore, “Tangerine” is filmed entirely on iPhone 5s. But similarly as the transgender blurb, it does by no means define “Tangerine”. Awkwardly cut off shots with tops of head missing which draw the eyes on the midriff sections add to the chaotic impetus of the film and never stoop to the lows of motion sickness. The colours are also always erring on the side of bright but never to an extent of reducing it to a caricature. “Tangerine” is just a bright and shakily energetic reflection of a colourful life in perpetual motion. 

Regardless of the bottomless pit of oomph and pizzazz, the camera also knows when to linger. The odd scenes here and there where the camera stops and the story freezes for a second provide a much-needed breathing space in the frenzy of life in West Hollywood. The scenes where Sin-Dee is contemplating her options in the bus stop, where the family dog has its 20 seconds of fame or the very last gentle scene of the film are contemplative still lifes resembling the thought-provoking nature of the last scenes from “The Graduate” and “Annie Hall”.

“Tangerine” never gives in to the gimmicky nature of its own taglines. It is more than the sum of its parts. The Aaron-Sorkin-goes-to-the-hood dialogue keeps up with the high energy levels of the protagonists and reflects their unwavering confidence in who they are. These are transgender women who are not defined by their sexual orientation but their deeply human flaws and weaknesses. Unfortunately in this day and age, this is an achievement.

“The Revenant”, D: Alejandro González Iñárritu, S: Mark L. Smith, Alejandro González Iñárritu, C: Emmanuel Lubezki, C: Leonardo DiCaprio, Tom Hardy, Domhnall Gleeson, Will Poulter, etc. 

“The Revenant” is a gruellingly exciting but essentially hollow feast for the eyes. The thrilling epic with western influences follows the torturous adventures of Hugh Glass in the relentlessly icy American frontier in the 1820s. Spurred by the writings by his real-life namesake, Hugh Glass played by Leonardo DiCaprio presents us with an against-all-odds survival story with a hint of revenge. “The Revenant” excels in conveying the primeval theme of survival and never straying from it. Whether there’s true beauty in its single-minded insistence on brutal simplicity is a matter of taste.

The cinematography by the enormously talented Lubezki gives the primeval down-to earth story a sweeping gravity-defying look. Endless long shots emphasise the erratic chaos inherent in violence and make the breathtakingly vast wilderness a character in its own right. This silent character who is constantly looming over everyone’s shoulder is the most unassumingly powerful of the whole bunch. Differently from the traditional self-righteous pioneers known from westerns and the sprightly Walden-bunch for whom nature is a free-for-all health store, “The Revenant” rewrites the myth of the courageous or ideologically-spurred frontiermen and tree-hugging adventurers. The battle as “The Revenant” sees it, was not against Indians or about conquest but about immediate survival in the wilderness. One that, more often than not, men lost. There are no bigger ideals, no victories. There is no other layer, no hidden meaning. No glimpse into Hugh’s thoughts, only grunting. The driving force of the narrative which keeps your eyes peeled and heart pounding for Hugh is a yearning for thrilling bone-breaking action, the simple trusty “what happens next”. There’s only food for the thrilling sensation known from action films and marvel of the visuals but not much for thought.

It has been widely documented that the cast had to endure their share of hardships during the filming process. Leonardo DiCaprio’s immersive experience reportedly included eating raw liver and swimming in icy cold rivers. In many ways these hardships have become more important than Hugh Glass’ story which makes “The Revenant” more of a performing arts document than a fiction film. Similarly, the growling and grunting in harsh conditions which replaces regular dialogue in the film might be considered to be conceptually inferior to portraying charm and reading hefty monologues. Whether crawling in mud in frosty weather is a marvellous performance or just a documentary recording of a training camp session might not be easily distinguishable. Regardless of what side you gravitate towards, the endless talks about the challenges encountered while filming makes “The Revenant” more about the actors as people outside the story than the characters within. It is not Leo’s most interesting role but it is exactly the kind of suffering for the sake art that the Oscar bunch like to laud.

“The Revenant” is a simple action story about the survival of a more hard-core version of Pocahontas’ John Smith. All other great themes of the western frontier canon like race, friendship, creed and justice become mere sidekicks which offers a refreshingly simplistic and personal retelling of the grand myth. They were all just pawns in the hands of nature and on an individual level not much else mattered. The story is built up on the thrilling encounters between man and nature, dressed up in unforgettable cinematography and talked up by the real-life experiences of the actors on the set. However, underneath it is still just a story about a grunting man in the snow.

“Taxi Tehran”, D: Jafar Panahi, S: Jafar Panahi, C: Jafar Panahi, C: Jafar Panahi, etc.

The silent sinking despair behind every glimpse and flicker of a smile in “Taxi Tehran” makes every second of its mere 82 minutes count twice as much as in other films. The mere fact that we have been blessed with access to Jafar Panahi’s latest works is a miracle as he has been banned from filmmaking and leaving Iran. It must have taken an unimaginable amount of self-control and patience to remain so refrained, keep the consistent pace and focus on building intricate metaphors when all any other human being would want to do is to scream “injustice” from the rooftops. That is why the backdrop of contemporary authoritarian Iran never weighs down Jafar Panahi’s films but gives them wings.

In “Taxi Tehran”, Jafar Panahi is a taxi driver whose clients form a cross-section of the society. The taxi becomes a backdrop for a medley of stories told by a crook, teacher, contraband film merchant, superstitious ladies with a fish bowl, “anti-government” lawyer and Panahi’s own marvellously bustling niece Hana Saeidi. All the stories comment on the practice of filmmaking and the peril inflicted on the Iranian people by the government. The metaphors and references are, however, very subtle and smart rather than loud and hysterical which makes the realisation of the life the characters are leading ever more scathing. Panahi’s contemporary “Canterbury Tales” is a testament of unfathomable patience and unquenchable thirst for filmmaking which will eat you up from the inside. 

Whether you like your sweet sweet love with a hearty side of brashness is paramount to the enjoyment of “Trainwreck”. The title of the film might assume an unexpectedly literal meaning if Amy Schumer’s larger than life entertainment value is a bit too much noise and not enough wit for you. However, it is worth noting that her ouvre sports a kind of bloated realism where jokes never quite steep to the often stinky lows of the “Hangover” crowd. The topsy turvy approach of swapping the stale romcom gender roles are bound to bring about a few smirks even if the tampon jokes and comical sex scenes fail.

Enjoyment aside, “Trainwreck” unfortunately fails to carry out its self-confessed feminist power trip. As the bold and obstreperous Amy finds love, she also seems to lose a large part of what made her the strong and wilful woman she is advertised to be. After Amy becomes lovestruck, “Trainwreck” starts bending to the forceful male gaze. The filmmakers did have the audacity to refrain from a white picket fence and golden retriever “A year later” montage, but the cheerleader scene in the end creates an eerie deja vu feeling of someone recording a bad noughties romcom on your “Trainwreck” DVD. What a sour note to end a relatively entertaining rowdy vaudeville. 

Tarantino’s eight feature film “The Hateful Eight” is an indulgent pastiche which thrives on rampant disregard towards just about everything. The film has been a media sweetheart from the go, inspiring journalists to pen endless articles based on topics ranging from the upset caused by the leaked scripts, Taratino’s stubborn insistence on filming and screening on Ultra Panavision 70 and various quibbles between distributors and exhibitors. A solid groundwork of hype had been laid to pave the way to a masterpiece.

The vast snow-covered Colorado landscapes where the plot begins to unfold successfully reflect on the icy relationships and tough life of the characters inhabiting a space similar to the westerns of mid-20^th century. The cold and constant threat they must have been feeling is masterfully imbued in Robert Richardson’s justifiably Oscar-nomination worthy cinematography. When the distrustful band of strangers retire to Minnie’s Haberdashery for some shelter for an approaching snow storm, they are met with another band of similarly distrustful gentlemen. The visuals change gear at this point and start concentrating on the minute details of people’s faces for hints about their motives, plans and character. Due to the imminent force majeure they will all have to put up with each other in Minnie’s cosy abode filled with coffee and stew until the storm retreats. Having committed a sin and watched a digital screening of “Hateful Eight” due to the lack of more old-school options nearby, commenting on the benefits or wastefulness of Ultra Panavision 70 would be sheer speculation. Tarantino’s relentless stubbornness to stick to film is a laudable marketing ploy which gave temporary work to many highly-skilled projectionists, but it also adds a second layer which has nothing whatsoever to do with the film which starts overshadow the story itself.  Despite all that, it cannot be denied that “Hateful Eight” is a well-shot motion picture even without the crackle and noise of the projector. 

The story, on the other hand, fails to reach the heights of the visuals and fuss around Tarantino’s production choices. The chamber piece of eight stranded men in a cabin carried by mutual feelings of hate and distrust boils down to a few hours of leery glimpses and over-eager drawl. The feeling of encasing the whole of America in one room never really materialised for me, the eight characters never became anything more than distrustful strangers with not much interesting to say. The hints given to solve the mystery of what happened to Minnie or who is plotting against whom are very few and very odd. The jelly bean mystery, for example, drew to such a far-fetched conclusion that it might as well be called rubbish on the floor. Once the killing gets going in the very end (surely that is not a spoiler in a Tarantino film), it is like they had found the Necronomicon and put a bomb in a ketchup factory. There has always been some finesse, rhyme or reason to Tarantino’s endless killing scenes (even in “Kill Bill”), which seems to be completely absent from “The Hateful Eight”. Though some might consider this “wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am” approach to ending a film enjoyable and in tune with his general “don’t care” attitude, others might simply deem it lazy.

  “The Hateful Eight” is a flashy, glossy and stunning film with a bloated, lazy and brash plot. The film about the town musicians of Bremen gathering unwillingly in a pit stop in the middle of nowhere fails to enter into a discussion about the big overarching topics of mankind (justice, race, truth, etc) and does not delve deep enough into the nuances needed for a chamber murder mystery. “The Hateful Eight” is not as much a film as a phenomenon, because everything else around it (aura of the auteur, nostalgia for physical film, etc) is so much bigger and louder than the film itself. It is a film by a director who is trying to make a point and does not care what everyone thinks of it, but it seems that the film is just a medium to his message. The world is Tarantino’s oyster but “The Hateful Eight” is the shell instead of the pearl.