True Detective

Having originally missed the highly praised True Detective when it first aired on television, I was one of many who clamoured with excitement at the new Blu-ray release. And yes, while £32.99 for an eight episode season is a little steep (no wonder you’re struggling, HMV), the price tag is ultimately justified by the shows sheer quality.

The brainchild of Nic Pizzolatto, True Detective sets out to dismantle the traditional “buddy cop” movie, and to redefine the genre as a whole. Surprisingly then, the narrative of True Detective is nothing new, at times bordering on clichéd. Mismatched Louisiana detectives Rust Cohle (Matthew McConaughey) and Marty Hart (Woody Harrelson) must overcome their differences in order to solve a sinister homicide, all the while accidentally infuriating their superiors. Sound familiar? While the plot could have been copy and pasted from generic thrillers like Bad Boys or Lethal Weapon, True Detective owes much more to David Fincher’s Se7en, often treading in territory usually reserved for the horror genre.

Although the plot is somewhat formulaic, Pizzolatto seems to have little interest in narrative, instead opting to explore the turbulent private lives of Cohle and Hart. In a quite brilliant twist, True Detective has two narrative strands unravelling simultaneously; the first of which follows a young Cohle and Hart as they struggle to solve a disturbing homicide in 1995, while the second narrative is set 17 years later, where the two protagonists (who haven’t spoken to each other for ten years) are being questioned about their involvement in the infamous case of 95. This clever format allows for some significant narrative manipulation, and ensures that the audience are almost always kept in the dark from the word go.

The drama unfolds in the hurricane ravaged swamplands of Louisiana; a savage landscape, at once beautiful and utterly devoid of hope. Cari Joji Fukunaga’s direction is astounding, his camera languishing on the lush foliage, barren marshland and desolate corn fields that infuse True Detective with sinister melancholy; a sense of paradise lost. With the likeness of a macabre Malick, Fukunaga is seemingly fascinated by the twisted logic of nature, its cruelty, and its utter lack of morality – characteristics that True Detective would claim to expose in us as a species.

The emergence of McConaughey as a significant acting talent has stunned many over the past few years. A bizarre, yet brilliant, performance in Friedkin’s Killer Joe back in 2011 revealed a McConaughey nobody had seen before, and following knockout performances in Magic Mike, Mud, Wolf of Wall Street and Dallas Buyers Club, the Texan has established himself among Hollywood’s elite. Needless to say, McConaughey’s portrayal of the nihilistic Rust Cohle does not disappoint. Mesmerising from start to finish, Cohle is True Detective’s dark heart; mysterious, sinister and wildly enjoyable to watch. Cohle’s defining moment comes in the final episode, when, confronted with death, his entire belief system is called into question – McConaughey hits it out of the park.

Harrelson, while not able to match the deranged intensity of his partner, is on top form. Unlike Cohle, Marty Hart is a family man, forever trying, and failing, to do right by his wife and kids. This isn’t uncharted territory for Harrelson then, but the chemistry he creates with McConaughey is electric, and there’s rarely a dull moment when the two share the screen. Michelle Monaghan offers strong support as Marty’s wife, and while most other characters are transitory, appearances from the likes of Kevin Dunn and Shea Wigham ensure that the audience never loses interest in the various characters that drift in and out of episodes.

True Detective forever lingers in the cool shadow of the Southern Gothic, the show’s plot and setting a modern rendition of the macabre tales of Flannery O’Connor. Likewise, many of Cohle’s deeply nihilistic monologues could have been torn from an unwritten McCarthy novel, so bleak is his unique philosophy. Like the classic Southern Gothic novel, True Detective is obsessed with the flaws of its protagonists, and of our society as a whole, where evil forever lurks in the darkness.

Unfortunately, the final piece of the puzzle Hart and Cohle so desperately seek is a bit of a let-down. The writing from episode to episode is exceptional, and it simply feels like we’ve been unnecessarily cheated with what is quite frankly a disappointing reveal. Even theories offered by fans seem like more logical – and better – alternatives to the narrative development chosen by the writers.

Small gripes aside, True Detective is a tremendous viewing experience. Eight episodes of unadulterated brilliance, an uncompromising assault on the senses from the opening frame, and a brutally taught finale that owes a fair debt to Silence of the Lambs. Perhaps more a repackaging of the buddy detective genre, rather than a reinvention, True Detective remains a stellar achievement none the less. Also, The Handsome Family’s Far From Any Road is a contender for best TV show theme tune, ever!

Season two is already in development apparently, with Colin Farrell set to star. I’d love to see Pizzolatto and Fukunaga tackle a new case, with new detectives, and a new location, but I can’t help thinking that McConaughey and Harrelson have set a standard that may prove extremely difficult to top.

Twisted. Bleak. Macabre. Horrifying. Bold. Brilliant. Uncompromising. A Southern Gothic masterpiece.

Captain Phillips (2013) Review

Director Paul Greengrass is clearly on familiar ground here. Carefully treading water between the terrorist-fuelled tension of United 93, and the relentless action of his Bourne instalments, Captain Phillips stands as the British director’s finest achievement to date.

An honest dramatisation of real life events, Captain Phillips documents the hijacking of large cargo ship the Maersk Alabama by Somali pirates in April 2009. The ship’s captain, Richard Phillips, was taken hostage by the pirates and held prisoner until his rescue at the hands of Navy Seals five days later.

It is immediately clear that Captain Phillips is a classically “Greengrass” film. All of his trademarks are present; the handheld cameras, relentless close-ups, obsession with detail and the frenetic camera movement. Initially distancing, and occasionally frustrating, the shaky camera work and tight framing inject Captain Phillips with a claustrophobic sense of realism. One can see what Greengrass – a former documentarian himself – is attempting; this is a true story, and it should be told as realistically as possible.

Utterly absorbed in the smallest of details, Greengrass is determined to show both sides of the coin in this desperate tale of globalisation. Early in the film, Phillips confides in his wife that he fears for their children in a world that is rapidly changing. “You gotta be strong to survive out there” he frets. After immediately cutting to the Eastern coast of Africa, Greengrass strives to convey the hardships endured by the Somali pirates, led by the desperate Muse. The brutal circumstances endured by the Somalis leave the pirates with little choice. Muse later confesses to a disbelieving Phillips that he has only two options in life; fish, or hijack ships.

Greengrass stresses to establish that there are no heroes or villains in his film, only powerless victims of circumstance. Indeed, the even handed approach of Captain Phillips paints the pirates as the true victims; it is they who are ultimately doomed.

Ultimately, Richard Phillips is just a typical man, thrust into a perilous situation over which he, along with his captors, have little control. And when it comes to portraying the “everyman”, nobody does it better than Tom Hanks, who perfectly embodies the former cab driver Richard Phillips. It is in the film’s final stretch however, where Hanks moves into uncharted territory. Traumatised, terrified and exhausted, Phillips cool exterior finally capsizes in a touching display of raw emotion – masterfully portrayed by an almost unrecognisable Hanks.

Only a powerhouse performance from first-time Somali actor Barkhad Abdi prevents Hanks from stealing the show. Abdi’s portrayal of the desperado pirate Muse is undoubtedly a contender for debut of the year. Not at all intimidated by the screen presence of Hanks, Abdi dominates proceedings, his character at once a source of relentless danger and wistful empathy.

Captain Phillips only falters slightly when the action leaves the cargo ship. Once Phillips becomes entombed in the suffocating life raft with his captors, things slow down considerably. It’s a shame, because Greengrass has garnered thunderous momentum up until this point, only to let the narrative drift as the inevitable big finale looms ominously on the horizon.

Despite some minor flaws, Greengrass should be applauded for constructing a film that refuses to pull any punches. Captain Phillips is proof that movies can still be hugely intelligent without compromising on entertainment – now will someone please tell Michael Bay!?

Terrence Malick's the Tree of Life (2011)

Terrence Malick’s fifth film in four decades is inarguably an immensely personal endeavour. Awarded the treasured Palm D’Or at the Cannes film festival, the Tree of Life was simultaneously met with rigorous applause and derisive boos at its premier. Malick is renowned for his uncompromising cinematic vision, yet the Tree of Life has confused and divided audiences like never before.

The film chronicles the life of a young family growing up in Texas during the 1950’s, set against a backdrop of cosmic creation, universal inception and the end of life on earth. Oh, there are also some dinosaurs thrown in for good measure. If it sounds deep, that’s because it is. With the Tree of Life, Malick is fully committed to exploring the biggest question of all; what is the meaning of life?

Technically, Sean Penn is the film’s protagonist, yet his screen time is limited and his dialogue even more so. This isn't a criticism of Penn’s performance, on the contrary; his portrayal of the adult Jack is wrought with guilt and regret. Brad Pitt excels in the somewhat unflattering role of a domineering father at odds with the world and everything in it. The Tree of Life also happens to be the film that launched the now blossoming career of Jessica Chastain, who radiates compassion and grace in her splendid performance as the kind hearted mother of Jack. The real star performances of Tree of Life however, belong to the three young leads; Hunter McCracken, Laramie Eppler, and Tye Sheridan. McCracken in particular is spectacular as the troubled young Jack, desperately fighting to maintain his youthful innocence in the face of his advancing teenage years.

With the Tree of Life, Malick has created nothing short of a poet’s view of existence in this world.  The film pays little attention to narrative coherence, and instead demands that its audience observe, interpret and reflect upon events unfolding on screen. Never before has a film tackled themes of such tremendous weight, yet maintained enough emotional impact to resonate effectively with viewers. Kubrick’s masterful 2001: a Space Odyssey delved deep into philosophical debate and wowed audiences, yet left them cold and disengaged. The Tree of Life on the other hand, is malleable in its perception; the film itself is shaped by the very existential beliefs and ideas of the audience.

The Tree of Life plays host to an abundance of philosophical themes, yet most prevalent of all is the eternal struggle between nature and grace. Personified through the characters of Pitt and Chastain, the film explores the contrasting urges to satisfy basic human desires, and the will to show forgiveness, kindness, and mercy. Nature, like the character of Pitt, uses “fierce will” to get ahead in this world, whereas those who follow Chastain’s path of grace are able to live freely, accepting that many things are out with their control. Jack must navigate these conflicting ideals, resulting in an internal battle that demands the very essence of his youth; innocence.

At its core, the Tree of Life examines a man looking at his own existence, and what it means in relation to God and to the universe. The film seems to assert that everyone is connected, if only through the phenomenon of existence itself. Ultimately Malick would suggest that we are incapable of achieving true “meaning” within the context of the universe, but that our choices are of utmost importance to our own lives and of those around us – which is of significant meaning in itself.

For a film so ambitiously epic in scale and scope, the Tree of Life is able to connect on an extraordinarily intimate level. As he examines the loss of innocence, and the childhood realisation that the father figure is in fact fallible, Malick is trespassing on profoundly personal territory. Indeed, the Tree of Life is surely influenced at least in part by Malick’s own childhood. Growing up in Texas himself in the 1950’s, and losing a brother at a young age, the film certainly seems to carry an autobiographical overtone.

Impossibly ambitious, visually enthralling, and thematically dense, the Tree of Life is inarguably unique. Whilst certainly not to the taste of all, it would be foolish to deny the brilliance of Malick’s Magnum Opus. The dawdling pace and lack of linear narrative may be off putting to some, but even for non-Malick fans, this is downright essential viewing. Undoubtedly one of the very best films of the decade.

Criminally Underrated - Manhunter (1986)

Manhunter has lurked in the shadow of its big brother, Silence of the Lambs, ever since Jonathan Demme's disturbingly brilliant thriller met with huge critical and commercial success back in 1991. Yet Manhunter has it's fans. Despite amassing a feeble $8.6 million at the box office back in 1986, Michael Mann's take on the first Hannibal Lecter novel has developed a considerable cult following. Some even claim it's superior to Lambs itself. While I'm not entirely sold on that one, the quality of Manhunter is undeniable.

William Peterson (of CSI fame) stars as the troubled FBI agent responsible for apprehending the notorious Hannibal "the cannibal" Lecter. When serial killer "the tooth fairy" starts murdering entire families, leaving the FBI stumped, Graham has no choice but to offer his unique skill set in a desperate attempt to catch the killer before he strikes again.

First off, this film is infinitely superior to its glossy remake, Red Dragon. Not that Brett Ratner's offering is lacking in quality, it's just that Manhunter is an excellent example of what the modern thriller is capable of. Brian Cox is captivating as the evil Dr Lecter, and yes, he is every bit as good as Anthony Hopkins iconic portrayal of the same character. Cox has limited screen time to work with, but still succeeds in making a lasting impression. 

There is no doubt that Manhunter is immediately recognisable as a Michael Mann film. A pulsating synthetic soundtrack, and a colour palette dominated by cool blues and pale greens instantly give the game away. Even from a thematic perspective, the film screams Mann.

Dollarhyde, played here by Tom Noonan, offers a unique take on the serial killer stereotype. His villain is not a creation of pure evil, nor is he shown reveling in the anguish of his victims, instead, Mann paints Dollarhyde as the offspring of a broken society unable to effectively cater for his needs. We actually bear witness to very few of Dollarhyde's violent tendencies, Mann is instead content to examine the aftermath of the violence. Indeed, Graham's inspections of the victims houses are unbearably tense, and more than a little disturbing. Mann is not afraid to let his camera linger, motionless, long after the action is finished. Holding a shot for as long as it still contains power, we are encouraged to absorb every last creepy detail of his haunting film. 

Manhunter seems especially concerned with depicting the long term effects of cases like the Dollarhyde killings on the psyche of Graham. The film relentlessly highlights the vast similarities that exist between Graham and his psychotic prey. What Mann seems to be suggesting is that it's impossible to truly understand - and catch - a serial killer without becoming alike, at least to some degree. 

Mann would go on to explore the intense relationship between the hunter and the hunted in his 1995 crime saga, Heat. Like Heat, Manhunter is not concerned with the exploits of the antagonist; instead Mann is fascinated by the all-consuming chase, and the psychological toll it exerts on the hero. For Graham, perhaps the toil was worth it. Perhaps. But characters in Mann's later films don't always fair so well.

Easily standing as one of the finest films in the Hannibal Lecter saga, Mann's heavily stylized exploration of the true cost of catching a killer is fantastically enjoyable. Is it as good as Lambs? Maybe not. But it's every bit as enjoyable. Highly recommended. 

Bladerunner (1982) - Is Deckard a Replicant?

Bladerunner is an odd sort of film. A commercial flop on release, Ridley Scott's mysterious neo-noir sci-fi flick has developed a cult following rivaled only by the illustrious Fight Club. Perhaps audiences in 1982 just weren't ready for Scott's majestically cynical vision of the future. Or, maybe studios forced the poor guy to fuck around with the ending. Yes, that sounds more likely.

Now, over thirty years later, Bladerunner exists in three different edits. The definitive version, according to Scott, is the "final cut" edition released in 2007 to mark the film's 25th anniversary. Interestingly, this version is arguably the less ambiguous of the three, and allows for a more informed reading of Scott's dystopian fantasy.

Set in a futuristic Los Angeles, Bladerunner follows the struggles of Deckard, a reluctant Harrison Ford who specialises in killing dangerous androids known only as Replicants. When four exceptionally powerful Replicants escape and wreak havoc in LA, Deckard is tasked with stopping them.

It's almost impossible to mention Bladerunner without delving into the "is Deckard a Replicant" theory. Scott strives to make it fairly clear in his final cut, perhaps because audiences today don't react well to ambiguity. Although interestingly, Harrison Ford has said on numerous occasions that he did not believe Deckard to be a Replicant. Indeed, Ford has referenced several conversations between himself and Scott where the pair agreed that Deckard was human. Yet despite this, Scott himself has refused to admit that Deckard is a human. So let's look at the facts.

Deckard's apartment is cluttered with photographs, none of which appear to be in colour, which would suggest that they are of significant age. Photographs are highly treasured by Leon, a renegade Replicant who returned to his dwelling despite obvious danger in a desperate attempt to retrieve his photos. Similarly Rachael - another Replicant - uses photographs in a futile attempt at convincing Deckard of her humanity. Scott makes it clear that photographs are of utmost importance to Replicants because it gives them the illusion of having "real memories", providing ties to a non-existent past. This begs the question, what do the photographs in Deckard's apartment symbolise?

Doubt is again cast over Deckard's humanity during his first encounter with Rachael. The Replicant asks him whether he has successfully passed the android test himself, a question to which he offers no reply. Scott is a director who recognises the importance contained in the slightest of details, so do not underestimate what Deckard's silence represents in this scene.

Later in the film, whilst in his apartment with Rachael, the eyes of Deckard glow ever so briefly like those of a Replicant. Whilst very discreet, this becomes clear during repeat viewings, and again I highly doubt this is carelessness on Scott's behalf. The eyes of Replicant's glow very occasionally, as if to portray a design flaw and to suggest that they are not perfectly manufactured at all. Indeed, in Bladerunner the eye is portrayed as a two way mirror; able to see magnificent things, as famously depicted by Roy Batty, but which can also give away just as much, as revealed in Deckard's android test.

Perhaps the most obvious indicator of Deckard's true self is the notorious unicorn dream. Famously absent from earlier versions of Bladerunner, the final cut sees Deckard dream of a startlingly white unicorn whilst asleep in his apartment. Now here's the clever bit. Earlier in the film Deckard was able to convince Rachael of her artificial nature by declaring his knowledge of her most personal memories and dreams. As Rachael is a Replicant, her memories are merely implants that Deckard has been able to research. Meanwhile, throughout the film, Deckard's supervisor Gaff continually manufactures small origami figurines. In the final scene of the film, Deckard flees his apartment with Rachael only to discover a small origami unicorn beside his door. This would imply that Gaff knows about Deckard's unicorn dream, and would strongly suggest that the dream was an artificial implant.

I'm going to run with this unicorn idea for a little while longer. Later in the film, whilst Pris resides in the apartment of J.F Sebastian, we can again see a unicorn, this time in the form of a toy crowded by J.F's numerous other creations. Consider that the job of J.F is to help create Replicants. Isn't it possible that the unicorn is a personal touch added by him in the design process of the artificial mind; a recurring dream that all Replicants share?

After watching Bladerunner, many puzzled film-goers can't understand why Roy Batty would save Deckard. Some argue that Batty wanted to instill Deckard with his knowledge, so that he could live on in some spiritual sense after his body decayed. I'm not buying it. I think Batty saw something of himself in Deckard as he hung desperately from the ledge. A burning desire to live perhaps? Or, something artificial? After all, Batty does shout "kinship" as he saves Deckard by grabbing his hand. Soon after this, Gaff congratulates Deckard by saying that he's done a "man's" job. Now I know that it's a fairly common phrase, but in the context of this film questions have to asked...

Many state that Deckard simply couldn't have been a Replicant, as he was noticeably weaker than the androids he fought against. This is true, yet he wasn't weaker than Rachael. And if, like Rachael, Deckard was programmed not to know his artificial nature, the only way to maintain the charade would be to give him "average", human abilities. After all, doesn't it make sense to have a Replicant hunt other Replicants? Surely it would be a job too dangerous for a human.

After viewing Bladerunner multiple times over the years, I stand convinced that Deckard is indeed a Replicant - regardless of what Harrison Ford has to say on the matter. Yet, the very fact that the question cannot be answered with true certainty highlights just how effectively Sir Ridley has portrayed his ultimate thematic debate; what does it mean to be human?

A Closer Look at Alien (1979)

Few films have achieved the iconic status of Ridley Scott’s first fateful venture into space. To this day, Alien stands as a shining example of what the sci-fi genre is capable of. Scott’s masterwork remains one of the most revered films of the past forty years.

Despite the shower of awards bestowed on Gladiator, Scott’s best work can undoubtedly be found in his early futuristic visions. Both Alien and Bladerunner rightfully rank among the best sci-fi movies ever made. Whereas the complex ambiguities of the latter film can divide audiences, the technical mastery of Alien garners universal acclaim.

Released in 1979, Alien is set in the distant future and follows the crew of commercial mining vehicle the Nostromo as they return to earth. When the ship intercepts a distress beacon from an uninhabited planet, the crew decide to investigate. What they discover will endanger everyone on board…

Alien boasts an impressive cast. Sigourney Weaver stars as the now iconic Ellen Ripley, the resilient security officer of the Nostromo. The ships doomed captain is expertly played by the ever reliable Tom Skerritt, and Ian Holm portrays the enigmatic science officer Ash. Alien was one of the first mainstream films to feature a heroic female equal to the men she shares a screen with. Scott would pursue this idea of a strong female protagonist throughout his career, in films like Thelma and Louise, G.I. Jane or Prometheus.

Unlike many horror films, Alien holds back on the scares for a significant chunk of the film. Scott masterfully orchestrates this prolonged build up until the tension reaches fever pitch. When we finally arrive at Kane’s iconic death scene, Alien goes for the jugular and doesn't let up until the credits roll. The claustrophobic interior of the Nostromo only serves to intensify the fear of the alien threat; best exemplified in a thrilling scene where Dallas hunts the creature through the ships ventilation system.

Few films can compete with Alien when it comes to atmosphere. Scott’s technical mastery is astounding; his camera floats through meticulously constructed corridors, gracefully capturing the smallest details of life in outer space. Even now, over three decades later, Alien remains a film of staggering beauty. The set design is flawless, and Scott instills an epic sense of scale that still impresses today. A colossal sense of discovery permeates the first half of the film; watch in amazement as Dallas and his crew enter the alien vessel for the first time. This is clearly film-making on an unprecedented scale.

Alien is a film steeped in sexual symbolism. Indeed, as the film both starts and ends with characters sleeping, Scott’s odyssey of horror can be interpreted as a twisted Freudian nightmare. The alien itself - designed by creative genius H.R. Giger - is a majestic creation of sheer terror. An invader from the boundaries of the subconscious, the alien is a creature of nightmares. 

The various forms of the alien are all undoubtedly iconographically male. The impregnating “facehugger”, the neo-natal snake and the fully grown monster complete with elongated head and retractable jaws all reinforce the hidden subtext of the film; rape.

In contrast, the bio-organic alien vessel pregnant with eggs is clearly symbolic of the female body. The damp, dark tunnels of the Nostromo, controlled by the manipulative “mother” are also an example of this feminist symbolism. These female representations are violated continually throughout the film by the masculinity of the alien. The creature itself can be interpreted as the missing phallus of the “mother”, due to its phallic nature and its origin in the womb of the alien vessel. Indeed, many of Alien's terrors are grounded in archetypal fears of woman’s otherness, her alien body and its natural functions.

A blueprint for the horror genre as we know it, Alien stands as one of the most influential films of the past fifty years. Never again has sci-fi been this scary. Never again has horror been this clever. Never again has Ridley Scott been this good!

The Place Beyond the Pines (2012) Review

In his previous outing, Blue Valentine, director Derek Cianfrance explored what it means to both fall in and out of love. Widely regarded as one of the best films of 2010, Blue Valentine established Cianfrance as a cinematic talent destined for greatness. His next project sees him reunite with muse Ryan Gosling in what is his most ambitious film yet.

If Blue Valentine was Cianfrance’s answer to the rom-com, then the Place beyond the Pines can be viewed as his unique take on the action thriller. Needless to say, this isn’t Bad Boys; Michael Bay fans need not apply. With Place beyond the Pines, Cianfrance examines the nature of the father son relationship, and highlights the ways in which everyday decisions can impact on an entire legacy.

Ryan Gosling portrays Luke Glanton, a nomadic Moto rider living on the fringes of society. Bradley Cooper plays Avery Cross, an ambitious cop with a powerful father. When Glanton discovers he has a baby son with past fling Rowena (Eva Mendes), he decides to become a father and quits his job as a travelling stuntman. Unable to support his family on minimum wage, Glanton resorts to robbing banks, a decision which changes the lives of both men and their families forever.

The thematic ties between Blue Valentine and Place beyond the Pines are clear. Both films explore the intimate details of human relationships, and make clear the impact of decisions and actions on characters and their families. With Place beyond the Pines, Cianfrance attempts to tie three closely linked stories in order to create one overriding narrative strand. Whilst the film is a success in this regard, its narrative structure highlights some problems.

The first act follows the financial and moral struggles of Glanton as he attempts to reconnect with his family. Gosling is on supreme form, showcasing yet another performance of muted subtlety reminiscent of his magical turn in Drive. Glanton is by far the most interesting character in the film, and his story arc makes for compelling viewing. And therein lies the rub. The first chapter of the film is so damn good that when the focus switches to the character of Avery Cross, one can’t help but feel cheated. While still a related story, the narrative shift is somewhat jarring.

Thankfully Cooper is utterly engrossing as the not entirely likeable Cross. Like Glanton, Cross is trapped in a system against which he struggles desperately. Both men strive to do the right thing, but inevitably fail as the pressure mounts. A brief appearance by Ray Liotta on scintillating form greatly helps the sagging middle section of the film regain momentum.

Where the film most struggles is in its final act, where the children of Glanton and Cross attempt to navigate the pitfalls of the local high school. Thematically, this is where Cianfrance drops his atom bombs. Narratively, however, this is Place beyond the Pines at its weakest point. Despite strong performances throughout, the plot slows to a standstill before working up to the big finale. It’s notoriously difficult to introduce new characters late in a film, so when Cianfrance switches the focus onto two completely unknown protagonists two hours into the film the narrative stalls.
That being said, Place Beyond the Pines excites and delights in equal measure. The high tracking shots of Glanton at one with his motor bike on the deserted rural roads are mesmerising, and linger in the mind long after the credits roll. Tension is sky high during the robbery scenes, and the story arcs of both Glanton and Cross are engaging throughout. Better still is Gosling's post robbery jig with a friends confused dog to the sound of Bruce Springsteen's Dancing in the Dark.

Despite some structural flaws, Place beyond the Pines remains essential viewing. The first hour is quite possibly the finest piece of filmmaking I’ve witnessed this year. Yes, it sags in places, but for the most part the story is riveting, and the acting is undeniably top notch throughout. Highly recommended.