The Fall: Season 2

When a television series has a really excellent first run, it's always an anxious wait to see if the follow-up will repeat the success. Quite often, it cannot help but fall short. Homeland is one of the more high profile casualties of this sequel sickness. Once an example of how to make gripping, politically astute drama without resorting to cliche, it became lost in a mire of Dana-based plot lines and Clare Danes cry-face memes. 

The Fall is an interesting case study because it arrived in 2013 looking a lot like things we'd all seen before -- Silent Witness, Prime Suspect, The Killing -- and yet managed to do something new with the 'murder mystery' genre. It gave us our killer on a plate. Paul Spector, played by the unreasonably handsome Jamie Dornan, could not have been more unlikely (save, of course, his suspicious surname). Apparently devoted to his family, and highly respected as a grief counsellor (BBC does irony), he unleashed wells of sexual rage in a murder spree that lasted most of the first season. His targets, with one unplanned exception, were of a kind: young, attractive, female.

Following his traces throughout was D.S.I. Stella Gibson, a performance of icy composure from the magnificent Gillian Anderson. The psychology of Spector and Gibson's mutual obsession was the compelling centrepiece of a show tautly conceived and teasingly played out across five impeccable episodes. Both characters were evidently plagued by childhoods that remained (and still remain) only half-spoken. They also share a tendency to use their sexuality to manipulate others, each possessing an allure that disturbs and excites in equal measure. In another fictional set-up, theirs would be a love story, which, I'm sure, is the point.

Season 2 marks a change in pace and direction. The Belfast police now know that Spector is the killer, and most of the episodes revolve around his abduction of Rose Stagg (Valene Kane) and the subsequent rescue effort. Well, I say revolve, but one of the problems with this season is that it doesn't strictly revolve around anything. Side-plots sprawl from the main action in increasingly ludicrous number and content. Minor characters, whom we are led to believe are important, are introduced then hastily dropped. The dialogue veers between the mundane and the ridiculous. Fuseli's Nightmare becomes the focus of some pretty painful art history analysis. Oh, and Rose Stagg is all but forgotten for three whole episodes. I like to think abduction investigations are performed with a little more energy, particularly when the known culprit is taking a jog through the Botanic Gardens.

All this aside, The Fall could still have worked as a fairly entertaining and well-acted thriller. More difficult to swallow is its portrayal of women. I was initially ambivalent about criticisms of the show's gender politics. The first season was truly horrifying in its depiction of Spector's assaults on his defenceless victims, but it managed to serve a dramatic purpose without glamourising sexual violence. The second, however, shifts the balance perceptibly from representations of women as victims of masculine power, to the intricacies of feminine sexuality (these two issues are, of course, far from exclusive). It runs into problems because its approach to this topic is predictable and, at times, tasteless.

The first and worst example is Katy Benedetto (Aisling Franciosi), whose involvement in the whole affair is a travesty of storytelling. A teenager infatuated with Spector, she becomes increasingly embroiled in his twisted fantasies, first by offering herself to him, then by concocting alibis, briefly kidnapping his daughter, and breaking into his house. Whilst it is not impossible to believe that an otherwise apparently stable adolescent might conceivably risk so much for a man she thinks is a murderer, it is certainly difficult. It is made more difficult by the fact that the show's writers make little attempt to expose her motives, anxieties, or personal circumstances. There is also a highly disturbing scene in a hotel room where Spector ties her to the bed, a sequence the seedy hotel owner captures on his surveillance system. It is a scene overlaid with aggressive misogyny and male voyeurism, and Katy's apparent compliance, aside from being unbelievable, desperately needed to be further unpacked.

The other women, unfortunately, don't always fare much better. DC Gail McNally (Bronágh Taggart) is reduced to yet another one of Spector's fantasies, sent in to arrest him in his cell with her hair tumbling loosely over a thin blouse. Dr. Reed Smith, played by the wonderful Archie Panjabi, is seriously underused, save for a brief gay kiss with Gibson that has no purpose other than to titillate and ends in possibly the most cringe-worthy line of the season: 'I can't. I'm from Croydon.' Kalinda Sharma would never say that. And who knew sexuality was a postcode lottery? Even Gibson is rendered in more shallow terms this season. With some of the show's original urgency lost (Spector doesn't actually kill anyone this time), the glacial precision of Anderson's performance had less to counter, and sometimes meandered from the calm to the soporific.

This all sounds pretty damning, and I was disappointed by The Fall this time round. It ducks some of its responsibilities in terms of its treatment of gender and sexuality, and the plotting, at times, is nonsense. But given the strength of its opening season, my expectations were higher than usual, and it is still very watchable stuff. It just suffers from the maladies that so often afflict the follow-up. In an effort to recapture the old formula, shows sometimes get lost in manic methods of narration, and forget how to be curious about their characters. 

The Imitation Game

I had a discussion with my housemates the other night about what constitutes a biopic. Is it just the dramatising of a personal history, or does that person need a certain level of fame and historical proximity (or distance)? Is, for instance, The Social Network a biopic? Lawrence of Arabia? Andrei Rublev? All these films have deeply individualised narratives, and yet each reaches well beyond this remit to offer critiques of art, war, and modern technology.

These questions and definitions matter because The Imitation Game both is and is not about Alan Turing. It also seems unsure of just how much it wants to be about Alan Turing. I sense it would prefer to be about the Second World War, which offers a safe vantage point from which it can explore Turing's breaking of the Nazi Enigma Code. In fact, there is a moment where one of the coders frets about the comfort of their position compared to the soldiers risking their lives on the ground. Oddly, this film finds similar refuge in Bletchley Park, the setting it uses as a hiding place from its own subject.

Turing, played here with wonderfully emotive discomfort by Benedict Cumberbatch, is a man at once applauded and erased by history. He was a war hero who helped to shorten the conflict by approximately two years, and a criminal, chemically castrated on the orders of the British Justice system after his homosexuality was discovered. Morten Tyldum's film struggles to come to terms with the full ugliness of the latter. In a brief, galling postscript, viewers are reminded that Turing was granted a royal pardon in 2013: just one victim amongst 49,000 to receive an apology abhorrent in its inadequacy.

The man's hidden life is largely documented through flashbacks to his time at school, where he fell in love with a classmate, Christopher, whose name is immortalised in Turing's universal code-breaking machine. Aside from these brief childhood moments, Turing is emotionally constrained and socially impossible, grating on his colleagues with regular displays of apathy, arrogance, and contempt for their abilities. As the louche Hugh Alexander, Matthew Goode is a striking antidote to Cumberbatch's pained discomposure, whilst Keira Knightley is surprisingly restrained as Turing's sole companion, Joan Clarke. In a glib attempt at thematic unity, the film spells out the correlations between mathematic and social codes, as a young Turing admits that he does not understand why people never say what they mean. As an adult, he is puzzled by human interaction, finding solace in the cold logic of the machine.

The various strands of this history are too complex to be neatly tied together, which is unfortunately what this film attempts to do as it progresses. Particularly jarring is the repetition of its tagline: 'sometimes it's the people no one imagines anything of that do the things no one can imagine.' Horribly twee, it bizarrely ignores that fact that a prodigious Cambridge mathematics fellow is precisely the sort of person of whom you might expect brilliance. This line's tone reflects the dialogue as a whole: clunky, mawkish, and poorly considered. It's a shame because the acting is generally excellent, and there are glimpses of a better film amongst the softly-lit flashbacks and predictable set-pieces. The real problem is its half-hearted probing of the issues it raises. Where it can be saccharine and sentimental it lingers; where it uncovers real horror, it retreats.

The Hunger Games: Mockingjay, Part I

'Part I': two words that chill me to the bone where any 'trilogy' is concerned. My mind makes a swift and painful return to the fateful first chapter of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. That dance. That kiss. With their eyes firmly on the profits, film studios are increasingly using adaptation as a means of turning reasonably structured texts into bloated cinematic non-sequitors. There was no need for the last Potter film to be cut in two; nor, I'm sure, was the world well served by yet another Twilight. I haven't seen it. I'll make the claim nonetheless.

So it was with trepidation that I approached this third instalment in the Hunger Games franchise. Its predecessors are slick, well-crafted additions to the teen adventure genre, and they successfully counteract the inevitable cliches with nuanced insights into the moral and political ambivalences of Suzanne Collins's dystopia. It also helps that Jennifer Lawrence is really very good in everything all the time. People often talk about teen heroes and heroines in fairly unimaginative terms: they are 'likeable' or 'sympathetic.' Katniss Everdeen is better than that: she is interesting, and complicated, and not always that nice.

Following a second brutal run in the sadistic reality show that is The Hunger Games, Katniss finds herself esconced in District Thirteen, a concealed military base preparing for revolution. She spends a while being quite stroppy, largely because her rescuers failed to save fellow volunteer Peeta (Josh Hutcherson) from the clutches of the Capitol. President Snow, played with malignant intensity by Donald Sutherland, delights in dangling Peeta in front of the rebels via a series of staged interviews, hosted by a dentally luminescent Stanley Tucci. This is the real thematic focus of the film: the relationship between media and power. Both sides embark upon elaborate propaganda campaigns, creating an uneasy symmetry between state and rebel force. Katniss is the reluctant face of a war fought with screens; a revolution that begins to look curiously like the teen adventure genre it finds itself in.

There is certainly a real seed of interest here in the way conflict is mediated by modern technology, and there are some provocative if unpalatable overlaps with contemporary footage from Syria, not to mention the recent report on torture practices in the C.I.A. But the film drags in places. Boy two in the obligatory love triangle, Gale (Liam Hemsworth), is once again trapped in a personality-free zone. His generic 'pained' expression does not vary -- perhaps he had heartburn all through shooting? This is annoyingly at the expense of other characters: the fascinatingly tattooed filmmaker Cressida (Natalie Dormer) and the always entertaining will-they-won't-they pair, Effie (Elizabeth Banks) and Haymitch (Woody Harrelson). The film is dedicated to the late Philip Seymour Hoffman, who resumes the role of Plutarch Heavensbee with a performance that showcases his usual combination of gritty charm and integrity. 

It is no surprise that this third instalment feels like a disjointed accompaniment to its predecessors. Without the rapid but formulaic pace of things in the arena, director Francis Lawrence has to really delve into the story's knotty ethics, with the odd explosion thrown in for good measure. The result is good but not great; an unsettling and uncertain half-of-a-film. 

Pride

A sensitive coming-of-age tale; an astute commentary on the politics of the 80s; and a newly Welsh Imelda Staunton brandishing a dildo -- how could this be anything other than brilliant? Pride is raucously funny and unapologetically camp, yet its humour is always firmly couched in a respect for its subject matter: the shared struggle of mining communities and gay rights activists in a decade of social and economic upheaval.

Things begin in Croydon, where the frustrated, outspoken Mark Ashton (Ben Schnetzer) is looking for a cause to back. The plight of the miners provides the perfect opportunity for demonstrative action. And so, the succinctly named Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners (LGSM) is born -- a group which includes the still closeted Joe (George MacKay) and a wonderfully bleached Dominic West as Jonathan, an ageing thesp. Inevitably, tension and hilarity ensue when they shack up with their reluctant comrades in a tiny mining village in South Wales.

Where this film really succeeds is in capturing the intense social web that exists in such small, rural places. Power is wielded by those who have survived it the longest -- in this case, a wonderfully eccentric best-of-British lineup including Staunton, as the inimitable Hefina, and Bill Nighy as the modestly tortured Cliff. When LGSM arrive, friction blisters between the opposing factions, although the demarcations are not always clear. 

Pride doesn't exactly go in for gritty realism. There are several references to the deeply ugly, often violent effects of homophobia, but any examination of prejudicial structures is fairly light. Matthew Warchus is keen to keep his film in the crowd-pleasing realm of sex toys and 80s disco. And there is nothing wrong with that. There is some truly touching evidence of human empathy amongst the gags (in both senses), and moments of comic levity are often balanced by an awareness of the hysteria surrounding homosexuality, which found its focus in the AIDS crisis. 

This is a film of fiery divisions and unexpected unions. It works because it plays to its strengths, namely a brilliant cast and a razor-sharp script. All jokes aside, the song of protest at its core is one inscribed on British social history, and here it is given a worthy rendition.

Lucy

Nobody makes an action thriller quite like Luc Besson. It's been twenty years since the French director's cult classic Leon: The Professional, and he is very much back to his old tricks with Lucy, a frequently entertaining, often bizarre mashup of suspect science and gangster politics. Led by Scarlett Johansson, riding her post-Under the Skin wave of edgy appeal, this foray into the world of brain-altering narcotics is consistently ridiculous, and all the better for it.

The premise is this: Johansson's Lucy is led astray whilst studying in Taipei and finds herself the involuntary carrier of a new drug, CPH4, which, we are assured, all the kids in Europe are going to love. Somehow, its inventors have failed to realise that their creation will allow consumers to unlock their full brain capacity. We are told (by none other than Morgan Freeman, so it must be true) that most humans use only 20% of the cerebral function available to them. Unsurprisingly, when Lucy accidentally ingests large quantities of CPH4, things start to go awry.

What is surprising, however, is just how awry they go. Apparently, a person with this kind of brain function is capable of such feats as levitation, mind-control, and, finally, time-travel. And so begins Lucy's bloody rampage from the far East to Paris, where she plans to meet with Freeman's learned scientist to tell him the secrets of the universe. On the way, she pulls a bullet out of her own chest and starts to melt after drinking champagne. We've all been there.

What saves Lucy from being unbearably silly is Besson's awareness of just how far he is straining credulity. Everything is performed as if on speed -- the violence is stupidly gory and, crucially, the scientific discussions are usually interrupted by somebody pulling out a gun. Just when you think it can't get any more absurd, Besson brings out the dinosaurs. There are also some wonderfully tasteless montages designed to hammer home the metaphors. As Lucy looks warily at the obviously dodgy group of thugs in black suits, we cut to an antelope eyeing a pack of lions. Deep stuff.

In spite (and possibly because) of its flaws, it is very difficult not to enjoy Lucy. Johansson leads the film effortlessly, even when her apparently unbearable new consciousness leads her to look like she's constantly suppressing a bout of hiccups. Given the joy Besson takes in draining the film of any emotional or philosophical integrity, it is a brilliant move to go all 2001 on us at the end. He might be making a point about the universe's immense unknowability, with Lucy at its heart as a HAL-like cipher. Or maybe he just ran out of fake blood.

Two Days, One Night

The quiet precision of the title is telling: this is a film about the subtle measurements of the everyday. With Two Days, One Night, the Dardenne brothers have accomplished the difficult task of making the resolutely ordinary totally compelling. This is in large part thanks to Marion Cotillard's perfectly judged performance as Sandra, an employee at a solar panel factory who finds herself fighting for her job in the aftermath of a nervous breakdown. Hers is the kind of suffering that so often goes  untreated and undocumented, but here its repercussions are brought into sharp focus.

Sandra's period of depression has left her visibly drained -- Cotillard's usual glamour is replaced by dark circles, hollow cheeks, and messily assembled hair. Her whole way of moving is reluctant and pained, making the weekend's demands all the more excruciating. In order to save her job, she must visit each of her co-workers and ask them to vote that she be allowed to stay, sacrificing their bonus in the process.

In the wake of the world's recent economic catastrophes, this reads like a relatively minor dilemma: one woman's job or €1000? But the Dardennes are keenly aware of the moral and practical agonies this very real question can raise. As we follow Sandra from one house to the next, a picture of a shared struggle gradually begins to emerge. Her colleagues' dramatically varied responses -- from violent rejection to tearful support -- reveal a whole scale of ethical ambiguity within a small group of people. The film's unhurried pace creates the impression that each scene, regardless of its significance or intensity, is just part of life's daily dose of victory and loss.

This could lead to accusations of drudgery, and I would be lying if I said there weren't a couple of people fidgeting in their seats. But there were far more entranced by this picture of one woman's effort to hold on to both her job and her integrity. There is a lot at stake for Sandra, and for her family, particularly her husband Manu (Fabrizio Rongione). Their relationship is fraught with pressures like so many -- there are no explosive fights, only one bitter suggestion that they might separate, casually delivered by Sandra. The absence of any melodrama makes these discordant notes all the more powerful.

Although the focus of Sandra's canvassing, Monday morning's vote at the factory is not any great climax. The Dardennes are not interested in big scenes or hysterical set-pieces; their concern is with the human gestures that frame such moments. Glimpses of empathy, humility, and self-sacrifice are the touchstones of this piece, and the story at its core is one that lingers.

Boyhood (2014)

The first thing we hear in Richard Linklater's Boyhood is the unmistakable opening strain of Coldplay's 'Yellow.' Suppressing the vision of a young, pasty Chris Martin walking very slowly along a beach, I slid down my seat and prepared for the worst. (Not that I buy into the rabid scapegoating of Chris and co., but that tune is one jaundiced refrain too far.) Luckily, the song falters into the background, tinkling through the radio in the family home of Mason (Ellar Coltrane). It is of its time - a catchy part of life's daily hum - as it was in millions of homes near the beginning of the last decade. Over the next few hours, Linklater zones in on the experience of one family, and one boy in particular, documenting Mason's childhood and adolescence with an exquisite blend of empathy and curiosity. Boyhood was twelve years in the making but it has been crafted with the lightest touch, creating a story we imagine might have unfolded without us, and may still be unfolding now that we have left.

Linklater's films have always shown a fascination for time, and the relative brevity of our experiences. In the Before... trilogy, Ethan Hawke (who reappears here as Mason's father) and Julie Delpy snatch brief moments together in Vienna and Paris; the short hours guarding a love that neither character can resist. In Boyhood, we are not quite so pressed for time. There is an organic quality to the film's structure: Linklater drops in on Mason at unspecified intervals, sometimes coinciding with momentous incidents; at other points, turning an eye to the more mundane. This unbiased perspective is what makes Mason's evolution so compelling. His life is not hostage to the vagaries of a Hollywood plot. 

That is not to say that there is anything dull about this film. The supporting players in Mason's history are an eclectic, often hilarious mix. Lorelei Linklater is consistently excellent as his older sister, Samantha - if anything, we could have done with more of her in the later part of the film. Her early scenes with Mason feel like wonderfully authentic representations of sibling behaviour, with all its fractious adoration. A cautious warmth defines the changing relationship between Mason's divorced parents, who are portrayed with untheatrical honesty by Hawke and Patricia Arquette. There is the sense that all these actors become increasingly at one with their characters as time passes and, presumably, their life experiences somewhat coalesce.

In a recent interview, Linklater addressed this point, suggesting that Mason's personality became inextricably linked with Coltrane's as filming progressed. It's interesting to think that throughout the most trying, socially uncomfortable, physically transformative years of his life, Coltrane had this unfinished other self lurking at the back of his mind - a character whose skin he had to annually inhabit. The sheer scope of Linklater's ambition alone is a recommendation. This is a new kind of filmmaking altogether. Yet crucially, Mason's dramas are our own. His young life is as simple and as complicated as most, and the abiding feeling after watching Boyhood is one of recognition. Despite its radical conception, this film looks to the everyday for its inspiration; to lives seemingly less extraordinary, yet full of fire and possibility.