Assassin's Creed

Rating: 2/5

The maxim that video games make for poor filmic adaptations does not entirely hold true with the release of Assassin's Creed, a glossy and occasionally impressive new entrant in the larger canon that entertainment giant Ubisoft first unleashed nine years ago. 

Given the landscape in which it exists, the fact that Justin Kurzel's picture is not a complete disaster seems miraculous. From Super Mario Bros. to Tomb Raider (with much in between) the scale of translating console content into something which inspires more than scorn has long proved puzzlingly difficult. Looking at this latest effort, of course, it should not be forgotten that Assassin's Creed requires the acclaimed director of Macbeth and Snowtown, and a cast featuring the former's lead duo of Michael Fassbender and Marion Cotillard, to avoid outright failure. 

Fassbender plays Callum Lynch, a convicted murderer who is snatched away to a shadowy post-modern facility by the equally murky Abstergo organisation and plugged into a somewhat invasive machine, named the Animus, for the purpose of mining the recollections of his Assassin ancestor, Aguilar de Nerha (also Fassbender). 

Aguilar was a member of the eponymous order, which in 1492 hid the Apple of Eden – a powerful relic capable of reshaping human behaviour – from the dastardly Templars. Both groups continue to exist, with the latter, unsurprisingly, being the power behind Abstergo and its urbane head honcho, Dr Alan Rikkin (Jeremy Irons playing Jeremy Irons). 

Under the watchful eye of Rikkin's scientist daughter, Sophia (Cotillard), Lynch is cast back to the Spain of his forebear, the projections of his genetically coded memories forming the basis of the villains' search for their prize. 

The plot itself is not completely without smarts, though as with a lot of these things, its high-concept sheen could do with another polish. Yet, it is in the visuals and execution that Kurzel most obviously succeeds. His Inquisition-era Castile comes replete with choking smoke and a lazy sunlight that bathes proceedings in a warm amber hue. As a backdrop to the violence in the foreground (significantly toned down thanks to a money-hungry 12A rating), it is all rather beautiful. 

Playing off the games' obvious cinematic stylings (watch out for nods here and there to playable experiences), Kurzel sends his camera swooping and soaring with the golden eagle that serves as a talisman in each series entry. A selection of action scenes, inspired by the franchise's central penchant for parkour, dazzle in spurts, though there is nothing here to rival the genre leaders. That said, as abstract as they are supposed to be, these diversions feel more real than the modern setting, imbued with intrigue and spirit. The characters even converse in Spanish. 

It is unfortunate, then, that they should be so underserved. The adventures of Aguilar are treated as a science project, meant only to be observed, rather than understood; they are afforded little room to breath or expand. 

The contemporary arc, itself so irritating and intrusive an element of the games, is infinitely less interesting, yet the period strands are all geared towards tying this together. Callum's journey from clueless outcast to committed member of the Creed comes and goes in the blink of eye, reeking of cliché. Where the depths of his tale would be better explored, bombast is deployed instead. A loud finale rushes to a conclusion, eschewing the grace of its Medieval subject to establish an artificial sequel-tease of good versus evil, light and dark. If this isn't crushingly disappointing, it isn't especially engaging either. 

Fassbender embraces his duties with brio, but he can do nothing to render this essential viewing. 

Bleed for This

Rating: 4/5

Talented everyman Miles Teller produces a stellar performance in Boiler Room director Ben Younger’s Bleed for This, a gritty and occasionally thoughtful boxing paean, as plucky as it is ultimately inspiring. Anchored by its leading man’s star turn, this a 'based on a true story' picture that maturely embraces its subject matter, filtering its conventional pugilism-is-life narrative through a blue-collar lens that feels emotionally rewarding and even somewhat original.

Teller is no stranger to pushing himself beyond that likeable frat-boy persona into the realms of respectable method acting. Whiplash, an astounding psychological drama and the best film of 2015, was built as much around Teller’s fraught physical travails as it was the bone-chilling sneer of eventual Oscar winner J.K. Simmons. Here, the younger man succeeds once again in conveying genuine human suffering.

He portrays fighter Vinny Pazienza, both working-class crusader and genuine contender for the top. Nicknamed (of course) the Pazmanian Devil, Pazienza, a totem for his home community of Providence, Rhode Island, seems destined for superstardom until a car crash – captured with vicious clarity – robs him of his mobility, as well as his chance at greatness. 

Teller avoids the rote conventions of the genre by playing Pazienza as a serious professional. He is no underdog, rather an established presence on the boxing circuit with genuine designs on the summit of his craft. As such, his temporary disability is faced with a refreshing lack of melodrama. Teller's stoic facade cracks only briefly, before being packed away behind his resolve. 

His relationship with both his parents (Ciarán Hinds and Katey Sagal) and his trainer, Kevin Rooney (Aaron Eckhart, offering layers to a character otherwise beset by inconsistencies), is especially well observed. If anything, the iron-clad determination to recover imbues those around him with a measure of strength they might otherwise struggle to locate.  

When redemption does arrive there is little to surprise anyone, yet it is impossible to deny Younger's style, nor the decision to place his fate on Teller's hulking shoulders. 

Anthropoid

Rating: 4/5

Anthropoid (2016)

Starring: Jamie Dornan, Cillian Murphy, Toby Jones, Harry Lloyd

Director: Sean Ellis

Available on: Amazon Prime

Of all history’s monsters, there are few who wrought more destruction than Reinhard Heydrich. Outranked in the SS by Heinrich Himmler alone, Heydrich was the urbane and calculating architect of that most horrifying of national policies: the Final Solution. His chairing of the Wannsee Conference in 1942 sealed the fate of Europe’s Jews and elevated him to a level where Adolf Hitler’s admiration was as tangible as any medal pinned on a grey uniform.

It was Kenneth Branagh, of course, who played Heydrich with such grace in 2001’s Conspiracy, a chronicle of the chillingly unfussy manner in which he and other high-ranking Nazis convened around a polished tabled and decided upon the most expeditious method for solving their particular Jewish question.  

His assassination, then, in Prague, dealt a significant blow to the upper echelons of the Third Reich and signalled that few Nazis were safe from the citizens they sought to dominate. For English filmmaker Sean Ellis, that event represents a solid base upon which to construct his latest picture, Anthropoid.

Taking its title from the code name of the operation intended by the exiled Czech government to kill Heydrich — acting as the region’s governor at the time — and thus decapitate Germany’s local structures in the process, Ellis’s work is a tense and compelling account of one of World War II’s less heralded moments.  

In the starring roles, Jamie Dornan and Cillian Murphy offer up glowering commitment as the agents sent home from London for the purpose of executing a man commonly known as ‘the Butcher of Prague.’ It is no small undertaking.

A film boasting occasionally beautiful visuals, Anthropoid opens with assassins Jozef Gabčík (Murphy) and Jan Kubiš (Dornan) parachuting into the snow-crusted forests beyond the Czech capital, in December 1941. From the beginning, Ellis wields a sense of tension that continues throughout, his heroes never more than a slip away from discovery and death. Capturing events in the handheld style that has served compatriot Paul Greengrass so well, the director mines multiple thrills from a period drama as convincing as it is important.

In an era of movies failing to connect due to poor pacing, this succeeds in never lessening the level of foreboding that lurks around each corner. Within minutes Gabčík and Kubiš dispatch a traitor, meet resistance handlers, reconnect with their mission team and settle into new lodgings, events that avoid coming off as overly hasty, in spite of the truncation of history’s timeline, thanks to a long, dark shadow cast by the Reich, one that demands speed of movement and thought.

Indeed, before long the central duo have established the details of their scheme, though in truth they are merely tools of distant superiors, a fact giving rise to more than a little friction with the local partisans, whose diminished but determined efforts are headed up by Toby Jones’s genial "Uncle" Hajský. This dash of political dissonance pushes the proceedings beyond a mere tale of wartime derring-do, illustrating, instead, how divisions can emerge when they are least useful.

It is fraternity, however, that drives a small band of crusaders (including Game of Thrones alum Harry Lloyd) towards the ultimate goal. In the latter stages such common cause is needed more than ever, enemies and fate closing in on the conspirators. The attempt on Heydrich’s life is swift and violent, a slickly produced set piece that descends into chaos; confusion and the need to survive supplant Hollywood-style grandstanding.   

As far as performances go, the leads excel with portrayals that provide just enough layers to seem real. Murphy — no stranger to thick accents — is awarded the best lines, never shirking from the opportunity to ratchet up the intensity of his gaze. He might be the brains of the partnership, and Dornan’s softly spoken sidekick its sweeter conscience, but there exists tangible chemistry between them, an almost unspoken bond that peeps out on more than one occasion.

If both men are underwhelmed by poorly conceived romantic entanglements that develop, then depart, too quickly, they triumph before the end. The brilliant conclusion, a firefight that tears through the sanctified confines of an elegant Prague church, sees both actors come into their own. Themes of courage and mortality are weighty, no doubt, yet Ellis handles these deftly, imbuing the finale with an emotional heft that feels truly profound.

Suicide Squad

Rating: 1/5

It is easy to get lost these days in the seemingly endless maze of comic book adaptations flying and exploding across multiplex screens on an almost monthly basis. The Marvel stable, via various studios, has brought us the X-Men, Spider-Man and the cacophonous onslaught of the Avengers, with all those intersecting strands of expensive CGI and Robert Downey Jr. 

Competitor DC, meanwhile, has taken a while to match that level of output, though the fact that this current generation of cinematic superheroes was ushered in thanks to Christopher Nolan’s peerless Dark Knight trilogy surely means that DC, rather than Marvel, has set the bar. 

What the former is only now starting to attempt to emulate, however, is the kind of overarching genre that the latter now wields as a matter of course across multiple platforms (film, television, Netflix). Zack Snyder’s crushingly underwhelming Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice was meant to be the first step in such an approach (the upcoming Justice League is the next stage). It brought together a grizzled Batman — Ben Affleck instead of Nolan muse Christian Bale — and Henry Cavill’s Superman, fresh off his impressive turn in Snyder’s Man of Steel, an accomplished, if somewhat glowering spin on the tale. Regardless of its reception, the stage was set for something larger to take shape. 

Curiously, the next instalment in DC’s grand project comes hurtling out of left field. The crux of Suicide Squad is that it deploys a coterie of the publishing house’s worst villains as a rapid response team aimed at tackling terrible situations with the most terrible human beings alive, a make-believe equivalent of tasking Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot and Donald Trump with the job of fixing climate change, or Brexit. 

Given its delicious premise, cool cast and obvious pedigree, the anticipation for a filmic portrayal of one of the more niche strands of the DC universe has reached boiling point. Director David Ayer’s record in churning out muscular, hard-edged crime thrillers (End of Watch, Street Kings, Harsh Times; he also wrote Training Day) tipped Suicide Squad over the top as a promising and gloriously nasty blockbuster, worthy of the public’s attention. 

It should come as a disappointment, then, that hope and reality diverge in so dramatic a fashion. Ayer’s film is, to put it politely, a mess, plagued by tonal inconsistencies and a plot that seems (amazingly) barely comprehensible. There also runs through it a whiff of smugness, one born of all involved believing their work to be far cleverer and much more subversive than it actually is. 

This was a production that underwent significant reshoots and while this in itself is hardly an indictment, Suicide Squad appears thrown together. From the intense period of exposition that opens proceedings — characters’ backgrounds and aliases fly from the lips of shadowy, string-pulling bureaucrat Amanda Waller (Viola Davis) — to the bouts of action and characterisation that sit so unevenly in concert, this is not a picture displaying a great deal of fluidity. 

There exists an episodic nature here that serves only to erode any connection one might have with the material, for there is only so often that specific sarcastic moments can be juxtaposed with specific emotional moments before one’s patience wears thin. Early scenes involving Affleck’s taciturn vigilante may contribute to the crucial wider context but they smack of tokenism at best and feel ill conceived at worst — Batman’s encounter with Deadshot (Will Smith) must surely represent the least exciting thing Bruce Wayne has ever done.

As for the overarching peril against which the team must do battle, its lurch towards the supernatural is as preposterous as it is senseless. While the onset of this threat signifies karmic retribution for Waller’s own machinations, the whole episode is handled so clumsily (how, exactly, is Jai Courtney’s lager-swilling Australian stereotype, Captain Boomerang, one of the few people alive suitable for tackling an ancient inter-dimensional despot?) that any spectacle is soon lost beneath the weight of rampant silliness. 

What positives there are stem from a line-up that is otherwise wasted. Smith, as ever, marries swagger, arrogance and heroism while mostly retaining his dignity, Deadshot’s status as an amoral killer rather than outright lunatic acting as a counterbalance in a milieu where almost everyone is utterly bonkers. 

Margot Robbie, too, emerges with reputation intact. Her Harley Quinn is complex enough to be curious; Robbie, so often cast as gorgeous prop, conveys both Quinn's vulnerability and fondness for savagery. 

Unfortunately, Jared Leto fares less well in playing the Joker, Quinn’s paramour and the yin to her yang. Leto has proved himself an exceptional performer in recent years, yet his presence here, as anarchic and unsettling as it is, fulfils no discernible role, neither antihero nor antagonist. One of popular culture’s great miscreants, he is instead relegated to secondary status, the pursuit of Quinn, his muse, standing as his sole raison d’etre. Never has so arch a villain been so underused. 

Elsewhere, Joel Kinnaman — an actor capable of a great deal — looks vaguely embarrassed by the naffness of Rick Flag, a dour crusader plagued by personal travails and a fraying code of conduct. Neither is interesting.

Ultimately, as with those Marvel counterparts, Suicide Squad descends into a miasma of overblown effects. Its deliberately bleak attitude is quickly forgotten in the din as characters once described as the “worst of the worst” embrace their inner angels. A message about the innate goodness of humanity underlays it all, perhaps, though the result is so inept as to render any moralising irrelevant. 

A sly finale may attempt to claw back the ground but the damage, by that point, is long sustained. Boring and without even a sliver of inspiration, this is one issue undeserving of a plastic cover. 

The Conjuring 2

Rating: 3/5

Whether or not one believes in ghosts, ghouls and things that go bump in the night, it seems more than likely that the Enfield Haunting was a load of cobblers. 

A hoax, not a poltergeist, probably set the pulses of the Hodgson family racing, in a suburban council house, between 1977 and 1979 — media attention and teenage angst served to scare up a series of unexplained events that were as unsettling as they were false. Children 'levitating', alien voices, moving objects; many hallmarks of a spectral entity were on display. But for some deeper digging and a healthy dollop of skepticism, the whole thing might have been believed. 

Regardless of the Haunting's veracity, however, the tale, taken at face value, is an undoubtedly sinister one, ripe for cinematic exploitation. Thus, filmmaker James Wan's The Conjuring 2 builds, liberally, on reality's foundation, introducing an expensive franchise sequel to 2013's outstanding The Conjuring.

As with the latter film (which spawned a ropey spin-off, Annabelle), Wan centres his focus on the happenings in the enclosed intimacy of a strikingly normal household. General subject aside, the two pictures are connected by Ed and Lorraine Warren (Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga, respectively), the married couple whose careers as paranormal investigators provide the necessary context for events occurring on either side of the Atlantic. 

Their involvement, in 1976, with the infamous Amityville case serves as a bridge, Wan's latest opening with a seance in the horribly iconic surroundings of the erstwhile Lutz homestead (introduced before the end of The Conjuring). The fallout from this prologue follows the Warrens throughout the remainder of the movie, its influence occasionally puzzling, though never less than disturbing. 

Tasked by Rome to discern the truth of the Enfield incidents — allowing the Church to intervene — the Warrens wade into the Hodgsons' disquiet, armed with only with their own bravery and Lorraine's clairvoyant abilities. 

There is a great deal here to admire, especially when it comes to crafting the requisite atmosphere. The Hodgson property is a dull and slightly ramshackle semi-d that exudes genuine menace precisely because it looks so unremarkable. Within its dreary walls, Frances O'Connor's Peggy and her brood, including possibly possessed daughter Janet (Madison Wolfe), are driven mad by shadows and murk. 

Their tormentor takes the form of the home's former occupant, Bill Wilkins, whose lonely death has stoked the malevolence of his spirit. That spirit manifests itself in a number of ways and though few are especially original, dark corners, heavy footsteps and a sense of foreboding remain trusted tools in the horror genre. There are surprises, too. On more than one occasion, a child's tent made from blankets is transformed into something hideous, its black, cramped interior a dwelling for the film's simmering wickedness. 

Later, as the Warrens conduct their own examination, Wan produces The Conjuring 2's standout scene: Janet, captured in blurred focus and sitting on cinema's creepiest rocking chair, appears to morph into Wilkins while Ed trades barbs over his shoulder with the bitter old codger. It is a bravura sequence, completed in a single take, perfectly lit and underplayed by both Wilson and the increasingly haggard Wolfe, whose dabbling with a ouija board may or may not have summoned evil.

In the lead roles, Wilson and Farmiga continue their sterling performances from last time round. The Warrens were real and, apparently, honest professionals, a fact that both actors aim to emphasise by plumping for stoicism over posturing. Wilson is invariably superb — calm, heroic, serious — yet Farmiga stands out. Lorraine is no crank. She is a flinty individual capable of staving off the demons she regularly encounters, as well as a loving wife and mother. Her presence, along with Ed's uncomplicated masculinity, returns a tangible sliver of joy to beneath the Hodgson roof.

These are not the only layered portrayals. O'Connor excels as a woman, driven to despair by penury, who is unequipped to counter whatever it is that plagues her family. Simon McBurney, meanwhile, peeks out from beneath thick brows and bushy whiskers to inhabit paranormal true believer Maurice Grosse, a potentially comic character who ultimately feels as real the rest.

If there are missteps then they present themselves during a terribly overblown finale. As with the previous instalment, Wan chooses to eschew the chill running through the meridians of his own work. Instead, proceedings screech towards the finish line. The action ticks upwards as a rain, lightening and grotesqueries pour in against a narrative backdrop that never really makes sense. The director has terror in mind but delivers only bombast. When something quieter is required, the threat of silence is undermined by noise. 

Regardless of that din, there exists an emotional power to save the whole thing from itself, an element shaped around the genuinely affecting relationship between Ed and Lorraine. Its sincerity colours the larger canvas, filling the gaps between the myriad frights. 

The Nice Guys

Rating: 3/5

The pastel shades and neon nightscapes of 1970s Los Angeles receive the Shane Black treatment in The Nice Guys, a meandering buddy comedy that plays fast and loose with message and form, but succeeds, ultimately, on star power, as well as the confidence of its cheeky writing. 

This is Black's third film at the helm and while Iron Man 3 was largely an exercise in frustration, 2005's Kiss Kiss Bang Bang satisfied as a debut effort, one driven on by Black's ability to mine gold from unlikely sources (Val Kilmer as a gay private detective possessing a fondness for the c-word, anybody?). 

After his Marvel sojourn, then, the writer-director returns to Kiss Kiss's neo-noir framing. Rolling out a tale as unpredictable as it is knowing, Black's hardboiled dialogue, crafted in concert with Anthony Bagarozzi, spills out from between the cracks of a sunny, often very silly period actioner.

It is entirely possible that absent the over-the-title A-listers, The Nice Guys could have been swallowed up by its own casual smugness. Instead, Russell Crowe and Ryan Gosling are entirely engaging leading men, capable of delivering their lines with a sense of wit and clearly so at ease in each other's company that one feels genuine regret that this connection has had to wait until now.

Crowe plays Jackson Healy, an enforcer-for-hire whose core services involve punching people in the face and then breaking their arms. When one of Healy's clients, Amelia (Margaret Qualley — seen most recently in HBO's beautiful, bizarre The Leftovers), goes missing, Healy falls in with licensed gumshoe Holland March (Gosling), himself pursuing a case that may or may not involve the other man's employer.

Gosling excels in his role, breathing easier without the yoke of intensity he often assumes to break away from that meme-friendly, matinee idol persona. Shifty, amoral and teetering on the brink of alcoholism, March is a pretty shitty investigator — though an endearingly useless, if devoted, single father to Holly (Angourie Rice), his razor-sharp pre-teen daughter — who must enlist the help of the bulky Healy to track down their mysterious quarry 

The result is an enjoyable mish-mash of genres, each jostling for position without ever properly winning out. Fans of Black's work will recognise his proclivity for splicing action and sarcasm, two elements he throws out here to good effect. Crowe and Gosling riff off each character's failings (Healy is a thug, March a borderline degenerate) with glee, a seemingly unending crusade to discern the plot coming a distant second to exploring the limits of their chemistry. 

Indeed, the central players do much to pick up the slack of a story that threatens to spiral away from them more than once. What might have been a tight little mystery instead throws much at the screen; some of it sticks, other bits do not. The staples of the milieu are all present and correct: corruption, vice, drugs, booze, gut-churning fashions. 

Throw in a disco soundtrack and Black appears determined to address, with equal concentration, every single idea his mind chugged out in bringing this vision to life. If it seems muddled, that's because it is. Events will, of course, eventually become clear, yet such is the density of their presentation, keeping track is no small task. 

Mercifully, however, the leading men possess enough charm to drag us along for the ride, wherever the road winds. 

There exist some nice touches to punctuate the violence and hard-bitten tropes. America's post-Nixon decline is a spectre even in California's glitzy locales (a masked, Point Break-inspired Tricky Dicky figure even makes a cameo) and the belief in the immortality of the hulking auto industry — one strand of the broader conspiracy at play — sounds woefully naive as more and more of Detroit's outer reaches are now reclaimed by Mother Earth.

Kim Basinger, too, shows herself later on, firing up old memories with Crowe as if back in the LA Confidential surroundings that have so clearly coloured Black's approach. Just don't take any of it seriously.      

The Revenant

Rating: 5/5

The Revenant (2016)

Starring: Leonardo DiCaprio, Domhnall Gleeson, Tom Hardy, Will Poulter

Director: Alejandro González Iñárritu

Available on: Netflix

This time last year, Alejandro González Iñárritu was exposing cinema audiences to the singular brilliance of Birdman, a project as audacious as it was weirdly hypnotic. For all its arch tendencies and sly humour, that film was, primarily, a sensory experience.

With its meandering form and slick mechanics giving the impression that the entire enterprise was conducted in a single take (it wasn’t), Iñárritu mined a great deal of impact from the construction, not just the substance. Vindication quickly followed, Academy Awards for Best Film and Best Director signalling an appreciation for his craft and Birdman's quirk.

In spite of this, it would seem that the Mexican’s tricky approach represented a mere dry run for something much grander, namely The Revenant, an adaptation of Michael Punke’s real-life historical novel based around legendary frontiersman Hugh Glass. To take on the Western genre is no small feat. Many have surrendered either to cliché or farce, such are the well-worn tropes of tough men, unbending landscapes and restless natives. Discerning true freshness can be unenviable task.

Iñárritu, however, excels where others have stumbled. Make no mistake, his is an extraordinary picture, as brutal as it is transcendent, boasting a level of originality to which we should all bear witness.

Violence constitutes an inherent trait of The Revenant. It is often chilling and never less than uncompromising, though there exists beauty also, born of man and of the earth. The relentlessness of the human soul, for better or worse, displays itself, bucking against the majesty of nature’s power. 

Iñárritu harnesses it all with uncommon élan. He turns in a feat of awe-inspiring filmmaking that must surely, considering last weekend’s successes at the Golden Globes (Best Drama, Best Director, Best Actor), place him out ahead in the year’s Oscar stakes.

Given the intricate quality of its creator’s previous work (Birdman, of course, but also Babel and 21 Grams), The Revenant is, in a narrative sense at least, a surprisingly straightforward period tale. Leonardo DiCaprio portrays Glass, a guide for the fur-trapping expedition led by Captain Andrew Henry (Domhnall Gleeson), which includes, amongst others, John Fitzgerald (Tom Hardy) and Jim Bridger (Will Poulter).

It’s 1823. Deep in the untamed reaches of the Louisiana Purchase, Glass and his companions are set upon by a band of warriors from the Arikara Nation. Scattered, bloodied and light a profitable bounty of animal pelts, their fortune takes a turn for the worse when Glass is mauled by a grizzly bear, forcing Henry to eventually leave him to his fate under the watch of Bridger, Fitzgerald and Glass’s mixed-race son, Hawk (Forrest Goodluck).

When Fitzgerald, a professional malcontent lent a cold and calculating edge by the consistently excellent Hardy, leaves an ailing Glass for dead, the wounded trapper is forced to endure the elements and the limits of his own mortality to ensure survival.

The resulting drama is an immersive, genuinely striking feat of creative endeavour. From the terrifying ferocity of the bear attack — those things really aren’t cuddly toys — and the swooping, unedited opening skirmish, to the increasingly epic tone that later substitutes the director’s clever, intense, centre-of-the-action framing, Iñárritu’s ultimate triumph in accomplishing it all is to provide a bravura cinematic spectacle without encroaching on the plot’s primacy. Cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki must also receive his share of the acclaim for conjuring visuals that feel truly alive.

Indeed, the technical proficiency on show augments the story. It is no lazy gimmick, rather a fully fledged element of the superlative whole. For Iñárritu, an artist so in command of the medium as to appear almost arrogant, The Revenant is the culmination of a career spent gradually honing his skills. He shot this using only natural light and occasionally opts for realism over polish, breath and gore staining the lens. Yet, for a production that underwent considerable travails out on the Canadian tundra, the finished article registers as complete, tranquil even.

In the lead, DiCaprio deserves the plaudits coming his way. An astonishing actor, he exudes the flinty instincts of someone well used to the harshness of the world. Glass was the son of Ulster-Scots settlers, resilient people who hacked an existence from the wilderness, bearing their children along the way. That heritage is unmistakeable, present in every look and every movement; it seeps from him as he presses ever onwards towards redemption, revenge, or both.

Gleeson, Poulter and Hardy stand out, too, with the latter, particularly, DiCaprio’s equal in inhabiting a character of few admirable qualities.

And Glass pursues him, across lake and plain, through desolate valleys and forests scarred by winter, equipped only with the fire of his wrath. If there is madness here it is to be found in the central player’s indomitable spirit — his actions can only be admired.

An eloquent final image quells the storm but the stage has already been set by Iñárritu’s ambition. Be captivated.

A version of this article was first published here.