Tag: Kyle Jonathan

2000.  Directed by M. Night Shyamalan.

Eight years before Marvel would begin its cinematic universe, M. Night Shyamalan directed an intimate take on the superhero origin story, focusing on the complexities of a hero’s family life and the karmic symbiosis of good and evil.  Featuring a stellar supporting performance by Samuel L. Jackson, a resplendent score by James Newton Howard, and a minimalist presentation, Unbreakable is Shyamalan’s gentle masterpiece.

The sheer vision in this production, from it’s dangerously self aware script to the uncharacteristically moving visuals, is a testament to the depth of Shyamalan’s love for the ethos of comic books.  Everything is as should it be, but the presentation is so intelligent, the viewer is often lost in the mysteries of the story and the plight of its two fragile leads, comfortably flexing the boundaries of established spandex canon, but never violating them.  Unbreakable presents the superhero origin as an organic eventuality, rather than a metropolis crushing reality.

Bruce Willis stars as the reluctant hero, an uncertain paragon in a mediocre age.  He is supported by Samuel L. Jackson in the performance of his career.  His Elijah is both a comic book mentor and supplicant. How the fabled texts play into his personal story is the film’s greatest, if slightly predictable surprise.  The chemistry between both men is a hors d’oeuvre that the audience eagerly devours as the narrative slowly progresses into unknown territory.  Jackson’s unquestioning, possibly sinister faith contrasts Willis’s doubting Thomas in a duel of beliefs on a battlefield of shared reality in which three colored possibilities walk the lonely streets of Philadelphia.  Eduardo Serra’s cinematography magically emulates comic book frames with precise angles and countless reflections.  The major players are always framed in vibrant emeralds and lush violets that set them apart from their mundane surroundings, hinting at the destinies that ultimately await them.

James Newton Howard’s score brims with emotional depth and intensity, clinging to Willis’s every movement with a sense of dark wonder and responsibility and it is these two themes that pull Unbreakable into masterwork territory.  Many films flirt with the familial duties of heroes as comic relief or as a source of easy bereavement to endear the audience.  Shyamalan refuses to indulge and keeps everything in the gray of reality, where a struggling couple decides that their family is worth fighting for, where in the eyes of a child it is their parents who are larger than life heroes, and most importantly where the rubber meets the road between wielding cosmically endowed powers to protect the innocent and the everyday obligations that tie us to those whom we defend.

Unbreakable is a multilayered epic that hinges on a carefully constructed secret history.  Everything is methodically downplayed, with Joanna Johnston’s costume designs taking the ethereal costumes and immoral villains and repackaging them in rain slicked hoodies and ruby red t-shirts, driving home Shyamalan’s color coded dissertation on the nature of heroism and how it is reflected in comic book fantasy.    Respect is even paid to the avid fans, insinuating that their weekly loyalty to their ink lined icons is part of the mystique’s power.

Available now for digital streaming, Unbreakable is not only Shyamalan’s greatest film, it’s one of the best superhero films ever made.  A quiet poem about heroics and acceptance, this is a film that reminds us why imagination is so important  Through its beautifully restrained story, Unbreakable explores the concepts of family and faith without gunfire and explosions, leaving the fireworks within the viewer’s heart, the place where real heroes are born.

Highly.  Highly Recommend.

-Kyle Jonathan

2016.  Directed by Gareth Edwards.

Making a one off prequel to one of the most iconic series in the history of film is not only a dangerous gamble, but a virtually impossible task.  Gareth Edwards’s Rogue One: A Star Wars Story, not only exceeds inhumanely high expectations, it delivers a remarkably mature war film that explores the morality of insurgency and the simple moments of heroism that define generations.  Featuring immersive visuals and a courageous sense of grit, Rogue One takes the Star Wars saga into the trenches, where the Jedi are but a whisper and the people fighting and dying on the ground have only their convictions as weapons.

Tony Gilroy and Chris Weitz’s script builds from the ground up.  Stealing respectfully from Melville’s Army of Shadows and Pontecorvo’s The Battle of Algiers, the blueprint for impassioned defiance washes over the action, moving the birth of the rebellion into a morally gray existence that resonates throughout.  The consequence of actions, of murder, are not only explored, but paramount to the film’s purpose.  The dialogue has chop, but the genius of Rogue One is that no character towers among the others as the face of war is an identity unto itself.  Diego Luna and Felicity Jones have the film’s best exchange, where the price of compliance and the weight of trauma becomes the focus, grounding the film in an uncharacteristically relevant tone that persists throughout the film’s jaw dropping final act.

Donnie Yen delivers a thoughtful performance as a blind monk, upholding the lost ideals of the Jedi, while Alan Tudyk steals the spotlight as a reprogrammed Imperial droid.  His deadpan delivery is so perfect, that it is a testament to not only phenomenal voice acting, but the pure humanity of the story.  There are alien characters sprinkled throughout, and they appear as organic combatants, rather than the novelties of predecessors.  Mads Mikkelson and Ben Mendlesohn support as venerable frenemies who use their formidable talents to communicate an ocean of fraternal betrayal with a handful of lines.  Unbelievable CGI effects revive several characters from the original trilogy to enhance the story, using nostalgia as a springboard to build a secret history, whose importance will forever impact viewing of the other films in the series.

Greig Fraser’s cinematography is intimidating, offering an optical experience unlike any other Star Wars entry.  This is a beautifully ugly film, with the sweat and grime of battle contrasting with plush locales and forbidden alien sanctums.  Space and ground battles are intensely dappled throughout and then Edwards opens the floodgates, filling the final portion with a combat sequence that is both natural and surprisingly realistic in the science fiction context, taking a single line from A New Hope’s opening crawl and delivering a novel of blood and laser fire.  The shadows receding from behemoth Star Destroyers is the perfect antecedent to the quiet desperation of the rebels making their final gambit that plays out on a sun washed planet that is beautifully out of place in the various locales previously offered.  Michael Giacchino’s score emulates Williams’s legendary performance but maintains its own identity, perfectly symbolizing Rogue One’s fledgling iconography.

In theaters now, Rogue One is a stunning entry into the Star Wars universe. A bona fide war picture that is charming in its brutality and emotional in its summation, this is the Star Wars film that we’ve been promised for decades.  Featuring a checklist of everything that every film in the series should supply and a copious amount of “on your feet” sequences, Rogue one hearkens back to the age when we watched movies to be entertained, and ultimately inspired by a message of resiliency and triumph.

Highly.  Highly Recommend.

2016.  Directed by Marcin Wrona.

Everyone has experienced an abysmal wedding.  Open bars often lead to the salting of old wounds, while decades of familial dysfunction rear their heads in defiance of matrimonial amnesty.  Marcin Wrona’s final film, Demon, takes this concept into overdrive, delivering an unrelenting allegory of loss and the bloody history of Poland that plays out during a vodka soaked wedding in which patriarchal denial, deep seeded cultural hatred, and supernatural heritage violently erode the festivities with pitch black humor and disturbing imagery.

Wrona took his own life shortly after the film debuted, and his untimely death enshrouds every aspect of the film.  On the surface, Demon presents as a dark comedy that toys with horror motifs in a Bunuel like presentation of people trapped within a central location.   The setup involves a controversial wedding held at a familial plot in Poland in which the groom is infected by a paranormal entity.  The film’s protagonist, an English pariah to the Polish family at the center of the story, slowly begins to succumb to possession by a Dybbuk, an ancient spirit of Jewish folklore.  As the groom’s behaviors continue to spiral out of control, the bride’s family members react in a variety of ways, ranging from tragic exploration of the incident to drunken dismissal, representing the various reactions of both time and memory to the holocaust and the role of Poland in the proceedings.

Itay Tiran’s performance as the doomed Piotr involves exhausting physical contortions and uncomfortable exchanges that go beyond traditional horror expectations.  Demon’s unique presentation, in which elements from beyond expose horrific historical realities, takes an inverted approach to the typical demonic possession fodder.  There is virtually no bloodshed or brutality and yet the film’s nihilism sustains itself for the film’s 90 plus minute duration, leaving the viewer with a depressing aftertaste from the futility of redemption in the wake of millions of souls being extinguished.  Non Polish speaking viewers may lose some of the context, but the sickly manner in which the participants each flirt with the notions of protecting their perfect wedding over confronting the evils of the past is both egregious and hysterical, deliciously imparting Demon’s dark gift to the audience.

Pawel Flis’s cinematography is covered in yellowing nicotine stains and opulent speakeasy lighting that is nestled within the farmhouse’s rustic setting to create a a mood of uncertainty.  The past and present intermix through fluid physicality and nonsensical dialogue that uses drunken verve to hide that which the viewer has already seen.  While denial is the central artery that runs throughout, it is truth underneath the deception that is the film’s hopeless center.  Demon’s corrupted wedding present is the inescapable knowledge that no one, be it inebriated guest or slowly traumatized viewer, gets out unscathed.

Available now for digital rental, Demon is a tough film with unsettling ideas that is completely devoid of hope.  The antithesis of feel good entertainment, if you’re interested in an unconventional horror film that explores the atrocities of the holocaust in a satirical and frightening manner, Demon will not disappoint.

Highly Recommend.

2016.  Directed by Tom Ford.

The end of a relationship is an idea that is often equated with death. It’s a theme that has pervaded the film industry for years, offering a plethora of various interpretations in which the aftermath of amorous annihilation has been deconstructed to the point of excess.  Tom Ford’s second directorial effort, Nocturnal Animals, abandons any sense of convenience and presents the concept as a blistering crime story that doubles as a warning about betrayal, both of the partner and of the self.  Ford’s extremely mature marital fable is an assault by cinema, an unforgettable revenge story in which love doesn’t conquer all, it kills every transgressor with calculated malice.

Beginning with the an unforgettable credits sequence,  the film puts the viewer into a complex stranglehold and never relents.  Seamus McGarvey’s cinematography is the perfect companion to Ford’s unique vision.  Hideous beauty, both in the human subjects and the landscape is always on display, with dark clouds hanging over blood red meridians, harshly removed from the violence that fills the sun baked highways beneath.  The fictional world is offset by sterile art galleries and empty houses, devoid of the extremes within the novel at the center of the narrative.  The thundering catharsis of the crime story is rationed by Mike Austin’s editing, seamlessly transporting the viewer between the forlorn desert of the mind and the coldness of reality.  The story within the story is presented as imagery conjured by Amy Adams’s character’s subconscious and no supposition is needed to explain the physical representations therein.  You know, with almost certainty where things are going and that precognition is a result of the extreme control Ford uses in every aspect of the film to bring everything to a perfectly malign conclusion.

Amy Adams does an adequate job with her character’s vulnerability, but Ford’s script reveals his continuing struggles with female characters.  Her dialogue with Jake Gyllenhaal is stilted, almost pastiche, but the moments between, the physical cues, overcome this.  Michael Shannon supports as the lawman in the crime portion, giving a tragic turn as the devil on your shoulder, representing the rage and despair of the abandoned lover.  Gyllenhaal brings his underrated pathos to bear, but his segment is soft balled into the happenings with intent.  His dual character is both a hopeless romantic and a scorned, but darkly motivated respondent.  All of these remarkable performances are underscored by Aaron Taylor-Johnson’s beautiful monster.  His performance is the definition of excellence in a supporting role, bringing an unhinged sexuality to an easily repugnant role.  He doesn’t chew the scenery, he eviscerates it with stone cold glares and an intoxicating presence that oozes from his sweat soaked killer with ease.

Malanie Romero’s makeup design is flawless, and brilliantly understated.  The characters are presented at different times in their lives and this is accentuated by subtle skin tones and intimidating mascara, bringing the eyes of each emotional combatant to the fore in every altercation.  Donna O’Neal’s costume design encases each character in fabricated armor.  Adams’s art gallerist is adorned in crystalline ensembles, perfectly equating her emotional weakness while the fictional characters are soiled and broken, caked in the dust of their predicaments, dutifully embodying an imagined world of natural recompense.

In theaters now, Nocturnal Animals is one of the best films of 2016.  Ford’s glitzy reality may leave some viewers alienated, but the undeniable maturity of the content is what pushes it to greatness.  An older, wiser, and less accusatory sibling to The Neon Demon, this is a film about the truths of self denial and the ultimate comeuppance for harming the ones we love.  Featuring beautiful, but extremely unsettling imagery, Ford’s renowned compositions, and a one of a kind cast, this is a film that will haunt you long after it fades to black.  If you’re looking for an anti feel good experience, that is devilishly liberating in its exploration of vendetta, Nocturnal Animals is the perfect choice.

Highly Recommend.

2016.  Directed by Nicolas Pesce.

Nicolas Pesce’s debut feature, The Eyes of My Mother is a reverse horror film that uses a three act format, stark black and white cinematography, and an intriguing central performance to deliver a disturbing and emotionally cold origin story.  Featuring creepy visuals and odd pacing elements, this is a unique genre offering that fails to capitalize on it’s surprisingly humane subject matter, focusing on themes of isolation and the morality of violence as a means to connect.

Zach Kuperstein’s Noir camera work is spellbinding.  Initially, the various static shots immediately conjure a likeness to Night of the Hunter, presenting ominous farmhouses and bewitching forest locales as hidden nightmares, bathed in deep shadows that are intricately manipulated by bold lighting and ingenious blocking compositions.  The camera refuses to move for the majority of the film, only coming to life whenever the main character ventures from her rustic abattoir.  Kuperstein’s decision to not double down on the odd angles of German Expressionism is a bold choice, clearly emulating the classics, but also presenting a fresh imagining of an overdone concept.  There are several long takes, the best of which has the viewer looking through a curtained window into field in which a brutally slow horrific act is occurring.  The body work by the participants and slick editing by Sam Daley uses the absence of violence and barely audible sound effects to terrorize without surrendering to visceral gore that allows the viewer’s mind to do the work.

Kika Magalhaes gives layered performance that entrenches itself in the constant alienation that saturates every part of the narrative.  She is awkwardly sexy, bounding from victim to victim with child like wonder that is astutely juxtaposed from the viciousness.  This is part of the film’s frustrating assembly.  The idea of a coming of age story, in which the morality is murder and not tribulation is a fragile thing.  Pesce’s command of the various elements used to communicate this is excellent for an initial work, but ultimately pushes the isolation theme to a place where the viewer can’t relate.  Killing, sex, blood, and bondage all play a part, while underdeveloped themes of parenthood are forced at every turn, with chains undulating like umbilical cords and male bodies being contorted into a fetal positions.  The ideas are there, but there is very little to support their inclusion, aside from the blatant symbolism.

Available now for digital rental, The Eyes of My Mother is a fantastic debut effort.  Featuring some 2016’s best cinematography, this is a film that will scratch the horror itch, but for anyone less than a horror fanatic, the film’s unfeeling insinuations rebuke as much as the visuals entice.  Despite this glaring flaw, The Eyes of My Mother is worth viewing for the spectacular presentation and delirious lead performance.

Recommend.