Movies

Tinā received not just one, but two standing ovations at its Wellington premiere on the 18^th of February. Due for release on the 27^th of February, I highly recommend you bring a tissue (or two) with you to the cinema.

The feature directorial debut from Samoan-born Wellington-bred filmmaker Miki Magasiva is equal parts funny and tear-jerking, tender and tough-loving, presenting a beautiful ode to Samoan culture and a touching tribute to mothers everywhere.

Meaning mother in Samoan, Tinā follows the story of Mareta Percival (Anapela Polataivao) who is grieving the death of her daughter in the Christchurch earthquakes. Unexpectedly becoming a substitute teacher at a rich, private school, Mareta finds the students in desperate need of guidance and care, prompting her to provide inspiration and support in the way she knows best: through choir and song.

Carried by the force of nature that is Polataivao, the cast of Tinā shines in both the humorous and heartbreaking moments, with Antonia Robinson perfectly capturing Sophie’s inner turmoil and healing journey and Wellingtonian Jamie Irvine in top form as deputy principal Peter Wadsworth, a character equal parts odious and cringey… but in the best, most hilarious way.

Magasiva’s script is carefully woven together with Sébastien Pan’s thoughtfully curated score of Kiwi classics and Samoan traditional. The result is a patchwork tapestry of song as tightly and lovingly bound as an ie toga (Samoan fine mat). Costume designer Sacha Young and production designer Ana Miskell come together to craft a cohesive world of sombre greys at the private school to juxtapose the vibrant and floral environment inhabited by Mareta, creating a very physical manifestation of our protagonist’s positive influence.

My favourite aspect of Tinā was how the story drew us in. Like a mother, it welcomed us into its world and included us without reservation, cheered us through the joys of life and cradled us safely through the difficult times. A movie so tender and powerful is rare; treasure Tinā like you would your own mum.

Like a dripping tap, Flow starts off slowly and steadily until suddenly you are immersed in a world of beauty and danger that is overflowing with emotional depth and thematic vision, awash beneath a flood both literal and metaphorical.

From inky waves and crystal pools, the bright orange eyes of a little black cat meet our gaze, reflecting our own complex thoughts and emotions back at us. Cat scampers and hunts in the tangled undergrowth of a forest, his home a dwelling abandoned by humans, who are absent throughout this animated dreamscape from visionary Latvian filmmaker Gints Zilbalodis despite their influence being acutely felt. When a flood of biblical proportions submerges the world, Cat must adapt. Cat jumps onboard a passing sailboat, joining a ragtag crew of creatures comprising a capybara, ring-tailed lemur, golden retriever, and secretary bird. Together, they embark on a picaresque adventure through paintbrush landscapes (created by designer Zilbalodis and animation director Léo Silly Pélissier), each episode more charmingly heart-wrenching than the last.

Zilbalodis, Matīss Kaža, and Ron Dyens’ script is devoid of dialogue yet not of expression. The characters are not anthropomorphic in the slightest, their movements hyper-realistic and their sounds recorded from real life creatures, and yet they are sprinkled with a touch of magical realism that administers us with enough suspended disbelief to become utterly entranced in the story. Each character has its typical animalistic quirk – I picture Cat who knocks Lemur’s trinket off the shelf just because – yet they possess enough humanness to make them emotionally capable of exploring relatable themes of loss, bonding, and camaraderie. Flow is a tale about a wary creature learning to trust and depend on others as it learns about the intrinsic interconnected nature of the world.

In this way, Zilbalodis’ cinematography places us directly into the action from Cat’s point of view, his editing fast-paced to build tension but allowing breathing room in between to give way to more gentle moments. Combined, they give Flow a game-like lens, teaching the audience through visual details. Meanwhile, Zilbalodis and Rihards Zalupe’s score carries us through moments of peril and playfulness with music tailored perfectly to the ebb and flow of the narrative. In Flow you are not a spectator, but a passenger both on the lifeboat and within this devastatingly beautiful world we call home.

Through plenty of eeks, amid lots of squeals, and with more time than I’d like to admit spent hiding under my sweatshirt, I made it through Nosferatu. Though I’m not a horror fan, I wasn’t going in completely unbiased to this new release of the classic vampire tale. I own a beautiful copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula – a groundbreaking piece of literature that’s very dear to me. That being said… though this new treatment is aesthetically appetising and suitably scary, for me, it didn’t come close to the original.

Arthouse filmmaker Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu is the plot of Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979), which is the plot of F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (1922) – itself Stoker’s novel with some name changes and minor tweaks to skirt copyright law. Herzog’s is an undeniable classic. Murnau’s is the pinnacle of German expressionist cinema. Eggers’ doesn’t really re-invent the wheel or make a particularly thought-provoking statement.

As a self-professed history buff and a former production designer, Eggers does deserve to be lauded for Nosferatu from the perspective of a period piece. Craig Lathrop’s design is suitably gothic, oppressive, and finely detailed – his vision something straight from a storybook. Cinematographer Jarin Blaschke is a wizard with his craft, bringing to life an eerie and desaturated world that slowly closes in on you. His lighting, colour, and framing choices are nothing short of award worthy. Louise Ford’s editing style, however, is not my cup of tea, with what I consider lazy transitions, though other critics disagree. Robin Carolan’s delightfully terrifying score though is what truly makes Nosferatu ooze with agony and dread.

Starring Lily-Rose Depp as lead Ellen Hutter alongside Nicholas Hoult as her hapless husband Thomas, the acting in Nosferatu is not something I’d deem particularly praiseworthy. With the exception of Willem Dafoe’s zany Professor von Franz (the equivalent of Van Helsing), Simon McBurney’s perfectly deranged Herr Knock (our Renfield), and, of course, Bill Skarsgård at his best in the disgustingly horrifying role of Count Orlok… though his incessant heavy breathing was more comical than frightening.

Inspired by the 1922 rendition at the age of nine, Eggers has been working towards Nosferatu his whole life. And you can tell! It is beautiful and clever and undeniably good. It’s just not great.

The long-awaited screen adaptation of the Tony-winning Broadway musical Wicked trades the Yellow Brick Road for a trip down memory lane, whizzing through the story of how the green-skinned woman Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) and Ozian it-girl Glinda (Ariana Grande) came to be known as the Wicked Witch of the West and the Good Witch of the North. An adventurous tale that celebrates female friendship and champions standing up for what’s right, this magical musical is as whimsical as it is wondrous, as outrageous as it is off-kilter.

Like its Broadway predecessor, the film version is also presented in two acts, with Defying Gravity serving as a show-stopping ending to part one. In many ways, the screen adaptation remains faithful to the stage play, which in turn was based on Gregory Maguire’s 1995 novel that reimagines the characters from The Wizard of Oz books. Like the stage musical, Stephen Schwartz wrote the music and lyrics, while Winnie Holzman wrote the book, but the director’s seat is occupied by Jon M. Chu, who crafts a multicoloured, maximalist dreamscape alongside production designer Nathan Crowley and costume designer Paul Tazewell. Arm in arm with these wonderful world-building wizards, cinematographer Alice Brooks adds the icing on the emerald cake with her bold colour choices and sweeping shots. I just wish Myron Kerstein’s editing had featured slower cuts so we could take it all in better.

The story is an archetypal myth where good is pitted against evil, the comfort of the status quo juxtaposing the freedom of changing the world. Wicked does not reinvent the wheel in its saga of misunderstanding and alienation – even with its subplot of animal persecution. But the wheel isn’t broken, and with Erivo and Grande behind the reins it trots along nicely. Their excellent chemistry is made all the more enjoyable by their opposite vibes, while appearances from Michelle Yeoh as Madame Morrible and Jeff Goldblum as Oz add an extra layer of grandiosity. What begins as loathing between Elphaba and Glinda blossoms into love and mutual respect, and there is always room for more interactions that pass the Bechdel Test in Hollywood.

Fun and fantastical with more than a few Easter eggs for fans, Wicked is wickedociously, whimsifyingly wonderful.

Simultaneously an ode to Italy and a denunciation, Caro Diario (1993) is a far cry from the mainstream media who idealise the European lifestyle. If that’s the world you’re dreaming of watch this first, because this is how it truly feels, what it actually looks like, and how it really is.

Caro Diario, which is both written and directed by Italy’s contemporary auteur filmmaker Nanni Moretti (who also stars in the film), is autobiographical in style with a touch of magical realism. It’s an open diary that doesn’t follow the narrative form we are accustomed to. Rather, it ambles through moments and emotions, thoughts and events, capturing the essence of a time, place, or feeling instead of prioritising story. That said, it’s not without structure.

Segmented into three chapters, On My Vespa pays homage to Moretti’s beloved Roma, but the back alleys and suburbs that are deserted and desolate during the summer holiday of Ferragosto – an occurrence ingrained in the culture and intrinsic to the country. The centrepiece Islands is a Ulyssean journey to the Aeolian Islands to find inspiration for his next film, but without success, Moretti tells us as we sit in the cinema watching his antics. The final chapter Doctors is a slice of life with actual footage of medical notes, appointments, and treatments – the disdain for Italian bureaucracy is palpable.

Caro Diario is intimate, in part due to Moretti’s narration, which feels like he’s talking to a friend, paired with Mirco Garrone’s slow editing that allows Giuseppe Lanci’s poetic cinematography to wash over us. Marta Maffucci’s authentic and unpretentious production design completes the trifecta, creating a world that you are firmly a part of. In what is reminiscent of a Roman epic or a classic saga, Caro Diario is rooted in philosophical musings, but it doesn’t forgo lightness, charm, and humour. Much like in life itself, moments simply happen, good and bad waltz arm in arm, and the little things are the most special.

Screening as part of the Italian Film Festival, Caro Diario may not depict the Italy you’re dreaming of, but it distils the visceral, infuriating, poetic, and magical place it really is.

The Outrun is a difficult watch, but that’s not to say it shouldn’t be seen. Painful, searing, infuriating, and at times nauseating, this story of addiction and mental illness is hopeful and beautiful all the same.

Based on Amy Liptrot’s 2017 memoir and directed by Nora Fingscheidt, The Outrun stars Saoirse Ronan as Rona, a girl who finds herself in the wake of destruction as she shakily treads the path towards sobriety. After hitting rock bottom in London, Rona finds herself back home on the Orkney Islands, a landscape as desolate, stark, and tumultuous as her own soul. Here, she comes face to face with her demons and contends with her religious mother Annie (Saskia Reeves) and her bipolar father (Stephen Dillane), so deeper she retreats to the more remote island of Papay.

The fragmented story is stitched together by brilliant editing work from Stephan Bechinger, who uses crashing cuts to break from recovery to relapse as shots of nature bleed into EDM-fuelled rampages. Cleverly, Fingscheidt uses hair dye to delineate time as well. Ronan’s performance is nuanced and at odds with itself, both deliberate and shaky, fierce and afraid, delicate and a force of nature.

Despite the quick editing and Yunus Roy Imer’s striking cinematography, the lack of driving narrative makes the story slow and tedious in the middle. Only Ronan’s acting and natural screen presence carries us through. We fear the worst as events merely happen, often flatly, the truth laid bare. Nothing is sacred or damned, it just is.  

Juxtaposing scientific explanations for natural phenomena with folklore, Rona draws a parallel to memory. In this story, both memory and folklore act as impressions of reality. During her journey, natural chaos replaces her inner turmoil, trauma, and need to create chaos of her own. As she seeks control, she is ever fighting the impulse to destroy. She finds comfort in nature – the ebb and flow of the tide, the harshness of its elements – as she wades in the glacial north Atlantic and raging through winter storms. In this poetic tale, Rona becomes a conductor for the natural world around her, learning to make sense of her memories, her reality.

There are moments in which we realise that life is all about perspective. My Week with Maisy is just that, both within the world of the short film and in real life. A Show Me Shorts Film Festival submission starring the inimitable Dame Joanna Lumley as uptight retiree Emily Foster, this short albeit sweet story takes place in a chemotherapy treatment room. Anxious, brimming with feelings of self-pity, and with a glass-half-empty mentality, Mrs Foster can think of nothing worse than to share her time slot with Maisy (Ellie-Mae Siame), a whirlwind inquisitive child aspiring to be a lesbian. As their treatments progress, the pair form an unlikely bond that offers healing and unexpected, newfound hope.

Set entirely in an incongruously chirpy fuchsia and blush space, the design team deserves huge props. Production designer Anna Papa and set dresser Lydia Perez breathe freshness and vitality into a weighty world. Rather than compounding feelings of hopelessness and fear, the candy-pop décor is a physical representation of looking on the bright side of life. In perfect harmony, Hannah Teare’s costumes capture the two characters’ essences – Mrs Foster in a dowdy, prim suit and Maisy in outlandish onesies, a neon green wig making more than one surprise appearance. It would be remiss of me not to mention the immense talent of cinematographer Emma Dalesman, her saccharine landscape gleaming bright from the screen.

Under award-winning director Mika Simmons’ deft guidance, Lumley and Siame shine. They bring writer Mark Oxtoby’s exquisitely complex characters to life tenderly, wholly, and with the utmost deliberateness. The tightly coiled Mrs Foster gently begins to unwind as Maisy, wise beyond her years, wiggles between the cracked façade with her unapologetic candidness. “My dad says it’s always best to say what you mean,” Maisy declares in their first conversation. Taken aback at first, by the end, Mrs Foster has been won over by Maisy’s charm, eagerly awaiting each visit and entreating her to never change.

A short film supported by the Create Health Foundation that says so much in so little time, My Week with Maisy will fill your cup.

The boys are back! They’re grubby, swashbuckling, and here to save France – you best believe they’ll do it with panache as well in The Three Musketeers: Milady.

The second instalment of this cinematic treatment of Alexandre Dumas’ classic novel is just as rambunctious and rollicking as the first. In fact, it packs even more of a punch as war no longer looms over France but engulfs it. Full of intrigue and deceit, the festering and convoluted plot centres around the famous three musketeers – Athos (Vincent Cassel), Porthos (Pio Marmaï), and Aramis (Romain Duris) – alongside new recruit and friend Charles D’Artagnan (François Civil) just like in the first half. This time around though, the scheming Milady de Winter (Eva Green) no longer relegates herself to the sidelines – she gladly takes centre stage in a role that’s equal parts femme fatale, trained assassin, and betrayed lover. She is an equal match for the men both in sword fighting and mental games, and she does it all in heels and a corset.

Opening with an expertly spliced recap courtesy of editor Stan Collet, you don’t even need to see part one of Martin Bourboulon’s lavish, all-star adaptation… though I would highly recommend it. The extravagant €70 million production wants for nothing as armies traipse across the countryside, battalions commandeer castles towering over the sea, ships crumble in the wake of cannons, and fire sets the world ablaze in part two. This is a stark contrast to its predecessor, which took place primarily in courts bedecked like cakes.

I was pleasantly surprised to find part two of The Three Musketeers as engaging as the first. Nuanced performances are coupled with scenes of epic grandeur, both working towards a result that strikes the perfect balance between Hollywood blockbuster and European period drama. If you don’t mind subtitles, you’re in for a treat. If you refuse to watch a film just because it’s in a foreign language, you are missing out on some truly incredible cinema, not just with The Three Musketeers: Milady but at large.

When it comes to The Three Musketeers: Milady, let them eat cake, I declare! Bring your snacks and settle in for the finale of an incredible two-part series… or is it just the beginning?

I laughed, winced, gasped, and guffawed with everyone else at Deadpool & Wolverine. I think I may have been the only one scoffing and rolling my eyes though.

It’s funny, it’s what you’d expect, it scratches the itch, and it hands out cameos and Easter eggs on a silver platter for all the Marvel and X-Men fans. Its irreverence and self-awareness screams that it’s not your typical superhero movie… Except that it kind of is if you look past the cussing, the fourth-wall breaks, and the pointed jibes.

Oh, yes, in case you’re one of the three people who hasn’t heard of this franchise, I’ll catch you up. Deadpool (Ryan Reynolds) is the not-your-average-superhero superhero. He is crude, rude, and does bad things. In this third instalment, he is welcomed into the Marvel Comics Universe when he is told by the Time Variance Authority (Matthew Macfadyen) that his world has lost its anchor being – Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) – and he was deemed the only creature worth keeping. To save his timeline from extinction, Deadpool embarks on a quest to find another Wolverine but, of course, the fate of the universe is threatened along the way, and a rollicking adventure ensues.

Directed by Shawn Levy with a screenplay by Ryan Reynolds, Rhett Reese, Paul Wernick, Zeb Wells, and Levy, Deadpool & Wolverine is hilarious and outlandish. The pairing of two starkly opposite heroes gives way to many cheeky and heartfelt moments. The costumes (Graham Churchyard and Mayes C. Rubeo) are fun – Wolverine fans buckle your seatbelts – and the sets (designed by Ray Chan) are as fantastical as expected.

The jibes at Disney and Hollywood are welcome but incessant. They’re clever, true, and you feel like you’re a part of some great big inside joke, but they’re overcompensating. I think Alissa Wilkinson sums it up best in The New York Times: “now that the jabs are coming from inside the house, it hits different. On the one hand, ‘Disney’s so stupid.’ On the other hand, Disney paid for this movie, and we pay them to watch it”.

A raunchy and rip-roaring ride, Deadpool & Wolverine delivers what it promises – just don’t look too deep inside the suits.

Our first moments within New Zealand’s School for Incorrigible and Delinquent Girls are met with pious austerity. Yet creeping in on the fringes is a rumbling rebelliousness in the form of giggling girlhood. This can be said about We Were Dangerous on the whole. Skirting along the prim and proper edges of Whānau Mārama New Zealand International Film Festival’s opening night screening of the SXSW Special Jury Award for Filmmaking winner is delightful subversion and daring disobedience as three girls fight for power over their own bodies.

The year is 1954, and a failed escape plan has landed Nellie (Erana James), Daisy (Manaia Hall), and their cohort on the rugged, isolated former leper colony of Ōtamahua / Quail Island. Their matron (Rima Te Wiata) is devoted to reforming these juvenile rebels into obedient young ladies primed for marriage. Louisa, a wealthy Pākehā girl whose parents sent her away to curtail errant behaviour, joins the motley crew. Fuelled by the natural isolation, the three grow ever closer, taking action into their own hands when they become the subjects of a eugenics experiment. What ensues is a combustible firecracker of a story about class, colonisation, sexuality, race, and standing up for what’s right.

Executive producers Taika Waititi and Piki Films’ irreverent and unmistakable ability to make levity out of dark subjects permeates the film. The heartfelt and genuine tone, however, is entirely the fruit of writer Maddie Dai, director Josephine Stewart-Te Whiu, and producer Morgan Waru’s labours, who together craft a narrative so sincere and honest it’s impossible to not fall in love with it. Cinematographer María Inés Manchego captures the island’s raw, stark, and powerful beauty with an intensity that matches the girls’ fiery spirits.

The choice to assign the film’s narration to the matron provides humour, contrast, and irony, but it also made me yearn for her character’s redemption. I ached for her jealousy to melt into tenderness and lead the girls into battle. I have to agree with Deadline’s Damon Wise: at the end, I found my thoughts with her rather than the girls – they have their whole lives ahead of them he says, she only has her past.

A fierce – albeit short – story of strength in the face of hardship, We Were Dangerous is perfectly summed up in Nellie’s own words: “Ahakoa, he iti he pounamu. Although it is small it is precious.”

Gritty and nostalgic, raw and tense, The Bikeriders delves into a slice of American history that has fascinated the world for decades.

Adapted for the screen and directed by Jeff Nichols, The Bikeriders is based on the book of the same name by journalist, activist, and photographer Danny Lyon, who documented and shared the lifestyle of bikers in the American Midwest from 1963 to 1967. Lyon followed the Chicago chapter of the Outlaws Motorcycle Club to capture the life of the American biker gangs, a counterculture movement gaining traction in this period with ramifications that can still be seen today across the world with the likes of the Hells Angels.

Starring Austin Butler as Benny and Jodie Comer as his partner Kathy, the film is made in a pseudo-documentary style with emerging talent Mike Faist as the young journalist. With Tom Hardy as the club’s founder Jimmy at the epicentre of the story, The Bikeriders takes audiences on a journey down the open road, capturing the Vandals’ innocent beginnings through to their eventual criminal transformation. A perfect picture of 1960s Americana, Chad Keith’s exquisite production design is made all the more evocative of the era by Adam Stone’s dusty and faded cinematography.

Though a snapshot of a specific historical movement, The Bikeriders captures an aspect of American culture that can be traced all the way back to the pilgrims. This thread of outcast resilience, of fierce individuality, of carving out one’s place in the world has cropped up time and again throughout the nation’s fraught timeline. From the first immigrants braving the seas to the first gunshot of 1776, from the cowboys to the robber barons, from Manifest Destiny to the Civil Rights Movement, the crux of The Bikeriders is woven through the story of the United States. It’s not unique to these Midwestern motorcycle gangs but something belonging to everyone who has called this land home, inherent in their brave new world and the fabric that makes up the American Dream.

Flawed as she is, since the dawn of her colonial history, America has always represented a dream. A collective ideal, a world full of possibility, a promise that is captured with exquisite sincerity and rawness in The Bikeriders.

Screening as part of the French Film Festival, Jeanne du Barry tells the story of the famous courtesan. Though intricate and exquisite, it paints only a partial portrait of a complex and extraordinary human.

Directed by mononymous French actress and filmmaker Maïwenn, the 2023 film Jeanne du Barry lavishly and intimately captures Jeanne’s story. Each scene (production designer Angelo Zamparutti) is beautifully bedecked with the cake-like interiors of the Palace of Versailles, each costume (Jürgen Doering) poised like the most decadent of desserts. Maïwenn harnesses Jeanne’s unconforming air in a performance that is both poised and cheeky. Contrary to popular opinion, I think her chemistry with Johnny Depp’s ageing King Louis XV is tender and emotionally charged. Any sex scenes are spared and left to the imagination of the audience, allowing intimacy to take on a different, less carnal, and distinctly European form, deepening the connection between the monarchical match.

After watching the movie, I too, like the king of France, was besotted by Jeanne. A pants-wearing, powerful woman from the 1700s who refused to lower her gaze sounds like a feminist icon from a fairytale. However, upon further investigation I realised the film portrays an idealised version of Madame du Barry. Neither her social influence nor her more political actions were touched on. I feel that by capturing her wholly, her shortcomings and her strengths, rather than as either a victim like in the film or a conniving and calculating courtesan like in many history books, Jeanne could have been more humanised, and her legacy honoured better.

Jeanne was a woman of duality. Maïwenn refers to her as a “magnificent loser”, while her contemporaries called her a silly creature. She spent lavishly in a time of political turmoil, but in doing so supported the arts and intellectuals. She made a name for herself, taking the future into her own hands, but potentially and unwittingly inciting the French Revolution in the process. She walked a fine line, where every action had its equal opposite reaction. She, like all of us, was flawed, complex, and inherently contradictory. For this she was beautifully human. She was herself, in an era of conformity, against all odds.

I recommend this enchanting drama, but suggest you get to know Jeanne du Barry for yourself first.