Stars: Dave Grohl, Pat Smear, Taylor Hawkins, Rami Jaffee, Chris Shiflett, Nate Mandell, Will Forte, Jeff Garlin, Jenna Ortega, Whitney Cummings, Jason Trost and Marti Matulis. Writer: Jeff Buhler and Rebecca Hughes, based on a story by Dave Grohl Director: BJ McDonnell
Rating: ★ ★ ★
Foo Fighter fans get the 80s-style horror-comedy they’ve been screaming for Dave Grohl to make since NEVER with Studio 666. Yes, it’s a real movie and a pretty good one, as far as ‘possessed recording studio massacre’ movies go, and it’s in Australian cinemas for a limited time before heading to streaming, where you can watch it with mates between bong hits, as it should be seen.
The Foo-eys have a contractually obliged 10th album due and, no matter how much foul-mouthed record company CEO Jeff Garlin yells at them, they can’t get inspired to write some songs. So Garlin sets them up at a secluded mansion in Encino, hoping the long history of hits that have emanated from the site will rev up the group. But the mansion is home to more than just music history; it is a portal to demonic terror and soon Grohl is having nightmares about red-eyed entities, growing a gnarly set of fangs and killing bandmates in the most ridiculously gruesome way possible.
Everyone’s having fun, unburdened by any expectation that musicians need to be actors (there’s Will Forte, Whitney Cummings and, briefly, Jenna Ortega pulling acting duty). Mature-age men Taylor Hawkins, Nate Mendel, Pat Smear, Chris Shiflett, and Rami Jaffee are asked to channel ‘stupid teenagers’ in pulling off this lark, none more so the Grohl himself, who’s a funny, fierce leading man.
On the scale of ‘Rock Star Vanity Projects’, with The Beatles’ A Hard Days Night at one end and Neil Diamond’s The Jazz Singer at the other, Studio 666 falls somewhere in the middle, which’ll be good enough for the band’s fans. Gorehounds will dig the R-rated splatter, too; it’s all directed by BJ McDonnell, who last did the very bloody Hatchet III, which feels about right.
Stars: Peter Dinklage, Haley Bennett, Kelvin Harrison Jr., Ben Mendelsohn, Bashir Salahuddin and Monica Dolan. Writer: Erica Schmidt Director: Joe Wright
Rating: ★ ★ ★ ★ ½
Director Joe Wright does ‘soaring lit-based romance’ like few others. He made Atonement - the last film to really make me gulpy-sob - as well as gorgeous-looking and emotion-filled reworkings of Pride & Prejudice and Anna Karenina. These are the stories that engage his artistry and passion for storytelling like none of his other films. He did Hanna, The Soloist, Darkest Hour - all fine films but works that felt like a hired gun was at the helm.
Cyrano may be the best Joe Wright film yet. It is, of course, a reworking of Edmond Rostand’s romantic classic Cyrano de Bergerac, a favourite amongst literary academics but probably best known to modern movie audiences as the inspiration for the beloved 1987 Steve Martin film, Roxanne. In 2022, Wright has worked with writer Erica Schmidt to create a 17th century Parisian spin on the story of the swordsman/poet who pines for the beautiful Roxanne but who doubts she would fall for someone as physically unappealing as he.
Instead, she falls for one of Cyrano’s new regiment, the guard Christian, a strapping specimen but not the shiniest sword in the battalion. So Cyrano agrees to be his voice - mostly in letters, but also literally on occasion - to help his beloved Roxanne find true love, even if it means his own longings must go unrequited.
In a year of big, brassy, lushly orchestral musicals, like West Side Story and In the Heights, the original music, composed by The National and the lyrics, written by Matt Berninger and Carin Besse, is often understated to the point of being almost lost in Wright’s lavish production. But the songbook works as a subtle add-on to the characters in Cyrano, not a grand flourish in a sing-for-singing’s sake kind of way. Some of the film’s deepest emotions are found in the repeated refrains of the central tune, ‘Madly’, or in Roxanne’s declaration of her depth and strength, ‘I Need More’.
The Cyrano of legend was cursed with a big honker, but in Wright’s version he is played by Peter Dinklage, the little person star of Game of Thrones (and that unforgettable cameo in Elf). Dinklage is married to Schmidt, and she crafted the script to suit not only her husband’s dwarfism but also his towering talent and on-screen charisma. His performance as the forlorn, faultlessly romantic Cyrano is arguably the greatest ever screen incarnation of the figure, putting him ahead of such actors as Gerard Depardieu, Jose Ferrer and Christopher Plummer.
Dinklage’s scenes with his Roxanne (the luminous, spirited Haley Bennett) are both lovely and heartbreaking; as Christian, Kelvin Harrison Jr brings depth to a role that is very often underserved in adaptations of the text. And in fourth billing is one Ben Mendehlson, doing that thing he’s been doing for the best part of a decade now, taking a small villainous role and making every frame of film unforgettable.
Featuring: Angèle, Marko, Laurence Bibot, Damso, Roméo Elvis and Dua Lipa.
Rating: ★ ★ ★ ★
Currently available worldwide on Netflix.
Belgian singer/songwriter Angèle Van Laeken applies some carefully orchestrated introspection to her stardom in the so-appropriately self-titled documentary, Angèle. First-time director Sébastien Rensonnet and music-video veteran Brice Vdh corral third-person footage - much of it shot by the starlet herself, deep in her COVID-lockdown headspace - and mould it to a template set by Madonna (Truth or Dare, 1991), Justin Bieber (Never Say Never, 2011) and Katy Perry (Part of Me, 2012). The resulting cinematic snapshot proves sweetly engaging, part confessional / part infomercial.
The opening salvo of images chronicling the pop sensation’s rise to homeland celebrity certainly leans into the privilege of her upbringing. The daughter of ‘90s pop singer Marka and actress/comedienne Laurence Bibot, she was blessed with talent that was encouraged from an early age, even if an underlying theme of the documentary is Angèle’s determination to break free of her parent’s public profiles and establish her own professional identity.
Taking its cues from the dozens of long-hand journals that she kept during her formative years, the documentary ticks off key moments in the 25 year-old’s development as a lyricist, public figure and person. These include winning over crowd indifference as support act to rapper Damso; hitting online viral heights, first as an Instagram personality and then with the release of her first song, La Loi de Murphy; and, the frenzied reception to her blockbuster album Brol and its record-breaking single, Tout oublier.
Perhaps because so much of their film is private moments captured on smartphones or home video, Rensonnet and Vdh use their subject’s performance presence sparingly. Fans tuning in to see concert footage or rehearsal time may be underwhelmed, but there is already plenty of that material in circulation. In fact, so consumed is the film with its distillation of modern fame, it is not her pairing with superstar Dua Lipa that resonates but instead the relationship Angèle has with her affectionate, outspoken grandmother.
It becomes clear that a part of the documentary’s role is to provide a clear voice and sturdy platform for Van Laeken to close the door on several image-threatening moments that arose in the early stages of her fame. Paramount amongst these is how she dealt with the backlash against her brother, rapper Roméo Elvis, when he is outed for inappropriate sexual conduct, and the songstress takes both a firm stance against his actions while still maintaining her ‘family above all’ mantra.
Emerging as a feminist icon in the wake of her #MeToo anthem Balance ton quoi role and coming-out as bisexual in late 2020 are handled with an evenhanded maturity, speaking to the film’s raison d’etre - the affirmation that Angèle has survived the first stage of her life in the spotlight and is poised to embrace whatever challenges she faces as a powerful, focussed young woman.
Stars: Maddie Ziegler, Kate Hudson, Leslie Odom Jr., Ben Schwartz, Mary Kay Place and Hector Elizondo. Writers: Sia and Dallas Clayton. Director: Sia.
Rating: ★ ★ ★ ★
In Australian singer/choreographer Sia’s directorial debut Music, a neurotypical actor has been cast as a character with non-verbal autism. The practice is, of course, hugely problematic; casting able-bodied actors to portray disabled characters is as old as cinema itself. As past insensitivities in the name of storytelling have been mothballed, we hope the casting of the neurodiverse in roles depicting their experiences is inevitable. (For an impassioned plea to end the faking of on-screen disabilities, read fellow critic Grant Watson’s take over at Fiction Machine, or Variety’s coverage of autism advocacy group’s collective outcry).
So, the question arises as to whether a film that employs such a practice can, even should, be reviewed fairly in light of its casting.
Whether her presence sits uncomfortably with the majority of 2021 film watchers, lead actress and Sia’s long-time muse Maddie Ziegler is terrific as ‘Music’, giving a compelling performance of technical skill and deep resonance. Some critics will bemoan it, citing it is all ‘ticks and clicks’ merely reinforcing a century of well-intentioned but cliched portrayals of those with additional needs. But there is no doubt that Ziegler’s nuanced acting and her director’s interpretation of Music’s worldview prove deeply moving.
Part of that ‘worldview’ is presented as intricately choreographed song-and-dance interludes; vibrant, giddy flights of whimsy by which Music comprehends her reality. It is an inspired creative choice for the director to make, and while it seems unlikely that there will be a wave of ‘mental health musicals’ in the wake of this film, the role these sequences play in helping the audience understand Music’s emotional state is crucial.
Music’s structured daily routine is thrown into turmoil when her grandmother and carer (Mary Kay Place) passes suddenly. Despite a neighbourhood support group that includes caring super George (the wonderful Hector Elizondo), sweethearted softie Felix (Beto Calvillo) and handsome loner Ebo (Leslie Odom Jr.), it falls to opportunistic half-sister and recovering addict Zu (Kate Hudson) to reconnect with and care for her. Not everything rings true about Hudson’s portrayal - with her ripped movie-star physique and pearly whites, she’s the healthiest-looking black-out drunk in movie history - but the relationship she develops with both Music and, by extension, Ebo, does convince.
Sia has been open about her ‘creativity and community’ philosophy and that is exactly the themes that she expands upon in an impressive filmmaking debut. Her take on big-city life is every bit as rose-colour filtered as her conjured dance numbers; this is an only-in-the-movies LA neighbourhood, where street vendors shout out your name with a smile and drug dealers look and act like the adorably camp Ben Schwartz. When the movie does dip into the harsh realities of, say, an alcoholic’s fall from the wagon, the loneliness of life has an HIV sufferer or the horror of domestic abuse, the impact is appropriately jarring.
With co-scripter and children’s author Dallas Clayton, Sia's articulation of life on the autistic spectrum has credibility and is a vision shared with and buoyed by her lead actress’ dedication. Yes, we want ASD actors cast in parts drawn from their authentic life experiences. Still, we cannot deny that Music considers those experiences with heart, integrity and artistry.
Stars: Alma Jodorowsky, Philippe Rebbot, Geoffrey Carey, Teddy Melis, Clara Luciani, Laurent Papot, Nicolas Ullmann, Xavier Berlioz and Elli Medeiros. Writers: Marc Collin and Elina Gakou Gomba. Director: Marc Collin.
Rating: ★ ★ ★ ★
MARCHE DU FILM 2020: The international music scene was ripe for rebirth by the late 1970s. Disco was dead; punk had self-immolated; the decade’s rock mega-groups had peaked. As Marc Collin’s thrilling, giddy Le Choc du Futur paints history, the global musical new wave that emerged from that stagnant period, dominated the next ten years and influenced the next forty, was borne out of smoky Parisian apartments and the pulsating, youthful energy of young women musicians determined to forge their own paths.
A composer/music producer making his feature film directing debut, Collin is not telling one woman’s true story, instead utilising his narrative to filter the experience and legacy of pioneering synth-pop names like Clara Rockmore, Pauline Olivieros and Beatriz Ferreyra (and a dozen or so others, all listed at the end of the film). It proves rich source material; Collin and co-scripter Elina Gakou Gomba craft a lead character that honours extraordinary drive and creativity.
Twenty-something Ana (Alma Jodorowsky; pictured, top) is bedsitting a very small apartment (the setting for the bulk of Collin’s film). She wakes, lights a smoke, stretches, dances to Cerrone's Supernature; she is a young, free, contemporary, feminine spirit. She is also established as a modern electronic-music composer, booked to write ad music by her manager Jean Mi (Philippe Reboot, bringing ‘70s music biz sleaze in spades), but her talent is not developing, frustrating her output and stifling her motivation.
Three fateful moments alter the course of Ana’s life and the direction of modern music in the process. When her synthesizer breaks down, a technician visits her with a state-of-the-art Roland CR-78 beatbox; her music guru friend (Geoffrey Carey) avails her to the rich sounds of such artists as Throbbing Gristle, Aksak Maboub and Human League; and, a voice-over artist (Clara Luciani; pictured, above) turns out to be an equally talented lyricist, penning powerful words to Ana’s new sound.
There is not a great complexity to the plot, so nuance and shading falls to Collin’s leading lady. The granddaughter of legendary director Alejandro, Alma Jadorowsky is an electrifying central presence; everything about Ana’s creative process, determination and self-doubt stems from Jodorowsky’s natural screen presence and warmth.
The story’s relevance comes in its depiction of music industry misogyny; alone in her apartment, Ana fends off three leery male visitors in the opening twenty minutes. Jodorowsky is bound by the 1979 setting in forming her reactions, but the strength she displays in overcoming finely-honed microaggressions (“You’re pretty, just be a singer”) provides a true modern heroine’s arc.
Le Choc du Futur is mostly about the music, of course, and Collin (whose multi-hyphenated approach to filmmaking sees him handle the synth score as well) fills extensive sequences with pulsating beats and fluid aural soundscapes, as envisioned by Ana. It is a rousing story, underplayed to near-perfection, made grand by the sense of artistic discovery it conveys.
Stars: Francesca Hayward, Idris Elba, Judi Dench, Ian McKellen, Rebel Wilson, James Corden, Robbie Fairchild, Mette Towley, Ray Winstone, Laurie Davidson, Jennifer Hudson, Jason Derulo, Naoimh Morgan, Laurent and Larry Bourgeois and Taylor Swift. Writers: Lee Hall and Tom Hooper; based upon Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical adaptation of T.S. Eliot’s ‘Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats’. Director: Tom Hooper.
Rating: ★ ★ ★ ★ ½
Director Tom Hooper set himself a much harder task shepherding Cats to the big-screen than his previous musical adaptation, Les Misérables (2012). Andrew Lloyd Webber’s wildly imaginative, unashamedly odd live theatre smash hit could not be afforded the same instant gravitas as the Oscar-winning reworking of Victor Hugo’s historical epic. The putrid squalor, brutal militarism and class struggles of post-revolution France made Les Misérables immediately relevant and easily analysed by critics and awards season marketeers.
As the early wave of “What the f**k?” reviews suggests, making Cats a relatable movie-going experience for any one not entirely enamoured with the source material has proven a tad tougher. A fantastical vision that requires the kind of suspended disbelief and unskeptical submissiveness for which mainstream audiences (and most critics) are not known, Hooper has undertaken a momentous task of cinematic world building that must at once be tied to its iconic stage roots while also establishing its own need for being. Few contemporary movie works carry that baggage at every stage of their development and execution.
As with the stage production, the narrative is both a relatively straightforward fantasy premise, yet wonderfully nutty. In a London alleyway, a white kitten called Victoria (Royal Ballet principal Francesca Hayward, a striking and angelic presence on-screen) is abandoned, yet immediately finds community with a collection of strays known as The Jellicle Cats. Led by Munkustrap (Robbie Fairchild), the Jellicles are preparing for the arrival of Old Deuteronomy (Judi Dench), who will oversee a song-and-dance contest from which one cat will receive passage to ‘The Heaviside Layer’ and return with renewed life.
The dramatic conflict comes in the form of Macavity (Idris Elba), a mean-spirited moggie with the ability to whisk away in a cloud of magical mist all those who threaten his quest for life-giving ascension. This includes railway yard ginger Skimbleshanks (Steven McRae), ageing theatrical cat Gus (Ian McKellen) and the film’s comic relief duo, tubby tabby Jennyanydots (Rebel Wilson) and ‘puss in spats’ fat cat Bustopher Jones (James Corden). Central to Victoria’s journey is the most magical of Jellicles, Mr. Mistoffelees (Laurie Davidson), and the once regal but now dishevelled outcast, Grizabella (Jennifer Hudson).
Hooper and his daring troupe in front of and behind the camera have drawn inspiration from the stage-bound cats that have gone before; cast wear anthropomorphic make-up and full body fur-suits, with CGI tails and ears bolstering the effect. Despite family-friendly ratings in most territories, the lithe frames of the dance troupe in their ‘cat-tards’ enhances the inherent sexuality of the feline form. Unlike the vast sets and multiple locations at his disposal for Les Misérables, Hooper is very much studio-bound with Cats, but he utilises the space with remarkable skill; below-the-line contributors such as production designer Eve Stewart and art director Tom Weaving exhibit the best their craft has to offer. In this regard, the production has crafted the near-perfect stage-to-screen work.
In fact, Hooper and his team have nailed the transition in every other regard, too. Hudson finds all the emotion in the signature tune, ‘Memory’, belting out the classic with a combination of rage and hopelessness that tears at you like it should; when given full flight, Hayward is a vision of graceful physicality, embodying both doe-eyed innocence and strong-willed goodness; showstoppers from the stage show hit similar highs, notably Jason Derulo’s ‘Rum Tum Tugger’ and Davidson’s version of ‘Mr Mistoffelees’; and, superstar Taylor Swift vamps it up as Bombalurina, who croons the torch song intro for Elba’s bad guy, ‘Macavity’.
Granted, there are moments that invite bewilderment; the ‘Cockroach Chorus Line’ sequence may ask too much of even the most committed fan. And the familiar comic stylings of Wilson and Corben prove occasionally jarring in the midst of the otherwise all-encompassing Jellicle world.
Andrew Lloyd Webber began writing Cats from T.S. Eliot’s ‘Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats’ in 1977, and in the context of that decade’s more ‘out there’ musical endeavours, a play about alley cats being reincarnated seems totally rational. This was, after all, the decade of ‘The New Wave Musical’, which saw the rise of Webber (Evita; Jesus Christ Superstar) and his American contemporary, Stephen Sondheim (Sweeney Todd), while Hollywood tried to keep up by offering such cinematic sing-alongs as The Wiz, Lost Horizon and Sargeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
In 2019, foisting such whimsy on a society poised with web-knives sharpened was perhaps the single miscalculation made by Tom Hopper and Universal Pictures; the studio pumped US$100million into the project, which has bounced around the LA and London film sectors for four decades (Amblin Entertainment came close to making an animated version, hence Steven Spielberg’s E.P. credit).
In the new era of ‘fan-service cinema’, Hooper and co-writer Lee Hall have set a new high-water mark. Cats is exactly the stage play experience, compensating for the loss of the live theatre element with its own rich cinematic energy. If issues arise for you such as ‘Where are their nipples?’ or ‘But the ears look weird…’, Cats is already not your saucer of cream, so move on. Hooper’s surrealistic song-and-dance spectacle, steeped in joyous musical theatre lore and rich with the emotions of acceptance and forgiveness, is exactly what we need right now.
Stars: Julian Atocani Sanchez, Noel Gugliemi, Elizabeth De Razzo, Jake Busey, Keanu Wilson, Rusalia Benavidez, Zeyah Pearson, Lew Temple, Patricia Kalis and J.K. Simmons. Writer/Director: Cameron Nugent
Rating: ★★★★
Like his eponymous ukulele-wielding protagonist, writer-director Cameron Nugent strikes the perfect chord with his feature-length debut, A Boy Called Sailboat. An understated, utterly beguiling dose of doe-eyed magic-realism, the Australian’s fanciful but sure-footed foray into one Hispanic family’s life in the U.S. south-west could not be more timely; in telling one small story, A Boy Called Sailboat also celebrates the common humanity that binds diverse communities.
Few depictions of life’s base pleasures – food, music, family and love – play out with such sweet-natured resonance as in Nugent’s narrative. The premise, like the lives led by the humans at its core, is simple; a pre-teen boy (the wonderful Julian Atocani Sanchez), blessed with both a vivid imagination and strongly-defined sense of family, stumbles on a small, discarded guitar and decides to teach himself to play, so that one day he may sing a self-penned song to his ailing ‘abuela’ (Rusalia Benavidez).
However, the lives of all around him – father José (Noel Gugliemi), mother Meyo (Elizabeth De Razzo), best friend Peeti (Keanu Wilson), school crush Mandy (Zeyah Pearson), teacher Bing (Jake Busey), a local DJ (Lew Temple) and ultimately the entire population of his New Mexico suburb – are given greater profundity when they hear Sailboat play his uke and sing his song, a composition that renders anyone who hears it emotionally reborn. In a bold and effective device, every time the boy sings Nugent’s screen goes silent but for a single chord, thereby forcing his audience to bring their own definition of what most deeply stirs their soul.
A Boy Called Sailboat has many idiosyncratic beats and skewed nuances, the kind that need a strongly-defined real-world emotional connection to work. Ten minutes in, Nugent has filled his film with so many small, strange tics (a yacht being towed in the desert; a leaning home held upright by a single beam; a meatballs-only nightly meal; a soccer-obsessed kid who holsters an eye dropper) there is the very real threat that his vision will die the death of a thousand quirks.
Thankfully, Nugent proves himself to be a master of meaningful whimsy, in much the same way as Wes Anderson (a clear inspiration, especially his 2012 triumph, Moonrise Kingdom) or early Tim Burton (circa 1990s Edward Scissorhands). All his actors are attuned to his nuanced vision, especially a cameoing J.K. Simmons (pictured, above) as used-car salesman/life-coach Ernest; in one wonderful sequence, Nugent skillfully edits a series of reveals as the Oscar-winning actor monologues some life advice to young Sailboat, while the kid stares transfixed at…a sailboat.
Talent extends behind the camera, too, not only in the form of DOP John Garrett’s skill with sparse, hot location work. The production’s collaboration with classical guitarists Leonard and Slava Grigoryan has provided a soundtrack of wistful, lovely melodies, many traditional sea-faring tunes (‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’; ‘My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean’) in line with Sailboat’s oceanic obsession. All contributors reinforce the filmmaker’s remarkably assured stewardship, resulting in surely the most impressive calling-card film in recent memory.
Stars: Teo Yoo, Irina Starshenbaum, Roma Zver, Filipp Avdeev, Alexandr Gorchilin, Alexander Kuznetsov, Nikita Efremov, Julia Aug, Elena Koreneva, Lia Akhedzhakova, Anton Adasinskyi and Vasiliy Mikhailov. Writers: Kirill Serebrennikov, Michael Idov and Lily Idova. Director: Kirill Serebrennikov
Reviewed at the 2018 Russian Resurrection Film Festival, Sydney; named the festival’s Best New Russian Film, 2018.
Rating: ★★★★★
Evoking memories of a pre-Perestroika Russia where the youthful masses were unified and energised in their defiance of authority by the driving beats of a post-punk early-80s Leningrad music scene, Kirill Serebrennikov’s Leto is a free-wheeling, free-spirited, bittersweet remembrance of the people and passion that defined the decade for many young Soviets.
A pure celebration of driven talent and the transformative power of music, the latest from the provocative director of The Student (2016) proves a stirring ode to the subversive. Whether deconstructing the staid conventions of the ‘musical biopic’ or symbolically reacting against the Kremlin’s suppression of socially-conscious art, Serebrennikov and co-writers Michael Idov and Lily Idova have crafted a thrilling, relevant and deeply moving work despite, or perhaps because of, a narrow narrative focus.
The film follows three key figures in the thriving if heavily policed Leningrad music scene – the lead singer of hard-edged rock band Zoopark, Mike Naumenko (real-life rocker Roma Zver); his wife and muse, Natalya (the wonderful Irina Starshenbaum); and, charismatic singer-songwriter Viktor Tsoï (the striking German-born, Korean-based Teo Yoo). All became iconic figures in Russian pop culture - Tsoï would front the group Kino and pen the battle cry of the Perestroika movement, ‘Khochu peremen (I Want Change)’; Serebrennikov’s film, named after Zoopark’s biggest hit, is loosely based upon Natalya’s best-selling memoir.
Their interactions don’t amount to searing drama. Mike recognizes Viktor’s talent and wants to share in his growth as a musician; Natalya, like anyone in Viktor’s realm, finds herself attracted to him; Mike sees out his wife’s attraction to Viktor, openly encouraging her to not deny natural feelings. The men write songs; Natalya balances a rock-wife lifestyle with a mother’s responsibilities; the trio, with some eccentric band mates in tow and the authorities watching their every move, strive to create, be seen, build a life together.
However, framed within DOP Vladislav Opelyants’ gorgeous monochromatic widescreen lens and exuding their enigmatic ‘rock star’ charisma in all its compelling glory, the audience investment in the intertwining lives and burgeoning creativity of the trio is profound. Most affecting is Starshenbaum as Natalya; the actress (bearing a remarkable resemblance to American star Mary Elizabeth Winstead) conveys both a strength and sensitivity that makes her central role as an inspiration for those around her entirely believable. Natalya’s own longing and determined path, when it emerges from beneath the self-absorbed creative destinies of the men in her life, proves deeply moving.
Dramatic impetus aside, the film is at its most engaging when it embraces its musical influences (notably Bowie, Blondie, T-Rex, though many are referenced). Defining songs of the period are reworked as musical numbers, at the indulgence of the characters and often sung by random strangers who drift in, then out of frame. Talking Heads’ ‘Psycho Killer’ becomes a fierce, fantastic number set on a train carriage; Iggy Pop’s ‘The Passenger’ is belted out by bus commuters as Viktor and Natalya take in the city. A great sequence, set to Mott the Hoople’s All the Young Dudes, sees Michael envision classic album covers of the day brought to life by his friends and family in splashes of Super-8 colour footage.
There is a sprawling sense of time and place to Leto, which blows out the running to over two hours, yet there is not a frame of the film one would want to see excised. The anti-establishment themes and love-conquers-all story beats inherent to the rock/pop biopic genre have been previously explored in Oliver Stone’s The Doors (1991), Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous (2000) and Anton Corbijn’s Control (2007), but rarely with such heartfelt melancholy, pained romanticism and evocative rendering of time and place.
The sly subversion that gives the film its bite has come at a price; Kirill Serebrennikov has been under house arrest since August 2017 for his perceived anti-Putin stance (the director could not attend the film’s Cannes premiere in May). While the authorities endeavor to stifle his political voice, his art and skill as a great movie storyteller speaks very loudly on his behalf.
Stars: J. Michael Finley, Madeline Carroll, Trace Adkins, Priscilla Shirer, Cloris Leachman, Nicole DuPort and Dennis Quaid. Writers: Jon Erwin, Brent McCorkle Directors: Jon and Andrew Erwin
Rating: 3/5
I Can Only Imagine is the celebration of the creation of a song that celebrates The Creator. The backstory to how the debut single of faith-pop outfit Mercy Me became the biggest selling Christian chart topper in music history spins the same homespun country-music values and heartland religious earnestness as the anthemic ballad; in that regard, it preaches to the masses of wildly enthusiastic disciples, who cite the song’s soaring lyrics as spiritually enriching and life affirming.
Of its kind, I Can Only Imagine is a step-above recent faith-based films, partly due to slicker production values but also through the addition of some serious acting credibility in the form of Dennis Quaid. Opposite J Michael Finley, making his film debut as singer/songwriter Bart Millard, Quaid does some heavy lifting to give their scenes together the required depth. As Millard’s troubled father, the ageing heartthrob actor gets to run the gamut from abusive monster to bastion of Divine-led recovery, giving a performance that allows for glowering and yelling and door-slamming, before some A-talent tear-duct thesping. As has been the case for much of Quaid’s career, the charismatic star is immeasurably better than much of the material.
Leading man Finley is a prince in the world of musical theatre, having wowed in the Broadway productions of Les Miserables and Sweeney Todd but, tonal command aside, the actor feels frustratingly miscast as good ol’ boy Millard. Picture the high-low vocal register of a young Mandy Patinkin emanating from a flannel-clad dustbowl-bred Patton Oswalt, and you get some idea of the jarring aural and visual mismatch that the casting presents. The decision to also have the actor portray the character as far back as his high school years backfires badly (one support player yells at Millard to shave the beard, truthfully observing, “You look 35!”)
Directed assuredly by brothers Jon and Andrew Erwin, Millard’s resolutely vanilla-tinged journey from little-boy-with-dreams to anonymous-band-frontman to recording-industry-superstar is bathed in the warm glow of His guiding influence and touch of His loving hand (quite often literally, when moments of reflection or inspiration are shot in beams of descending light). The audience needs no reminding (but is afforded it nonetheless) that God constantly oversees Millard’s journey, whether in the form long-suffering Christian soul mate Shannon, played by grown-up child-star Madeline Carroll (Santa Clause 3; Swing Vote; Mr Popper’s Penguins), the world’s sweetest and most tolerant band manager Brickell (a fine Trace Adkins) or the Mercy Me band members, who seem pretty chill while waiting out Millard’s occasional petulance and tightly-focussed ambition.
It is all pure hagiography, as one must expect from a musical biopic overseen by the very musicians it depicts; co-scripted by Jon Erwin and Brent McCorkle, the narrative rarely lets the actual chronology of events get in the way of bolstering its own mythology. That said, I Can Only Imagine certainly captures the exaltation shared by the song’s legion of followers, and knowing one’s audience is always a blessing. The casting of remarkable lookalike Nicole Du Port as faith-based C&W angel Amy Grant reaffirms the productions’ understanding of and appreciation for Mercy Me’s fanbase.
Though it will never be championed as an insightful work of either religious art or patriarchal psychology, I Can Only Imagine does manage to be a good film about a great song. As expected from frame 1, Finley/Millard navigates a fully humanising redemptive round-trip by the end of Act 3, perfectly timed for the rousing cinematic treatment that the song thoroughly deserves (which was, I must confess, the first time I had heard it).
With: Bangarra Dance Theatre, Dubay Dancers, The Lonely Boys, Anangu, Joey Ngamjmirra, Mayi Wunba, Naygayiw Gigi Dance Troupe and Hans Ahwang. Narrated by David Gulpilil. Writer: Tara June Winch. Director: Dominic Allen.
Reviewed at the World Premiere, held at The Australian Museum in Sydney on Thursday February 23.
Rating: 5/5
Indigenous tradition dating back millennia melds with the future of fully immersive filmmaking technology in the breathtaking virtual reality mini-feature, Carriberrie. A faithful extension of the art and craft of the spiritual dance narratives it captures, this glorious film premieres at The Australian Museum as an integral part of WEAVE, a month-long festival celebrating First Nation and Pacific cultures.
Deriving its title from the word ‘corroboree’ as spoken by the Eora nation, the traditional owners of the land upon which the city of Sydney now stands, the 15-minute 3D/360° rendering of First Nation dance and music represents a deeply humanistic focussing of the VR lens. Director Dominic Allen has employed the Jaunt ONE camera (a custom-built VR rig offering unprecedented image quality) to capture not only the majestic Australian landscape from Uluru to The Torres Strait Islands to The Harbour City, but also the unique complexities and beautiful artistry of native storytelling in song.
A white Australian of Irish ancestry, Allen spent two years working with indigenous elders such as senior Kimberley Walmajarri woman Annette Kogolo and Marilyn Miller, Director of the Laura Aboriginal Dance Festival and former Bangarra choreographer, to ensure authenticity and respect was afforded all the performers in the film. Several of the sequences, including the funeral performance “Kun-borrk Karrbarda” from the Northern Territory and a Kuku-Yalanji ceremony called “Mayi Wunba” that depicts the cultivation of Queensland rainforest honey, have rarely been glimpsed by the wider Australian population.
Contemporary First Nation culture is also represented, with contributions from the acclaimed work “Bennelong”, courtesy of the internationally renowned Bangarra dance company, and the anthemic rock song “The Hunter” from Lonely Boys, a six-piece band hailing from the Arnhem Land community of Ngukurr. A picturesque highlight is the all-women Dubay Dancers, of the Arakwal people from the stunning Byron Bay region of New South Wales, who dance a re-enactment of the seaside collection of yuggari (pippi) and jalum (fish).
Allen unites indigenous musical culture and the nations from which they hail with drone footage that frames the vast yet singular bond they share with the land, from deep within the red of the Outback to the green of the hinterland to the blue of coast. In and of itself much of this resembles high quality travelogue footage, to date one of standard uses of VR technology. In cohesion with the symbolic stories, however, the footage stirs with profundity.
The director’s other triumphant artistic flourish is his use of the 360° device, allowing the viewer to be at the centre of the dance rituals within the very environment from which they traditionally emerged. The sense of discovery one experiences with every turn of the head, with musicians in full flight and choirs in boisterous song often over one’s shoulder, will be revelatory to those new to the virtual reality viewing realm.
With Carriberrie, Dominic Allen, writer Tara June Winch and the production team have defined a new direction for the VR format – an affecting journey rich in ancient cultural significance, every bit as soaring as the viewing experience itself. It is a remarkable work.
CARRIBERRIE screens at The Australian Museum, Sydney, from March 2-27. Other states and venues to follow. Ticket and session times can be found at the venue's official website.
Friday, February 25, 2022 at 9:59AM 
