LFF 2011: Sleeping Sickness (Ulrich Köhler, 2011) Review

Africa is a land of ailment and confusion in Sleeping Sickness (2011)

Where to begin with Sleeping Sickness? I can only divulge the first third of its plot, merely suggest genre, and much less express my feelings intelligibly for fear of giving away the film's myriad surprises. Perhaps it's an enigmatic thriller set around the world of medicine, specifically concerning Dr. Velten (the permanently sweaty Pierre Bokma) as he wrestles with administrators and an outbreak of the titular disease? Perhaps. But at around the 30-minute mark Köhler's film cuts, without warning, to another time and place, introducing new characters and agendas. How far into the future are we? How will these stories connect, if at all? Suddenly the film becomes a 'Heart Of Darkness'-esque tale about foreigners in a radical land, exposing the West's warped idea of African society. It's a fascinating slow-burn (but actually incredibly entertaining) film, impossible to grasp with the logic of traditional storytelling. Let's focus on that first third a little more...

Dr. Velten's medical programme has been a success, extensively reducing the amount of illness in the region. Administrators are demanding an increase in financial aid, but Velten stands strong on his position. Shortly he will be rejoining his family, wife Vera (Jenny Schilly) and daughter Helen (Maria Elise Miller), in their native Germany, but something about that land depresses him. The jungle has a grasp around his throat, it would seem, although the consequence of this pull won't be made clear until the bewildering ending (you won't see a better final shot this year). Köhler slowly builds a portrait of this family, framed like the most ordinary of dramas. The dialogue and performances are naturalistic, the photography uncharacteristically beautiful, the sound low-key. This portion of the film engages, but doesn't indicate greatness. Questions about legislation and corruption are raised, but it's clear that Köhler is going to keep his picture small. Even when the scope of its story extends the film remains intimate, focusing on character.

I wish I could discuss the next third in more detail, but all you need know is that it concerns Alex Nzila (Jean-Christophe Folly), a French doctor who is sent to build a report on Dr. Velten's programme. When he arrives Ebbo is nowhere to be found. What follows is an examination of Africa unlike any I've seen before, and a visual portrait of the country which is as mythical as it is challenging. The landscape, lensed by DP Patrick Orth, suddenly attains a sparse mystique - anything, we consider, could happen here. This feeling becomes even more prevalent in the final third, which I shall keep completely under wraps. This is the most snakelike of films, deceptively slithering through the subconscious and shedding its skin every thirty minutes. Its themes change with the tides. To some degree it's also about culture shock. The plot I've described so far is really just a surface, although I don't make that statement detrimentally. It's the most polished, absorbing surface a film of substance can possibly possess.

A cautionary tale blending the ideas of Conrad with the aesthetics of Denis (and a bit of Weerasethakul thrown in for good measure), Sleeping Sickness is the most interesting film I've seen this year, and I'm praying that distributors give me the chance to watch it time and time again. Just one piece of advice: don't read ANY other reviews until you've seen it. There are some great ones out there, but all reveal too much of the plot. The ideal way to watch Sleeping Sickness is completely cold, unaware of its eventual trajectory. In all honesty, you probably shouldn't have read this far...

Sleeping Sickness is playing at the London Film Festival on Saturday 22nd October. This review can originally be found at Flickfeast.

LFF 2011: Take Shelter (Jeff Nichols, 2011) Review

Curtis (Michael Shannon) suffers visions of the apocalypse in Take Shelter (2011)

Can you imagine waking up one morning, staring into the mirror and feeling separate from the reflected image, as if you were actually looking at some obscure portrait? Can you imagine the terror of not being able to distinguish reality from nightmare, forever living in a paranoid state, trying to untangle your mind from the impending disasters it's convinced itself of? Take Shelter, Jeff Nichols' second feature after 2007's incendiary Shotgun Stories, is an interpersonal horror movie of biblical proportions, observing the end-of-days through the splintering mind of one ordinary man. And if that summary hasn't sold you then frankly nothing will...

Curtis LaForche (Michael Shannon) is a working class guy living in a small Ohio town with his beautiful wife Samantha (Jessica Chastain) and deaf daughter Hanna (Tova Stewart). His existence is seemingly perfect, but he's plagued by a series of apocalyptic visions, rendering his nights sleepless. These nightmares begin with a downfall of thick, oily rain, followed by ghost-like figures scratching at the widows, and then descending into a full-blown storm. Fatigue sets in, and Curtis becomes increasingly detached from his reality, much to the concern of his family. When he begins work on renovating a storm shelter in his backyard word travels concerning his strange behavior, and the line between reality and nightmare becomes worryingly blurred.

Nichols frames Curtis' life like the classic American Dream; it has everything but the emblematic white picket fence. In fact, the family's life could even be called clichéd, but it's important that Nichols' establishes an identifiable everyday reality for his characters so that the ensuing terror may carry greater weight. This could be your neighborhood. Hell, these could be your neighbors. The screenplay also does a great job of raising questions of trust and morality. When Curtis begins experiencing visions he does not think himself a prophet. His first instinct is to see a doctor, and then a therapist. One morning we sense deep shame when he wakes up to realize he's wet the bed. But as the narrative progresses he seems to become more convinced that these dreams are foretelling reality, and yet he does nothing to warn anybody. Now his instinct lies with survival; more specifically the survival of him and his family. His explosion of rage at a community dinner exposes contempt for those who have sniggered behind his back. And after all, they did nothing to help him, so what loyalty does he owe them?

Unfortunately the film really loses steam in its last ten minutes, which provide unnecessary answers to questions which will present themselves differently to every viewer. Part of Nichols' genius lies in his ability to create a constant sense of unease from his premise, where the viewer never understands - much less trusts - Curtis and his motives. One disturbing vision suggests that he may be compelled to hurt his family, and Nichols' can muster tension from this scenario because he's never given us reason to believe that Curtis isn't capable of violence. He's a dedicated family man, and clearly a loving husband, but lacks control over his condition. For me the film ends on a shot of his hands reaching for a door (you'll know it when it comes), and the final minutes undermine almost everything which has come before. That said, even though the final shot appears clearcut, you may interpret it differently to me.

The film's constant appeal is Shannon's shape-shifting face, as compelling here as in Bug (Friedkin, 2006) and My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done? (Herzog, 2009). He's one of the finest actors of his generation, and I can't wait to see what he does next. No matter the quality of the film, I know he'll be brilliant. But the real revelation here, for the third or fourth time this year, is Jessica Chastain. In Malick's Tree Of Life (2011) she floated on air, like an earthbound angel. Here she represents normality, the anchor of love that Curtis needs to keep his reality in check. Her building anxiety and concern is beautifully played, perfectly matching Shannon's subtle facial ticks. She's really built a heavy reputation for herself this year. Come November, when Take Shelter is released theatrically, I think her popularity will be cemented in the minds of UK moviegoers. She's a sensation.

Take Shelter is playing at the London Film Festival on Friday 21st and Sunday 23rd October. Its official UK release date is November 25th. This review can originally be found on Flickfeast.

LFF 2011: Martha Marcy May Marlene (Sean Durkin, 2011) Review

"Martha. You look like a Marcy May"... Martha Marcey May Marlene (2011)

Martha Marcy May Marlene is a film of dramatically heightened senses, perceiving touch, sight and hearing with the anxious curiosity of a newborn. Martha's (Elizabeth Olsen) years spent in a cult, fathered by the seemingly innocuous Patrick (John Hawkes), have desensitized her from the outside world. Her escape is a full-throttle assault on our senses, combining frenetic handheld camerawork, a brooding visual style and a rumbling string-fronted soundscape. The feeling of this scene is overwhelming, like stealing a sharp intake of breath after deep submersion. Indeed, the intensity of Durkin's film cannot be understated. This is a picture of conditioned spaces and inaugural terror, repetitive cycles and unsettled awakening. The camera shadows Martha ("you look like a Marcy May") as she reassembles her life, seeking refuge with concerned sister Lucy (Sarah Paulson) and her frustrated husband Ted (Hugh Dancy), rhythmically flitting back to her memories of life on Patrick's farm. In many ways, like the upcoming Take Shelter (Nichols, 2011), the film can be viewed as a horror, albeit an intensely personal one about the confrontation of inner demons.

Durkin's film is really remarkable for expressing so much disquiet without ever engaging, explicitly, in the exact ritual of Patrick's self-made family. It appears that he recruits young girls into his spacious barn home, allowing them to settle in and then raping them when they feel comfortable. Another girl will reassure the young victim, telling her that it's all part of the "sharing process", and that the family will have to be open to one another in order to live harmoniously. Most doors are kept closed on the farm, and interiors are largely shot in obscured close-ups. Everyone finds their place eventually, whether it be washing dishes or looking after the children (disturbingly, they may all belong to Patrick). Durkin's directorial sensibilities are greatly restrained, and he evokes a troubling atmosphere through the use of photography and music. In one scene Patrick sings to the group, delivering a haunting rendition of Jackson C. Frank's 'Marcy's Song'. It starts off romantically ("well she's, she's just a picture") but as the actor narrows his gaze and the lyrics shift toward something darker ("her dripping, ripping down your hands") we gain an insight into Patrick's dream for the farm. It's a disturbing vision, and we never feel safe in his presence again...

Hawkes has been a commanding presence on the American indie scene for some time now, and he turned the Academy's heads with his supporting role in last years Sundance sensation Winter's Bone (Debra Granik, 2010). His performance here is layered and affecting, constantly challenging the expectations of an audience. In one scene he approaches Marcy, who is being trained to use a gun, and instructs her to shoot a cat. "You're a teacher and a leader Marcy, now prove it." He delivers the line with such calm that we begin to wonder what Patrick is really capable of. Has he killed before? His psychology is never probed, and for once that's a good thing. We get to feel for the character but never understand him; he's just a blank slate. Olsen is also incredible in her first leading role, turning in a raw, naturalistic performance that never hits a false note. Her portrayal is also a layered one, and the actress slips inside a state of fear and unease, proving herself as a magnetic screen presence.

I've allowed the film to settle in over two weeks before writing this review, and many of my initial problems with it now feel less significant. The screenplay, written by Durkin, does have its tin-eared moments, and some of Patrick's dialogue is laughably artificial, especially a speech about the cycle of life and death. It feels too much like the director is trying to shoehorn a bigger idea into the picture, but it just gets lost among the smaller, more intimate moments. My other problem was with the films final minute, and this has caused division among my fellow critics. Durkin employs a stunning wide shot to observe Martha as she swims in a lake. The frame is disconcerting in its quietness, and DP Jody Lee Lipes darkens the palette, lending the lake an oily quality; below the rippling surface it appears black. We stay in this shot for an uncomfortable amount of time, and the dense woodland begins to envelope the viewer. It's a perfectly ambiguous note to end on but Durkin follows it up with two extra shots. To me they're unnecessary, but they're certainly not enough to stop me from recommending the film. It's a hauntingly subdued piece of work, heralding great things for both its director and star...

Martha Marcy May Marlene is screening at the London Film Festival on Saturday 22nd and Monday 24th October. Its official UK release date is February 3rd. This review can originally be found at Flickfeast.

LFF 2011: The Future (Miranda July, 2011) Review

Miranda July's annoyingly quirky The Future (2011)

Miranda July's debut feature, the wonderful Me And You And Everyone We Know (2005), currently ranks as one of my Top 10 films of the last decade. Understandably, her second venture as writer/director/star, the less cumbersomely titled The Future, was one of my festival priorities. I'd already resigned myself to the fact that it would be something of a letdown, yet I remained confident of enjoyment. How wrong a person can be. For what I discovered, upon entering the NFT1 on a bright September morning, was one of the most nauseatingly self-absorbed and tirelessly pretentious films of the year. It's in my Bottom 5. I flat-out hated it...

Sophie (July) and Jason (Hamish Linklater) are a thirty-something couple living in LA, working jobs they hate to pay the rent on their hipster-centric apartment. In thirty days they're due to adopt a cat named Paw-Paw, and this spurs them on to the realization that they're growing older ("forty is basically fifty") and life as they know it will soon come to an end. No more lounging around on Facebook, it would seem. Naturally this realization spins time and space out of order, and all manner of kookiness begins to occur between the fracturing couple, who attempt to find meaning in life outside of each other.

The Future is a film which builds an existential crisis from the unplugging of the Internet, and that's about the level of depth July is working from. The film is about mortality, responsibility, incapability and inevitability. It's about hitting a brick wall and not knowing how you got there; coming to terms with the life you've built and wondering why you never became more. "I always thought I'd be smarter" says Jason. Sophie decides to dedicate her life to a YouTube dance. "30 days 30 dances." Do you want to spend time with these people?

First we must establish the rules of July's universe. The film is obviously operating on a heightened level, and to look for realism would be a fool's errand. That's not the point. The same was true of Me And You And Everyone We Know, which at one point paused its story to contemplate the fate of a bagged goldfish. The difference was that the heightened world in that film held an underlying truth; characters whose interactions carried weight and felt believable. It's almost as if they had no barometer for their emotions, and spoke directly from the subconscious; the home of memory, imagination and classic movie dialogue. Those characters were forgiving and open-minded. They said things like "I was trying to save my life and it didn't work." Some will cringe, but I found it disarming, and most of all charming.

The Future makes use of surrealism to tell its tale, and the press notes reveal that the project was birthed from a performance piece called 'Things We Don't Understand And Definitely Are Not Going To Talk About'. Examples of surrealism include Jason's conversation with the moon ("what do I know? I'm just a rock in the sky") and a living T-shirt which follows Sophie to a new home. The problem is that none of this coalesces into a consistent vision, and the tone always feels slightly off. The mechanics of the film are always visible onscreen, and the whole thing lacks momentum. There's a clearly defined end-goal (the collection of Paw-Paw), even marked on a frequently referenced calendar, and yet it never feels like the film is working towards anything substantial. Sub-plots arise from the most coincidental of details, and none carry depth or humour.

But am I hypocritical to mark down a film about aimlessness for being aimless? Not when the conversations are this banal and self-serving, having the nerve to discuss profound life achievements after the characters have just quit their jobs to become free spirits. Is that viable in this economy? No, but they're quirky, so apparently it's all fine. Talking of quirky, have I mentioned that the film is narrated by Paw-Paw (voiced by July)? It's intensely irritating but actually works as a good litmus test for if you're likely to enjoy the film. My advice? Watch the trailer. Anyone who rolls their eyes at the cat narration would be best served by giving July's latest a miss.

In the interest of fairness I should say that there are positives. Linklater is terrific as the mumbly, introspective Jason, and makes the most of a weak screenplay (his entire arc revolves around becoming an environmentalist). The score by Jon Brion (one of my favorite composers) is also good, as is the use of a Beach House track called 'Master Of None'. But honestly, if you want to listen to that, just buy the soundtrack album. It'll be a more gratifying experience. And that's really all I can say in the way of positives. I so wanted to love The Future, but I left the screening angry and sad. I won't have a more disappointing experience at the London Film Festival this year.

The Future is screening at the London Film Festival on Friday 21st and Sunday 23rd October. Its official UK release date is November 4th. This review can originally be found at Flickfeast.

LFF 2011: Mourning (Morteza Farshbaf, 2011) Review

A family recovers on the road in Morteza Farshbaf's Mourning (2011)

The feature debut of Kiarostami protégé Morteza Farshbaf, Mourning is the gentle and affecting tale of Arshia (Amir Hossein Maleki), a young boy whose parents disappear in the foreboding hours of dusk, never to be heard from again. The film opens on a frame flooded with darkness; the inky streams of night obscuring Arshia's outline as he retreats into the safety of his blankets. His parents bicker loudly downstairs, their argument seemingly spurred by an off-hand remark taken the wrong way. Their quarrel builds to a furious climax resulting in both parents storming out of the house, owned by relatives Kamran (Kiomars Giti) and Sharareh (Sharareh Pasha), who are both deaf. The couple's departure will be more lasting than anyone could have imaged, as news arrives in the morning of their death. Kamran and Sharareh decide not to tell Arshia, informing him that his parents have headed off early. A trip ensues to return the boy home...

Iranian cinema experienced something of a resurgence in the early 1990's, and at its heart was Kiarostami, whose own driving drama Ten (2002) explored the road through a series of loosely connected vignettes. Farshbaf's film also resembles an Argentinean drama playing at LFF this year, the underwhelming Las Acacias (Giorgelli, 2011), about a mute truck driver (Germán de Silva) who falls in love while crossing the border to Buenos Aries. What makes Mourning unique, at least from a dramatic standpoint, is the fact that its main characters communicate entirely through sign language, expressing emotion with their hands and through facial gestures. This forces actors Giti and Pasha - who are a real-life couple - to be more suggestive with their (limited) physicality, and the audience is tasked with observing them closely. It's an interesting dynamic for the cinema to adopt, but Farshbaf's confident camerawork (his early compositions are beautiful) ensures that his story has scope beyond the car's hermetic enclosure.

For the first ten minutes Farshbaf's camera operates exclusively in wide shots, observing the landscape as Kamran's car navigates its winding roads. The soundscape is entirely empty, save for the feint sound of wind blowing through blades of grass and the car's wheels kicking up dirt and stones. Subtitles roll underneath the images, leaving the audience to imagine the interior of the car, which is often framed like a tableau, and kept static for extended periods of time. There is a sense of mystery to the film at this point. Arshia's parents, voiced by Sahar Dolatshahi and Peyman Moaadi, are never visualized on-screen, not even by photograph. They are left to the audience as memory; two people fighting in the dead of night. Arshia's troubled face, which is rarely observed in close-up, suggests that this event is not unusual, and lines of dialogue subtly suggest that the couple were fracturing. The film is structured something like a jigsaw, but its bigger picture still won't be clear by the end. Would you want it to be?

One of the things I really loved about Farshbaf's film were its frequent diversions from the set path, such as a moment where Kamran accidentally drives past the spot of Arshia's parents' car accident, visualized by trembling flames in a distant tunnel. Another scene finds the car breaking down, and Kamran wandering off to seek help. He manages to hail somebody down, and then attempts to communicate where exactly his car is stuck. In a moment of beautifully observed comedy Kamran mimes a hill, a gesture his driver struggles to comprehend. "Are they deaf", he enquires, after discovering there are two other people waiting with the stranded vehicle. Kamran nods, misunderstanding, for Arshia is not deaf. "Oh dear", the driver sighs. With the simplest of gestures Farshbaf not only crafts a touching scene of two people lost in translation, but also a winning blend of physical and written comedy; it's perfectly judged.

A fascinating take on the road movie, Mourning also offers a refreshing examination of loss, and is my pick for the hidden gem of London's 2011 festival. Actually, it's one of the very best films of the year, and I really hope somebody picks it up for distribution soon. Farshbaf is an exciting new voice in Iranian cinema, and I suspect his career will be an important one to follow over the next decade...

This review can originally be found at Flickfeast.

LFF 2011: The Artist (Michel Hazanavicius, 2011) Review

Jean Dujardin and Bérénice Bejo star in the wonderful The Artist (2011)

Hollywoodland, 1927. George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) is one of the silver screen's most luminous stars, sharply suited and boasting a smile as bright as it is wide. His latest picture, A Russian Affair, has just become a storming success, and the actor (a blend of Fred Astaire, Rudolph Valentino and Charlie Chaplin) is at the height of his powers. An adoring fan, Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), accidentally stumbles into Valentin outside the film's premiere, and the pair are photographed by a local paper (WHO'S THAT GIRL?). Soon she's singing in the chorus line and, via montage, works her way up the ranks of America's most glittering industry. Hazanavicius' film charts her meteoric rise and Valentin's disastrous fall, all played out in silent black and white. But this isn't just romantic kitsch. Oh no. The Artist is a classy, confident film which can rank alongside any masterpiece of the silent era...

This 1.33:1 dream of a film evokes the silent period with such incredible detail that you'll be doing a double take when Malcolm McDowell rears his head in an amusing (but largely pointless) cameo. The dressing rooms, the costumes, the cars, the architecture, the music... this is the most beautiful of films; a love letter to the medium itself. Guillaume Schiffman's photography is gorgeous, perfectly recreating (but never looking like an imitation of) the aesthetic of 1920's cinema. Occasionally we are allowed to sample snippets from Valentin and Miller's films (I'd love to see Beauty Spot), which have the exact right amount of grain to feel accurate. Valentin seems to have his own crime serial, recalling Feuillade's Les Vampires (1915), perhaps in a nod back to Hazanavicius' native France. The use of title cards also plant us firmly into the period, although some carry jokes which are a little too self-knowing for my tastes. Most of the films self-reflexion is subtle though, working as a gentle wink to the film buffs in the audience. There are two references to Citizen Kane (Welles, 1941), the first of which, set at a breakfast table, is an absolute delight.

Hazanavicius' film presents an industry on the brink of change (1927 is the year Alan Crosland's The Jazz Singer broke the sound barrier), and his sense of the period is impeccable. Casting John Goodman as big time studio mogul Zimmer was a stroke of genius, recalling the actor's roles in Barton Fink (Coen's, 1991) and Matinee (Dante, 1993). His presence and energy engulf the frame, and he also gets one of the most rewarding lines (yep, a talkie). Dujardin is also perfect as Valentin, exuding charisma and talent in every frame. His knack for physical comedy was explored in Hazanavicius' James Bond spoof series OSS (2006, 2009), but nothing could have prepared us for the actor's tour de force performance here, which won him the Best Actor prize in Cannes earlier this year. Bejo is also an impossibly charming screen presence, and her final dance number with Dujardin is the films most impressive sequence. They're both note-perfect, and a close-up of their extravagant grins will surely send every audience member out on a high.

How could we discuss a silent movie without mentioning its score, this one composed by Ludovic Bource, who seems to be having the time of his life. It soars with emotion, radically shifting in tone and tempo as the film moves from a toe-tapping dance-off to a spectacular sound-infused nightmare, where Valentin's dressing room suddenly springs to life, attacking the star with its natural noises. "This is the future!" says Zimmer of sound films, a reality many stars had to face in the late 1920's, including Marlene Dietrich, who is evoked through several noir-inflected posters for Peppy Miller movies. The Artist is a truly sensory experience, combining lavish visuals, sweeping orchestration and larger than life performances to carry the audience off their feet into a past world. Sitting in the Odeon on a cold October morning I felt transported back to the Golden Age of Hollywood. Imagine my disappointment when Cary Grant wasn't reclining in the lobby with a latte.

Rapturously entertaining, The Artist won audience's hearts at Cannes and it'll no doubt be the talking point of London. There are no words to describe the feeling of elation it left me with. I learned today that the film has a confirmed UK release date of December 30th. It'll be a little late, but this is truly cinema's Christmas gift to the nation. And honestly, we couldn't have asked for anything better.

The Artist is playing at the London Film Festival on Saturday 22nd October. Its official UK release date is December 30th.

LFF 2011: Headhunters (Morten Tyldum, 2011) Review

The milkman had taken a disturbing new approach... Headhunters (2011)

I've never been much of a betting man, but if somebody offered me stakes on the likelihood of Headhunters being marketed as, From The Studio That Brought You "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo", by the time it finds a UK distributor, I'd put my £100 on the table right now. By this point that tagline will be associated with David Fincher's 2011 Dragon Tattoo remake, rather than Niels Arden Oplev's 2009 original. The same marketing strategy will be used when Headhunters is given its own (inevitable) US makeover. It's a sad cycle, but money talks and Hollywood listens. Thats why its creative well has run dry. But there's still a reason to rejoice dear readers, for Tyldum's film, based on Jo Nesbø's bestselling 2008 novel, is a barnstorming success - an absurd Norwegian thriller which never lets its foot off the pedal, and left me gasping for breath by its conclusion.

Roger (Aksel Hennie) is a professional headhunter struggling to maintain his wealthy lifestyle, believing that his trophy wife Diana (Synnøve Macody Lund) will leave him if he doesn't constantly shower her with gifts (his 1.68m height is also a concern). What she doesn't know is that he's swiftly approaching bankruptcy, and moonlights as an art thief in order to keep her happy with jewelry and a dream home. Diana introduces Roger to Clas (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau), an ex-mercenary and former CEO of Dutch GPS firm HOTE. It is revealed that Clas owns a rare Rubens' painting - The Calydonian Boar Hunt - and suddenly all of Roger's financial woes seem close to resolve. Except that people start dying, infidelities are exposed and our sweaty protagonist begins to slip into a literal pool of shit (yes, literal)...

When I came out of the press screening I was convinced that Headhunters was the most fun I'd had at the festival so far. It's exhilaratingly paced, tightly plotted and shot through with an obsidian black sense of humour, clocking in at a neat 100 minutes (too many contemporary thrillers outstay their welcome). In my opening paragraph I mentioned that it was absurd, but Tyldum's film fully embraces its own silliness and enjoys ramping it up with an ever-increasing degree of confidence. It shape-shifts between styles, making you howl with laughter at a scene of wince-inducing gore (smashed-in heads are a frequent sight). Its genre leans toward noir, showcasing a classic man-on-the-run setup, but it also has scenes of dramatic poignancy. There's more crammed into these 100 minutes than any thriller I can remember from the last five years, and I had an absolute blast. But then the film settled in and I gave thought to its deeper themes. I gave thought to its screenplay and performances. And I've come to the conclusion that this is much more than just a slick, sick ride through the dark depths of the Norwegian art scene...

Like every great film I've seen this year (Malick's Tree Of Life, Sorrentino's This Must Be The Place), this one has grown on me in the days since my first viewing, when all of its composite elements have fallen into place. The job of a film critic is really to discuss, in depth, the reasons why a film does and doesn't work, analysing the mise-en-scène and other such technical waffle. When we sit down and have fun with a movie we can often forget to look for things to be sniffy about, and Headhunters provides such a problem for me. I was so absorbed in the tale that I forgot to look at the craft. Of course, the fact that I never noticed the craft means that it was working on an exceptional level - the music, lighting and editing coalesced into a consistent vision. I bet Headhunters has a really great score, and effectively moody photography. I honestly can't remember, because these elements worked for me on a subliminal level; they were part of the bigger picture.

I really can't recommend this film enough. At around the halfway point I began to have doubts about the trajectory we were on. I was concerned that Tyldum had played his ace card, and we were going to slip into a predictable chase thriller. But then, and I shall say no more than this, there's a scene involving a dog and a tractor. I'd forgotten cinema could deliver scenes like that. I'd forgotten it could make me laugh so hard, grip my seat with excitement and feel so many conflicting emotions for a character. I'd forgotten cinema's primary function: to entertain. Headhunters fulfills that function with aplomb, and I can't wait to see what Tyldum does next.

Headhunters is playing at the London Film Festival on Wednesday 19th and Saturday 22nd October. This review can originally be found at Flickfeast.