Rating: 2/5 It may lack the hysteria and acclaim associated with the Marvel juggernaut but the Legendary-Warner Bros MonsterVerse series, which draws on the startling destructive power of stop-motion veterans Godzilla, King Kong and their fellow travellers, does not want for for glitz or budget. In 2014, the latest Hollywood reboot of Toho's Godzilla franchise (following 1998's turgid effort) hit screens courtesy of Monsters and Rogue One director Gareth Edwards. Predictably grand, aesthetically impressive and blessed with a fine cast, the film was a box office success. That said, its unremarkable plotting did not linger long in the memory; nor did the finale's obligatory epic-level urban devastation, courtesy of expensive effects — all as common now as Nigel Farage on Question Time. Kong's time in the sun arrived three years later, his star vehicle a silly, over-engineered retro piece that imagined itself far cooler than it actually was while ably capturing the power, fury and majesty of its central player. The third volume, Godzilla: King of Monsters, now hits the summer season in the wake churned up by the final Avengers instalment. Given the state of what's on offer here, it is in those foamy waters that this movie is likely to sink. A globe-trotting plot, veering from theme to theme, comes replete with expository dialogue and absent the merest drop of emotional investment in any single character, real or digital. Michael Dougherty's expensively assembled behemoth bowl may occasionally dazzle with some startling visuals, pulling no punches with its often relentless kaiju-on-kaiju combat, but beneath that cacophony there exists little to recommend it. Hollow, boring and, even for a picture centred on massive CGI beasts trying to kill us all, increasingly silly, there is little here worth recommending. The story picks up in the debris of the eponymous lizard's march through San Francisco in film one, an episode that decimated the lives of scientists Mark and Emma Russell (played by Kyle Chandler and Verma Farmiga, respectively). Now divorced, Mark lives in the American wilderness, photographing wolves, while Emma and their daughter, Madison (Millie Bobby Brown, of Stranger Things fame), are holed up in China. Emma works for global monster-hunting outfit Monarch (the common thread in this particular cinematic universe), which oversees a stash of hibernating giants — or Titans, to use the film's parlance — and seeks to control their behaviour, through bioacoustics, using Emma's new gadget, the Orca.
Funnily enough, none of this goes to plan and Emma, along with Madison, falls into the clutches of Charles Dance's gimlet-eyed 'eco-terrorist', whose goal of wreaking global havoc and restoring nature's dominance is funded by trafficking in Titan DNA. Mark is recruited by Monarch to help in its quest to reclaim the Orca and retrieve his family, all while glowering ruefully in the direction Godzilla, whose perceived benevolence is a constant, cack-handed question throughout, every time the mighty colossus appears on screen. Aiding him in this endeavour is a seemingly endless assortment of dull allies. There's the all-action, no-space-for-details warrior bods (O'Shea Jackson, Aisha Hinds, David Strathairn), as well as a collection of movie-scientist stereotypes. Bradley Whitford plays it cool and cracks wise as a silver-haired crypto-sonographer; Sally Hawkins is a sensitive zoologist. Thomas Middleditch phones it in as the awkward-comedy foil and Zhang Ziyi, an ethereal mythologist who counters global catastrophes with photos of cave drawings, is revealed, clumsily and for no apparent reason, to be one of two twins floating around the edges of the tale. Only Ken Watanabe, a survivor, like Hawkins, of Godzilla, makes much of an impression, his sage presence an antidote to the thundering din around him. Indeed, his trip into the depths of Godzilla's Atlantis-like lair — a casually bonkers sub-plot — serves as a rare standout moment. Across continents and oceans, this band of mostly forgettable heroes zips to and fro, all with the help of some swish kit, including a flying aircraft carrier — courtesy, surely, of the military-industrial complex — that handles like a Spitfire, and just-ask access to an entire armada of American war machines. Late on, they're even handed a stray nuke because, as Donald Trump says, there's no point in having these things if you're unwilling to use them. A mid-point twist, of sorts, complicates an overwrought family drama that threatens to obliterate everything around it, such as the awakening of various world-ending demons that lie dormant in Monarch's network of strangely insecure secret facilities. It feeds into a nefarious scheme to deliver Earth back to Gaia by unleashing the Titans, and their associated regenerative radiation, on the planet. If it all sounds slightly anarchic, worry not. Dance and friends are suddenly jettisoned long before the end, their villainy replaced by King Ghidorah, a three-headed dragon bearing the moniker 'Monster Zero' and Godzilla's rival for the alpha slot atop the super-species hierarchy. Yet, by the time these two go head to head, nobody will be watching anything they haven't seen before. Buildings fall, fires rage and leviathans brawl. Granted, as a spectacle, its vaguely thrilling, and Dougherty does not scrimp when it comes to conveying a sense of scale and impact. Equally, it accomplishes nothing new. Instead, in its money-shot moments, King of the Monsters, represents a mere retread of what's gone before. There may be traditions to observe but this film seems skittish about reaching beyond its familiar genre tropes in particular and those of the modern-day blockbusters more generally. Sure, Godzilla himself, beautifully rendered, retains a certain air of mystery and depth — is he friend or foe, tyrant or leader? — but that's where the nuance ends. Do yourself a favour and skip over this in the listings.
Rating: 2/5 As the war between the DC and Marvel cinematic ecosystems rages on, one of the stronger players in 2017's fairly ropey Justice League, Jason Momoa's Aquaman, fronts his own picture and brings to the big screen, finally, a character whose arrival has been in gestation for the best part of two decades. With James Wan the last in a long line of directors at the helm, Aquaman carries all the weight of a tent-pole studio project, the title character's status as a DC staple bringing with it risks as well as rewards. The results are not pretty. This latest instalment from the increasingly haggard DC Extended Universe takes all the inherently overblown strands of the average comic book adaptation and turns the silliness up to 11. Tonally spasmodic, profoundly dull and peddling in the kind of high-camp melodrama that defines the very best Mexican telenovelas, Aquaman is beyond redemption. Not even the easy charisma of its leading man can save this film from the depths. Momoa is Arthur Curry, the eponymous superhero's alter ego. Roaming the seas fresh from his world-saving efforts during Justice League – efforts so epic, seemingly, that they warrant just the one passing reference – he is soon mixed up in a dastardly plot hatched by Orm (Patrick Wilson), his evil half-brother (is there any other breed?). Orm, the king of underwater metropolis Atlantis, wants to ally with another underwater bigwig, King Nereus (abarely engaged Dolph Lundgren), and wreck the surface world in retribution for mankind's polluting ways. Or something. In response, Curry must wrestle with conflicting feelings around his own destiny and the loss of his Atlantean mother (Nicole Kidman), all while cracking wise and kicking ass. Wan throws all of these elements at the screen, all the time, veering wildly between bombastic action, the throwaway comedy beats that are now practically demanded by the genre, and the emotional currents best exemplified by Curry's vaguely defined mummy issues. Even the early scenes extend this hysterical mawkishness to villains the audience has only just met, setting the stage for a dire paint-by-numbers vengeance subplot.
As the obligatory explosion of pricey CGI arrives at the tail end of Aquaman's grinding running time, there is little left to recommend it. The pace never slows, to be fair, but such momentum sacrifices trifling matters like character development and sensible plotting. Few can escape the carnage. Wilson is a cartoonish antagonist, his preening and roaring offset by the fact that the digital effects have him floating around like a fish in a jar. Willem Dafoe, meanwhile, phones in his warrior-vizier Vulko, whose presence in Curry's uninteresting childhood flashbacks is presented without anything so boring as context. Amber Heard gives it her all as rebellious princess Mera, though her shtick is nothing new. Momoa, too, is ill served. He may boast a lethal dose of cheeky charm, and demonstrate more of a genuine connection to the subject matter than the rest of his colleagues combined, but the vacillating nature of the film never allows him to grasp at something solid. It's ultimately faint praise to label him the best thing going. A few arresting visuals (a breaching submarine; a flare-lit plunge through a swarm of sea demons) notwithstanding, the picture's deficiencies are legion. On its finest day, Aquaman's a damp squib.
Rating: 4/5 Fourteen years and a surprising glut of underwhelming titles have passed since Pixar's The Incredibles,a genuine, honest-to-God action movie boasting all of the mighty animation house's visual genius and storytelling heft, first arrived on our screens. Now, after what seems an inordinate delay given the critical and financial success of his original, director Brad Bird returns with this dazzlingly thrilling sequel. As we endure an era shorn of heroes who act simply because it's the right thing to do, and in which able women seem more and more like humanity's saviours, The Incredibles 2 is the shot in the arm most of us desperately require. Picking up immediately after the final scene of the first movie, Bird reintroduces the Parr clan: Bob/Mr Incredible (Craig T. Nelson), Helen/Elastigirl (Holly Hunter), daughter Violet (Sarah Vowell), and sons Dash (Huck Milner) and toddler Jack-Jack (Eli Fucile). Little has changed in their crucial interplay. They squabble, talk back to one another, escalate disputes and deal in industrial amounts of tension, spoken and unspoken. In short, they are a typical family unit: fiercely loyal and, save for their myriad super powers, relatable as hell. Chucked out of their government-protected digs (superheroism has previously been made illegal and the Parrs live under the protection of an indebted Uncle Sam) following a bombastic attempt to foil a bank heist, unemployed Bob and Helen come within the orbit of telecoms magnate Winston Deavor (Bob Odenkirk) and his inventor sister, Evelyn (Catherine Keener). He wants to contract their particular set of skills to lead his PR effort to bring 'supers' back into the mainstream. However, turning the traditional set-up on its head, it is Helen, not the mountainous Bob, who is placed at the vanguard of this challenge, leaving the latter to tend house and look after the kids.
It's in these moments that The Incredibles 2 seems most relevant. There can be discerned palpable glee in Helen – whose face should appear next to the dictionary definitions of the words 'capable' and 'controlled' –as she falls back into a life thought lost to domesticity. Bob, by contrast, reluctantly fills his wife's role from film one, straining against the friction between his own ambitions and the desire to support her aspirations. In the era of #MeToo, such dynamics are unavoidable. In its execution, this narrative duopoly never disappoints. Helen's activities offer her a chance to shine, all derring-do and slick sleuthing. She soon becomes entangled in the schemes of cyber criminal the Screenslaver and her adventures constitute the bulk of the recognisable hero stuff. Proceedings are framed less by the big, bad Bond-villain settings of The Incredibles– though that picture's gorgeous retrofuturism is retained – than they are the urban crime-fighting aesthetic of Gotham City or Spiderman's New York. Back on the ranch, Bob must navigate a domestic minefield comprising algebra, teenage romance and a baby with a fusillade of hitherto unnoticed powers, all while battling feelings of emasculation. The two strands, Bob's and Helen's, operate in harmony, one never inspiring longing for the other; each are replete with excitement and endlessly entertaining. Equally, from a technical standpoint, the movie is a masterful work. The animation hums, as is always the case when Pixar opens up its throttle, and a series of astounding set pieces roar across the screen. From a high-speed train chase involving Helen and her sleek electric motorcycle (go green, everyone) to a borderline savage, strobe-lit brawl, the director does not hold back, channelling the energy he captured so admirably in 2011's Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol. That a family-friendly romp should prove so exhilarating is significant indeed. That said, The Incredibles 2 is, for all the spectacular trimmings, powered by its characters. The cast is invariably a joy, with Hunter's elite mum a particular standout, as at home chairing a family meeting as she is leaping out of aeroplanes. Bird brings his vocal talents to bear as the returning Edna Mode, the pint-sized, highly strung couturier responsible for the family's iconic costumes. Then, of course, there is the adorable Jack-Jack, a whir of constantly twitching, gurning, burbling energy, rendered the world's cutest WMD by abilities absolutely nobody can gauge. The flaws are largely minor. Urbane sidekick Frozone (Samuel L. Jackson) is shifted out of focus more than he should be. He accomplishes little of note, none of his gags coming close to The Incredibles's fantastic spin on Jackson's "I have to answer that phone" scene from Die Hard with a Vengeance. The plot, too, is by turns funny and whip smart, yet it is curbed somewhat by dastardly machinations that ultimately feel flimsy at best. Strangely, the obligatory spectacular finale is the film's most generic sequence. Nevertheless, the family is given the chance to shine, no one Parr casting a shadow on the next. A subtle message to teenagers everywhere even underpins the dying moments: choose your friends but not at the expense of your family.
Ready Player One (2018) Starring: Tye Sheridan, Olivia Cooke, Ben Mendelsohn, T.J. Miller, Mark Rylance, Simon Pegg, Lena Waithe Director: Steven Spielberg Available on: Amazon Prime
Rating: 4/5 If ever there was a director to tackle Ready Player One, Ernest Cline's inspiringly kitsch sci-fi tome, then Steven Spielberg would surely sit near the top of any and all lists. The heart of Cline's 2011 paean to the granular detail of eighties pop culture is to be found in the adventure genre that Spielberg, thanks to his endeavours on E.T.,Indiana Jones and beyond, played so seminal a role in forming. As Cline granted his protagonists solace and comfort in the warmth of that particular strain of Americana, so, then, is Spielberg, godfather of it all, the filmmaker uniquely placed to bend those familiar tropes to his will. That said, Ready Player One's horizons extend far beyond paying respect to Spielberg's back catalogue. It is no small task. The fabric of Cline's vision is at once dystopian and retrospective, the not entirely implausible nightmare reality of his story's setting offset by the throwback stylings of the OASIS, the online utopia into which the denizens of this tale retreat for relief from everyday life. The year is 2045. In Columbus, Ohio, teenager Wade Watts (Tye Sheridan) wiles away his dreary days deep inside the OASIS, a sprawling, omnipresent virtual Shangri-La that provides its adherents (basically everyone alive) – through their digital selves – with entertainment, schooling, synthetic connections and, crucially, the playing field for humanity's fiercest obsession: the hunt for a riddle-shrouded Easter egg buried within the platform by its late founder, James Halliday (Mark Rylance). A vast fortune and control of the system await the first person to discover the egg. Thus, as the planet succumbs to famine and deprivation, the quest to conquer a series of three challenges, and locate this invaluable prize, is a desperate one. It's Wade's avatar, Parzival, that makes the first breakthrough, however. Spielberg's take is invigorating, a stripped-down-and-rebuilt version of the plot that reaches the book's endpoint via a significantly different route. While it loses some of Cline's nerdy charm in translation (the author is credited as a screenwriter), this is, nonetheless, a superior and often breathtaking epic that should dazzle long after the credits roll.
From a technical perspective, Ready Player One soars. If, due to the constraints of a running time, the vastness of the OASIS seems ever so slightly stunted, that which appears on screen is still nothing short of astounding. The film's spirit lives within this world, just as its characters do. From the opening death rally starring any number of recognisable jalopies – one of many strands that departs from the literary source – to the grand, geeked-out final boss battle, this is not a film lacking spectacle. The vistas of the OASIS are gloriously rendered, be they serene and bucolic futurescapes, apocalyptic death matches, or the early Manhattan-themed racetrack, whose sleek skylines collapse, extend and shift as traps and obstacles (including King Kong) chew up the careening competitors. A nightclub scene in the middle third is lit in deep plum shades, its dance floor an abyss into which partygoers plunge, floating and swirling in time with a host of classic tracks. Given its pedigree, this is a picture always likely to live or die depending on how much it can draw from the cultural hallmarks of geekdom. Spielberg has spared no effort in trawling the zeitgiest for figures and references with which to populate the movie (interestingly none of his own creations feature in any meaningful way). There are almost too many to list, but particular reverence is reserved for Robert Zemeckis. One cannot help sensing the director's pride in his erstwhile protégé. It's there in the particular prominence afforded to Back to Future, as the iconic DeLorean tears through the frozen wastes of the unhinged finale and a graceful retuning of that franchise's iconic score occasionally floats over the action like a pleasant, friendly spectre. A magical version of Ernő Rubik's eponymous cube even gets a rebrand in favour of Zemeckis. There is much more besides, of course. An extended tribute to Stanley Kubrick's The Shining will amuse and amaze in equal measures. If there is an obvious criticism it can be directed towards the band of central players. Sheridan, so impressive in 2012's Mud, is a fine actor but he borders on bland here, lacking obvious charisma and imbuing his Parzival with an earnestness that is neither interesting nor especially entertaining. As fellow protagonist Art3mis, Bates Motel's Olivia Cooke brings more spunk to bear, though she is ill served by an underwhelming resistance-to-the-corporate-overlords arc that never feels fully developed. Their romance smells rushed. The real-world setting, too, fails to impress, even if it is deliberately painted as the grey dregs of humanity's existence. Fortunately, Ready Player One knows the source of its strength and allows room for a coterie of colourful veterans to garland the narrative. Notable among these is Ben Mendelsohn's "dickweed" fascist-cum-oligarch, Nolan Sorrento, the head of the dastardly IOI conglomerate set on converting the OASIS into a hellish, ad-soaked profit factory. Sorrento's avatar may lack the verve of his rivals but it ripples with Mendelsohn's signature smirk, shifty menace and icy stare. T.J. Miller is also outstanding as a terrifyingly constructed bounty hunter whose hilarious dialogue is a true joy. And then there is Rylance. A lesser talent might have upped the crazy when it came to pulling off a savant-like figure with a fewer people skills than Mark Zuckerberg and Steve Jobs combined. In Rylance's hands, however, Halliday is no freak. As vulnerable as it is restrained, this depiction is another reminder of the Oscar winner's hypnotic power. Halliday's depth and humour is only ever hinted at, shielded by a watchful diffidence that is more defence mechanism than aloof disregard for the mortals around him. The exquisite brilliance of Rylance's portrayal in the final few minutes will uplift even the grimmest souls and remind us all of why Spielberg, whose work has never once wanted for heart, is the master of all he surveys.
Director Francis Lawrence brings his ever stylish eye to Red Sparrow, a luscious adaptation of Jason Matthews's chilly spook novel. Lawrence's reunion with namesake Jennifer, leading lady in the three Hunger Games films he helmed (Gary Ross oversaw the first of the series), comes as Russian espionage, and questions about what exactly they're up to over there, dominates the international headlines. Whatever it is that's going on, one doubts, somehow, that reality matches the vision deployed here. Reminiscent of many a Cold War drama, Red Sparrow doesn't quite hit those heights. It does, however, succeed as a weighty, serious and violent spy fable, one peppered with recognisable tropes (borscht-thick accents, labyrinthine plots, Soviet-style scheming), perhaps, yet benefiting mightily from the director's opulent framing and a superior cast. Jennifer Lawrence plays Dominika Egorova, a prima ballerina with the Bolshoi Ballet who is sneakily recruited by a shadowy government agency (naturally) following a series of unfortunate events: First she suffers a horrific onstage injury, brutally depicted; she then falls prey to the trickery of her uncle, Ivan Egorov (Matthias Schoenaerts), an SVR bigwig whose plans for his niece are less than wholesome. Tagged as a potential 'Sparrow' – beautiful young agents moulded to wage psychological warfare and practice sexual manipulation – she is packed off to the grim training centre for her new future, the elegantly name State School 4. Later, released into the world as part of Russia's bid for global dominance over the decadent and slovenly West, Dominika must engage in a standard Budapest-based back-and-forth with American operative Nathaniel Nash (Joel Edgerton), whose CIA career has been derailed following a botched information exchange with a high-level mole in Moscow's Gorky Park. What emerges from this initial set-up is an occasionally satisfying thriller. While it is confident enough to burn slow, Red Sparrow's ultimate impact is blunted by a narrative that mistakes confusion for unpredictability. Only Lawrence's central performance pulls it back from the brink, her assured turn providing the complexities and nuance lacking elsewhere.
Frustratingly, the film's strongest potential element is its least heralded. The Sparrow school, overseen with stern grace and a surprising edge of motherly kindness by Charlotte Rampling's Matron, threatens to compel but is treated as little more than an extended training montage, with added barbarity. Lawrence the director captures the surroundings with a spartan, graceful stillness but it's undone by the speed with which the whole exercise is abandoned. Indeed, this approach only serves to undermine Dominika's transformation from ingenue to weapon of the state, a journey that feels all too swift. Later, as the stakes rise, she vacillates between knowing temptress and clueless newcomer, with neither characterisation a comfortable fit. This bleeds into the broader story, unfortunately, and while that smudging of truth might appear a deliberate tactic of the genre, the direction of travel never seems entirely true. If Edgerton is just as baffled, he exudes enough charm to power through. Mercifully, the interplay between the two leads never sags, his calm visage and guarded countenance unsettled by the prospective mark's hypnotic air of vulnerability. In Lawrence the actress, of course, Red Sparrow possesses a genuine star of the age. She overcomes Dominika's flaws with minimal effort and succeeds in weaving a convincingly steely character, inscrutable and possessed of multiple layers. Elsewhere, the always classy Jeremy Irons excels as watchful military officer Vladimir Korchnoi, who chain smokes and growls sagely from behind a pair of tinted Gorbachev-era spectacles. In the role of spymaster Zyuganov, Ciarán Hinds is affable and alert, his expensive tailoring a quiet symbol of post-perestroika Russia. Nevertheless, audiences should expect little to set pulses racing. Bleak and uncompromising, Red Sparrow may aspire to moving beyond Bourne, Bond and the bloated cartoon savagery of Atomic Blonde,but it needs to get its cover straight first.
As awful as 2017 turned out to be, it was undoubtedly saved by numerous trips to the movies. Here's the best of what kept us sane.
17. It
A good deal of hype, along with a suitably creepy marketing campaign, saw expectations for the first cinematic adaptation of Stephen King's work reach a pitch in advance of its release. Fortunately, audiences were not disappointed. Helmer Andrés Muschietti's It is an engaging and triumphant take on a seminal title, one replete with equal parts horror, humour and ambition, likely to amuse as often as it induces palpable discomfort and outright terror.
King's narrative still freezes the blood. In 1980s Derry, Maine, a band of friends (harvested from the best bits of The Goonies, E.T. and Stand By Me) is terrorised by a malevolent presence that has long stalked their town. Taking whichever form is most likely to terrify its victims, the spirit's go-to manifestation is that of Pennywise the Dancing Clown (Bill Skarsgård), an undoubted leader in fanning the flames of global coulrophobia. With his staring eyes, tufts of orange hair, twisted grin and Renaissance-era wardrobe, Skarsgård's portrayal is stunning, if not downright odd – a wicked, cruel, occasionally hilarious emissary of evil that will harry the rest of fitful sleepers everywhere. Sweet dreams. 16. Logan
Having played the Wolverine in a host of X-Men titles since 2000, Hugh Jackman hung up his claws and bowed out in 2017 with the spectacularly violent Logan, a final instalment in the otherwise underwhelming trilogy dedicated to the character. The Wolverine director James Mangold returns to the fold and recalibrates his approach, dispensing with the relatively sanitised populism that had held Jackman's inner maniac in check for 17 years. His was a wise decision.
Given that Logan is an ornery loner with anger issues and retractable metal blades in his fists, he has always appeared slightly stunted in various cinematic outings. Mangold releases the shackles here, unleashing Jackman as a foul-mouthed agent of destruction, cutting his way (quite literally) through a swathe of bad hombres to a bloody finish. Thankfully, the savagery is far from gratuitous. A touching story of friendship and sacrifice underpins everything, not least Logan's attempts to shield ailing mentor Charles Xavier (a pitch-perfect Patrick Stewart) and young mutant Laura (Dafne Keen) from a nefarious paramilitary group. Stripped down to the bare bones, and eschewing the assumptions of its genre DNA, Logan was a thrilling surprise. 15. Silence
An apogee of Martin Scorsese's ever-evolving relationship with religion, Silence's long gestation (Scorsese started adapting Shusaku Endo's novel in 1990) imbues it with an austere air every bit in keeping with that of something long considered the auteur's passion piece. Ostensibly focusing on the trials of Portuguese Jesuits in 17th-century Japan, its weighty overtones and ideas of devotion, contrition and faith are largely unavoidable.
Given the director's past penchant for archly cinematic grandstanding, such a mix of religious fervour and spiritual symbolism could have fallen into the realms of the ridiculous. It is anything but. The idealistic padres are plunged into an unforgiving landscape, one that immediately tests their learning and adherence to the power of the almighty. Blessed with an impressive central trio – Andrew Gardfield, Adam Driver and the white whale of the story, Liam Neeson – Silence is an arresting chronicle of tribulation and torment. Aesthetic excellence aside, it's no easy watch, but, with a multitude of urgent questions demanding equally urgent answers, it is an essential one.
14. John Wick: Chapter 2
Keanu Reeves's unthreateningly named assassin returned to screens in 2017 trailing the same rage he marshalled two years ago, while deftly switching roles from apex predator to fleeing prey. In sole command, following the departure of John Wick co-director David Leitch for pastures new (Atomic Blonde), Chad Stahelski oversees a heightened, refined version of chapter one. Drenched in a rich neon glow and throbbing with unholy savagery, the world is expanded, feeling infinitely more dangerous.
Like another Reeves epic, Speed, Chapter 2's ferocious pace rarely slows. When it does, the proceedings are invariably girded by exposition that helps to build up Wick's increasing desperation. Once the tightly observed rules of his subculture are breached, nobody, not even Ian McShane's urbane fixer can stave off the consequences. A third volume is all but promised. Expect more gunfire.
13. Wind River
Jeremy Renner produced arguably 2017's most understated performances in Taylor Sheridan's desolate frontier fable. As a crime thriller and wintry mystery, Wind River satisfies on both fronts. Sheridan penned the equally superb Sicario and Hell or HighWater, two pictures bristling with the poise that makes this so compelling, and, like the former, a female focal point (in this case, Elizabeth Olsen's callow FBI agent) serves as a vital ingredient.
But it is Renner who distinguishes himself. A solitary wildlife hunter, sullen as he is gentle, he elevates Wind River with a quiet resolve, the necessary bridge between the distinct worlds of federal authority and native custom. He and Olsen range across the tundra of the titular Indian reservation, determined to bring to justice those responsible for the rape and murder of a local woman (a real-world theme worthy of attention). Sheridan uses this strange match to blend hard-boiled noir and naturalistic motifs, skilfully rendering a visceral, genuinely intriguing drama of no little depth.
12. The Beguiled
The American civil war forms the backdrop of Sofia Coppolla's bewitching psychological drama, a remake of the Clint Eastwood-starring 1971 original, which was itself a reworking of the novel by Thomas P. Cullinan. A significantly more sober affair than the earlier iteration, Colin Farrell fills out the Eastwood-shaped space by imbuing his wounded soldier with a knowing, raffish air that spreads and creeps, like a drug, through his staid Southern refuge. Both his nemesis and saviour, Nicole Kidman's stately headmistress balances the impact of his arrival at a secluded Virginia girls school.
While its evocative milieu and quiet foreboding do much to stir the emotions, Coppolla's direction remains spare. She weaves her spell with grace and a sure hand, resisting the urge to rush towards her conclusion. Exquisite to behold and laced with sexual, political and societal tension, The Beguiled's trump card is an utterly brilliant showing by Kirsten Dunst, whose entire form bleeds sadness, regret and unwanted solitude.
11. It Comes at Night
As Trump and Brexit tear at the fibres of reality, our appetite for consuming dystopian fiction continues apace. Trey Edwards Shults's sophomore directorial effort is a spartan and chilling hellscape of a movie, presented free of context and armed with the assurance that its atmosphere alone is enough to draw in an audience. He is not wrong. ItComes at Night is almost majestic in its bleakness, offering rewards aplenty for those willing to invest.
Not a film that sits easily in the horror annals, in spite of its trappings, this is placed in a world where an unspecified disease has ruptured society. How far its toll extends beyond the isolated forest homestead of paranoid Paul (Joel Edgerton), his wife, Sarah (Carmen Ejogo), and son Travis (Kelvin Harrison Jr.) is never revealed. It almost doesn't matter: The immediacy of their predicament is clear. Raiding outsiders, the spectre of sickness, dwindling supplies and the arrival of a questionably motivated young couple, Will (Christopher Abbott) and Kim (Riley Keogh), are concerns too pressing to afford space for anything else. With a searing performance from Edgerton to the fore, Shults ratchets up the pressure with slow, steady abandon, rumbling towards a conclusion as deliberately opaque as the rest of the tale.
10. The Lost City of Z
Little seen but fascinating, this account of explorer Percy Fawcett's Amazonian odyssey during the early twentieth century enjoyed limited financial success in spite of its grand framing. A meagre box office haul is no indicator of quality, however. The ever discerning James Gray brings his keen eye to an adaptation of David Grann's 2009 book focusing on Fawcett (Charlie Hunnam) and his search for a lost metropolis somewhere in the vast, unknowable reaches of the South American jungle.
Gray's film is absorbing and often imperious. It burns slow, possessed of a quietly swaggering certainty, unfolding as it sees fit. The spectacle is often located in humble themes – family, class, pride and the terrible price of obsession – and admirable confidence shines through in powerfully straightforward aspirations. As with the celluloid adventures of the 70s and 80s, The Lost City of Z pulls off the trick of being both aloof and engaged, Gray's sumptuous style finding form in the rainforest's deafeningly naturalistic soundscapes and the terrific cast's minimal exposition. 9. Baby Driver
If style alone decided success, Baby Driver would have crushed the opposition before its first track played out. Such is the unfettered joy at the heart of Edgar Wright's outrageously entertaining heist caper that its whip-smart plot winds up as a somewhat unnecessary addendum. The marvellous cast (Ansel Elgort, Kevin Spacey, Jon Hamm, Lily James, Jamie Foxx and Jon Bernthal) delivers in spades, Hamm, in particular, bringing much of Don Draper's charisma to bear as a surprisingly complex antagonist.
Where Wright succeeds above all else, of course, is in executing a phenomenally slick actioner that pays homage to the genre without ever ripping it off. Indeed, Baby Driver went unchallenged by its 2017 peers – none could compete with its signature brew of stunt work and strutting fearlessness, all underpinned by a fluidity of purpose. As getaway driver Baby (Elgort) motors to the beat of a continuous soundtrack used to drown out the tinnitus inside his head, Wright's instinct is to carry us along for the ride, the tunes scoring and directing the weaving, drifting vehicle for this singular vision. 8. War for the Planet of the Apes
The third chapter in a rebooted franchise, War for the Planet of the Apesups the ante from films one and two, delivering a bold and brilliantly imagined sci-fi epic that builds on the foundations already laid. Anchored by more than one performance – most notably Andy Serkis's breathtaking depiction of hyper-intelligent alpha chimpanzee Caesar and Woody Harrelson's swivel-eyed villainy – the picturecompletes the not insignificant task of outdoing its accomplished predecessors.
From a technical standpoint, War is an astonishing feat. If incumbent director Matt Reeves prefers not to linger on the brilliance of his film, favouring plot over bombast, its merits are no less obvious. This is a story revolving around a group of CG simians that never once seems as if it is riffing on the wizardry required to bring that cast to life. It is no stretch to conclude that these look and move like the real thing, with every single detail, from their matted, sodden and snow-sprinkled fur to their squat and shuffling movements, rendered in agonising detail. Sorrow, fear and contentment inhabit their eyes. It is stunning stuff.
7. Get Out
One could be forgiven, in the first year of the Trump assault on decency and progress, for failing to foresee the oncoming racial polemic in a below-the-radar horror flick created by comedian Jordan Peele and featuring Josh from The West Wing as its creepy oddball. It is in that slyness, however, that Peele's Get Out unfurls its secrets. The freshman director spins a vivid yarn, by turns amusing, grotesque and uniquely horrifying.
To detail the premise is to sell out its core enigma, though, needless to say, Daniel Kaluuya's watchful lead is right to be wary of spending the weekend with girlfriend Rose's (Allison Williams) plainly bonkers parents (Bradley Whitford and Catherine Keener). On a deeper level, Peele interferes with our ingrained assumptions, placing the action, with its controversial conceits of invasive prejudice and violence, within an unexpected setting: not the sweltering post-Jim Crow American South but upstate New York, all crisp temperatures, pastoral shades and white Obama disciples.
6. Manchester by the Sea
Casey Affleck's haunted and nuanced work as the tortured protagonist of Kenneth Lonergan's frigid family tale rightly secured him a Best Actor gong at the Oscars in February. Affleck's trick is to conjure a well of profound sadness that flits back and forth across his otherwise stoic visage, the weight of the past and the bracing demands of the present dragging him to places that jeopardise his delicately balanced emotional and physical comfort.
Manchester by the Sea thrives in unpicking the fabric of familial ties, Affleck's lonely janitor finding himself the legal guardian of an orphaned nephew (Lucas Hedges). It is a film keen to inhabit the spaces between its coterie of flawed, rounded, broken people – each is damaged, none are beyond hope. Upon a flinty, salt-stained New England canvas, Lonergan paints a parable of raw human experience best exemplified by Michelle Williams's heart-stopping supporting turn.
5. Detroit
In a year when America's fetid undercurrent of racism exploded to the surface with the gleeful inducement of its toddler in chief, Detroit seemed an incredibly topical contribution to 2017. Overseen by Kathryn Bigelow, it ripples with the immersive intensity that defined both The Hurt Locker and Zero Dark Thirty, locating those elements not in some blasted foreign war zone but in that most American of locales: Motown.
Police maleficence and civil unrest are the obvious and dominant factors here, but Bigelow's movie wields a darker edge, one of systemic bigotry. In 1960s Detroit, law enforcement and rioters clash – the backdrop is the lopsided dynamic between the state and those on the outer fringes. John Boyega stands out as the security guard caught up in the careening, unchecked malice set off by Will Poulter's power-tripping beat cop. The parallels between past and present alone are propulsive. It an essential testament of how brutality and racial animus commune to undermine the progress we hope to make. 4. La La Land
The recipient, briefly, of this year's Oscar for Best Picture, La La Land may have missed out on the big prize but such embarrassments should not distract from the whimsical brilliance of Damien Chazelle's LA musical. His follow-up to the scorching Whiplash,Chazelle moulded a charming paean, of superlative style and elegance, to Hollywood's golden age, never stooping to cater to the masses. It retains its appeal, however, thanks to a sense of freshness and the deployment of two charming stars in Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling. Reunited once again, this modern day Fred and Ginger radiate class, each a perfect compliment to the other.
La La Land avoids easy classification: romance, drama, comedy; it hits every beat. The constant strand throughout is the joyous recall of yesteryear. Show-stopping sequences (not least the dazzling opening number on a clogged freeway) abound, balanced by flighty outbreaks of song and dance, and a gripping dreamscape of love found and love lost. Beyond triumphant. 3. Dunkirk
Christopher Nolan has always been known as an auteur fixed on more than just spectacle. Memento was a grimy mind-bender sporting considerable low-res cool, The Prestige a clever period mystery steeped in the ambience of Victorian London. Even Interstellar wielded a mighty message to sit alongside its visual ambition. With Dunkirk, however, Nolan jettisons the mere telling of a story and chooses, instead, to depict it, completely and without compromise.
An event familiar to anyone with a passing knowledge of British history, the rescue of British and French forces from under the advancing yoke of a Nazi onslaught is simply the base upon which Nolan constructs this masterpiece. He wastes next to no time with characterisation or plotting, extraneous elements likely to dilute that which he is trying to convey. As a result, his picture emerges as a slice of thundering and peerless filmmaking. Its relentless march towards an inevitable conclusion – the salvation of thousands from a wind-scudded Alamo – never feels rote; menace and fateful purpose are present in equal measures and in every frame. Boasting a metronomic musical suite that feeds the tension to bursting point and a triptych of intersecting, smartly paced arcs, Dunkirk was 2017's most affecting cinematic experience. 2. Blade Runner 2049
Unlike Alien Covenant, Ridley Scott relinquished helming duties for the other 2017 sequel to one of his great works, Blade Runner. In the driving seat for Blade Runner 2049, Dennis Villeneuve (Arrival, Sicario, Prisoners) provides a fresh take on Scott's 35-year-old dystopian classic, widely regarded amongst the finest movies ever committed to film. Blade Runner'sangular narrative, brilliant as it was, remains an acquired taste. 2049's screenwriting team (including original scribe Hampton Fancher), however, has crafted a broader opus, more accessible yet no less profound or wondrous.
As Ryan Gosling's K seeks the cornerstone of mankind's own evolved existence, a quest that brings him into the orbit of the retired Deckard (an excellent Harrison Ford), every inch of the screen explodes with cinematographer Roger Deakins's breathtaking visuals, be they the sepia hues of a long-lost Las Vegas or the luminous glare filtering through the cracks of Los Angeles's soaking urban hell. The soaring score, too, appears like an old friend, its Vangelis-inspired, synth-infused glory calling forth the ghosts of days past. Remarkably, even the soundscapes of Scott's masterful progenitor have returned, from the shimmering echoes of the Wallace Corporation's edifice-like headquarters to the booming, hissing, groaning hubbub that swirls through the avenues of the looming megatropolis. Villeneuve's endeavours are beautiful and astounding, at once operatic, elegiac and steeped in the essence of all that has gone before. 1. Moonlight
As baffling as the Oscar night snafu involving a confused Warren Beatty, the Best Picture award and a likely fired flunky may now seem, it felt especially egregious that Moonlight was, even for a brief moment, robbed of its honour. The splendour of La La Land aside, to anyone fortunate enough to have been exposed to Barry Jenkins's hypnotic and devastatingly affecting coming-of-age parable, the truth was all too obvious.
No mere study of repressed sexuality, crippling poverty or absent intimacy, Moonlight is, ultimately, whatever one wishes it to be. Anchored in its opening leg by a transcendent Mahershala Ali and proudly displaying a central character portrayed in three acts by a trio of unvarnished, distinctive young performers, this is a crucial, startling, magnificent film. A towering achievement, truly.
