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.