We spoke to both Déborah Lukumuena and Le’Shanty Bonsu about their time working on Girl.

Enter Déborah Lukumuena

Presh Williams: What do you hope the audience can take away from GIRL?

Déborah Lukumuena: I hope that people see that trauma and unconditional love can share the same space and if the one isn’t treated or faced properly, the other one explodes and creates more trauma. When Grace finally chooses herself, it means she acknowledges this.

Presh Williams: How was it like working with the director, Adura Onashile?

Déborah Lukumuena: I’m so glad I met and worked with Adura. She’s the first black female I worked with and this means a lot to me. The plotline is inspired by the relationship she has with her own mother and she was able to share it with me as well as the complexity of mother-daughter relationships, being a mother herself. I felt safe with her honesty and the personal view and telling she added. I haven’t birthed yet but I was able to feel the dreadful pain of a mother having to separate from her own child in order to protect her and to heal.

Introducing Le’Shanty Bonsu

Presh Williams: How was it like auditioning for the role?

Le’Shanty Bonsu: Auditioning for Girl was quite intense but also simultaneously exciting for me as when I got the opportunity to audition it was very early on in my acting career.

Presh Williams: When did you first realise you wanted to get into acting?

Le’Shanty Bonsu: I realised that I wanted to get into acting at around the age of 9. When I was in primary school we used to do a certain activity called ‘Improvise Drama’ where we would be given a scene to improvise and from that time I just knew acting was a part of me.

GIRL will be screening on Wednesday 18th October across UK cinemas as part of Big Picture Film Club’s Diverse Cinema partnership with Odeon Cinemas.

Also Read: Review: The After

Your contribution to Big Picture Film Club will allow us to continue to produce content. No matter the amount your contributions are greatly appreciated.

The post ‘GIRL’ Power: The Breakout Performances of Déborah Lukumuena and Young Prodigy Le’Shantey Bonsu appeared first on Big Picture Film Club.

In 1993, the year I was born, The Piano won the Palme d’Or at Cannes, making Campion the first woman to win this award A few months later, it took home three Oscars for Campion’s screenplay, and for the performances of its two actresses: Hunter and Anna Paquin (the latter then only 11-years-old.) I’ve sometimes wondered, albeit rather casually if my connection to The Piano stems from being “born” around the same time as its release; if I didn’t think something about its gothic sexuality illuminated what the zeitgeist was like as I entered the world. Either way, The Piano acted as my entry point to Campion’s work. Hers were films, often period pieces, which focused on women. First, there was Ada, a woman who had lost the ability to talk and was married off to a man she had never met. Then there was Fanny’s bubbly and open nature in 2009’s Bright Star and, not long after, Isabelle Archer in Campion’s less-successful adaption of a Henry James novel, manipulated by those around her. There was, too, Campion’s slightly more mainstream effort, In the Cut; a dark erotic thriller that failed to capture much praise but which was, to me, truly exceptional. On television, there was Robin Griffin, the complex and troubled detective who dedicated her life to fighting crimes against women, yet was haunted by her own sexual past. These films and television shows gave me a language for intimacy and, maybe most importantly, desire. 

Last Monday, I saw Campion’s latest feature film, The Power of the Dog, her first in twelve years. The film, which screened as part of the London Film Festival and will be released in select theatres on November 17th before hitting Netflix on December 1st, turns its focus onto men. That is not to say that her male characters have been underdeveloped before. Quite the opposite. Sam Neil and Harvey Keitel in The Piano exude a multitude of complexities; In The Cut’s Mark Ruffalo manages to remain both strangely dangerous and wholly sexy as the detective assigned to the murder case, and Ben Whishaw as John Keats has an air of sensitivity about him in Bright Star. Yet with The Power of the Dog, Campion hones in on masculinity in a focused way, through the image of Phil Burbank (Benedict Cumberbatch), a misogynistic ranch owner and total control freak who exerts his power through bullying and intimidation at any given opportunity. He is obsessed with his mentor, Bronco Henry, who died some years ago but taught him everything he needed to know about riding and life.

In one scene, which is perhaps my favourite in all of Campion’s oeuvre, Phil steals himself away to an isolated glade in the woods near his ranch in Montana and strips down to just his chaps. He takes out a silk handkerchief which he has been storing in his underwear next to his crotch and begins to run the fabric across his naked torso, laying it delicately over his face, taking in its scent. It may take an audience a second to understand who the handkerchief belongs to. Until now, Phil has exerted a toxically masculine energy. He has been emotionally cold to his brother’s new wife (played extraordinarily by Kirsten Dunst), and he has bullied her son both for his lisp and his sensitive, effeminate demeanour. At first, we might wonder if the handkerchief belongs to that emotionally abused wife, his power over her transforming into pleasure. But as he relinquishes himself totally to his fantasy, we see a set of initials embroidered into the handkerchief’s corner: “BH.” Bronco Henry. 

It is no wonder, then, that after Peter, the boy with the lisp, catches Phil bathing naked in the creek, Phil strikes up a kind of mentorship with him and, in many pseudosexual moments, the pair share a cigarette, or thread rope, or straddle the saddle that once belonged to Bronco Henry. Phil attempts to ease his own insecurities by forming a bond with Peter in the image of what he had with Bronco; only now he is the one sitting in that mentor role, and he can wield his power differently.

Power and sex are perhaps two of the most interlinked forces. Some might go so far as to describe sex as a transition of power, back and forth. Whether that is understood through more obvious ideas of power in sex—i.e. sadomasochism, or a Sub/Dom style partnership—to something more nuanced, with things like confidence, arousal, experience, and passion shifting the dynamics of power during fucking. Not to mention, perhaps more darkly, we are often asked to consider the power imbalance when it comes to sex, between a young actress and a big-time film executive, the teacher and the student etc. Others claim that sexual assault and rape are, in totality, all about power too. In all, questions often ask: who has the power after sex? Who has it before? What constitutes power in a sexual context, and then, by extension, what constitutes feeling powerless? As Maggie Nelson, in her book On Freedom, has it: 

Analyzing the power dynamics of any particular scenario can be crucial to our understanding what happened and why. It does not follow, however, that if elements of power exist—as they always do—our agency is extinguished, or that an abuse of power has occurred. The exercise of agency is always a negotiation of available possibilities and pressures; there is no world in which “agency” or “free will” exists apart from webs of relationality, which includes relations of power. Nor will it do to map our own constellations of power onto the psychology of others, for we do not all attribute power to the same people or forces, or feel affected by that power in the same ways. Not all women take kindly to being told that certain people inevitably have power over them; charges of false consciousness or impaired decision-making always risk patronizing the very people for whom they’re intended to care.

– Maggie Nelson, On Freedom

Campion’s filmography arguably understands this better than any other’s. Her films take root, unflinchingly, in those power dynamics. She seems to understand, too, the power of sexuality beyond the obvious. When Isabelle Archer is touched on the cheek by a male suitor, she traces where his fingers have been after he is gone. As Detective Malloy offers to romance Frannie, he fiddles with the charms on her silver bracelet – yet when he offers to fuck her and “lick pussy” that physical bond breaks, just for a second, as Frannie recoils from what she thinks she might want.

In this – a touch, a look, a gesture – Campion knows desire lurks. These quiet intimacies boom with sexuality and tension. It is in these complex spaces between having power and not that she finds drama. In this way, it seems obvious why she is often drawn to period dramas like The Power of the Dog as more than simply a transgressive approach to feminism, or a reclamation of history. In an interview published alongside the script for The Piano, Campion describes this predilection: “I have enjoyed writing characters who don’t have a twentieth-century sensibility about sex.” Without all the signifiers we see now, all the magazines and films that shape our desire, Campion felt she could get at something deeper, something innate in how we feel and what we long for. It is this, perhaps, that led critics to name The Piano the greatest film ever made by a woman (even if such a qualifier feels reductive). 

Also Read: How Film Changed Me: On Anti-Escapism

Your contribution to Big Picture Film Club will allow us to continue to produce content. No matter the amount your contributions are greatly appreciated.

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Today we will explore the positives and negatives of moving online. As well as the impact it could have on film festivals in the future. But first, let’s look at how some festivals took their experience online.

How Film Festivals Went Online

The main consideration when moving online was how the festivals were going to host their selection of films. Major brands found two methods to accomplish this:

Some partnered with major streaming services to help bring their programmes to the internet. For example, South by Southwest 2020 teamed up with Amazon Prime to deliver 39 of their programmed titles.

Meanwhile, others like Sundance have developed their own platforms to provide both film programmes and additional festival branded content such as Q&As, industry talks, and interactive experiences. But what are the positives and negatives of going digital?

The Cons

Of course, there are negatives to this arrangement. Firstly, the experience doesn’t feel the same as seeing movies on a large screen with a big audience. Which will upset cinema purists.

Some also fear it’s a good opportunity for pirating movies meaning the festival, filmmakers, and distributors may not receive as much money in the future. Several festivals have however tried to reduce that risk by watermarking films and geo-blocking their online content.

Lastly, there are worries about how online showings can negatively affect smaller films. Because several major festivals are only showing a limited number of movies, smaller films might not have the opportunity to receive the profile boost that would come with being a part of a big festival. And some argue that giving premiere rights to festivals using streaming services will deter future distributors.

The Pros

But the positives arguably outweigh the cons. Firstly, it offers convenience for viewers by allowing festival selections to be viewed from home. Without needing to spend money on travel and accommodation. Which helps improve the festival’s brand while allowing a larger amount of people to financially contribute to the festival.

This move also helps industry professionals to continue working. Some digital festivals are allowing filmed project pitches to be sent in. As well as this, online industry talks and marketplaces allow film workers to continue to find work, finance, and homes for their projects. Meaning new projects will still be produced thanks to online networking.

Also, despite the worries previously mentioned the move to the internet could greatly help independent films and festivals. It removes the venue barrier as festivals can simply use a website. And it allows their selections to reach a wider audience. Therefore, allowing independent projects greater visibility than before.

Lastly, it further legitimizes the online sphere within an industry continually apprehensive about the internet. Showing with successes like The London Film Festival that digital screenings (in whole or in part) can attract big audiences.

Can Festivals Go Back to Normal?

While many view moving online as temporary, it’s hard to see future festivals going back to being entirely physical after the COVID-19 threat has passed. Because this experiment allows a vaster range of people access to the festival’s materials it would seem silly to shut out this potential audience when things return to normal. It’s probably more likely that as festivals go forward they will try to incorporate online elements alongside the physical experience. As it will allow festivals to take more money and act as a really good tool for attracting those without the finance needed to physically attend.

Conclusion

In summation, despite some downsides, the move online greatly benefits film festivals, fans, and workers across the world. Whether partnering with streaming giants or using their own portals it’s hard to see the festival experience going entirely back to in-person screenings once COVID has been tackled.

Finally, listed below are several upcoming online festivals for you to keep an eye on. Warning, some festival features are geo-blocked:

• Sundance Film Festival
• Glasgow Film Festival
• SXSW Film Festival

If there are any upcoming online film festivals you are looking forward to, let us know.

Also Read: How Film Changed Me: On The Cultural Void

Your contribution to Big Picture Film Club will allow us to continue to produce content. No matter the amount your contributions are greatly appreciated.

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The film, co-directed by Kieran McClure, follows Ben (Fifer), a bisexual man going through the motions in New York City, painting apartments for West Side “DILFS”, and seeing the doctor for nausea that can’t be explained as he repeatedly vomits in the morning seemingly to expel something. After a broken engagement he is, as his sister refers to it, “back on the dick”, meeting (mostly) men online, in work, at clubs, on the subway platform, in the bathrooms of bars. Ben hasn’t been out for long, due to trauma he refuses to deal with from his past, and admits that he has never been able to be truly intimate with someone without being drunk or high. This is until he meets Sam (Sheldon D. Brown) while browsing at a bookstore. It isn’t clear what makes Sam different, why Ben decides to ask him for a drink rather than a fuck, but the two begin to bond and slowly fall into the regular patterns of a relationship.

One night Sam asks Ben about his first time with a man. At first, Ben is cagey, describing the experience of Kirsten Dunst in The Virgin Suicides, left alone on the football pitch when he awoke in the morning, rather than his own experience but Sam persists. Ben, reluctantly admits he was “young” and leaves it at that, but Sam understands the implications. The film focuses itself mostly around this issue; how do those with trauma try to move on? Both men are carrying it, as Sam is reluctant to hold hands or kiss in public due to being the victim of a homophobic drive-by and we see flashes back to Ben’s childhood aware that something happened there that he can’t let go of. 

Cicada, an autobiographical story from Fifer’s own life, seeks to understand how this trauma manifests in both men. Ben is seemingly doing great with Sam, he wants to be committed and, for some reason, no longer needs substances to do that, yet he’s haunted by an ongoing molestation trial that is all over the news. Sam, however, lashes out when he feels like he’s not in control. First, when Ben shows up to his place of work with flowers and, second, when Ben introduces him to his friends, Sam picks a fight as things are becoming “real”. This is most likely related to his father, to whom he is not out, and the internalised homophobia he is harbouring since his attack.

Trauma and its effects have been depicted more commonly in film over the past few years, and Cicada joins a recent few that don’t aim for sensationalism but rather work to explore that experience realistically. For example, Jennifer Fox’s experimental and ground-breaking film The Tale told the story of the sexual abuse she faced as a young girl, and Jennifer Kent’s The Nightingale followed a traumatised woman who was seeking revenge. All of these are creating a new wave in cinema, led by women and minorities, that refuses to be silent about the things that make us, as a society, uncomfortable. However, engaging in discussions of sexual abuse with the realm of queerdom navigates some tricky optics, ones that have to contend with decades of pseudoscience that have tried to link the two. In its personal focus, it feels like Cicada never reaches to make a grand statement about queer people, but it also doesn’t feel like it has fully considered where this conversation might go. 

This is all fascinating territory and, as a film, it is a bold choice to try and engage with it, yet it doesn’t quite all come together. Still, that doesn’t mean it isn’t affecting in various ways; it just doesn’t rise to the severity of its subject matter. It’s ending feels a little neat for a story about how trauma manifests and its script, at times, can feel a little by-the-book, especially during the early scenes of Ben and Sam’s relationship.  It all feels somewhat trapped within that millennials-in-New-York-style indie movie that has risen in popularity since the premiere of Lena Dunham’s GIRLS in 2013 (though it’s definitely one of the better ones).

Cicada is a strong debut for Fifer and his team. It made me wonder what they could achieve with a bigger budget and more time. Fifer has managed to navigate that tricky terrain from the internet to the big screen and has been able to manifest something emotional, artful, and thought-provoking. As is typical for debuts, it’s imperfect but shows promise. It asks a lot of questions but doesn’t quite find every answer. It’s bold, yet limited, but what comes next is something to keep an eye on.

Rating: (3 / 5)

Cicada has yet to be given a UK release date.

Also Read: How Film Changed Me: On the Value of Youth

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Old Dolio, named after a man who won the lottery in the hopes she might end up in his will, is from a family of scammers; small-time criminals who are happy to skate by, or so they say. Her father, Robert (Richard Jenkins), prefers this half-life, one in which the rent is always due, and turning fast tricks is both an adrenaline rush and a necessity. “Most people want to be kajillionaires,” he says, but it doesn’t interest him. While her mother, Theresa (Debra Winger) is equally baked into this life on the fringes but, maybe more so than her father, shows little affection for Old Dolio. 

It’s because of this life that Old Dolio has become more of a worker than a daughter. She works the scams as she’s asked to; stealing from the post office, conning a wealthy married couple, and then attempting to do the same to their daughter. All to earn a little extra cash, never too much, $20 here, $50 there. This family isn’t interested in robbing banks, in splitting millions of dollars three ways, but rather playing against the system as a means to survive. 

That is until Melanie (Gina Rodriquez) shows up, a chatty and beautiful woman who exposes the family’s dysfunctionality, while they’re running a job. Melanie, intrigued by the strangeness of Robert and Theresa is pulled into the thrill and ease of these jobs and begins suggesting cons of her own. The first is to scam the old desperate customers she serves at work, to convince them to give her that antiques and to sell them on at a profit; the sad and lonely praying on the sad and desperate. Then, as the money does start rolling in that value system, about living on very little, is tested.

It’s from here that each new step exposes, to Old Dolio, that her perception of family is misguided. She watches her mother warm to Melanie, watches her become crucial in the family’s newest scams, and sees what her life could be like if her parents acted as if they loved her. In one scene, she even watches as her parents play happy families as part of a con, and she sees that they do know how to be kind, they just choose not to be. 

This yearning, for connection and to be seen, is Miranda July’s favourite territory. In her short stories, people, often lost young women, explore their tangible and fragile connections with others, and her novel sees a lonely woman find love in the strangest of places. Her previous films, Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005) and The Future (2011), showed a kooky side, one that saw talking cats narrate tales of existential crisis and awkward salespeople creating intimate connections with customers. She is an artist who likes to explore the uncomfortable, the strange, and the confusing and Kajillionaire is an excellent addition to July’s Theatre of the Lonely. 

Old Dolio is lonely. She has never been called affectionate nicknames, never been hugged, or caressed yet she is “addicted” to the neglect of her parents. She doesn’t know what an alternative life would look like until Melanie tries to show her. This queer connection at the centre of this small world is Old Dolio’s driving force to look for something different, to seek the love she deserves. 

In July’s deft and absurd hands, Kajillionaire is enrapturing, strange, and overwhelmingly joyful to watch. It feels distinctly of its own creation and each left-field acting choice, visual, or plot point only furthers to strengthen the overall whacky experience. It is, at times, heart-breaking then romantic, then silly, then serious, then funny, and manages to give each feeling, each beat, just as much credibility. As you watch pink suds droop down from cracks in the ceiling of the disused office where the family lives or the way they crouch behind low walls to avoid the landlord, if you examine the strange outfits Old Dolio dons, or watch her try to army crawl along the floor as a form of apology, you can’t help but feel that Melanie sums it up best; “Most happiness comes from dumb things.”

Kajillionaire is available to rent on BFI Player as part of the London Film Festival from today. 

It is released in cinemas nationwide from Friday 9^th October 

Also Read: How Film Changed Me: On Sofia Coppola

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But which films should you check out? Today I am going to suggest seven films on the festival roster to look forward to. And tell you why they should be on your watchlist. Let’s begin.

Another Round (Druk) (Drama)

Danish director Thomas Vinterberg has reteamed with The Hunt‘s Mads Mikkelsen for this drama about four high school teachers. Their aim – to see if life is improved by maintaining a consistent alcohol blood level. With a killer premise, helmed by a great director and one of today’s best actors, Another Round should be an interesting ride. And if it’s half as good as The Hunt, audiences will definitely be pleased.

The Cheaters (Classic Crime)

The festival also includes some restored and recovered films for classic film lovers. One of the more interesting ones being the oldest film at the festival. Made by filmmaking pioneers the McDonagh’s sisters and restored by the National Film and Sound Archive of Australia; it follows the story of an embezzler’s daughter falling for the son of her father’s worst enemy. 1929s The Cheaters is one of Australia’s major surviving silent films. And audiences can now see it as originally intended.

Friendship’s Death (Classic Sci-Fi)

Another older entry in the London Film Festival’s program is this science fiction film about an alien android named Friendship (Tilda Swinton). Who lands on earth in the midst of the Jordanian Black September War. And begins debating with a journalist about if humanity is worth saving. Swinton is one of the all-time greatest actresses. So the opportunity to see an early performance from her in even more detail, thanks to a restored print, is too great to refuse.

Mangrove (TV)

The latest project from Steve McQueen, the Oscar-winning director behind great films like 12 Years a Slave. Mangrove is part of McQueen’s Small Axe series. Which is based on the real experiences of the London West Indian community. It focuses on the trial of nine activists falsely accused of inciting a riot at Notting Hill’s Mangrove restaurant. With McQueen’s involvement and the current political climate regarding race and the police, this looks to be a hard-hitting; important watch.

Relic (Horror)

There has been a lot of buzz around Relic since its Sundance debut earlier this year. The film centres on a mother and daughter as they try to look after their grandmother. However, the grandmother’s house slowly begins to be infiltrated by supernatural forces that seemingly parallel the onset of the grandmother’s dementia. It has already been compared to Hereditary and The Babadook. So, if you’re looking for an atmospheric, symbolic horror film, Relic will be right up your alley.

Ultraviolence (Documentary)

This documentary explores various deaths that have occurred at the hands of the UK police force. As well as the heart-break many families have suffered because of it. This doc may be too much for some. With a warning given on the festival website, due to footage of real violence. But in a year that has seen worldwide condemnation of police violence, Ultraviolence looks to shine a light on the dark side of UK law and order.

Wolfwalkers (Animation)

The latest offering from Cartoon Saloon, who previously made Oscar Nominee’s Song of the Sea and The Breadwinner; Wolfwalkers is the beautiful animated story of Robyn, who journeys with her father from England to Ireland to destroy the wolf population. But Robyn’s resolve is soon tested when she befriends Mebh, an Irish wolfwalker (someone who becomes a wolf when they sleep). With gorgeous designs, an intriguing story, and an acclaimed studio backing it, Wolfwalkers could be another awards contender in the making.

So ends our list of London Film Festival films to look forward to. You can find more information about these and other festival film screenings on their online program. And lastly please share your thoughts on these films if you get the opportunity to see them.

Also Read: BAFTA: Steering Towards Greater Inclusion

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Kit has returned to Vietnam after 30 years in England. His family escaped during the war after his father was arrested when Kit was only six. He is back in Saigon to find a location to spread his mother’s ashes but he finds that the little he does remember of his once home is gone – the small pond behind the flat he grew up in where he used to play, has been filled in and built over and the building the flat is in is likely to be knocked down in due course. He remembers flashes, brief and small images from his short time in Saigon, but he lacks more than that. When his family fled they burnt all their family photographs to protect those closest to them, so they couldn’t be identified.  

While in Saigon, Kit meets Lewis (Parker Sawyers), an American man in Vietnam to set up his clothing company ‘Curve’ – so named because Lewis is ‘not straight’. The two meet for a drink on a rooftop bar, discussing their online dating profiles, before heading back to Kit’s hotel room. They kiss, take off their shirts, and it feels like it might be leading somewhere but the film cuts to the two men, post-sex. It’s disappointing that the sex in Monsoon is so regulated, with each scene cutting away before anything really raunchy or even tender happens. The only scene with any hint of actual sex is during a hook-up Kit has on a trip to Hanoi, as he turns his lover around and kicks aside his leg in a move of aggressive sexuality.

This is an all too common problem for queer cinema; figuring out who it is appealing to, a queer audience or a straight one? Sex scenes, like those in Call Me By Your Name or Brokeback Mountain, are short and relatively un-sexual in their sparseness to keep a straight audience interested and the former came under fire for watering down the famous ‘peach scene’ from the book. In the case of Monsoon, it feels the director and writer, Hong Khaou, wanted the sex but worried about alienating a straight audience which leaves the film feeling somewhat censored, as if there are parts missing.  Especially in contrast to the other queer film’s screening at the festival like Levan Akin’s And Then We Danced which is deeply erotic and charged, the tender nudity in Céline Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire, or the full-framed rawness of the sex in Lucio Castro’s End of the Century.

Goulding and Sawyers have good chemistry and their scenes together do feel the most real and warm, their flirting feels playful and sweet. Goulding’s performance in-particular is quiet and brooding most of the time which adds another string to the bow of a man who’s already been compared to Clark Gable. Yet something feels like it’s missing (and it’s not just the sex). 

Hong Khaou’s debut film Lilting in 2014 was about a young gay man living in London trying to form a connection with the mother of his dead boyfriend. It was a deep and rich film that delicately unravelled itself before your eyes. In this way, Khaou’s films feel like they are about translation; of language, of emotion, of experience. They find themselves within a world of shifting cultures and personal hardships. They’re often quiet, still, and creeping. They look at disconnection and wonder what fills that gap between people. They look at loss and how it wraps itself around you and consumes you. Yet, Monsoon doesn’t quite live up to the emotional weight of Lilting nor does it seem to have the same focus or drive. It loses itself in what it’s trying to say and ultimately never quite makes its mark. It’s hampered by dialogue that is riddled with exposition. As such it never really feels like the film is in the moment and, as an audience, we’re being asked to catch up constantly. 

As emphasised by its impressive opening shot, Benjamin Kracun’s cinematography is the film’s strongest asset. The slow-moving or often still camera compliments Kit’s position – stuck between England and Vietnam, between past and future. He is mysterious and doesn’t reveal his cards right away and the camera does the same, its slow pans and stationary shots of skyscrapers don’t reveal their intention immediately, but cause you to wonder and guess at their meaning in a way that feels considered and intentionally vague. Kracun, whose recent credits include the dark thriller Beast and the rave oriented Beats, is certainly one to watch.

Despite its stronger moments, Monsoon unfortunately doesn’t feel like a worthy follow-up to Lilting. Instead, it finds itself lost somewhere between romance and family drama, unable to really make an impact in either category. While the chemistry of its two leads is, at times, palpable it’s not enough to turn it into the Before Sunrise or Columbus it feels like it wants to be. 

Rating: (2 / 5)

Monsoon will be distributed by Peccadillo Pictures.

A release date has yet to be announced.

Also Read: Understanding The British Rom-Com

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Shia LaBeouf, once a famed child actor and now more commonly known for his performance art and various arrests, wrote the first draft of the script from rehab where he sent it to Alma Har’el, a friend and confidant (who would later become the film’s director). It was an unfinished draft, born from LaBeouf’s therapy sessions, and once LeBeouf was out of rehab the two finished it together. While this might sound like the kind of Hollywood vanity project fuelled by ego that you might expect from someone in LaBeouf’s position, it’s couldn’t be further from it. It’s tender, disarming, sympathetic, hypnotising, and raw. 

The film follows an adult Otis (Lucas Hedges) as he examines his past and his relationship with his father after being diagnosed with PTSD from his childhood. Through flashbacks, we see a younger Otis (Noah Jupe) on the set of his TV show (with scenes reminiscent of Even Stevens) and his life with his father, James (Shia LaBeouf). Their life, in a motel complex somewhere in LA, is not the life you’d expect a child star to live. Otis often walks himself home and steals food from the set. While his dad grows weed in secret by the freeway and attends AA meetings regularly. It is not the lifestyle that comes to mind when you think of the ‘Hollywood Elite’ who are so often pontificated about.

This life couldn’t be further from that of the Kardashian’s or any other Hollywood ‘royalty’ we have become used to. Otis’s dad refuses to hold his hand anywhere people might see them, he doesn’t want to be seen to be soft or caring. He is an addict, four years sober, who didn’t achieve what he wanted. He is a  former clown and performer who, after an arrest and sexual assault allegation, found himself divorced and working for his prepubescent son. He is an abuser, emotionally and physically. He’s a man in pain. In some moments we feel his pain and at others, we detest him – sometimes feeling both simultaneously. We see his hurt, we see its roots and we see its reach. 

Can we inherit pain? If those around us, who raise us, are racked with hurt do we then carry that burden too? How do we take that on? How does it manifest within us? How does it hinder us, grip us, affect us? Some scientists believe that the trauma of our parents changes our genetic markers while others disagree. Either way, growing up near so much pain is bound to have an effect and Honey Boy wants to understand that effect, to inspect it, and portray it. 

Har’el’s direction does just that by cutting right through to the essence in this, her fiction film debut. Her ability to jump from bombastic montages set to thumping hip-hop to quiet, sombre, introspection is masterful. She straddles the narrative and the avant-garde with ease, superbly creating a dreamlike, hazy, feel to the overall film while continually rooting it in reality. She makes the film feel like memory and reality are converging on each other, the line between them becoming hazier with each scene but then, all at once, plummeting back into certainty. She continually charms you with humour and light before shocking you with aggression and gloom. It’s LeBeouf’s world but Har’el weaves it into a tapestry that is complex and disarming. 

Har’el is also skilled with actors. LeBeouf’s performance is a career-best as he draws the character, based on his own father, in the grey areas. Outside of LaBeouf, there isn’t a dud performance to be seen. Relative newcomer Noah Jupe shines as a young boy managing his father’s temper and expectations while elsewhere Lucas Hedges continues to prove he’s one of cinema’s most interesting and versatile talents as the older Otis. FKA Twigs (in her film debut) exudes cosiness and melancholy as the girl growing up across the street from Otis, her performance is deeply rooted in physicality and quietness. Even Natasha Lyonne, though never seen on screen, provides audio cameo in one of the films funniest yet tragic scenes as Otis’s mother. 

Honey Boy, at its core, is a portrait of broken people. From those who are trying to build themselves again and those who have shattered beyond repair. It’s about addiction and the ways in which we become our parents. We watch their demise, their mistakes, and then do the same thing in a way that feels almost inevitable, unavoidable, and mythic in its tragic nature. The film itself feels like therapy for its writer but not in a way that feels solipsistic or melodramatic. It feels deeply personal and intimate yet never closed off. It feels like Honey Boy is an example of something not often seen, in which an artist abandons their ego, owns up to their mistakes, and cuts through all the noise to tell an honest, human, story.

Rating: (4 / 5)

Honey Boy is scheduled for release in December.

Also Read: The Lighthouse (Review)

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