The Renaissance Issue

Editor’s Note Welcome to The Renaissance Issue!

We are so excited to present our second issue of the academic year and the last of 2020!

The Renaissance Issue celebrates cinema as an art form, examines ideas of rebirth and reinvention, and looks at the re-emergence of certain genres, directors and actors. Within these 46 pages you’ll find a range of tributes to films and TV shows that are guaranteed to keep you busy over the Christmas holidays.

I’m well within my time as Editor now and am constantly delighted by the enthusiasm and dedication our contributors have for cinema. This issue in particular has been an absolute joy to put togetherthe nature of the theme opens it up to many different forms of interpretation, and I know you will enjoy reading these wonderfully varied pieces.

The absence of our regular press screenings has contributed to this year being a very unprecedented one for cinema in general and for the magazine, but our contributors have risen to the challenge and proved that where there is a passion and a commitment, there is a way.

We have also included exerpts from our Freshers’ Beginnings series, which invited both seasoned and first time contributors to explore their favourite firsts in cinema, and our coverage of the IFI Film Festival. Both of these are posted in full on our website, which I encourage you to check out.

Stay safe and warm, and see you in the new near!

Emily Thomas 1

Editor/Design and Layout: Emily Thomas Deputy Editors: Peter Horan, Markéta Ní Eithir, Mia Sherry Contributors: Aoife Cronin Cáit Murphy Cathal Eustace Catherine Callahan Cían Donohoe Dearbhla Shirt Emily Thomas Gillian Doyle Grace Kenny Hana Rae Quinn Jane Loughman Jessica Allen Joey Fanthom Kate L. Ryan Katie Lynch Markéta Ní Eithir Mia Sherry Niamh Muldowney Nina Cullen Oz Russell Peter Horan Ruby Thomas Saoirse Mulvihill Savvy Hanna Seamus Conlon Seirce Mhac Congail Zahar Hryniv

Saouvre

Cinemas p45

This publication is funded partly by The DU Trinity Publications Committee.This publication claims no special rights or privileges. All serious complaints may be directed towards chair@trinitypublications.ie or Chair, Trinity Publications, House 6, Trinity College, Dublin 2. Appeals may be directed to the Press Council.

Get involved with Trinity Publications on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, or email secretary@trinitypublications.ie

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Streaming Gems His House The King of Comedy Fact or Fiction?

Renaissance Edition Iconic Director Pablo Larraín Overrated/Underrated La Belle et La Bête Manchester by the Sea Adapting Anne The Never-Ending Story Little Women Rebecca Wuthering Heights Twilight: The Revamp Shakespeare on Screen My Own Private Idaho 10 Things I Hate About You Ran Iconic Shot An American in Paris Genre Renaissance Horror The Makeover Trope The Comeback Kid Shia LaBeouf Jonah Hill A Portrait of the Artist Springsteen on Broadway The Artist and Swinging London on Film Turn it Around: The Story of East Bay Punk IFI French Film Festival Beginnings Reviews The Crown, Another Round, Hillbilly Elegy, Uncle Frank

Contents

12 Issue 2

Volume

HIS HOUSE New to Netflix is Remi Weekes’ directorial debut, His House (2020). A surprisingly poignant horror, it adopts craftily spiritual scares as a means to depict the experience of two asylum seekers in an English town they don’t know the name of. The pair are struggling not only with their attempt to be “reborn” in England but equally the extreme trauma they’ve endured in fleeing 3

war-torn South Sudan.

The scares are introduced almost immediately after our two protagonists (Rial Majur (Wunmi Mosaku) and her husband Bol Majur (Ṣọpẹ Dìrísù)) and are extraordinarily strong for the first half of the film. However, they eventually take a backseat to make room for the story in the latter half and understandably so, as the horror is only a tool used to drive home emotionally the experience for the audience. Even if

you are not a fan of scares, I still urge you to see this film.

It is not a horror movie made exclusively for horror fans. It is an invitation to discuss the lack of support for refugees suffering from PTSD, survivor’s guilt and the abandonment of asylum seekers by the system first, and an emotionally impactful horror movie second.

SAOIRSE MULVIHILL

THE KING OF COMEDY Painful, disturbing and frustrating. Hardly sounds like a fun time at the movies, right?

Let me assure you, The King of Comedy (Martin Scorsese, 1982) is still worth your watch. While unemotional and at times surreal, Scorsese brilliantly portrays the mental anguish of a lonely, conflicted character called Rupert Pupkin (Robert De Niro) in his quest to become a famous comedian.

For most of the movie the viewer is put off-balance: from the awkward, close

camera angles to Pupkin’s At its core, this story is about psychopathic persona cynian ignored man who faced cally masked by a smiling, a traumatic childhood and friendly face. Spending rightfully deserves his name most of his time in a state being spelt and pronounced of imagined self-importance correctly (it’s P-u-p-k-i-n). and celebrity-worship of TV But it is also about a man star Jerry Langford, Pupkin who manipulates and fails stalks, pesters, and seeks to see the amoral nature of to please the one person he his actions. Any redeeming wants to emulate most in life. qualities I tried to find in His journey for recognition is this character were ultimaterejected time and time again. ly flawed or their accuracy Pupkin remains in denial, contested by the events in continuing to believe he’s a the film. So perhaps Puffkin genius. We soon realise he deserves his name being miswill stop at nothing to get spelt after all. the societal attention he so desperately craves.

ZAHAR HRYNIV

FACT OR FICTION? 4th Year Art History student Dearbhla Shirt investigates the history and the hearsay of Renaissance cinema.

My esteemed colleague, the editor, asked me to write this article because she values my knowledge of the Renaissance. Unfortunately for her, that faith is misplaced, but I took it on and did my research and here we are. Below are four reviews of films and shows that are set in/are about the Renaissance. The quality varies, the accuracy varies, but my hard-hitting honesty is ever constant.

THE DA VINCI CODE (RON HOWARD, 2006) I had never seen this movie before writing this article, but it has been referenced so much in my life that I was actually excited to watch it. When it was added to Netflix recently, I saw Instagram stories by my friends, elated that their favourite movie was now available to stream.

We started off well, with intrigue and murder in the Louvre. I spotted The Oath of the Horatii, and Salome with the Head of St John. Even the crime scene referenced Leonardo’s sketch of the Vitruvian man! After these first ten minutes, however, the plot descended into preposterous theory, allegory, and pure confusion at times. There were innumerable plot holes. My favourite character was Silas (Paul Bettany), the evil blond monk; what does that say about a movie that stars Tom Hanks, America’s supposed sweetheart? The central theory of Mary Magdalene I did enjoy, however flawed it was. Some historic facts were smattered in here and there, usually in the form of flashbacks: not all true, but many based on reality. At the end of the day, as I was expecting, this film is a complete fiction.

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ELIZABETH (SHEKHAR KAPUR, 1998) God bless this film. Although Elizabeth’s reign is at the very end of the Renaissance, I am still going to count it because continental culture was always slow to reach the British Isles: for example, Botticelli’s Birth of Venus was painted almost 100 years before Elizabeth’s reign. Now go google Elizabethan art.

The visuals in this film are sublime. The costumes, sets, and props are beautiful, and Cate Blanchett and Geoffrey Rush are perfect in their roles. This is how you do religion-based political intrigue. Again, we have a murderous monk! Although British history is not my strong point, I am fairly sure that this film is mainly fact-based, although heavily romantiMEDICI (2016-2019), cised. In any case, I strongly recommend this “Blood with Blood” film and, if you like it, The Other Boleyn Girl (Justin Chadwick, 2008) has been I had never seen this show before being asked to recently added to Netflix if you need write this article, but think I might start watching it. your Tudor fix.

It will not appeal to all audiences, but if you have seen and liked BBC’s Merlin (2008-2012), you will probably like this. The drama is so over-the-top that it feels like amateur theatre. I admit I was confused for much of the episode as I had zero context of the plot line, but I chose it because it features my dissertation painting – and who could blame me? I need all the help I can get. Although this show is visually everything I want it to be, it is only very loosely based on facts. Women having this much agency?

Complete fiction. Botticelli being good-looking? I don’t think so – his name literally means “little barrel”. But still, I couldn’t help falling in love with the DOCTOR WHO (2005-), character of Clarice (Synnøve Karlsen). So, overall, “Vampires of Venice” I would recommend this show.

I think it’s safe to say that we aren’t expecting this to be factual. But it is entertaining. Matt Smith is in first place as my favourite Doctor – tied with David Tennant. Amy (Karen Gillan) is also an amazing character, one of the best assistants. The costumes in this episode are to die for. Pearls, satin, brocade, I am drooling.

Doctor Who has always done sets and costumes extremely well, otherwise the premise of the show – time travel – would be impossible.

If we ignore the storyline of vampires stealing and converting the young women of 16th century Venice, this setting actually feels plausible to me.

If you are a Doctor Who fan, watch this episode.

Get yourself in that Renaissance groove and enjoy this issue of Trinity Film Review.

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Pablo Larraín has made a name for himself as one of the most influential directors of the last twenty years. Not for the faint-hearted, his work is gritty, sometimes disturbing and often darkly funny. From his debut Fuga (2006) to his recent foray into Hollywood cinema Jackie (2016) and his latest Ema (2019), Larraín examines the effects of trauma and creates a pervasive feeling of displacement and isolation.

Larraín was born in Santiago, Chile to right-wing parents who vocally supported the Pinochet regime. The comparative luxury of his upbringing and subsequent cinematic focus on those who suffered under the dictatorship have made him no stranger to controversy, and his position as a representative of the struggle was heavily criticised upon the release of his dictatorship trilogy Tony Manero (2008), Post Mortem (2010) and No (2012). These three films are set between the years 1973 and 1990 and chart the effects of oppression on everyday life. In response to his critics Larraín has since spoken about the guilt that his upbringing sparked in him, and the necessity of exposing these horrors in his filmmaking.

Larraín is known for his long-term collaborations. Alfredo Castro, a prominent figure in Chile’s theatre scene, has appeared in all but two of Larraín’s films, and the director has more recently collaborated with Mexican superstar actor/producer Gael García Bernal. Larraín has also worked with Chilean actor Amparo Noguera as well as his wife Antonia Zegers many times, giving his eight films a fluid sense of interconnection, almost like instalments in a series. In producing Sebastian Lelio’s A Fantastic Woman (2017), Gloria (2013) and the English language remake Gloria Bell (2018),

he has established himself as a versatile and invaluable player in both national and international cinema.

Larraín’s latest film Ema marks a return to Chile after a stint in Hollywood with Jackie. It follows Ema, a young dancer, in her attempt to reunite with her adoptive son.

The film is emblematic of Larrain’s adaptability: the fusion of performance art and Reggaeton music has evoked comparison to a music

“Cinema is always a political act.”

Pablo Larraín video. My introduction to Larraín came with Ema at the 2019 Venice Film Festival; sleep-deprived and sunburnt, the outlandish film made an indelible impression on me at 8:30 in the morning.

Looking for a way into Larraín’s work? Start with Neruda (2016), an uncharacteristically light cat-andmouse noir following the eponymous poet and his escape from Chile in the 1940s, in which Gael García Bernal shines as a comedically villainous detective. Also, watch out for his newest film Spencer, a focus on Lady Diana starring Kristen Stewart that is set to begin production in 2021.

One thing is certain: Larraínaissance has only just begun, and I encourage you to come along for the ride.

EMILY THOMAS

LA BELLE ET LA BÊTE Jean Cocteau’s La Belle et la Bête (1946) is a noir dreamscape resurrecting the 1757 de Beaumont short story, Beauty and the Beast.

Our familiar tale is grown-up in this rendition, with no Disney anthems or talking furniture to spin us away from the conflict at hand. When Belle’s father (Marcel André), lost in the forest, finds refuge in a fantastical castle, he insults his beastly host by retrieving a rose for his dearest daughter.

La Bête (Jean Marais) presents the father’s dual fates: that he should die, or send one of his daughters in his place. The ever-devoted Belle (Josette Day) assumes the responsibility; instead of death, she is made lady of the house and kept its prisoner.

Beyond the increasingly popular, ruin-your-childhood reading of Stockholm Syndrome into the fairy tale, a huge issue at play is the dichotomy between masculinity and femininity in a world crafted by Cocteau as a gay director in the forties. We know the Beauty and the Beast tale holds themes of transformation, from Belle turning from Cinderella-esque to regal, to the Beast’s ultimate transformation into a prince. Cocteau’s exploration of the theme of rebirth

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through his personal lens, though, is what makes this film so underrated.

ity, a second necklace is dropped from above the frame at the same time. Seamless.

Upon the film’s opening, Cocteau’s handwritten title cards ask us to suspend our adult rationality and believe in magical elements.

As characters wade through murky woods and haunted corridors, grey tones pulsate to give the film a rhythmic, dreamlike quality. The noir lighting is made even more mystical by the highlights sparkling in the character’s hair, wardrobe, and scenery within the castle. This is not to mention Cocteau’s ingenious sleight-ofhand visual effects. When Belle’s father enters the castle, the camera moves fluidly down the darkened hallway, as a reverse motion shot illuminates the candelabras, each postured by disembodied arms. A dreamlike first look at the castle is critical for Belle as well, and one of the most notable scenes comes as she, pulled by a trolley mechanism, floats along a moondrenched hallway as pearlescent window drapes billow around her.

My personal favourite effect has no more tact than a card trick, and it gets me every time. Belle’s pearl necklace turns to string in her vain sister’s hand; it is tossed to the ground and miraculously transforms back to pearls. In real-

We know la Bête is the favored suitor, as opposed to the toxically masculine Gaston-type, Avenant. Yet la Bête is effeminately dressed in velvety, glittery capes and is subservient to Belle. Belle is presented as a femme fatale, powerful with this male suitor kneeling at her altar. This is not de Beaumont’s straight-laced fairy tale, nor does it shy away from modernity with a director who so boldly for his time asserted that “art is born of the coitus between the male and female elements in all of us.” Perhaps la Bête’s rebirth is the most blatant to us as, reanimated and newly human, he ascends to his ethereal kingdom with Belle by his side. Yet rebirth is not just a change in appearance because, frankly, Belle is not all that pleased with the beast turning into the image of the vain Avenant. The real rebirth is our realisation that Prince Charming is not all that great; that a status quo tale through new eyes can have completely new implications about gender, and that La Belle et la Bête is anything but a children’s movie you should pass up.

CATHERINE CALLAHAN

MANCHESTER BY THE SEA Manchester by the Sea (2016) is Kenneth Longergan’s tragic redemption drama: a story of Lee (Casey Affleck), a working-class janitor whose life is destroyed by a soul-crushing accident. Lee is summoned back to Manchester after he learns that his brother, Joe (Kyle Chandler), has died of congestive heart failure. As Lee cares for his grieving nephew, Patrick (Lucas Hedges), reminders of his past life and family tragedy haunt him. Ultimately, he must make a choice between his familial duty and the staggering debt he owes to the past. This critically-acclaimed film is set against the backdrop of the director’s (and my) home town: Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts.

This film shines in its intimate and well-framed cinematography and pacing. Scenes of granite causeways, grey seascapes, and tidily-arranged colonial homes grant depth and realism to its setting. Snarky and sarcastic New England humour instantly lends credibility to Longergan’s writing which he uses to raise the question: what do we owe the dead?

The subdued colour palette of

the oppressive winter is haunting and beautiful, flecked with vibrant dashes of orange, red, and blue that draw the viewer into the world. However, where the camerawork shines, the authenticity of Lonngergan’s writing falls short as he makes use of the stark New England winter and colourlessness of the landscape to express the melancholic feelings of his less-than-believable characters.

Lonergan seems desperate to present a certain image of the working-class of his home town: one where the sharp economic contrasts between coastal New Englanders do not exist but psychological ones do. The working-class characters own their boats and cars, have paidup houses, and fine healthcare.

However, they seem to be trapped in a spiral of self-destructive behaviour. Upscale reviews like The New Yorker overrate Manchester by the Sea because it reaffirms their view of the East Coast, white, working-class: a view that is trapped in a cycle of seeming self-abasement. Lee chooses his circumstances, but he is deeply flawed. He takes on menial jobs because he feels that he deserves them. What Lonergan seems to

suggest here should disturb you: his class is a result of psychosis.

Lee’s character arc, therefore, comes off as a bizarre social commentary and alienates viewers from the coastal towns Lonergan depicts in the film.

Despite its failings, you should still watch this movie. The understated use of scenery is unique, subtle, and makes for beautiful cinematography. Overall, take the writing with a grain of salt. Understand the position from where Longergan is writing: that of a successful screenplay writer and not of a working-class lobsterman. The real Manchester, MA is an upper-class enclave known by its neighboring towns for its generally patronising and privileged townsfolk. The ethos of the director’s home town bleeds into his writing style as he struggles to portray a lifestyle which he does not understand. Manchester by the Sea should be celebrated for its depiction of grief, embodied in colour and sound, but perhaps admonished for its heavy-handed approach to the issue of class and psychology.

SEAMUS CONLON

Henry VIII’s infamous second wife, who was a driving force behind the English Reformation and became the first queen of England to be executed, has been the subject of many film and TV adaptations over the past 100 years. From Ernst Lubitsch’s silent 1920 film Anna Boleyn, to the recently announced mini-series starring Queen and Slim (Melina Matsoukas, 2019) actor Jodie Turner-Smith, Anne Boleyn has held a fascination for every generation. Depictions of her have ranged from an innocent pawn in a dangerous game, to a scheming, manipulative she-devil, to a powerful woman ahead of her time. Below are three of the most famous adaptations of her life, each having a slightly different take on the queen’s eventful life and tragic death.

Anne of the Thousand Days (Charles Jarrot, 1960) Genevive Bujond For many, this is the quintessential Anne Boleyn performance, as Bujond brings to the character a restless energy, ambition and dignity that struck a chord with 1960s audiences and strongly influenced Boleyn’s image for decades to come.

Its impact can be seen in films such as Henry VIII (Pete Travis, 2003), in which Helena Bonham Carter plays a very similar Anne Boleyn to Bujond, who is initially horrified by the idea of being with the King (Richard 11

Burton), but is won over by the promise of power. Despite that not being a customary motivation for a heroine (particularly if love isn’t involved), Bujond creates a sympathy and admiration for the character that lasts up until the very end and doesn’t have the audience doubting for one second that we are on her side.

The Other Boleyn Girl (Justin Chadwick, 2008) Natalie Portman Despite getting first billing, Natalie Portman’s Anne Boleyn is not the protagonist of this film, but instead, as the title suggests, it is her sister Mary (Scarlett Johanson) who we follow throughout the story.

Much like the novel it is based on, The Other Boleyn Girl is plagued with historical inaccuracies, and strongly reinforces the Madonna/Whore trope.

Portman’s Anne is a self-centred, mean, greedy woman, who is juxtaposed with her more virginal, loving and religious sister. She manages to manipulate those around her in order to gain power, but is ultimately punished for this with death.

While historical accuracy isn’t always crucial, it is interesting to observe what writers decide to change. The fact that Philippa Gregory and The Crown’s Peter Morgan (novelist and screenwriter respectively) perceived a powerful historical woman as spiteful and cruel (and even capable of incest) with next to

no redeeming qualities, shows that we have luckily made some steps forward in cinematic portrayals of strong women since 2008.

The Tudors (Michael Hirst, 2007-2010) Natalie Dormer Arguably the most recognisable and recent depiction of Boleyn, Dormer gave fresh popularity to Tudor history with her portrayal of the doomed queen in the first two seasons of The Tudors. While Anne is initially little more than a sexy mistress, the second season gives the character much more depth, allowing Dormer to shine as the complex and fascinating queen.

Her mixture of strength and vulnerability makes Dormer’s Anne a pleasure to watch, even if the depiction of her relationship with Henry (Jonathan Rhys Meyers) is more problematically romantic than most.

Thanks to the series format, The Tudors spends plenty of time with Anne both as a popular and successful figure at court at the start of her three-year reign, as well as during her downfall at the hands of her husband and the men who despise her.

Dormer’s unapologetic determination and dignified, yet heartbreaking, vulnerability humanise the historical figure in a way that has rarely been done before, making her performance one of the most memorable portrayals of a powerful woman on screen.

Adapting

Anne

MarkĂŠta NĂ­ Eithir charts an enduring cinematic fascination with the Tudor queen.

LITTLE WOMEN One of the most prominent criticisms levelled at contemporary cinema revolves around its supposed lack of originality. With an increasing focus on remakes, reboots, and franchises, there seems to have been a Starbuckification of the film industry, in

which creativity and innovation are subordinated to familiarity and factory-line efficiency. It’s true that, with every Fast and Furious sequel and Spider-Man reboot, Hollywood inches closer to a near-total state of homogeneity, but that doesn’t mean that every kind of remake and reinvention should be dismissed. It is

worth analysing why certain stories are revisited again and again; what draws us back in? What differences can we discern, for example, between Seven Samurai (Akira Kurosawa, 1954) and The Magnificent Seven (John Sturges, 1960)? Why is Luca Guadagnino’s Suspiria (2018) almost an hour longer than Dario Argento’s 1977 original?

Such considerations bring one of the most commonly adapted texts in film history to mind: Louisa May Alcott’s 1868 novel, Little Women. This moving tale of the four March sisters – Meg,

Why do certain stories get told again and again?

Three of our contributors investigate.

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Jo, Beth, and Amy – has been realised on film on seven separate occasions, from Alexander Butler’s (now lost) silent film in 1917 to Greta Gerwig’s much-admired adaptation of 2019. It has also frequently inspired television adaptations, with the BBC alone offering four different versions between 1950 and 2017 (the latter marked Maya Hawke’s acting debut). Despite this glut of interpretations, with George Cukor’s 1933 film (starring Katherine Hepburn) and Gillian Anderson’s 1994 version (featuring Winona Ryder, Susan Sarandon, and Christian Bale) proving particularly popular, the quality and subtle innovation of Gerwig’s piece still justifies its existence alongside previous incarnations of the novel.

On the one hand, there is a certain pleasure that arises from watching a well-known – and well-loved – story, brought to life once more by the actorly sparring between Saoirse Ronan’s Jo and Timothée Chalamet’s Laurie.

On the other, however, Gerwig’s unique interventions should not be overlooked. She offers a refreshingly sympathetic view of the oft-maligned Amy (Florence Pugh), with her speech about women’s struggle for autonomy and recognition regrettably ringing true to this day. Furthermore, choosing to jettison the linear chronology of Alcott’s text, she intercuts between two stages of the sisters’ lives in a manner which maximises the emotional potency of the film. Significantly, it is also genuinely funny, while Alexandre Desplat’s delightful score and Yorick Le Saux’s painterly cinematography bring poignancy and warmth.

Although cynics may deride it as another example of Hollywood regurgitating the same, dusty narratives, Gerwig’s film illustrates how a fresh pair of eyes can revitalise an old story, lending Alcott’s novel an immediacy and relevance which belies its 19th century setting. Ultimately, in a world increasingly fraught by political division and greed, it’s always comforting to be reminded of the decency and everyday heroism of the March sisters – even if it’s a story that we’ve heard many times before.

PETER HORAN

REBECCA “He’s only marrying you because he doesn’t want to go on living in that big old house with her ghost!” Mrs. Van Hopper (Ann Dowd) screams at Lily James’ nameless heroine of Rebecca (Ben Wheatley, 2020). “I don’t believe in ghosts!” James’ character retaliates before she elopes with the dashing widower Maxim de Winter (Armie Hammer). Yet, as much as the second Madame de

Winter claims she doesn’t believe in ghosts, Wheatley’s star-studded adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s Gothic novel certainly has a ghost looming in its shadows, that of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca (1940).

Wheatley and his cast have insisted that they have not remade Hitchcock’s Academy Award winning film, that they focused instead on faithfully adapting du Maurier’s novel. The 2020 film

succeeds in its glamorous cinematography, its intricate and colourful costume design (although I refuse to believe that Maxim de Winter would wear the same yellow suit two days in a row), and in Lily James’ portrayal of the young, naive, and dowdy heroine.

However, Wheatley’s film fails to adapt du Maurier’s Gothic atmosphere, a key element of the 1938 bestseller. It lacks in creating a sense of the uncanny. Some of the most significant scenes of setting or suspense are rushed, those which, in Hitchcock’s Rebecca, are perfectly paced.

The opening of Hitchcock’s 1940 Rebecca - an eerie, seemingly one-shot scene - is one of the most iconic in cinema history. The slow “twisting and turning” of the camera through the thick woods up to the dark Manderley mansion lends the opening its mysterious, Gothic ambience. An entire two minutes go by before we even meet our first character, yet we understand there is an ominous history behind Manderley. Hitchcock takes his time in establishing the Gothic setting, while in Wheatley’s adaptation, the opening is hurried along, not allowing the audience an opportunity to digest.

The shot of Manderley is dark and ominous, but then distracted by a fade into red. Quick cuts of other dream sequences diminish the potential power of the opening shots of Manderley. In less than a minute we are brought to the heroine’s memory of Monte Carlo.

It feels as if in the beginning, and throughout the film, Manderley’s haunting aura is swept aside in favour of over-the-top editing and

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production.

Mrs. Danvers is a character of the utmost importance in Rebecca.

She is the Gothic villain, possessed by the spirits of Rebecca and of Manderley. The scene in which she shows the second Mrs. de Winter around Rebecca’s old bedroom is paramount. In Wheatley’s film, this scene misses some of the suspense building it requires to unsettle the audience; it’s just too quick. Kristen Scott Thomas is almost too charming and elegant as the sinister housekeeper. The piano score in the background makes the scene feel like a CSI interrogation rather than something subtle and supernatural. While the blue hues of the bedroom are icy and James’ acting does express discomfort, the audience is not chilled by an impending presence of Rebecca.

In Hitchcock’s Rebecca, I am convinced that Judith Anderson’s Mrs. Danvers is a ghost: she floats across the screen, hardly blinking.

The audience can feel the dead Rebecca is there: in the shadows, in Danvers’ unblinking stares, in the non-diegetic music. The suspense of the scene builds to Danvers leading Joan Fontaine’s heroine, who is almost in trance, to the bed to handle Rebecca’s undergarments. The eerie violins of the score reach a crescendo as we see the heroine in distress, overwhelmed by the ghostly presence of Rebecca. Hitchcock’s bedroom scene lasts a tense five minutes to let the audience soak up the Gothic, while Wheatley’s lasts a mere two.

Even if the Netflix adaptation wants to be seen as a faithful adaptation of du Maurier’s thrilling tale, and not as a revival of the

“He’s only marrying you because he doesn’t want to go on living in that big old house with her ghost!”

1940 Hollywood classic, it will still have to face the inevitable comparison to the classic, which captures more succesfully the novel’s essence.

JANE LOUGHMAN

WUTHERING HEIGHTS Wuthering Heights is a cultural giant of the past century. Since its first silent film adaptation in 1920, there have been almost 30 versions made for television and film. Offscreen, the book has

inspired two operas, a musical created by Cliff Richard, and a fantastic Kate Bush song. Despite this, few adaptations of Wuthering Heights are considered “successful”, with the director of the 2009 ITV adaptation calling it “stubbornly unadaptable”.

“Few adaptations of Wuthering Heights are considered “successful”, with the director of the 2009 ITV adaptation, calling it “stubbornly unadaptable”.”

So why does this story continue to be told? While Bronte’s 1847 novel has a cultural footprint on a par with the likes of Dracula or Pride and Prejudice, there is a clear disconnect between our cultural memory of Wuthering Heights and the reality of the novel. Wuthering Heights is remembered by most as a love story, with Heathcliff as the tragic Byronic hero. This is because our cultural memory of Wuthering Heights is defined not by the novel but by the 1939 film.

The film, starring Lawrence Olivier, originated many of the tropes and motifs we associate with Wuthering Heights, such as the embracing lovers on the moors.

One of the most important deviations in the 1939 film is in the character of Heathcliff. While Heathcliff in the novel is a tragic victim of his upbringing, he grows up to be a cruel, vindictive and abusive man. Samuel Goldwyn, producer of the 1939 film couldn’t understand why an

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audience would support such a “hate-filled man bent on revenging his miserable childhood”. As a result, the film leaves out the second half of the book where Heathcliff acts abusively. Instead he is presented as a tragic, passionate and tortured hero. Olivier’s performance of Heathcliff is the enduring conception of the character, and most subsequent film adaptations rewrite him in this sympathetic light.

Since 1939, one of the only adaptations to include the second half of the novel is Peter Kosminsky’s 1992 film. This version starred Ralph Fiennes in his film debut, and Juliette Binoche. Hilariously, the film also includes a cameo from Sinead O’Connor as Emily Bronte. While the film is beloved by some diehard novel fans, it was a critical disaster, and Kosminsky considers it the greatest regret of his career.

So, what can Wuthering Heights tell us about ‘never-ending stories’ in cinema?

The prevalence of remakes and adaptations in cinema is often held up as a sign of creative stagnation and a lack of new ideas. In some ways the 1939 film’s lasting influence contributes to this argument. When remaking or adapting a film

it’s impossible not to be influenced by the cultural afterlife surrounding the original text. However, it also serves as a reminder that adaptations are not soulless pits void of any individual creative expression. Instead, the history of Wuthering Heights shows us what a strange and untameable beast adaptation is. A new adaptation doesn’t just reproduce the same century-old book. Instead

these ‘never-ending stories’ survive because every adaptation engages with and is influenced by one another.

AOIFE CRONIN

TWILIGHT: THE REVAMP Robert Pattinson’s face is everywhere, there’s a new Twilight book released, and conversations about vampirism are at an all time high. No, it’s not 2007, it’s 2020, and we’re knee-deep in a Twilight renaissance.

What is the Twilight renaissance, exactly? It’s hard to say, and harder still to pinpoint the exact origins of this particular resurgence of Twilight fandom. Due to Twilight’s overwhelming popularity, the fanbase has never really dropped off but has experienced a dip; post-2013 and the release of the final film, with no new book on the horizon, the public love for Twilight dropped off and many thought it would die a quiet death.

But oh, how wrong they were. From my own research, we can safely say that the first notable iteration of the the ‘Twilight renaissance’ pops up somewhere around the 2017/18 mark; notably, roughly in line with Robert Pattinson’s re-emergence into the public eye with less exclusively art-house films and his transformation into somewhat of an indie darling.

Whether his performance in Good Time (Benny and Josh Safdie, 2017) was good enough to make former Twilight fans revisit the series of their youth, I can’t say, but it’s certainly worth noting.

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What’s new about the Twilight renaissance is not necessarily the level of obsession it has inspired but rather the way in which Twilight is being talked about.

The perpetrators of the Twilight renaissance are all former obsessed 12-14 year olds. Now in their mid-20’s, they are not regressing to those days of yore but are actually progressing the discussion about how problematic much of the series is.

They increasingly call attention to the misogyny, racism, and problematic depictions of the Native American Quileute Tribe that run rampant within the books.

Before you ask, everyone involved in the Twilight renaissance is more than aware of how absolutely bonkers the Twilight world actually is. And if it were just a book series, if it had never grown from bound pages, it likely would have become a relic. But what has truly propelled this renaissance is not the books, but the films. Most specifically, the first film in the saga, Twilight (Catherine Hardwicke, 2007).

“Before you ask, everyone involved in the Twilight renaissance is more than aware of how absolutely bonkers the Twilight world actually is.”

Revisiting Twilight older and wiser, I was struck by how genuinely unique it is as a piece of cinema. The shots are imbued with a blue tint, a nod from Hardwicke to the Wachowski Sisters, and the idea that this signals to the audience that the visual world is inherently uncanny. Robert Pattinson himself has come out in support of the films, calling the soundtracks “ahead of their time” (which, by the way, they totally were). In fact, there’s even some momentum to get the film a Criterion release.

I’ll admit that the other five films aren’t quite at the same level; they’re certainly a commodified and palatable version of Hardwicke’s original vision. But what Hardwicke mastered was the feeling of the other, the ostracisation, the gothic sublime that’s present in Wuthering Heights, Northanger Abbey and Jane Eyre.

MIA SHERRY

MY OWN PRIVATE IDAHO

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In My Own Private Idaho (Gus Van Sant, 1991), the Henriad (Shakepeare’s crowning achievement) finds a new form: an equally artful saga, which, in the tradition of the Henriad, heralds the peak of another ‘Renaissance’ the New Queer Cinema movement of the 90s and 00s. In this vein, Van Sant supersedes the 1590s for the 1990s; the Kingdom of England for the Pacific Northwest; and Sir John Halstaff for street hustler (and male prostitute), Mike Waters (River Phoenix).

While being an adaptation, the film lionises its own artistic impulse, even if this means deviation. For example, the film opens with a definition of narcolepsy: a condition characterised by brief attacks of deep sleep, an affliction Mike is agonised by; and the same affliction with which Van Sant agonises his audience.

We watch the film unfold through this lens of narcolepsy - never sure of the corporeality of Van Sant’s images - whether they are representations of reality, or the fantasies of Mike’s narcolepsy.

The story follows Mike and

his ‘colleague,’ Scott Favor (Keanu Reeves), our stand-in for Prince Hal, the would-be King Henry IV of the Henriad. In place of a throne, Scott is ‘next in line’ to inherit his father’s fortune on his 21st birthday, and eager to retire from street hustling. Mike, conversely, has nothing to name besides his friendship with Scott.

Mike’s life is, as we come to understand, defined by yearning: for his mother, his father, and, principally, for Scott. Their time together, by virtue of Scott’s prospective inheritance, is fleeting, cruelly punctuated by Mike’s narcolepsy, and ultimately

fruitless. In the Campfire scene, Scott gently reminds Mike that he “only [has] sex with guys for money.

Two guys can’t love each other,” illicting a heartrending response from Mike: “I could love someone even if I wasn’t paid for it; I love you and you don’t pay me.”

The film, matching Shakespeare, is tragic: Steadily, Scott’s charisma is displaced by newfound arrogance, and

Mike’s precarity is deepened by the rift which forms between them. Their bond seems like a mirage: a product of Mike’s obfuscating narcolepsy.

My Own Private Idaho is Shakespeare’s poetry transcribed to film. Van Sant’s treatment of the Henriad, despite its differences from the original, achieves something an imitation would fail: in the spirit of the Renaissance,

the film is, indeed, derivative (as the Renaissance was of the Classical era), but is equally transcendent of it.

For as much as Idaho is an adaptation, it is known for its own innovation; as a crowning achievement for the New Queer Cinema, a tradition of film that contemporary films like Moonlight (Barry Jenkins, 2016) draw from.

CÍAN O’DONOHOE

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU With many Shakespeare plays to choose from, The Taming of the Shrew is an odd choice for a romantic comedy. It’s about Katherina, a “shrewish” noblewomen who is strong-armed into being an obedient wife by gold-digging Petruchio to win a bet. Even with modern performances trying to portray Katherina’s eventual “submission” as ironic to make it palatable, it’s hard to argue that the play isn’t sexist. Yet for a genre marred by sexist tropes, 10 Things I Hate About You (Gil Junger, 1999) is a teen comedy that avoids them.

The setting is updated from 1500s Padua, Italy to Padua High in Seattle. Katerina is now Kat Stratford (Julia Stiles), the most 90s of teen feminists. Petruchio becomes Patrick Verona, the wry bad boy played by

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Heath Ledger. Rather than a bet to tame her, Patrick is paid to date Kat because her overprotective father won’t let her popular younger sister, Bianca (Larisa Oleynik), date otherwise.

Despite featuring a few formulaic tropes and the odd cringey joke, there are merits to this film beyond 90s nostalgia. Despite a propensity for teen comedies to makeover their “unconventional” female leads, Kat’s looks and snarky feminist attitude remain untouched.

Her main growth revolves around her fractured relationship with her sister becoming more compassionate and understanding. Kat and Bianca’s relationship is at the core of the film and that itself keeps it from being a one-note romcom.

The titular poem that Kat recites in her English class is the emotional climax of the film. At face value, it’s a ba-

sic poem that holds weight because of Stiles’ performance. “I hate the way you talk to me / And the way you cut your hair / I hate the way you drive my car / I hate it when you stare.” But the assignment is to modernise Shakespeare’s Sonnet 141: “In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes / For they in thee a thousand errors note / But ‘tis my heart that loves what they despise / Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.” And when you compare both, it’s done well. It’s an accessible piece that only hints at the Shakespearean origin yet has an enjoyable and emotional impact in its delivery. And that’s what this film is, a cute comedy to watch with friends, seemingly removed from its source material. But the Bard strikes in mysterious ways and so does the content he inspires.

KATE L. RYAN

RAN Ran (Akira Kurosawa, 1985) is loosely based on King Lear by William Shakespeare, but it is the differences between the texts that make Ran the vast, desolate, and enduring classic that it is today. The spines of both stories remain the same. Ageing ruler Lord Hidetora (Tatsuya Nakadai) decides to divide his lands between his three children. Two flatter his ego and are rewarded with castles and lands, while the third, Saburo (Daisuke Ryu), criticises him and is banished. The two other siblings betray and humiliate their father, driving him mad, before turning on each other.

In King Lear, there is a sense that the world is falling apart and the social order is being turned upside down; women dominate their husbands and fathers, illegitimate sons supplant the natural born, and once strong rulers are brutal-

ised and humiliated. But redemption is promised and achieved, and Lear’s blindness and folly are deviations from his formerly peaceful rule. In Ran, conflict and violence are constant and random, while Hidetora is a cruel warlord who brings his misfortunes upon himself. He is faced with constant reminders of his own savagery; the ruins of a castle he razed, a hermit whose eyes he gouged out, and the wives of his treacherous sons, Ladies Sué and Kaede (Yoshiko Miyazaki and Mieko Harada), whose families he killed. Lady Kaede seeks vengeance for her family’s deaths, while Lady Sué turns to religion. In the end, neither approach makes much difference. Kaede’s throat is cut, while Sué’s head is removed, pickled and salted.

Lear’s madness is brought on by a storm and his guilt over Cordelia’s exile, while Hidetora’s madness is brought on by guilt over his past atrocities and the great battle raging between

his thirty troops and his son’s armies. As the battle starts, sound stops, and just the score plays. Hidetora’s soldiers are riddled with arrows. One holds up his own severed arm. Buckets of blood pour through the floorboards above. Fog, smoke and volcanic dust kicked up by the thousands of horses and soldiers create a dense cover outside.

All the while Hidetora sits, blanching, before staggering half-naked out of the castle and through a parting army. For Kurosawa, war and chaos are not the subversion of the hierarchies of society, but the natural order asserting itself.

That Shakespeare’s plays remain pertinent is not despite, but because of their radically changing contexts and mediums. Familiar stories stay thrilling and relevant because they are reinterpreted and reimagined, just as Shakespeare drew on and transformed myths and history in his own day.

OZ RUSSELL

AN AMERICAN IN PARIS Like two dancers locked in an embrace, Vincente Minnelli’s technicolour masterpiece, An American in Paris (1951), circles gracefully around the thematic axis of rebirth. Set in the colourful neighbourhood of Montparnasse, the film details the lives of a handful of Parisians as they strive towards artistic and romantic success.

The concept of rebirth is subtly explored throughout the film, as the protagonist, a GI-turnedpainter, falls in love with a beautiful but unattainable woman. Jerry Mulligan (Gene Kelly) experiences two transformations; from soldier to an artist, and from a solitary bachelor to a yearning suitor.

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Despite certain aspects of the film which would not be received in such a glowing light today, namely Jerry’s pursuit of the considerably younger and seemingly uninterested

Lise Bouvier (Leslie Caron), it provides a sensitive reflection on a generation’s desire to escape from the struggles of rebuilding shattered nations and reconciling societal anxieties about horrors witnessed over the past decade.

Caron herself could only film on alternating days, as malnutrition during the occupation of France had irrevocably weakened her body. The collective traumas of the war were still being processed at the point of the film’s release, and the transcendent beauty of the film’s symphonic scoring and magnificent colour palette provide a cathartic rebirth through pure escapist fantasy.

The film swells to a climax with a 17-minute wordless ballet sequence, as the main characters dance through an assortment of iconic paintings by French artists such as Toulouse-Lautrec and Degas. For me, the film’s most iconic

Iconic

shot takes place at the centre of this interlude, as Kelly and Caron are isolated from the chaos of both dreams and reality to dance alone in silhouette.

Throughout the film, Kelly’s character pursues Caron’s ingenue, Lise, despite her engagement to another man, Henri (Georges Guétary). She feels little in the way of romantic attraction to him, but rather a sense of duty for them to remain together as he kept her safe during the war. The spectre of violence and upheaval hangs over the otherwise jovial film and Kelly, in his reverie, is surrounded by soldiers in colourful garb obstructing his passage. It is only when he is left alone with his lover in the twilight that these thoughts of the cruel past can be pushed aside in

Shot

favour of one of the most intimate, sensual, and beautifully choreographed scenes in film.

The two dancers are submerged in a smoky darkness and lit from behind with a rich shade of ochre.

Their faces are obscured by the atmospheric lighting, but each emotion experienced by the pair is expertly conveyed through the delicacy of their touch. In a similar vein to the loss of one sense resulting in a heightened appreciation of the others, as soon as the constant flurries of colour and movement that characterise the rest of the film are momentarily withdrawn, the intense chemistry between the two leads reaches a point of aching beauty.

As the shot begins, Kelly and

Caron face one another in shock.

In the everyday world, Lise has supposedly left Paris for America with Henri. Just as Sigmund Freud writes in The Interpretation of Dreams that each nocturnal vision represents a wish fulfilled, she appears before Jerry as their shared desire to remain together is consummated. The two seem astounded to be reunited once more, and exhibit the startled demeanour of individuals being moved for the first time by a piece of art.

Kelly gently extends a hand to Caron and takes a tentative step towards her, almost in fear that any sudden movement will disrupt the illusion and he will be torn from the reunion, like the eternal separation of Orpheus and Eurydice. Taking his lover into his arms, Kelly sways with an easy grace as Caron contentedly buries her face in his neck. The soundscape of the moment is masterful.

As Kelly approaches Caron, a

lone orchestral horn rings in time with the beat of our hearts. As the two embrace, a swell in drums and strings perfectly accompanies the delicacy of their bodies moving in unison. George Gershwin’s jazz-inspired score fittingly mimics the movements of the dancers, as it moves between passion and subtlety.

As Kelly and Caron continue to dance, they are illuminated by an indigo hue and are evidently absorbed in one another’s presence. The audience is enthralled by their connection. This moment of darkness and illumination, of touch and restraint, and of sound and silence is all-encompassing as a sensory experience. The radiance of the shot allows the viewer to engage with this escapist dream-state, leaving them utterly reborn, with a rejuvenated passion for life, love, and art.

JESSICA ALLEN

DAWN OF THE DEAD: HORROR’S REVIVAL Despite all the great things to come out of the late 90s and early 2000s − tube tops, Nintendo DS Lites, Chicken Little, and yours truly − I don’t think I’ll ever forgive those years for what they did to horror. During these naughty noughties, there was an avalanche of terrible horror films suffocating optimistic moviegoers − Final Destination 1 through 5, for example. Almost any non-cookie-cutter horror films released during this time were critically slammed or shown in few (if any) cinemas.

So, how did we overcome this onslaught of torture porn?

Just as the classic Florentine Renaissance marked an end to the dark, oppressive Middle Ages through a ‘rebirth’ of society, so does the moment we are seeing in the Horror Genre now. Three key factors were at play in spurring this ‘Renaissance of Horror’: Streaming, Allegory and The Return of Terror.

Streaming was the first great catalyst to ignite this Renaissance, with Paranormal Activity (Oren Peli, 2007) a perfect example.

Despite having identical theatrical success (or lack thereof) as 1997’s own indie-horror Cube (Vincenzo Natali) just ten years prior (yet with both a lower budget and critical rating), it has since made thirteen-thousand times its original budget.

Secondly, allegory. Many recent critically acclaimed horrors are irrefutably symbolic; think Midsommar (Ari Aster, 2019) as an allegorical critique of abusive re27

lationships; Train to Busan (Yeon Sang-Ho, 2016) of corporate callousness; most notably, Get Out (Jordan Peele, 2017) of racial tensions in the US. Although novel to the contemporary horror scene, allegory has long been rooted in the genre as a whole.

For example, often misunderstood as the film that invented zombies, George A. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1969) was in fact an allegorical criticism of race relations in America, just as Get Out was half a century later. Horror is the perfect medium to convey these hauntingly controversial topics, but this was unfortunately largely neglected in favour of surface-level scares − resulting in surface-level symbolism − for many years.

The final aspect ultimately comes down to Stephen King’s ‘Three Tiers of Horror’. On the bottom tier, we have the Gross-Out, the cheapest scare whereby the audience is swiftly shocked with gratuitously gory imagery. Thereafter is Horror, defined as the moment the big-bad shows you its bone-chilling face, shocking the audience with yellow eyes, countless fangs, so on and so forth. Finally, the highest tier is Terror, the moment leading up to the Horror, where both the tension and viewers’ blood pressure rise. When an audience watches a good horror, one riddled with Terror, they don’t just come away relieved that the scare (gore) is over, but enchanted and perplexed by what they’ve just been through.

With these factors in mind, it’s far easier to see how this moment came about. Streaming of better-quality horror movies allowed for ease of access to the general public which over time increased

demand for more high-standard horrors. Netflix’s own The Haunting of Hill House (Mike Flanagan, 2018), a program created by a streaming site, has been critically acclaimed for its use of horror in depicting challenging ideas such as childhood trauma, drug addiction and bereavement, not to mention the devastating effect all of these can have on what should be our safest, most beloved environment- our family. These masters of horror, terrifying their audiences so close to the core with genuinely frightening moral, social and political criticisms, embody what this renaissance is truly about.

Arguably the most misunderstood genre of our time, many people will be quick to dismiss horror films as cheap thrills; shallow in subtext and easily forgotten. Any horror film seen outside of this is often coined an “elevated horror”.

This is not a thing.

“Streaming of better quality horror movies allowed for ease of access to the general public which over time increased demand for more high standard horrors.”

There are no “elevated horror” films, just as there are no “elevated comedies”, “elevated actions” or “elevated romances”. They are simply good movies, or they are bad. Hopefully, this renaissance will end with that notion put to rest for good…

Although in horror, nothing ever is.

SAOIRSE MULVIHILL

re ce: n Ge san is a n e R

THE MAKEOVER TROPE Hair is straightened. Glasses are replaced with contact lenses. Baggy clothes are swapped for a tight minidress. The trope of the Makeover has always been essential to the arcs of female characters from every genre of cinema. It’s the turning point for the heroine of almost every female-focused romantic comedy, melodrama, or teen flick. They need it to come of age, they need it to reach the pinnacle of their careers, and they absolutely require it in order to find a spouse.

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The Makeover was a feature of a broad range of classical Hollywood films, from Now, Voyager (Irving Rapper, 1942) to My Fair Lady (George Cukor, 1964). The Makeover gave the heroine a false sense of confidence and security in her own appearances, which can only be affirmed by the men that respond to it. The epitome of the traditional Makeover is Sandy (Olivia Newton-John) in Grease (Randal Kleiser, 1978) and Allison (Ally Sheedy) in The Breakfast Club (John Hughes, 1985), whose physical appearances scare off potential romantic interests.

Whether these female characters go for a softer look or an edgier style, these heroines’ makeovers represent submission to their male suitors.

In postfeminist cinema of the nineteen-nineties and noughties, the trope of the Makeover was rebranded in order to remain appealing to women whose public role was becoming more and more significant. It was marketed as a choice, as if the Makeover liberates our heroine from self doubt and gives her more power over the self image she presents

to her romantic interests, as well as to her peers, colleagues, and employers. From She’s All That (Robert Iscove, 1999) to The Devil Wears Prada (David Frankel, 2006), the trope of Makeover is promoted as the key to gaining power and status for the twenty-first century woman. Moreover, the heroine no longer needed a knight in shining armour to save her, but a stylish commodity that would give her the answer to all of her dilemmas. In Sex and the City (Michael Patrick King, 2008), Louise’s (Jennifer Hudson) transformation into a self-confident, autonomous woman is marked by her receiving the gift of the Louis Vuitton bag that she has always desired. If postfeminist female characters, like Louise, could not find self love in themselves, they could buy it. In these films, the Makeover became a symbol of women’s freedom and choice in both consumerism and romance.

In recent years,the narrative of female-centered melodramas, romantic comedies, and coming of age films has changed. Heroines no longer need a man or material possessions to save them.

One would assume that this would cause the Makeover to become obsolete. However, the trope has returned to the big screen. In the age of self-care, the Makeover is having its own makeover. In a world that is moving away from mass-consumerism, as well as learning to accept all kinds of physical appearances, the Makeover has become more metaphorical than literal A great example of this is Netflix’s Someone Great (Jennifer Kaytin Robinson, 2019) in which a music journalist (Gina Rodriguez) and her friends must work on their behaviour and traits, rather than their physical appear-

ances, in order to improve their relationship with

“In postfeminist cinema of the nineteen-nineties and noughties, the trope of the Makeover was rebranded in order to remain appealing to women whose public role was becoming more and more significant.”

themselves and others. The Makeover’s promise of self-improvement is no longer focused on making one physical appearance more attractive for herself nor her romantic suitors.

Instead, it functions to encourage our heroine to act on her best qualities to achieve a fulfilling life.

GRACE KENNY

The Comeback Kid: SHIA LABEOUF

unpredictable behaviour was no doubt exacerbated by his substance abuse issues, Hollywood’s invisible plague.

Most people will fondly remember child star Shia LaBeouf as ‘that kid from Even Stevens’, or as I do personally, ‘that kid from The only way out for LaBeouf Holes’. His role in the industry was through. He wrote the screenwas cemented when he became play for his comeback project the face of the Transformers fran- Honey Boy (2019) during a stint chise, blasting him into stardom in court-ordered rehab in June and away from giant alien robots 2017, as a way of dealing with simultaneously. 2008’s Indiana his newly diagnosed PTSD. The Jones and the Kingdom of the semi-autobiographical film (in Crystal Skull (Steven Spielberg) which he plays his own father) saw him as the brazen teenage places the trajectory of his life sidekick as opposed to the brazen thus far into context. Its runtime teenage protagonist, but his reis as transformative for the audispective performances were bland ence as it is for LaBeouf – while enough to be interchangeable. His he learns to understand commercial success was transient, his father, we learn to and as he puts it himself, he “lost understand him. his sensibilities and his connecHoney Boy’s tion to the material”. critical success was paralleled LaBeouf’s slide into disrepute by 2019’s was characterised by a string of Peanut Butvery public controversies that ter Falcon granted him an unparalleled cul- (an equally tural infamy. He became known touchfor anything but his acting career; ing film, a plagiarism scandal, a viral video albeit with spawning infinite memes (and a much the most searched GIF of 2015), lighter bizarre performance art pieces and mood), several drunken arrests plagued making it a his professional image. The gener- prolific year al public came to expect nothing less than insanity from the mythic figure that was Shia LaBeouf, and any consistent acting performances from this time (Fury (David Ayer, 2014) and American Honey (Andrea Arnold, 2016)) were overshadowed by his personal notoriety. His 31

for LaBeouf. Variety even jokingly dubbed his box office revival, “the Shianaissance”.

Today, LaBeouf would maintain that he is drawn exclusively to films about people rather than plot, and I believe this is at the crux of his reinvention. He shines when the material has enough depth for him to submerge himself in it fully; anything less is wasted on him. His latest Zoom escapades prove he has preserved his capacity for virality however – I guess some things never change.

HANA RAE QUINN

Actors’ Renaissance JONAH HILL Jonah Hill has been a presence on our screens for as long as many of us Gen Z-ers can remember.

We were introduced to Hill as the overweight, loudmouth Seth in Greg Mottola’s Superbad (2007).

As a 14 year old I watched Superbad for the first time: I had stolen away to a friend’s house for the evening, hacked my older brother’s Netflix account, and stocked up on Diet Coke. I was taken aback by Seth recounting his traumatic childhood obsession with drawing penises to Michael Cera: “They made me stop eating foods shaped like dicks.

No hot dogs, no

popsicles. You know how many kinds of foods are shaped like dicks? The best kinds.”

Hill’s mastery of slapstick, toilet humor and undeniable chemistry with anyone he worked with made him an invaluable asset to the comedic film industry. Like many, I have been guilty of dismissing him as nothing more than a comedian who would forever be caught up in movies about alcohol fueled shenanigans until he lost his charm, released the 26th Jump Street movie and faded into obscurity. That was until I watched Hill’s directorial debut Mid90s (2018) and it all changed.

I am a baby on campus;

having only been born in 2002, much of the trends and fads of the 90s had already bled out of the zeitgeist by the time I reached genuine sentience. I had Match Attax, Mario Kart and Ben10, but when watching Mid90s I became overwhelmed by nostalgia for an era that had passed me by. Watching it gave me a newfound respect for Hill; it made me feel like I was looking through the fisheye lens of Agi Orsi’s Dogtown and Z-Boys (2001) for the first time.

Hill created a drama physically rooted in the culture of the 90s, but emotionally rooted in the shared experience of growing up that all of us know.

I realised my dismissal of Hill was unjust, and when looking through his filmography, I found examples of his competence in dramas (Moneyball (Bennet Miller, 2011)), comedies (Superbad), directorial mastery in Mid90s and surprisingly the music video for Travis Scott’s Wake Up. And if anyone still dares to challenge me on my new found devotion to Hill, look no further than his 2014 broadway debut 100% Lost Cotton that he co-wrote with Spike Jonze. Jonah Hill never had a comeback, his brilliance and versatility have always been in front of us, only shrouded by our notions of what distinguishes the comedian from the artist. So join me in praising Jonah Hill, the movie industry’s true Renaissance man.

CATHAL EUSTACE

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SPRINGSTEEN ON BROADWAY Springsteen on Broadway (Thom Zimny, 2018) is a concert film featuring veteran rock superstar Bruce Springsteen. Recorded over two nights of his behemoth Broadway residency, the performance consists of songs from The Boss’s back catalogue, interwoven with autobiographical anecdotes – some from his 2016 book Born to Run, and others written for the show. It is unfamiliar territory for Springsteen, who normally plays to sold out stadia filled with tens of thousands of adoring fans, while backed up by the ever-dependable E-Street Band. Here, however, he stands alone, playing to a small theatre of less than a thousand.

It makes for a wonderful feeling of intimacy, and Zimny smartly pays little attention to the crowd. Most concert films tend to highlight the euphoric reactions of the spectators, but that would not work given the nature of this show.

Instead, the camera only has eyes for Springsteen, capturing him in a series of mid shots and close-ups, as he tells his story. As much as it acts as a great portrait of Bruce Springsteen the artist – the fifteen-song setlist nicely spans across four decades – it is perhaps more effective in bringing him down to earth and presenting the audience with an insight into Bruce Springsteen the man.

Indeed, this might be the film’s main attraction. The long anecdotes between songs, which chart key events in his own life (his first gig, leaving home, etc.), help to demythologise Springsteen. Through his songs, he has always been an exceptional storyteller, while also building an aura of being an American hero, writing about cars and girls (Born to Run (1975)), as well as the troubles faced by workers in the American heartland (Darkness on the Edge of Town (1978)). However, in a playful, self-deprecating manner, Springsteen debunks these myths about himself.

He pulls down this façade by revealing that, at twenty-one years old, he had never driven a block, and that he had never actually worked a regular job, this Broadway residency being the first time he worked five days a week.

Equally though, the film puts a spotlight on the people and relationships that shaped Springsteen’s experience. He opens up about the fractured relationship that he shared with his father, about meeting and falling in love with his wife Patti Scialfa (who duets with him on a double bill of “Tougher Than the Rest” and “Brilliant Disguise”), and about the intangible connective quality that rock-and-roll music can have as he pays tribute to the late great saxophonist and E-Street Band member Clarence ‘Big Man’ Clemons. He speaks with such humanity and such vulnerability about his fallen friend that it is hard not to relate on some level or another. And that is the film’s greatest strength. It tears down the aura and the persona of The Boss, to allow the audience to spend time with Bruce Springsteen, the man.

JOEY FANTHOM

the artist

THE ARTIST AND SWINGING LONDON ON FILM Piri Halasz’s cover article published in Time on the 15th of April 1966 brought the phenomenon of “Swinging London” to an American readership – consumers of the “British Invasion”. It presented the London of this moment as the epicentre of artistic and sexual freedom, fashion, and music. The pop art cover illustration by Geoffrey Dickinson depicts mods, “dollygirls” in mini-skirts, Big Ben, and a red double-decker bus – blending the city’s traditional iconography with the “new”. This was a renaissance for the artist, and indeed the filmmaker.

How this phenomenon was depicted on film varied. A number of British films between 1960 and 1968 focused on the key themes of “The Scene”: sex and youth culture. However, another theme was the “artist”. Michelangelo Antonioni, captivated by fashion magazine photographers like David Bailey, made Blow-Up (1966), which was as much a criticism of Swinging London’s superficiality as it was a celebration of it, constructing photographer Thomas’s (David Hemmings) world in seductive primary colours. Other films like Smashing Time (Desmond Davis, 1967) were parodies of artsy cliques. The quirky Joanna (Michael Sarne, 1968), about an art student engaging with “The Scene”, is sadly underrated. Jean-Luc Godard’s avant-garde film, Sympathy for the Devil (1968), is also noteworthy.

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For me, there are two particular films which stand out. Peter Whitehead’s experimental documentary, Tonite Let’s All Make Love in London (1967), combines psychedelic montage with interviews and footage of Pink Floyd. Interviews with Julie Christie, David Hockney, and Michael Caine truly give you a sense of the time. However, the best film to come out of this era deconstructed it, quite literally. Performance (Nicolas Roeg and Donald Cammell, 1970) is a film of its moment. Made in 1968, but not released until 1970 due to censorship issues, the film captures growing disillusionment with Swinging London.

James Fox, against type, plays Chas, an East London gangster who works for an influential organisation modelled on the Krays’ “The Firm”. In hiding because of a gang dispute, Chas moves in with the famous, yet jaded musician, Turner (Mick Jagger).

The pair have contrasting egos: Chas is meticulously dressed, hypermasculine, and violent, while Turner is an eccentric artist and androgynous bohemian.

Gradually, Chas’s persona breaks down and he “becomes” Turner and Turner “becomes” Chas, in an odd switcheroo.

Performance examines the elitism, implicit criminality, and drug culture of the era. Its surrealistic imagery, montage, and music make Performance the quintessential Swinging London film despite only being released after the era’s demise. Released in 1968, a revolutionary year, it marks a transition into the bold 70s British cinema of Ken Russell and Roeg’s own Don’t Look Now (1973).

CÁIT MURPHY

TURN IT AROUND: THE STORY OF EAST BAY PUNK Turn It Around: The Story of East Bay Punk (Corbett Redford, 2017) explores the punk rock scene in the San Francisco Bay Area from its beginnings in the late 1970s into the 1990s. Narrated by Iggy Pop, the film looks at more than just the musical aspects of the punk scene as it also delves into the culture and politics associated with the punk movement. In the film, punk is described as being “a conversation with society—and often, it’s an argument”.

As the punk subculture is intrinsically linked to politics, the film begins with a description of the political climate in the United States during the late 1970s (specifically within the Bay Area of California) and an explanation for how punk emerged there as a counterculture. The film also goes on to explore the politics that arose within the punk scene itself.

Much of the film focuses on 924 Gilman Street, an all-ages punk club in Berkeley which became a central location for the punk youth of the Bay Area in the late 1980s. The club also served as a springboard for punk bands associated with the revival and mainstream success of punk in the 1990s, such as Green Day. Those interviewed in the film all express a deep love for the punk music genre and subculture, even when discussing its faults. The punk scene is conveyed to be a close-knit family of like-minded people, and the film exudes love not only for the musicians, but everyone involved in the subculture: from venue owners and music producers to the fans who created hand-drawn zines to support and provide information about the punk scene.

Through a combination of vintage, often previously unseen, performance footage, present-day interviews with those involved with the punk scene, and the use of narration and animation, Turn It Around provides a thorough and dynamic look at the impact of punk rock music in the Bay Area.

SAVVY HANNA

IFI

READ MORE on our website

French Film Festival Saoirse Mulvihill reviews this year’s virtual selection.

This year’s pandemic has taken a lot away from many people, and so seeing endeavours put into preserving some ounce of normality is as encouraging as it is heart-warming. For the past few weeks, I’ve had the opportunity to virtually attend screenings from this year’s French Film Festival with the IFI, one of these culturally-conservative efforts. Though the experience of the simulated occasion is very different from the original (the array of technical difficulties and lack of atmosphere to be expected), the amount of time and effort that goes into protective projects like these is not to be taken for granted.

As a result, I was thoroughly grateful to partake in this one-of-a-kind film festival experience.

THE BIG HIT The Big Hit (Emmanuel Courcol, 2020) was the first of six films in the IFI’s 2020 French Film Festival I attended virtually, an undeniably solid start. Although the online festival format is strange, The Big Hit has proven that the viewing experience of a formidable film will persevere even under these bizarre circumstances.

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Loosely based on a true story, the film depicts the experience of five prisoners whose folly of aimlessly waiting to be re-

leased from prison inspires a dead-end actor to direct them in a production of Samuel Beckett’s En Attendant Godot.

Throughout the runtime the cast are consistently dynamic, bouncing off one another in a spectacle that’s equally as convincing as it is hilarious.

Unfortunately, the storyline still struggles in the same vein many other ‘d’après une histoire vraie’ films do. When trying to find the balance between a strong narrative structure whilst adapting the real events accurately, the plot occasionally feels less calculatedly-driven as it does haphazardly-dragged.

In spite of this, the story itself is nothing short of utterly captivating and poignant.

One can’t help but feel the impact of these events on the inmates’ lives. Almost going against what Beckett himself seemed to believe, this mere folly of passing time in the prisoners’ absurd existences is as hopeful and meaningful as Vladimir and Estragon would’ve ever wished Godot himself to have been.

LOLA The second viewing of 2020’s virtual IFI French Film Festival was Lola (Laurent Micheli, 2019). Unfortunately, this screening weathered heavier hardship due to the online format than its predecessor.

The audio was constantly falling out of sync, no amount of time would be enough for the film to buffer more than two minutes ahead and so the viewing was burdened with constant breaks, refreshing, and pausing.

CALAMITY

Although by no means a perfect film or screening, the story of young transitioning Lola (big-ups for hiring openly trans actress, Mya Bollaers) struggling to share the grief of losing her mother with her estranged father (Benoît Magimel) is delivered with such brutal honesty – not to mention respect to the subject matterit’s almost impossible not to like. Lola is uncompromis-

Calamity (Rémi Chayé, 2020) was the final film from the festival for me, and I was thrilled to finish on such a high note!

Illustrated, directed and written

by Rémi Chayé, who also had a hand in 2009’s The Secret of Kells (Tomm Moore), there is an undeniable sense of a single, coherent vision for the picture, which is ultimately executed (almost) seamlessly.

“Though the experience of the simulated occasion is very different from the original, the amount of time and effort that goes into protective projects like these is not to be taken for granted.”

From the very beginning, I knew that even if I didn’t enjoy this odyssey of the Wild West’s frontierswoman Calamity Jane’s formative years, I’d still have a beautiful soundtrack to add to my Spotify playlists.

Thankfully, the film’s storyline, characters, and above all art style were equally as distinct, dynamic, and memorable as the twangy tunes played alongside them.

ing in its sense of identity. It knew what it wanted to be, say and capture in its runtime, and this was made clear from the very first shot. Lola, both the film and protagonist, are vibrant, colourful, and troubled.

The neon-grit, 80’s aesthetic achieved by the almost polaroid visuals are sure to capture the attention of its target audience, and I’m all for it.

The film may or may not resemble an hour-long indie music video, but the subtext is an incredibly important one to have in contemporary cinematic conversation – and yeah, the ending did make me cry.

Deal with it.

I really can’t stress enough how stunning the art is. Although there were one or two issues with the animation (the dog Pik’s right ear was left detached from his head on more than one occasion) this doesn’t detract from the overall experience.

The incredibly French ‘féministe-rebelle’ subtext is a little on the nose at times, which can be irksome for an adult audience, but is easily forgiven once one remembers the target audience was primarily children. Altogether, Calamity is nothing short of a vibrant and vivid viewing for all ages.

trinityfilmreview.com

A selection of reviews from our Freshers’ Series, focusing on groundbreaking figures, first favourite films and first forays into independence...

GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER

LADY BIRD

TW: Racial Violence

The last few weeks of secondary school hold a distinctly unstable feeling. Structures which may have existed for years, for perhaps what has been up until then a lifetime, begin to crumble away. School authority dissipates fast, as uniforms, timetables, and general decorum seem to unspool in the face of imminent departure.

Friendships are considered, tested, cherished. The world of adulthood seems more tangible than ever, beckoning with alternating menace and welcome.

Sidney Poitier was the first Black man to be nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actor for his role in The Defiant Ones (Stanley Kramer, 1958), and the first to win the award for his 1963 film Lilies of the Field (Ralph Nelson). He made a successful career from helping films about racism and race-relations to reach mainstream screens. One such film was Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner (Kramer, 1967). Featuring Poitier as Dr John Wade Prentice, we follow as he meets his White fiance’s parents for the first time, only to be met with unearthed racial prejudice from self-proclaimed liberals. Although the vocabulary and attitudes portrayed are outdated, self-congratulatory for the White characters, and occasionally patronising towards the Black characters, it is a touching story; packed with powerful performances especially from an elegant Poitier and a monumental Hepburn. Bear in mind that interracial marriage had been illegal in several US states until mere months before the movie was released, and the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr was yet to come in 1968.

Poitier was taking risks. His onscreen kiss with his White counterpart, Katharine Houghton, even incited death threats from the public.

Poitier may have been the first Black man to take home the Best Actor award for his politicised work at a time of heightened prejudice and violence, but the award has since gone to only three other Black men. Perhaps the language around race issues has changed since 1967, but the lessons from Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner remain unlearned.

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KATIE LYNCH

It is this state that Lady Bird (Greta Gerwig, 2017) portrays so truthfully.

We first meet our eponymous protagonist (Saoirse Ronan) at the start of her final year of school, desperate to leave her dull Californian town for a romantic collegiate life. Over the course of a year, she struggles with her family, with relationships, and with the shifting nature of her own identity. This film captures not only the vacillating highs and lows of life at eighteen, but also the great swathes of lethargy and boredom that intersperse it; we see Lady Bird skip class with her best friend, Julie (Beanie Feldstein), to chat and eat communion wafers. Life is shown at its loosening.

Lady Bird spends a great deal of time pitying herself and vowing to leave her seemingly drab life. But by the end of the film, she finds herself loving her hometown, realising how inextricable it is from her. Despite this, she is not compelled to stay, but that is what this film so beautifully conveys.

Lady Bird crystallises the feeling of loving something exactly because you are leaving it, because of the rosy hue of hindsight.

SEIRCE MHAC CONGHAIL

THE HUDSUCKER PROXY

LOST IN TRANSLATION

The sheer vitality and zaniness of The It was the start of TY English class.

Hudsucker Proxy (1994) makes it I was introduced to Sofia Coppola one of the Coen brothers’ best films. through The Virgin Suicides (1999) Packed to the brim with stunning and fell in love with the score by set design, hilarious characters, and Air. With Lost in Translation (2003), remarkable montages, it comments on every frame was a still I would pause the 1950s New York business world on my laptop, softly rendered. A score while parodying screwball comedies with the range of Roxy Music to of the 30s.

Squarepusher. The film fixated on the exposed shots of Charlotte (Scarlett Norville Barnes (Tim Robbins) Johansson), in her ethereal and dazefinds himself a job at the mailroom like introspection against the stark of Hudsucker Industries, just as the backdrop of an early 00s, vibrantly chairman, Waring Hudsucker (Charles emerging Tokyo. I owe my interest in Durning), jumps from the 44th floor colour-grading and cinematography of the building. Vice President Sidentirely to this film. Cinematographic ney J Mussburger (Paul Newman) feats aside, there’s understated yet appoints Barnes as proxy CEO of the accomplished character development company in order to buy back their that relies wholly on our identification stock. But Barnes has ideas far above with Charlotte and Bob (Bill Murray). his station - ideas in the form of a So, when someone mentions how circle. Jennifer Jason Leigh steals the ‘nothing happens’ in Lost in Translashow as fast-talking career girl Amy tion (yes, unnamed male film student Archer, an undercover journalist dein the smoking area), I tend to judge termined to get a story at any cost. A them. Did we see the same film? battle of wills follows in which there can be only one winner.

The magic of Lost in Translation is that, in its ambiguity, the narrative An elegant riotousness pervades this becomes something that only Johansfilm, as we watch the story unfold son, Murray, and I understand. The with increasing theatricality in jaw rest of the world is simply blurred dropping backdrops - all with a rotatout of focus. No one does this kind ing set of fantastical character actors. of enigmatic ambiguity like Coppola.

The lack of relatability with any of the Two characters, worlds apart in every characters is somehow unimportant as regard, sharing one of the most powwe witness the utter spectacle of the erful yet complex relationships I have film and magnificence of the plot. The ever seen on screen, all told through Hudsucker Proxy is a (kind of) mod- the director’s masterful vision. To call ern masterpiece. it a romance is too conspicuous. To call it platonic would be superficial.

RUBY THOMAS The intimacy of the whisper in the end sequence is fitting; speech would have felt too heavy-handed for the subtlety of Coppola.

NINA CULLEN

B e g i n n i n g s

Reviews THE CROWN SEASON FOUR With the days growing shorter and winter well and truly arriving soon, the Netflix original historical drama The Crown once again graces our screens. Now in its fourth season, The Crown follows the British Royal Family through the 1980s, while struggling to live up to the heights it reached in its first two seasons.

As always, the star studded cast is something to be admired, with Olivia Colman, Helena Bonham Carter, Tobias Menzies and Josh O’Connor all returning, and this season introducing Gillian Anderson and Emma Corrin as Margaret Thatcher and Princess Diana respectively. Unfortunately, while this is a stellar cast, it is a crowded one, and as a result many of its actors do not get the proper space to shine. Thinking specifically of Bonham Carter who only has one episode where she is able to show the breadth of her talents, and is sidelined for the rest of the season. That said, this season is passing on the torch to the 41

younger generation of royals, with Charles and Diana’s relationship taking centre stage, giving both O’Connor and Corrin a wonderful opportunity to step into the spotlight.

While it is classified as a historical drama, The Crown plays fast and loose with the chronology of some events while omitting others in their entirety. While a certain amount of editing is to be expected, there are too many striking absences in season 4 to ignore.

Namely, as an Irish viewer, I was particularly struck by the way the season dealt with the Troubles.

Thatcher’s time as Prime Minister coincided with some of the most harrowing times of that period of Irish history, yet seemingly their only impact on the narrative is for the IRA to kill Lord Mountbatten (Charles Dance) and for Thatcher to declare a war on them, as after this they are never mentioned again. This is, in fact, not the only war that Thatcher declares that is then nearly completely omitted from the screen, as the Falklands War is declared, fought and won

within the span of two episodes, nearly completely away from the eyes of the viewers. While it is a cynical position to have, I cannot overlook the use of archival footage of protests from the 80s in the advertising material for the season, which seem to be there purely for shock value, as the text itself has no interest in engaging fully with the political and historical tremors of that period.

Ultimately, season four of The Crown is a spectacle, and is well worth a watch for its production and the acting talent of its core cast, but it lacks the heart of its earlier seasons. The Crown season 4 brings us very little to distinguish itself from its past seasons, and I find myself agreeing when Margaret says “how many times can this family make the same mistake,” as it seems each season brings us more or less the same dilemmas as before, never offering any new solutions.

NIAMH MULDOWNEY

ANOTHER ROUND Another Round (2020) is director Thomas Vinterberg’s latest film, a filmmaker credited with being one of the most important figures in Danish cinema and one of the founding members of the Dogme95 movement. Another Round tells the story of a group of middle-aged Danish school teachers who decide to raise their blood alcohol content by 0.05% to see if it gives them a new lease on life.

Mads Mikkelsen and Thomas Bo Larsson give wonderful performances and do not fail to capture the existential dread of being in your late forties with no sense of meaning and a failing marriage.

They are accompanied by Magnus Millang and Lars Ranthe who keep up with aforementioned performances, although do not seem to have the on screen magnetism of Mikkelsen or Bo Larsson.

Inevitably the teachers’ plan gets out of hand and they face the negative repercussions of their actions. However, we are not presented with a black and white, ‘alcohol is good/bad’ situation. It

affects our characters both positively and negatively in this story: it is up to our own judgement.

This film was intended to be a celebration of alcohol and in some regards it is, however during the making of this film Vinterberg’s youngest daughter passed away in a tragic car accident. The only way he could continue to make this film whilst processing the grief of losing her was by making it a celebration of life, which I find more aptly suits the film’s message. Throughout the film our school teachers interact with their pupils who face the struggles of modern adolescence: what could have been a clichéd exchange between two generations of Danish actors proves to be a heart-felt, shared experience between pupil and mentor, both of whom are using alcohol as a means to cope.

Vinterberg’s first dogme 95 film Festen (1998) deals with childhood trauma and racism, and was a worthy critique of Denmark in the late 90s, sending waves throughout the world of cinema.

I can promise you that Another Round will not have the same

impact. Modern society is facing environmental extinction, threatened democracy, police brutality against minorities and rampant bigotry. This film exists apart from the most important themes of 21st century life and unfortunately fails to possess any relevance to the modern zeitgeist.

It is an enjoyable watch, features brilliant performances, beautiful lighting and deals with a universal struggle with alcohol. But that is all and its lack of pertinence will see it become one of Vinterberg’s lesser-celebrated works.

CATHAL EUSTACE

“I remember how it was to be 16, coming home at four in the morning and smelling the spring flowers, being in love, and being drunk. That is the starting point of all joy. And we’re all still yearning for that somehow.”

-Vinterberg

HILLBILLY ELEGY Hillbilly Elegy is an adaptation of J.D. Vance’s memoir of the same name in which he tells the story of escaping his impoverished and dysfunctional family in working-class Appalachia to become a student at Harvard Law. His book became wildly successful in 2016, with many believing it to be an insight into the communities that were partly responsible for Trump’s presidential election.

Directed by Ron Howard and starring heavy-hitters Glenn Close and Amy Adams, this film was clearly made with the Oscars in mind. Yet it struggles to be anything more than a one-note autobiography that overgeneralises the people to whom it is supposed to give a voice.

There’s a story here worth telling; rural American poverty and the struggle to overcome and break cycles is a genuinely compelling theme and, to their credit, the

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actors do their best to portray the characters with compassion and nuance. But the film still comes across as clunky. This is partially due to the voice-over, which really doesn’t add to the film. If anything, it makes it come across as less sincere, creating an anthropological atmosphere in which the audience has to learn about the “strange ways of the country folk” even though most of it isn’t strange enough to warrant an explanation. This is often the case with films based on autobiographies - they over-rely on the author’s words, aiming for beat-tobeat accuracy rather than having their own creative interpretation.

Vanessa Taylor’s script seems to almost sanitise the serious nature of the themes and the metaphors implemented are so on the nose as to resemble pandering.

The film doesn’t seem to have anything unique to say about the several crises facing the Appalachians and similar communities.

There are better and braver films to watch to get an understanding of these communities (Debra Granik’s Winter’s Bone (2010) is a great example). I disagree with the idea that this film is irresponsible or that telling a story written by a Republican is a moral outrage, as some critics seem to suggest.

People should be allowed to have different interpretations of their own childhoods and backgrounds.

Vance’s emphasis on personal responsibility isn’t going to be shared by everyone from his background, but that’s only an issue if this is the only interpretation of the rural working-class that Hollywood decides to tell. My main issue isn’t Hillbilly Elegy’s perspective, it is the formulaic delivery of it. It is neither controversial nor groundbreaking. Instead, it is more intent on squeezing sympathy from an audience rather than telling a riveting story.

KATE L. RYAN

UNCLE FRANK The most frustrating moment in Uncle Frank (Alan Ball, 2020) occurs in the opening scene, when we get our first interaction between the title character (Paul Bettany) and his niece, Beth (Sophia Lillis). Instead of showing us how and why they connect, Beth’s love for her uncle is told to us in voice-over as we resentfully strain to hear the snippets of dialogue we should have been focusing on. I had been looking forward to the film, and such a strange choice this early on left me apprehensive for what would come next. I needn’t have worried. The film quickly makes clear the impact Frank has on his niece’s life, and the introduction of his partner, Wally (Paul Macdissi), sets the stage for a thoroughly engaging narrative.

Finally living in the same city as the only member of her family who really sees her, Beth crashes a party at her uncle’s apartment and learns that he is gay. Despite her Southern upbringing and the film’s 1970s setting, Beth accepts him quickly, but he knows the rest of his family will not be as understanding. And that’s not the only secret he’s been keeping.

Writer-director Ball could have rendered Wally a loveable prop in a movie like this, but he is actually one of its biggest assets. It is clear how much he loves his partner’s niece without ever meeting her, and his chemistry with Frank is tangible. Watching the trio confront the issues arising from the death of the family patriarch makes for a thoroughly compelling story about courage, regret, addiction, and the complexity of love.

Beth’s mother, Kitty (Judy Greer), provides welcome comic relief in a film that can be difficult to watch, and though I would have liked to have spent more time with some of Frank’s family members, I appreciated the varied reactions to a relative coming out, acknowledging the visibility of gay men in pre-AIDs crisis America. Again the final scene relies on Beth’s voice-over narration rather than letting us observe and draw out our own conclusions, though this is less grating the second time round. Overall, the film is a winner, competently balancing humour and drama without compromising either.

GILLIAN DOYLE

Save Our Cinemas COVID-19 has had a profound effect on countless aspects of our society and culture, none more so than cinemas. If you’re reading TFR, then you’re likely already a film buff and movie lover, so theatre closures have equally affected you. But even if you’re a casual cinema goer, watching Netflix at home isn’t quite the same as the communal experience cinema theaters offer; which is one of the main things we miss so much about them.

However, the best thing about cinema is how versatile and elastic it is. If COVID has taught us anything, it’s how valuable cinema as an artform is not just to our sanity but our enjoyment and pleasure in life. It didn’t take long to turn our attention to Netflix, Prime or Apple TV to distract our quarantined days, nor did it take studios long to pivot to these streaming methods as a way of release.

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But cinema needs your help.

Most importantly, independent cinemas need your help. Without independent cinemas, we don’t get films like Call Me By Your Name, Dating Amber or Roma.

We don’t get foreign films, non-western films, first feature films or subtitled films. Without independent cinemas, we are locked out of a world of films.

So next time you go to scroll through Netflix for an evening flick, consider what IFI @ Home

has to offer; a digital screening platform by the IFI, Ireland’s national cinema. If you’re stuck for christmas presents, consider looking at The Lighthouse’s online shop, full of unique prints by Irish artists of films you love.

If you’re a cinema worker who has been affected by large chain closures, please see

@cineactiongroup @cinemanation on Twitter for help and knowledge about your rights.

In the grand words of Tilda Swinton,

“Cinema rocks and rolls, and bounces and stretches, we love cinema for her elasticity, her inventiveness, her resilience, her limber and undauntable roots and her eternally supersonic evolution”.

Some of the greatest films made are rooted in revolution, a dedicated desire to change.

Cinema will still be here when COVID-19 is a distant bad memory; but let’s try to keep her local and global, and more powerful than ever, by supporting our independent cinemas and filmmakers.

MIA SHERRY