 Daniel Day-Lewis in Anemone Eight years ago, Daniel Day-Lewis starred as Reynolds Woodcock in Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread, a playfully stitched disruption of polite society…among many other elements (PTA is a consistently proven master of interconnected storytelling). Day-Lewis’s presence on screen has been deeply missed since then. While rumblings of retirement had emerged around the time Phantom Thread was released, it was only a matter of time before a new role tempted him back into the craft. A truly enticing role can bring nearly any actor out of hiatus. Anemone is indeed for the hungry boy. It’s a monologue-heavy drama without the excessive wordiness, relying more on the actor’s facial expressions and body language to convey his reclusive character’s interiority. Day-Lewis, who has blessed us with one acting masterclass after another, is back with something more personal, by nature and design. Not only is he the star, executive producer, and co-writer on Anemone; the film marks the feature directorial and screenwriting debut of his son, Ronan Day-Lewis. The pair navigate experimental terrain as they weather emotionally gruelling familial storms in Northern England. While the story buckles under the weight of heavy symbolism, there’s a great deal of compelling narrative tension bubbling underneath.
Anemone begins with a brace for impact. Jem (Sean Bean) says a prayer to himself and briefly comforts his wife, Nessa (Samantha Morton), before venturing out into the woods to reconnect with his estranged brother, Ray (Day-Lewis). It’s not exactly a reconciliation, but a reawakening on the horizon when Jem ruggedly appears at Ray’s doorstep, and is simply let in. For a while, both brothers sit in silence, drifting towards a haunted past, where Ray begins his first of a few killer monologues. He recites as though performing a soliloquy under a spotlight on stage, and Jem listens as though sitting front row in the dark. The dialogue is transporting. The creaking and crackling of Ray’s cabin, enveloped by violent winds, ground them in the present. Yet, there is something otherworldly about the location; it’s prone to the most vivid apparitions, as Ronan Day-Lewis would go on to explore. Back in civilization, Nessa (Morton) and her teenage son Brian (Samuel Bottomley) sit in a similarly loud silence of unspoken trauma. While often isolated from each other, they share the thundering storm of Ray’s past hanging above them. Years ago, Ray had left his family behind. Now, Jem has gone to lure him out of the woods and back home to confront personal demons head on. Unraveling at a slow burn, the film sits in discomforting environments and bleak atmospheres. The direction and writing excel at emphasizing that there is no easy way out here. Rocky roads and punishing weather have stirred a storm in Ray, and Daniel Day-Lewis immerses himself into the character’s deeply wounded frame of mind. The film’s official premise — an exploration of complex ties between brothers, fathers, and sons — acts as a loose framework for director Day-Lewis to experiment. He goes for a shrouded character study in a fight against nature and its harsh elements. And of course, his vision is in excellent hands. Naturally, the actor’s return builds more than enough anticipation to pique curiosity. Day-Lewis keeps the momentum going as he devours a handful of monologues, making each line feel as though it’s just come to him, right then and there. The introductory monologue in Ray’s cabin sets a painful tone, as he draws from a devastating memory of abuse. With remarkable control, Day-Lewis brings the character’s emotionality and interiority to the surface, while holding space for his co-star to react. Jem’s character is the break in the storm. He’s not necessarily there to verbally or physically engage, but his presence attracts the attention of his brother’s pain. Like moths to a flame, as the saying goes. The narrative setup initially suggests that this story will follow two brothers patching up their grievances with each other. But Jem’s character feels written as the ignition for Ray to restart. Jem is the catalyst for a turning point for how Ray has dealt with severe guilt and shame all these years. In a standout scene of Ray punching Jem, the violence feels random at first, until the realization that Ray’s anger is pointed towards being made to confront the contemporary. The film is a double-edged sword in its use of imagery and symbolism. On the one side, Anemone excels at making you feel the environment on a visceral level, from the vivid cinematography to the impactful sound design. On the other hand, the film relies heavily on symbolism and stormy weather to evoke a level of tension that Daniel Day-Lewis’s performance already does, just in physicality alone. Notably, the film’s second half features a glowing apparition that leans slightly frustrating in its ambiguity. Additionally, whereas Ray’s character unravels with a thoughtful slow burn, the writing of Nessa and Brian’s characters back home is more repetitive in the themes they convey. Anemone hinges on the brilliance of Daniel Day-Lewis to communicate a world of pain from the get-go. The film’s opening minutes speak volumes about Ray’s shielded wounds, bottled frustration, and decades worth of distance from his family. And in the shrouds, it’s not the imagery that provides clarity, but Day-Lewis’s performance. Not only does he masterfully illuminate Ray’s trauma, but he conveys the character’s newfound path to healing in real-time, bringing raw pain to light. With each new monologue comes another personal revelation, and his work gives the story new texture. While Anemone takes wobbly turns, in its experimental nature of figuring out what works and what doesn’t, the astonishing acting masterclass at its core paves a reliable path to follow. Focus Features and Universal Pictures Canada will release Anemone nationwide on October 3.
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 Emma Thompson in Dead of Winter If the idea of Emma Thompson channeling Frances McDormand’s Marge Gunderson from Fargo sounds intriguing, the action thriller Dead of Winter will satisfy your curiosity. Thompson, one of our greatest acting treasures, plays a badass lone traveller who fights against harsh elements to save a life. Slipping into character and embracing the setting, she echoes McDormand’s “Oh yah?” through an endearing “Oh all heck,” complete with the Minnesota accent and all. Thompson’s wit and authenticity bring warm layers to an icy survival thriller that stumbles through cliches, but reaches a surprisingly heartfelt ending. In between tidying up violent messes, Barb reminisces about love and loss, acting as the film’s memorable core.
Set in a snow capped northern Minnesota, Dead of Winter follows a widow named Barb (Thompson), as she travels to her favourite lake for an ice fishing trip. This lake, a gem of the natural world, holds a special place in her heart; she had spent a lot of time there with her late husband, Karl (Paul Hamilton). While en route, Barb gets lost among the backroads and stumbles upon a remote cabin in the woods. She asks an incognito man for help. He begrudgingly gives out directions, while she catches a blood-splattered patch of snow in the corner of her eye. Barb continues on her journey and reaches the lake, but the audience quickly gets wind that trouble is afoot. It’s just a matter of when the danger will strike, and director Brian Kirk wastes no time getting the bloody snowball rolling. While on the icy lake, Barb witnesses a teenage girl named Leah (Laurel Marsden) running for her life from a gun-wielding kidnapper nicknamed Camo Jacket (Marc Menchaca). Isolated and without cell service, Barb draws on instinct and resilience, realizing that she is the girl’s only hope for survival. After rushing back to the cabin, Barb discovers a new threat — the kidnapper’s wife nicknamed Purple Lady (an excellent Judy Greer), is the mastermind. Greer’s character is a former medical worker who is desperate to have a surgical procedure done, and plans on using Leah as her patient. Armed and murderous, Purple Lady goes on a relentless hunt to eliminate her new target: Barb. If these nicknames elicit some chuckles, there’s a bit more humour where that came from. First-time screenwriters Nicholas Jacobson-Larson and Dalton Leeb find darkly comic veins in a tensely wrapped high-stress environment. Whether it’s Barb cracking jokes to herself while sewing up a gunshot wound, or Purple Lady (Greer) and Camo Jacket (Menchaca) veering towards a comedy of errors with their clumsiness, Dead of Winter plays lighter than expected. It certainly breathes glimmers of personality into the film’s generic plot and pedestrian direction. But the humour ultimately becomes more of a hindrance than a gift. It often clashes with the dramatic elements, creating an odd mishmash of tones and undermining tense standoffs between characters. The film attempts to balance the kidnapping plot with a character study of Barb. Flashbacks to young Barb (played by Thompson’s real-life daughter, Gaia Wise) and young Karl (Cúan Hosty-Blaney) paint a sweet portrait of a blossoming romance. The flashbacks add context for Barb’s everlasting love, making her journey all the more poignant. Her interiority is far more compelling than the cold-hearted patch of violence she runs into, though Greer injects stirring intensity and genuine intimidation into the picture. But the film plays to the melody of Thompson’s screen presence, through and through. Thompson’s emotionality as a performer is a major source of comfort for the audience. She devotes as much attention to the physicality of her character as she does the essence. The end result is a nuanced, assured portrayal of a woman whose intentions are crystal clear, and whose open heart travels beyond fear and directly into the eye of conflict. However difficult it is for her to fight against harsh elements and murderous plots, she doesn’t quit. It’s refreshing to also consider that Barb is not portrayed as miraculously invincible. She stumbles and panics her way through, which helps to ground her character’s scenarios. While Thompson has a strong grasp on Barb, Dead of Winter as a whole feels half-realized. The character study, the kidnapping of Leah, and the medical motivations behind Purple Lady’s actions fall short of a thrilling blend. But at the very least, the film finds strength in the motto Barb lives by: we don’t quit. However underwhelming the plot devices and uneven the tone, the story builds onto real stakes for the character. In this chilly, choppy action piece, Barb is given a surprising and memorable ending, made all the more impactful by one of our greatest performers.  Lily James in Swiped The online experience is absolutely horrific for women. Sexual harassment, death threats, cyber bullying, body dysmorphia, hate speech, and more denigrating content have fed into an incessantly dangerous environment. It’s not just the perpetrators and their deceptive personas causing harm. Online platforms and apps are also complicit in breeding misogyny and toxic masculinity, whether by design (in a male-dominated tech industry), or by practice. Social media has completely changed the way we interact with one another, and it has made dating in this digital age all the more precarious. Bumble CEO Whitney Wolfe Herd aimed to rewrite outdated gender roles with a female-empowered dating app - on Bumble, women make the first move. Her rise to billionaire status is depicted in Rachel Lee Goldenberg’s Swiped, a film that too often swipes left on what makes its subject so interesting.
Whitney (Lily James) wanted to make the world a better place. Her first business venture was selling bamboo tote bags to areas affected by the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. She also volunteered at orphanages around Southeast Asia, where she got the idea to create a program that connects likeminded people together. Ready to make her mark in the tech industry, and eager to meet potential investors, she runs into Sean Rad (Ben Schnetzer), the co-founder of a startup company that throws ideas to the wall in the hope that one of them will stick. Sean immediately hires Whitney as the company’s marketing director for a new dating app, which Whitney would go on to name Tinder. After months of market research and pitching to universities, she helps turn the app into a worldwide success. With her professional and personal life soaring, Whitney seems on top of the world. She starts dating one of her colleagues, Justin (Jackson White), who can’t contain his jealously when Whitney officially becomes a Tinder co-founder alongside him. Justin’s mean-spirited behaviour takes an even darker turn when they break up, and his harassment starts to affect her work environment. When she does speak up, she is bullied into silence, further illustrating why women don’t feel comfortable standing up for themselves. One of the film’s biggest strengths is the depiction of toxic masculinity, particularly in the pre-#MeToo era, that has poisoned the corporate culture and forced women out of the decision-making rooms. This will strike a chord not only relative to the tech industry, but across all industries where women are harassed and undermined at every turn. As the only woman in the room at Tinder, Whitney feels pressure not to cause any trouble, adhering to the expectation that women ought to be grateful for holding high-ranking positions, and that putting up with harmful behaviours is “part of the job.” The story of Swiped may be based on noteworthy subject matter, but the film falls flat in its execution. The writing glosses over nuanced conversations in favour of a by-the-numbers biopic approach that cherry picks the highlights of Tinder’s success, Whitney’s downfall, and the creation of Bumble. The film takes an incredibly rushed, straightforward path in depicting her accomplishments and shortcomings. While she created Bumble to foster an environment where women support each other, she herself liked being the only woman invited to the table at Tinder. In contributing to the toxicity to feel like “one of the guys,” she neglects the work of her friend and colleague (a very underwritten role played by Myha’la). The film does very little to challenge Whitney’s lack of support for women during the Tinder chapter, and inexplicably rushes through her development of Bumble, which leaves behind an underwhelming conclusion. The strongest element of Swiped is Lily James’s performance as Whitney. James brings compelling charm and gravitas to the role. She excels at conveying both the ambition and vulnerability that the tech industry, and specifically her male colleagues, feed off. From workplace misogyny and corporate greed to targeted harassment, James navigates the film’s thematic foreground while also creating a grounded person to root for. James also does not shy away from Whitney’s contradictions; a particularly effective scene reveals that she chose to climb the corporate ladder at Tinder without bringing other women alongside her. But her talents are ultimately wasted in a limited character study. The real Whitney had no involvement in the film due to an NDA agreement that prevents her from discussing anything pertaining to Tinder. As a result, the film continuously defines her by the corporate role she plays, falling short of grasping the nuances of who this woman is. While James turns in a reliable performance, and the themes reverberate with a greater reach than the tech and dating spaces, Swiped stumbles as both an effective character study and biopic. Goldenberg’s generic direction and a cliched screenplay approach Whitney Wolfe Herd’s legacy with half-hearted curiosity. By cherry picking her greatest achievements and lowest moments on a strictly professional level, the film limits its narrative and creative scope. Wolfe Herd’s character becomes neglected outside of her involvement in the apps that are, ironically, designed for people to understand each other on a more personal level.  Stellan Skarsgård and Renate Reinsve in Sentimental Value When Joachim Trier made The Worst Person in the World, he captured the intricacies of life in just over two hours of screen time. On every rewatch, the film feels like a miraculous discovery all over again. Trier is so deeply present with the story, and so specific in conveying one woman’s experience as she searches for meaning, that he manages to reflect “The Worst Person in the World” back onto the viewer in a universally warm embrace. Whether you’re in your twenties or not, whether you’re navigating romantic relationships or career paths, forks in the road of adult life are achingly relatable. Trier’s grounded approach keeps his characters in constant motion. There are no neat and tidy resolutions to conflict. The emotionality sneaks up on you, which carries over into Sentimental Value, his latest film co-written by Eskil Vogt. It’s a tender, witty chronicle of a family brought closer together by art, history, and a house full of painful memories.
For years, filmmaker Gustav Borg (Stellan Skarsgård) has been estranged from his daughters Nora (Renate Reinsve) and Agnes (Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas). Nora is an actress who suffers from anxiety attacks before going on stage to perform. She has her methods for getting through the nerves, like asking one of the stagehands (played by Anders Danielsen Lie) to slap her. While Nora eventually finds her mark on stage, and her performance is met with rapturous applause, her personal life feels adrift. She carries a palpable sadness with her, which turns into anger when on the subject of her father. Nora’s sister Agnes, who as a child starred in one of their father’s most acclaimed movies, leads a more grounded life. Agnes has a family of her own and appears more level-headed. While they have a shared childhood experience, the two sisters have different relationships to their father, who had abandoned them when they were kids. Years later, at their mother’s wake, Gustav walks back into their lives as though no time has passed. This bleak setting brings the family together by way of reckoning, with Gustav returning to the damage not to resolve, but to understand. Making matters more depressing, Gustav reconnects with Nora in the hope that she’ll agree to star in his next film, which is based on a Borg family tragedy. He makes it clear that she’s the only one who can play the role. She refuses to read the script, wanting no part in the project. Casting takes an unexpected turn when Gustav attends a festival screening for one of his movies. Sat in the audience is Hollywood movie star Rachel Kemp (Elle Fanning), who connects with him and accepts the role Nora had turned down. Gustav encourages Rachel to dye her hair brown and use a Norwegian accent. Studious and talented as Rachel may be, her performance by admission feels stilted. Unable to get a proper read on the character, she seeks answers from Nora on the art of being. When art is made personal, it can hold a very powerful mirror to the people whose lives are being reflected. For the characters of Sentimental Value, art evokes reconciliation and becomes the foreground for healing. In one of the most exquisite scenes, Agnes urges Nora to read an excerpt from their father’s script that he’s shooting. Agnes knows that the words on the page will resonate with Nora far more than any conversation with Gustav would (Nora and Gustav have difficulty communicating, and artistic expression is their bridge). The scene is a gut punch of self-reflection, and an intimate glimpse into the bond between two sisters. Nora questions how Agnes managed to turn out fine, having grown up in the same painful household. Agnes felt protected and safe because she had Nora. But who did Nora have? Renate Reinsve and Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas play out the scene tremendously, as they transport you back in time to their layered childhood perspectives. This moment reinforces what the film is truly about: the ghosts that children inherit from their parents. The movie within a movie is a remarkable framework for the characters to reevaluate what they all mean to each other, and lift some of those invisible weights. The film also travels through time with the Borg family home in Olso. This beautiful home of bright red accents, surrounded by trees, looks like a picturesque fairytale. Trier makes the house a narrative focal point, using voiceover narration to unearth the history within its walls. You could feel the weight of the past in its architecture. The house reflects generations of life; no matter how many renovations are made, it will forever carry the memories of the people who once lived there. And when a house no longer feels like a home, it will lose its sentimental value. The belongings become objects, and the rooms become confines. There’s a fascinating dynamic at play between the characters and this house. Gustav walks in like a friendly ghost, passing through with unintentional harm and unaware of his haunting impact. Nora walks into her past, frozen in time. Agnes hovers someplace between attached and detached; she has made a new home for herself, but there are certain things that still carry sentimental value. Sentimental Value is home to such lived-in characters, giving the actors an incredible framework to fill in their own portrayals. Trier crafts a true ensemble here; this is every bit Skarsgård’s film as it is Reinsve’s and Lilleaas’. From their interior conflicts to their messy shared path towards forgiveness, their relationship dynamics define the heart of the story. Reinsve is a brilliant performer who makes acting look effortless on screen. Since reaching international stardom with The Worst Person in the World, followed by compelling roles in A Different Man and Armand, Reinsve is one of the most exciting actors working today. As Nora in “Sentimental Value,” she runs the gamut of a fully realized character whose knack for acting stems from a desire to escape. Reinsve has an especially vulnerable moment at the beginning of the film, when Nora experiences a breakdown backstage just minutes before a performance. Playing her sister Agnes, Lilleaas too makes acting look effortless. You simply cannot take your eyes off her character, as she carries her childhood experiences in a different way compared to Nora. Agnes is often the picture of composure and brings a grounded quality to the family dynamics, as the keen observer of Nora and Gustav’s artistic expressions. Lilleaas delivers a quietly impactful performance that builds to a moment of boundaries drawn with her father, when he expresses wanting the young version of himself in his movie to be played by Agnes’ son Erik. It’s an outstanding moment that invites curiosity as to how Agnes feels about having starred in one of her father’s movies many years ago, and the lingering impact of that experience. Adding to the brilliant ensemble, Elle Fanning shines as the celebrity outsider to the Borg family. It’s also refreshing to discover the depth of Rachel’s character as she navigates the challenge of taking part in such a personal project, while wanting to be seen and heard for her talent. Skarsgård delivers a career-best performance as Gustav, walking a fine line of contradictions to bring remarkable realism into the role. He’s not a villain for his past, nor is he a hero for being a changed man in the present. His character speaks to a thoughtful mediation on how art can help process emotions and reflect the truth back onto oneself. With Gustav being a filmmaker, wanting to cast his daughter as the lead of his new movie, Trier finds a creative way to depict a parent setting the stage for their child to follow. Additionally, through Gustav’s character, the film engages in some pointed criticism of how audiences engage with art today. From prickly press junkets and “Tik-Tok trolls” to the pressure of making a relevant movie, Skarsgård relishes in those moments of frustration. It’s not uncommon to want something as soon as someone else wants it, especially in a sibling dynamic. The feeling is captured in a moment shared between Agnes and Nora, as they go through family belongings, eventually reaching a vase. Nora appears disinterested in the vase at first, until Agnes expresses wanting to keep it. Sentimental Value so profoundly communicates the fear of losing something, or someone, that you didn’t think mattered so dearly or that you wanted so much. When Nora does grab the vase — in a rush on her way out of the house, knowing that Gustav is about to enter — it’s as though she still needs that piece of her family to hold onto, as she heads on a spirited path of figuring out life. |
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