Wails of a Waning Friendship

Some of you may get a little excited by the film I’m reviewing today – it features both bush and dick. . . get your minds out of the gutter everyone, this is obviously a look at the 2018 Academy Award Best Picture nominee Vice, written and directed by comedic turned dramatic filmmaker, Adam McKay. After reading the introduction describing the difficulties of making a film on one of the most secretive politicians in the history of the American political landscape – the one and only Dick Cheney (Christian Bale), the picture plays up its documentary style approach, jumping around more than a hyperactive kid playing hopscotch – from 9/11 to the distant past of 1963, only to bounce to 1969 – you get the idea.

An out-there European director, Yorgos Lanthimos has made waves with controversial pictures like Dogtooth, The Lobster, and The Killing of a Sacred Deer – intriguing, confounding, frustrating, and mesmerizing audiences worldwide. Now, he has made his first foray into a more mainstream style of film making with the 2018 period piece The Favourite (the first picture he and longtime co-scribe Efthymis Filippou did not write – in this case, an excellent story by Deborah Davis and Tony McNamara) – though, one thing is for sure, you cannot take the eccentric out of the Greek filmmaker. Nominated for ten Academy Awards (including Best Picture, Best Achievement in Directing, and a slew of others), the first thing immediately noticeable is the feature’s striking visual style. Intricately measured and visually opulent (most of it is shot in Hatfield House, Hertfordshire, England), it is often symmetrically framed, a very formal seriousness to the playful story. Like the structured beauty of a perfectly danced waltz, everything is in its place, the camera moving with its characters always in their position, Lanthimos often utilizing a quick 180 degree pan pirouette to provide the viewer with a quick shot of the opposing perspective. Speed is also tinkered with, slow motion and a quicker frame rate adding to the film’s mesmerizing quality. Also worth noting, every once in a while there is a fascinating use of a sort of fish-eye lens-style shot – providing a distorted, arced look to this lavish, gilded world. Hand in hand with this is the exquisite cinematography, director of photography Robbie Ryan shooting almost the whole picture with available natural light (the sun, candles, fireplaces and torches providing an eerie, romantic, and realistic vibe, adding to Lanthimos’ trance-inducing visual style).

There is something special while watching an excellent drama and realizing, perhaps before, or maybe only after the credits role, that a director known almost exclusively for comedy has deftly made the genre switch. Think Jerry Zucker (from Airplane! and writing/producing The Naked Gun franchise to Ghost), Jay Roach (the Austin Powers and Meet the Parents franchises to Trumbo), or Adam McKay (Anchorman and Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby to The Big Short and this year’s Vice). . . and the newest member to enter this club: Peter Farrelly – making the jump from Dumb and Dumber and There’s Something About Mary to 2018's Academy Award Best Picture nominee, Green Book. A tale near and dear to its writer, Nick Vallelonga (it is also co-written by Brian Hayes Currie and Peter Farrelly), Nick is the son of the film’s main character, Tony ‘Lip’ Vallelonga (Viggo Mortensen). Set in the early 1960s, Tony is an Italian American New Yorker, working as a ‘public relations’ expert for The Copacabana (i.e. a rough and tumble bouncer) – a pudgy bull-shitter who acts first and asks questions later.

What would you do if you knew the end of days was nigh? Maybe you’d relish in your memories of the good old times, or revel in the anarchy going on around you. . . perhaps you’d party the night away, then go out in a blaze of suicidal glory just to spite a foregone conclusion? ? ? These are some of the topics covered in the Canadian understated-apocalyptic Indie dramedy Last Night (1998). Written, directed and starred in by Don McKellar (his first feature film; also the scribe of the fascinating picture The Red Violin), he litters Canada’s largest city, Toronto, with not only trash (and a few remaining stragglers), but also a simple melancholic poignancy, a dry and awkward humour that covers up the anguish that the ‘New Year’s Eve-like countdown to the end’ brings with it. McKellar’s take on the “2000, Seen By” project (which had filmmakers looking at the approaching excitement and fears of the Millennium), had him making the wise choice of depicting 2000 as the end of the world (rather than a current fad that would have it feeling passé almost immediately after the fact).

Ah, the good old days. . . when you could drive around drunk, blowing chunks out of the window along the way. Of course, I’m being facetious, but this folly-filled sequence, set in an era when this happened more than anyone would like to remember (the 1970s), is a lead in to the first of two cruxes at the centre of the politically incorrect leaning titled feature, Don’t Worry, He Won’t Get Far on Foot (2018) – co-written and directed by Gus Van Sant. Centred on John Callahan (Joaquin Phoenix), the fateful sequence finds him in the passenger seat while said vomiter, Dexter (Jack Black), drives them to their next alcohol-fuelled party – falling asleep at the wheel, the brutal accident leaves Callahan a paraplegic.

Conniving, chaos, cruelty, and paranoia – four words that aptly describe today’s film. . . and, whose first letters provide a hint as to the setting: that’s right – CCCP. The Death of Stalin, Armando Iannucci’s 2017 comedic spin on the historical event, follows in the vein of his BBC series The Thick of It and HBO show Veep, as well as his film In the Loop, a razor sharp political satire with quick banter, clever wordplay, and a more than interesting topic. Of course, if you know the work of Iannucci, it will be quite obvious that the lexicon of such a film is much more expansive than the four words used to open the piece – fear and power also come to mind. Going hand in hand, it is this power through fear that has Andreyev (Paddy Considine), a theatre manager that has not recorded a broadcast that Josef Stalin (Adrian McLoughlin) now wants a copy of, panicking to keep the band and audience in their seats to do it all over again. . . it is also the same dread that steers Stalin’s guards to stand pat after hearing a thump from within the leader’s room – when in actuality, the dictator is slowly dying, steeped in his own urine. It is this irony, and grey area comedy, that comes from a pitch dark premise – finding an absurd humour in the disturbing story.