Cannes Review: Whiplash

Music, and the suffering that goes with it, certainly seems to be the grand cinematic theme of 2014. As already mentioned here, thus-far all of the films released this year dealing with the trials and tribulations of troubadours seem to offer a very negative view of the industry. However Damien Chazelle's Whiplash, a frenetically paced dark-ish indie that was rewarded with the audience and jury prizes at Sundance seems to suggest that if your goal is to be the very best then you can, to quote Reggae legend Jimmy Cliff, "get it if you really want".

The film focuses on Miles Teller's Andrew, a first year student at music school who is determined to be the next big thing, thanks to his drumming skills. He lives a secluded life - his only suggestions of a social life are his weekly cinema trips with his father and subsequent awkward attempts at forging a relationship with the cinema's concession stand girl. (This "romantic" subplot is one of the film's few weaknesses, breaking up rather than enhancing the narrative and giving Melissa Benoist a few lines to add to her resume.) All of his passion goes into his drumming, seemingly for naught until he is selected by Terence Fletcher (an equally humorous and terrifying J.K Simmons) to join his prestigious jazz band, a springboard to any job Andrew could ever want. However what Andrew does not reckon upon before joining the band is Fletcher's dedication to making his band sound the best that they possibly can be - and the lengths that he will go to to achieve this.

While it's worth noting that its dialogue is nicely written - the highlights being Fletcher's wince-inducing putdowns that he regularly bellows at the members of his band - Whiplash's narrative doesn't really bring anything new to the table. But what truly sets the film apart from others about music is its camerawork and editing. Scenes of rehearsals are breathless shot, racing down the ends of trombones, cutting to  sweat on the brows of focused musicians and bloody drumsticks clutched by desperate hands, barely giving the audience time to catch their breath. Whiplash seems to convey something different from the other musical melodramas of 2014 - it showcases not just the labour and suffering but also the success of being of a talented musician. The intimacy of the close-ups constantly used in the film is unexpected but works wonderfully as it seems to take the audience "inside" the music, rather than making them passively watch people watching a performance. The quality of the music in the film is exceptional - other than the scores of Woody Allen films or soundtracks to period films, it is a rariety to have a film that contains so much jazz music. It certainly makes a change from the moping indie musicians clinging to their guitars that we are used to seeing on the screen.

Another interesting feature of the film is the subjective viewpoint that it takes towards its main characters. We are never directly told that Fletcher is wrong for pushing Andrew to breaking point in order to get him to produce the best music possible - he can be viewed as an absolute psychopath toying with his students for his own amusement, or a genuine lover of music and a believer in perfection. Andrew too is a unique character as, similarly to Jesse Eisenberg's Mark Zuckerberg, he spends the majority of the film behaving like an absolute brat to everyone in his life, purely because he feels "better" than them due to his talent. (A scene where he insults the quarterback sons of a family friend for being popular but not "talented" is a perfect example of this) It is very, very easy to dislike him, yet when he plays, his superior stance can easily be justified.

With the great music-film slew of 2014 upon us, it would be very easy and unsurprising for Whiplash to go unnoticed compared to Oscar winning documentaries and films with Michael Fassbender in. But the raw passion of Whiplash and its protagonist easily sets it apart from the rest, making it a film that will completely absorb you, releasing you only when the final drums have sounded.

Grace Barber-Plentie

4/5

Cannes Review: Lost River

Late 2014/early 2015 is going to be a weird time for everyone. In the run up to the 2015 Oscars, we're all going to have to get used to hearing the words "Academy Award hopefuls Steve Carrell and Channing Tatum" which will never ever ever make sense. We're also going to have to stop thinking of Ryan Gosling as everyone's favourite monosyllabic "hey girl" spouting driver and instead start thinking of him as a "serious" director. And not just any director at that but.... the new David lynch?

Gosling's move from acting to directing is not really a surprise considering that his peers such as George Clooney have already successfully made the move, but the direction that he's taken stylistically may shock some. For those familiar with him purely for making out in the rain with Rachel McAdams or having a relationship with a sex doll, to see Gosling tackling a dark Detroit-based melodrama may be a shock. But to those familiar with his band Dead Man's Bones (quelle surprise, all of their songs are about death) and his work with Nicolas Winding Refn, it makes perfect sense.

Lost River, previously titled How to Catch a Monster, (upon watching the film, the former title may be a little dull but ultimately makes A LOT more sense) shows the struggles of single mother Billy and her son Bones as they try to get along in the titular town, which is allegedly cursed as it is built near a reservoir which contains the remains of an old town and dinosaur theme park. (obviously.) Billy, in an effort to keep a hold of her family home, accepts a job in a suspicious club run by the malevolent Dave (Ben Mendolson, doing his very best Leland Palmer impression) Bones meanwhile, tries to avoid the town's bully - named Bully because Gosling is VERY subtle when it comes to his narrative - who wants to punish him for muscling in on his turf. Throw in a rat, a LOT of singing and dancing, some light facial disfiguring and a Miss Haversham figure and you have the very loosest of ideas about Gosling's rambling plot. While it's admirable to have a lot of ideas for your first feature, he places things in the narrative that never come to much fruitition, and has a tendency to switch between Billy and Bones's narratives just as the former hots up - Bones is very much a one dimensional character, existing purely as an amalgamation of every silent moody outsider that Gosling has ever played.

But where the narrative is lacking, the film more than makes up for stylistically. The claims that Gosling is the new Lynch have already begun, and while his ideas may not quite live up to Lynch's unabashed madness, he certainly makes a grand go of it. In the blue and red hued scenes, the canted camerawork and the lovingly lingering close-ups of the luminous Christina Hendricks he homages the directors he has worked with multiple times - Winding Refn and Cianfrance, both of whom he states influenced the film - and even those that he hasn't such as Wong Kar Wai and Gasper Noe.

Lost River has thus far been the big divider at Cannes - in previous screenings it was received with boos, whereas in the one I attended, it was met with rapturous applause. It may not be the best film at Cannes, nor, should he continue in this path, is it the best film that Gosling can make. I haven't even began to mention the other fatal flaws in the film - its score is, to put it lightly, absolutely dire, and Matt Smith's American accent leave a lot to be desired. But for a first attempt it's certainly admirable, and manages, just like its director, to make up for any flaws it may have by looking beautiful.

Grace Barber-Plentie

3/5

Review: Frank

If there's one thing that this year in film seems to be trying to teach us, it's that being a musician REALLY sucks. From the monotonous loop of Inside Llewyn Davis to the stories of the astonishingly talented but marginalised back-up singers of 20 Feet From Stardom, one of the most glamorous and bright professions has never looked so dark. And Frank, the fourth film from Irish director Lenny Abrahamson, does a lot to reinforce this idea.

It's a film of two halves really - the first is full of laughs, a whimsical soundtrack and Michael Fassbender capering in the Irish countryside with a paper mache head on that seemingly represents the ideas we perceive of the fun it must be to be a musician, The second half, which finds the film's location shifted to America as the band await their first "big" gig at SXSW is a jarring change in tone, revealing the true darkness of mental illness, the music business and social media. We're led through both halves of the film by Domhall Gleeson's Jon, a budding musician from an unnamed suburban town who works in an office and attempts to compose (really, really awful) songs on his keyboard. After the band's keyboardist attempts to drown himself in Jon's sleepy seaside town, he finds himself being swept up into the madness of the band, simultaneously idolising and being confused by Frank.

It's a shame really that we're forced to spend so much of the film with Gleeson, because he really is one of its biggest downfalls. His simultaneously overly mannered and expressionless acting pushes the audience (or at least this audience member) away from him, when he's supposed to be a character that we really sympathise with. Because of this, every single bad thing that happened to Jon throughout the course of the film elicited a grin from me - not, as far as I know, the reaction that Abrahamson was hoping for. Luckily, the film is saved by an array of good performances from its other actors, especially Michael Fassbender's titular Frank. True, it's rare for Fassbender to give a less than excellent performance and many's been the time that his performances have saved a film from being utterly dire - Prometheus immediately springs to mind - but here he is really set free. Due to him wearing a large paper mache head, it's a highly physical performance, and it's an utter delight to see a normal straight laced and sinister character actor leaping around. Scoot McNairy is also excellent as the band's manager and ex-keyboard player who, just like Frank has a dark yet oddly comical quirk, and although her character's rather one note, Maggie Gyllenhaal really puts her all in.

To quote the film itself - how to describe Frank? It's rather hard, owing to the film's fragmented nature. Just as you settle into the tone of the film, it abruptly changes, and while I found myself enjoying both halves of it, the latter, and especially the film's final musical number, is what I found lingering in my mind. Frank tries to comment on a lot of issues, some more successfully than others, but Abrahamson has certainly made a valiant effort to say a lot in a short amount of time. But despite all of its faults, the film is really about two things - the music and Fassbender. If you're looking to see thought-provoking comments about social issues, then this may not be for you. But if all you really want is to see everyone's favourite Irish/German actor playing guitar in a variety of cardigans and a giant head, then you've found your perfect film.

3/5

Grace Barber-Plentie