So what did it really feel like to go to the flicks in 2014?

A master Scandinavian absurdist took the gold Lion in Venice while, back in February, a similarly metalled Bear took an unexpected trip from Berlin to China. Boyhood was the bookies favourite for that particular gong, and it now looks odds on for Oscar glory too, but if March 2015 turns out to be the story of Linklater's 12 Year's a Boy, this year's razzle dazzle was all Steve McQueen and his 12 Years a Slave. Indeed, while somewhat unexpected turns were taken elsewere, the BIG, "important"- and truly quite brilliant- American thing still won the Academy Award while out on the French coast, the long, difficult European thing (Nuri Bilge Ceylan's Winter Sleep) still won the Palme d'Or.

It was a year when the dream factory churned out the sequels, remakes and prequels at an oddly interim level as the green beads of sweat began to form for its endlessly lucrative 2015. And yet despite all that talk of Justice leagues, expanded universes and Michael Bay, the real story of the multiplexes came, quite bizarrely, from the left of field. Guardians of the Galaxy (Decent), 22 Jump Street (Good) and The LEGO Movie (Great) let Hollywood show us that it was in on the joke, but a Tom Cruise Sci-fi styled Groundhog Day and a stupid-smart thrill ride from Luc Besson offered even greater escape than these. For the most part though it all seemed quite familiar and, far too often, tediously self aware. But then, like a great big gravitational shift, along came Christopher Nolan, Hans Zimmer and their mighty Interstellar to pummel us into our seats. To paraphrase the great David Thomson, cinema simply says: Look at this, isn't it amazing? Isn't it beautiful? Nothing else this year seemed to ask these questions so loud (and I mean LOUD) and clear.

It was a year when reality often offered more urgency and thrills than fiction. Documentary land introduced us to the defiant nationalism of Viacheslav Fetisov, the courage and charm of the American Samoan football team, the staggering integrity of Edward Snowden and what lies behind the curtain of Johannes Vermeer. Great twists were taken in Wes Anderson and Kelly Reichhardt's careers while It Felt Like Love, The Guest, Blue Ruin, Nightcrawler and Coherence proved that there's still fresh blood in American indie too. In other lands a young Polish woman named Ida listened to John Coltrane; a Russian man named Nikolay experienced the book of job; but then a rumble rumble rumble and a dook dook dook for something or other called the Babadook. We reeled with David Cronenberg and rallied with the Dardennes before Alice Rohrwacher, and her quiet Tuscan farm, gently let us reminisce on childhood and life. 

It was a year of North Korean hacking and Nymphomania; of Foxcatcher Farms and Budapest Hotels. Edward Snowden broke rank; Spike Jonze broke hearts; Jack O'Connell broke heads; Miles Teller broke sticks. Jonze, Besson and Glazer helped Scarjo rise from the ashes while Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Robin Williams and Lauren Becall tragically returned to theirs...

So another year of the unexpected and the business-as-usual. And yet, like a fool, what struck me more than anything was just 8 quick shots and 90 seconds long. A scurrying little droid, a dessert plain, and the greatest opening chord in cinema history. 

Happy New year y'all, and thanks for all the reads. x 

2015 is coming, those twin suns loom...

Having navigated a mist of near eye-watering hype, Steve McQueen’s long awaited slavery drama finally, emphatically delivers. Based on Solomon Northup’s book of the same name, McQueen's film is about as marvellous, gruelling and brutal an exercise in cinema as you are likely to see.

We follow Northup’s 12 year odyssey from respected musician living with wife and children in Saratoga to his kidnapping in Washington and subsequent decent into slavery. We meet his first master, a somewhat decent man named William Ford (Benedict Cumberbatch), and then his second, a cruel maniac called Edward Epps (Michael Fassbender) who harbours a frightening love for a slave called Patsey (Lupita Nyong'O). Northup is advised to keep his head down to survive but the free man locked inside strives to “live” again.

McQueen has assembled a terrific cast for this, his third feature. Chiwetel Ejiofor is finally given a role to chew on and digs in with relish; all downcast and dignified, stretching those rich vocals to grand effect. Opposite him Fassbender is menacing as the scripture quoting Epps. His indifferent bursts of hatred and violence are terrifying but the manner in which Fassbender represses his affections even more so. Patsey, the victim of those affections, is played with delicate finesse by newcomer Lupita Nyong'O. Indeed, all of the supporting players are strong; slimy Paul Dano is reliably slimy; Paul Giamatti shocks as a shrewd and heartless slave dealer and Brad Pitt- who produced the film under his Plan B production company- rather dubiously finds himself in the most sympathetic white role but, sure, we can let him away with that one.

As the news filtered in over the last couple of years it was clear few expected anything less than a masterpiece here, so it seems the only big question which remained was: would McQueen, a stern British video-art director, be marginalised by such sweeping moves on Hollywood? It would seem not. His film is a visceral assault from all angles. Sonically, Hans Zimmer knows when to kick in the string section but the brutish composer is just as deft with the drill and visually, Sean Bobitt’s photography has lost none of its poetic hostility. He shoots a slave cart from above like a tin of sardines; a tuning violin like a torture rack and the paddle wheel of a barge like a malevolent harvester. McQueen wants us to feel the relentless fear and hatred which constituted the majority of these peoples’ lives and in doing so opens that old wound much wider than many Americans (yes, even Tarantino) have been able to muster. In a daring close-up late on Ejiofor breaks the forth wall but he might as well be pointing a finger. It seems that while this young director might have his sights on LA, his eyelashes have yet to flutter.

Paul Greengrass takes his docudrama toolkit to this true life tale of an American freight ship captain’s run in with a band of Somali pirates. A gripping globalisation allegory told through the microcosm of two sparring men.

Tom Hanks plays the beleaguered Richard Phillips, captain of the Maersk Alabama for its journey from Oman to Mombasa. Whilst in International waters off the coast of Somalia, the container ship is boarded by four pirates- led by Abdulawi Muse (Barkhad Abdi)- and a 48 hour showdown ensues. 

Bred on his early career documenting conflict hot spots, Greengrass has gained a knack for leaving his audience on unsure footing. He shot the majority of this film on open water, only adding to that uncertainty. The vastness of the Alabama and the surrounding Indian Ocean give the conflict a tremendous sense of Isolation too.  It distils it somehow. Before the action we see Muse and his crew with scarcely any options for work. He later tells Phillips he would have been a fisherman had America not fished the waters bare. It’s clear what the director is getting at.

Greengrass chose to cast Somalis in their respective rolls and Abdi is strong as the fierce and desperate Muse. Opposite him, Hanks looks to finally be growing comfortable in his years and will, in all likelihood, pick up an Oscar nod in January. His director should too. Greengrass' remarkable sense for tension, pace and realism are here for all to see and it's all driven home with another muscular Hans Zimmer score.