Film Review - Spider-Man: No Way Home (12A)

 You have a gift. You have power. And with great power...

I don't know where to begin. I don't know what to say, and what not. Either you've seen Spider-Man: No Way Home by now, in which case I can wreak no spoiler havoc, or you haven't, in which case you possibly don't care. But just maybe you've not yet made it due to family or work commitments and still want to experience the movie fresh. I'm going to assume that last scenario, also that you've not seen so much as a trailer for this Spidey outing. Because if you are such a person - someone who loves the whole Peter Parker teen-super mythology but who gets to watch this movie cold, then you're in for the treat of your Spider-loving life. 

The starting point of this film is the end to the previous one, and that much I'll assume you have seen. Peter's precious anonymity has been shattered by J. Jonah Jameson, played with muck-raking gusto by J. K. Simmons (reprising the role from Tobey Maguire's Spider-Era). Jameson is likewise promoting the lie that Parker/Spider-Man is responsible for recent villainous events internationally. With his cover blown, Peter finds his reputation and college chances ruined, along with those of girlfriend MJ and best friend Ned. It's more than a high-school lad can take, so this being the Marvel Cinematic Universe, he calls on Doctor Strange's mystical powers, to see if the world can forget that Spider-Man is really Peter Parker in spandex. But spells have messy consequences when cast in the presence of excitable teens, and the consequences here are remarkable - not least for long-term fans of the webslinger on page and screen.

2002 was my proper introduction to Spidey with Sam Raimi's Spider-Man, this Maguire iteration of the character probably being the purest in terms of adherence to comic-book lore. The hard-on-the-heels reboots brought a skater-boy cool to the character, Andrew Garfield's likeable interpretation hampered by variable narrative choices, but still not without its entertainment value and dramatic punch. Finally the MCU and Tom Holland effectively made the character Spider-Boy, with less of the angst that plagued Peter in the other versions and greater emphasis on high-school dating and friendship. 2017's Homecoming and 2019's Far From Home majored on fun, including amusing support players and more jokes. (Thankfully the latter had a high hit-rate.) But No Way Home, the final part of director Jon Watts' Home trilogy, does something unprecedented, in terms of Spider-Man and of popcorn cinema. It begins with the jokey Holland style with which audiences have become familiar, and then it goes old-school, taking enormous storytelling risks. This might all have resulted in a disastrous mess, but instead it creates a magic that's little short of alchemical.

No Way Home begins with all the wit and charm of its MCU predecessors - but in focusing on the consequences of Peter's identity reveal, it highlights the burden of personal responsibility on a teenager that has always made Spider-Man uniquely compelling. And that's only the start of what turns out to be an emotionally turbulent and constantly surprising story. Holland is as welcome a presence as ever in the lead, being called on to find constantly greater range in the character and meeting the challenge every time. He and Zendaya become steadily more endearing as the Peter/MJ paring, with Jacob Batalon's Ned rounding out the trio of friends in a way that takes it from purely knockabout to something considerably more touching. 

With great support also from Marisa Tomei (the most impactful and - let's say it - hottest Aunt May ever), Jon Favreau ever loveable as Happy Hogan and Benedict Cumberbatch bringing the weight and humour of his ever-evolving Doc Strange, it's an engaging and pacy prologue, but that's all it is. For when the story's antagonists arrive, they do so from a place and in a form that will steal the breath of those few Spider-Fans who've bunkered up and avoided all publicity. And from there the surprises keep being sprung - not cheaply, but in ways that reforge expectations of what this kind of live-action film can achieve, while deconstructing the Spider mythology to build it into something more impressive than before. Never has the Parker/Spider-Man duality been explored with such invention and import.

If I were to quibble, it'd be to say that certain choices made in the story's early stages are more to facilitate the amazing plot twists that come later, rather than a natural extension of how you might expect certain characters to behave. Yes there's an element of contrivance, but what it leads to is so thrilling and so punch-the-air joyful that it's okay in this case to let such conveniences lie. Look, I'm not going to claim straight out that No Way Home is the best film in the wider Sony-related franchise (though it certainly stakes a claim). What I will say is that it takes Spidey enthusiasts to places they probably never dreamed they'd go, and puts a big goofy, teary grin on their faces once they get there. If you've paid any attention to the big screen adventures of Spider-Man over the past two decades, you might end up wearing a similar grin yourself.

Gut Reaction: Spellbound by a sense this was more than just Spider-business as usual. Then grinning a lot and tearing up for reasons of both sadness and joy. 

Memorable Moment: I can't say much, just that it was one of the most audacious reveals I've ever experienced in a cinema.

Ed's Verdict: 9/10. Hugely satisfying block-buster entertainment - less from its scale and effects (both stunning), more from big emotions, rooted in a plot that embraces its ambition with a bear-hug and doesn't let go. This everyday neighbourhood hero has never blown so many minds.

Film Review - West Side Story (12A)

 Could it be? Yes it could. Something's coming, something good.

Can you wait for that 'something good'? Cinema-goers worldwide have done, sadly. West Side Story is only the latest stage-to-screen musical adaptation to bomb in 2021, and in this case, as with June release In the Heights, it's not for want of quality. That latter movie was a colourful and exuberant version of Lin Manuel Miranda's first full-length stage show, a celebration of the New York Latino community in which he grew up. West Side Story, meanwhile, is made by Steven Spielberg, for heaven's sake, the veteran filmmaker's first full-scale venture into the musical genre. It's also one of the best films he's made in years and a worthy companion to the Oscar-laden 1961 adaptation, which makes it lamentable that the footfall into theatres to see it hasn't been any heavier.

You're familiar with the story, right? Tony and Maria are a New York City Romeo and Juliet, the familial conflict replaced by an ethnic one between white street gang the Jets and the Puerto Rican Sharks. Tony has distanced himself from the Jets, much to the chagrin of his best friend and gang leader Riff, while Maria is feeling pressured by her lead-Shark brother Bernardo to accept the romantic advances of a safe bet named Chino. But then there's a dance, and a chance meeting, and soon Tony and Maria going all swoony and singing to each other, even as gangland rivalries threaten to swallow up their new-found happiness. All that classic star-cross'd stuff.

The stage musical - with its formidable combination of Leonard Bernstein's score and Stephen Sondheim's lyrics - is Spielberg's favourite, the one he'd sworn to adapt if any. With a largely fresh-faced cast delivering equally fresh versions of the songs, it's the screenplay that diverges most sharply from both play and '60s movie. Tony Kushner's script (he screen-wrote both Munich and Lincoln, two of Spielberg's 21st century best) digs into the New York slum clearances of the 1950s and how an established group's sense of under-class grievance gets directed at first generation immigrants. There's lightness and humour too, but less dance-fighting and considerably more gangland grit, along with some interesting character tweaks. Doc, dispenser of wisdom and soda to the Jets, is replaced by his Puerto Rican widow Valentina and played with compassion by Rita Moreno (Anita in the 1961 film). And wannabe Jet 'Anybodys' is turned from tomboy to transgender without any jarringly overt wokeness. In fact the remarkable - and sometimes depressing - thing about this West Side Story is how relevant mid-20th century social commentary still feels in the midst of contemporary news stories.

But what about the music? you may well ask. Frankly it's terrific - not just the vocals and choreography, but Spielberg's unerring sense of how to shoot action of whatever kind. While the story's grimmer elements have a bleached-out look, everything bursts into primary colour in moments of romance and exuberant song, like that well-worn celebration of Hispanic culture America. Where the 1961 version kept the number to a single location (superbly so), this one takes it around several blocks and involves an entire community to rousing and brilliantly shot effect. That's what Spielberg knows better than virtually anyone else - where to place the camera (and in what light, and with what colour) to serve the story best. Thus romantic interludes, macho banter and girlish gossip (that's Tonight, Officer Krupke and I Feel Pretty) are all reinterpreted with heart and verve. As for the lyrical content, Steven had Stephen on hand, Sondheim that is, to provide feedback on how his words might be rendered potent in 2021. Sadly the great man of Broadway didn't live to see just how potent in the finished film.

The performances are pretty powerful too. Ansel Elgort is a restrained Tony (perhaps a tad too restrained?), with a tougher backstory than the 1961 version, but an equally angelic voice. And as Maria, first-time film actor Rachel Zegler is a focal point of sheer charisma - all youth and innocence, but with the expression and depth of a performer twice her age. He's good, she's downright mesmerising. That said, and for all the central pair's fraught love story, it's David Alvarez and Ariana DeBose, the new Bernardo and Anita, who arguably steal the movie. DeBose in particular (a stage veteran of Hamilton) makes hearts soar, before ripping them out in a magnificent performance that runs to the core of the musical's deepest cultural and political themes. 

Ariana DeBose

On hearing that the director of Jaws and the rest of it was taking on this theatre classic when there's already a beloved film version in existence, the question 'Why?' did occur. In purely creative terms Spielberg has answered that question; this is a terrific retelling, that showcases the musical elements beautifully, while adding a sharp relevance to the drama. Post-lockdown film-goers, however, are saving their cash for other films, and that's a shame, one that doesn't bode well for the movie-musical's immediate future. As of this review it's still showing in most cinemas, however, so if you've got half a mind, mask up and go see it. This exhilarating audience-pleaser supplies more emotional punch than you might think, and there are worse earworms than Maria. Or Jet Song. Or There's A Place For Us. Or... You catch my drift. Go and sing along.

Gut Reaction: The tuneful parts felt a bit like old friends, while the drama struck with its immediacy. And all of it entertained.

Memorable Moment: I like to be in A-Mer-I-Ca! Okay for me in A-Mer-I-Ca!

Ed's Verdict: 8.5/10. There's nothing lazy about this film-making choice. There's pure, vibrant Spielberg/Bernstein/Sondheim magic in every sequence.

TV Review - Midnight Mass (15)

 We are living in a miraculous time.

Mike Flanagan is a name that's been creeping up on me. 'You haven't watched The Haunting of Hill House yet?' friends and family have asked me. 'Bly Manor's not as good, but it's still good.' Now Doctor Sleep I have seen - a creditable attempt to adapt Stephen King's Shining sequel, while also acting as a follow-on from Stanley Kubrick's iconic but very non-King Shining movie. And my brother insists the Flanagan-adapted Gerald's Game is another superior screen version of a King novel. So when I happened on Midnight Mass while browsing around Netflix and discovered it's the writer-director's latest, it fast became clear why he's getting so much good word-of-mouth - and why labelling him as a creator of 'horror' falls short of what he's achieving.

Unlike the hauntings of Hill House and Bly Manor (based on Shirley James' novel and inspired by Henry James' The Turn of the Screw respectively), Midnight Mass is a full Flanagan creation, though its setting off the coast of Maine suggest the story's debt of gratitude to the aforementioned Mr King. It starts with Riley Flynn - a lost soul who returns to the tiny island fishing community of Crockett's Island where he was born and raised, carrying with him a very particular burden of guilt. He finds the island effectively dying - population whittled to a hundred or so, the core industry undermined, and the islanders sapped of hope. The place needs a miracle, and seems to find a literal source of them in new priest Father Paul, who has arrived as replacement for the island's beloved Monsignor Pruitt. His mission - one that even he doesn't seem fully to understand - leads to religious revival in this once pious Catholic community. But darker events are occurring too on Crockett's Island, and Riley's skepticism regarding developments at the church (of which his family is an integral part) may prove well-founded.

So far so eery, and as it progresses, Midnight Mass more than ticks the boxes to prove its horror credentials. Yet this show so far transcends the genre as to be one of the year's most impressive TV dramas - and my own personal favourite. How? Not least because for the first several episodes it rejects cheap scares in favour of a slow-chill effect, along with immersion in the Crockett's Island community. The locations are shot with an eye to their bleak beauty and run-down aesthetic, the island taking on its own character while serving as backdrop to quietly unfolding individual dramas. Our leading protagonist, burdened in spirit and wrestling with addiction, is only one among numerous residents immersed everyday struggles. There's the talented local physician with an ailing mother, the pregnant single schoolteacher, and the town drunk with his own source of shame, to say nothing of the sheriff - a single father and devout Muslim keeping order in a Catholic community. What's his story, and what role will he play in the mystery that so painstakingly, creepily unfolds? What roles will any of them play? The answers will take their time, and be properly shattering when they do.

It's the Stephen King factor again - reveal the minutiae of your characters' communal lives, and your audience will care, deeply so, once events turn dark and life-altering. But Flanagan digs deeper than soap-opera levels of acquaintance with these individuals - he uncovers their hearts, souls, and most deeply held beliefs, spiritual or otherwise. An ex altar boy and recovering addict himself, there's a whole lot of the writer in this detailed character drama, and he does more than mine religion for exploitative horror thrills (though there's a bit of that). Midnight Mass draws out themes of guilt and redemption, hate and forgiveness, and the human struggle with grief and loss - all of which might be heavy-as-hell, if it weren't so superbly written and imaginatively explored. Oh, and if it weren't tinged with an ever-present, indefinable sense of dread. There's also a delving into the experience of religion - personal and communal - and a study of how dark influences can prey on devotion, never less than in a time of community crisis. 

Which brings me to the performances, the first among equals being that of Hamish Linklater as Father Paul. Flanagan draws on an established ensemble of actors for his TV series (many Midnight Mass cast members are alumni from his Haunting shows), so it's fitting that Linklater is a fresh face as the priest sweeping up the congregants in a new kind of fervour. His initially odd and stumbling portrayal grows in power, while never losing its complexity, as the drama develops. He compels and disconcerts at the same time, keeping the character's motives intriguingly elusive. His extended dialogues with Zach Gilford's atheist Riley make for some of the show's most fascinating scenes, and when he cuts loose in the pulpit, you feel swept along rather than alienated by his words. There's a near-irresistible appeal to his message, backed up as it is with weird charisma along with the story's moments of seeming grace. The same cannot be said for Bev Keane (played with narrow-eyed relish by director's favourite Samantha Sloyan), a Scripture-wielding zealot, whose self-righteous piety turns her into a more unambiguously chilling antagonist. With the new Father's arrival she truly feels her time has come, and Sloyan's portrayal is resultantly flesh-crawling. Heaven preserve us from the Bevs of this world.  

If she's a reminder of the worst in small-town and religious life, there are characters - believer and doubter alike - who serve as a corrective, starting with Riley's family and his lost love, the child-bearing Erin (a strikingly beautiful and moving performance from Kate Siegel). It's this, of course, that makes the story's slow but exponential plunge into darkness so unnerving, rather than sinister incidental music (the soundtrack deals instead in haunting folk versions of traditional hymns) and jump scares. You're concerned for characters in whom you've become invested, and with good reason. Thing is, their individual journeys don't get sidelined when events go critical - this may go from a character study into something more recognisable in scary-story terms, but ultimately it's all about the Crockett Island residents' trial by fear. That's what makes Midnight Mass so engrossing - it puts the horror into drama, and the drama most commendably into horror. 

Okay. Now time for me to check out everything else Mike Flanagan has done. I'm looking forward to this...

Ed's Verdict: 10/10. Much more interested in building its world and fleshing out its themes than throwing out cheap thrills, Midnight Mass is horror for grown-ups, which delivers on its set-up in ways that both shock and satisfy. 

Film Review - Tick, Tick... Boom! (12A)

 You're not Stephen Sondheim - you're gonna have to wait a little bit longer.

In the same month that Stephen Sondheim passed away, came Tick, Tick... Boom! a Netflix-streamed film celebrating the life and creative struggles of another transformative figure in American musical theatre (and one who Sondheim actively championed), Jonathan Larson. You're most likely to know him for Rent, the single most abiding work of Larson's tragically short life, and one that dazzled 1994 audiences with its style and subject-matter, the way Hamilton would two decades later. In Tick, Tick... Boom!, it's Hamilton's creator, Lin Manuel Miranda, who adapts an earlier, lesser-known Larson musical, one in which Sondheim gets more than name-checked in a serendipitous full-circle kind of way. Which is nice. All that trivia aside, is the film any good? Make that a hell yes - thanks first and foremost to Lin Manuel, and a certain ex Spider-Man.

Andrew Garfield plays Larson, performing in a 1992 theatre workshop of the semi-autographical  Tick, Tick... Boom! The film then begins flashing back to the events that inspired the show - namely Larson's desperate efforts to get a social satire/science fiction rock opera named Superbia off the ground. In 1990 the financially strapped Larson was living in struggling-artist squalor NYC-style - struggling to fund Superbia's showcase launch and to put potential investors' bums on the seats, all the while knowing that the second act's big song remained to be written. Oh, and his birthday loomed - the big 30!!!!! As Larson tells it, the time-bomb in his mind just wouldn't let up with its incessant ticking.

If any or all of that sounds precious, it totally could be, and it's to the credit of multiple players that it's start-to-finish compelling instead. The most obvious of said players is Garfield. We knew had dramatic depth and charm from The Social Network and Hacksaw Ridge and Breathe, along with his two swings at Spidey, but we didn't know he could sing - and damn can he do that. Not in a Ryan Gosling college-try kind of way, we're talking proper showbiz vocals here. He can also emote while singing, and blend it with the naturalistic parts of the performance, tying together the strands of this inspired, frustrating, loveable yet sometimes narcissistic personality in a way that makes you root for the guy, even if you sometimes want to slap him. Basically it's one of the stand-out performances of the year, regardless of movie genre, and one that demands to be seen. 

It's all the more impressive considering the talent with which Garfield is surrounded. Alexandra Shipp and Robin de Jesus prove they have good pipes as girlfriend Susan and long-term best Michael, while Vanessa Hudgens and Joshua Henry both power out their musical contributions in the Tick, Tick... Boom! stage musical framing scenes to arresting effect. But beyond that, the film is sufficiently trusting of its leads to populate the supporting cast with Broadway professionals. In comically grandiose diner song Sunday Garfield literally conducts a chorus of musical theatre legends, and holds his own with them. If that's your thing, you'll be counting the familiar faces, while marvelling at how the lead actor, however charismatic, isn't overwhelmed.

For all the starry, hyper-talented cast, it's Miranda who warrants the highest praise. Frankly it's a bit sickening that the much lauded Hamilton creator turns out to be this good a film director on top of all else the man can do. Taking Steven Levenson's excellent adapted screenplay, he glides with seeming effortlessness between past and present, on-stage and off, impressionist musical cinema and straight drama, and most effectively between the comically life-embracing and the tragic (Larson was writing his Superbia opus at a time when New York's theatre community was reeling from the AIDS epidemic at its height). The entire story as described above might have been impenetrable, but it's woven together with such style and grace, and moves along so breezily, that it carries you with ease. That's whether or not, I suspect very strongly, film musical is your go-to genre.

Tick, Tock... Boom!'s based-on-truth nature gives it a built-in poignancy, but even if you've never heard of Jonathan Larson, or care whether he can create something amazing before turning thirty, this is a fascinating and nuanced study of why certain people are willing to endure penury, rising damp and indifferent landlords just to pursue an artistic dream. You might get frustrated with Larson as he alienates friends and lover alike with his single-minded passion, but you never lose the sense of what drives him, and unlikely as it sounds, you really do feel that ticking clock. It helps of course that the tunes are good, and delivered by all concerned with such finesse. You might even be slightly more convinced by the end of how much creativity matters. And that'd be the most solid proof of just how well this film works.

Jonathan Larson, and Andrew Garfield as Jonathan Larson

Gut Reaction: Pretty much strapped in by the end of the first song for the emotional (and tuneful) roller-coaster that followed.

Memorable Moment: I Could Get Used To You - Jonathan faces his ultimate temptation to sell out, in one of the movie's funniest sequences.

Ed's Verdict: 9/10. Full of irony and optimism, grief and joy, Tick, Tick... Boom! is one of 2021's most welcome surprises. Even if you don't watch this kind of thing, try out the first ten minutes - and see if it doesn't carry you all the way to the end, leaving a happy-sad smile on your face. That's what it did to me.

Film Review - Encanto (PG)

 Sometimes family weirdos get a bad rap.

Encanto is the 60th animated feature from Disney; count them - Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Pinocchio, fifty-seven others and this one. Following recent forays into culturally diverse locales (Moana - Polynesian Islands, Raya and the Last Dragon - the Far East, Wreck-It Ralph - somewhere very digital), this is another venture to lands historically neglected by Mickey's magic. That's Colombia to be specific, and the extravagantly enchanted Casa Madrigal. The film is magical, and enchanting, even if it arguably gets too complex and metaphorical for its own good.

Mirabel is a daughter of the Madrigal clan, a magically endowed family who live in an equally supernatural casita, a home with more personality than any property show presenter could begin to imagine. She has sisters with super-strength, cousins who shape-shift, and aunts whose emotions create their own weather systems - to mention a mere handful. The only person with no powers whatsoever is Mirabel - a source of grief to the girl herself, and one of disappointment to Abuela Alma, the formidable family matriarch. So when cracks (literal ones) begin to show in the Madrigals' other-worldly existence, Mirabel takes it on herself to investigate the cause and prevent everyone's powers from fizzling away. Maybe then she'll be given her ordinary-girl due.

First the no-brainer... This film is a technical marvel. The world's premier animation house, employing the most creative talents in the industry, knocks it that bit further out of the visual ballpark with every feature, making each traditionally made 2-D movie a bit more three-dimensional and vibrant and textured that the previous one. Every frame is a detailed artwork. Even if you don't take to the story, the whole thing's just worth looking at. Each musical number - of which there are a few, and every song issuing from the teeming brain of Hamilton's Lin Manuel Miranda - is its own epic of visual invention, set to infectious Latin rhythms. The first one alone, where Mirabel introduces us to her extended preternatural family, will leave your head spinning to the point where you need it all the slow the hell down. Relax - there are enough slower interludes to prevent it all from becoming too hyperactive, just.

Encanto is crammed with incident, left-field plot turns, and memorable characters (more, ironically, than you'll be able to remember on a first viewing). The casita is a character in itself, with more hidden dimensions and secrets than Hogwarts and a Tardis smashed together. Mirabel's journey into its bizarre recesses is realised as lavishly as any far-flung quest embarked on by Moana or Elsa or the bunny from Zootopia. As for the other characters, each is worth your time, with a handful - like one-woman powerhouse Luisa and floral explosion Isabela - getting the kind of big moment (make that big song) that gives them room to fully shine. Each of these moments is one more creative knock-out, sometimes going the fully surreal or allegorical route to lyrical interpretation. 

If there's a fault in it all, it's that story threatens to buckle under the weight of its own ambition. For all that it's a single-location tale, Encanto aims high in every conceivable way, starting with its smart but detail-loaded screenplay. By the time you get to the crucial song We Don't Talk About Bruno, for example, you might well be racking your brains to recall who Bruno is. (He's Mirabel's uncle, who can see the future. It's useful to know that.) And for all the spectacle on screen this is, at its heart, a story about how families work (or sometimes don't), more so those that have historically come through some kind of trauma, so that the resolution makes sense only if you think both metaphysically and metaphorically. In short, this film takes more mental effort than your average family animation, which maybe robs it of a truly satisfying payoff, on a first viewing at any rate.

None of the latter is going to matter at all to the younger members of Encanto's audience. They'll be spellbound by the visuals and carried away on the songs. They'll also fall in love with the brave and bespectacled Mirabel, voiced endearingly as she is by Stephanie Beatriz (Brooklyn 99's deadpan Rosa Diaz), and root for her as representative of everyone who's ever felt a bit too ordinary. See, even as I write this, I feel like it's a grower - one where if your youngsters watch it on a loop, you'll appreciate its manifold strengths all the more. Some films cast their spell the first time you watch them. This one, for all its brash and vibrant colour, might weave its most impressive magic over time. And that is never a bad thing.

Gut Reaction: Breathlessness, awe, a bit of puzzlement - and overall positive vibes.

Memorable Moment: Luisa's Surface Pressure song - one sequence of visual genius among many.

Ed's Verdict: 8/10. While there's an element of sensory (and even mental) overload to his one, that 8-score is solid, and only ever likely to rise on a re-view. Encanto is a bursting magical treasure chest of a film, one that shows why Disney is sixty features in and most likely planning on sixty more.

Film Review - Ghostbusters: Afterlife (12A)

 Maybe it's the Apocalypse. 

Ghostbusters: Afterlife is the fourth film in the Ghostbusters franchise, and the most satisfying episode to build on the 1984 original. That's not to say it's perfect, and let's be candid here, none of them are - not even the first one. But it does achieve a lot that a sequel should, particularly the kind that show up decades down the line with an audience of fans pining for nostalgia.

The Spengler family, mother and grandchildren of late Ghostbuster Egon Spengler, relocate to the rural town of Summerville, having inherited his farmhouse, a gaunt and decrepit pile in the mode of the Bates home from Psycho. While teenage Trevor (Stranger Things' Finn Wolfhard) staves off boredom at the local fast-food restaurant, his introverted kid sister Phoebe feeds her science nerdiness by exploring her grandfather's later life paranormal obsessions, while making a psychic connection of her own in her new home. Meanwhile earth tremors and other portents of apocalyptic doom are a-brewing in Summerville, and, frankly there's no one to call. That's unless Phoebe, Trevor, and some new friends learn how to use the proton packs in Egon's secret basement, and get his cranky old Cadillac running.

Here's the truth about me and Ghostbusters - in terms of 1984, I was always more a Gremlins guy. I enjoyed the original film, with the ensemble dynamic and all Bill Murray's wisecracks, Slimer and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, the hearse-mobile and the Ray Parker Jnr. theme song, but as Netflix's recent The Movies That Made Us documentary reminded us, the underlying mythology is slapdash and pretty thin. Ghostbusters II reworked all the first film's plot beats without adding much that was new, while 2016's all-girl reboot was more of the same, only with weaker jokes. (It also triggered a load of culture war bullshit, but set that aside - the movie simply wasn't original or funny enough to stand up.) Afterlife, however, gets a few basic things right, that help it stand out as properly worthwhile.

Directed and co-written by Jason Reitman, son of Ghostbusters '84 director Ivan, it gets out of NYC, transferring all the supernatural malarky to a magnificently shot Oklahoma landscape. At its centre it puts a likeable young cast, with Carrie Coon and Paul Rudd as Mom and a ghostbuster fanboy science teacher respectively, giving it a family drama vibe in place of the been-there done-that urban workplace comedy. The tropes established in the first film are drawn out gradually, emerging from under the surface of what appears to be a whole other film, while a new batch of relationships are established. In addition that familial connection between lead protagonist Phoebe (Mckenna Grace) and Egon (Harold Ramis being the one original buster no longer with us), carries real emotional weight. It's more than just business as usual, and that in itself is refreshing.

Where the film suffers drags in momentum, and dialogue between the leads that often fails to spark. Grace is a likeable lead, and newcomer Logan Kim is a real audience-pleaser as her new friend Podcast, but there's nothing in the screenplay to compensate for the interplay of the original gang. Rudd is an amiable presence as ever, and the source of some neat '80s callback jokes, but neither he nor anyone else is given the level of acerbic wit granted to Bill Murray back in the day. The movie's mid-section is pretty lifeless (pun not intended) as a result. Thankfully the proceedings gain speed along with the Caddy, as the plot gears up for its climax - aided by developments that should delight all true Ghostbusters aficionados, while stirring the emotions of relative GB agnostics like me. New spins are found on old visual gags, and teases regarding the classic film are delivered upon in satisfying fashion. Best of all comedy legend Ramis gets his due in an unexpected but 100% appropriate fashion.

Ghostbusters is for the fans - the real ones - and its liberal scattering of Easter eggs, along with its final-act celebratory twists (still allowing its young new heroes to shine), provides it with purpose and heart. It's not brilliant, but it is its own beast, and it's sufficiently fun to remind us why the '84 ghostbusting squad are remembered with such fondness. (For all that it's not as good as Gremlins. Just saying.)

Gut Reaction: First act - intrigued. Second act - bit sleepy. Final act - invested again, and more heart-warmed than I'd expected. So that's okay.

Memorable Moment: Marshmallow mayhem (where they were definitely referencing Gremlins!).

Ed's Verdict: 6/10. Ghostbusters: Afterlife really misses the punchy script-writing of Dan Ackroyd and Harold Ramis, but it plays its nostalgia cards well, and is worth the experience. Now it's time to lay the franchise to rest. 

Film Review - Spencer (12)

 It seems that they're circling just me. Not you, just me.

Spencer is the new film from Pablo Larrain, the Chilean director who's made an international name for himself by telling stories of iconic 20th century female figures. In his 2016 film Jackie, Natalie Portman portrayed tragic Jackie Kennedy in the hours and days directly following the assassination of her husband President John F. Kennedy. This time it's Kirstin Stewart, aka her from all the Twilight films, in the role of Diana, Princess of Wales, the one-time Diana Spencer. If you think The Crown has a monopoly on what can interestingly be said about Diana's time as a member of the British Royal Family, think again...

The story - described at the film's beginning as 'A Fable Based on a True Tragedy' - takes place in December 1991, as the Royals congregate at the Sandringham Estate to celebrate the festive season. There's a military-style operation in progress by staff to run the place, and Prince Charles is chiefly preoccupied with preparing elder son William for the Boxing Day grouse shoot. But for Diana, sweeping up the drive alone in her convertible, it promises to be a three-day endurance test. Ten years into her marriage with Charles, she's the object of perpetual media scrutiny, painfully aware that there's a third party in the marriage, and stifled to the point of suffocation. Christmas with the relatives has never seemed such a grim prospect.

It's useful to know going in that Larrain's film is a kind of dark-edged fantasy, rather than one purporting to show what might really have happened to its protagonist. Like Jackie, this is a psychological portrait of a women in extremis, but it's significantly more abstract than the 2016 film; the other royals have a cold and mostly background presence like they're a permanent tableau, the precision with which food is prepared and served is nothing short of oppressive, and Timothy Spall's senior attendant is more a portent of doom than a three-dimensional character. Add to that a series of visions that link Diana with another oppressed royal of old, and the story becomes a Christmas nightmare as unsettling as any Ebenezer Scrooge ever had.

With a grand European hotel doubling at Sandringham, the locations look truly sumptuous, and Larrain shoots them on your actual old-school film rather than digitally, often in soft-focus, like a twee period romance. Thing is, it's not a romance. It's an oppressive drama concerning the fraying of a trapped woman's psyche, and the festive trappings only make the atmosphere more cloyingly oppressive. With Diana so much on her own, hand-held cameras frequently in her face, it's a study in loneliness and paranoia. The film finds numerous ways of getting us inside the protagonist's head, none more effective than the soundscape - headed up by a superb but frequently grating original score by Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead. Whether the melancholy of classical strings or the discord of abstract jazz, it puts you in the headspace of someone who just wants to scream and rip curtains and run the length of the Christmas dinner table. String quartets and church organs swell so loud that you want to take them out with an axe.

At the heart of it all is Stewart's performance, already lauded with talk of Oscar nominations. Such talk is earned. Like her Twilight co-star Robert Pattinson, Steward has come a long way since the sexy-vampire days, and she's nothing short of astonishing here. It's one thing to capture the voice and mannerisms of a media icon with technical precision (which she does). It's quite another to convey inner turmoil and fragility convincingly, when the close-up scrutiny of the camera allows for no fakery whatsoever. As Diana the Princess, and as an ordinary human in extraordinary circumstances and at a low ebb, she's never short of 100% convincing. Other performances impress - Poldark's Jack Farthing gets to show some humanity as Charles, while Sally Hawkins and the normally edgy Sean Harris are both good as empathetic members of the royal staff - but this is Stewart's show like Jackie belonged to Portman, and she nails it to the Sandringham floorboards.

For all its virtues - which include all the superior production and costume design you'd imagine - Spencer is not a Friday evening popcorn watch. Go in expecting the conventional drama of The Crown, and you'll end up like the elderly lady at my screening who turned to her friend during closing credits and said, 'Well that was a bit strange.' It is strange, and frustrating, and deliberately slow-paced. It's also genuinely troubling, and not just because of how it deals with the more self-destructive elements of the troubled Princess. But it's also beautiful, terrifically crafted, and deeply empathetic towards its damaged subject - a woman who just wants to be herself again. 

Gut Reaction: The Friday factor meant this took its time to reel me in - but it ultimately made me care about Diana Spencer, almost grind my teeth, and at one point actively flinch.

Memorable Moment: An eccentric but touching party game with Wills and Harry.

Ed's Verdict: 9/10. Spencer is art - not the dull, fusty kind, but something much more imaginative and subversive. It's terrific, personal filmmaking, and Kirsten Stewart delivers one of the performances of the year.

Film Review - Last Night in Soho (18)

 Do you believe in ghosts?

Last Night in Soho is Edgar Wright's new film - a jagged thriller and surreal trip into horror-tinged darkness (with a psychic time-travel twist), that's a big departure for the man who brought us Shaun of the Dead and the other hilarious entries in his Cornetto Trilogy. It may not be the perfect film I wanted it to be, but it's still one of the most stylish and inventive movies to be held in the lockdown release queue.

Thomasin McKenzie (Leave No Trace/Jojo Rabbit) plays Eloise, a sweet-natured girl from Cornwall, who travels to the big smoke of London to study at a prestigious fashion school. She brings with a love of 1960s culture gifted by her beloved grandmother, and a psychic gift passed on from her mother. Thus when she finds modern-day London less than friendly to blow-ins like herself, she starts connecting in her dreams with the Swinging Sixties version of the city - think young Cilla Black, Carnaby Street fashion and all the allure of Soho's nightlife. Her visions centre on Sandie (Anya Taylor Joy of Peaky Blinders and The Queen's Gambit popularity), as aspiring singer who seems to embody all the era's appeal. But the glamour of '60s Soho is a shallow veneer, and Eloise's preternatural explorations beneath its surface become steadily more disturbing. 

There's a reason why films like this one and Hot Fuzz and Baby Driver need to be prefaced with 'The new film by Edgar Wright'. The guy is one of the most imaginative and stylistically gifted writer-directors working in film today, so be it comic parody, crime thriller or psychological horror, it's never enough to talk about his films in conventional genre terms. This time, however, Wright has abandoned key trademarks, like smash cuts and rapid-fire dialogue, in favour or something much more straight-faced and brooding. His work is as visually arresting as ever, and as rich in detail; this time, however, it's all bent towards turning our heads with this bygone London's sexy shimmer, then taking us on an increasingly unsettling trip (pun absolutely intended) through its seedy underbelly. A flawless 360-degree pan of 1965 Soho Square is the epitome of all that excites, while garish red neon hints at the horrors to come. 

As Eloise, McKenzie shoulders a mainstream film for the first time, and she does a commendable job - embodying naive idealism and 'country mouse' vulnerability in London's present, before being both seduced and terrorised by its past. Taylor Joy takes another step up the ladder to greatness as Sandie, all poise and self-confidence, and never more than when she nails an a cappella version of Downtown to make Petula Clark proud. (That one can sing, dance, act, and play chess!) Sequences underscoring the girls' bizarre time-travelling connection deliver some of the most head-spinning virtuosity in the film. Matt Smith and Michael Ajao provide very different kinds of support to the girls, while the most notable members of the support cast all hail from the actual British cinema of the 1960s - Terence Stamp, Rita Tushingham and the late, legendary Diana Rigg in a worthy final performance. 

Wright, you see, loves his cinema history, and stews the film in its influences - from the urban Brit dramas of the '60s to Dario Argento's original Suspiria (of which there's more than a little here) - while creating something totally the director's own. It's a delicious musical stew as well, with more classic '60s pop than you could cram into a two-disc vinyl compilation. All of that said, this film's Wrighty goodness doesn't stretch quite as far as I'd hoped. The hysteria that afflicts the final act of many horror films takes over here too, with the director's creativity undermined by tropes that are a bit cliche, and plot twists some of which make more sense than others. A heavy-handedness also shows in the screenplay, with the story's subtext spelt out a bit too plainly. (Yes, we get what you're saying, now just leave it be.) 

Here's the thing - an Edgar Wright film that falters in the final stretch still turns out to be more worth your time than a dozen other films that stay their intended course. This is a movie to revisit, with its ravishing art design, evocation of time and place and whirling cinematic ingenuity. It's steeped in atmosphere and tells a compelling tale - so even if the close doesn't match all that's gone before, it's still a film for the collection, and one that serves up some of the most memorable cinematic moments of the year. Wright's take on Swinging London demands a visit.

Gut Reaction: A bit of 'Please stick the landing' frustration, but largely advanced levels of enjoyment. 

Memorable Moment: Mirror girl. 

Ed's Verdict: 7/10. An overcooked ending detracts from but doesn't negate Last Night in Soho's advanced levels of creativity, or the originality of its premise. It's one to see, and a fascinating new direction for one of the greatest entertainers in film today.