Revered photographer and artist Nan Goldin reflects on the events that shaped her craft and character, all the while fighting one of the most powerful families in America, in this challenging and poignant documentary.
Goldin is funny and unflinching, able to revisit trauma by tackling it head-on. Goldin delves into the loss of her sister at a young age, the ravaging effect of Aids on the queer subculture she was a part of in 70s New York, the political indifference that they faced as a result, and their reaction: to band together and speak truth to power.
The group that Goldin fell into in this social scene was comprised of artists, activists and outcasts. People who seemed to possess a knack for self-expression and a sense of humour. It was here that her artistic sensibilities were nurtured, turning the camera on a life largely unseen, laid bare and beautiful. We see part of the slideshows that she would show to crowds, the ever-changing series ‘The Ballad of Sexual Dependency’. In the documentary, we learn of her experiences with men and women, of domestic abuse, and sex work.
The scar that runs along the film however is Goldin’s own history with pain medication, namely OxyContin. Having battled addiction from this over-the-counter drug, and witnessed its destructive power, Goldin formed the group P.A.I.N. (Prescription Addiction Intervention Now) in 2017 with a group of likeminded people. Using her position in the art world to target the Sackler’s – the family and pharmaceutical empire often blamed for the opioid crisis in the United States – who have historically had their names in art galleries around the world. Here we see P.A.I.N as they infiltrate museums with elaborate signs and props, an artistic installation of sorts, that carries an important message, honouring the hundreds of thousands who have died in this epidemic.
Many of these reputable art houses would love to have the work of Goldin, but they get a little more than they bargained for.
Three lives are entwined in Brighton in the 1950s, a love triangle forming against a backdrop of criminalised homosexuality.
My Policeman jumps between the meeting of a young couple and their lives together decades later, retired in a coastal humdrum town. This is disturbed however by the presence of an old friend, now disabled and in need of care, unravelling dark secrets from their past.
Tom (Harry Styles) is the titular copper, unusually innocent and curious as noted by museum curator and amateur artist Patrick (David Dawson) who offers to draw his portrait after a chance meeting, marking the beginnings of a peculiar friendship. It is not long after this that Tom meets Marion (Emma Corrin) a plain but excitable teacher who is smitten but fears that the feeling isn’t reciprocated. This is part of the story mind, and not simply because of Styles’ acting which kills all chemistry that could have been.
In the present, Tom and Marion (now played by Linus Roache and Gina McKee) are in a loveless marriage that has become a stilted and depressing affair, highlighted by the arrival of old friend Patrick (Rupert Everett). As dull as it is bleak, these performances sadly don’t draw anymore interest than the cast of characters in the past.
The subdued love story is rather ordinary until some information is uncovered that sheds new light on this group, explaining why their lives are so fraught and joyless now. However, this isn’t enough to make the story interesting or the characters sympathetic.
As the excitement fades for the new lovers, it does for the film also, as we trudge through the sad reality of unexciting compromise and emptiness.
This past weekend I began the day with a booze-fuelled brunch, followed by afternoon cocktails and an evening BYO BBQ. The hangover came late on Sunday but the real pain lay in wait. I spent three days in agony before finally seeing a doctor to find out that I’d fucked the acidity levels of my stomach. This being my first visit in 17 years, Dr. Chang gives me some ulcer medication for what is more like acid reflux.
I pop a pill from my prescription and head straight to a screening of Peter Strickland’s latest: Flux Gourmet. Within the opening moments, the protagonist is diagnosed with something akin to acid reflux. He describes the same symptoms of trapped wind that I have been enduring, that I continue to endure, the pain as well as its social stigma. The audience laugh; I laugh. Bums and farts are undeniably funny, children know this instinctively. And still we chinstrokers of the dark guffaw, not at the sound of a particularly melodic or prolonged parp, but of a man describing the torture that he experiences abdominally in trying to avoid slipping one out.
Perhaps itslaughter in the absence of farts, laughter at the wondrous farts of our collective imagination. Or maybe it’s because we empathise and understand, we know the base level of humour, and therefore the inevitable shame. I for one know the fucking pain, I feel it pulsing inside me between laughs, a knot of tension that daren’t be untied in such a confined, public space. Still, on with the show.
Flux Gourmet is delightful.
Focussed on a Sonic Catering Institute and the culinary band they have in residence, it plays in this world whilst wringing out the tropes of bands whose members are filled with sexual tension and rivalry, pompous performance theatre and classic horror cinema – and yet never feels insincere.
Not so much tongue in cheek, but twitch at the lips, glint in the eye. At points it seems deadly serious, others extremely playful and yet the two are intrinsically bound.
Serious ideas, ailments, psychology and human drama are explored, purposefully encased in art that announces ahead of time that it is in on the joke, and you’re laughing at the wrong part. And yet that glint in the eye.
It is so stylistically imagined, so wonderfully composed and deliberate that it feels perfectly balanced. Kaleidoscopic Giallo nightmares are cemented in assurance by the score, pricked with occasional nonsense that allow you humorous relief, that sly wink that lets you in – it is carefully designed. This is no accident, which means there is masterful subtlety at work.
Unlike contemporary Yorgos Lanthimos, the absurdity here is just so, allowing you to forget the silliness of the world before being reminded with a bang, by the disgruntled culinary band The Mangrove Snacks as they throw a terrapin through the window. It flirts with the obscene and taboo, but once again puts it in a frame and strokes its chin before nudging you with its elbow, snickering under its breath.
Our narrator, the one diagnosed with a disturbance in his gut, is a portly Greek man who speaks in a bassy, confessional manner. Combined with the endless scarlet backdrops and food arrangements, it feels at times like Almodovar. Rather than comment on the events playing out before us, he talks of the torture of his own physical ailments – his endless discomfort revealed to the audience in confidence, but due to the nature of his complaint, and the flatulence that it entails, it is made comical. And yet this pain is real, and its depiction authentic. A Buñuellian raised eyebrow, a judgement we the audience must question ourselves.
Flux Gourmet combines many of the themes present in Stricklands former films, the middle segment of a Venn Diagram that contains horror, sex, food and death. It feels most like his previous film, especially in the way that it satirises the experience of shopping – with In Fabric dissecting clothes shopping as a kind of capitalist ritual, whereas this puts food shopping on a stage, drawing attention to minor shared experiences like some form of Lynchian observational comedy.
A documentary on a gigantic scale that targets the industrial machine of China, watching the flow of consumer goods and loss of individualism all through simple yet stunning observation.
Ascension opens to a sea of people in the street, jobseekers all being herded towards potential employers, the conditions announced through megaphones: 18-38, no tattoos, no hair-dye. One advertises a seated job, another offers standing, but both pay just over £1.50 an hour. Jessica Kingdon’s documentary sets out to show the industry of China by looking at the products being created, the people creating them, and the consumers who purchase them. There is no need for narration, the images speak volumes.
Inside the factories, we witness the mass-production of everyday items such as water bottles, aerosol nozzles and ‘Make America Great Again’ baseball caps. Like TV show How It’s Made, there is a great satisfaction in watching the rhythm of the machinery producing a never-ending stream of objects: the hypnotic flow and tessellation, but the remarkable thing is how the people working in these factories become extensions of the devices they operate, with their own endlessly repeating movements. The last sign of humanness almost lost in their shared vacant expressions.
At times the documentary appears as science-fiction, watching the absurd mundanity of people assembling sex-dolls from parts, their cartoonishly proportioned bodies laid-out, mangled and decapitated, as they are put together and painted to order. It is eye-opening, shocking but also bizarrely funny.
We also witness citizens being prepared for the service industry: young men learn how to become human shields for the security business, whilst others learn complete obedience in order to be a butler of Downton Abbey merit. Full conference rooms are lectured on how to succeed in the ‘fan economy era’ and amass a following by monetising their knowledge; whilst others are taught the correct way to hug and how many teeth should show when smiling (it’s the top 8 in case you were wondering.)
The sheer size and scale of this film creates a dwarfing spectacle that is both staggering and entrancing – it certainly makes for strange and wondrous entertainment.
Laura (Seidi Haarla) is a Finnish archaeology student in Russia living with Irina (Dinara Drukarova) her professor-turned-girlfriend. When the two of them are about to set off on a long-distance train from Moscow to Murmansk to see some ancient rock drawings, Irina flakes out, leaving Laura to go it alone.
Aboard the designated compartment on the train, she arrives to meet her brutish Russian cellmate Ljoha (Yuriy Borisov), who immediately pulls out a bottle of vodka and unsheathes a portable cup as though it were a knife. In the blink of an eye, he is wildly drunk and so out of control that Laura fears for her safety. But there’s no swapping carriages according to the icy ticket inspector: she is in it for the long haul.
The confinement of this space is framed and focused in such a way as to create uneasiness and establish a power dynamic, of a predator encircling his prey. Ljoha is muscular and menacing, he has a shaved head and a fixed scowl, though we will glimpse cracks in the facade as we spend more time with him. Through the relationship between Laura and Ljoha in this claustrophobic space, we are offered an idea of what is going on behind the macho ideal associated with Russian men.
Borisov is convincingly intimidating as Ljoha, but is able to let a childishness shine through, as Haarla contends with the many worries surrounding her as a true fish out of water. A strange and inviting chemistry is caught between the two of them as they drift further into the unknown.
Filled with tension but relieved with humour, this is an interesting and intimate film. Through the great performances and style of shooting, it explores a shifting vulnerability, adding depth and context to the much-seen archetypes of beauty and beast.
A Chinese man (Pak Hon Chu) and his son wander into a quiet bar in a small Finnish village looking for someone or something, no-one quite understands, and so he will patiently wait day after day until he finds someone who does. The patrons of the bar are simple folk, mostly older men accustom to their daily plate of sausage and potatoes. Little do they know that visitor Cheng is a chef and that food is a language that breaks all barriers.
The Finnish countryside lends a fairytale quaintness to this frothy tale of strangers coming together. Sirkka (Anna-Maija Tuokko), the owner of the bar, offers a room to Cheng and his son Niu Niu (Lucas Hsuan) – for which he repays by cooking for a busload of Chinese tourists who happen by. Not only turning a profit, but awakening something in the regulars, this becomes the basis of their arrangement.
Whilst it seems to be the perfect time to release a film about international relations, of compassion between cultures, the dynamic between Master Cheng and Sirkka appears horribly misjudged. Intended to be a light, life-affirming romance, their lack of chemistry tilts into toxicity. When Cheng announces that his son wants to go home, that his Visa has run out and he will be deported, Sirkka in a shocking show of complete self-centredness slams a door in his face, because she knows that business will slow down once again. The film appears to be unaware of just how intrusive and exploitative this supposed love-interest comes across.
Cheng himself is reduced to an antiquated stereotype – a quiet mystic who throws out simplified fortune-cookie teachings whilst knocking up dishes that can miraculously treat menstrual cramps and cancer. You’d think from the towns incredulity at the sight of chicken noodle soup that this village is so remote that it doesn’t have recipe books or the internet. If it weren’t for Niu Niu glued to his smartphone you’d think the film was from many decades past, at least then it would make more sense.
When Cheng admits to some of the bar patrons that he turned to alcohol after the death of his wife, they offer him a toast. In fact every scene following this, he is given alcohol. It seems the only thing keeping Cheng here is guilt by way of his captor and this tight-knit town. No wonder they don’t want to let him go, with his miracle cure broth.
English is the mode of communication between Cheng and the rest of town, so naturally as a second language it comes out a little broken on both sides, leaving little room for nuance. The humour that occurs from mispronunciation is the one joke that the film drives into the ground, and judging by the orientalism going on this is surely not an attempt at authenticity.
Struggling to cope after the death of his pregnant wife, Eric (Tom Hughes) escapes to a job as a shepherd on a remote Scottish island, becoming a prisoner to his own grief and guilt.
Taken to the uninhabited island on a small boat captained by an ominous, one-eyed woman (Kate Dickie) with a penchant for taxidermy, the ensuing horror couldn’t be more signposted until they reach his accommodation: a ramshackle cottage on the coast with no power or running water.
Eric must come to terms with what happened to his unfaithful wife (Gaia Weiss) and the impact it had on his relationship with his mother (Greta Scacchi), with only a journal and his dog Baxter for company. Eric’s repressed emotions will have him lose his grip on reality as dark hallucinations take shape – clues to the untold story that led him here. Thrown into the aftermath and having to make sense of the story through these visions, it is a simple story gradually told, but its power comes through the atmosphere and cinematography.
The island itself is caught in breath-taking wide shots that capture the desolation, the hilly landscape becoming positively Martian in moments, whilst the interiors become creakier and crumbling. The locations perfectly reflect the themes of the film, and continue to do so as Eric spirals. Much like recent maritime nightmare The Lighthouse, it uses the isolation as a springboard into grief and past trauma, with certain horrific images punctuating the routine in a rather shocking and inventive manner.
Chaptered like his journal, the film jumps to certain days on the island, although this stop-start rhythm does interrupt the momentum towards the end of the film. As it builds to a close, you realise that there wasn’t too much story to be revealed anyhow, and yet it manages to do a lot with such a simple idea.
From rags to riches; a silent movie megastar to a political voice; from abuser to family man – The Real Charlie Chaplin endeavours to shine a light on the many faces of this icon.
The film opens with the rush of Chaplin fever. A global sensation in which this bowler-hat wearing, toothbrush moustached Little Tramp character could be recognised anywhere, known as Charlot across some parts of Europe, or rather more tellingly as Professor Alcohol in Japan. This documentary looks at the creation of the character (plus the lawsuits surrounding) gives an overview of his films, and offers a few glimpses behind the curtain by way of reconstructed archive interviews, including a rare profile of the man himself.
Looking at Charlie’s destitute upbringing in East London, his drive for success in vaudeville and subsequent hit films, the parallels between his life on and off screen become very apparent and make the emotion of his performances all the more resonant. Whilst The Great Dictator was the first time he leant a voice to the Tramp, to combat the rising power of Adolf Hitler by preaching a message of love, it would also lead Chaplin to speaking out more publicly, landing him in the spotlight accused of being a Communist sympathiser.
The documentary deserves to be celebrated in the way that it tackles the dark and looming past of Chaplin and his relationships. Not treating the subject as simply scandal, but acknowledging the flawed man by way of his ex-wife’s testimony, it reveals accusations of serious abuse. Without dropping the thread of the film to demonise, or brush aside these accusations and continue to deify, the film admirably works this into the picture it has created thus far, accepting and separating the man from his work.
The title of the film suggests an exposé, but comes to rest on the fact that there is no one true account, instead offering a mosaic of information. Whilst the content is not too in-depth, it is always a pleasure to watch scenes from Chaplin’s iconic films and be reminded of the finessed brilliance of his slapstick comedy.
Despite the PSA at the start of the film insisting that ‘gremlins’ are just an excuse made for human error, Officer Maud Garrett (Chloë Grace Moretz) has herself a window seat on a B-17 Bomber where something doesn’t seem right.
Set in 1943, Garrett jumps aboard The Fool’s Errand on the runway, insisting to the incredulous crew that she is not only a member of the RAF, but intended for this vessel with shoebox-sized cargo that is fragile and completely confidential. With many clearly not having seen a ‘dame’ in some time, she is mocked, harassed and given the only available seat in the form of a turret below deck.
We spend the first half of the film crammed into this tight space with Maud listening to the rowdy lads above through the comms. By honing the focus on Maud and what she sees from this vantage point, the film makes a decision that is creatively minimal. The idea of ‘something on the wing of the plane’ has been seen before in The Twilight Zone, but here it is placed in the context of a small paranoid unit, willing to right off the warning of gremlins as female hysteria. And yet much like The Twilight Zone, the film manages to pack in a load of twists and turns along the way as Maud’s secrets begin to spill out.
Once the film reaches the midpoint, what seemed like a budgetary decision in the beginning is revealed as an artistic choice as impressive effects come into play. It may lose its horror film tension, but it is happy to change shape and shift genre, becoming more of a mindless monster movie with a feminist streak. Embracing its silliness the fun is hard to deny as things go full tilt and the laws of physics go out the window.
Olivia Colman stars as Leda Caruso, a middle-aged language professor taking her working holiday alone in Greece, finding a peacefulness that will very quickly evaporate. The fruit bowl in her apartment is mouldy, the apartment neighbours a working lighthouse, and some undesirables, from a villa just up the way, have taken over the beach.
Not shy of confrontation, Leda politely refuses when asked by the matriarch of this rowdy group of New Yorkers if she could make space for them, instigating a feud that underlies the rest of the film. Even when Leda helps to find the group’s young daughter when she goes missing, there remains an unshakeable tension.
Actor Maggie Gyllenhaal makes her debut as writer and director on The Lost Daughter, adapting Elena Ferrante’s novel of the same name. Through this complex central character, Gyllenhaal weaves together two timelines to explore reflections on motherhood, identity and regret.
Leda is self-assured, if not combative, so when she stands her ground, the young mother of the group, Nina (Dakota Johnson) takes an interest. This connection runs both ways as Leda observes Nina struggling with her young daughter, exasperated by her constant need of care and attention. These moments serve as a springboard into flashbacks, in which we see Leda 20 years earlier (played by Jessie Buckley), trying and failing to manager her independence and her two daughters. Through Leda’s exchanges with Nina, she is reckoning with her past self, offering reassurances, but edging ever closer to danger.
The film paints a picture of so-called ‘unnatural mothers’ enduring trials of parenthood that are messy and punishing, normalising these ideas and expanding the scope of female relationships on screen. An impressive piece of filmmaking with challenging characters and ideas, and solid performances across the board.