As Toronto 2014 heads into the home stretch several trends have come into focus. Trend #1. It's not only the year of the actor -- it's the year of the British actor. Witness Tom Hardy's portrayal of a Brookln bartender in "The Drop." The towering turn of Eddie Redmayne in "The Theory of Everything," a bio pic about Stephen Hawking. The mesmerizing Benedict Cumberbatch as Alan Turing in "The Imitation Game."
It is not, sadly, equally the year of the actress, British or otherwise. A few notable exceptions include Juliette Binoche and Nina Hoss, who shine, respectively, in "The Snows of Sils Maria" and "Phoenix." I've not seen "Coming Home" by Zhang Yimou, China's greatest filmmaker, but I gather that Gong Li is tremendous.
Trend #2. It's the year of the bio pic and films based on true stories. The crowd-pleasing potential -- and consequent appeal to the money men -- is obvious. It happened! It's real!
Trend #3. It's the year of the upper crust Brit. Filmmakers seem to think we have a thing for the posh types across the pond and they may be right. The bio pics "Theory" and "Imitation" are both set among the Oxbridge crowd, with accents so tony and repartee so arrow-swift we Americans can barely decipher the mother tongue. While "The Riot Club" helmed by Lone Scherfig ("An Education) centers on an elite club at Oxford composed of entitled shits who feel they can get away with anything -- and do.
In the face of all the hoopla and Oscar talk about "Theory" and "Imitation," I should admit I'm not a great fan of the bio pic as a genre. I see it as basically a filmed memoir or illustrated biography. Much as I enjoyed, say, Jamie Foxx in "Ray," the bio pic tends to be a by-the-numbers affair, with terrific actors channeling their subject and some nice camera work thrown in.
Yet Eddie Redmayne in "The Theory of Everything" transcends -- or pretty nearly -- the limitations of the genre. At TIFF it's buzzed that come Oscar time Redmayne's the one to beat and that he's this year's Daniel Day-Lewis in "My Left Foot."
Stephen Hawking (Redmayne) and Jane (Felicity Jones) fall in love while students in Cambridge. When Jane learns of his earth-shattering diagnosis she says, "I want to be with you as long as I can and when it ends that's just the way it is." Who could resist that mix of English sensibleness and nobility? As his body fails, Hawking pursues his ambitious study of the nature of time, Jane fending off medical doomsayers and protecting his genius.
Redmayne channels Hawking to an uncanny degree, including all the phases of his physical decline -- the actor even looks like him! But this is no illness-of-the-week drama. It's a moving portrait of a marriage. And a full marriage it is; the couple have three children -- "different system," Hawking replies with a twinkle, when asked how he managed.
And it's a celebration of the human spirit. Along with his uncommon brain, Hawking's hallmark is his ever-present humor, which Redmayne manages to convey with his eyes and eyebrows, as he's reduced to communicating through a voice machine. Here's why you'll love this film: fate deals Hawking a horrible blow -- and he spits in its face.
In "The Imitation Game" by Morten Tylden Benedict Cumberbatch resurrects Alan Turing, a genius of a different stripe who during WWII broke the Nazi Enigma Code and consequently saved millions of lives. "Imitation" works on several fronts: it moves fluidly through three different time frames -- the 50's when Turing is being persecuted by the police for indecent behavior (i.e. homosexual encounters); his prep school past; and his time at Bletchley when he and his team cracked the code. And it makes Turing's theories accessible, sort of, to the layman.
Despite the fascinating history -- and those Brits, again showing their acting chops -- "Imitation" delivers less impact than "Theory." It's heavy-handed and too on-the-nose in portraying the resistance Turing faced from his boss (Charles Dance), as if the screenwriter needed to jimmy up the drama.
But the main problem is that Turing is presented as an Aspergian-type character unable to make human connections -- at least onscreen. Presumably he makes them off screen, since the cops are on his case for consorting with a man who subsequently robs him.
The chilliness and opacity of the character limits the film's impact. I'd also fault the filmmakers for failing to explore queer desire. All we get is Turing proposing to colleague Keira Knightley in order to keep her on his team. The film never questions why she'd become engaged to a man she must have sensed was gay. The sexual center of this film has gone missing. Its soaring score -- signaling Big Historial Flick -- by the reliably fine Alexandre Desplat somewhat counters the prevailing coldness.
Finally, "The Riot Club," while entertaining, is what you might call "posh porn." It corrals a cast of gorgeous lads who seem to have nothing to do at Oxford except pull rank, shoot, drive around drunk, and barf (shades of "Brideshead Revisited). They're like Brit-style Calvin Klein underwear models.
The club in question, which boasts of "debauchery raised to an art," is Oxford's most exclusive. Its thuggish members talk obnoxiously of "girls for now and girls for later" and let drop that after college "we're going to be behind some very big desks." "Riot" culminates in a set piece in which the lads hold a black tie dinner in an inn and proceed to trash it along with its owner. That "Riot" intends to indict these scions of the ruling class -- who seem to be in training to become Edward St. Aubyn's father -- is to its credit. But the execution is cartoonish and over the top. A little of St. Aubyn's elegance would have been in order.
It is not, sadly, equally the year of the actress, British or otherwise. A few notable exceptions include Juliette Binoche and Nina Hoss, who shine, respectively, in "The Snows of Sils Maria" and "Phoenix." I've not seen "Coming Home" by Zhang Yimou, China's greatest filmmaker, but I gather that Gong Li is tremendous.
Trend #2. It's the year of the bio pic and films based on true stories. The crowd-pleasing potential -- and consequent appeal to the money men -- is obvious. It happened! It's real!
Trend #3. It's the year of the upper crust Brit. Filmmakers seem to think we have a thing for the posh types across the pond and they may be right. The bio pics "Theory" and "Imitation" are both set among the Oxbridge crowd, with accents so tony and repartee so arrow-swift we Americans can barely decipher the mother tongue. While "The Riot Club" helmed by Lone Scherfig ("An Education) centers on an elite club at Oxford composed of entitled shits who feel they can get away with anything -- and do.
In the face of all the hoopla and Oscar talk about "Theory" and "Imitation," I should admit I'm not a great fan of the bio pic as a genre. I see it as basically a filmed memoir or illustrated biography. Much as I enjoyed, say, Jamie Foxx in "Ray," the bio pic tends to be a by-the-numbers affair, with terrific actors channeling their subject and some nice camera work thrown in.
Yet Eddie Redmayne in "The Theory of Everything" transcends -- or pretty nearly -- the limitations of the genre. At TIFF it's buzzed that come Oscar time Redmayne's the one to beat and that he's this year's Daniel Day-Lewis in "My Left Foot."
Stephen Hawking (Redmayne) and Jane (Felicity Jones) fall in love while students in Cambridge. When Jane learns of his earth-shattering diagnosis she says, "I want to be with you as long as I can and when it ends that's just the way it is." Who could resist that mix of English sensibleness and nobility? As his body fails, Hawking pursues his ambitious study of the nature of time, Jane fending off medical doomsayers and protecting his genius.
Redmayne channels Hawking to an uncanny degree, including all the phases of his physical decline -- the actor even looks like him! But this is no illness-of-the-week drama. It's a moving portrait of a marriage. And a full marriage it is; the couple have three children -- "different system," Hawking replies with a twinkle, when asked how he managed.
And it's a celebration of the human spirit. Along with his uncommon brain, Hawking's hallmark is his ever-present humor, which Redmayne manages to convey with his eyes and eyebrows, as he's reduced to communicating through a voice machine. Here's why you'll love this film: fate deals Hawking a horrible blow -- and he spits in its face.
In "The Imitation Game" by Morten Tylden Benedict Cumberbatch resurrects Alan Turing, a genius of a different stripe who during WWII broke the Nazi Enigma Code and consequently saved millions of lives. "Imitation" works on several fronts: it moves fluidly through three different time frames -- the 50's when Turing is being persecuted by the police for indecent behavior (i.e. homosexual encounters); his prep school past; and his time at Bletchley when he and his team cracked the code. And it makes Turing's theories accessible, sort of, to the layman.
Despite the fascinating history -- and those Brits, again showing their acting chops -- "Imitation" delivers less impact than "Theory." It's heavy-handed and too on-the-nose in portraying the resistance Turing faced from his boss (Charles Dance), as if the screenwriter needed to jimmy up the drama.
But the main problem is that Turing is presented as an Aspergian-type character unable to make human connections -- at least onscreen. Presumably he makes them off screen, since the cops are on his case for consorting with a man who subsequently robs him.
The chilliness and opacity of the character limits the film's impact. I'd also fault the filmmakers for failing to explore queer desire. All we get is Turing proposing to colleague Keira Knightley in order to keep her on his team. The film never questions why she'd become engaged to a man she must have sensed was gay. The sexual center of this film has gone missing. Its soaring score -- signaling Big Historial Flick -- by the reliably fine Alexandre Desplat somewhat counters the prevailing coldness.
Finally, "The Riot Club," while entertaining, is what you might call "posh porn." It corrals a cast of gorgeous lads who seem to have nothing to do at Oxford except pull rank, shoot, drive around drunk, and barf (shades of "Brideshead Revisited). They're like Brit-style Calvin Klein underwear models.
The club in question, which boasts of "debauchery raised to an art," is Oxford's most exclusive. Its thuggish members talk obnoxiously of "girls for now and girls for later" and let drop that after college "we're going to be behind some very big desks." "Riot" culminates in a set piece in which the lads hold a black tie dinner in an inn and proceed to trash it along with its owner. That "Riot" intends to indict these scions of the ruling class -- who seem to be in training to become Edward St. Aubyn's father -- is to its credit. But the execution is cartoonish and over the top. A little of St. Aubyn's elegance would have been in order.