The alliteration in the title of “Good Grief,” Dan Levy’s feature film debut for Netflix, extends into the storytelling. Mawkish and moving, romantic and realist, it’s a story of loss, lamentation and life that allows Levy to stretch his wings as a writer, director and performer.
Levy plays Marc, an artist who put his career on semi-hold as his superstar writer husband Oliver’s (Luke Evans) sci fi fantasy novels topped the best-seller lists. Tragedy strikes as Marc hosts a holiday party in their beautifully appointed London apartment before Oliver jets off to Paris for a book signing at the Louvre.
Minutes after Oliver leaves the warm, fuzzy celebration, sirens fill the air and Marc’s worst fears are realized. Oliver has been killed in a car accident, just a block from their flat.
Shattered by the loss, and the recent death of his mother, Marc withdraws, save for the company of his two closest friends, ex-boyfriend Thomas (Himesh Patel) and loose-cannon Sophie (Ruth Negga).
“For such a meticulous person,” Marc says of Oliver, “he left behind one hell of a mess.”
With the American publishing company demanding a return on Oliver’s unfinished book advances, a careful study of the couple’s expenses reveal the writer kept a secret pied-à-terre in Paris. Curious, Marc invites Thomas and Sophie for a weekend visit to Paris as a thank you for helping him through a very difficult year. “This is where people come to have sex,” Sophie yowls as they lay eyes on Oliver’s secret getaway.
As the City of Lights twinkles appealingly in the background, the trio confront the ragged truths of messy relationships and forge a path forward.
“Good Grief” is a study in the good, the bad and the ugly of relationships, romantic and platonic. This isn’t like a sad episode of Levy’s sitcom “Schitt’s Creek” and it’s not a ten Kleenex weepie. It’s somewhere in between. There are funny moments (see Kaitlyn Dever’s inappropriate eulogy at Oliver’s funeral for example) and humorous lines, but they are tempered by the central trio’s journey to understand the melancholic messes they have made of their lives.
It’s a mix-and-match of love and sadness with subtle shadings of romantic and road trip comedy, but it never dims the stark light it shines on the realities of friendship. Hard questions are asked and addressed, but at the end it suggests these characters don’t have their acts together, because, really, who does?
It may not be the most original thought, but this is a promising feature film directorial debut that works best when it plays it simple. A scene of the three of them on a Ferris Wheel is revealing, sweet and funny, and Marc’s scenes with Theo (Arnaud Valois), a French man he meets at an art installation, despite some clunky dialogue (“Isn’t art kind of a commemoration of pain?”) are among the film’s best.
“Good Grief” is an open-hearted, amiable film that displays Levy’s abilities as a director. It’s a handsomely mounted movie with a keen eye for casting. Luke Evans is particularly well suited to play the movie’s McGuffin, and capitalizes on his modest screentime. Patel and Negga make the most of their sidekick roles and Paris looks beautiful. Most of all, however, it’s unafraid to defy the expectations we might have had for Levy’s follow-up to the success of his award winning “Schitt’s Creek.”
Few voices captured the liberation of UK punk rock like Poly Styrene’s otherworldly wail. Born Marianne Elliott-Said, she may have chosen her unusual stage name as a “send up of being a pop star,” but her voice and message were the real deal. A new documentary, “Poly Styrene: I Am A Cliché,” now in theatres and on VOD, aims to remind the world of a ground breaking artist whose legacy can be heard in the riot grrrl and Afropunk movements and beyond.
Based on a book by Styrene’s daughter Celeste Bell, the film is an intimate look at the Anglo-Somali legend through the eyes of her child. “My mother was a punk rock icon,” Bell says. “People often ask me if she was a good mum. It’s hard to know what to say.”
The story begins in 1957 with the birth of Marianne, daughter of a Scottish-Irish legal secretary and a Somali-born dock worker. Her indoctrination to punk rock came via a 1976 Sex Pistols concert. The music was a revelation that led to the name change and formation of X-Ray Specs, the five-piece band whose sole album, “Germfree Adolescents,” is considered a genre classic.
Styrene became a regular target for the press who ridiculed the braces on her teeth, her weight and unconventional clothing choices. Her record company, much to her displeasure, slimmed down her album cover photo as they tried to position her as a sex symbol for a new generation.
“I wasn’t a sex symbol,” she said, “and if anybody tries to make me one, I’ll shave my head tomorrow.” And she did, at Johnny Rotten’s house during a party.
Her songs asked questions most other acts on the pop charts weren’t willing or equipped to ponder. “When you look in the mirror do you see yourself?” she sings in “Identity,” a slice of musical anarchy that was a rebuke to the images the media tries to foist upon people in the public eye.
Styrene’s rocky relationship with fame, her youth and a failed solo album led to a divorce from the music business as drugs, depression and a misdiagnosis of schizophrenia touched her private life.
Filling in the gaps between nicely chosen archival film clips are readings from Styrene’s personal diaries by Ethiopian-Irish actor Ruth Negga and Bell’s personal recollections.
“Poly Styrene: I Am A Cliché” is an intimate film. Unlike most music biographies that focus on the sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll aspects of the story, this movie also weaves in the social history of Britain, mental health and fame, while maintaining a personal touch courtesy of Celeste Bell.
Bell looks beyond the image, the media-imposed identity of her mother, to find the rebel, the radical and the real person who struggled to determine where she fit into the world. The documentary, directed by Bell and Paul Sng, is a rarity, a movie about punk rock that casts its eyes beyond the musical anarchy to portray the real people behind it.
Set during the 1920s Harlem Renaissance, “Passing,” a new drama starring Tessa Thompson and Ruth Negga and now streaming on Netflix, is a story of childhood friends whose bond is threatened when they reconnect twelve years after school.
Based on the 1929 novel of the same name by Nella Larsen, “Passing” begins as Irene (Thompson), the upper-middle-class wife of Harlem doctor Brian (André Holland), is approached by former schoolmate Clare (Ruth Negga) in the lobby of a fancy hotel on a steamy hot New York afternoon. “Pardon me,” Clare says, “I don’t mean to stare, but I think I know you.” At first Irene doesn’t recognize her old friend. It has been years since they’ve spoken and Clare, with her bleached hair and eyebrows, is almost unrecognizable.
They get caught up, exchange stories, but time has passed and the former friends find they have little in common. Irene spends her time working as a volunteer fighting for the rights of Black people in her community. Clare, on the other hand, has been “passing” as white. Her husband John (Alexander Skarsgård) is a loudmouthed racist who has no idea about his wife’s racial identity. “Have you ever thought of what you’d do it John ever found out?” Irene asks.
Sensing trouble, buttoned-down Irene isn’t keen to rekindle the friendship but the charismatic wild card Clare ingratiates herself into the fabric of Irene’s carefully cultivated life with devastating results.
Director Rebecca Hall has carefully reconstructed the era of almost a century ago with exquisite period details, beautiful black-and-white photography and old fashioned, boxy 4:3 aspect ratio to examine very current explorations of race, identity and societal position. Thompson and Negga inhabit that world as they both deliver nuanced, introspective performances that are never overwhelmed by the film’s high style or themes.
“Passing” is an elegant, quiet film that allows for the leads to fully inhabit the characters and explore the interpersonal undercurrents that keep the story afloat. A fine mix of craft and emotion, “Passing” should appeal to the head and heart.
“Ad Astra,” a new space opera starring Brad Pitt, is not simply a journey into the universe but a trek into the star’s ability to keep the story earthbound while reaching for the stars.
Set in the very near future, “a time of hope and conflict,” “Ad Astra” stars Pitt as astronaut Maj. Roy McBride. His father, Clifford McBride (Tommy Lee Jones), went missing three decades before while travelling space, looking for alien life.
The younger McBride’s latest mission is his most important ever, both personally and professionally. Something or someone is sending deadly anti-matter surges toward the earth and NASA thinks they may be coming from McBride Sr’s lost spaceship. They send the stoic Roy, armed with a nuclear device, on a top-secret mission to Neptune to find out what’s going on.
As the stoic Roy hurtles through space his path his fraught with risk. But the most dangerous part of the trip isn’t battling moon bandits or intergalactic monkeys, it’s the journey into his own psyche.
A father and son twist on “Heart of Darkness,” “Ad Astra” is cerebral, humanist sci fi. It is more akin to films like “2001: A Space Odyssey” and Andrei Tarkovsky’s “Solaris” than the big budget space operas that tend to top the box office. It’s a solemn, meditative look at masculinity, isolation and emotional stoicism.
Pitt gives an understated but effective performance that relies on the subtlest of movements. McBride’s outward fortitude masks a tumultuous inner life, ripe with questions and muddled feelings. His training has taught him to stay even keeled—his pulse never raises above 80 even in the most stressful situations—but as he comes closer to Neptune and the possibility of being reunited with his father, cracks begin to appear in his carefully crafted facade. Pitt, in a largely non-verbal performance save for copious voiceover, shows his emotions through the cracks, allowing the character to reveal himself in the contemplative but compellingly unsettling way.
“Ad Astra”—which means “through hardships to the stars” in Latin—has all the hallmarks of a blockbuster, there’s a big star, beautifully shot action sequences by “Interstellar” cinematographer Hoyte Van Hoytema and the kind of end-of-the-world scenario the Avengers love, but it’s a heady one. It’s more concerned with what’s going on inside McBride’s head as what’s happening outside. Also, like so many blockbusters, it doesn’t know what to do with the female characters. Liv Tyler is glimpsed only through a screen and Ruth Negga, while always wonderful, is essentially an exposition machine. Still, the character study is spellbinding enough, thanks to Pitt’s performance, to maintain interest.
Imagine falling in love with someone, getting married and having a baby or two. For many people that is the dream but for Richard and Mildred Loving it was a nightmare of racism and injustice.
Based on a true story, “Loving” begins with Mildred Jeter (Ruth Negga), an African-American woman, telling her white boyfriend Richard Loving that she is pregnant. The place is a small county in Virginia, the year is 1958 and because the state’s anti-miscegenation laws made interracial marriage illegal, the pair skipped to neighbouring Washington, DC to tie the knot. “There’s less red tape there,” Richard says.
Soon word spreads and the pair are arrested in the middle of the night, rousted from a deep sleep for the crime of being married. “You know better, don’t you?” asks the Sheriff (Marton Csokas). “Maybe you don’t.” In exchange for a one year suspended sentence they either must divorce or leave the state and not return, together, for 25 years. “All we got to do is keep to ourselves for a while and this will blow over,” says Richard.
Reluctantly they leave for DC but when they return home to have their baby in secret they are arrested a second time. Told, “Cohabitating as man and wife is against the peace and dignity of the Commonwealth,” the pair leave Virginia permanently. Years later Mildred, inspired by the civil rights march on TV, writes a letter to Robert Kennedy, then the Attorney general, asking if he can have a look at their case. Kennedy forwards the letter to Bernie Cohen (Nick Kroll), a young American Civil Liberties Union lawyer, who formulates a risky plan to move the fight from a racist Virginia country court to the Supreme Court in a case that would alter the constitution of the United States. Richard eloquently and potently sums up the defense in one simple sentence: “Tell the judge I love my wife.”
“Loving” is an important slice of American history told in a quiet, heartfelt way. Director Jeff Nicholls doesn’t clog up the story with dialogue. Instead he follows the first rule of filmmaking, show me, don’t tell me. For instance, when Mildred and Richard leave Virginia for the less-than-bucolic DC, the looks on the actor’s faces tell the tale, no words required. He allows the performances to underscore the potency of the story. Watch the way Mildred and Richard respond to one another physically after the arrests. Their tentative public displays of affection shows the fear that comes along with being told your relationship is illegal and wrong. It’s subtle, beautiful acting.
In private they can be themselves. A recreation of a Life Magazine photo of the real couple sitting together, laughing, watching TV is charmingly realized. It’s warm and intimate, the very picture of a happy couple who have put their hardships aside for a fleeting moment.
“Loving” is a understated movie. Some have suggested it may have benefitted from a bit more anger, but that, for me, would feel like a betrayal to the characters who fight the good fight with dignity and love.
The movie is simultaneously a powerful look at a different time and, when it asks, “What is the danger to the state of Virginia from interracial marriage?” a timely and universal reminder that Loving v. Virginia was just one of many steps humanity has to take before everyone is afforded fundamental rights.
Peter Jackson may have exhausted the Tolkien catalogue with his “Lord of the Rings” and “Hobbit” movies, but for moviegoers with a taste for JRR’s brand of fantasy along comes “Warcraft.”
Based on the video game series and novels of the same name, the Duncan Jones film is set in the world of Azeroth, a realm blessed by titans and home to humans and all manner of mythical creatures, including elves, dragons and everything in between. Lush and peaceful, it’s ruled by homo sapiens, the kindly king and queen (Dominic Cooper and Ruth Negga).
The warrior Orc clan homeworld of Draenor, on the other hand, is the polar opposite. A dying dominion, it’s led by warlock Gul’dan (Daniel Wu) and Warrior-In-Chief Blackhand (Clancy Brown) who use a mysterious portal—“the Great Gate!”–to bring unrest, terror and a mighty army called the Horde to Azeroth. “This is a new time,” growls Gul’dan. “The time of the horde. Be feared or be few!”
In the midst of the mayhem are the Orc give-peace-a-chance chieftain Durotan (Toby Kebbell), his pregnant, swashbuckling mate Draka (Anna Galvin) and Garona (Paula Patton), a half human, half Orc who leans toward her human side while exercising her Orcian charms.
For a film that cost as much as this one did “Warcraft” sure looks a lot like Halloween at a Cos Play Convention, fake fangs and all. It has all the primal elements of any epic story—good, evil, betrayal, birth, death, biblical references, honour and even terrifying glowing eyes—but it also has distinct b-movie feel that hangs over the whole thing like like a shroud. There’s an unmistakeable campy aura that must be intentional although in my heart I suspect it isn’t.
For instance, when one of the Guardian keepers of the wisdom is flummoxed by a mysterious gizmo and says, “It’s never done that before,” he sounds less like a mystical being and more like my grandfather trying to figure out why the App Store won’t load on his iPad. It’s funny, but probably unintentionally so.
With all the faux gravitas of a Steve Reeves epic, “Warcraft” is more Dungeons And Dragons than Tolkien. As it plods on toward the end credits it only reinforces a long held belief of mine: videogames are videogames, movies are movies and never the twain shall meet. It’s becoming more and more obvious that sourcing videogames as the inspiration for films is as effective as pulling stories from the backs of milk containers. They are two different art forms and perhaps should stay that way.
I admired Duncan Jones’s last two films, “Moon” and “Source Code,” but this time out he’s crafted a movie that is most entertaining as an excuse for a “how many times did I look at my watch” drinking game.
