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Editor’s Note Welcome to TFR’s New Perspectives! This time last year, we released The Freedom Issue, wherein we celebrated the coming freedom from the COVID-19 pandemic at the dawn of the 2020/21 academic year. A year later, some things are still the same-- but so much has changed. And yet, despite all odds, cinema came, cinema fought, cinema conquered. Netflix, Prime, NOW, became the tethers to which we clung, live performances became live-streamed, and the incredible success of festivals like Venice, Cannes and Berlinale responding to historic changes proved once and for all that cinema is not stuck in its ways but is shifting and changing with us; the perfect mirror for our imperfect times. And so for this issue, we wanted to highlight the new perspectives granted to us not just from the pandemic as we discovered underrated masterpieces or hidden gems, but that core element that imbued us all with that first eyeopening experience that made us love the films we watched: the opportunity for a truly new perspective. Vive la différence! Film forever, Mia, Seamus, Luke and Katie.
Editor Mia Sherry Deputy Editors Luke Bradley Seamus Conlon Katie McKenna Designer Seamus Conlon Contributors 1. Sabh Boylan 2. Luke Bradley 3. Catherin Callahan 4. Seamus Conlon 5. Cian Donohoe 6. Cathal Eustace 7. Sohpie Furlong-Tighe 8. James Mahon 9. Katie Mckenna
This publication is funded partly by The DU Trinity Publica tions Committee.This publication claims no special rights or privileges. All serious complaints may be directed towards chair@trinitypublications. ie or Chair, Trinity Publications, House 6, Trinity College, Dublin 2. Appeals may be directed to the Press Council.
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Table of Contents • 3 - Kingsman: The Secret Service and the Spy Genre
• 4 - Feel Good: An Undeniably Important Step in Popularizing Genuine Queer Media
• 5 - Underrated : The Scary of Sixty-first • 6- Streaming Gem: Cecil B. Demented • 7 - A Tale In Two Cities • 9 - New Perspectives: Twilight, The Gothic Romance
• 11 - ‘Women in Hollywood’ An interview with Empire Magazine’s Hellen O’Hara
• 13 - Censor • 14- In the Hieghts • 16 - Where The Wild Things Are A Perspective Changing Film
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Kingsman: The Secret Service and the Spy Genre
Kingsman: The Secret Service (Matthew Vaughn, 2014) burst onto the scene in a post Casino Royale (Martin Campbell, 2006) era of spy flicks that saw films of the genre becoming increasingly modern, moody, and monochromatic. Based on the Mark Millar comic series of the same name, Matthew Vaughn’s foray into the world of espionage delights in injecting dark humour, outrageous action, and undeniable style into the classic genre, proving that there is fun left to be had for the archetypal gentleman spy. Vaugh-- fresh off the success of the similarly irreverent Kick-Ass (Matthew Vaughn, 2010)-- pays homage to spy thriller stalwarts with tonguein-cheek wit in a film that, despite its evident self-awareness, never quite succumbs to Austin Powers levels of parody. While the zany plot and eccentric villain (Samuel L. Jackson, hamming it up and offering, inexplicably, his best Mike Tyson impression) border on absurd, the film finds surprising pathos through the blossoming avuncular relationship between leading duo Eggsy Unwin (Taron Egerton) and Harry Hart (Colin Firth). Egerton and Firth exhibit a terrific chemistry that provides unexpected heart amongst the over-the-top action sequences and witty meta commentary. Though occasionally guilty of overindulgence, Kingsman: The Secret Service succeeds in tipping its tailored top-hat at its predecessors while simultaneously flipping them off; a fitting tribute and subverted wink that stands alone as its own brand of spy thriller.
- Sadbh Boylan
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‘Feel Good’: An Undeniably
Important Step in Popularizing Genuine Queer Media Mae Martin’s ‘Feel Good’ (Netflix, 20202021) marks their debut into the world of television. The semi-autobiographical show revolves around the relationship between Mae and their girlfriend George (Charlotte Ritchie) who’s on-and-off relationship spells out the nuances of addiction, mental illness and abuse through a refreshingly Queer lens. Feel Good misses the mark occasionally: Mae Martin’s stand up style does not translate well to the small screen and Charlotte Ritchie carries most of the show, it’s an undeniably important step in popularizing genuine queer media. Questions of “Who gets to tell Queer stories” make for interesting and necessary debates in the today’s Queer discussion. ‘Supernova’ (Harry Macqueen, 2020), ‘Call Me By Your Name’ (Luca Guadagnino, 2017), ‘Love Simon’ (Greg Berlanti, 2018) are examples of popular Queer cinema, featuring heterosexual leads playing homosexual characters who are telling cisgendered stories. In the landscape of Queer entertainment, there’s a lack of non-binary and lesbian stories, which Feel Good offers. Regardless of where you find yourself in this discussion, taking time to watch and enjoy the likes of Feel Good is almost necessary to formulate opinions on the matter and undoubtedly
- Cathal Eustace
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UNDERRATED : THE SCARY OF SIXTY-FIRST When I first learned that it-girl, Dasha Nekrasova, co-host of the podcast Red Scare, was making her contribution to the current, over-saturated and uninspired new wave of quote psychological horror films, my expectation couldn’t be lower. But when early reviews rolled in, drawing comparisons between the film and giallo -- the kaleidoscopic, Italian horror classics of the 60s and 70s, in the vein of Suspiria (Dario Argento, 1977) or The Girl Who Knew Too Much (Mario Bava, 1963) -- it piqued my interest, albeit a morbid one, and I fluctuated between positions of curiosity and frankly fear that Nekrasova would deliver a cheap imitation of the tradition of giallo. The release of the film was curtailed by the pandemic, and premiered at the ‘online,’ 71st Berlinale, showing in the Encounters section. But The Scary of Sixty-First (Dasha Nekrasova, 2021), a neo-gothic terror that basks in incoherence and esoteric intrigue, seemed appropriate for the post-Covid release landscape, and fitted in nicely with my now abject familiarity with my laptop. The film, detailing the dialectics of latent apophenia, captures the compulsive, patternseeking logic of the terminally-online (or the proponents of Pizzagate and QAnon), and are personified by the two young women in the film (played by Dasha Nekrasova herself, and her co-writer, Madeline Quinn) who dedicate themselves to uncovering the truth about Jeffrey Epstein and his elite cabal of pedophiles. The dynamic is echoed by Red Scare, the popular podcast co-hosted by the director with Anna Khachiyan (who cameos as a doppelgänger of Ghislaine Maxwell,) which is situated within a particular milieu known as the ‘dirtbag left’, who are either (depending on your persuasion,) 1. revolutionary, cultural critics offering an alternative to the societal flatness of neoliberalism, or 2. pseudointellectual, shock-jock vulgarians. The film borrows tonally from the transgressive effect of Red Scare, albeit swapping the parasocial, ambient intimacy of the podcast with audiencealienating dramatics but retaining it’s sardonic satire and unnerving dark humour.
Suffice to say, I wasn’t disappointed. Undoubtedly, the fierce and frenetic feminine energy, over-the-top aesthetic decadence and high-camp tableaux, and homoeroticism more than hint at the innate camp character of Scary, despite accusations of earnestness levelled at the film. Even so, the conspiratorial mode depicted in the elegantly eccentric oestrogen-drenched arthouse epic is not entirely unfound. Paranoid as the characters are, they find both intentionality and resolute humanism within the otherwise soul-crushing banality of late-stage capitalism. As the neoliberal world order produces equal parts agitation and anaesthesia, conspiracy in this schizophrenic mode doesn’t seem entirely unfounded, and in some cases (as evidenced by the growing landscape of podcasting) functions as an antidote to the quiet horror of existence.
- Cian Donohoe
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Streaming Gem: Cecil B. Demented John Waters’ Cecil B. Demented (2000) is a film that lends itself to the damning label of “pretentious”, fulfilling many of the criteria one would expect. Firstly, it can be found on Mubi, the notably arty streaming service filled with subtitled films that have been on your list for ages. Secondly, it is a film about filmmaking! Oh, how people deride this genre, accuse it of being self-indulgent, navel-gazing filth whose target audience is filmmakers themselves (it is, I admit, all of these things). Thirdly, it detests the establishment— specifically Hollywood. The central gang of underground filmmakers-cum-terrorists (led by the eponymous Cecil (Stephen Dorff)) shoot guns on the set of Forrest Gump 2, scream “Make good cinema or die”, and (most central to the plot) kidnaps an A-list actress, played spectacularly by Melanie Griffith. Her slow-at-first then unbelievably-fast indoctrination into the gang manages to be both credible and camp, lighting up even a grubby laptop screen.
In pure John Waters style, this film refuses to be subtle at any point. The down-withblockbusters message is on the nose, the visuals are so gaudy as to almost hurt your eyes, and the plot is obviously ridiculous. Both Cecil B. Demented’s pretentiousness and its lack of subtlety serve the film incredibly well. While fleeing from the police, the gang are protected by first a theatre that shows violent films, then a pornographic cinema. Cecil’s gang rejects respectability, believing that “family’s just another word for censorship”, and branding themselves with hot metal. If you couldn’t tell from the premise, it’s worth noting that it’s also hilarious. Ultimately, this is a film made by and for degenerates and outsiders, for those who have been giving out about Marvel since before Scorsese got his hands on such discourse. This probably makes it pretentious, and it might make it obvious or crude, but Cecil B. Demented doesn’t give a shit, he just wants to make good cinema, which is exactly what he does.
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- Sophie Furlong-Tighe
Two
factions battle for supremacy guided by competing moral codes. A notorious gangster places a mole among the ranks of the police officers tasked with his arrest, while the police embed a man of their own within the criminal organization. When both groups “smell a rat,” a game of cat and mouse ensues. Such is the plot of Andrew Lau and Alan Mak’s Hong Kong crime epic, Infernal Affairs (2002). Martin Scorsese gave the story a new lease on life in his 2006 remake, The Departed, this time set in Boston. At the outset of both films, the principal antagonist poses a question to his duplicitous protégé, clearly differentiating the identical sequence of events in each film.
Infernal Affairs: “What thousands must die so that Caesar can become great?” Lau and Mak’s film is economical and dense in its storytelling. The characters are studied and psychologically complex which lends itself well to the film’s moralizing tone and subject matter. The original title of this film translates to “The Neverending Way’’ relating to the story’s underlying theme of spiritual suffering caused by a life of deceit. Its tone is contemplative and intellectual. At the same time, Infernal Affairs draws from a noticeable heritage of Eastern action films. Its cuts are slick, its camera work highly-produced, its fight scenes imbued with palpable kinetic energy. The jittery stop-and-go of intense action and emotional contemplation makes for a strangely immersive experience - one in which the audience feels the intermittent stress of the film’s tortured characters.
The Departed: “We can become cops or criminals, but when you’re facing a loaded gun, what’s the difference?” Scorsese’s remake is best understood through an analysis of its antagonist, Frank Costello (Jack Nicholson). Crass and cynical, Costello expresses nihilism through acts of unfettered brutality and indulgence. Through his eyes, members of a broken society are no longer answerable to moral values. Because of the spooky similarities between his dialogue and Trump-era taglines, one can almost picture Costello as a real person, making Nicholson’s performance feel all the more gritty, authentic, and topical.
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Despite the religious connotations of the film’s title, its Irish-Catholic-American characters have lost their capacity for religious thought. Instead, they focus on the immediacy of this world - choosing to ignore the ambiguous and uncertain divine consequences. The once puritanical ‘City on The Hill’ which they inhabit has become similarly depraved and corrupt. It’s theocratic and moralizing colonial ethos has been replaced with a primal will to survive. The Departed drowns out the contempletive tone of its foreign predecessor with animalistic stress, brutal violence, and laconic dialogue.
The endings of each movie expresses differing notions of justice. For Lau and Mak initially, justice is karmic. In the mainland China cut of Lau and Mak’s film, the ending was instead changed to reflect the orderly and bureaucratic ethos of the Beijing regime. The Western ending reframes justice as personal, tangible, and delivered unrepentantly by human hands reflecting the individualist ethos of its audience.
- Seamus Conlon Page 8
New Perspectives: Twilight, The Gothic Romance The Gothic Romance: a genre of dark and foreboding castles, of supernatural terrors, and
damsels in distress threatened by the powerful, impulsive male. Not exactly the tagline for Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight (2007), but then again The Twilight Saga has for many years been diminished as spoonfed to the underage darling. Director Catherine Hardwicke’s take on the novel is one that modernises the vampire narrative, and while acknowledging its teen audience, elevates it to the imagery of its Gothic predecessors. Most notable is Hardwicke’s inclusion of a scene not derived from the novel but from Lugosi-era lore. After some internet research, the realisation that Edward (Robert Pattinson) is a vampire comes to Bella (Kristen Stewart) in a dream. Styled with film reel footage and period dress, Bella is draped languidly across a velvet sofa, with Edward sensuously approaching her neck only to emerge with blood at the corner of his mouth. Though brief, this scene proclaims Edward the new face of the classic vampire. It also conjures the 19th century Vampire-Virgin dynamic. Gothic tales are laden with sexual undertones, and often vampires serve as allegory for fear of sexuality as young women are eroticised by powerful, mysterious men. With Edward the sublime and Bella the damsel, this image allows them to inhabit the traditional role of vampire and victim/virgin. Yet, Edward as virgin makes him unthreatening and palatable to a tween audience; the danger he poses to Bella can be romanticised instead of eroticised. It is in this way that Meyer conflates their love with the paramour love: the forbidden passion which must be denied at all costs (or else Bella becomes dinner). Edward both inhabits the Gothic role of the impulsive male and the safer, sexuallyrepressed male, thus giving Bella room to express her own sexual desire without threat.
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With the same narrative freedom, she can be brave and self-sacrificing while delicate; thus, she expands the agency of the damsel archetype. It’s this agency that gave her female narrative blockbuster success-- and thereby feminist success-- at the hands of a female director, for a largely female audience. There are many reasons skeptics argue Twilight is not Gothic-- namely that it bears no castle-- and they’re right. The Cullen house is modernised and true terror is removed.
However, Hardwicke’s blue tint, the metonymy of Pacific Northwest rain and fog representing foreboding and mystery, and the claustrophobia of forest visuals mimicking the effect of dark castle halls preserves the intended mood. Hardwicke’s homage to the Dracula-archetype rekindles the Gothic. She explores beyond the constraints of a sexually-tame teen love and begs viewers to look beyond Meyer’s modern, somewhat watered-down vampires to their profound literary roots.
- Catherine Callahan
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‘Women in Hollywood’
An interview with Empire Magazine’s Hellen O’Hara
New perspectives on cinema grant us a greater appreciation for the wide scope of filmmakers and diverse subject matter that makes film what it is. Considering new perspectives on cinema enables us to further our understanding of the issues of today and the struggles of others. Cinema, and its many different perspectives, is an invaluable tool for this reason. This sentiment is explored in fascinating detail by Helen O’Hara, ‘editor-at-large’ of Empire Magazine and author of Women Vs. Hollywood: The Fall and Rise of Women in Film. We sat down with O’Hara to talk about her book, the status of cinema today, and the importance of new perspectives on film. O’Hara’s book chronicles the complex history of women in Hollywood cinema, ranging from the silent era to the #MeToo movement of today. It serves as a crucial counteragent to over a century of deliberate downplaying of female filmmakers – and their influence on cinema – by an industry that is still male dominated. Forgotten pioneers of the filmmaking world, such as Alice Guy and Anita Loos, have had their contributions to the industry airbrushed from the ‘canon’ of cinema. The effects of this systematic airbrushing of history negatively impacts practically all prospective female or minority filmmakers today. This topic epitomises the importance of new perspectives to cinema, a fact not lost on O’Hara. O’Hara affirms that it wasn’t pre-destined that cinema would end up as another patriarchal cultural institution. “Not all of it was deliberate, some of it was Hollywood trying to advertise sound, and make it clear that sound was worth investing in.” This, in turn, led to the death of silent film – where the male/ female playing field was considerably more level. “That was kind of an unfortunate side effect that women were affected by.” But it’s impossible to ignore that hostile forces pushed female filmmakers out of cinema over a prolonged period, and still continue to do so. A toxic inclination still stains the industry: O’Hara points out the “subconscious [attitude] of saying ‘what does a director look like? He looks like that guy; he doesn’t look like her’”.
Representation in cinema has long been an issue, and O’Hara concedes that everyday can be a battle. “I’ve been doing mental gymnastics for years; I think you have to as a female film fan,” O’Hara explains. “You’re always mentally adding a caveat, you just know he’s had opportunities that a female director or star wouldn’t have had... you just have to mentally acknowledge that and move on, or you’d just get really depressed, angry and frustrated.” This perspective on film is the product of cinema’s grotesque track-record with marginalising female, LGTBQ+ and non-white filmmakers and actors. To even have to hold this attitude while consuming cinema is an injustice, and it’s one that is distressingly ever-relevant even today. The consequences of this underrepresentation both in the canon of cinema and in the current landscape are far-reaching.
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O’Hara, in her book, shares one alarming anecdote of how Amma Asante – BAFTA award-winning director of A Way of Life (2004) and Belle (2013) – reacted with horror at the notion of directing her own screenplay. Only after her agent insisted that she was more than capable of directing her feature debut herself did she grab the reins – the rest is history. Asante’s instinctive desire to entrust her work into “the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing” – subconsciously, she imagined a male director – is an indictment of the status of equality in cinema. “It’s really antithetical to anybody in Hollywood to admit that there are structural forces standing in their way,” O’Hara explains. “It’s quite hard to get female directors to admit openly that they face these issues. It’s a Catch-22: if you complain, it’s sour grapes. If you don’t complain, nobody pays attention.” This Catch-22 is the dilemma underrepresented filmmakers face in the film industry. It’s understandable that many aspiring female filmmakers simply try to “play the game”, considering the exhaustive evidence that speaking up about the inequality they face is a one-way ticket to ‘movie jail’. O’Hara brings up Mimi Leder and Patty Jenkins as textbook examples of this phenomenon. Mimi Leder, a heavyweight in the 90s TV industry, made the leap to blockbuster cinema with successes like The Peacemaker (1997) and Deep Impact (1998). However, she followed this up with drama Pay It Forward (2000), which received poor reviews and was a moderate box-office flop. She wouldn’t make another Hollywood film for eighteen-years, ending a long and involuntary return to TV with Ruth Bader Ginsburg biopic On the Basis of Sex (2018) – which, as O’Hara notes in her book, is humorously appropriate. In Patty Jenkins’ case, there was a fourteen-year gap between her Oscar-winning character study Monster (2003) and box office smash Wonder Woman (2017), which further exhibits the lack of faith given to female filmmakers by the patriarchal institutions of Tinseltown. These cases highlight the urgency forus to continue to explore ‘new perspectives’ of cinema. In this case, the new perspective is acknowledging the extensive history of female filmmakers that has been – and continues to be – excised from Hollywood’s history. New perspectives on film afford a more threedimensional and progressive attitude in ourselves and our outlook on film. This is a vital outlook to have, especially if you aspire to be part of the next wave of filmmakers. O’Hara places emphasis on the importance of this. “The simplest thing you can do is listen,” she advises. “Go on Twitter, go on
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social media, follow some deaf activists, some black activists. Follow people with different perspectives, and different life experiences; learn what people are complaining about, learn what the issues are.” The importance of remembering the trailblazers of cinema that have been lost to the patriarchal epidemic of Hollywood is irrefutable. Equally important is being aware of these issues and making sure we don’t perpetuate them. “Listen to diverse voices and educate yourself on what the issues are,” O’Hara affirms. “The Deadpool 2 writers saying they had never heard the term ‘fridging’ – don’t be that guy! Know what ‘fridging’ is, know what these terms are, know what these people are complaining about and asking for.” If you don’t know what ‘fridging’ means, you know what your first step is.
-Luke Bradley
Embodying the chilling effects of Dario Argento’s horror subgenre ‘giallo’ thrillers and the voyeuristic sensibility of Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom (Michael Powell, 1960), Censor (Prano Bailey-Bond, 2021) is the feature length directorial debut of Prano BaileyBond. The film is a welcome addition to the cannon of inventive horror movies that not only depict gory violence but examine why we watch it. It is the mid 1980’s in Britain and the ‘video nasties’ debate is at its height. The low-budget horror movies containing scenes of severe and pornographic brutality are causing widespread outrage among the media and public about their effect on ‘impressionistic young children’ and their blending of ‘fact and fiction’. Interacting directly in this environment is our chief protagonist Enid Baines (Niamh Algar). As a strict film censor, Enid is committed to eradicating as much barbarity and savagery as possible in a desire to protect society from their pernicious influence. That is until she comes across a film that seems to re-enact her sister’s disappearance at the age of seven, an event which has traumatised Enid ever since. From this point onwards the stability of real life starts to unravel as Enid rapidly descends into an ever-increasing hysteria. Credit must first be attributed to Bailey-Bond, her cinematographer Annika Summerson and production designer Paulina Rzeszowska, whose combined efforts produced an omnipresent atmospheric unease and tension that did not falter from beginning to end. Achieving this, was the deliberate textured gloominess of the frame’s composition, the constant close-ups of Enid’s facial contortions and nervous tic and the gloomy stagnancy of virtually ever setting from the film censorship office to the public underground. The filmmakers went as far as shrinking the aspect ratio to spatially communicate the declining lucidity of Enid as time progressed. This is not to mention Emilie Levienaise-Farrouch music, which seemed to pervade and intensify every shot, echoing Argento’s masterpiece Deep Red (Dario Argento, 1975).
Like contemporary horror movies such as Jordan Peele’s US (Jordan Peele, 2019) or Ari Aster’s Midsommar (Ari Aster, 2019), Bailey-Bond’s film accomplishes the fiendish challenge of convincingly displaying the fraying of society’s conforming forces on the main character. Yet on a more profound level this is utilised to convey the film’s underlying message. Although separate and with drastically different motivations, Enid is similar to Mark Lewis (Karlheinz Böhm) in Peeping Tom, an artistic tool used to question the factors that compel us to watch and engage in these visual narratives. Is it a desire for escapist fantasy? Or a hidden pleasure we derive from accessing someone else’s world unbeknownst to them? Or perhaps a combination of both? The film’s ending hints at an answer without being definitive, leaving it to the audience to speculate and interpret. This review cannot go on without mentioning the performance of Niamh Algar. Her portrayal of Enid is superb, selling the viewer utterly on her characters’ fall into delirium and hallucinatory righteousness. Nonetheless the film is not without its blemishes. It is too short at 84 minutes, whether down to the script or financial constraints, the dramatic effect would have been enhanced if there had been a more prolonged balance before its decisive tonal change. Ultimately though, Censor is a brilliantly crafted and refreshingly thought-provoking horror movie. The film is a welcome addition to the cannon of inventive horror movies that not only depict gory violence but examine why we watch it. James Mahon reviews Prano Bailey-Bond’s Censor, which is released in Irish cinemas this Friday.
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Lin Manuel Miranda’s fall from grace was sudden and public. Legitimate criticisms about his hit musical ‘Hamilton’ glorifying slave owners soon descended to lip biting memes on TikTok. However, a common theme throughout Miranda’s career seems to be a lack of self-awareness, an aggressively earnest belief in himself and an adamant certainty that he can do no wrong. This fatal flaw has followed him throughout his career and helped him become the symbol of ‘fake-wokeness’ and ‘millennial cringe’, and it has most definitely followed him to the adaptation of his 2008 musical ‘In the Heights’. Whether it be the ignoring of the Afro-Latino community or Miranda’s butt-clenching awkward cameo, In the Heights (Jon M. Chu, 2021) despite not being directed or adapted for the screen by Miranda, it still has all his failings. However, its problems run deeper than that. With the looming threat of gentrification, simply getting by is becoming more and more of a challenge for the residents of Washington Heights. In The Heights follows the dynamic citizens of this neighbourhood as they struggle to find a better life. In the Heights is the kind of film that reminds you of the importance of cinemas. Director John M. Chu creates a vibrant and bombastic world. Every closed door or dropped box or even step taken is intentional, creating a rhythm to the world, an immersive experience worth the €15 ticket and criminally overpriced popcorn. It also feels like a return to movie musicals’ roots. With the exception of The Greatest Showman (Michael Gracey, 2017), recent musicals seem to think the only way to be taken seriously is to be as gritty as possible, like if they were fun, they wouldn’t stand a chance at winning an Oscar. In the Heights doesn’t fall into this trap; while it doesn’t stick to serious subject matter all the time, it isn’t afraid to be camp either. Every song feels like an event, whether it be the grandiose ‘96,000’ or the intimately romantic ‘When the Sun Goes Down’. It’s hard not to watch the musical numbers with a smile on your face. It’s when the music stops that the problems begin. Chu, Miranda and screenwriter Quiara Alegría Hudes seem to be tackling a smorgasbord of issues. From gentrification to immigration to racial discrimination, In the Heights tries to be a film that talks about every issue facing Latin Americans, but instead essentially covers none. By biting off more than it can chew, In the Heights strips all the nuance from every issue and instead gives us a surface level exploration of overly-simplified issues affecting characters that aren’t developed enough for us to truly understand. Except for the protagonist Usnavi (Anthony Ramos), characters seem to let go of strongly held beliefs at the drop of a hat, giving audiences whiplash. It’s a shame that with In the Heights Chu fell into the same trap as Miranda. Skimming over important issues to seem woke without going into the depth they deserve. If the film had picked just one character to focus on and gave their story the nuance it deserved, then In the Heights could have been a modern classic, telling a story absent from mainstream cinema. But instead, In the Heights is a film best enjoyed by turning off your brain and enjoying the fun songs.
- Katie McKenna
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Where The Wild Things Are A Perspective Changing Film
Three years ago, while working at a filmmaking summer camp on a rainy day, I put on my favourite childhood film Where the Wild Things Are (Spike Jonze, 2009) for the campers, and left to catch up on some editing. An hour later my boss walked into my edit suite, arms crossed. “Katie, all the kids are crying”. Where the Wild Things Are follows Max (Max Records), a 9-year-old who runs away from his unhappy home to an island full of friendly creatures which may not be as idyllic as it first seems. When I got home from the summer camp that day, I put on the film again. How could a movie that had meant so much to me and made me want to tell my own stories cause so much upset? I hadn’t remembered the plot, just the elation I’d felt walking out of the cinema. I knew immediately that I wanted to make films too.
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However, as I rewatched, the darkness within the film became more and more apparent. I don’t know what drew a child as sheltered as myself to this film. It follows a lonely kid trying to find his place in the world while he struggles to deal with bullies, and parents who can’t quite be the heroes we expect them to be. After watching it again, I think it was its honesty. Growing up, we don’t have the answers - even now, we don’t - and most kids films are afraid to admit it. Seeing a story come together with a lesson and a neat bow, always felt inauthentic.
Where the Wild Things Are first showed me films weren’t there to teach me a lesson, they were here to tell me I wasn’t alone. They were here to show that you aren’t the only one who was sad or confused or anxious. Simply existing in this world is hard enough: we don’t need lessons, we need support. We need to know we’re not alone, and Where the Wild Things Are showed me that’s what films are for. Looking back, I don’t regret putting on that movie. Those tears didn’t mean they hated the film, it meant they felt something while watching it. And that’s what cinema is for.
- Katie McKenna Page 16
A Parting Note We sincerely thank all of our contributors and team members who dedicated thier time to create this issue. If you would like to get involved with TFR please email us at : trinityfilmreview@gmail.com
From the Designer I hope you enjoyed reading New Perspectives, our summer series issue. I know you’re a busy character but I coudn’t let you close the magazine without explaining myself first. Much of the design art for the issue was inspired by the work of Canadian painter,
Alex Colville.
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Colville’s art famously inspired many iconic cinematographers. The depth and symetry of his paintings lends itself well to the likes of Wes Anderson. The lighthouse scene in Moonrise Kingdom (2012) closely resembles Colville’s To Prince Edward Island (1965). Both the movie and Colville’s work explore ways that the human eye digests a scene. Michael Mann’s Heat (1995) features a reimagining of the well known 1967 painting Pacific. Here, Colville depicts an uneasy scene of contemplation set against the placid blue ocean. The most interesting art impresses upon the audience the strange minutiae of everyday life, observing the mundane from a new perspectice of hopeful trancendance.
- Seamus Conlon
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