An unexploded bomb from World War II is discovered at a construction site in the heart of London and a massive effort to diffuse it gets underway in writer/director Ben Hopkin’s film Fuze.
As wild as it sounds, 80-year-old bombs exploding in populated cities in England is not unheard of. A bomb discovered in Exeter in 2021 resulted in the evacuation of 2,600 homes and caused massive property damage.
However, the bomb uncovered in Fuze seems out of the ordinary, and to say anything more would remove the elements of suspense and surprise Hopkins works into every minute.
The best thing about the movie is the unrelenting pace. It never gives you time to second guess some of what’s happening on screen. While some moments might falter under the weight of skepticism, Fuze keeps you hooked by the action. There’s something bigger at play, and the film demands you stay focused as it unfolds.
The cast is more than game for the material. Aaron Taylor-Johnson and Theo James play opposite sides of the action. The film moves from one to the other, tension continuing to build as you’re kept on edge, waiting for the next link in the overarching chain.
The downside, though, is that the film doesn’t offer anything in the way of character development. We get little bits and pieces through dialogue, but it’s not enough for us to feel invested in any character. The stakes aren’t high enough, which is a major blunder. The overfocus on plot makes for a tense thriller but not a very interesting one.
A mother’s grief turns into a vengeful obsession in writer/director Chad Faust’s film Ballistic. After Nance Redfield (Lena Headey) learns of her son Jesse’s (Jordan Kronis) death in Afghanistan, she becomes obsessed with the idea that a bullet from the factory where she works was the cause.
Headey is a hell of an actress, and she does her damn finest to sell us on a mother’s grieving rage. Nance’s desire for vengeance unhinges her as she seeks someone to blame.
Unfortunately, despite Headey’s best efforts, she’s working with a character that’s never fully developed. We never fully feel Nance’s love for her son. Our introduction to their relationship is shown to us through a montage and a single video call. It’s not enough to flesh out either character.
It’s also hard to feel any sympathy for Nance despite her loss. Her anger leads her to target anyone she deems in any way responsible for Jesse’s death. It’s a broad metaphor for the ways in which anyone involved in munitions manufacturing is responsible for every death. It’s an idea that would make for an interesting documentary, but it doesn’t make much sense here. It’s too far-reaching and leaves you reflecting more on Nance’s state of mind than any broader commentary.
There are also several choices the character makes that defy logic. It’s hard to believe some of her actions in her quest for revenge. But again, a lot of this disbelief lies in the fact that we don’t really know Nance. If the film had taken more time in allowing us to know her, we would be more invested in following her wherever she leads. As it is, we’re left with a film with a muddy message, one powerful performance, and not much else.
Director Sohpie Hyde’s film, Jimpa, opens with a narrative that lays the groundwork for a family drama about what acceptance truly means.
Jimpa (John Lithgow) is an older gay man who left his family in Adelaide, Australia to move to Amsterdam during the height of the AIDS epidemic. There’s a recap of this history from two perspectives, Jimpa’s daughter, Hannah (Olivia Colman), and his nonbinary grandchild, Frances (Aud Mason-Hyde).
The film centers around Hannah and Frances spending time with Jimpa, as Hannah looks to make a film about her parents and their conflict-free partnership when Jimpa came out as gay.
Colman and Hyde make it clear that Hannah is afraid of conflict, so much so, she rushes to mitigate everyone’s words. Her explanations for others may sound good, but in her urgency to avoid conflict, she steals their agency. And yet, there are times when Hannah fails to step in when it could most help her teenager.
Jimpa is disrespectful of Frances’s choice to identify themselves as non-binary. He introduces them as his “grandthing” and mocks their “sudden” lack of gender. Though grandthing is said with a certain amount of affection, it’s painful to watch because Frances looks up to their grandfather as a hero.
There’s also a collision of age. The older gay men have trouble understanding the younger generation’s motivations and language, fail to recognize the struggles of feeling like an outsider when things are (in their minds) so much better now.
Jimpa feels more like a lesson in gender and sexual politics than a cohesive narrative film. This can be done gracefully, but Hyde’s approach is too heavy handed.
Jimpa‘s second half takes an unexpected path that serves the film well. Hannah confronts and addresses her true feelings, allowing Coleman and Mason-Hyde to shine. Hyde finally gives Mason-Hyde the opportunity to be more than their gender identity.
Though the film’s opening act is defined by a kind of clunkiness, Jimpa’s final moments are handled with enough tenderness to make up for a lot of that.
For anyone who has forgotten their history of Soviet Russia under Stalin, director Sergey Loznitsa is happy to remind us with his latest, Two Prosecutors.
In a provincial prison, political prisoner Stepniak (Aleksandr Flippenko) is ordered to burn hundreds of letters. We get snippets of these letters, addressed to Stalin, pleading for intervention in Stepniak’s case. He pleads his innocence and claims his confession was a result of torture.
Despite the letter burning, one of these damning letters finds its way into the hands of Kornyev (Alexander Kuznetsov), a young, idealist prosecutor.
What unfolds is a slow, but very intense look into the corruption and chaos that helped to define Stalin’s reign of terror.
And while Loznitsa’s film is set in the past, its themes are applicable to present-day Russia (as well as any other country in which oppression and authoritarianism rule the day). There is an inherent paranoia that underscores all of Kornyev’s interactions. Throughout the entire film, only his one-on-one meeting with Stepniak feels authentic.
One of the most unsettling scenes is carried out in near silence, as several prison guards attempt to intimidate the steely Kornyev. But this is not the last time the film will leave the audience squirming, unsure if the mistrust imbued throughout the film is warranted.
This is not a film that offers a new take on what it means to live under the iron fist of a ruthless dictator, but it is nonetheless effective in what it does give the audience. Kornev’s idealism is hard not to appreciate, even while it feels tremendously futile.
It’s also a stark reminder of what happens when we don’t just forget the past but idealize it.
Channeling films such as Carrie and The Craft, director Alice Maio Mackay brings a new take on women with power in her film, The Serpent’s Skin.
Fleeing from her transphobic home life, Anna (Alexandra McVicker) moves to the city to live with her sister (Charlotte Chimes). An intense opening scene lets us know how bad things are for Anna at home, so as she settles into her new life, you can’t help but hope she’ll find acceptance.
Anna finds more than acceptance as she reckons with newfound powers that allow her to defend herself in unexpected ways. When she meets Gen (Avalon Fast), a woman with similar powers, the two form an instant bond.
The film treads familiar ground as Anna and Gen learn both the depth of their power and the ability to harness it.
Mackay is fond of montages. Several occur in the film’s quick runtime. Some of those feel more relevant than others. Anna learning the ropes of her new job is a montage we could have done without. The time would have been better spent deepening her relationship with Gen or fleshing out ancillary characters.
Mackay writes with Benjamin Pahl Robinson. Their dialogue is clunky and repetitive, and it’s not always delivered with the right tone or emotion. While there are a few decent actors among the cast, the two leads are often the weakest of the bunch.
It’s not always clear why some of the events occur as they do. Mackay’s metaphor gets muddy as Anna and Gen deal with the consequences of their power. The filmmaker’s quest to mine new ground seems to obscure the larger theme.
It’s disappointing that The Serpent’s Skin isn’t as strong as it could be, because its allegory is both important and timely.
Nigerian brothers Akin and Remi (Godwin Chiemerie Egbo and Chibuike Marvellous Egbo, respectively) are playing in nearby fields when they unexpectedly encounter their father (Sope Dirisu), home briefly from Lagos. The younger boy, Akin, begs their father to stay. Instead, Folarin takes his sons with him back to Lagos in director Akinola Davies Jr.’s film, My Father’s Shadow.
What follows is one day in Lagos with Akin and Remi around the time of Nigeria’s infamous 1993 presidential election.
The boys are our eyes and ears into their father’s world, a world separate from the life they lead with their mother at home. From their father’s interactions with friends and colleagues, Folarin’s great personal investment in the election and the democratization of his country is made clear.
Davies also shows us the chaos of the city around them. Fuel shortages cause vehicles to run out of gas in the streets. People stand outside petrol stations, waiting and hoping to get gas. We learn that Folarin’s situation at work is far from ideal, and the time he spends away from his family trying to bring home more money feels futile.
Anyone who knows Nigeria’s history may know that while the candidate from the Social Democratic Party (Moshood Abiola) won the election—an election declared free and fair by several independent observers— the military regime led by President Ibrahim Babangida cited claims of vote buying. The presidential election was therefore annulled in a televised announcement.
Folarin and his sons are sitting in a café eating dinner when the announcement is made. The people in the café erupt in disbelief and anger, frightening and confusing the boys. As Folarin reacts with anguished rage, a friend pleads with him to flee the city. Davis intersperses archival footage into the narrative, heightening tensions in the film’s final moments.
Davies’s film is touching during the events of the day Folarin spends with his sons, and he gives us enough information to understand what hinges on the election. Still, the truly impactful moments are when the family is attempting to get out of Lagos.
However immediately relevant the storyline seems, the overall message of the film is not political. Instead, it focuses on the importance of family, and the choices we make for them, especially in times of upheaval. It’s something that resonates beyond a single moment in time.
Several strange incidents at a subway station spark the curiosity of a YouTube content creator in director Se-woong Tak’s film Ghost Train.
To understand the real issues surrounding the rash of bizarre occurrences, Horror Queen Da-kyeong (Joo Hyun-young) bribes tales from a station master (Jeon Bae-soo) with fancy spirits (some of which I wouldn’t mind trying).
As the station master spins each yarn, we’re privy to what really happens to each person at the center of the individual tales. At times, what we’re shown during the movie is not what appears on the surveillance tapes the station master shows to Da-kyeong.
There are several unsettling concepts at work to help unnerve the viewer. A woman who repetitively bangs her head against the train door sends passengers scurrying to another car. This is a motif that pops up at different moments, helping to create an atmosphere of dread.
Each of the station master’s stories has a uniqueness that makes the movie flow like an anthology horror. However, the style and atmosphere remain consistent, setting a creepy tone throughout.
The framing story is the movie’s weak link. The Horror Queen herself isn’t nearly as compelling as the individuals in the station master’s tales. Da-kyeong’s nemesis at work is a stereotypical mean girl, and her work love interest is about as interesting as a blank sheet of paper. It’s with impatience that we wait for the next of the station master’s tales.
However, as the film enters the final act, the framing story picks up steam. As Da-kyeong learns more about the station and its history, her story starts to get its teeth.
Unfortunately, those teeth are never quite sharp enough to explain the overall mystery around the ghost train. While there are a lot of memorable and interesting parts, they never quite come together as single narrative. That said, the movie is creepy enough to remain interesting, and overall, an intriguing series of ghost stories.
This year’s collection of Oscar-nominated documentary shorts offers a mix of subjects, but each film displays a wealth of passion and talent.
Perfectly a Strangeness
15 minutes. Directed by Alison McAlpine.
As first light breaks on the horizon, three donkeys wander into the frame. These companionate creatures continue to roam as the camera follows them. Additional animals pop up on screen as the donkeys wander. A wary fox contemplates running but ultimately stands its ground. As the donkeys come upon an observatory, the mechanics of human ingenuity are juxtaposed with the donkeys’ simple rambling. This short is a serene, lovely piece of filmmaking.
The Devil Is Busy
31 minutes. Directed by Christalyn Hampton and Geeta Gandbhir.
At an abortion clinic in Atlanta, GA, the first person to arrive is the head of security. The protestors aren’t far behind. A man with a bullhorn belts out condemnation for abortion seekers before the sun has even risen. The short makes clear from the beginning the dangers the staff at the clinic face every day. It’s an appalling situation that the women seeking care find themselves in, as it is for the men and women who seek to serve them. “This is health care, period.” It’s a powerful testimony to the providers of women’s care.
Armed with Only a Camera: The Life and Death of Brent Renaud
37 minutes. Directed by Brent Renaud and Craig Renaud.
Brent Renaud and his brother Craig spent their adult lives documenting some of the world’s most dangerous places. From war torn neighborhoods to families hiding from gangs, the brothers captured the stories of people whose lives were upended by violence. The film does not shy away from brutal realities, often choosing to show very graphic and gruesome footage. When Brent is killed covering the war in Ukraine, Craig seeks to tell his brother’s story in the way he thinks Brent would have wanted. While at its heart, the film is a tribute from one brother to another, it’s also a testament to the importance and power of journalists.
All the Empty Rooms
34 minutes. Directed by Joshua Seftel.
Steve Hartman began reporting on school shootings in the United States in 1997. With each incident, he realized people were moving on more and more quickly. How could he do things differently, to keep people from accepting what’s unacceptable? Hartman refocused his efforts by visiting the bedrooms of the children who were taken too soon. Photographer Lou Bopp assists Hartman by trying to capture the souls of the children whose bedrooms he visits. It’s a profoundly moving effort, and director Joshua Seftel captures the final three visits with tenderness and compassion.
Children No More: Were and Are Gone
36 minutes. Directed by Hilla Medalia.
Every Saturday in Tel Aviv, Israel, a group of activists stand vigil, each displaying the photo of a child killed in the war in Gaza (children killed in Israel and the West Bank are included, too). The demonstrators don’t always agree on the best way forward, but their dedication is undeniable. Watching some of the hate directed their way is almost too hard to bear. But the importance of these quiet vigils is depicted vividly in Medalia’s extraordinary short film.
The Oscar Nominated Short Films are presented in three separate feature-length programs (Live Action, Animated, Documentary) at theaters beginning this weekend.
Opening with two teenagers swept up in a demonstration in the West Bank, writer/director Cherien Dabis drops us into a world of strife and sorrow with her film, All That’s Left of You.
After the tense opening, the film moves backward in time to 1948, Jaffa, Palestine. From here, we follow Sharif (Adam Bakri) as he struggles to hold onto his land and home amid ever worsening strikes in the region. His wife is less concerned with his ideals than she is with keeping her family safe.
As we follow Sharif and his family, and the decisions they have to make as Zionist troops close-in, we get a sense of the hopelessness of the situation. Whether or not you know the history, there is a sense of impending doom as the men in the region discuss their options—stay and resist or leave in hopes of a safer future.
The 1948 segment of the film is the shortest, but it gives a sense of what was lost for the people of Jaffa.
Jumping ahead 30 years to the occupied West Bank, Sharif is now an old man who lives with his son Salim (Saleh Bakri) and his family. Each moment we spend with this family shows how deeply the film cares about its subject matter.
One scene during the 1978 segment is so intense it’s nearly impossible to watch. As soldiers torture and humiliate Salim in front of his son, Noor (Sanad Alkabareti), their laughter only underscores the cruelty present when we dehumanize each other. Noor’s reaction to the event is heartbreaking, yet honest.
The film jumps ahead another ten years as we follow an angry, teenage Noor (Muhammad Abed Elrahman) in an increasingly charged West Bank. The scene that opens the film comes full circle as the third section begins.
This family’s trauma across generations is our gateway into this world. Events unfold around them that are almost incomprehensible. Protestors are gunned down in the street. Treatment for a medical emergency is delayed over bureaucratic red tape and a misplaced ID. All That’s Left of You is an impassioned portrayal of one family’s experiences of displacement and heartbreak in Palestine.
What writer/director Dalila Droege does really well with her pandemic thriller, No More Time, is capture the fear, paranoia, and rage that comes with a viral outbreak.
Hilarie (Jennifer Harlow) and her husband, Steve (Mark Reeb), flee Texas for Colorado in hopes of finding some kind of escape. They seek to disappear, leaving everyone they know behind and hiding in a vacation town in the mountains.
A radio announcer (voiced by Jim Beaver) embodies the rage that can breed from the conflicting information that comes with a viral pandemic. Beaver’s broadcaster falls into the trap of thinking that if information changes on daily basis, that makes it suspect. The vocal performance captures the blind anger that comes from a place of deep fear and distrust.
However, that doesn’t mean that, within this world, the radio is entirely wrong. There is something very disturbing about the virus.
Droege effectively captures the ways in which our society can easily fall apart when faced with an external, existential threat. The idea of mean-world syndrome permeates nearly every moment that Steve and Hilarie interact with the people around them.
To juxtapose the deep schisms growing among the human population, Droege peppers peaceful scenes of the ecosystem throughout. The environment glows in opposition to the violence brewing in the human world.
Droege’s instinct for dialog is not as strong. At times the lines are so heavy handed as to be unbelievable.
But the overall effect of the film is deeply unsettling and familiar. Though the virus at the heart of No More Time is vastly different than the one we endured, the emotions are the same. We can learn from past mistakes, or fall into the same fear, paranoia, and anger that crippled us in the past and permeates the world of No More Time.
