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The Banshees of Inisherin – Review

About a quarter of the way into The Banshees of Inisherin, Colin Farrell’s Pádraic bemoans his sudden loneliness. He’s sweet but simple, with a kind of hangdog sincerity Farrell plays to the hilt, and his best (and really singular) friend, an older fiddler Colm (Brendan Gleeson), has just told Pádraic he doesn’t like him anymore. Pádraic is explaining this to the only other person that’ll really tolerate his company, a manic, horny child, who takes this information in and mulls on it, head in hands. “I think he’s depressed,” Pádraic whispers. The kid responds “why doesn’t he just push it down like the rest of us?” This is a perfectly emblematic cross-section of the larger film, a story about loneliness, darkly and hilariously told, with an unusual (for writer/director Martin McDonagh, that is) amount of restraint. Long-time fans of his work may find themselves wishing for a little more action, but as one of those aforementioned fans, I found myself quite enchanted by Banshees.

The title comes from a song Colm’s writing, a four-piece composition inspired by the imagined banshees of the tiny coastal island that the movie never leaves. Banshees are portents of death, and if you’re at all familiar with McDonagh’s earlier work–movies like In Bruges and Seven Psychopaths, and a decorated playwriting career including The Pillowman and The Lieutenant of Inishmore–you’re going into this movie expecting a fair amount of death anyways. But while Banshees is pocked with violence, swift, painful spurts that dot daily life on the titular island, it’s hardly the bloodbath you’d reasonably expect; rather, violence constantly haunts the peripheries. Banshees is set in 1923, next door to the Irish Civil War, and we regularly see plumes of smoke in the distance, hear the crack of gunfire echo across the channel from the mainland. Inisherin is a fictional island, and the war might never reach its shores, but it never, never leaves the world, a choice that–along with McDonagh’s own reputation–fills the movie with a grimly comedic dread. It’s tightly wound, and when things happen (and don’t get it twisted, this is the man that made Three Billboards, things happen), there’s a notable remove, almost like we’re being hurried along past the point of impact. There’s some excellent staging and visual work in this pursuit, too, as cinematographer Ben Davis keeps the camera just on the other side of the window, wide on the countryside, or sometimes literally in the clouds, not letting us get too cozy with the humans below. Around here, Banshees seems to argue, a place where men will mutilate themselves before speaking an honest thought clearly, violence is inescapable. Don’t look too hard, it says, just keep your eyes forward, there’s more behind and there’s more ahead too. 

Kerry Condon as Siobhan.

The only character that seems to have a means and will to escape Inisherin’s vicious cycle is Pádraic’s sister, Siobhan, played by the superb Kerry Condon. Even among the uniformly excellent lead cast–Farrell, Gleeson, and a delightfully unhinged Barry Keoghan as the aforementioned horny child–Condon deserves special praise for her magnetic prism of anger, sorrow, repression, and determination that never once feels broad or easy. She’s an intelligent but ill-liked woman on the outside of these outsiders, the beating heart of the movie, and when she leaves its world much of its brightness does too. The things the men left behind do get harder to watch, less funny and more nerve-wracking, until at some point Banshees just kind of stops. There’s not a single dramatic event, reunion or otherwise, that the story hinges on; rather, it reaches the end of its thought, and then roll credits. I thought it compelling and effective, but would understand a certain frustration with this, especially in a movie this neatly made. 

All in all, I quite liked Banshees. There’s a deliberate understatement about it, atypical for McDonagh films, atypical for stories about masculinity, atypical for comedies, atypical for movies starring Colin Farrell, poor man, and all of that works in its favor. You watch it, and you know, you just know what it could burst out into at any second–but it doesn’t. And if that doesn’t frustrate you, and I hope it doesn’t, then it’ll captivate you.

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Onward – Review

I had a creeping suspicion midway through Onward: there’s no reason this movie had to be set in a fantasy world, and the plot would have worked exactly as well in, say, the middle of Illinois. This is disappointing both as a regular Pixar attendee and an utter sucker for the fantastic, but it’s true; swap in a delay on the acceptance of magic and forget a handful of sight gags, and there’s nothing you’d really lose. I’m not saying this as a doctrinaire–obviously, the existence of centaurs and sprites and forgotten cantrips lets you get away with quite a bit, and I understand why they’re there. But aside from our central characters, their wizard staff, and their ½-resurrected dad, there’s almost nothing to marvel at. It doesn’t break the movie, a competent family road trip, but it’s emblematic of its larger problem: for all its talk of magic, Onward is thoroughly mundane. 

Tom Holland and Chris Pratt play Ian and Barley Lightfoot, a pair of elfin brothers in a fantasy world now wholly moved on from enchantments to electricity. Both brothers never really knew their father, who died when they were young, and on Ian’s 16th birthday their mother reveals his last gift: their father’s magic staff, along with a spell that will bring him back for 24 hours. But when Ian botches the spell and only brings back his father’s legs, the brothers set off to find another magic focus and cast it right before the clock runs out and their dad is gone for good. It should be apparent by this point that Pixar’s doing their usual thing and fishing for heartstrings, but if it sounds a little more crass than usual, that’s because it is. Much of the plots precedes like you’d expect it to–journeys of self-knowledge, empowerment, a comedy chase scene or two–but this time around, the artifice feels more transparent than usual. There’s little connective tissue between scenes, and character and plot arcs begin and conclude with alarming frequency; a dance number closes a game-changing rift, and one character moment is handled with an actual checklist of growth. The film’s main conceit, Ian learning how to cast spells, is not an uninteresting idea, but it’s done so ham-handedly it’s hard to get engaged (Barley quite literally yells that spells have to be cast from your “heart-fire” over and over again until we get what he’s saying by proxy). This feels, at least in part, because Onward doesn’t seem to know what it’s about. It shuffles its feet around “staying connected to your past,” “trust those you love,” and “believe in yourself,” and by the time it finally arrives at “the meaning of family” the movie’s almost done. 

I’m about to criticize this movie some more, so before that happens allow me to interrupt myself and say that Onward isn’t bad. It’s perfectly functional, and functional for Pixar, some of the best living animators, is no small deal. That vaunted animation is, as always, impeccable; the voice actors, from Disney stalwarts Holland and Pratt to newcomers Julia Louis-Dreyfuss and Octavia Spencer, are game and capable; and the plot, as banal as it can be, hits its marks well enough. Nothing here is bad, but everything lacks a certain je ne sais quoi. Maybe it’s because Pixar’s making more movies more frequently than it used to, maybe it’s because Disney is exerting greater creative control, maybe it’s because every animated movie I’ve seen after Into the Spider-Verse has felt just a little less fun in comparison. But whatever the reason, ultimately, I was most disheartened not by what Onward was, but what it wasn’t. 

Chris Pratt as Barley Lightfoot, Tom Holland as Ian Lightfoot, and Octavia Spencer as the Manticore.

Because when Onward finally lets loose and leans into the delightful incongruity of its setting, the results can be, well, magical. Most of the movie exists as no more than a palette-swap–dragons for dogs, mushroom tops for gabled roofs, ogres and cyclops for schoolchildren–but whenever it lets itself grapple with its stated identity, a land built by a magic now forgotten, it becomes a blast. I got my first hint of this with the Manticore’s Tavern, once a hub of adventure run by the fearsome Manticore, now a family restaurant because that brings far fewer lawsuits. It’s not the freshest of bits, but it’s the first time since the inciting incident that the film really feels like it’s doing something worth noting. We get intermittent spurts of activity all the way up until the final scene, an exhilarating setpiece with Onward’s most clever both-worlds design by far. It’s all the more a shame, then, that the rest seems almost defiant in its refusal to let itself have fun with its own premise. I’m reminded of Zootopia, a movie with another far-out premise that absolutely overflowed with creativity and sheer visual glee. Onward sets itself up for the same kind of ingenuity, but is almost afraid to engage with it. We never get to see what a car designed for centaurs looks like, we’re not allowed different classroom desks for a populace demonstrably variable in size and species, and the motorcycle-riding pixies, an idea the film is clearly proud of, don’t get any kind of screentime to explain how they’re doing what they’re doing. We just see motorcycles driving, and are asked to fill in the blanks ourselves. 

Again, truly, it isn’t a bad movie. It is, however, a markedly disappointing one. Almost all Pixar movies, even the ones I don’t really care for (Up and Inside Out are the big two) reliably swing for the fences, which is why it’s such a letdown that Onward never really strives for anything beyond competence. And maybe, for some folks, that’s enough; Pixar is playing to its core proficiencies here, and it’s doing so with a significant amount of talent and experience. But I’ve come to expect more, and frankly, much like the world it inhabits, Onward is in desperate need of a little more magic.

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Emma – Review

You’re likely not alone if you’ve never heard of Emma, a much-adapted but lesser-known and underpraised Jane Austen novel about someone she described as “a heroine whom no one but myself will much like.” I suspect that only diehard Austen fans or big nerds had much foreknowledge of this particular piece, but as a member of both groups, I was looking forward from the moment this new adaptation was announced. Emma was, for years, my favorite Austen; I’ve grown up to realize just how young and stupid I was for not properly appreciating Pride and Prejudice, but as a younger and stupider reader it was gratifying to read a story about a character who, despite her best intentions, can’t help but ruin the people around her. It also helps that Emma is, as a rom-com, more reliant on the com—think Much Ado over Romeo and Juliet. Its lovers are cute and quarrelsome, and their eventual get-together is the kind of thing that’ll make you fondly smile more than openly weep. You might weep a little because of how fondly you’re smiling (I certainly did) but Emma, both the book, movie, and character, are all shooting for entertainment over capital-L Love. And come to think of it, this movie—“emma.”, as I categorically refuse to style it—has quite a bit in common with its main character. It’s “handsome, clever, and rich,” a vibrant romp of a film that’s unafraid to flex its comedic chops. It’s also, like Emma, a little bit too clever for its own good, and I wish it’d let the people around it handle themselves. 

I can’t possibly introduce Emma better than Austen did, so I’ll just copy the opening lines here to get us into this thing: “Emma Woodhouse…seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.” Emma is, broadly, about Emma’s selfish and occasionally catastrophic attempts at matchmaking and their ensuing fallout, but it’s also about the way that she and the rich folks around are nearly incapable of understanding a circumstance other than their own. The movie keeps this general frame, but smartly gives more screentime and plot heft to Harriet, (again, Austen does it best, so I’ll let her make the introductions as) “a natural daughter of somebody,” a poor and functionally orphaned young woman that Emma quickly befriends and seeks to better, with dramatically varying results. Emma is as much about her as it is about Emma, and this helps illuminate the contrast between the two and drive home Emma’s thoughtlessness and eventual transformation into sharper relief. The rest of the plot isn’t always as careful—Emma feels like it keeps debonair Frank Churchill or town bore Mrs. Bates in the movie largely out of necessity rather than dramatic purpose—but that’s not a dealbreaker in a movie this fun to watch. 

Anya Taylor-Joy as Emma and Bill Nighy as Mr. Woodhouse.

Because Emma really, really is funny. Or rather, it’s droll, but it’s packed with drollity, the kind of humor that won’t send you howling but guarantees an amused chuckle about once every minute. The film makes a smart choice leaning into the comedic leanings of the original novel and goes, well, not for broke, but about as broke as an authentic Austen period drama can reasonably go, pushing right up against the intrinsic borders of its genre. Everything feels a little preternatural, from the acting choices (e.g. Bill Nighy’s tendency to hop into place) to the blocking (commonly and intensely theatrically sitting on a couch). And the costumes! What costumes! I’m hardly well-versed on the subject, but the costume and makeup design all feel deliberately and delectably overboard. Emma’s hair is wound into absurdly tight spirals. Mr. Elton, a sleazy preacher, is drowning in a frock at least one size too big. Nearly every male character is craning their neck to see over the absurdly high starched collars. Again, I’m no expert, and it’s entirely possible these are period-appropriate and accurate looks, but even if they are, they’re chosen with such evident care and precision that almost every screenshot of Emma could elicit a laugh on its own. 

This endeavor to pack the movie with a distinctly un-packable wry humor, though, does start to wear thin when taken as a whole. There’s only so many times that Anya Taylor-Joy, as tremendously talented as she is, can stifle a scoff at someone’s behavior before we start expecting her to look at the camera like a 19th-century Jim Halpert. Having satisfactorily established that Emma’s kind of a jerk, Emma keeps trying to play it for laughs, at least an hour after we stopped laughing the first time, and while the joke never really gets bad it can certainly edge into tiresome, especially considering how the actors can expand to fill the silence. When Emma takes a break from winking and lets its actors act, it becomes riveting–there’s a scene between Emma and Elton in a snowbound carriage that lets both Taylor-Joy and Josh O’Connor unleash some impressive talent, and then, with an audible “clunk,” the lever is flipped back to Comedy and Mr. Elton does a funny scream. It’s a shame, because director Autumn de Wilde, making her feature debut here, is obviously quite talented at both comedic and dramatic work, but seems to lack the surehandedness of, say, a Nora Ephron or Armando Ianucci to let them cohabitate. 

But that’s no great matter. I’m greatly looking forward to the next films de Wilde makes with more experience under her belt, and in the meantime, Emma’s a more than capable movie. It’s an energetic and thoroughly entertaining period piece, and if you’re willing to overlook its clunkier aspects–which you should, and unless you’re a very sour soul, will–you’ll indeed be energized and thoroughly entertained. Very thankful that this new adaptation gives me yet another reason to do what I’ve been doing for a decade already and heartily recommend Emma. 

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Sonic the Hedgehog – Review

A week or two before Sonic the Hedgehog was released, I started seeing ads on buses that featured Sonic standing across from Jim Carrey’s Dr. Robotnik, subtitled “Chillin’ Vs. Villain.” This confused me, because, if you’ll pardon my pedantry: “Chillin’” is, more or less, the polar opposite of Sonic’s whole deal. I’ve no great affinity for the character or the games he’s from, but as I understand it, Sonic’s primary drive, his id if you will, is not chillin’, but going fast. I didn’t think much more of it because it’s the year of our Lord 2020 and I’ll be damned if I lose sleep over Sonic, but the ads still threw me off until I saw the movie last night. It was no error, I realized, but a premonition, a harbinger for a film whose entire M.O. consists of throwing spaghetti at a wall to see what sticks. Yes, it’s only there because it rhymes and has the same psychic footprint as a catchphrase. Much like the slightly grating ambiguity of “Chillin’ Vs. Villain,” Sonic the Hedgehog feels like it was created by several dozen different committees, hand-designed to momentarily divert your attention and then pull away. Here’s the thing, though; I’ve clearly retained “Chillin’ Vs. Villain.” I cannot suspect, given one week’s time, I’ll be able to say the same about Sonic. 

The movie opens at a suitably breakneck pace, tearing through what felt like either five or fifty minutes of exposition to explain how Sonic, a space alien (?), gets hunted for his speed (?), watches his mother (?) die (?), and then ends up on Earth. Sure, I guess, why not. Scared of being captured, Sonic (Ben Schwartz) watches the humans of Green Hills, Montana, from afar, until one night he runs around a baseball diamond so fast it blacks out the electricity in the continental United States (??) and must seek help from a stranger he’s grown fond of, James Marsden’s Sheriff Tom Wachowski. This is about all the plot you’ll get, though, because Sonic the Hedgehog is less a movie and more like a collection of ingredients thrown into a tumble dryer: An inexhaustible arsenal of ten-second poignant music clips, dropped in for the appropriate ten seconds whenever a character says something serious. Two separate uses of the “yeah, that’s me” freeze frame. Sonic mimicking the Quicksilver thing where he freezes time and gets into shenanigans. Sonic saying a quip that often, but not always, holds relevance to his current situation. Sonic doing a Fortnite dance. 

There is precisely one unmitigated bright spot in Sonic the Hedgehog, and you’ll get no points for correctly guessing it, because obviously it’s Jim Carrey, who drops back into Ace Ventura territory to play the smirking Dr. Robotnik exactly how you’d expect him to, and against all odds, the schtick stays amusing. Carrey is, if nothing else, a technician, and his preternatural control over his vocal and facial musculature is in full bloom here, and while Robotnik isn’t anything new, his twitchy megalomania is the only consistently entertaining part of the movie. I suspect that sometime during production, the team recognized this, too, and started giving Carrey as much of the spotlight as they could. From costumes, Robotnik gets gloves with remote control buttons on the palm, a device Carrey uses with self-evident glee. From design and VFX, Robotnik gets his robots, sleek white and red drones that serve as matryoshka dolls for increasingly smaller and deadlier drones, in the movie’s only real visual flair. From the script and casting departments, Robotnik gets a straight man to bounce off, as well as the only lines with any wit to them (“I see you’ve taken a lover. Does she have a name, or shall we just call her collateral damage?”). There’s even a scene where Robotnik has to compile some data, and we could have done another scene in the interim or just made the compiling instantaneous, but instead we’re just treated to a few minutes of Carrey barreling the camera as he dances on a holo-deck. 

Jim Carrey as Dr. Robotnik.

He can’t hold up the entire movie on his own, though, which is an especial shame because he’s really, really trying to. Every time Robotnik is absent, Sonic slows to a crawl. There’s no script, just a collection of actors taking turns to say something sarcastic. Despite all the VFX work done, there’s little of interest to see at any point, and even despite a dramatic eleventh-hour redesign Sonic himself just looks…fine. Whatever. It’s fine. If it feels like I’m scrounging for things to talk about, it’s because I am, so much so that I apparently had to open this review describing an ad I saw on a bus. I wish Sonic the Hedgehog was either a better or a worse movie, because then I can find some kind of foothold to talk about it; as it stands now, it’s barely functional and that’s it, absolute kryptonite for a review and worse for a viewer. It’s not fun, but it’s not offensive. It’s not dull, but it’s not clever either. Sonic kind of just shows up. This is the only movie I can remember falling asleep during. 

And that, I think, is what I resent about it. I was a child once, and am now an adult; I know what comes from optimism, and especially optimism by way of video game movies. But the bare minimum I ask of any given film is for it to entertain me, and Sonic just doesn’t. When the initial design was first released, muscular calves and human teeth and all, I was shocked and repulsed just like the rest of you, but I was also distinctly excited to see what possibly could come of this horrid little creature. Maybe 1993’s uncanny Super Mario Bros. would finally have an answer from across the digital aisle. But if you’ll pardon the following turn of phrase, Sonic has been neutered, along with anything, good or bad, that could be considered engaging, in favor of what is acceptable. And sure, yes, maybe I’m a grouch complaining that the brightly colored video game movie for kids didn’t live up to my personal criteria for Art. Perhaps it’s wrong of me to expect engaging things from this. Except no, it isn’t; remember The LEGO Movie? Or heck, if we’re talking about brightly colored video game movies for kids, remember Wreck-It Ralph? It’s difficult, but possible, to hammer and reshape product placement into something innovative and poignant. The worst part of Sonic the Hedgehog is that it doesn’t even try.

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