Like Crazy
Like Crazy is a precise, obdurate relationship critique,
unconcerned with tedious elements such as sub-plots and distinct structural
acts. It begins when Jacob and Anna’s story begins, and refuses to abandon its protagonists
until its final, devastating shot. Drake Doremus directs confidently, slickly flitting
between tones (it diverts from wistful romance to disillusioned passivity snag-free)
with supreme assurance. He doesn’t recklessly jump from one time period to
another, but glides; in one stunning scene-bridge, he uses various transitory
images of the couple sprawled across their bed to represent an entire Summer of
fairytale passion. There’s a grounded, immersive fluidity to its narrative. Felicity
Jones and Anton Elchin are awesomely understated (their entirely improvised
dialogue sucks you in), implementing a naturalism packed with subtle graces; longing
glances, dispossessed sighs and Pinter Pauses ringing with perplexed fragility
are abundant. Like Crazy certainly
isn’t for everyone; many will be turned off by its pensive solemnity, its
dragging pace and its self-indulgent schmaltz. Alternatively, those it does
speak to, such as myself, will find something beautifully downplayed,
intoxicatingly affectionate, and absolutely gut-wrenching; one of the best
romantic dramas in years, a tribute to the indomitable connection formed in
first love.
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| I think someone needs to tell them how to hold hands |
Stoker
Stoker is the most Hitchcockian, Burtonesque film David Lynch never
made. It’s disturbingly perverse, startlingly vindictive and utterly bizarre,
but there’s a subversive poetry to Park’s first American film not confined to
its dazzling visuals and inspired sound design; Park expresses a fascinating,
almost philosophical indifference towards the family’s immorality. When India’s
mysterious Uncle Charlie (a reference to the menacing villain from Hitchcock’s
most underrated, Shadow Of A Doubt)
emerges from the shadows of her family’s disquieting past, things progress from
peculiar to unnerving rapidly. When the quasi-Freudian subtext of semi-incest
in this serial-killer love triangle bubbles to the surface, it transgresses
from unnerving into downright horrifying. Mia Wasikowska is the embodiment of
cold detachment, her off-putting brattishness compensated for by her compelling
idiosyncrasy so that she does, improbably, invoke sympathy. Nicole Kidman is
also excellent; part noir-widow, part farcically restrained house-wife, part
queen of explosive melodrama. Inevitably Matthew Goode is the most delightfully
odd, a manifestation of smiling malevolence and searing blue-eyed psychopathy. Park
employs a series of striking colours and sounds; an exuberantly lit spider and
its catatonic crawl for example, which contributes to an increasingly pervasive
atmosphere of dread and inexorable disaster. Despite not being the most
cerebral work, it’s a joy to analyse, its mesmerising, ambivalent imagery and
cinematography practically demanding repeat viewings. A psycho-sexual masterpiece,
and possibly my favourite film of 2013.
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| The prototypical uncle-niece relationship |
