bob_meg

There are films made in Britain and then there are *British* films, and the late Antonia Bird's Reservoir Dogs-like "Face" has the soul of a Mike Leigh film, if Leigh did Heist flicks. It's shot almost exclusively in the East End of London and the griminess is glorious.

This film is a bit painful to watch, because the performances (Winstone in particular, what a shock, I know, as he's brilliant sleeping, practically) are top notch but from the commentary it's obvious the whole production was a bit rushed and rife with producer interference. As a result there are some interminable bits, like a love scene with Carlyle and Heady that's tonally wrong and a wretched pop song that sounds ripped from an early '80s sewer blaring repeatedly in the background. But if you can get past this, the rest of the film is electrifying and almost moving in its intensity.

What's strange is that, though it follows the structure of a heist-gone-bad genre movie, the emotional range demanded by the characters, because they're so flawed is about three-times what you'd normally see in this type of film. And the actors are all so superlative, they ace it, covering up any of the flaws you'd normally focus on. One note for US audiences, if you can find this film, and I recommend it, turn on the subtitles.

RIP Antonia Bird.... very cool lady.

It's obvious why this film is being trumpeted right now as relevant, but that barely comes across in its 2.5 hour run time. It's vastly misconceived, focusing on protagonists who either don't seem capable of maintaining our attention (Malik, a very poor casting choice) or who look so uncomfortable (Shannon, sleepwalking for the first time, I think) trying to do so that it becomes painful especially by the third act.

It's shocking that Vanderbilt is behind this feel-good disaster-fest (he penned Zodiac, one of the greatest crime film scripts ever). A more seasoned director might have helped, but the real problem is the script and every performance except for Crowe's just digs it's grave deeper with ineptness.

Crowe is superlative and chilling (he seems to elevate everything he's in the last few years) but every frame he's not in Nuremburg feels like a slog through an amateurish VOD streamer. Some of the supporting performances are so over-the-top histrionic and soapy, they become laughable.

John Slattery and Colin Hanks, in particular, seem to think they can survive this through over-amped bluster alone. Slattery has a meltdown toward the end that people where actually laughing at in the theater where I saw this. Richard Jenkins (a better actor than most of the principle cast, in a small small role here) finally moans, at this point, "Can we just get this over with?" The audience seemed to agree, many leaving early.

See the 1961 film instead. This is a high-gloss smoke and mirrors embarrassment that will serve as an Academy checkbox in a few months, it's obvious charter. Too bad we all paid the price.

In just one of many uncomfortable yet riveting scenes filling Jan Komasa's new movie, Kyle Chandler implores Diana Lane to, for the love of God, give their daughter's dog a damn name.

The "missing" daughter (an incendiary Madeline Brewer) has been driven into deep cover as a stand-up turned seditionist amidst a seemingly benign but authoritarian wave of political "policy" that's eerily similar to what happened in January 1933 in Germany (imagine a well-staged campaign of quiet disinformation not one bungled by felonious buffoons). But to name the dog would be to acknowledge their daughter's death, and perhaps also to what's really happening to their way of life, right under their noses.

Anniversary doesn't start out this heady, of course. It's bookended by anniversary parties on the palatial East Coast estate (shot in Ireland, maybe not so ironically) for Lane and Chandler's characters, following the appearance of a demure viper (a brilliant Phoebe Dynevor) arriving as the girlfriend of the couple's ne'er-do-well son (Dylan O'Brien), who's the perfect bait, hankering for approval and ripe for manipulation. Watching Lane and Dynevor go at each other is priceless and enthralling.

Anniversary is one of the few American films released in as many years to have a powerful, cogent voice, yet the personal stories and the strengths of it's characters aren't shouted out by its alarming political message. If anything, it's startling in how spare, elegant, and quietly sane it is in presenting its arguments while giving you scene-chewing family fights to sink your teeth into at the same time. It has the structure of an economical gut-punching play from a century ago; Clifford Odets on steroids. It says much without harping or preaching. The entire cast is superlative and Komasa, who seldom hits a wrong note (also check out "Good Boy") never disappoints.

Anniversary doesn't spoon feed you. It doesn't need to. You have eyes, ears, and a brain.

It refuses to name the dog. That doesn't mean you should stop trying to, as often as possible. Tell your friends. Anniversary might just be the bravest and the most topical film of the decade.