Screaming in Silence: ‘Sound of Metal’ Review and Analysis

Jack Denison on 15 May 2021

*this review contains spoilers*

Sound of Metal is Darius Marder’s (co-writer of The Place Beyond The Pines) tremendous directorial debut. It is a film that pulls the rug from under you and tells the story of Ruben (Riz Ahmed), a recovering drug addict and heavy-metal drummer who begins to lose his hearing.

The film is worthy of merit for many of its endeavours, particularly with its approach from the outset. Ahmed, who lassoed the spotlight with his terrific performance in HBO’s The Night Of, has raised the bar even higher in this latest project. He catapults himself wholeheartedly into his job; spending six months learning to play the drums and becoming well versed in American Sign Language, even opting to communicate with the director and co-stars in this manner and often wearing ‘auditory blockers’, saying that “I couldn’t hear anything, including the sound of my own voice”. Furthermore, his co-stars at the programme where he undergoes a profound character transformation, are members of the deaf community. Paul Raci, who plays Joe the programme founder, grew up with deaf parents and is a prominent figure in the community. This moral approach to the material pays off nobly, with a sensitive and sincere execution.

Witnessing Ruben as he tries to grapple with a world that rapidly and silently melts around him is terrifyingly tangible, jarring and upsetting. The cast (although particular applause to Ahmed) deliver an electrifying, powerhouse of performances that has our undivided attention and makes the film spark, cementing its incredibly intimate and tender depiction of his world-shattering crisis. The sound mixing adds a viscerally potent dimension to the experience. By splitting the film from the perspective of a world full of crazy sounds and his muffled, silenced world as he tries to process his grief, we are left with a tragically isolating insight and downright frightening realism.

The script excels in its incredibly profound character study and thematic philosophies, speaking volumes. It focuses on a troubled, volatile character who is haunted by his demons, calling him back to a life of heroin addiction, who eats, breathes and sleeps metal music but is then suddenly plunged into an icy world of silence and stillness. This razor-sharp radical transformation makes witnessing his hardship and internalising and rationalising of his plight both deeply devastating and harrowing. Ruben is tasked with getting up at 5am to be left alone with his thoughts, a pad of paper, a pen and no distractions. What results is a glimpse into his brittle split-personality, of his old self and his sober self, explosive yet extremely disciplined and earnest, as he is taken over by a tantrum, pummelling a donut into smithereens before putting it delicately back together, multiple times.

Image Credit: Jeff Mitchell, Phoenix Film Festival

Marder executes a profound examination of a tormented soul and the concept of inner stillness. Even though Ruben’s life thrived on chaotic, loud music, we learn that by nature his spirit is soft but misdirected; he often starts his days making healthy smoothies and listening to French Jazz. During his reconciliation with his new world at the programme, we find him in a deep meditative state over a piano melody, integrating and connecting with his new family and generally, the happiest we have seen him. However, when he gets tugged back by his old life and sees a video of Lou (breaking the no-technology rule of the programme), his meditative reformation is intercepted and he invests in an implant that will get him back to not just a life of hearing but to his old life as well.

This feeds into an incredibly impactful scene where Ruben bids farewell to Joe saying that he has to “save his life” and that he can’t just “diddle around” and “have nothing”. Naturally, Joe is distraught by this insult saying that Ruben “looks and sounds like an addict”. This integrally powerful scene demonstrates how Ruben’s self-destructive ego pushes him away from achieving inner stillness, whilst hurting those around him, much like how he acted with his blaring, frenzied past life and how can’t make peace with himself. Ruben returns to the outside world to rekindle his relationship with Lou, to find that she has moved on, unshackled by her demons and has found her inner stillness.

This final act revelation is nothing short of tragic and pulls on the audience’s heartstrings when we learn with Ruben that after burning the bridge with his best shot at inner peace, he actually integrated better with his family at the programme, than when he forcefully tries to reintegrate back into the spoken world. Ruben justifies his exit by saying “that’s life, it just passes” and we truly feel for him because he hasn’t made peace with the fact that the world keeps spinning and as we see, it doesn’t wait for him. This leads to a strong symbolic bow as the film’s curtains close, showing Ruben pensively entranced by the ringing of a bell tower, before he decides to remove his hearing aid; back to silence.

Sound of Metal is the most genuine and raw story Hollywood has had to offer recently and deserves every ounce of praise. A film that screams in silence, and it should certainly not go unheard.

Image Credit: Substream Magazine

Cherry review: An epic and sobering tale

Jack Denison on 10 April 2021

Cherry is an epic and sobering tale of a misfit-turned-war veteran-turned outlaw, who is demonised by his PTSD and free falls through the horrors of opioid addiction and performs heists to fuel his dependency. Tom Holland plays our protagonist, whilst Ciara Bravo is our supporting actor who gets entangled in her husband’s crisis.

Directors, Anthony and Joe Russo (Avengers: Endgame, Infinity War) quickly suck audiences into the character’s world. For the most part, it has our attention in a jaw lock (a third act that wallows a bit too much, overstaying its welcome) as we witness the whirlwind of tragedy contaminating the lives of our characters. It’s a rollercoaster of an experience and wildly entertaining. Holland delivers a powerful performance, graduating from the superhero, tight-suit genre promisingly. With Bravo’s performance thrown into the equation, we quickly latch onto the characters’ decaying romance and are thoroughly invested.

At its nucleus, Cherry targets some solemn, ambitious themes and voices some political comments, illustrating their dramatic ramifications. We are pushed through the film’s skeleton with our misguided protagonist through the betrayal of the military, the ensuing silenced horrors of PTSD and washed up effects of dehumanisation and disassociation; being victimised by the wrath of the opiate crisis, turning to criminal activities and generally falling through the cracks, the execution of its subject material is hard-hitting and unflinching, especially in its depiction of the military’s unsavoury ego.

From a directorial perspective, the Russo Brothers effectively put us behind the eyes of our protagonist. The portrayal of his alienation from the world, whether it may be silhouetted bankers rejecting him with disembodied voices or all of his uncanny-looking colleagues at work coming from the same bloodline, is captured creatively and as audiences, we are won over. Similarly, in the first act, the hyper-colourised sequences represent a poignant comment on the vision of nostalgia, mummified with an aesthetic that’s doused in gloss. The slightly slow-mo movements, the muffling of background clatter, the blurring of the peripherals and dream-like score rings louder and glistens further for those through the looking glass of a crippling addiction.

However, throughout Cherry, we are hit with ambivalence over how the story’s substance is decorated in such an artificial aesthetic. With the Russo Brothers’ victory in wrapping up the Avengers franchise with a bang, its confetti has drifted over into their next project here, resembling some heavy political issue arrows being fired from hipsters. Simply put, the project is over-directed and over-polished, resulting in a vain film that loves itself just a bit too much. Consequently, the film’s loyalty to its subject matter and the authenticity that it delivers comes into question. By choosing to topple in favour of its envisioned aesthetic, in its battle scenes, for example, it falls on its own sword. The perfectly stable boom that sways through the battlefield in a single take illuminating different perfectly choreographed frenzies makes us feel like we’re watching a multimillion-dollar, highly stressful Hollywood film set, rather than immersed and lost in the chaos of the battlefield. Similarly, it feels like at times it overcooks its drama, resulting in some overly theatrical sequences that are impaled by redundancy and some tough drug depiction that assassinates expected discretion, ultimately endangering itself as a gimmick.

By puffing out its chest over its aesthetic, it fails to delegate merit and intelligence towards the unfolding of its narrative, leaving us knowing what’s around every corner with predictable plot points. In its defence, its success in executing its biblically sized story (that we are constantly reminded about with disruptive frames bookmarking which act we are entering) is well ironed out in its sequencing that moves with a brazen pace. However, this is done at the expense of an overly comfortable voice-over narration that carries the delivery of the narrative on its back for the entire journey.

Image Credit: Empire

Studio Fiasco, Netflix Eclipse & Death to Popcorn – Interview with BAFTA Nominee, Mark Herman

Jack Denison on 22 January 2021

When the opportunity presented itself to interview British filmmaker, Mark Herman, it was too bountiful of an opportunity to not seize, considering he’s a successful BAFTA nominee and director/screenwriter behind British gems such as Brassed Off and Little Voice, but also the highly received The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas.

With British cinema seeing new heights each year and playing an active role in the production of Hollywood blockbusters, I thought I’d ask Herman for his insights on the inner workings of the industry. He confessed that he feels “currently very embittered by it” and that “the only thing I know about for sure, personally, are some of the frustrations caused by the workings of the industry”.

His last film, The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, a powerful story centred on the relationship of a Nazi Officer’s son and his relationship with a Jewish boy in a concentration camp, was released twelve years ago. Herman remembers that the year after its release in 2008, “I seemed to get sent nothing but projects about The Holocaust, when in fact that would be the last thing I would want to be doing next”. He disapproves of Studios’ behaviour, saying “There is a lack of such financier bravery these days, nobody will stick their neck out and take a risk”. He voices how the industry has been on a creative downhill tumble for decades, saying that twenty years ago the “hoops and hurdles a director would have to go through and over were so much fewer. There was a trust in directors’ track records that is not so obvious today.” He punctuates his disenchantment saying “Nowadays it feels like everything has to be safe: either adaptation of successful novels, or sequels in big hit franchises”. Clearly, the industry has had its philosophies re-calibrated, particularly after the collaboration and selling-of-its-soul to Hollywood. Now, all that’s on the menu are micro-budget arthouse flicks that don’t get the circulation they deserve, or colossal budgeted, formulaic studio blockbusters that you can’t escape from.

As a spectator, he articulates how the industry has become numb and is in need of a wake-up call, saying “instead of having films that split opinion, that some people might hate but some just adore, what gets churned out are films that neither really offend nor really delight anybody.” Its systematic, cancerous values have cursed and swindled filmmakers with a ‘survival of the fittest’ mentality. It has cranked up the dog-eat-dog intensity and has fundamentally strangled the life out of the creativity and arts the industry was founded on, that has now been morphed into a relentless business machine with the maximisation of money in its crosshairs and nothing else. Herman solidifies the toxically dysfunctional behaviour of the industry saying “The tail wags the dog in a way”. Cinema finds itself in a bleak dystopian world, having suffocated and neglected the other equally superior services of film; to make us feel, dream and escape our reality.

The industry is juggling several gruelling existential crises and it would be fair to say it’s being put through the wringer. With the recent news of juggernaut cinema chain, Cineworld, suddenly going into a long haul hibernation to save itself from bankruptcy and then mammoth Hollywood
conglomerate, Warner Bros, deciding to release its entire slate of films for 2021 online, it seems that the exhibition sector is lost in no mans land. Both of these strong footed companies haven’t just been outmuscled directly by Coronavirus, but also indirectly by celebrity assassin, Netflix (last victim, Blockbuster). The streaming service’s popularity has taken spectatorship by storm, revolutionising the game, also being catalysed by the orders of sedentarism from the pandemic. Herman argues that younger generations “have got very used to gobbling up ‘movies’ on smaller and smaller screens, and after this year of many people not even experiencing a trip to the movies, folk do get used to alternatives.” With the ball now being in the cinema’s court to win audiences back over, they “will need to make ‘going to the movies’ a little bit more special than it has been in the last decades. Popcorn is no longer enough (..thank God)”. Or will this be the final nail in the coffin?

This fruitful interview aroused many concerns regarding the fate of cinema and what’s in store for it next. Are we on the brink of an ice age, or gearing up for a renaissance? Whatever may be at the root of the disappointments from the industry; the churning out of lethargic, humdrum blockbusters or the ebbing away of the cinema-trip culture, we need to remind ourselves that the industry is founded on supply and demand. Thus, to save the industry, as audiences, we must act; the blood is on our hands.

Header image credit: Aesthetica Short Film Festival

‘The Midnight Sky’ review: George Clooney fails to save humanity from lockdown boredom

Jack Denison on 21 January 2021

Netflix’s latest big-budget project, The Midnight Sky, is a sci-fi drama directed by and starring George Clooney. The film focuses on Augustine (Clooney), a modern-day mad scientist isolated with a young, mute girl at a research facility in the Artic, who must warn the crew of a spaceship about a recent global catastrophe.

The apocalypse that acts as the hotplate under the character’s motivations, is executed with delicacy. Instead of an all guns blazing, disaster cinematic spectacle, where the skies might as well be falling on the audience too, as seen in 2012 and The Day After Tomorrow, it’s charged by a subtle, lurking, eerie menace. It’s holstered in the unknown, its wrath left to the imagination of the audience, like a silent blanket slowly being drawn over the world. This allows Clooney to hit some chords pretty well, asking; if the world were to stop spinning and fall silent, entombed by darkness, how far would you go to make contact with your family?

The film flexes some stunning cinematography infused with strong post-production colour work, creating some vibrant stills of the world’s last twilight from the Artic, making us feel like we’re watching a planetarium show. Clooney’s acting reflects the deafening stillness of his environment skilfully and his narrative’s midpoint will certainly leave you with clammy hands.

However, this is the furthest the film goes in earning merit and is fully eclipsed by its strong flaws, particularly in its script. With dystopian space films being rife in today’s cinema catalogue, the ‘isolated astronaut/scientist’ trope has also been tackled several times and Midnight Sky falls last in the race by a long way.

Typically, films, especially one of this calibre, need a threat or a force that not only drives the characters through their narrative but also keeps the audience engaged. This nexus to any project that wants a shot at being successful is ignored for ninety-five percent of the film. The finale’s twist, albeit rather bittersweet and tragically endearing, finally sprinkling motivation and meaning on the characters and the film, does not excuse the two hours of boredom and confusion. The film up to this point never finds its feet, never telling us what journey it’s going to take us on, what it’s about and sadly, why we should keep watching. The film in a way explores two narratives, an insight into Augustine’s lonely existence and also the tension and diplomacy of the crew of astronauts. By structuring the script like this, it exasperates the restless need to find out what the point of the film is. Consequently, we have two separate midpoints that don’t have any real significance, especially not one concerning the development of the overall, overarching narrative.

Screenwriter, Mark Smith (The Revenant), tries to capitalise on Augustine’s dynamic with the enigmatic young girl, Iris (Caoilinn Springall) in order to fabricate the film’s force and drive. Cross-generational pairs can perform very well in films, often pursuing the route of an entertaining dichotomy that symbiotically helps construct each other’s character and narrative arch. Here, their relationship doesn’t even come close to this very basic canon, but instead goes the other way and is quite frustrating and tedious, considering how Iris might as well have just as much screen time as Clooney, but doesn’t say a single word. Rather, this notion would’ve computed better if it had taken a step back as a sub-plot device, or if Iris’ character was embraced more.

The Midnight Sky’s disappointing reception was not helped by the drought of new content audiences are receiving, or with the entire country being in lockdown fighting our very own global crisis for that matter. Sadly, circumstantial or not, Clooney’s big white, bushy beard brought more Christmas entertainment to the season than the film itself.

Header image credit: NBC News

Mank Review: David Fincher’s Love Letter to Old Hollywood

Jack Denison on 6 January 2021

Mank marks the collaboration between heavy-weight Director David Fincher (Fight Club, Seven, The Social Network) and Netflix. It throws us into the action of Hollywood in the 1930’s from the perspective of the raging alcoholic screenwriter, Herman J. Mankiewicz, as he writes Citizen Kane, one of the highest acclaimed films of all time. The film is rife with social commentary on the industry at the time, communicating the world’s political ambiguity with World War Two lurking just around the corner.

Fincher goes slightly off-piste in Mank, a black and white love-letter to 1930s Hollywood, much like La La Land was to 1950s Musicals. His romanticisation of the era roars. The punching of the type-writer for scene headings, strong orchestral scores, fuzzy gramophone-like dialogue quality, characters’ faces split up with light strips from drawn blinds and idling cigarettes delicately left balancing on the rim of an ashtray and still smoking. His brilliant direction brings these text-book pictures to life. We’re teleported back into the bustling streets of Hollywood with classic cars, retro poster ads, bellboys with funny hats, three piece suits and tie clips and filterless cigarettes. We are also given an insight into turmoil left behind by the Great Depression, the anticipation of the Golden Era and speculation about what this ‘Hitler’ guy is up to in Germany. Even though Mank is set some ninety years ago, the parallels in-between its financial crisis to ours today were too big to go unnoticed.

The casting pays off, with the great Gary Oldman taking the reigns as the screenwriting protagonist and Amanda Seyfried filling the shoes of a femme fatale-like actress. Despite this, the script hampers his potential and doesn’t give him the space of delivering a game-changer we know he’s capable of. How much wiggle room can an actor have to impress if he’s cemented in a bed for half the film? With this being said, there is credit to be rewarded in the casting department, particularly for not giving in to pressures for mega marketable names unlike the Coen Brother’s Hail Caesar!, starring George Clooney, Scarlett Johnson and Jonah Hill. Going down this path would’ve tainted the artistic integrity and tone which Fincher boasts.

Not long into Mank, once the novelty of its beautiful lighting and striking costumes begins to settle, its serious flaws begin to materialise. Alarm bells start to ring early on, booming ‘style over substance’ and this is incredibly hard to shake off. The film’s runtime of nearly 2 1/2 hours proves to make it a downright tedious experience, boldly toying with audience’s patience levels. Equally, the film is peppered with meaning and conflict that just doesn’t appeal to the common man. The daily endeavours of Herman J. Mankiewicz and his navigation to making one of the best pieces of cinema is actually, quite a dull piece of cinema. Mank prioritises its indulgent commitment to the vintage aesthetic and consequently, neglects the most primitive service of cinema; to entertain.

This trap also has a knock on effect with the flow of the narrative, through the excessive usage of the slow, fade-to-black. Although this editing technique is also a motif from the Noir-era, it’s exhausted and as a result makes the entire film feel very segmented, like a collection of isolated scenes that don’t carry over smoothly on to the next. Middle man, John Houseman (played by Sam Troughton), pays a visit to Herman Mankiewicz, criticising his patient development on Citizen Kane, saying he’s “hardly out of the first act”. What’s amusing with this line is how the concept of plot structure is non-existent in the overarching film, resulting in a narrative that waffles through its generous run-time. Although validation can be given to the importance of flashbacks, it isn’t executed very well or clearly, resulting in a slightly messy narrative.

Mank offers something new in an age of humdrum films built on generic conventions and passive audiences. It packs a theoretically interesting premise, that delivers for a two-minute trailer, but over 135 minutes, it’s empty and falls flat on its face. Fincher won our trust in making biopics with an exciting, slick and intense execution in The Social Network. You’d be forgiven to assume that he copied and pasted his algorithmic approach here with Mank, but alas, as we all know, lightning doesn’t strike twice. Fincher has lost his charm in this project, but what has stayed is his slick dialogue, clever subtext and ‘cigarette burns’ (queue, Tyler Durden monologue). But ask yourself this – if a house can’t be built on sand, can a film stand on aesthetics and dialogue?

Header image credit: The Times