Contrary to popular belief, Joker did not change the world. I still remember reading those first social media reactions back when it first premiered in August and being excited, if a little confused, by some of the initial critical responses. One tweet in particular stuck out for its insistence that cinema would forevermore be defined through the metric of ‘Before Joker’ and ‘After Joker’, while the more level-headed critics feared that it would incite violence across the United States. Of course neither of these extreme reactions came to pass, as we were instead treated to a middling homage to Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (1976) and The King of Comedy (1982) which was elevated by a mesmerising central performance from Joaquin Phoenix and a perfect score from Hildur Guðnadóttir, while also being held back by its infinitely problematic director, the infamous Todd Phillips.
To start with the positives, it is undeniable that the film owes its success entirely to Phoenix and Guðnadóttir’s efforts. The former is relentless in his efforts to find the artistic merits in a muddled and simplistic screenplay, while the latter’s score is the standout in a year with some impressive musical offerings, lending the film some of the tortured and piercing cello flourishes which proved so effective in the HBO series Chernobyl (Craig Mazin) earlier in 2019. It speaks volumes that the film’s standout sequence, a twisted waltz in a public bathroom, was apparently an improvisation from Phoenix in response to a sample from Guðnadóttir’s score. Joker is a film shamelessly held up entirely by two pillars which perfectly complement one another, which is why I was so shocked to discover that the film had received not two, but 11 Oscar nominations from the Academy voters, the most of any eligible film this year.
The most strikingly undeserved of these nine additional nominations is the decision to nominate Todd Phillips for Best Director over the sizeable selection of infinitely more interesting and diverse filmmakers including Greta Gerwig, Jordan Peele, Marielle Heller, Lulu Wang and the Safdie Brothers. In directing Joker, Phillips, who became notorious during the press tour for repeatedly arguing that the practice of making comedy films has been ruined by “woke PC culture”, showcases only his capacity to imitate the works of better filmmakers like Scorsese, who has now disgracefully been recognised as his equal. Phillips is not the sort of filmmaker who deserves to be celebrated in this new era of cinema, and it is the responsibility of popular awards shows such as the Oscars to recognise fresh and exciting voices instead of praising these toxic personalities who thrive on a troublingly regressive sense of nostalgia.
Joker is undoubtedly an entertaining film, and I do absolutely believe that it is worthy of acknowledgement and even victory in the categories of Best Actor and Best Score. Beyond the efforts of Phoenix and Guðnadóttir however, the film has little to offer to the entertainment history other than the temptation of an archaic traditionalism that should not be allowed to fester in an industry on the cusp of truly evolving into modernity for the first time.
Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood (Quentin Tarantino)
There are few figures in Hollywood who are as polarising to critics and audiences alike as Quentin Tarantino. Depending on who you ask, he is either a mainstream auteur filmmaker or an edgy attention seeker/sadist. I personally belong to the former camp, having found much to enjoy and consider in virtually all of his films (depending on whether or not you count Death Proof (2007), which I do not). That is not to say that I believe he is a faultless filmmaker; there are several moments in his filmography where his extravagant indulgences have felt more distracting than thoughtful, particularly in regards to his unpleasantly shameless foot fetish, however I am consistently sold on his efforts because I do believe that he has the utmost respect and adoration for cinema and what it can offer the viewer. In that respect, I feel that Once Upon A Time… In Hollywood is perhaps his most poignant offering to date, demonstrating to the audience that, unlike Todd Phillips, he is willing to grow with the film industry and change his style and rhythm to suit the current shape of things without losing sight of his own filmmaking ambitions.
The film follows three characters, Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio), an ageing cowboy actor resigned to television guest appearances, Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt), his eternally blissful stunt man, and Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie), the beloved actress who is now mostly remembered for her brutal murder at the hands of the Manson family, through a day in their lives during a period where both Dalton and Booth’s careers are dipping while Tate’s is rising rapidly towards stardom. The film is composed largely of vignettes set around a heightened version of Los Angeles in 1969, where a showdown at a dangerous cult ranch carries as much weight as the Timothy Olyphant Western being filmed just down the street.
There is a delightful thrill to seeing Tarantino composing his argument for a filmic world where the darkness is sugarcoated by unflinching heroics and witty set-pieces. This may not be a world true to reality, but Tarantino is among the rare few who truly understand the value of nostalgic optimism. The film praises kindness and brotherhood as the most precious of virtues, and in casting some of the most recognisable actors in the world for the lead roles, it is evident that Tarantino seeks to reintroduce these sentiments into the current landscape. It is easy to weaponise history for cynicism and cruelty, as has been demonstrated by Joker, but to use it as a vessel for escapism is something different entirely which I believe should be appreciated, even if it isn’t the most pressing priority at the moment.
Once Upon A Time… In Hollywood is certainly not the most deserving awards candidate this Oscar season, but I do wholeheartedly believe that its intentions are admirable, particularly as a counterpoint to the bitterness of Joker, to which I have frequently seen it compared. It does not attempt to break new ground nor to criticise the current shape of Hollywood, instead aiming only to reaffirm the absolute best of what this industry has been capable of in the past. I have no burning desire to see the film take home a trophy on Sunday night, but I am, perhaps controversially, happy to see it acknowledged for its modest intentions with a nomination.
Marriage Story (Noah Baumbach)
Marriage Story begins with a divorce. There is a romance at the centre of the story, but we only get to see it through a highlight reel recounted by Nicole (Scarlett Johansson) and Charlie (Adam Driver) from their biased perspectives, both tainted by their overpowering feelings of deep regret and loathing. The story was allegedly inspired by Baumbach’s personal experience with the divorce system back in 2009, and the raw and brutally honest energy of that memory is evident in every frame of the film’s sizeable runtime, resulting in a devastating and often self-critical account of fractured love which feels so palpably real as to be almost unbearable.
Johansson is without question the film’s beating heart, having been assigned the difficult task of bringing to life the side of the divorce not represented in the writing process, and somehow managing to maintain her hold of the audience’s sympathies even as she dismantles the comfortable status quo Nicole and Charlie had built not only for themselves, but for their son Henry (Azhy Robertson). This is a challenge to which Johansson effortlessly rises, confidently earning her Oscar nomination by playing Nicole as a convincingly tragic figure even as her courtroom strategies descend to levels bordering on cruelty. This is apparent nowhere more than in a lengthy monologue delivered in a single moving close-up early in the film where Nicole makes the frankly harrowing case for her side of the story, a feat so flawlessly executed by Johansson as to give Nicole a sense of permanence through every beat of the film, even as her physical appearances become more sporadic in the second half.
This is not at all to say that Driver and Baumbach don’t pull their weight as Johansson’s screen partner and scribe. All of the film’s more extravagant sequences are handed to Driver, who demonstrates a considerable capacity for everything from cringe-inducing black comedy to karaoke, while Baumbach’s dialogue is unparalleled for its ability to deliver a joke and a gutpunch in rapid succession, often twisting the words of his leads to this effect multiple times in any given scene.
Marriage Story should be an Oscar frontrunner. It is undoubtedly among that rare group of films which manages to capture a painfully human story with the utmost dignity and sincerity, guiding its audience through the cataclysmic implosion of a relationship with unwavering skill and prowess from its three key players. Baumbach and Driver are without question among the most deserving candidates for the Best Original Screenplay and Best Actor awards respectively, but it is Johansson whose career-best work elevates this film to a truly profound register, and it would be a delightful upset for the ages if she were to somehow steal the Best Actress award away from bookies’ favourite Renée Zellweger.
Ford v Ferrari (James Mangold)
Le Mans ’66 (which has been given the alternative title of Ford v Ferrari in the US for unknown, but no doubt extremely important reasons) does not feel like a film made for 2019. Indeed, it dates itself from the premise alone, which is based on the true story of two race car drivers, Ken Miles (Christian Bale) and the ageing Carol Shelby (Matt Damon) concoct a plan to beat the Ferrari team with a Ford car in the annual Le Mans twenty four hour endurance race.
The film chronicles their efforts to build this car, while also delving into their personal friendship and the conflicts they face from their executive overlords. Miles is a rude and unorthodox loose cannon who loses the favour of his sponsors almost immediately, while Shelby, who is perpetually in a state of reminiscence over his own racing days, wants nothing more than to see Ford beat Ferrari with a passionate driver at the wheel rather than a corporate plant. From there, the film plays out virtually beat for beat how you might expect if you have ever experienced a sporting biopic before. The two grizzled and gorgeous underdog white men are forced to scheme around their grizzled and gorgeous white employers to clutch their impossible victory from the jaws of defeat at the eleventh hour of this overlong (approximately two-and-a-half hours) ordeal.
In short, the film is aggressively fine. It doesn’t make the slightest effort to break the mould of cinematic storytelling, only briefly and toothlessly addressing its core themes of corporate sponsorship as a necessary evil for fear of offending their new masters at Disney. Bale and Damon offer only the most distilled versions of their onscreen personas; the former is bitter and closed-off with a secret heart of gold if you know where to find it, while the latter is always somewhere between the states of goofy optimism and stubborn patriotism.
The decision of the Academy to nominate Le Mans ’66 for Best Picture over fresher and more thoughtful entries such as Knives Out (Rian Johnson), Uncut Gems (Benny Safdie & Josh Safdie) and The Farewell (Lulu Wang) is as frustrating as it is baffling. There is nothing novel about this film’s intentions nor its execution, which may be disappointing to those like myself who were so utterly gripped by his deconstructive take on the comic book genre in Logan (2017). Instead, it settles for an overly polished sense of humour and some predictably loud and occasionally exhilarating race sequences in desperate need of a less generous editor to recognise that recycling the same few beats and angles in every set-piece will inevitably lead to diminishing returns. I have seen it described as a film “for the dads”, but would personally hope that even the most clichéd of barbecue dads would seek out some slightly meatier viewing material than this washed up relic of a film.
