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...

The Nespressos are going cold, the Pellegrino's gone flat and the culinary puns are running increasingly dry as we reach the end of the 67th Cannes Film Festival. On paper it might have lacked the same oomph as last year's big name ballot but the selection this year has still left us thrilled and serene. It's been a competition which had a lot to say about money but which still found space for more organic fare, not to mention a 3D head scratcher from one Jean Luc Godard. So with the Palme d'Or ceremony just hours away lets attempt a quick punt at what should/could/will win and of course, far more importantly, our very own top 5.

Le Top 5

Honourable mention: Leviathan

Had we a touch more time to digest it, this marvelously crafted take on the book of job would most certainly have crept up the list. Strange, staggering and often darkly funny, Andrei Zvyagintsev (good luck with that) threw a late spanner in the works for most critics, and just maybe for the Jury too...



5. Whiplash

J.K. Simmons and Miles Teller go to war in a university jazz band for Damien Chazelle's Sundance conquering debut. The film is explosive. The ovation was too. A full review here.



4. Two Days, One Night

The Dardennes delivered a wonderfully tight story of a woman who is given a week to canvas her colleagues to ask they forego their bonuses so that she can keep her job. The brothers from Belgium are already two times winners here and while we doubt we'll be seeing a third for now, Marion Cotillard is surely a lock for her shrunken, brave lead role. Full review here.



3. Red Army

Gabe Polsky's defiantly nationalist documentary on the Soviet Union's Red Army hockey team might just be one of the most rousing, impassioned sport films to ever hit the screen. Polsky (a player himself of Russian descent) understands the politics of his subject but, far more importantly, the great beauty of their play too. The funny and charming maverick Vyacheslav Fetisov, the film's main focus, has a comet named after him. What more do you need to hear?



2. Foxcatcher

Bennet Miller not only made it three in row with his bleak, brilliant Foxcatcher but, with that great eye for the affluent American psyche, managed to improve on everything too. We expect awards tonight and many more come February. Full review here.



1. The Wonders

Oh the incomparable pleasure of the festival unknown. This writer entered the Salle Debussy with no knowledge of director Alice Rohrwacher, nor expectations of what her new film would bring, but left feeling transcendental and just plain old alive. An unexpected and devastating delight. Full-blooded, gushing review here.

L'Awards

Palme d'Or

Will: A near impossible call but twenty five year old Xavier Dolan's Mommy might just be ballsy enough to stand out from the crowd.

Should: The Wonders. Try and keep up.

Could: Anything from Mr. Turner, Leviathan, Foxcatcher or Winters Sleep

Grand Prix

Will: Mr. Turner

Should: Foxcatcher. Again, keep up.

Best Actor

Will: Steve Carell (Foxcatcher)

Should: Steve Carell (Foxcatcher)

Best Actress

Will: Marion Cotillard (Two Days, One Night)

Should: Marion Cotillard (Two Days, One Night)

L'Epilogue

Phew, well that's all folks. Off to skull a few overpriced domestic beers before the award show begins. Fingers will be crossed for Alice Rohrwacher (not to mention Athletico Madrid). Apologies for saturated news feeds and, as ever, thanks for tuning in. 

Right, lets attempt to sum up this brilliant film with as few music cliches as possible.

Damien Chazalle's exhilarating; Sundance conquering Whiplash tells the story of a music college showdown between a determined young jazz drummer and the sociopath conductor of the school's prestigious ensemble band. The film is 105 minutes long.

It feels like 10.

Miles Teller plays compulsively ambitious drummer Andrew Neyman, a first year student at a high end music university in New York. He is handpicked by the school's ruthless, perfectionist ensemble conductor Terrence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons, all guns blazing) to be the alternate drummer in his band. This is all set up incredibly fast and the film plays out from here largely as one great big staring contest of the nerves. Fletcher susses his student out immediately; an only child from an unmusical family, gifted but naive about being a great; and proceeds to lift his little finger and duly wrap the boy around it. Neyman is desperate to please this new father figure; show the folks back home that they were all wrong; and fulfill the destiny he himself has laid out. To get where he wants to be he's willing to throw his girlfriend, his relationships and his own general well being under the proverbial bus- or truck as the case may be.

All of these subplots are of little consequence though, the film plays out mainly as a battle between its two remarkable leads. J.K. Simmons looks like his life has been leading up to the moment, a magnanimous muscular presence with all the best lines too. Miles Teller isn't playing against type necessarily but he gets to do a lot more than wave his usual charming shtick (although thankfully a peripheral love interest allows him to do a bit of that too). 

The director- no surprises a jazz drummer himself- conducts their showdown scenes with great big brash strokes; all nerve racking intensity and high tempo (300 words, had to happen) rat-a-tat editing. You can just feel yourself being pummeled into the seat, teeth clenched, desperate for a release. The final twenty minutes are some of the most intense this writer has ever seen and if the finale was deafening, the applause which followed in the Theater Croisette was even more so. People jumped from their seats to a standing ovation which lasted the entirety of the credits and beyond. It was like we'd all won promotion to the Premier league, a truly rousing festival moment, one I hope never to forget.

I shook the director's hand on the way out. It was trembling more than mine.