The Lion King (2019)

 

The Low-Down: For the past decade, Disney has dedicated an immense amount of resources to translating its classic animated films into live-action blockbusters – with varying degrees of success. This new incarnation of The Lion King is unusual because it is, in itself, another kind of animated film: all its creatures, great and small, are computer-generated to look photo-real. The technical wizardry on display is undoubtedly impressive. But the final film winds up undermining its own existence – what is the point of re-making something that evidently works so much better with traditional hand-drawn animation?

The Story: If you’ve seen the original 1994 film, there’ll be no surprises here. We are introduced to the adorable Simba (voiced by JD McCrary as a cub, before ageing into Donald Glover), the little prince who will one day lead his pride as a king. But even the best-laid succession plans crumble into dust when Simba’s sinister uncle, Scar (Chiwetel Ejiofor), plots against reigning king Mufasa (James Earl Jones). After tragedy strikes, Simba is forced to build a new life for himself – even though his true destiny lies far closer to home.

The Good: There’s no denying that the cutting-edge technology used to bring Simba’s pridelands to life is really quite remarkable. It’s photo-real in a way that probably wasn’t possible even a few years ago, and you’d be forgiven for thinking you’ve stumbled onto a sublimely shot nature documentary if you watch this film without the sound on. That’s not advisable, however, as director Jon Favreau clearly put some effort into engineering a new soundscape for the film. Elton John’s score is beautifully refreshed, mixed with a fresh energy and rhythm that work very well (even though the new songs – Beyonce’s Spirit and John’s end-credits number, Never Too Late – aren’t particularly memorable). The new voice cast is mostly very appealing. Glover never quite manages to slip under Simba’s skin, but Ejiofor deliciously unearths several shades of evil as Scar, and John Oliver is a hoot as fluttery hornbill advisor Zazu.

The Not-So-Good: The biggest problem with this film is that its best feature also happens to be its worst. This new kind of photo-real animation looks great, but it somehow manages to appear life-like while lacking any actual life. As it turns out, hyper-realistic lions can’t emote or talk like humans, so it borders on the ridiculous (and unnerving) to have them do just that. Moments that broke your heart in the original 1994 film might make you giggle 25 years later. It’s unfortunate, too, that Favreau’s film hews so closely to its predecessor’s script and story beats. With that crucial spark of life – or soul, as it were – already missing from these lions, you’ll only become more aware of the weaknesses that have always been a part of Simba’s rather patchy emotional trajectory. (Chiefly: does he actually learn anything? Guilt and grief alone do not a character’s growth make.)

Comic Relief: Favreau’s film almost slavishly follows its predecessor, except it allows comedians Billy Eichner and Seth Rogen a little room to riff as Timon (meerkat) and Pumbaa (warthog) respectively. Together, they provide some of the film’s funniest – as well as its most annoying – moments. In one instance, they make an inspired reference to another classic Disney movie that’s a surefire crowd-pleaser, even though its cheeky meta-textuality adds to the film’s tonal woes.

Recommended? Not particularly. This Lion King is more misfire than masterpiece.

 

The Last Five Years (2015)

It’s hard to imagine being in the marketing department for The Last Five Years. Apart from its delightfully photogenic co-stars, nothing about this film is an easy sell. There’s a love story, sure, with occasional sides of romance and comedy. But it’s also laced through with more than its fair share of darkness and misery. The plot is deliberately non-linear, a messy stew of time and space that can be frustrating to casual viewers. Also, everybody sings. All. The. Time. It’s a conundrum, alright. The final decision – to play up the rom and the com – doesn’t do justice to Richard LaGravenese’s rich, dark and quite brilliant film about love, loss, and everything in between.

It’s difficult even to summarise the plot of the film, because its unusual structure is very much part of its narrative. We open on Cathy (Anna Kendrick), a woman Still Hurting by the end of her once happy marriage. The focus then switches to Jamie (Jeremy Jordan), a young man newly and deeply in love with Cathy. The rest of the film proceeds in that fashion: Cathy’s side of the story unfolds backwards, from heartbreak to happiness, while Jamie’s does the opposite. They meet, quite literally, in the middle, when the couple marry, promising each other The Next Ten Minutes – and more – of their lives.

These aren’t really spoilers for the film, at least not in any important way. In truth, it doesn’t matter if audiences know how the story ends.  The joy of The Last Five Years is in the journey. No one is allowed to simply sit still and wait for the adorable leads to meet cute and stay happy; no, anyone watching this film will have to work to really appreciate it. At every moment, as Cathy and Jamie’s lives, stories and songs intersect (or not), viewers must unravel the jumbled complexities of their five years together – the love, lust, and loss that comes when romance fades into relationship, with all the attendant hopes and disappointments of her failure as an actress and his success as a novelist.

Originally a musical crafted for a tiny stage, with just two actors singing their hearts out, The Last Five Years is tough to get right. Part of the point of Jason Robert Brown’s rich, complex score and lyrics is that the two leads hardly ever share a song – they’re each telling their side of the story, after all. As a result, it’s possible to completely misjudge and lose sight of the love that underlies all the heartaches that start to build up. Fortunately, LaGravenese handles this delicately and very well – he peppers his film with new bursts of dialogue that add depth to both characters and the connection they share.

More importantly, he allows Cathy and Jamie’s relationship to really take flight, even though the structure of the musical effectively compels them to fall in and out of love with every other song. One of the most offbeat numbers in the entire film, The Schmuel Song, can easily come off as an inconsequential ditty about a dude – that would be Schmuel – who makes dresses and talks to clocks. But LaGravenese grounds it firmly in Jamie’s unwavering love for Cathy at that point in their relationship. It’s the most deeply romantic thing he could possibly do for her when she feels worthless as a person and an actress: write her a story to give her hope. LaGravenese imbues most of the other songs with much of this same emotional weight, making sure that, even when things go off the rails, it’s impossible to forget how much Cathy and Jamie truly do (or did) love each other.

There are a couple of songs that make a more awkward transition from stage to screen – Cathy Skyping with Jamie about her dire theatrical experiences in A Summer In Ohio feels a little fluffy and clumsy, and there’s a perverse poetry that doesn’t quite work in Jamie’s confessional number, Nobody Needs To Know. The film can occasionally feel like a string of music videos, some better staged than others. But all is forgiven by the sublime final number, which makes fantastic use of the medium of film to create a thoroughly wrenching, emotionally powerful blend of hope and heartbreak.

The Last Five Years benefits enormously from the talent, charm and chemistry of its two leads, which help the film ride through its rougher spots. Jordan, a Tony-nominated stage actor, tears into his first lead role with plenty of enthusiasm. It goes without saying that he sounds wonderful, of course, but he hits the emotional notes of his character as well as the literal ones. He makes Jamie’s love for Cathy thoroughly real and tangible, even in a song that’s at least half about emotional manipulation (If I Didn’t Believe In You). More impressively, he manages to lend a little existential terror to Jamie’s less savoury decisions.

Kendrick, meanwhile, is fantastic as Cathy. Her vocal range isn’t as powerful as some actresses who have played the part on stage – see if you can spot two of them (Sherie Rene Scott and Betsy Wolfe) as they make cameos in the film – but she sounds beautiful, pulling off some impressive riffs that are quite uniquely her own. Better yet, she acts the part with so much conviction that Cathy’s heartbreak becomes the audience’s own. She plays wistful (A Part Of That) and hopeful (I Can Do Better Than That) remarkably well, whilst never forgetting to dig deep into a character who finds herself living in the shadow of her increasingly indifferent husband.

If you’re looking for a sweet and uncomplicated romantic comedy, you should probably steer clear of The Last Five Years. This is an uncompromising experience: a musical as deep and complex as the relationship it depicts. By and large, LaGravenese does justice to Brown’s wise, witty songs, crafting a tender, smart film that – in its own messy, troubled way – doubles as a metaphor for life and love.

Basically: A lovely, rich, utterly human gem of a musical about life, love and loss.

Song One (2015)

A pleasant if not especially memorable indie, Song One would have slipped completely under the radar and off the grid if not for Anne Hathaway, its star and producer. Hathaway’s name alone – not to mention her singing chops, as demonstrated to Oscar-winning effect in Les Miserables – would have brought in audiences eager to hear her sing her heart and soul out again about the horrors of life and men. Here’s the thing though: she doesn’t sing (much), though her character does experience quite a few ups and downs where the men in her life are concerned. Instead, the film uses its frequent musical interludes to sketch out a sweet if rather underwhelming story of family, loss and connection.

Franny (Hathaway) is working on her thesis in Morocco when she receives a call from her weeping mother, Karen (Mary Steenburgen) – Henry (Ben Rosenfield), the little brother she barely understands and had stopped speaking to after a fight, is in a coma after a car accident. Returning home to take up a vigil at Henry’s bedside, Franny tries to connect with her brother through the music and musicians he loves. As she retraces the path of her brother’s life through tiny hole-in-the-wall clubs across New York City, she meets and finds herself drawing closer to James Forrester (Johnny Flynn), Henry’s favourite indie musician.

You can’t fault writer-director Kate Barker-Froyland for ambition. She blends three storylines, each capable of carrying its own film, into Song One – there’s the heartwrenching family drama about how people must try to survive when death hovers nearby; a quirky romantic comedy about two unlikely souls finding each other; and a brooding treatise on the vagaries of the indie music industry. She mixes and mashes up the ideas and concepts reasonably well, as Henry’s coma prompts his sister to explore a world composed of song and lyric – one in which she previously had no interest.

The first half of the film is grittier and grimmer in tone, buoyed by a pair of sad, weary and very truthful performances from Hathaway and Steenburgen – mother and daughter smarting at the thought of losing Henry, while pushing each other away with all the love in their hearts. The unexpected friendship that Franny develops with James also begins in a charmingly bittersweet fashion – he turns up out of the blue to strum his guitar at Henry’s bedside, providing the soundtrack to Franny’s desperate pleas for her brother to wake up.

But Song One unravels a little as it goes on. Gritty gives way to predictable, and it’s hard to care as much when the family tragedy takes a backseat to the unfolding romance between Franny and James. This shift in focus isn’t helped by the fact that Flynn, who possesses a good singing voice, is a slightly blank presence onscreen – he’s never outright bad, but it’s hard to glean much of James’ supposedly sensitive soul from his performance, forcing his words or music to do the job.

Speaking of the music: the score and original songs by indie rock duo Jenny & Johnny are amiable enough – they’ve evocative, in parts, but never so catchy as to be really memorable. The exceptions are Afraid Of Heights, a cute little improvised ditty that nicely sums up the relationship between Franny and James; Silver Song, a heartfelt number that ties itself in quite effective, heartbreaking fashion into the narrative; and Little Yellow Dress, which sports lyrics so strange that the song threatens to jolt viewers right out of the film.

Like the deeply earnest clutch of indie songs that form its soundtrack, Song One is a largely pleasant, if not entirely pleasing, experience. The film hints at depth and layers that don’t quite bear up under scrutiny. At least Barker-Froyland doesn’t descend completely into mawkish predictability in the final frames, instead bringing the film to a close on a sweetly tentative note that could hold as much grief as hope. It’s an ending (or, perhaps, a beginning) that makes the entire journey worth it – almost.

Basically: Amiable but underwhelming, hitting as many bum notes as good ones.

Annie (2014)

Purists might rant and rail, but Annie was pretty much due for an update. The hit musical was first staged on hit Broadway almost forty years ago, and was set even further back – in 1930s Depression-era America. Setting this new movie adaptation in the present day is a really smart move, as is the decision to cast a little girl who’s definitely more representative these days of the poverty-stricken and forgotten souls in America. But, good intentions aside, this remake of Annie strikes more than a few false notes. The script and characters have been overhauled, largely for the worse, and the new songs mostly fall flat when they should soar.

Bright, bubbly Annie Bennett (Quvenzhané Wallis) is an orphan left in the toxic care of bitter wannabe rock star Colleen Hannigan (Cameron Diaz). Every Friday, Annie visits the local Italian restaurant where her parents left her many years ago – hoping to, one day, find her family again. Instead, she stumbles quite literally into the path of wealthy politician William Stacks (Jamie Foxx), who realises that Annie’s charm will greatly boost his prospects on the campaign trail. With the help of his personal assistant Grace (Rose Byrne), Stacks brings Annie to live with him. As the pair slowly become friends, he discovers that there’s more to life after all than making money and closing off his heart.

The smartest thing Annie did, after Will Smith’s daughter Willow withdrew from the then-vanity project on account of her “intuition”, was to cast Oscar nominee Wallis in the title role. It sends the right message – that a child living lost, forgotten and deprived on the streets isn’t a ginger-haired moppet but the kind of African-American girl who really does get lost in the system these days. Wallis doesn’t have the strongest set of pipes, but she’s incredibly charming (if somewhat stiff) in the role – dragging most of the mediocre script in her effervescent wake. She even turns one of the new R&B-infused songs, Opportunity, into something of a show-stopper, making up for her lack of a belt with plenty of emotion and drama.

But the rest of the film doesn’t quite live up to her potential or charisma. Annie may be intended as an updated tale for a new generation, but instead comes off as painfully old-fashioned and cliched. The lessons of social inequity and injustice folded into the Depression-era setting of the stage musical disappear into a heady and unironic celebration of capitalism. There’s some innovation to the soundtrack – the noises and bustle of the city form the percussive backdrop for a few numbers – but none of the songs really stands out beyond Tomorrow, the blisteringly optimistic earworm of an anthem you already knew anyway.

The adult cast members work hard, but don’t have much to work with. Foxx has the finest singing voice of the entire cast, and he jumpstarts the otherwise boring Stacks with some of his own electric personality. But his backstory is mostly bland and predictable. Byrne is super-sweet but largely wasted as Grace. Diaz, on the other hand, appears to have wandered in from another movie altogether. She plays Miss Hannigan in so loud and outsized a fashion – a pantomime creature trapped within her own delusions – that she manages to be both fascinating and incredibly annoying to watch. The less said about Bobby Cannavale as Stacks’ uber-slimy political advisor, the better.

Anyone harbouring nostalgia for older versions of Annie, be they the stage musical or the TV version starring the glorious Carol Burnett as Miss Hannigan, will be disappointed by this awkward new adaptation. It tries so hard to be hip and flashy – with Annie becoming a social media sensation and her friends receiving shiny new smartphones instead of parents – but winds up losing track of the heart of its own story. There’s something sadly ironic about a movie that’s meant to radiate optimism and good cheer but winds up being faintly depressing instead.

Basically: The new Annie looks great but doesn’t sound or feel quite as good.

Jersey Boys (2014)

Jukebox musicals – musicals constructed out of an existing catalogue of songs – don’t typically boast the strongest of plots. Most of the time, story and character have to get out of the way for yet another toe-tapping number. To some extent, this applies to Broadway smash hit Jersey Boys, which has been playing to packed houses since 2005. But it’s also easy to see why director Clint Eastwood was drawn to the material: there’s a comparative depth of character to this rags-to-riches true story of four boys escaping their mob-ruled neighbourhood in Jersey through the music they made together. Eastwood mines this very well for his film adaptation, although he does lose a little of the musical’s energy and spark along the way.

Frankie (John Lloyd Young) is an apprentice hairdresser with the voice of an angel. Everyone thinks so, from local mob boss Gyp DeCarlo (Christopher Walken) to two-bit hustler Tommy DeVito (Vincent Piazza). Tommy cobbles together a band, anointing Frankie as lead singer, with Nick (Michael Lomenda) as bass vocalist. Playing in dives and rundown bars, it looks like they’re never going to hit it big and get out of Jersey. But the arrival on the scene of songwriter Bob Gaudio (Erich Bergen) changes everything. His music provides the re-christened Frankie Valli And The Four Seasons with a string of radio hits, but also upsets the dynamics within the group – which starts to slowly disintegrate even as its star rises.

In Eastwood’s hands, Jersey Boys can sometimes feel a little flat, like soda left out for too long on a hot day. You know something fizzy was once there, and the taste of it remains – but it’s also faintly disappointing. That’s largely because the film doesn’t quite seem to know what to do with its most crowd-pleasing musical numbers. They sound great (and are mainly shot with live vocals), but some are left to play in the background, while others – like Sherry and Walk Like A Man – are filmed in so straightforward a fashion that they barely register before they’re over. This curious lack of musicality – particularly odd given Eastwood’s own passion for music – is particularly keenly felt in the final third of the film, when Jersey Boys becomes Jersey Boy, and the story’s focus narrows squarely down to Frankie and his limply sketched-out relationship with wayward daughter Francine.

But Eastwood does a decent job with character development, even though he’s forced to grapple with some plainly paper-thin creations. (Why is mobster Gyp DeCarlo treated with such reverence when the only thing he can do to help with Tommy’s growing debts is serve as a kooky mediator?) Tommy, in particular, is a fascinating character – he struts through the first half of the film with a confident nonchalance that belies his passion and belief in Frankie – something even his band-mates doubt, through all their years of working together. It’s why the interplay amongst the characters works so well: Tommy grows anxious when Frankie and Bob cut a deal with each other, Bob snaps when Tommy gets the group in financial trouble, Nick drifts silently through it all until he can stand it no longer.

As always, Eastwood is remarkably canny in selecting his cast. Three of the four Seasons – Lloyd Young, Bergen and Lomenda – all come with theatre chops, having performed in the stage version of the show at some point in their careers. In fact, Lloyd Young – with his distinctive high notes and vocal trills – originated his part on Broadway, and it shows. Frankie is easily the most opaque character – we’re told his story; he never gets a chance to tell it to the camera like his compatriots do – but Lloyd Young shades a lot of sad nobility into this man who chooses to dig himself into a hole for a friend: a decision that, ultimately, costs him his family. The other standout is Piazza. Diehard fans might have railed at Piazza’s lack of stage experience, but his onscreen charisma is what Tommy sorely needs – and no doubt what Eastwood saw in him.

Put it all together, and Jersey Boys emerges as a solid if somewhat stiff adaptation of the musical. It misses a few beats, and loses a little bit of its emotional (and actual) rhythm along the way. But Eastwood keeps the character drama humming along well enough, and really makes it all work in the end: from a rousing performance of Frankie’s first solo hit, Can’t Take My Eyes Off You, in which he finally gets his long-awaited horn section; through to a reunion many years later that proves surprisingly emotional. By the time the credits roll, and the entire cast cuts loose in an utterly joyous rendition of December 1963 (Oh, What A Night), you’ll find yourself willing to forgive anything – including the film’s occasional pacing and musical sins.

Basically: A solid, thoughtful, if somewhat stiff adaptation of the rather more energetic Broadway musical.

Walking On Sunshine (2014)

Very few films aspire to the heights (or, more accurately, depths) of chirpy cheesiness achieved by Mamma Mia!: a cinematic guilty pleasure if ever there was one. Walking On Sunshine is that rare film which does. In fact, it’s dancing merrily into theatres, so intent on recreating the unexpected blockbuster success of Mamma Mia! that it’s forgotten to tweak the formula even a little bit. And so, we go from the sun-washed beaches of Greece to the sun-washed beaches of Italy, from cheesy but super-catchy ABBA tunes to cheesy but super-catchy 80s pop hits, from an awkward love affair to… an awkward love affair. Do you see where we’re going here? The unfortunate thing is that Walking On Sunshine never quite hits on that elusive magic which allowed Mamma Mia! to be so bad and so darn good at the same time.

Here’s how the story (what little there is of it) goes: Taylor (Hannah Arterton) meets and falls in love with gorgeous Italian hunk Raf (Giulio Berruti) on a sun-kissed beach in Italy. But the summer is drawing to an end, and she has to be responsible and go back to school. Three years later, when she finally graduates, Taylor returns to the same Italian village to meet her headstrong, impulsive sister Maddie (Annabel Scholey) – whereupon she learns that Maddie, on the rebound from her horrible ex Doug (Greg Wise), is due to get married in a matter of days. The twist in the tale, of course, is that Maddie is planning to marry Raf – the love of Taylor’s life.

In other words, the plot, such as it is, is flimsy and contrived. The narrative staggers predictably from song to song, whether it’s Taylor and Raf realising they still have feelings for each other (It Must Have Been Love), or Doug and Maddie crooning about their toxic relationship (Don’t You Want Me). The characters seem to function on the basis of narrative expediency: Doug, for instance, waltzes in and out of the film, teetering dangerously between unforgivable jerk and viable love interest. Truth be told, if you’re looking for depth or complexity, look away now. The film seems to operate on the blithe assumption that yet another karaoke-friendly song will sweep away the awkward writing that preceded it.

The film also falters somewhat where its cast is concerned. All of them are earnest to a fault, belting their numbers with more passion than skill. They certainly work incredibly hard at playing characters with little more complexity than a batch of paper dolls: Arterton is the textbook lovelorn but responsible girl, torn between her head and her heart, while Scholey sizzles efficiently as the bubbly Maddie. But they never really manage to give off the sheer, unmitigated joy that practically radiated from the A-list cast populating the Greek islands in Mamma Mia!. Of the supporting cast, comedienne Katy Brand wins most charismatic honours as the sisters’ best friend Lil – not something that can be said of X-Factor winner Leona Lewis, who should really stick to her day job.

To be fair, Walking On Sunshine does have its merits. If you’re in the right mood for it, it’s a silly, summery burst of fun – not quite as funny and sweet as you might want, but good enough in a pinch. Its soundtrack is great, jumping from Madonna (Holiday) to George Michael (Faith), before taking a delightful detour into tomato-strewn mayhem in the huge musical number that accompanies the title song. There are even a couple of unexpectedly rich character moments that come courtesy of the two sisters: Taylor’s bravery in returning for Maddie’s wedding is a surprisingly emotional moment and one of the high points of the film.

Of course, when it comes down to it, no amount of critical analysis will matter anyway. Walking On Sunshine is, quite simply, the kind of film that’s largely critic-proof. It may not even be as good as Mamma Mia!, and its story and characters are almost wilfully poorly-constructed. But it won’t matter because the film is also relentlessly fun, silly, sunny, and cheesy. Berruti is gorgeous to look at, as are the sun-kissed beaches of Italy. The songs are catchy, summery and joyous. That certainly doesn’t add up to ‘great’ but, if you’re open to it, it just might add up to ‘good enough’.

Basically: Nowhere near as great as its soundtrack, but this is harmless, cheesy fun if you’re in the mood for it.

Begin Again (2014)

You’ve seen it all before. Strictly speaking, Begin Again doesn’t have the most original of storylines – movies, specifically romantic comedies and sports movies, have long built their predictable happy endings out of opposites attracting, spinning tales of Disillusioned Person A finding inspiration from Disillusioned Person B, and vice versa. The fact that this film comes with added original music isn’t even that much of an innovation – writer-director John Carney did the same thing in Once, his own much-beloved musical romance from 2006. But, for all that, Begin Again remains appealing because it refuses to settle comfortably into any one genre. Funny, dramatic, romantic and platonic, the film navigates its cast of characters with much skill and tenderness.

Dan (Mark Ruffalo) is a mess: once a groundbreaking executive of his own indie record label, he’s floundering helplessly in a life he no longer recognises. He’s alienated his wife Miriam (Catherine Keener) and teenage daughter Violet (Hailee Steinfeld), and his partner Saul (Yasiin Bey a.k.a. Mos Def) has just fired him. Musically-inclined Greta (Keira Knightley) isn’t having all that great a time of it either: she moved to New York with her boyfriend Dave (Adam Levine), but he’s too busy having his head turned by fame and other girls as he hits the big time. When Dan hears Greta singing in a rundown bar, he resolves to make music with her – even if no one else believes he can do it.

When examined in its broadest strokes, Begin Again isn’t anything special. There’s never any doubt that this story will turn out well, that its protagonists will help each other move out of their dark romantic pasts. Its deliberately quirky-cute plot veers frequently towards the corny and predictable, as Dan and Greta set about making the indie-est of indie albums, guerrilla-style on the streets of New York. Of course they’ll meet like-minded, kooky people who help them achieve their goal. And yes, Dan will find a way to bond with Violet in the process, just as Greta figures out just what she wants (or doesn’t want) from her relationship with Dave.

But Begin Again is a far better film in its details, largely because Carney lavishes a lot of thought, love and hope on his characters. Dan, for one, grows as the film does, the layers of hurt and anger shrouding him and his bad choices slowly peeling away to reveal the damaged soul hiding beneath. There’s even something unexpectedly rich about the interaction between Greta and stereotypical bastard boyfriend Dave: he is every bit the jerk he appears onscreen, and yet, Carney lends credence to their relationship with some genuinely emotional moments, anchored by a song she writes for him (Lost Stars). Greta’s time with Dave, Carney seems to suggest, is not wasted, even if her trust in him might be misplaced. That’s an unusually complex thought for a film that’s so apparently slight.

The way the film ends, too, comes as a welcome surprise. Unlike the more vapid rom-coms for which it might be easily mistaken, Begin Again chooses to focus on a deeper kind of love story. The love that Dan and Greta eventually share is of a pleasingly unique kind – a connection that isn’t romantic or, at least, not purely so. They are also friends and kindred spirits: relationships that typically get short shrift the moment a guy and a girl are placed in the same scene together.

Having scored a hit with Once, Carney can now afford big-name Hollywood actors. Fortunately, he also chose A-list actors who have quite enough skill and charisma to make the hokier parts of the script work. Ruffalo again manages to lend Dan, a generally rumpled mess of rage, his own innate charm and sweetness. Even at his most reprehensible, Dan – in Ruffalo’s hands – feels more like a lost soul than an unforgivable one. Knightley makes up for her less-than-arresting singing voice with her most sympathetic performance in ages. James Corden turns in an amusing performance as Greta’s hapless panhandling friend Steve, although Keener – a fine character actress – is robbed of the opportunity to lend Miriam more depth (especially considering a revelation that comes later in the film).

Better in its execution than conception, Begin Again is an amiably tough-minded twist on a plot you’ve seen a thousand times before. The film never really reaches spectacular heights, nor does it re-invent the wheel. But it’s a smart, sweet and mostly very effective take on a story that could have been a hundred times more predictable and cloying. That, in itself, is quite the achievement.

Basically: A charming, largely effective twist on a tale that’s been told many times before.

Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)

In a movie industry that encourages simplicity and accessibility, the Coen brothers and their almost uniformly excellent, resolutely quirky films have always set themselves apart. Where most other directors and writers would celebrate the triumph of the human spirit, Joel and Ethan Coen craft movies that practically take delight in the futility of human endeavour. Life and its attendant twists and turns, their oddly-named characters discover, just happen to you, however you might try to dictate your own terms. Even their fizziest of comedies have a darker soul buried beneath the laughs.

In much the same vein, Inside Llewyn Davis defies easy categorisation. It’s ostensibly about the titular Llewyn Davis (Oscar Isaac), a struggling folk singer who couch-surfs across New York to avoid sleeping on the streets. For the week in his life that the camera stays with him, Llewyn is hunting for the cat that slipped out of his grasp when he was staying with the wealthy, Jewish Gorfeins (Ethan Phillips and Robin Bartlett). Along the way, he tries to ply his trade, hunting down a job opportunity in Chicago that might free him from his stints at the tiny, smoky Gaslight Café tucked inside New York’s bustling Greenwich Village.

Tucked away within the meandering narrative, however, is a soulful meditation on the fickle nature of fate, fame and fortune. Frequently, movies and well-meaning mentors tell us that we are the architects of our own success: if we want something badly enough, if we’re talented and work hard, the universe will provide us with a happy ending.

The tragic folk ballad that is Llewyn Davis, the hapless anti-hero of his own life story, tells us something quite different. Here is someone enormously gifted – this would be a different film entirely if Llewyn only thought he was a good singer – who has never managed to grab onto the spotlight when it flickers over him. He shares it, briefly, with singers who will go on to do far greater things than him. (Watch out for the iconic tousled mane and harmonica of the man who will soon change the face of folk – and popular – music forever.) Money, fame and joy seem to elude Llewyn at every turn, despite (and sometimes due to) his best efforts to get by.

Inside Llewyn Davis also works as both road trip and character study. As we travel with Llewyn from Manhattan’s classy Upper West Side to the narrow, boxed-in apartment of his best friend Jim (Justin Timberlake), we get a peek into Llewyn’s tenuous relationships, even the best of which are wrung dry of favours and predicated on lies. In an almost callous way, he fights with Jean (Carey Mulligan), Jim’s girlfriend, over an indiscretion, and in the next breath, lunges desperately after a cat that bears a passing resemblance to the one he lost.

Llewyn’s determination to do whatever it takes to get noticed – to get a job – also underscores the surreal road trip he endures to Chicago. This is perhaps the most characteristically Coenesque stretch of the entire film, the black humour played with a twist of sarcasm and irony as Llewyn is trapped in the car with his fellow passengers. He must suffer the derision of pushy jazz musician Roland Turner (John Goodman) and the casual disinterest of beat poet Johnny Five (Garrett Hedlund), until circumstances – odd as they inevitably are in a Coen film – separate them all again.

The performances in the film are, in a word, sublime. A struggling actor for many years, Isaac must have seen the parallels between Llewyn’s story and his own. This is his moment in the limelight, however, and he knows it. Isaac plays the highs and lows of the Coen brothers’ melancholic script with marvellous self-assurance, and is hauntingly note-perfect in the songs and stories he spins for unappreciative audience members. Mulligan, Timberlake and Goodman all deliver memorable supporting turns, the first two even contributing a beautifully-harmonised rendition of Five Hundred Miles (with Stark Sands) to the soundtrack.

Anyone looking for the same oddball dynamics and sensibilities that the Coen brothers have honed to a fine precision in films like Fargo and No Country For Old Men should take heed: Inside Llewyn Davis is made of gentler, subtler stuff. It’s a snow-washed blend of amusing drama and bitter comedy, played at half the tempo of the Coens’ more frenetic output. As such, it might appear languid, and even a bit lifeless on a first viewing. But it’s that rare kind of film which lodges itself firmly in the heart – or perhaps the soul – as it makes the most melancholic, magical music for a man who’s slipped between the cracks.

Basically: Never has an elegy been so full of life, incident and gentle, comic tragedy.

That Girl In Pinafore 我的朋友 我的同學 我愛過的一切 (2013)

Given how politically charged it is in Singapore these days, it’s hard not to react cynically when director Chai Yee-wei confesses that one reason he made That Girl In Pinafore was to express a “love of country”. It certainly doesn’t help that the film was originally slated to open a week later (in conjunction with National Day), or that a rather cringeworthy moment featuring a father and son bonding over the propagandistic Stand Up For Singapore takes place within the first ten minutes. But give Chai’s love letter to Singapore a chance to wash over you – and to sing to you – and it becomes clear very quickly that it’s not about politics at all. It’s actually about the home, friends and memories we’ve all made here: the people, the stories, and the songs that make up the soundtrack to our lives.

A coming-of-age tale set in 1993, That Girl In Pinafore follows a group of kids as they dream, grow up and fall in love (not necessarily in that order). Never much of a student, Jiaming (Daren Tan) drops out of school to help out at his parents’ floundering music cafe. When his three best friends Caogen (Seah Jiaqing), Haoban (Kenny Khoo) and Xiaopang (Kelvin Mun) are suspended from school for a month, they help out at the cafe and decide to take part in a local singing competition – where they become better acquainted with May (Julie Tan) and her identical twin best friends Jayley (Jayley Woo) and Hayley (Hayley Woo). The octet – completed by Xiaopang’s Chinese tutor Liyana (Sherly Ng) – live and love the way teenagers do, in a hazy, lazy blur of romance, dreams and ambition, until the music stops playing and real life intrudes.

It’s easy to criticise Chai’s film for its rambling, scattered narrative. It veers from charming high-school ensemble drama to soppy, soap-operatic love story in episodic bursts. To his credit, the sweet (bordering on saccharine) relationship that Chai develops between Jiaming and May still manages to be affecting rather than annoying. But it’s nevertheless frustrating to watch the other six characters – so lovingly, quirkily brought to life in the first half of the film – fall by the wayside as the camera zooms in on the pair of lovebirds. The script even hinges on a plot detail that reeks of lazy, ‘TV drama of the week’ writing: the literal ‘weak heart’ that throws a proverbial spanner into the works whenever the course of true (or young) love threatens to run smooth.

That being said, getting hung up on the plot of this film is a pretty pointless exercise. It’s no worse – and is in fact a lot better – than the plots of the many Singaporean movies that have made it into cinemas over the past year. The real joy of That Girl In Pinafore is the emotion, sentiment and nostalgia woven into its very fabric. Chai presents onscreen a Singapore many of us will remember.  Of course, there are all the trappings of the early ’90s: singing along to cassette tapes of our favourite singers, courtship via pagers and land-locked telephones. But Chai also manages to capture the bittersweet sense that these are the very best, brightest days of his protagonists’ young lives, even if (as is often the case) it doesn’t feel that way at the time.

The main selling point of That Girl In Pinafore is, of course, its soundtrack, and the xinyao (i.e., Singapore folk music) songs really makes the movie… well, sing. Without these songs that we all know and can rightly be proud of as thoroughly home-grown compositions, the film would be missing most of its heart and soul. Whether it’s funked-up versions of Heart Of Dawn (黎明的心) and Beneath The Starry Sky (星空下), or an unexpectedly heartbreaking rendition of local composing wunderkind Liang Wenfu’s classic ode to friendship The River Runs Forever (細水長流), the soundtrack to Chai’s film serves as a timely reminder that there’s actually a great deal of our shared cultural heritage to treasure. By tying these songs so firmly into his very Singaporean love story, Chai reclaims them all over again for an audience who might have forgotten what musical gems we have to call our own.

Performed by a young cast of unknowns and rising stars (with the two Tans, Jayley Woo and Mun delivering particularly sweet, naturalistic performances), That Girl In Pinafore does something it’s hard to imagine a Singaporean movie doing these days. In a non-ironic, largely successful fashion, it does just what Chai set out to do: express a love for the home and country in which we’ve all grown up, through the prism of the stories, memories and songs that tie us all together. If its plot is somewhat shaky, it can at least be forgiven for striking a true, emotional chord missing from most recent local movies.

Basically: A movie as heartfelt and homegrown as the songs that make up its lovely soundtrack.

The Rooftop 天台 (2013)

Being one of Asia’s most successful pop superstars is clearly not enough for Jay Chou. In the past few years, he’s tried to make the move from music to movies by filming supporting roles alongside heavyweight actors (Curse Of The Golden Flower), playing a sassy sidekick in a Hollywood blockbuster (The Green Hornet), and making his directorial debut with a tender if imperfect ode to young love (Secret). Oddly, despite contributing a handful of songs to the soundtracks of his films, Chou has never tried to blend music and movie… until now. Juggling directing, scripting and composing duties, Chou has clearly poured a great deal of his heart and soul into The Rooftop. It’s a commitment that – mostly – pays off. Bubbly and fun, the film makes up for its lack of polish and muddled ending with plenty of offbeat charm and quirky humour.

Set in Galilee, a fantasy realm reminiscent of a retro-soaked ’70s Taiwan, Wax (Chou) lives in the rooftop community of the film’s title – it’s a ghetto area by most standards, but a warm, loving home for Wax and his trio of best friends Tempura (Alan Ko), Egg and Ah Lang. However, the idyllic lives of the cheerful, bickering quartet soon start to change. Wax finally meets Starling (Li Xinai), the beautiful actress whose smile radiates off the billboard that towers over his rooftop home. Tempura gets promoted in his job as a rent collector for a local gang, which unfortunately pits him against sociopathic thug Hong. As Wax falls in love and stands up for his buddies, sinister forces array themselves against him in the form of Hong and Starling’s co-star William (Darren Qiu).

Chou’s film is far from perfect. Its narrative is paper-thin and predictable, and there isn’t a great deal of logic tying the whole enterprise together. With its patchy character development and almost hyper-active switching from scene to scene, The Rooftop sometimes feels like a feature-length version of a Jay Chou music video. In fact, the final half-hour of the movie is a particularly awkward experience, with Chou managing to raise more questions than he answers in the last five minutes alone. At that point, it feels like a different movie altogether, a brooding gangster opus – complete with dramatic confrontations and car chase sequences – grafted onto a feather-light musical.

But – and that’s a pretty big ‘but’ – there’s so much to enjoy in The Rooftop that it becomes considerably easier to forgive its unfortunate final-act detour. For most of its running time, the film is blithely silly, sweetly romantic and thoroughly enjoyable. Fans of Chou and neophytes alike will delight in its almost slapstick sensibilities and fun, catchy soundtrack, which includes some of the best ditties he’s composed in years.

In a sense, The Rooftop is an extended music video – specifically, it brings to mind Chou’s 2007 out-of-left-field smash hit, The Cowboy Is Very Busy (牛仔很忙), which was a joyous, surreal, kitschy tribute to the Wild West. Bursting with much of the same energy, colour and life, Chou’s characters sing and dance right off the screen and into the heart.

Chou has brought together a winning cast, a combination of new talent and old friends who are all firmly attuned to his mindset and are game for pretty much anything he throws at them, including big, splashy dance numbers. Newcomer Li, famously spotted by Chou on the streets of Taipei, acquits herself reasonably well as his doe-eyed love interest, hampered only by her character’s lack of a really distinctive personality. Chou himself is the main draw. Even in his early thirties, he remains boyishly charming and an unexpectedly effective screen presence. Criticisms that he’s merely playing himself (again) don’t hold much water when he does it so well and with comparatively little vanity.

For better or worse, The Rooftop is a pure distillation of Chou as an artist. It’s a film that manages to be pure entertainment and an intensely personal statement at the same time. As he blends dance with kungfu and hip-hop beats with romantic professions of love, Chou whips up a little universe that’s testament to both his genius and ambition. If it falls somewhat short in the final analysis, it’s nevertheless a treat to watch Chou try his hand at something so refreshingly different – not just in terms of his own films, but also the Chinese movie industry at large.

Basically: The film takes an unfortunate plunge off The Rooftop at the end, but overall, this is a delightful confection filled to the rafters with music and laughter.