Tag Archives: Film Review



Review by Jane Freebury

As arguments for human rights go, this is in its quiet way a powerful one. All the more for the way it draws us into the life of a laundress (Carey Mulligan) with lots to lose when she joins the activists in London demanding suffrage for women in 1912.

Hard to credit that a hundred short years ago, few countries besides Australia and New Zealand had given women the vote. Until the list of dates for women’s suffrage scroll by country at the end of the film show how slow the emancipation process has been.

Why would someone like Maud Watts (Mulligan) join the women demonstrating in the streets? Risk a beating at the hands of truncheon-wielding police, risk losing her job at the laundry, and being cast out of home? The explanation provided by screenwriter Abi Morgan (Shame, The Iron Lady) is that her path to activism is an accident, getting caught up in a suffragette demonstration and then filling in at the last minute for a friend and laundry colleague making a submission to a parliamentary inquiry about health and safety conditions at work.

Maud tells the inquiry that she hopes there is a chance to live a better life and not have to follow in the footsteps of her mother who worked at the same laundry and died young. Women of her class who spoke up and demonstrated risked far more than their establishment sisters like Meryl Streep’s Emmeline Pankhurst who makes a brief appearance on a balcony to deliver a rousing speech. Once Maud has spoken up, there’s no way back.

Although the film doesn’t say as much, the burgeoning suffragette movement that has attracted the interest of police and security forces – personified in Brendan Gleeson as Inspector Steed – isn’t the only source of civil unrest at this time. There were anarchists, communists and other political activists making their presence felt. Yet in such turbulent times the violence inflicted on the demonstrating women is genuinely disturbing. Another jolt is the developing-world workplace conditions were the lot of Britain’s working classes a short while ago too.

Tight and intimate framing pitches us into things from the start as the hand-held camera weaves around the characters, creating an immediacy and involvement that would have been technologically impossible, a century before you could just whip out your mobile phone to capture vision for the news. Eduard Grau’s camera draws you in with subtle purpose.

Maud is one of those fictional characters intended to bear witness to events, and Mulligan’s interpretation a delicate and determined portrayal. I didn’t think the actress was right for Far From the Madding Crowd but she is perfect here.

Maud is not as brusque as Helena Bonham-Carter’s, a chemist busily involved in ‘deeds, not words’, but still strong. No hint of suffragette leanings, nothing much bolshie about Maud at the laundry where the lecherous boss (Geoff Bell) prowls the women for sport, or at the home with her gentle but sulky husband and co-worker (Ben Whishaw) and beloved young son.

Director Sarah Gavron has pitched her period drama at a slightly less strident level than one might reasonably expect, compared say to stories about other heroes of the civil rights movements. However, she has still managed to create something powerful. And still relevant.

4 Stars


Truth poster Redford

Review @ Jane Freebury

Movies featuring journalists have a way of looking at the best or the worst of the profession with little shading in between. It makes for some memorable characters.

If you saw Jake Gyllenhaal as the gutter rat in Nightcrawler or can remember Dennis Hopper in Apocalypse Now you get my meaning. It’s just as hard to forget Robert Downey Jr as the Australian journalist with a dark cloud of implications swirling around him like flies in Natural Born Killers.

Then there are the shining lights. Cate Blanchett as the crusading Irish journalist Veronica Guerin who dies for her craft. And Robert Redford in All the President’s Men, as a golden boy of journalism, one of the famous duo who exposed the Watergate conspiracy in the heady days of truth to power in the 1970s.

In this fine new film about how dedicated journalists can come undone, Redford has emerged from semi-retirement to play real-life CBS anchorman Dan Rather, a veteran journo who in 2005 resigned after his involvement in a controversial news item on TV’s 60 Minutes. It’s another story from the annals of journalism that broke at the time of a pivotal presidential election – which election isn’t? And it feels safe to assume that Redford got involved because it meant something special to him, like his other recent work like All is Lost and The Company You Keep.

It also feels fairly safe to assume that Cate Blanchett, who has the role of Rather’s producer, Mary Mapes, also felt personally drawn to this intelligent exploration of the quest for truth. Her commitment and passion combine with a fine script from director James Vanderbilt (screenwriter for Zodiac) that is based on Mapes’ book about her ordeal when she was hung out to dry by CBS for not subjecting her sources to the scrupulously rigorous check she should have. Like going into typefaces and superscripts and acronyms of the day in the early 1970s when a young George W. Bush became a member of the Texas Air National Guard instead of getting himself swept up in the draft for Vietnam.

That said, Truth is not about exposing journalist error or even journalist bias particularly. Though there are rivetting scenes when Mapes defends herself in front of an inquiry, with her lawyer’s advice ringing in her ears – there is no truth, only opinion and it was her job to sway it. Here, in a counter-point to the case for a forensic approach to detail, we are about how the bigger picture, the underlying truth, can so easily be lost in skirmishes over detail. This is the film’s strength, the way it gets you thinking.

By now it’s well known that the shoot was conducted in Sydney’s CBD. A testimony to Blanchett, who agreed to take part if it was filmed here, and her star power. Cinematographer Mandy Walker was behind the camera and plenty of local talent appeared in support roles. Noni Hazlehurst has a small but significant role as the wife of a key witness, National Guard veteran Bill Burkett (Stacy Keach), for Mapes and her team, who suddenly delivers a blistering speech in his defence.

Vanderbilt has persuaded actors with real integrity and screen cred for his key roles, though I wish he hadn’t made the mood quite so ponderous, or felt the need to genuflect whenever Redford appeared in frame. The swelling score didn’t serve Redford or his character well. Anyway, Blanchett is on fire in her role, as she was in Blue Jasmine, ablaze here with professional indignation at the idea that the voting public were likely being duped. It was the sense that someone very important was being protected and covered up for that led Mapes to forget to cover her own back and go for broke.

No doubt the stopwatch at 60 Minutes ticks for its staff just as loudly as it does for the people in its crosshairs. The news magazine juggernaut waits for no one, even journalists Rather and Mapes who had only just broken a story about torture at Abu Ghraib.

3.5 Stars









The Dressmaker

 The Dressmaker POSTER

Review © by Jane Freebury

Once upon a time in the Wimmera, a stranger comes to town. The twang of guitar and low-angle framing suggest that this someone means business. The main street is empty, more a case of it being the dead of night than townsfolk getting out of harm’s way. It’s welcome to Dungatar, one lonely corner of the wheatbelt, a land of spectral trees and granite outcrops.

More spaghetti western than the classic western—more Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in the West than Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven—this is a triumphant return to the screen by director Jocelyn Moorhouse who started out with promise 20 or so years ago with films like Proof here and How to Make an American Quilt over there in Hollywood. One senses, in this extravagant and improbable blend of revenge western, romance and biting social comedy, a filmmaker’s declaration of purpose. She is back too and in business.

The glamorous stranger, Tilly Dunnage (Kate Winslet), a vision in 1950s haute couture, has been away quite a while, most of her life actually. Off to boarding school from where she made her way to the fashion houses of Europe. She can’t recall the exact details of the terrible event that forced her to leave town when she was little, and she has returned to find out how she came to be blamed for the death of Evan Pettyman’s son, Stewart.

She soon finds that little in Dungatar has changed and what has, only for the worse, like the dilapidated cottage that was once home. Her mad mother Molly (Judy Davis) pretends she doesn’t know her at first, and the town women shun her cruelly. Until they see what Tilly can do for them with a Singer sewing machine and a roll of fabric, and Trudy (Sarah Snook) is made over into a proposition for the town’s most eligible bachelor.

With few exceptions, the small-minded townsfolk of Dungatar are a particularly gruesome lot, from the schoolmistress (Kerry Fox) to the wife-beater pharmacist (Barry Otto) to the town heavyweight Pettyman (Shane Bourne). As the town policeman who also has his secrets but is a good guy, the wonderful Hugo Weaving is a cross-dresser who goes weak at the knees at the sight and scent of gorgeous fabrics. Was it really two decades ago that the outback last saw him in a Priscilla frock?

Although Tilly herself snares Teddy (Liam Hemsworth) and things go off on a romantic tangent for a while, it is the relationship with Molly where sparks really fly and where the fun is. Davis is terrific form as the irascible hag with lascivious tongue who pushes Tilly Teddy’s way – to the strains of Bali Ha’i from South Pacific – and she stands up for her when it matters.

I have to admit that the trailer did make me nervous. Could be clunky. Haute couture in the 1950s outback, another tale of high culture to the plebs? Risky.

It works just fine, a tribute to the director and the great team who put it together, including cinematographer Don McAlpine who has a knack for balancing style and sophistication with the beauty of the Wimmera’s arid, vast emptiness. A western with a sewing machine? Yes, it is.

4 Stars



The Martian

Review by Jane Freebury

A mission on Mars is aborted during a wild storm. One crew member is left behind, presumed killed by flying debris, but the rest of the crew escape and begin their long journey home. At NASA they notice that equipment at the abandoned habitat is being moved around. It can mean only one thing. The man left for dead is still alive.

A rescue mission would probably arrive too late to save him. Stuff of legend? Enter distinguished director Ridley Scott (Gladiator, Thelma & Louise, Black Hawk Down).

So how does the stranded astronaut Mark Watney (Matt Damon) feel about his predicament? Once he has operated on himself to remove a piece of equipment that lodged in his gut during the storm, he can focus. And once he’s recognised the imminent perils of suffocation, dying of thirst, starvation, implosion, and going crazy—’Yeah, I’m fucked’— he’s remarkably cheerful. He sets to with the math: there’s no time to spare.

How many days does he have until a rescue—we’re talking a four-year wait—and how many meals to go with it? Figuring out there’s a pretty big shortfall, Watney plants a potato farm within the habitat, fertilising it with his own poo and watering it by burning rocket fuel. It’s a cool ad for the benefits of survival training — and for knowing your science, which when one’s life depends on it, is suddenly rivetting. Although we may not have expected it to be, sharing Watney’s plight is fun.

His sense of humour helps. After all, what’s not to like about being ‘the first person alone on a planet’, first to climb that hill, first to plant crops? First at everything? Watney keeps his own company pretty well. He starts a video diary, sharing a joke with us and the screen, refusing to be overwhelmed by the situation. It’s some situation, you have to admit.

Damon as a stoic, sensible biologist is the perfect foil for the dramatic excesses a story like this can induce. The grandeur of the locations (many shot in Wadi Rum, Jordan) is stunning, but Scott has mostly gone against his instincts for glory this time.

Oddly, there doesn’t seem to be a loved one at home to help keep him going, though parents get a mention. And whether he survives or not is in the hands of the team. We could have done with a lot less from the characters back at HQ, when it’s his fellow crew still travelling through space who rise to the occasion.

The Martian is a surprise from a director who likes to tackle the grand questions. When bombastic past ventures from Scott like Prometheus and Kingdom of Heaven struggled with weak writing, his new film obviously benefits enormously from the novel of the same name by Andy Weir on which it is based. A great image isn’t necessarily worth a thousand words.

This struggle for survival, day by day, when each tiny mishap could spell the end is far from grim or apocalyptic. The Martian turns out to be a refreshing surprise, not least for its jovial 1970s can-do pragmatism and often jaunty soundtrack. And Damon makes it real.

It’s taken me a little while to get to see this. I thought the solitary survival thing had been really well done by Sam Rockwell in Moon, and at sea with Tom Hanks in Cast Away and Robert Redford in All is Lost, so why rush to see another? Turns out it’s worth it.

3.5 Stars


Macbeth Poster

Review by © Jane Freebury

The last time I saw Macbeth on screen it was set in the ganglands of Melbourne. Geoffrey Wright’s film was not the first to opt for a mobster interpretation either, but I think it misses the point that you don’t have to be a gangster to behave like one. The ruling classes can behave just as ruthlessly as the mob in their pursuit of power.

So in this most recent take on the Bard’s dour and bloody tale of regicide, it is Scotland’s craggy peaks, desolate moors and wind-pummelled coast, rather than an underworld milieu, that bear witness to the barbarity of man.

The original economy of one of Shakespeare’s shortest plays has been opened up for striking visual interpretation here. Some judicious pruning by the screenwriters has also made more space for the images to speak for themselves, and how eloquent they are. As the camera goes wide and grand, director Justin Kurzel has seen to it that the homeland has more than a bit part.

Cinematographer Adam Arkapaw worked with director Kurzel on Snowtown and has made quite a name for himself in the True Detective series, also with terrific Australian films like Animal Kingdom and Cate Shortland’s remarkable and little known Lore. From exteriors to candle-lit interiors, he has done wonderful work again here.

Michael Fassbender and Marion Cotillard pair very well as partners in crime. She is all guile and seduction while he is the more impulsive and reactive, a man built for battle but not for courtly intrigue.

The underlying reasons why Macbeth murders Duncan remain, as ever, somewhat elusive. That ‘blood will have blood’ can only be taken so far, it seems to me, and the question of fundamental responsibility appears to have exercised scholars for a very long time. For all I know it’s been an enduring source of fascination since 1606 when Shakespeare wrote ‘fin’ and put down his pen.

Instead of the traditional trio of toothless hags, and instead of an array of nubile adolescents as in Wright’s interpretation in 2006, the witches here could blend into the crowd. They are even accompanied by children. Taking heed of tantalising prophecies from women such as these might not be so deranged.

It is of course the figure of Lady Macbeth to whom we look once again for more answers. What drove her in the first place and how much was she responsible for making her man screw his courage ‘to the sticking place’? The theme of manliness and Lady Macbeth’s observations on the manly spirit are intriguing to hear down the centuries.

In a nuanced and delicate interpretation of the character sometimes seen as the real villain of the piece, Marion Cotillard is a compelling blend of steely, mannish determination and maternal feeling. She is wrestling with grief — a creative interpellation here — and is she persuading her husband to take action where it may be a question of kill or be killed in Scotland’s own particular game of thrones? The ending suggests as much.

The Macbeths have lost a child, seen buried at the start, and are dealing with childlessness while other lords have been able to produce offspring and ensure their line. It is a convincing starting point for diminished responsibility, but less convincing as the trigger for a bloodbath. However, that’s not the adaptation, it’s the play and could be a good reason for its continuing fascination.

This is a visually stunning and intelligent Macbeth from Kurzel and his creative team. Another study of power in personal relationships like his fiercely chilling first feature, Snowtown.

4 Stars

The Gift

the gift posterReview © Jane Freebury

Gifts are not always welcome, nor freely given. The well known subtext to giving and receiving gets a thoroughly sinister workout in this accomplished first feature from Joel Edgerton, one of the many fine Australian actors on screen.

There are interesting dimensions to Edgerton’s creativity. He has writing credits for local features like The Rover, Felony and The Square, and recently put in especially good performances in big international screen events like The Great Gatsby and Exodus: Gods and Kings. Now he shows his talent for directing in this, his first feature.

As both writer and director here, Edgerton knows precisely when and how to turn the screws, and delivers major discomfort to his audience, if sometimes a little over-emphatically. With precision and assurance he has created a psychological thriller that strikes at the heart of coupledom and a tainted professional class.

In a home in the leafy hills of LA, a young husband and wife from Chicago, Simon (Jason Bateman) and Robyn (Rebecca Hall), have re-located to the West Coast to make a new life—leaving initially unspecified difficulties behind. Early on they cross paths at the supermarket with a strange character by the name of Gordo (Edgerton).

Their chance encounter is a neatly ironic comment on the impossibility of trying to escape one’s past. Gordo went to high school with Simon, and it eventually transpires that there is much more to it than that.

If Simon isn’t keen on being re-aquainted, Robyn finds it hard to send Gordo away when he turns up at the house announced. Though there is something passive aggressive about the solicitude and surprise visits, and Gordo’s face, a mask that barely registers any expression, contributes to a primal sense of unease. News that he has done two tours of duty doesn’t help either. He and his gifts of koi carp for the empty pond, fish food and window cleaner would be welcome, if only he wasn’t so creepy, so needy. The asymmetrical ‘friendship’ is hard to end, as gifts with signature red bows begin to signal an unspecified dread, and the lovely airy open home begins to feel like a type of prison.

The ultimate dark secret revealed in The Gift’s denouement would have done Michael Haneke proud. His chilling films like Funny Games and Cache strike at the heart of complacent privilege too. And there were several occasions – beside instructions to pay video tapes – when I was reminded of Rolf de Heer’s chilling Alexandra’s Project as well.

It’s great to see multi-talented Edgerton starting out with such a strong, assured statement in America, though it’s a bit of a pity the project lost its working title along the way. The original title ‘Weirdo’ would have done more justice to the film’s sly complexity.

4 Stars

Ricki and the Flash

Review © Jane Freebury

As the mum who didn’t show up for her daughter’s wedding then arrived in time for the divorce, Ricki Randazzo (Meryl Streep) could expect children to have a few issues with her. When she comes back into their lives, they’re all grown up. Can she reach them still?

Back home in Tarzana, California, where she moonlights as lead singer with her band, she has a knack for working a crowd. The patrons at her regular gig are an appreciative lot, cheering on the mix of Springsteen, Stones and Pink. And you have got to hand it to Streep as she prowls the stage and lets rip with a dirty chuckle. She looks and sounds like she’s been strapped to a guitar all her life.

Ricki is an endearing reminder of free-wheeling times past, even if her politics don’t fit. In an aside she mentions she voted for George W. Bush — twice. Give her back the good old days, when going through security checks at the airport didn’t mean you had to remove all your chunky necklaces and rings, and people didn’t look sideways at your barely tamed hair and hippie weeds.

Responding to a call from her former husband Pete (Kevin Kline) that their daughter Julie (Mamie Gummer, Streep’s daughter in real life) has attempted suicide after her husband left her, Ricki makes the journey to be by her side. The tidy hedges and gated communities of Indianapolis where Ricki’s ex lives with his new wife, is a foreign country until she bonds with the family poodle and spies some pot in the freezer.

It’s not as though Ricki doesn’t carry her share of maternal guilt for having deserted her children when they were little, just a lot less than most. The drama makes way for this to be beautifully expressed in her performance of ‘Cold One’, a song she wrote and sings to Pete and Julia one evening, before stepmom Maureen (Audra McDonald) returns home after a few days away.

We’ve known since Postcards from the Edge that she could sing and since Mamma Mia! that she could groove, but here she is quite the Linda Ronstadt or the Chrissie Hynde. One of the screen’s gifted chameleons—think Iron Lady, Evil Angels, and The French Lieutenant’s Woman — Streep is, as always, utterly convincing. Having established her credentials in serious roles, she can afford to let her hair down as an aging rocker.

The screenplay is the work of esteemed creatives behind the camera too, the talented writer Diablo Cody (Juno, and episodes of TV’s United States of Tara) and director Jonathan Demme (The Silence of the Lambs, Philadelphia and The Manchurian Candidate).

There is a big singing and dancing finale. It is, after all, a wedding reception, and as such a gesture of hope towards the future, however Ricki and the Flash could have done with a brisker wrap. We’ve seen that Demme has a soft spot for Neil Young, and music is perhaps his indulgence, but contemporary audiences have a low tolerance for things being drawn-out or for a great deal of sentiment in their melodrama either.

It’s worth remembering, however, that we tend to allow Bollywood the same indulgence in the big singing and dancing wrap, and anyone knows that the relationship difficulties aren’t usually resolved on the dance floor. So enjoy.

3.5 Stars

Far from Men

Review © Jane Freebury

Far from men but not entirely without company, a teacher lives and works alone at an isolated school. There are children, girls and boys of mixed ages, who happily attend his lessons, even though the content is set by distant colonial masters. In the Atlas Mountains of north Africa, a geography lesson on the major rivers of France smacks of irrelevance, but it is 1954 and Algeria is still in French hands. Though not for much longer.

Like some of the best movies, this was inspired by a short story. The Host—the title is a play on a word that in French can mean both host and guest—is the work of the great French-Algerian author and philosopher Albert Camus. It is also interesting to hear that this project has a family connection for the film’s writer/director David Oelhoffen. His father once worked as a teacher in colonial Algeria.

A peaceful, neutral existence is ruptured when Daru is ordered to deliver a young Arab man, Mohamed (Reda Kateb), to French justice in a nearby town. The unfortunate prisoner stands accused of the murder of a cousin, but he admits the crime and accepts his fate. Daru is put out by this unwelcome intrusion and impatient with the young man’s pitiful state, and also understandably wary of him. On their journey through the mountains, the prisoner explains that it is better to be dealt with by the French and put a stop to the endless cycle of revenge. It is a startling revelation, on which the narrative turns.

With its desert wilderness location and minimalist action, this is a film that might have emerged from the same existential 1970s roots as Antonioni’s The Passenger in which Jack Nicholson is a journalist – or perhaps an arms dealer – trying to lose himself in the African desert. Despite the guns and men on horseback in a struggle over right and wrong on the frontier, this is less a western than it is existential drama set in the shifting sands of the last days of colonialism. And it’s not a gun that has the final say.

As the two men travel together, mutually dependent in a hostile landscape, they inevitably bond, and sometimes even find a joke to share, albeit a rueful one. Details like those of the life that Daru (Viggo Mortensen) left behind emerge only when they must be revealed in this slow-paced, magnificent and timeless drama.

The ending of the film diverges from Camus’ story, making way for muted hope though Daru finds that neutrality, however strenuously sought and however one is distant from the fray, is not necessarily an option. Nevertheless on the empty spaces of the frontier far from men and their fractious tribal loyalties, it’s possible to find a shared humanity.

4.5 Stars



Everyone knew what had happened to her, Amy Winehouse, but many of us may have forgotten how good she was when she started out. The gifted jazz stylist, Tony Bennett likened to Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday, but substance abuse and bulimia made her a media sensation for all the wrong reasons: hey, watch her going down. Why did this young entertainer with a great voice, retro style and creative potential to burn, leave us so soon? And for her to die at the age of 27, it seemed such a cliché.

It has taken the filmmaker Asif Kapadia, a boy from more or less the same ‘hood in North London, to help us understand what happened to her, even if knowledge and understanding do not necessarily bring peaceful resolution. With his fine documentary he has sensitively and skilfully constructed an engrossing record of the performer’s life, though he never interviewed the singer, never saw her sing live, and they never met. In similar vein to Senna, Kapadia’s doc about Ayrton Senna, the Formula One racing driver who died at 34, this is also a post-mortem.

In the interests of understanding why, it’s good to begin at the beginning. Kapadia makes it the moment caught on home video when as a 14-year-old she sang ‘happy birthday’ to a friend, a lollipop standing in for a mike. A typical mid-teen, by turns shy and precocious, she lets rip with that voice. With a smooth edit, she is the next moment performing in front of the national youth jazz orchestra at age 16. From living room to national stage, and suddenly a star.

Her legacy as a singer-songwriter deserves more of these early years. When she made her first CD, Frank, in 2003 she was appearing all over the place at gigs and on TV, a sassy, breezy, confident girl, on the surface at least, with the nous to know when someone was having a go and the wit to put him/her back in their box. Before she morphed into the celebrity waif, with the 1960s beehive and the winged kohl-black eyes of ancient Egypt.

Then it crumbled away under the sway of the young man who she would marry, and the hard drugs he introduced her to. Although her decline seems to have begun when they met, it seems she was a handful as a youngster and boundaries were an issue. Her mother Janis’ recent book reveals she was ‘Hurricane Amy’ at home.

In time, she seemed to take on the persona in her songs: the woman who suffered in love, who experienced pain and loss, like a self-fulfilling prophecy. True to her lyrics, Winehouse succumbed and lost control of her life.

Amy’s father Mitch also has a book out and his film on his daughter soon will be. The film shows him an opportunist who came back on the scene to capitalise on his daughter’s fame, but we see too little of her mother who had found herself a single mum when Amy was eight. She held more clues to the way Amy was, with her irrepressible, crash-through nature, ‘Hurricane Amy’, and to the kind of woman she would become.

More about the musical influences too. Amy Winehouse didn’t arrive on the scene out of nowhere. She grew up listening to the greats like Frank Sinatra – no wonder she had impeccable timing – as others in her family were into music too.

Like Senna, this doco represents a meticulous forensic examination of a young life cut cruelly short, and a massive research effort. Kapadia and his editor have wrangled everything from home video and mobile footage to audition tapes, studio recordings and TV live chat shows, bringing them together into a coherent narrative.

The film’s second half is full of paparazzi material showing her helpless or is it unresisting as the media jackals film her demise, and her death from alcohol poisoning/heart failure has a sad inevitability about it. It’s hard not to feel, on her behalf, indignation and dismay at it all.

4 stars

Wild Tales

Review © Jane Freebury

Lions, cheetahs, wildebeest and birds-of-prey grace the opening credits of this giddily extravagant Argentinean anthology of tales of revenge. By film’s close, well may we wonder the lengths to which men and women could go to avenge injured pride, social injustice and corruption. If it’s true that animals can hold grudges too, we are surely the only species to make it an art form.

This collection of very dark comedies, six in all, takes retaliation to its logical/illogical conclusion. There are no half measures.

First off, passengers on a place discover that they are each connected, not in a good way, to the person who is alone in the cockpit. The elementary teacher who’d thought he had issues, the former girlfriend, and the music critic who gave his work a lousy review. This art-mirrors-life tale is more than a little disturbing, though it predates this year’s Lufthansa tragedy.

Without a moment to draw breath, the second tale opens in a seedy, isolated diner presided over by a chef with more than a few grudges to spare. The young waitress recognises a customer as the man who drove her father to suicide, evidence enough for the chef who opines that although everyone wants wrong-doers to get what they deserve, no one is willing to lift a finger. The eggs on fries receive a dusting of rat poison, but then the man’s son arrives to share his meal.

Road rage gets a serve. A duel on a remote road between two macho males, one behind the wheel of a sleek sporty number, the other in a daggy, slow pick-up. The sports inevitably speeds past, but not before an angry verbal exchange. ‘Redneck’ vs ‘pussy’ battle it out, as tit-for-tat turns homicidal. It’s probably the most telling example of why naked revenge is self-defeating. ‘Of Revenge’ by Francis Bacon, anyone?

Two very bleak tales show how a corrupt system makes social justice impossible. The car of a mild-mannered demotions engineer is towed away from an unmarked zone. Car retrieved, he is caught in gridlock that ensures he is completely out of favour when he eventually arrives home for his daughter’s birthday. His attempts to seek redress against an inefficient bureaucracy fail miserably, and things descend from bad to worse, until payback. And there’s the teenager who takes the family Beemer for a spin. He arrives home with a damaged vehicle and admits to a hit-and-run that has taken the life of a pregnant woman. His family is however rich and influential enough to broker a deal.

Just when you’re reeling from the wild recklessness of it all — revenge in the first degree — the last tale opens on a wedding reception in a grand city hotel. The bride realises her new husband has cheated on her with a colleague from work. In no mood for appeasement she utterly loses it before she rallies and unleashes the full armoury. The groom realises why he’s married her in a comic, poignant and lusty conclusion.

Despite the lack of continuity in all but theme, these wonderfully extravagant tales of ‘wild justice’ segue with total fluidity. The fine cinematography and editing, the terrific performances and excellent score by Gustavo Santaolalla are all of a piece. It says a lot for the skills of the writer-director Damián Szifron. His name appears in the opening credits next to the fox.

4 Stars