‘Warcraft’

'Warcraft'

ALMOST ALL OF my admittedly little knowledge of World of Warcraft comes from the South Park episode “Make Love, Not Warcraft”, in which Cartman and his two-dimensional retinue get fat and disgusting in their attempts to kill an online griefer. I appreciate this unflattering portrayal of a dizzyingly successful gaming franchise is hardly fair, but as much as I tried to shake the image of Cartman shitting in a paper bag from my mind, I approached Duncan Jones’s film adaptation with it swirling around my skull. I suppose it is quite memorable.

The film opens with two loved-up orcs: the braided chieftain Durotan (Toby Kebbell) and his pregnant wife Draka (Anna Galvin), the both of them lying on the bed in an orc hut that aimed for shabby chic and ended up merely shabby. Outside, hundreds of their fellow orcs cheer like the Tory backbench as the bearded, hooded, hunch-backed warlock Gul’dan (Daniel Wu) reveals his plan to travel through a magic portal to Earth-expy Azeroth and kill everything in sight. They are, after all, orcs. Durotan, who in orc terms is something like a Greenpeace volunteer, has reservations about all this mindless species annihilation.


On idyllic Azeroth, where the birds sing, the children play and all races live in harmony, a runaway wizard named Khadgar (Ben Schnetzer) warns the utterly uncharismatic King Llane (Dominic Cooper) and his brother-in-law, the army commander Anduin Lothar (Travis Fimmel), that he’s detected some bad juju in the Azerothian air. He’s right of course, and soon enough the orc ‘war band’ arrive.


Meanwhile, on idyllic Azeroth, where the birds sing, the children play and all races live in harmony, a runaway wizard named Khadgar (Ben Schnetzer) warns the utterly uncharismatic King Llane (Dominic Cooper) and his brother-in-law, the army commander Anduin Lothar (Travis Fimmel), that he’s detected some bad juju in the Azerothian air. He’s right of course, and soon enough the orc ‘war band’ arrive, all of them looking like powerlifters with severe underbites who have just missed their targets in the bench. Durotan’s wife, who was inexplicably allowed to travel through the depths of magical space despite being in the third trimester, promptly gives birth to a little orclet that looks like a French Bulldog. Fortunately for the humans about to get savaged by these oversized, viridescent lunatics, a ‘mechanical miracle’––the ‘boom-stick’, which is sort of like a medieval Magnum .44––has just been invented. At the same time, nature-lover Durotan, keen for his newborn to grow up somewhere he can kick a ball around outside, is flirting with the idea of helping the humans dispatch Gul’dan, whose dark magic has turned his home-world, Draenor, into a thoroughly depressing place.


Fortunately for the humans about to get savaged by these oversized, viridescent lunatics, a ‘mechanical miracle’––the ‘boom-stick’, which is sort of like a medieval Magnum .44––has just been invented. At the same time, nature-lover Durotan, keen for his newborn to grow up somewhere he can kick a ball around outside, is flirting with the idea of helping the humans dispatch Gul’dan, whose dark magic has turned his home-world, Draenor, into a thoroughly depressing place.


The plot moves along at a clip. Within fifteen minutes director Duncan Jones has introduced all the main characters and their various confused accents and racial backgrounds and outfits which look as if they were bought in the fancy dress shop down the road. There’s a good deal of rushing around on horseback from sprawling city to sprawling city––the cityscapes, by the way, are genuinely gorgeous––and fantasy jargon-filled conversations delivered in grave tones. Sometimes Ramin Djawadi’s grand orchestral score tries to evoke a sense of the epic that is hilariously at odds with the emotion actually conveyed by the actors on screen. The film isn’t remotely interesting until the first orc raid on Azerothian turf, which culminates in a well executed battle sequence in a magical forest and the eventual capture of a plucky half-orc, half-human slave called Garona (Paula Patton), who says things like, ‘You think you’re fearsome? Orc children have pets more fearsome than you’ and who reminds you, every time she appears on screen, of the Mexican lager you could be drinking instead of watching the film. The battle scenes are easily the best thing about Warcraft but then, there isn’t much competition, and as the film goes on even the action scenes get tedious.

What’s most confusing about Warcraft is that a talented minimalist sci-fi director like Duncan Jones accepted a $160 million wannabe epic and game adaptation. The team behind the visual effects, the costumes, the makeup and the production design deserve some credit, but none of them could alleviate the crushing boredom I felt all the way through the film. The best thing I can say about Warcraft is that it could be worse.

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‘Jiro Dreams of Sushi’

Jiro Dreams of Sushi

DAVID GELB’S 2011 DOCUMENTARY, Jiro Dreams of Sushi, concerns the life of the world-renowned master sushi chef Jiro Ono, proprietor of Sukiyabashi Jiro, a ten-seat, sushi-only restaurant in Tokyo, and his lifelong struggle for perfection.

The film is principally about mastery, but it is almost as much about simplicity, and about obsession. Master, for Jiro Ono, seems an inadequate description, or maybe society ascribes such a term too liberally. He is, if such a thing can exist, a master many times over in his craft. His restaurant has three Michelin stars (which means that it is worth travelling to that country simply to eat at that restaurant); top restaurant critics and Michelin inspectors say they have never had a bad experience there; customers say they are nervous to eat at the restaurant because Jiro’s skill is so intimidating.

In Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers, he writes at length about the rule of 10,000 hours of what is called “deliberate practice”–highly-structured, goal-orientated activity––to achieve “mastery” in a given pursuit. If we work on the basis that most people work for eight hours per day for five days per week, and assume that all that time is spent engaged in deliberate practice, mastery would be attained after about five years. The eighty-five-year-old Jiro, who begins work at five o’clock in the morning, finishes at ten o’clock at night, and, famously, “dreams of sushi” in between, has been perfecting his art for seventy-five years, and he never takes a day off. The chefs determined enough to stay on at the restaurant under his tutelage (most quit after a single day) are only allowed to cook eggs at his restaurant after ten years of training.

At a talk at the Richmond Society earlier this year, Times columnist and former Olympic table tennis player Matthew Syed spoke about the growth vs. fixed learning mindset, and specifically “marginal gains”, small and seemingly inconsequential changes made that, cumulatively, lead to vast improvement across the board. It was hard not to be reminded of these marginal gains when Jiro spoke about the detail that goes into the creation and presentation of his sushi. If he notices––and he always notices––that a customer is left-handed, their next course will be served ever so slightly to their left. He serves women ever-s0-slightly smaller slices of fish.

But there is another side to Jiro’s quest for perfection. Jiro has forced both his sons to follow in his footsteps. Both wanted to go to college, he says, but he convinced them otherwise. A major part of the documentary is dedicated to the elder son, Yoshikazu, who is perpetually in the long shadow cast by his father and who will inherit the restaurant. The other son has started his own restaurant elsewhere in the city which is an exact mirror-image of his father’s––because he is right-, not left-handed.

The film raises interesting questions about life and its meaning. Jiro has sacrificed everything else in his life in the pursuit of the perfection of the art of sushi. His life’s work resembles addiction. He feels “ecstatic” to work every day, but miserable in the intervening hours. His relationship with his two sons revolves around sushi. He concedes that he has been more harsh on his sons than on the other chefs because he wants them to be successful and have a future. Jiro has little else in his life except the art of making sushi. Yet a chef who previously worked under Jiro says that “if he has any regrets, he’s crazy.” Does dedication to work make the good life? Does “ultimate simplicity lead to purity”, as the food writer Yamamoto says about Jiro’s sushi, or is there some tragic element to a life stripped down to the bare bones?

There is much to glean from Jiro Dreams of Sushi, but I found the following quotation, by a shrimp dealer who supplies Jiro, most memorable:

“These days the first thing people want is an easy job. Then, they want lots of free time. And then, they want lots of money. But they aren’t thinking of building their skills.”

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The Most Beautiful Town in the World

IF YOU HAVE EVER seen photos of Chefchaouen, the little blue town high up in the Moroccan mountains, I would expect that you told yourself that it couldn’t actually look that way. It does. In fact, it might be the most beautiful town in the world.

Now I concede that’s quite a statement to make, and all likelihood there are dozens of other places that could lay claim to that title, but I promise the thought will occur to you more than once if you happen to visit, and there are very few places that I can recommend more highly.

The journey to Chefchaouen from Marrakech can be painful, but whichever way you choose to do it, rest assured it is worth it. You can take a single coach all the way, which takes around ten hours, or you can take a train first to Tangier, a coastal city at the western entrance to the Strait of Gibraltar, and from there take a bus the remaining 115km or so to Chefchaouen.

The streets look beautiful here #morocco #chefchaouen #travel

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We chose the latter method and booked a sleeper compartment on the overnight train so we wouldn’t waste a day travelling. It costs about £50 per person, and you have to buy a ticket from the Gare Routière in Marrakech’s new town, Gueliz.

We had read a number of horror stories about the condition of the train and so on but none of them were true. Each compartment has four bunk beds with covers, and both ways we got in our beds and went to sleep for the duration of the journey. The inspector takes your tickets when you board the train and knocks on the compartment door when you near your stop. I have read that travelling in the seated carriages really is a nightmare so it’s a good idea to get tickets for one of the sleeping compartments at the first opportunity.

From the train station in Tangiers we walked for about fifteen minutes to the central bus station near the Place d’Espagne. There, we waded through a throng of touters purporting to sell tickets to Chefchaouen, and bought a pair for the more reputable CTM coach, which goes directly to the town. It costs about four quid, so don’t be cheap. Tangier isn’t really worth a long stay, though we did see a screaming topless man try and wrestle a gun off another man in the street, which made things more interesting.

A first attempt at mint tea, Morroccan-style 🍵 #morocco #chefchaouen #travel

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The bus trundles up through the hills that look like patchwork quilts and reaches Chefchaouen in three hours or so. If you head north-east from the bus station for about twenty minutes you’ll get to the town proper, which is ringed by a stone wall and comprises mainly small houses, restaurants and shops connected by narrow meandering pathways, almost all of which are painted blue.

There are a number of theories about why Chefchaouen is painted blue, and no one seems to be able to agree which one is true. The first is that Jewish refugees fleeing Hitler’s growing influence in Germany in the 1930s painted it blue as a reminder to live a life of spiritual awareness. Jewish and Moorish refugees fleeing the Reconquista of Spain in 1471 had, the story goes, also painted the buildings in nearby villages in the region blue. The second theory, which is far less glamorous, is that the colour keeps away mosquitoes.

Most of Chefchaouen’s Jewish community left the town for Israel in 1948, but their legacy, if the first theory is the case, remains. Each spring, the villagers apply a new coat of paint, and the local government supplies the paintbrushes.

The other instantly noticeable feature of Chefchaouen is the cats. The cats love it there. On our first afternoon in the town we saw at least forty, and if you quite like cats you’ll be pleased to hear that they all seem to be in pretty good shape. (We named one little kitten we found in a restaurant Baba Ganoush. He may or may not have had some of my lunch.)

Morocco relies heavily on tourism and Chefchaouen is no different, but the people are friendlier and more relaxed than they are in the big cities. This extends to the traders and shop-owners, who don’t have the same aggressive quality of their counterparts in Marrakech and Tangier. They won’t hassle you to buy their goods or come into their shops, and if they do speak to you they’re far more light-hearted about it. One asked me to come in and see his products and when I refused he replied, “See you later, alligator.”

The atmosphere is so much more relaxed. Everything moves more slowly. Transactions are made with a smile. The locals are fast and eager to be helpful. Maybe it’s the calming effect of the blue. Maybe it’s the surrounding natural beauty. Or maybe it’s the vast quantities of weed growing in the Rif mountains nearby.

La Casa Perleta #morocco #chefchaouen #travel

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You’ll find no shortage of places to stay in the town, but I couldn’t speak more highly of La Casa Perleta in the north. The staff are helpful, the rooms are clean and the breakfast of mint tea, eggs, bread, olive oil and orange jam, served every morning on the terrace overlooking the town, is excellent.

On the subject of food, there are a number of very good restaurants serving traditional Moroccan dishes all around the town. It is a crime to have a burger and chips or some other greasy disaster offered to you in the town’s central square when instead you could head to Sophia’s or Bab Ssour for the best kefta and couscous you’ve ever eaten instead. It is worth mentioning too that if you want to drink, there’s a hotel in the square that serves alcohol.

I suggest you don’t go to the town with an itinerary, and in any case the appeal of Chefchaouen isn’t so much about what you do there as how it feels to be there. Simply get out and explore. It is absolutely worth a visit to the Spanish mosque, which is a fifteen-minute walk out of the city walls and up the hillside, and offers the best view of the city.

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‘Room’

Review: 'Room'

THE IMMEDIATE IMPRESSION YOU get of Lenny Abrahamson’s Room is that it is a horror story wrapped up in a fairytale. Emma Donoghue, who wrote the novel and adapted it for the film, was inspired by the true story of Josef Fritzl, who imprisoned his daughter Elisabeth in his basement and subjected her to physical and sexual abuse––even fathering seven children by her––for twenty-four years. Room, however, is neither a horror film nor a thriller, but an exploration of the unconditional love between son and mother––a mother, in this case, who builds a world to protect her son from the reality of his life.

It is the fifth birthday of Jack (Jacob Tremblay), who lives with his “ma” Joy (Brie Larson) in a squalid ten-foot-by-ten-foot shed with a wall, a sink, and a skylight. Joy was abducted seven years ago and imprisoned inside the shed by “Old Nick”, with whom she has been forced to adopt the role of a sort of submissive wife in order to survive. Joy will not, however, allow her son to share her misery, and has made the hellish surroundings in which the pair live a sort of fantasy land where the lavatory cistern is an ocean, the space under the bed is a cave where the “eggshell snake”––several dozens of eggshells connected with a piece of string––lives, and the wardrobe a safe area in which Jack sleeps when Old Nick comes to the shed every few days to rape his mother.


There is something about the depiction of the situation in Room which doesn’t carry the emotional weight that it should.


The premise of Room is inspiring, touching, and disturbing in equal measure, but there is something about its depiction which doesn’t carry the emotional weight that it should. It is surely the case that this impression is to illustrate how effective the methods Joy employs to protect her young son have been; however, the result in a dramatic sense is that without a profound suggestion of horror to serve as contrast, then the resourcefulness of Joy doesn’t appear to be as remarkable as it is, and the overall sense you get is less disturbing, less life-affirming, and less powerful. For instance, readers of the book will note there is the reference only to one of Joy’s previous children––a baby who died with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck––and not to an earlier stillbirth; it is also mentioned repeatedly in the novel, but only twice in the film, that Joy still breastfeeds Jack. These are not major plot points, but they are indicative of a certain cinematic restraint which weakens the central message of the film.

Room does, however, succeed as a metaphor for those sorts of ugly, abusive, and all-too-common relationships in which the abuser cuts their partner off from their friends and family and virtually imprisons them in their home, creating such a sorry reality that the abuse victim is forced to tell their child or children stories to protect them from the truth. The scene in which Old Nick, sounding more like a frustrated husband than a kidnapper and a rapist, tells Joy he was sacked springs to mind, and the piano score, by Stephen Rennick, suggests the serenity of home life rather than the horror of imprisonment in the shed of a stranger.


Brie Larson, as Joy, gives a performance that is nearly without fault, and seven-year-old Jacob Tremblay is outstanding.


It is thanks to the excellent work of cinematographer Danny Cohen and production designer Ethan Tobman that Room seems much larger than it in fact is, as Jack perceives it to be. Cohen shoots low and wide, which creates the sense that we are seeing the world through Jack’s eyes, while Tobman designed Room to be an “inverted Rubik’s Cube” with removable exterior blocks so that the camera could be outside the room without disturbing the set.

Brie Larson, as Joy, gives a performance that is nearly without fault. Seven-year-old Jacob Tremblay, with whom she shares an almost uncanny resemblance, is outstanding––much to the credit of the director as it is to the young actor––though his narration is often ineffective. There are certain plot points which stretch credulity, and Room lacks the sheer emotional force that you feel ought to be present. It is intermittently, however, an extraordinarily touching portrayal of maternal love and resilience.

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‘X-Men: Apocalypse’

X-Men: Apocalypse

IF YOU WOULD LIKE further proof that the incessant adaptation to film of tired comic book franchises has gone a tad too far, sit through the latest offering in Bryan Singer’s X-Men series.

It’s bigger, it’s bolder, it’s badder. It’s even called Apocalypse, for goodness’ sake. And, most of all, it’s really boring.

If you have forgotten the events of the second instalment in the prequel trilogy, Days of Future Past, I do not blame you. After all, it was instantly forgettable. Apocalypse begins in Ancient Egypt, where we are informed via voiceover by Charles Xavier (James McAvoy) that the first mutants were revered as deities. Then, just in case you weren’t paying attention, we see the familiar figures of the Ancient Egyptian pantheon inside a pyramid, standing around a supine figure on a stone slab. The figure is En Sabah Nur (Oscar Isaac), who is betrayed by his treacherous followers and enters a thousand-year-long sleep before being woken up in the modern day by a group of cultish idiots, at which point he promptly tries his very best to end the world.

Mercifully, Apocalypse saves us the tedious origin stories, instead introducing most of the major characters––Cyclops, Angel, Jean Grey and Nightcrawler among them––neatly in a five-minute, globe-trotting whip-around. There are familiar faces, too, notably Mystique (Jennifer Lawrence) and Magneto (Michael Fassbender), who now has a young family and is living a happy, humble life in Poland. No prizes for guessing how that turns out for him.

Somehow, nobody in a modern Egyptian medina notices our eponymous villain, who looks like a Pleistocene Senator Palpatine moonlighting as backup for the Blue Man Group, as he taps up a mohawk-sporting Storm, who is using her weather-control superpower––badly––to steal from the vendors. Apocalypse subsequently goes on a recruitment drive, winning over young mutants by levelling up their existing powers and kitting them out in fetish gear.

It was about midway through, at the time that Pleistocene Palpatine begins making a fire-and-brimstone speech about humanity’s various shortcomings, that I started to wish for an actual apocalypse, and even a scene involving flying missiles and the sound of Beethoven’s glorious seventh symphony failed to capture my interest, let alone imbue the film with the drama it desperately needed.

For reasons I haven’t quite determined, Apocalypse is jam-packed with references to the original trilogy and to the pop culture of the Eighties period in which the film is set. Nightcrawler, who looks to be returning from a Bullet For My Valentine gig, wears Michael Jackson’s iconic red Thriller jacket on a trip to the mall suggested by Scott Summers, who channels Ferris Bueller in his thick quartz sunglasses. The film also alludes, rather heavy-handedly, to modern-day issues such as mass surveillance, hacking and nuclear proliferation. The CIA, Moira McTaggart (Rose Byrne) notes, would kill to get their hands on Charles Xavier’s mass-mind-reading machine, Cerebro. Listen carefully, and you can almost hear Edward Snowden bashing his head against the wall of his shack in the Russian wilderness.

Nevertheless, Apocalypse does have its moments. Quicksilver (Evan Peters) steals the show for the second X-Men film on the trot––in one scene, he zips around at supersonic speed to the dulcet synth-pop tones of Eurythmics’ Sweet Dreams. There’s humour, too, which comes courtesy of James McAvoy’s hirsute young Xavier, still a welcome departure from Patrick Stewart’s kindly old Professor X. of the original trilogy, and one of the best things about the film. It is no spoiler to say that everyone’s favourite wisecracking Canadian mutant shows up to dish out a little violence. It isn’t quite on the level of his killing spree during the raid on the school in X2, but it is, nevertheless, one of the best action sequences of the film.

The great strength of the X-Men comics has always been to render concepts such as prejudice, racism, segregation and alienation understandable and relatable to young audiences (“everyone fears that which they do not understand,” Xavier tells Jean Grey) but Apocalypse devolves very early on into your camp, garden-variety, spandex-and-explosions superhero tedium, totally devoid of subtlety or self-awareness and overly preoccupied with blunt references to pop culture and the issues du jour. It’s a joyless struggle that makes a mid-season episode of Stargate look like high cinema and lets down a very strong cast of actors with a stilted, humourless script. Die-hard fans of the X-Men may well enjoy the film, but for the casual movie fan, I say save your shekels and your time.

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‘Captain America: Civil War’

'Captain America: Civil War'

I’M SURE YOU, like me, are beginning to feel as if a new comic-book film is released every week, and I’m sure you, like me, wouldn’t necessarily consider this is a problem if any of them were any good. I admit that I was briefly delivered of my cynicism towards superhero films by the bloody and brilliant Logan, which seemed to raise a middle, adamantium-augmented finger at all the lazily conceived and poorly executed Marvel and DC offerings that have choked up cinemas for longer than a decade. But the operative word in that sentence is briefly, because soon afterwards I sat through Captain America: Civil War.

The story begins in Russia, where, of course, it’s snowing. It’s 1991, and a government agent is reading a string of apparently unconnected words and phrases to the Winter Soldier, the brainwashed assassin of the second Captain America film. The Winter Soldier struggles against his shackles as his captor reads these random words with ever-greater assurity and intensity, and at the mention of one phrase, there’s a sudden change in the Winter Soldier’s bearing, and he breaks free of his chains. In Lagos, and in the modern day, the poundshop Avengers––Captain America (Chris Evans), Captain America’s unimpressive pseudo-superhero friend Falcon (Anthony Mackie), Black Widow (Scarlett Johansson) and new arrival Scarlet Witch (Elizabeth Olsen)––are on a mission that ostensibly ends successfully, only with disastrous consequences for the local populace.


In a mildly interesting role-reversal, it’s arch-libertarian Iron Man (Robert Downey, Jr.) who supports the Sovokia Accords and the loyal and straight-laced Captain America who decides to defy the wishes of his government and refuse; the others pick sides until both teams are, by some strange coincidence, broadly equal.


This palaver, and the countless other missions that have ended with most of the locals dead and half the buildings destroyed, prompts the U.S. Secretary of State (William Hurt) to urge the Avengers to sign the Sokovia Accords, which will give the United Nations jurisdiction over their future activities. In a mildly interesting role-reversal, it’s arch-libertarian Iron Man (Robert Downey, Jr.) who supports this move and the loyal and straight-laced Captain America who decides to defy the wishes of his government and refuse; the others pick sides until both teams are, by some strange coincidence, broadly equal. And while the Avengers bicker, a new villain (Daniel Bruhl) tries to track down the villain of the preamble for reasons of which we’re not yet certain.

To begin with, it’s amusing that the Avengers have only now realised that tearing apart the world’s cities tends to cause problems for people other than the villain du jour, and it’s surprising that after the awful Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice, Civil War writers Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely didn’t think it necessary to come up with a different premise for having their heroes turn on each other. But putting the plot to one side for the moment––and the first hour of the film is almost in its entirety devoted to plot building––Civil War is one of the better Marvel films of recent years. The action sequences are creative and shot well, if frenetically. In the first sequence, in Lagos, for example, cinematographer Trent Opaloch (District 9, Elysium) seamlessly switches focus from character to character within the same, extended shot; in that and other fight scenes directors Joe and Anthony Russo take down the frame rate so that the action has the sort of crazy, chaotic quality that made Mad Max so thrilling. There’s a fight sequence on a staircase that calls to mind both Daniel Craig’s stairwell scrap at the Montenegro hotel in Casino Royale and David Belle’s electrifying escape from the tower block in Banlieu 13, and despite some unnecessary camera gimmickry the chase which ends with the unveiling of the Black Panther is good.


Captain America himself is still a dull character despite the efforts and charisma of Chris Evans, and fringe-characters such as War Machine, Falcon and Hawkeye are better left on the fringes. The addition of Black Panther to the lineup is a welcome one, however, and there are a couple of other cameos––to say who, exactly, would be to spoil the fun––which are gladly received.


When it comes to action Black Widow is still the most watchable Avenger: in her first fight sequence she dispatches half a dozen mooks with her fists and feet, uses another as a human shield to save herself from a hand grenade and then free-runs through a busy market. And always in a film that markets itself as a Captain America but is very much another Avengers instalment the giant presences of the Hulk and Thor are conspicuously missing. Captain America himself is still a dull character despite the efforts and charisma of Chris Evans, and fringe-characters such as War Machine, Falcon and Hawkeye are better left on the fringes. The addition of Black Panther to the lineup is a welcome one, however, and there are a couple of other cameos––to say who, exactly, would be to spoil the fun––which are gladly received.

Civil War isn’t a terrible film, then, but it isn’t a good one either, and it isn’t in any way original: at any point in the film you feel you could be watching an Iron Man or an Avengers or a Captain America instalment, because these sorts of films are too often formulaic and always far too long.

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‘The Jungle Book’

Review: 'The Jungle Book'

THERE ARE MANY people, myself included, for whom watching the classic Disney films––The Lion King, Bambi, and the original, animated The Jungle Book––represents some of the fondest memories of their childhood, which makes any attempt to do them over rather difficult, and sure to get a few people worked into a lather. First there’s the belief that some things are fine just as they are, but there is also a long list of remade or rebooted classics––Get Carter, Psycho, The Karate Kid––that failed to come anywhere close to the original in terms of quality. The Jungle Book has certain advantages: for instance, the huge technological developments that allow Bagheera, Baloo and the other inhabitants of the jungle to seem real in a way they never could be before.

Thanks to the enduring appeal of Rudyard Kipling’s collection and the continued popularity of the 1967 animated version of The Jungle Book, the story is familiar. A feral child, the ‘man-cub’ Mowgli, is raised in the Indian jungle in relative peace by a pack of wolves and with the occasional guidance of the wise panther Bagheera, until the return of the evil Bengal tiger Shere Khan threatens not only his safety, but the safety of all the creatures in the jungle.


The jungle is a real banquet for the eyes, and if you suspected that once you see the animals close-up and talking the illusion might be shattered, you’re dead-wrong.


You get the impression from the opening scene that the ability to combine live-action with CGI was made for films like these. Mowgli, impressively portrayed by the young Neel Sethi, runs with his pack of wolves through the jungle with barely even the slightest indication that most of what you see what created on a computer. The jungle is a real banquet for the eyes, and if you suspected that once you see the animals close-up and talking the illusion might be shattered, you’re dead-wrong.

The film has undoubted visual style, then, but it is palpably lacking in substance. The overwhelming impression you get of the film once it finishes is of Neel Sethi––who is excellent, by the way––charging through the jungle doing a sort of parkour. Most of the animal characters that are so lively and vivid in the books and the ’67 film never really appear to be more than cameos or extras because their scenes are so rushed. Scarlett Johansson and the character she voices, the hypnotic snake Kaa, is criminally underused after an excellent introduction. Bagheera (Sir Ben Kingsley), who also narrates the film, is convincing enough, but comedy takes the place of character development for the much-loved Baloo, played by Bill Murray. One of the best sequences of the film comes when Mowgli encounters King Louie––voiced with clear relish by Christopher Walken––and his small army of monkeys and apes, but ends frustratingly fast.

The biggest shame in The Jungle Book comes in the form of Shere Khan. What made Shere Khan so sinister in the ’67 version was his elegance and charm, conveyed so beautifully and so effectively through the animation and the cut-glass tones of George Sanders. (It is not a surprise, incidentally, that half a century later, Google’s first suggestion if you type ‘Shere Khan’ is ‘Shere Khan voice’.) In fact, Favreau and Marks’s take on Shere Khan is so overtly ‘bad’ that he becomes just another thuggish movie villain lacking any nuance or complexity and, therefore, any real menace. He only truly seems threatening when he’s telling stories to the young wolf clubs, and even then, it’s only due to a type of appeal to adult fear that has been done many, many times––and so much more menacingly––before. (Watch, for instance, the scene in Gladiator when Commodus tells a very similar story to Lucius while his mother, Lucilla, watches.)


Favreau and Marks’s take on Shere Khan is so overtly ‘bad’ that he becomes just another thuggish movie villain lacking any nuance or complexity and, therefore, any real menace.


Then there’s the music, which was such a key part of the ’67 film. Only two songs from the original appear, and both are wedged awkwardly and cynically into the film like crowd-pleasers. Both are sung badly.

Favreau, who also voices the the pygmy pig Fred, said he wished to strike a balance between the ’67 film that he himself used to watch and the underwhelming ’94 film, which had nothing in common with Kipling’s book anyway. The result is a film that, though visually breathtaking, occasionally funny and featuring an excellent acting performance at its centre, has neither the charm and joie-de-vivre of the animated classic nor the threat of the ’94 film or of Rudyard Kipling’s original tale. It’s worth seeing The Jungle Book just for the visuals, but it isn’t nearly as good Wolfgang Reitherman’s classic.

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‘Midnight Special’

'Midnight Special'

MIDNIGHT SPECIAL IS an unsettling film. It isn’t that something specifically unsettling is happening––much of the film takes place in various cars––it’s more that while watching the film you feel a constant sense of unease, as though something bad is about to happen. The opening shot of the film is of a piece of duct tape laid across a hole in the wall. It calls to mind things unknown or covered up or otherwise hidden from view, and it’s the uncertainty that those things bring about that pervades the film.

Roy Tomlin (Michael Shannon) and his friend Lucas (Joel Edgerton) are on the run. It’s what they have with them that their pursuers want: Roy’s son, eight-year-old Alton Meyer (Jaeden Lieberher), who at the start of the film is wearing a pair of goggles and a set of headphones and is sitting under a sheet. The goggles make young Alton look quite inhuman, which is appropriate, really, because there’s something very unusual about him. Exactly what that is is hard to say with any precision; all we can determine is that he has special powers, but neither Roy nor Lucas can articulate what they are. Alton’s powers are no secret. He is the central figure of worship for a cult, whose members in place of ‘amen’ recite a string of numbers that Alton once said aloud. They want Alton back, and their high priest Calvin Meyer (Sam Shephard) has dispatched Doak (Bill Camp) to get him. The second group hunting Alton are, of course, agents of the U.S. Government, led by FBI Agent Miller (Paul Sparks) and including geeky NSA analyst Paul Sevier (Adam Driver).


Part of the reason that Midnight Special is so disquieting is the fact that no one can explain what Alton can do, nor why. Vague details of his extraordinary abilities trickle out slowly in the frightened and awestruck dialogue of multiple characters. 


Part of the reason that Midnight Special is so disquieting is the fact that no one can explain what Alton can do, nor why. Vague details of his extraordinary abilities trickle out slowly in the frightened and awestruck dialogue of multiple characters. What is more revealing are the emotions painted across the faces of Lucas and Roy, neither of whom can conceal their confusion and wonder. In two superb central performances, both Edgerton and Shannon manage to convey clearly and without speaking the belief that they are woefully under-equipped for the situation in which they find themselves, and yet, equally, believe they must continue on the course they’ve chosen, even if the task at hand seems impossible. When Roy and Lucas speak about Alton, they objectify him with their language, and it underscores the fact that Alton is, in some way, “other”.

A minimalist, electronic score by David Wingo intensifies this atmosphere of gravity and uneasiness; so too does the blackness of the night in which the three are forced to travel. For a film in which the main characters are constantly being chased, Midnight Special moves slowly: the characters speak very little during the first act, and few details are divulged. Writer and-director Jeff Nichols paces the film very well. That we know little is frustrating but also a source of the tension that is constant for the better part of the film.


Michael Shannon’s hard-to-read features seem to communicate a wealth of conflicting emotions, and when he contorts his often-expressionless face into a smile or a frown or a look of alarm, the impression is far more powerful than if it were done by a more animated actor.


The casting of Michael Shannon is something of a masterstroke. He’s at once an awkward an intimidating presence more familiar playing the villain than a desperate father, but in Midnight Special his hard-to-read features seem to communicate a wealth of conflicting emotions, and when he contorts his often-expressionless face into a smile or a frown or a look of alarm, the impression is far more powerful than if it were done by a more animated actor. Joel Edgerton is almost as captivating as a state trooper who personifies the tough and humble character of the rural Texan. And both Shannon and Edgerton’s performances are supported by an exceptionally mature and largely physical performance by Jaeden Lieberher.

The main fault of Midnight Special is that the tension rarely rises. Instead, it is sustained throughout the film and then explodes into a climax which, though cathartic, might have come half an hour earlier or half an hour later. But that said, the film is incredibly gripping throughout. It’s dark and heavy and almost completely lacking in humour but it has an emotional depth and thoughtfulness too often missing from films of the same genre, and carried by a wealth of excellent performances.

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‘Zootopia’

Zootopia

THE COMEDIAN STEWART LEE dedicated the entirety of a half-hour episode of his television show, Comedy Vehicle, to satire, which he defined, jokingly, as “like here… but there’s animals in it.”

Lee was, of course, satirising satire itself, but the success of fiction in which the creator uses the animal world to hold a mirror to our human selves, from Animal Farm to Planet of the Apes, is, in part, down to its intrinsic capacity to express difficult or complex ideas in an entertaining and accessible way.

Such is the case with Disney’s lively new animated film, Zootopia, a part buddy-cop movie, part social satire, set in a bright and vibrant mammalian city where animals are anthropomorphised enough to permit directors Byron Howard and Rich Moore to riff on mankind’s various foibles with clear relish.

Judy Hopps (Ginnifer Goodwin), the daughter of carrot farmers from the town of Bunnyburrow (population to 81.5million-odd and rapidly rising, for obvious reasons) is the first rabbit to become a police officer in the glorious multi-species city of Zootopia, where predators and prey, having evolved beyond their savage instincts, live in harmony.

But Jesse finds upon graduating from the police academy that the ZPD is not all that she expected, and is dismayed to be assigned to parking-ticket duty by Idris Elba’s chief of police, Bogo, a Cape buffalo. The ever-optimistic Jesse shrugs off her disappointment and soon finds herself a worthy mission–to track down a missing otter–for which she requires the services of a wily con-artist fox, Nick Wilde (Jason Bateman).

The city of Zootopia is wonderfully inventive, comprising zoogeographical districts like the freezing “Tundratown” and the scaled-down “Little Rodentia”, all of them connected by bullet train. Suited hippos arrive to work via water-slide as chipmunks prepare freshly squeezed acacia juice for giraffes. Rodents, hilariously, stream out of a building bearing the sign “Lemming Brothers Bank” and there isn’t a human in sight to ruin everything. The city’s motto is, “Anyone can be anything.”

But can anyone be anything? The conflict between ideals and reality lends the satire to this fantasy buddy-cop flick, in which multiculturalism, inclusiveness and prejudice–both accidental and deliberate–are not spared the good-natured examination of the seven-person story team. Officer Hopps is herself victim to a sort of everyday “bunnyism” while her wise-cracking sidekick Nick is refused service at an elephant-run ice cream café. Though Zootopia has a utopian image to the outside world, received ideas about the members of the animal kingdom influence which positions they come to hold–hence a lion is the city mayor and an intimidating buffalo is the chief of police. Zootopia is politically and socially apposite, but inventive and funny enough to keep it from wandering too far into the realms of moralism or sentimentality.

Naturally the trailer does away with some of the best gags (“We need to address the elephant in the room. Francine? Happy birthday.”) but there is no shortage of first-rate verbal and physical comic flourishes. There is a scene involving a pocket-sized rodent crime boss, Mr. Big, during which I laughed so hard my sides began to hurt, and Judy and Nick’s visit to the vehicle-registration bureau, which is manned, of course, by sloths, is pitch-perfect, and a demonstration that with good comic timing even the very predictable may be riotously funny.

There is a diligence that goes into the balancing of the human attributes of Zootopia’s residents with the animalistic ones –a stamping foot here, a twitching nose there–that is to the credit of a confident and imaginative animating team. The energetic vocal performances of Goodwin and Bateman complement beautifully the liveliness of their characters and the world around them.

The film is as much an exhortation to individuality and a celebration of eclecticism as it is a riff on society’s shortfalls, all of it wrapped up in a fun buddy-cop caper and expressed in a way that the film’s predominantly young audience can understand. This is a first-rate film, and a must-watch.

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Legalise It

YOU REALLY WOULD THINK that in 2016 we’d be long past weed legalisation opinion pieces. The financial, social and medical benefits of cannabis legalisation have been exhaustively documented, and a host of other liberal democracies are either legalising or decriminalising weed or at the very least discussing its legalisation or decriminalisation.

And yet, the marijuana legalisation argument really gets scant attention here in Britain. Why so? It as if the public have lost the will to stamp their feet.

The now largely impotent Liberal Democrats have become the first political party to officially state their support for the legalisation of weed, but I doubt that is enough to effect real change. What would be far more productive is for the ordinary people in favour of legalisation––and there are many, many of them––to take just a short relief of their British notions surrounding fuss-making and make their displeasure at the status quo clear as crystal so those with real power sit up and listen.

The whole weed legalisation thing can be a tedious back-and-forth, principally because so many of the arguments against the legalisation of marijuana are so mind-numbingly stupid that they make you want to smash your head against a very, very solid wall. There are many of them, almost all of which are riddled with holes, ranging from “weed is a gateway drug” to something along the lines of “weed turns you into Gollum”.

I could spend all day writing rebuttals to all these arguments, but that’s beyond the scope of this article, and in any case, there are people with strings of letters after their names that can refute those points with far more precision than I can, like Professor David Nutt, or Dr. Sanjay Gupta. I would rather frame, in simple terms, the argument for why weed should be legal.

The Financial

A recent report commissioned by the Liberal Democrats found that the U.K. could potentially raise in excess of £1billion a year from the taxation of weed sold in specialist dispensaries, and if we take a look across the pond we see that the American states which have legalised marijuana are booming. Colorado, for instance, is now the fastest-growing economy in the U.S. and unemployment is at a six-year low. Do you remember that scene from Duck Tales in which Scrooge McDuck dives into a pool of gold coins? That’s Colorado, and the authorities have invested much of this cash in the hiring of mental health and social workers to treat anyone who does turn out to like the herb just a little too much, and to educate children on drug use. Moreover, they’re saving boatloads by not having America’s Finest drive around the state arresting college kids and artists for having a henry in their jeans.

The Social

It is almost impossible to maintain a black market for a good once it becomes legal, so it is no surprise that the crime in those that have recently legalised weed is falling fast. What is more interesting is that it isn’t just marijuana-related crime which is plummeting: violent crime of all stripes, as well as burglaries and relatively minor criminal acts are down too. And there’s another pleasant surprise for Colorado: traffic fatalities are down and continuing to fall, which contradicts directly the predictions made by the killjoys before legalisation.

The anti-legalisation brigade pointed to the presence of marijuana in the blood of some drivers involved in fatalities, but failed to appreciate that the marijuana metabolites these drivers were tested for at the roadside stay in the system for a long time after actual use of the drug. THC in the blood, a more reliable test of sobriety, is tested for too after the incident, but prohibitionists have tended to combine both sets of data when forming their argument.

It has also been suggested that now people in American states where weed is legal substitute weed for alcohol when driving. Driving under the influence of either is obviously not advisable (and illegal) but the suggestion is that weed causes less impairment than booze.

The Medical

Various reputable studies have shown that weed could be used to treat a range of conditions including glaucoma, epilepsy, anxiety, Alzheimer’s, multiple sclerosis, IBS, arthritis, Lupus, Parkinson’s and P.T.S.D. to name just a few. The argument that weed causes schizophrenia is a weak one at best, and it can only be said even by the most pessimistic of people that if you are genetically prone to schizophrenia or are prone to other schizotypal symptoms then weed can exacerbate those symptoms, and this is true of any number of substances.

So to recap, this is what could (and probably would) happen if we legalised marijuana in the United Kingdom: (1) the Government would make a killing in taxes, (2) crime would drop, and swathes of society needlessly criminalised for doing something that makes you feel relaxed, creative and really, really hungry wouldn’t have to shiver by the side of the road in the middle of the night so they can hand their pay cheques to hooded strangers through the window of a sound-system banger.

Everyone, in other words, wins.

In the frankly ridiculous Britain of today, it is socially acceptable for a toddler to choose their gender but not acceptable for an adult to choose whether to smoke a plant that makes them feel a bit silly. I’m not the only one who recognises a shortcoming here.

I’ve never really got to grips with the idea that a collection of people in Westminster can dictate what you, or I, or kindly Mrs. So-and-So down the street, do when that action does not harm anyone else. It bridles me, yet we’ve become accustomed to accepting all sorts of gross impositions on our civil liberties.

But we must start small. The advantages of the legalisation of weed are underpinned by such a hefty weight of evidence, and the downsides supported by such penetrable idiocies, that change must come soon.

So if you’re reading this Mr. Cameron and co. (which of course you won’t be), we’d rather like our freedom back now, please. Or at the very least, why not light yourself a joint and mull it over?

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