film review. – repress.

Extraction (2020) review.

*vague macho mumbling*

Dropping movies in this period of self-isolation-don’t-go-outside-FUCK-the-world-is-burning-AAH seems to be a tricky business; as I write this, a number of cinema chains are boycotting Universal due to their decision to release Trolls: World Tour on VOD before cinemas — what a loss. Despite this, Netflix and other streaming platforms are, predictably, thriving, with everyone smothering their crippling detachments in boxsets and comfort films. It comes a little surprise, then, that a couple of the bigger, would-be theatrical releases are dropping straight to front rooms and laptops — aka the bronze screen.

One of these films is Extraction, the Chris Hemsworth-starring, Russo-produced action-thriller about a reluctant mercenary, Tyler… something (I wanna say Rake? But surely not…), who is charged with finding, and extracting, a vaguely-powerful criminal’s son from the slums of Bangladesh, where he is being held captive by a rival, even vaguelier-powerful criminal. Hijinks and mishaps ensue. There’s a possibility, especially considering its reputation for John Wick-esque violence, that this could be a helluva time — or it could be as painful as pulling teeth…

…because extraction.

It’d be unwise, though, to expect Extraction to be anything other than what it is; bland. From a technical stand-point, there isn’t a lot here that writer Joe Russo and director Sam Hargrave (also known for co-ordinating the stunts to the Avengers movies) have delivered that is original, attention-grabbing or even that enjoyable.

To be fair, there isn’t that much to direct in terms of performances. Considering that he makes up at least 90-95% of the screentime, one would hope that Chris Hemsworth could inject some kind of human quality into Tyler fucking Rake (I refuse to call him anything else), rather than delivering this stilted robot that only knows how to punch and cry. The supporting cast are even less distinct, with, I think, two villains (but I think one isn’t?) that are pure nothing, and a kid who, despite being the literal focus of the movie, I had forgotten about until I looked up the cast. Oh, and Hopper’s in it, yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

In his feature directing debut, it’s very little surprise that stuntman Hargrave hasn’t got the keenest sense of how to direct a movie well, often returning to cliché and standard tropes for action-thrillers; the shaky, on-foot camera work, visually drab settings and lots of grizzled close-ups of stubbled, bloodied faces. That’s all well and good, but it’s the lighting and sound that really ruin the film at multiple moments — with many key scenes being either frustratingly quiet, poorly lit or both. Sure, you can be shadowy and mysterious, but it’s kind of counter-productive when you don’t know what’s going on.

From a dialogue perspective, though, it might be better that you can’t hear it. Also doing something that isn’t his usual job (take a hint, guys), MCU director Joe Russo helms the screenplay for this one, which is based off of a graphic novel that I’m not going to read. Of course, you’d think directing the franchise that defined a style of action-comedy-blockbuster would’ve rubbed off on him, giving Extraction some kind of redeemable humour. However, this isn’t the case and I can’t think of a single line that wasn’t either veiled exposition, profane threats or murmuring about a dead kid.

Plot-wise, Extraction doesn’t fare much better, as its generic-as-all-beige-hell title will have you assume. The story somehow manages to be predictable, basic and convoluted all at once, channelling pieces of Taken and Call of Duty and every WWE-produced-Marine, bargain-bin trash you’ve ever and never seen. Moreover, perhaps in an attempt to compensate for this, there are sequences here that feel nasty for the sake of being shocking. These scenes don’t even serve their purpose either, as they’re so transparently antagonistic that you’ll be sooner rolling your eyes than clutching your pearls.

However, to redeem myself from potentially coming across as a joyless asshole in this article, Extraction does deliver on at least one aspect of its hard-to-justify existence; it does kick off. Sure, since films like the Bourne trilogy (because there were only three) and The Raid have given everyone a pretty thorough blueprint on how to make someone go “OH SHIT”, it isn’t reinventing the bloody, punchy wheel.

That said, it doesn’t take from pure giddiness I get when I see Hemsworth knock someone the fuck out with a baked bean tin (wasn’t specifically labelled as such, but it’s much more fun). While the reports of the ‘proper violence in Extraction‘ may be a bit exaggerated, it does have this fun lil’ tendency to get very brutal very quickly, as there’s a real bluntness to the choreography that’ll have you wondering how many teeth were spat out on set. This is in addition to sharp and visual gunplay that doesn’t feel as mandatory or rudimentary as it does in other action flicks, it does pack a punch.

Overall, there are no bones about it; Extraction is not worth pulling out (because extraction). If you’re looking for mindless, violent eye candy, there is so much out there that’ll satisfy you more. If you’re looking for something genuinely compelling or enjoyable, then you are very, very lost, and I hope you get the help you need. It fails to present anything original or worthwhile, apart from a bevvy of meaty action that is sure to elicit a “fAckin hell” or two. But then, wouldn’t you rather just watch John Wick do that for his cute dog? Instead of Tyler fucking Rake do that for a kid who I’ve literally just forgotten about again.

– milo

American Psycho (2000) review.

A little too new wave for my taste…

Originally a novel written by Bret Easton Ellis, one of the many writers that introverted white teenagers will indulge in to mask their inherent misogyny as intellectual “dark humour”, American Psycho, directed by real-life human woman Mary Harron, follows the first-person account of Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale), a Wall Street professional-asshole moonlighting as a depraved killer, rapist, cannibal etc.

The film was met, despite its dramatic toning-down of the source material, with a similar reception to Ellis’ work; as a garishly-transgressive, if morbidly-captivating, piece of narcissism satire. Since then, it’s been immortalised as a cult classic, with its mass of iconic scenes, as well as Bale’s breakthrough performance (not counting Empire of the Sun, of COURSE). Now celebrating its 20th anniversary, critiquing American Psycho, so opposed to and mocking of critique, seems only too apt.

Obviously, the prime talking point around American Psycho is Christian Bale smugly butchering his way to mainstream recognition as the eponymous anti-hero. As Bateman, Bale injects this insistently-confrontational charisma that only serves to further cement the character as totally hateable. Everything from his pretentious meandering about the history of Genesis (I’m reminded of the many times I’ve been cornered at parties by someone compelled to tell me about the difference between prog and psych (I have also been on the other end, granted)) to passive-aggressively competing with his co-workers, all the way to his chainsawing of a prostitute, it’s all imbued with this male need for dominance.

Even in his most frenzied moments, Bale portrays Bateman with a preciseness that you don’t really see anywhere else. It speaks to a need of control over one’s surroundings, from the conversational to the sexual to the professional to the homicidal; Bateman needs to win. Despite the copy-and-pasted dialogue from the book, there is a framing from Harron that is knowingly masculine; almost like catcalling a construction worker. The blatant misogyny in a lot of the dialogue is unchallenged yet is so blatant that you can’t help but laugh at the perpetrators, turning that “product of its time” trope on its head.

This shamelessly tacky dialogue contrasts the focus on sophistication throughout the movie. Of course, if there was one thing that American Psycho as a narrative is looking to dismantle, it’s the consumerist idea of “fitting in”. The way it does this, through Bateman and his murdery tendencies, is through their adjacency to such murderiness. A great scene is where Patrick is furiously working out, with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre on the telly. It only lasts a second, but seeing the two acts, the two sides to Bateman’s coin, run so concurrently is a really excellent piece of visual storytelling on Harron’s part.

This is the idea that is explored in the more nuanced dialogue. As mentioned, a lot of the screenplay was lifted verbatim by the novel and, with that, the razor-sharp, yet bluntly-delivered, wit of Ellis. Some of most famous scenes (Hip to be Square and the business card comparisons) are defined by how bone-dry and self-knowingly funny they are. However, there is a level of obvious comedy to the film, as well, as all of Bateman’s co-workers, all with executive, nondescript job titles, are bumbling idiots. The pinnacle of these is Paul Allen, played by Jared Leto. Though he’s not initially memorable, as he only sticks around for a dinner before being axed to fuck to Huey Lewis, the sheer similarity to Bale’s performance only serves highlight how homogenised yuppie culture, or any kind of clique or “aesthetic”, can be.

That said, there was nothing forgettable about where Leto met his end. While American Psycho has got its moments of being a bit too obvious, everything about the scene where Bateman kills Allen with an axe to Huey Lewis (most 80s Cluedo guess ever) is joyful maximalist. The intersections of frustrating twattiness, brilliant humour and shocking violence come together here perfectly. Bale plays the scene with a levity that cuts through how disturbing the whole thing is, at one point moonwalking as readies his weapon, before launching into a frenzy. The actual murder is offscreen, but the image of Bale in a shock of blood-stained hair will be one to line the halls of horror with.

The scene is a prime example of the dynamite use of music in the film. It’s well-known that much of the already-slim $7million budget was spent on music licensing from the aforementioned Huey Lewis, Phil Collins, Chris De Burgh and others — including an appearance from New Order’s True Faith, which has an eerie parallelism to the documentary Don’t Fuck With Cats on rewatching. Much of the more violent moments are soundtracked with this psychopathically-peppy 80s pop music, your Hip to be Squares and Sussudios etc. On the other hand, the rest is lilted by John Cale’s comparatively ambient, eerie score. This is yet another exploration of contrast in the film, that Bateman’s homicidal outbursts are heralded with joyous synth-pop, and his supposed-domestic bliss is droned with a nulling hum.

However, no film is without fault and the perceived-perfection of American Psycho is no different. With such a strong lead performance, there is no room for anyone else to build even a semblance of a real characterisation. Sure, there is that level of single-minded narcissism that is knowingly perpetrated, but it’s still a shame when you have such strong talent as Chloe Sevigny and Willem Dafoe — both of which I bet you forgot were even in it if you haven’t watched it recently.

One critique that Ellis had of the film was its narration, which wasn’t as obvious in the novel. For the most part, however, I really found that the, especially in the opening scenes, Bateman’s monotonous breakdown of his material worth was a great tonesetter. That said, as the film progresses, these narrations stop providing a satire and start just peddlin’ that exposition which, as noted, takes away any ambiguity. Speaking of which, the conclusion, a real point-of-contention in the novel, plunges itself in a tonal switch-up that comes completely leftfield, forcing that maximalism into a more unforgiving exposure.

Overall, American Psycho is a fascinatingly-sharp satire of masculinity, narcissism and consumerism — hitting each facet with the blunt force of a meat tenderiser. Carried by a superb, career-making turn from Christian Bale, the characterisation of Patrick Bateman is extremely well-realised, making him one of the most watchable assholes to ever grace the big screen. A couple of narrative discrepancies slightly mar what is one of the most notoriously-repentless, yet morbidly-gratifying thrillers of the century.

– milo

mid90s (2018) review.

There comes a time in a person’s Hollywood career when they feel like they should be taken seriously. That time came in the tail-end of the 10s for Jonah Hill, the transcendent master of stupid comedy and inexplicable voice acting stints in various animated films. From Sausage Party to 21-22 Jump Street, he’d become somewhat of a joke straddling between fun and trashy outputs; but, a star role in the ambitious and thought-provoking Maniac series later and a first taste of directing, incidentally for Danny Brown’s Ain’t it Funny music video, it seemed there was becoming more to Jonah Hill than gag movies. So what better to test that than by trying his hand at an indulgent piece of nostalgia porn in his directorial cinema debut?

Part of A24’s fast-growing library of somewhat unorthodox gems, mid90s feels right at home with company like Lady Bird and Midsommar, inherently off-beat, charming and nuanced. And as an ode to its titular time setting, shot entirely in 4:3 and with a blurry-dark colour pallet, it certainly looks the part.

There’s nothing else to it, though: mid90s smacks of nostalgia porn, through and through. Hill and his production team put together a team of misfit trendy actors, dress em all up in baggy jeans and colourful t-shirts, and together with that warm and fuzzy filming direction, it feels like a pleasant wavering memory — but there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Particularly from the perspective of someone who never actually lived through the 90s, it’s fascinating to see a portrayal as lovingly accurate as this seems to be, and it plays just as much like a historical microcosm as a transcendental coming-of-age piece.

In fact, it feels like they used this setting with the intention of exploring it, rather than just using it as an aesthetic tool, and in doing so avoiding a pitfall many modern film-makers have fallen into. By exploring it, Hill and co. approach it with an uncompromising eye for detail, and a refreshing lack of fears of offending current mainstream audiences with the viewpoints and mannerisms of a time long past. Sickening as it rightfully is, the N-word is brazenly used a million times, kids tell each other not to say “thank you” for fear of being perceived as gay, and so on. But it’s in this unrelenting portrayal of since-changed attitudes which separates mid90s’ use of time-setting with that of Stranger Things’ loveletter to the simpler times of the 80s. There’s little exploration of the misogynistic and racist attitudes of the time in the latter, but the former is unafraid to explore them, and in that it finds its greatest and most powerful moments.

Following the tumultuous story of 13-year-old Stevie’s (Sunny Suljic) summer sprawling domestic abuse and a turbulent new friendship with older skaters, mid90s, effectively, encompasses a powerful coming-of-age tale for both its nominal character and the society in which it is set. Bouncing between profanity laden political incorrectness and moments of nuanced beauty, this directorial debut is amusing, shocking and touching in equal helpings. From fellow young teen Ruben’s troubling attempts to be gangsta by making every effort not to be gay to older kid and wannabe-pro-skater Ray cautiously opening his heart in genuinely heartwarming scenes in acts of honest kindness, there’s a juxtapositional atmosphere created here that plays like the 90s’ reluctant first admission to let boys cry, as freeing and difficult as the journey of Stevie himself.

Rolling in with a nice, short n’ sweet hour-25-minutes run-time, mid90s doesn’t beat around the bush in any regard, and it’s all the better for it. Subtly meandering across party scenes, skating get-togethers and moments of self-harm and violent abuse, it plays like a film-reel, blurry off-shoots and all, telling a story through moments and imagery rather than classical dialogue. Moments, which, are made yet more memorable by a fantastic use of score, which showcases what seems like a thousand hip-hop tunes (including Tribe’s Sucka Nigga, ayO) and an ambient soundtrack composed by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, which, work hand-in-hand to poignant results.

It’s not all good, however. As per with the majority of directorial debuts, this film probably won’t remain Jonah Hill’s best effort. Moments like Stevie’s sexual exploration with an older girl, are, honestly, uncomfortable and to a degree disturbing — ironically pushing that uncompromising nature a notch too far, as much as I hate to admit it. The ending, too, while in hindsight a nice one, doesn’t feel as hard-hitting as its most poignant moments, which, to me, feels like a shame. Perhaps Hill was trying too hard to push a message through? Maybe he could have entertained us a tad more? All that can be explored in his future directorial efforts as he dusts off the rough edges.

Rough edges intact, though, and this remains a wonderful and meaningful watch, created with a grassroots integrity that feels, for lack of a better word, real. Portrayed with acting excellence, especially from such a young and (relatively) unheard of cast, and punctuated by a score as aesthetically on-point as its visual pallet, mid90s is much more than just a bit of nostalgia, and comes instantly recommendable to anyone in the mood for exploring their adolescence.

– reuben.