Parasite

“How bad were the Academy Awards this year? The winner is a movie from South Korea, what the hell was that all about?” We got enough problems with South Korea with trade and on top of it, they give them the best movie of the year. Was it good?  I don’t know. I’m looking for, like – can we get like Gone With The Wind back, please?” 

(Donald Trump at a political rally)

We live in a time where the oxymoron dumbsmart has ushered in two political leaders. Both Boris Johnson and Donald Trump know exactly what they’re doing when they make retrograde pronouncements. Trump’s attack on Parasite and championing of Gone With The Wind is all part of his strategy to win the racist vote. New foreign film: bad; old white film: good.

Whatever Donald Trump’s actual beliefs, what is evident is that the Academy did something they’ve never done before: awarded a non-English film Best Picture. They should have done it last year with Roma: a gorgeous document of domestic and national crisis; instead they gave it to Green Book, a picture director Spike Lee described as ‘not my cup of tea.’ The reason for this is because it was essentially Driving Miss Daisy, an unworthy Oscar winner, only with the positions changed: a white man drives a black man and learns to be less racist on the way. On the surface, the inversion of Miss Daisy should have been a progressive move, but by focussing so heavily on the white character’s arc it became an exercise in liberal virtue-signalling.

Seeing director Bong Joon-ho receive his award, there was a feeling in the room that the right person won. Many directors are fans of non-English cinema and owe a debt to its output. Sam Mendes, for example, was interviewed on the brilliant BBC 4 show Life Cinematic where he spoke fervently about his love of Jeunet and Caro’s French much admired, Delicatessen. Just as Britain re-packaged black American rhythm and blues into 60’s pop music, Hollywood has co-opted ‘foreign’ cinema too.

“Once you overcome the one-inch-tall barrier of subtitles, you will be introduced to so many more amazing films,” Joon-ho said on receiving a Golden Globe award last month. The comment is symptomatic of his impish wit. I’m sure for him his pride over the success of the film is tempered by the confusion of what's taken Western audiences so long to recognise films like his. The essence of cinema is the same: plot, characterisation, action, conflict, resolution – the only difference is the language. If you can read, why should subtitles be an issue?

Parasite is the seventh motion picture by Joon-ho and marks a return to complete Korean, following the diversions of Snowpiercer and Okja, which contained western actors. It begins with a family of four in a semi-basement apartment. There is no room for rooms, let alone privacy. All live on top of one another, doing their best to co-exist in a cramped environment. This is a hand to mouth existence where the brood must scavenge for work and wi-fi. With a signal hard to source, the father offers wisdom: ‘One must reach into the heavens. Up.’ With their underground existence, geography already dictates where they look; as downtrodden people they figuratively aspire to higher ground too.

The opportunity comes for one member to climb out of poverty. The son, Ki-woo, is asked to deputise as a tutor for a friend travelling abroad. The job will be a good earner, since it’s over the rainbow on the Seoul's Elysium hills. There is only one small problem: he’s not qualified to teach. Military training got in the way of that. Fortunately for Ki-woo his sister, Ki-jung, is a student of Photoshop. She fabricates his qualifications, giving him an Oxford University degree; he now has the means to gain entry.

The Kims home.

This digital subterfuge is just the start for the series of deceits that will follow. With Ki-woo installed in the Park home, he sets in motion a domino effect that will culminate in work for all the family. Making more money than they’ve ever made, under false pretences, they are parasites, manipulating their hosts to achieve fulfilment. The film is an attack on socialism then, with the working-class  ‘sponging off’ hardworking, enterprising people?

Joon-ho has written about class struggle before in Snowpiercer. Set in a dystopian future, survivors fight for survival on a train divided by class lines: upper at the front; lower at the back. Parasite is in that tradition, raising difficult questions about how people behave when they’ve got nothing; the lengths they will go to to get something. What’s interesting about the movie is how the title is slippery: the Kim family may look as if they’re taken advantage of the Park family; however, the Park’s are only deceived because they're naïve to their privilege. When a storm rips through the basement apartments of Seoul, the mother Choi is oblivious; the next day she celebrates the clear skies: ‘Zero air pollution. Rain washed it all away.’ The film is an attack on capitalism then: the ivory tower that protects the privileged comes at the expense of the poor who sustain it.

The Parks home.

The wonder of Parasite is the film never feels didactic. I’m a big fan of J.B. Priestley’s An Inspector Calls, which I teach to GCSE students, yet it’s a two-dimensional portrait of capitalism. Here, the Park family aren’t repulsive. In fact, their behaviour isn't as gratuitous as the Kims. What Joon-ho’s film laments is how brutalising capitalism can be: how it can make dignified people do undignified things in order to keep up. 

In a film where everyone is parasitical, it has you questioning the framework we live within: Shouldn’t our economic and moral systems elevate, not diminish, us? Currently, the people at the bottom are angry and envious; those at the top ignorant and complacent. 

Joon-ho’s movie asks: Is this what we want? Is this the best we can do?

Parasite is in cinema now.

Uncut Gems

Last week was the Academy Awards. A night where The Academy crowned Parasite this year’s Best Picture. It was the first time a non-English speaking movie had been bestowed the honour. Given it was the 92^nd ceremony, many felt it was about time; that the jury shouldn’t so much be patting themselves on the back, as embarrassingly reflecting on what took them so long. Otherwise, there was a feeling, particularly in the male category, the nominations and victories followed the status quo. This copy and paste approach to selection threw up few surprises and shocks; you could argue it’s a sign of consistency: DiCaprio, Hanks, Pitt and Hopkins are good in almost everything. In celebrating Hollywood royalty though, they made one big omission: the jester.


Enter Adam Sandler. The stand-up turned actor. He is the People’s Champion. His Netflix films generate more views than any other actor. Murder Mystery, his film with Jennifer Anniston, was reportedly watched by 73 million. Originally, he was signed up by the streaming service on a four-movie $250 million deal - they've since renwed this. Despite being loved by the public, he’s abhorred by the critics. It’s easy to see why. Here are some of his films with synopses to go with them: Ridiculous 6, a spoof of Magnificent Seven, where Sandler plays an orphan raised by Native Americans. The Cobbler where Sandler plays a shoemaker that can step into the shoes of his customers and become them. And The Week Of, which follows two opposing fathers, forced to spend a week with one another in the run up to a wedding – critics joked it was more of an art installation piece with the characters’ feeling of confinement mirrored in the audiences.

In some circles Sandler is the rampant capitalist, eschewing art in favour of commerce, a parasite that feeds off the consumer to make his pockets larger. He is less an actor, more an algorithm, providing what people with what they want, as opposed to what they might need. For others, he is a meditational tape: someone you’ll switch off with and maybe even fall asleep to. Is he part of the cure or the disease?


The main reason why critics such as Mark Kermode get so angry with Sandler is because of Punch- Drunk Love. The 2003 Paul Thomas Anderson film saw Sandler go against type in an art-house romantic black comedy. His trademark was still there. The goofy guy trying and failing to contain volcanic rage. Yet here, it was more nuanced, moving and vulnerable. It was a character you could meet at work, not the stuff of popcorn construct. The pay-off where Sandler confronts a bully (I have so much strength in me you have no idea. I have a love in my life that makes me stronger than anything you can ever imagine. I would say ‘That’s that’ Mattress Man.) is one of the most gorgeous things committed to cinema. For reviewers, the performance came out of nowhere. For anyone familiar with stand-up, it’s less surprising: stand-up is a low status art-form that requires naturalness and candor. Dave Johns in I, Daniel Blake; Jim Carrey in Truman Show and Robin Williams in Mrs Doubtfire are comics that can show the tears of a clown.

Over fifteen years later, Sandler has turned in a performance that has the critics salivating. He plays Howard Ratner, a Diamond District jeweler addicted to gambling. The film is Uncut Gems, the sixth picture by Safdie brothers, Josh and Benny. Their last, Good Time, featured Robert Pattinson, whose performance was recognised as a career-best. From the start, they wanted Sandler to play Howard. And when I say from the start, this project has been in development from years. The District was a lure for the two men because their father worked there and told them stories about it. Off the back of Good Time, they were given the go ahead to mine his tales into a diamond of a movie.



The story starts in Ethiopia with the extraction of a black opal. Something has gone wrong in the mine and a man is carried out. The skin has been flayed, revealing the bone beneath; blood and tears weep profusely. From there the camera does something quite spell-binding. It takes us through the tunnel of the mine and comes out at the anus of Ratner. Yes, that’s right. The Safdie’s splice the imagery of a mine with a colonoscopy, juxtaposing the two and demonstrating how the channels and corridors are akin, perhaps too establishing how the hard exterior of Ratner hides something precious and pure. On paper that reads like a terribly pretentious transition; in execution, it’s rather remarkable.


After the treatment table we see Ratner at work. There’s people knocking on his door wanting money. He owes a lot – a bet has gone wrong. A shark is out for his blood. They take his $20,000 watch as a peace offering. Epiphany does not strike Ratner. He does not see gambling as his undoing, but his making. He moves money back and forth, puts jewelry down as a guarantor, all to raise money for a bet. The person he wants to get behind is Keith Garnett, a power forward for the Boston Celtics. Having lent him a precious black opal, he’s certain that it’s mystical powers will yield something truly beautiful. This isn’t a throw from the half-way line; this is a slam dunk bet, guaranteed to win big. Unfortunately it does, then doesn’t turn out that way, leaving Ratner in financial dire straits. Vultures from all sides are ready to feed on him; the only lifeblood protecting him from being a corpse is the black opal: if it scores big at auction, his life will be saved.

What’s so impressive about this film is its breathless energy. The camera doesn’t sit; it stalks. The camerawork is up close, swooping from character to character, rarely cutting. When the frames do switch, they snap. Even away from the jeweler’s there’s no break for Ratner: his brother-in-law that he owes the money to is at the Passover feast; the heavies are at his daughter’s play – there is no rest for the wicked. Like Ratner, the viewer is taken by the scruff of the neck and dragged from scene to scene, barely able to catch their breath. This tension building reminded me of the first season of Homeland or the later seasons of Breaking Bad where are heartrates were put through hell. If Sandler’s other Netflix films are a beta-blocker that induce calm, this is cocaine, liable to lead to cardiac arrest.


The supporting cast are universally excellent with Garnett, the basketball player, playing himself; and Julia Fox as Julia in her first acting role. How the Safdie’s get such terrific performances out of such an inexperienced cast is an incredible triumph. What is most remarkable though is Sandler who holds the movie together. He may have won the Independent Spirit Award last week, but it was criminal that he wasn’t nominated for an Oscar.


Let’s just hope Sandler takes more gambles in his career because unlike his character they usually pay off.



Uncut Gems is available on Netflix now.

Knives Out

I spend most of my working days immersed in the crime genre. At secondary school we teach Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sign of Four to Year 10’s and J.B. Priestley’s An Inspector Calls to Year 11’s. Crime outsells every other type of book in this country. 18.7 million fiction books were sold in 2017. There’s also a glut of dramas on TV that pertain to criminal investigation: last night we finished watching Deadwater Fell, starring David Tennant and Cush Jumbo, which promised much and delivered a little. More or less every night on terrestrial there is some kind of detective drama, from the escapist Death in Paradise to the bleak Silent Witness. It can be sunny, rainy, frothy or strong; regardless, it’s omnipresent.


In cinema, however, whodunnits don’t really get a look in. Possibly because television and books have cornered the market, producers feel there’s no money in film. TV and books have overturned the piggy bank, leaving Tinseltown with a pig they can’t take to market. Sure, Kenneth Branagh brought back Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express to some acclaim – but that was a re-make. Yes, Adam Sandler’s Murder Mystery was the most watched film on Netflix – but that was Netflix where discernment comes cheap.

More people watched this than that Eric and Ernie Xmas special your grandparents tell you about.

Rian Johnson’s Knives Out is a bold move. He has brought together an all-star cast for a murder mystery. This is more in keeping with the Hollywood of yore or BBC of today, than the current trend for prequels, sequels and reboots. Although it’s inspired by Agatha Christie, its themes and characters are thoroughly modern. This is a two headed Janus: it looks forward; it looks back.


It begins with a body. Harlan Thrombey is discovered by Fran, the housekeeper. His throat has been slit; he lies in a pool of blood. It looks like suicide, but what worth appearance in detective fiction! A week after Thrombey’s demise and we’re in a kitchen. A young woman is watching CSI, something her mother berates her for: ‘They're talking about murder on it, your sister just had a friend she loves slit his throat open she doesn't need to be hearing that right now let's be sensitive!’ This gets to the nub of what makes Knives Out so beguiling. How great is that scene at establishing the tone of the piece! There’s the intertextual reference to CSI (there’s nods to Sherlock, Poirot and Sleuth too); there’s the ironic humour of a mother calling for sensitivity when her language is anything but, and the subtle establishment of a connection: we’re wondering how a young woman became a close friend to an eighty-five-year-old. Good scriptwriting is more than text; it’s subtext and tone too.

Was suicide his birthday wish? Pic. Lionsgate

We then learn that the sister who has lost the friend is Marta. She is called by Harlan’s son to appear at the house. It becomes clear that she was the nurse of the deceased, hence their close relationship. On arriving in her shitty Subcompact car, she’s greeted with an apology. Linda, Harlan’s eldest daughter, expresses remorse she was not invited to the funeral. She made her case, but in her words, ‘I was outvoted.’ This line is returned with each sibling taking it in turns to say it. In this film it’s not just the plotting of procedural that's great, it’s the spacing of jokes too.


Marta has been called because the detectives have been called in. Initially, it was assumed this was a suicide. Until a note turned up, claiming it wasn’t. Detective Benoit Blanc is having his wages paid for by this anonymous sender. Assisting him are two official officers, the straight-faced Detective Eliot and the crime enthusiast Trooper Wagner. As Thrombey was a crime writer, Wagner fanboys his way through the film, stealing scenes along the way. 


In the first round of interviews, Blanc stays in the background, punctuating the end of each testimony with a note on the piano. He is a man that does everything with a flourish. Over the course of the picture, he moves forward in the frame and the investigation, wondering why an earth an elderly man, with reasonable health, would turn on himself. Daniel Craig is wonderful here, enjoying his Deep South accent immensely. Like a Kentucky Fried Poirot, he delights in his words and revels in its cadences. It reminds you that Craig’s acting ability extends beyond sultry.

Making notes. Pic. Lionsgate

With Blanc unhappy with the morsels the family are feeding him, he turns to Marta for assistance. He soon ascertains that she has a physical reaction to lying. Whenever her mouth deviates from the truth, karmic acid is propelled from her stomach forthwith. The resultant vomit outs her as a liar. Blanc leans on this weakness to find out more about the family. Like in An Inspector Calls there’s satire at play with Marta, a working-class woman, rubbing up against the privileged Thrombey household. All through the film her origins are confused: each character believing she’s from a different place (Ecuador and Paraguay being just two South American names). Like in Get Out, Johnson is highlighting the insidiousness of liberal prejudice: the patronizing idea that it’s enough to welcome colour into your home whilst continuing to see the world as black and white. When things do eventually get difficult for the Thrombey’s, they’re willing to throw Marta under the border to protect their privilege.


Like all great detective stories, the film throws you every which way. By the halfway mark, it seems as though the mystery is revealed. Johnson soon smashes the glass on these light bulbs, introducing further shocks, further surprises. Much like a magician, there's misdirection and subterfuge at work. Narrators aren't to be trusted at the best of times. Crime narrators even less. They are as slippery as their characters. By the end the mental exercise of keeping up will leave you exhausted - exhilarated too.

It’s more than the cast that make Knives Out worthy of the big screen. Its plotting might be a homage to golden cinema, its tone though is completely modern. Its detective may be from a bygone age, yet the suspects exist in our world. Its physical setting is yester-year; however, its political context is now. Johnson uses a classic framework to challenge today's problems. He is no doughnut. He is a very clever man.


Knives Out is still on in some cinemas.

Joe Pera Talks With You

In John Keats’ poem Ode on a Grecian Urn he praises the ancient artefact, rhapsodizing over its majesty and ability to bring him comfort and joy. It culminates with, ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty – that is all ye know on earth, and all you need to know.’ In many ways this is the philosophy behind Joe Pera Talks With You. Each episode involves Joe talking to the viewer about something that interests him: it may be breakfast, pumpkins, dancing - or even iron. These ranging homilies will leave you feeling edified, believing life is indeed beautiful. 


So who is Joe Pera? Well, I’ll let him introduce himself, as he does in the opening minutes of his first episode, ‘Joe Pera Shows You Iron.’

Hello,

My name is Joe Pera and unlike previous family generations, I’m not a miner, but a soft handed choir teacher who is just in awe of Michigan’s geological splendor. 

This sentence contains the essence of Joe Pera. There’s a respect for what’s come before him (unlike previous generations). Precision of language (a soft handed choir teacher). The pull of the esoteric (Michigan’s geological splendor). Joe Pera is unlike any comedy character I’ve ever met. Today’s sitcom stars are either watch-behind-your-hands embarrassing or zinger tower burgers, roasting all comers. Joe, on the other hand, moves like an apology, shuffling into shot at geriatric speed. His apparel is old fashioned too. The get-up seems lifted from a dead man’s wardrobe. I guess what I’m saying is Joe Pera just doesn’t seem made for these times. These times are horrible, combative and cynical. No one trusts experts. Empathy is a snowflake. Respect is out. Irony in. Joe Pera is the inverse of this. Joe Pera is the antidote to today's ills.

After Joe introduces his topic (iron) and himself, he’s interrupted by a family. They’ve come to view his house. There’s a For Sale sign in the front yard. The only issue is Joe didn’t put it there. It was some kids playing a prank. The problem is that the buyers love it: the children have already claimed their rooms. Joe is too meek to explain that his property isn’t on the market, so resigns himself to moving. In a talk with his friend Gene he lists all the things he’s going to miss. We’re only five minutes in, already this character has floored us. Like older siblings, we want to stand up for Joe and tell the louder kids to leave him alone. We’re in anti-Curb Your Enthusiasm territory: crisis has snowballed out of kindness. When Joe does eventually stand up for myself, I punched the sky, just as I did for Barry in Punch Drunk Love.


The reason I cite Paul Thomas Anderson’s film is because it might be a touchstone for Joe Pera’s creation. Both characters are sweet and earnest, in danger of being mocked or taken advantage of. However, Joe is more comfortable in his skin. He knows who he is and what he likes. He may apologise for his longueurs and digressions, but this is out of compassion for the viewer, not borne out of frustration with himself. Yes, he lives a simple life with his dog and vegetable patch – that, however, is enough. Having inherited his grandparents house and car, he appreciates what’s been left for him and doesn’t want for anything.


With a two-minute lecture on Michigan rocks, the first episode is Pera at his most nerdish. Subsequent episodes settle into more accessible topics, with my favourite being Episode Four. Putting Joe in social situations is a recipe for great comedy. With his unease and guitar tie, he's ill-suited for the brash bonhomie of a wedding party. But the beauty of Joe is that despite being an anachronism he somehow finds a way to fit in. When he is called to get on the dancefloor, his moves are completely joyful without once descending into Brent pastiche. The subsequent dance scenes with Sarah, a music teacher, are so endearing without once making these characters the butt of the joke.

The final episode I want to talk to you about is Episode Five where ‘Joe Pera talks you back to sleep.’ Joe is awake at 2am in the morning; he doesn’t mind though: the weather is really something. ‘I could go for some wafers and milk but it would be a shame to get up and miss a good lightning.’ What follows is five minutes where Joe talks about all the wonderful sounds (pouring liquid into a glass) and breathtaking moments (hot water pressure). He is a character that revels in the minutiae of life, reminding us that beauty doesn’t need to be paid for; it’s there if only we pay attention to it. The culmination of this episode really made me laugh because another of Joe’s favourite things is how his students teach him new slang, which leads him to sign off- completely uncharacteristically- with: ‘When you’ve got your breath I hope you doze off and tomorrow your crush becomes your bae.’


Joe Pera is one of the funniest, most beautiful things I’ve seen. Amongst the maelstrom of 24 hour news and round-the-clock notifications, there’s a quiet corner of television you can go to for solace, wonder and laughter. So put down your phone, switch it to silent, meet me there. And when you get there, I've got some headphones where we'll listen to this:

Joe Pera Talks With You is on All4.

Long Shot

Seth Rogen was once a guy the term ‘schlubby’ seemed made for. In his guise as R-rated Homer Simpson, he monitised oafishness into a lucrative career. Alongside friends Judd Apatow and James Franco, Rogen co-wrote comedies that spoke to teenagers and perennial teenagers alike; journeys that ended in sexual maturing. The journey from boy to man typified most of his tales. Women rarely got a look in.


Charlize Theron has never been a woman the term ‘schlubby’ seemed made for. A former model and ballet dancer, she is elegance personified. Her route to Hollywood royalty came ironically in a role that rejected beauty for brutality. Adding thirty pounds, she transformed herself into Aileen Wuornos, a true-life serial killer that killed six men. Typically, her roles are dramatic and powerful.


The pairing of Rogen and Theron seems chalk and cheese. She is the darling of the critics, he the enfant terrible. This though is a reductive look at their CV’s. Rogen is more than a feckless sloth, and Theron doesn’t do ‘dress-down Oscar Friday’ all of the time – both are more nuanced than that. Indeed, Seth Rogen earned critical acclaim for his acting in Jobs, and in producing The Disaster Artist. Theron has shown her comedic chops in Diablo Cody penned pictures, Young Adult and Tully. By appearance they're beauty and beast; by IMDB they're from similar worlds.

Chalk and cheese?

Long Shot is a film that surprised a lot of critics last year. Many were shocked to discover a grown-up romantic-comedy that was politically incisive and puerilely funny. It was on while we were away, so I made a mental note to catch it when it came to Netflix; fortunately it dropped last week, giving us the opportunity to do so.


The premise of the film is that Charlotte (Theron) has designs on office. She wants to be the first female POTUS. To reach The White House though she’s going to have to smash through the glass ceiling and doors of perception. Her approval rating is good, yet she has a relatability issue. It isn’t enough that she’s bright, capable and hardworking: people want someone who can make ‘em laugh too. The guy they elected before, President Chambers (Bob Odenkirk), had media connections and a background in TV – that was enough; yet with Charlotte, she has to be bright, capable, hardworking, funny and accessible – without seeming too perfect.


Across states Fred is a humorous journalist working for an independent paper. At the start of the movie we join him undercover at a white supremacist meeting. Amongst all the fire and brimstone call and response, Fred replies with a lackluster, ‘Yeah, let’s do that’ and ‘White power obviously.’ He is principled and committed, willing to risk a Nazi tattoo to expose the hate. So when a media conglomerate owned by Parker Wembley (Andy Serkis) buy out his work, Fred walks. He will not work for those whom put vested interest over free media. The scenes with Wembley News are clearly a dig at Fox with smug newsreaders re-branding sexism as banter.

Andy Serkis is almost unrecognisable as the media baron, Parker Wembley.

With Fred out of a job and Charlotte in need of a gag writer, the scene is set for their ‘meet-cute.’ At an exclusive party, the two cross paths. They do a double take. They re-evaluate the other because they’ve met before. As children, Charlotte was Fred’s babysitter. He was thirteen; she sixteen. He had a crush on her, admiring her beauty and idealism (she was running for Student President). Unfortunately, a mistimed erection put the kibosh on any friendship. Fred harbours no interest in a re-union. He doesn't think she could ever look past that adolescent penis; he fears on seeing him it would just stare back at her. Charlotte doesn’t see Fred as a horny teenager, rather a  likeable chap. Through a series of events, he is hired to join her writing team.


From here the journalist falls in love with the princess, just as in William Wyler’s Roman Holiday. Although unlike Peck and Hepburn, Rogen and Theron’s repartee is less decorous, more dishonorable. In one scene Fred asks Charlotte about relationships within politics: is it easy for a single politician with seismic ambitions to date? She argues a powerful woman is something of a ‘dick shriveller’ to most men. Fred replies, ‘the dick shriveller is my favourite Batman villain.’ Later, her affirmative response to the question of the truth in the rumours about her and the Canadian Prime Minister is met by Fred's, ‘I’ve hooked up with my fair share of world leaders too. I 69’d Fidel Castro once. You thought his beard was big.’ The Rogenisms are there, but they are ameliorated by Sterling and Hannah’s script.

"Will you take me for a ride later, Gregory?" winked Audrey.

For me, Long Shot is like a romcom of yesteryear: a grown-up picture about love with something satirical going on in the background. Only imagine that type of film going into the editing suite with Seth Rogen at the controls, dubbing mischievous swearing over the propriety. Long Shot is that film. It’s easy, smart, rude and funny– what’s not to like?

The Long Shot is on Netflix  

Jojo Rabbit

Last year on Mark Kermode’s podcast Kermode on Film, director Taika Waititi appeared as a guest. At the end of their interview, Kermode asked him what he was currently working on. The answer was met by discomfort; Waititi commented upon how Kermode’s face resembled ‘confusion and fear and disgust and doubt. A lot of doubt.’


So what was the project? The project was Jojo Rabbit. A story set during the Second World War about a young boy in the Hitler Youth who wants to be the best Nazi. The guide on this goal is his imaginary friend, Adolf Hitler. You can now see why Kermode reacted in the way he did. Even Waititi conceded he understood people's misgivings, acknowledging the difficult subject matter was something he wouldn't have approached early on in his career. Risk though is attractive to Waititi. In the interview he confessed to enjoying going into each film ‘thinking it could be career-ending.’ 



Waititi has never played safe in his output. His background came in New Zealand independent cinema with Eagle Vs Shark, Boy, What We Do in the Shadows and Hunt For The Wilderpeople. Here, he honed his off-beat sensibility, juxtaposing tenderness and quirkiness to cult success. With festival garlands and public approbation came Hollywood. Marvel selected him to direct Thor: Ragnarok, heralded as one the funniest films in the franchise. With low and big budget movies behind him, Waititi’s mid-budget Jojo Rabbit is his most dangerous vehicle yet. One wrong move and he's Jeremy Corbyn, a gross offender of Jewish sensibilities.   

Taika Waititi

The film is not career suicide. Waititi hasn't blown his brains out. For the most part, it’s a triumph. From the off, the satire is established through scoring Hitler montages to the sound of The Beatles ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ The inference being that the collective hysteria witnessed in the 60’s was seen more devastatingly in the 30’s and 40’s. Hitler was the rock star of his day. Commanding huge audiences, he whipped crowds into a frenzy. Everyone wanted to hear his song; everyone wanted to sing the tune back. The charisma masked the deplorability. 



After the up-tempo number ends, we’re into Jojo’s (Roman Griffin Davis) room where he practices his ‘Heil’ with his imaginary friend. Whipped into zealotry he’s ready for Hitler Youth camp. Here, Nazi indoctrination is satirised by Rebel Wilson’s Fraulein Rahm whose surreal warnings on Jewish behaviour and appearance is eaten up by the children. A counterpoint to this is Sam Rockwell’s Captain Klenzendorf, a teacher at the camp, whom has all the enthusiasm for pedagogy as inbetweeners Gilbert or Derry Girl’s Sister Michael. Jojo’s day takes a bad turn when one of the instructors demands he proves his devotion by killing a rabbit. Jojo has the head for Nazism, but not the heart, and can’t bring himself to do so. He responds by trying to set the rabbit free, before running away. In turn, he’s branded ‘Jojo Rabbit’ for his cowardice.

After this debacle, Jojo does his all to prove himself to Mein Fuhrer. To show that he is the best ten-year-old Nazi out there. The cartoonish Adolf (Taiki Waititi) tells Jojo to re-appropriate his nickname, turning it from a slur to an honour. A rabbit he argues is a survivor that through subterfuge and cunning avoids enemy detection. With the wind back in his sail, Jojo runs back into camp, only to incapacitate himself in a hilarious accident.


Whilst convalescing at home, Jojo hears a sound that gets his attention. Upstairs, behind a wall, lies a rabbit hole. Hiding in it is Elsa (Thomasin Mckenzie), a Jewish girl. Jojo is horrified. Through his miseducation, he’s been taught that ‘the Jew’ is the devil incarnate. They are the video nasty stuff of nightmare and curses. Monsters from the underworld, bred by Hades and Satan. The term sub-human does not even apply. There’s not a trace of human in them. They are invaders, interlopers, who require extermination. Of course, Jojo’s feelings change over time, which causes confusion in his relationship with Adolf.

Jojo and Elsa

Other than Jojo’s relationship with Adolf and Elsa is the one with his mother, Rosie. Known more for her dramatic roles, Scarlett Johansson has never been funnier. She imbues in her character a wonderful sense of warmth and wit, contrasting against the hate and lies of National Socialism. An example of this is when Jojo considers leaving the house after his injury; he doesn’t want people to laugh at his scars – his mum’s response:

Enjoy the attention, kid. Not everyone’s lucky enough to look stupid. I for one am cursed to look incredibly attractive. Now, we’re going to pluck up your courage, walk out that door, and have an incredible adventure. Okay?  

Even in the face of barbarity and violence, his mum has an artistic lightness that the ‘facts’ of Nazism cannot touch. She wants her little boy to have a free imagination, away from the power-grab of Hitler Youth camps. She fears the Fuhrer’s reach has more parental influence than her own, confiding to Elsa that 'Jojo is a fanatic. It took him three weeks to get over his grandfather was not blond’ yet she hopes and prays that underneath the fake news of Goebbels propaganda, there is a ‘a little boy who loves to play, and runs stupid because he’s scared of thunder, and thinks he invented chocolate cake.’ Her lament for innocence is Waititi’s: the film is about the loss of it, the rediscovery of it.

Johansson in fine form.

For me, the film isn’t a complete triumph though. Waititi is known for spending months editing his movies, in order to get the balance right between light and shade. In this film, he said that was particularly important. Towards the end of the picture, some of the horror is lost by the over-layering of absurdity. If he just pulled back, trusted his way with drama, this wouldn’t have been so jarring. Despite this, I had a lump in my throat for the closing moments. A different pop choice bookends the movie, and just like The Beatles proves inspired.


Jojo Rabbit has divided the critics. There’s been one and five-star reviews. Some commentators don’t feel Waititi has gone far enough with his satire, neglecting to communicate the true horror of Nazism. I feel there are those moments; it’s just Waititi could have lingered on them longer. As far as my review goes, Jojo Rabbit is a brave step by a truly original filmmaker. It’s a ‘Fuck off’ to Hitler and leaders who divide us. In a climate of hate it’s a warning against idolatry, and a reminder that sometimes cowardice is courage. It’s worth your time.


Jojo Rabbit is out in cinemas now.

Louis Theroux: Gotta Get Theroux This

Along with The Office, Louis Thereoux’s Weird Weekends was my favourite programme as a teenager. In fact, I think Louis might be the first DVD I ever bought. Up until that point, I thought documentaries had to be super-serious with a focus on facts and archive footage. The only ones I saw were in class, typically on Hitler or the role of enzymes in bread making. (Food Tech teachers were big fans of educational videos.) It wasn’t until Theroux that I realised docs could be entertaining and involving.


The engagement came from the presenter and the format. Each episode involved Louis exploring a different sub-culture with a view to adding extra dimensions to our understanding. Theroux’s approach to this examination was what really sold the show though. Appearing like a +1 at a wedding, Louis would shuffle into these worlds, seeming embarrassed there. For a TV personality, he was refreshingly ordinary. His grounded nature meant people felt able to open up to him. Just as Nick Carraway has the ear of Jay Gatsby, Theroux’s quietness meant his subjects fill the space with talk. Talk that is often revelatory. For all the bumbling schtick, Theroux’s mind worked in fluent formation, allowing him to gain trust quickly; a prerequisite for investigative journalism. ‘Confidence trick’ seems like a misnomer for someone who doesn't shout confidence, yet the term is apposite:Theroux’s very lack of confidence is the thing that allows him to make off with the spoils. It was only on watching the documentary that his subjects probably realised they’d underestimated him.

Theroux has remained in documentaries ever since, yet his approach has changed from his humble beginnings. After Weird Weekends Theroux moved into celebrity study, observing the perverse creatures in their natural habitat, sometimes even taking residency with them. After this, he changed focus and honed in on law and order, seeking to work out the causes and consequences of incarceration. The tone of the shows have become darker, a necessity given how the subject matter has too. Theroux’s work is less wacky and salacious now, looking instead at what others turn away from: alcoholism, dementia and anorexia. These topics are less fun and frothy, which is why they require journalistic rigor; if they’re ignored our empathy is at risk. To care for someone is to understand them. If you never see these lives, then reductive stereotypes persist.


This week I’ve been reading Louis Theroux’s memoir Gotta Get Theroux This. Within it, Theroux describes himself as a nervy teenager, lacking the hutzpah of his peers. After Westminster School he went to Oxford University.  Instead of sowing his wild oats, Theroux worked hard to get a First-Class degree. With his mum at the BBC and his dad a travel writer, achievement was in his family, something at times Louis wished he could avoid, settle for care-free mediocrity, but the need of success was in him.


After university he wanted to go out alone. By blood, he was happy to be allied with his parents, but not by career. He took a punt and went to work on a San Jose newspaper. The way Theroux describes it makes the decision sound more like a Dave Gorman adventure than a thought-out plan. It was here though that he learnt how to be a journalist, and where he would eventually gain the recommendation that would take him to Spy magazine, America’s answer to Private Eye. Although the periodical was in decline, it gave Theroux a taste for comedy, a genre that he seriously considered going into. The comedy bug disseminated around the body further when he was picked up by Michael Moore to perform political pranks on TV Nation, a precursor to Sacha Baron Cohen.

Part-funded by the BBC, Auntie liked what they saw and signed him up for his own documentary series. Going from a supporting artist to leading man was a frightening induction, one Theroux admits to being nervous over. Through the expert advice of producers and crew though, he grew in confidence and became an award-winning broadcaster. In this world of ‘talent’ and individualism, the team is often neglected. Theroux is at pains to state that he often feels embarrassed when he is garlanded, as though he has done all the work. In fact, you learn in his memoir that a lot of work takes place before Theroux arrives ‘on set.’ His teams recce a subject first to find out whether it is going to be worth an hour-long documentary; they’re also there to fight his corner with commissioners and support him during the shoot.


There is one illuminating anecdote he tells us about a recce his team took to Jimmy Savile, prior to Theroux interviewing him. When Savile showed them around his home, he described the bedroom as ‘the altar,’ explaining ‘that’s where the sacrifices happen.’ When Louis turned up and Savile took him around, Saville again said it was called ‘the altar,’ but because it was his peaceful place. The recce allows his team to determine the worth in a documentary; it also can prove insightful when comparing the answers off-camera to those on-camera.


In terms of Savile, Theroux re-visits his ghost throughout the book. At one point Louis describes their relationship as mutually parasitical: Savile needed Louis to jump-start his career; Louis needed Savile because he was good copy. Although Louis did challenge Savile on allegations of paedophilia, the DJ talked himself out of the noose. By cultivating a persona that was so outlandish, it made him difficult to pin down. If you keep on being ridiculous, people won’t judge you by normal standards; you change the bar, so you’re judged by your own.

The part I really loved about this book was Theroux’s meditation on storytelling. Documentaries, you think, should be antithetical to this: they should report fact and be true to the rhythms of life. However, anything that is for public consumption has to be engaging; therefore tension, conflict and journey are imperative. Theroux talks about this candidly, admitting the times when he failed to build towards a satisfying conclusion. He’s also honest about himself, conceding the times when he’d been selfish and distant with his own family.


Theroux has made a living out of putting other people’s lives under the microscope; he is as adept with his own, making Gotta Get Theroux This an ironic title. The book is never a chore to endure; it is an illuminating account of a life spent understanding others. As Atticus says in To Kill A Mockingbird, ‘You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view – until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.’ Here, Theroux does for us, what he does to others: we climb in and appreciate him even more.


Gotta Get Theroux This is available in all good bookshops.