Flora and Son: Makes beautiful music

Flora and Son (2023) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated R, for sexual candor, brief drug use and relentless profanity

Available via: Apple TV+

By Derrick Bang

Like writer/director/musician John Carney, I firmly believe that everybody possesses an artistic bliss which, if discovered and properly nurtured, could dramatically improve one’s life.

 

To her surprise, Flora (Eve Hewson) soon anticipates her online guitar lessons with
genuine pleasure, because of the bond she establishes with her tutor.

Carney clearly values the transformative power of music, which became abundantly clear with 2007’s Once, the captivating breakout hit that made his rep and gave us an Academy Award-winning song: “Falling Slowly.” He followed that with the equally beguiling Begin Again (2013) and Sing Street (2016), both of which enhanced their character-driven pleasures with charming song scores.

Carney’s newest, however, is apt to be a tougher sell: in part because its roster of original tunes lacks a memorable ear-worm, but mostly because — as introduced — this story’s protagonist is thoroughly unlikable (unless one admires relentless, profanity-laced tirades that would make a dock worker blush).

 

That said, one can’t help admiring the unapologetic ferocity with which Eve Hewson plays 31-year-old Flora, a Dublin-based single mother still selfishly trying to make up for the long-ago lost adolescence resulting from the arrival of her now-14-year-old son, Max (Orén Kinlan).

 

Flora is selfish, spiteful, impatient and intolerant, with a an entitlement chip the size of Inishmore on her shoulder. She “works” rather disinterestedly as a daycare nanny, then devotes her evenings to bars, discos and getting laid. As a result, Max has become a surly, rebellious, free-range teenager — who could blame him? — and petty thief who is up to his last chance with the local Gardai (policeman).

 

Flora can’t even be bothered to remember or acknowledge Max’s birthday. When the realization dawns, she fishes a broken guitar from a refuse bin, pays to have it quickly refurbished, and presents it to Max. But it’s a day-late-dollar-short gesture that the boy understandably dismisses with a sniff.

 

At this point, the subtlety of Hewson’s performance begins to shine. (About time, we think gratefully.) When Max is out of range, Flora displays genuine shame and regret; we realize that part of her anger is directed inward, over her inability to be a better mother. She’s dismayed because she never had the chance to learn how.

 

Against all odds, she becomes sympathetic. She also takes a metaphorical breath and slows down.

The Miracle Club: Faith isn't quite enough

The Miracle Club (2023) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, and too harshly, for thematic elements and mild profanity

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang

Although director Thaddeus O’Sullivan’s gentle little dramedy has its moments, the best efforts of a powerhouse cast can’t quite overcome the issues left unresolved in the original story by Joshua D. Maurer, Timothy Prager and Jimmy Smallhorne.

 

Lily (Maggie Smith, right), Eileen (Kathy Bates, center) and Dolly (Agnes O'Casey) —
with her young son, Daniel (Eric D. Smith) — are delighted to learn that they've won
a trip to Lourdes, in France.

The year is 1967, the setting the (fictitious) hardscrabble Dublin suburb of Ballygar. One gets a sense — enhanced by the authentic locale and John Hand’s superb production design — that life hasn’t changed much during the past century. Pleasures are simple: boisterous family gatherings, a talent show at the local church.

Work is hard, money is scarce, family responsibilities — even under the most loving circumstances — leave no time for anything else. 

 

Travel? A vacation? Idle fantasy.

 

Of late, though, the daily struggle has been augmented by fresh worries for a couple of close friends. Eileen (Kathy Bates) is terrified that a lump on her breast might be cancer. Lily (Maggie Smith) is succumbing to the crushing guilt that has plagued her for years (the details of which emerge slowly). Both mourn the recent death of another friend, Maureen.

 

Dolly (Agnes O’Casey), a generation younger — and the sole Ballygar resident determined to bring a bit of London mod to the community — despairs over her silent young son, Daniel (Eric D. Smith, wide-eyed and adorable). She fears that the boy’s muteness, or unwillingness to talk, is somehow her fault. 

 

All three women — Eileen, Lily and Dolly — dream of making a pilgrimage to Lourdes, where millions travel each year, to bathe in the sacred waters and receive God’s grace. And, perhaps, a miracle.

 

Thanks to some clever maneuvering by the kindly parish priest, Father Byrne (Mark O’Halloran, note-perfect), a small miracle does occur … and, suddenly, all three get their wish: an all-expenses-paid trip to Lourdes. 

 

This includes something else they never expected: a brief bit of freedom. And independence.

 

Alas, the jubilant mood is dampened — for Eileen and Lily — by the unexpected appearance of Maureen’s daughter, Chrissie (Laura Linney), who fled to America 40 years ago, beset by scandal (the usual kind, given the time period). Dolly is too young to have any emotional response to Chrissie’s arrival, but it opens old wounds and long-unspoken betrayals involving Eileen and Lily.

 

Worse yet, Chrissie insists on joining the trip to Lourdes.

The Banshees of Inisherin: Wails of discontent

The Banshees of Inisherin (2022) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated R for violence, brief graphic nudity and relentless profanity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.4.22

Back in 2008, writer/director Martin McDonagh teamed with actors Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson for In Bruges, a darkly meditative — and frequently funny — study of loyalty and death between two contract killers (likely enjoyed only by viewers with broad-minded sensibilities).

 

Pádraic (Colin Farrell, right) makes another effort to determine precisely why he's being
shunned by former best friend Colm (Brendan Gleeson), but the latter refuses to engage.

I’d love to say that McDonagh’s reunion with Farrell and Gleeson is equally appealing … but that’s far from the truth.

The time is 1923, the setting the harsh, rocky (and fictitious) island of Inisherin, off the west coast of Ireland. Pádraic Súilleabháin (Farrell), a hard-working milk farmer, lives with his sister Siobhán in a simple rustic house they often share with their pet miniature donkey, Jenny. Eight years have passed since their parents died; the sibling bond is tight and loving.

 

Every day at 2 p.m., presumably going back years, Pádraic has walked over to the house belonging to his best friend, Colm Doherty (Gleeson); the two then head over to the local pub: the island’s sole form of entertainment.

 

Except this time, as the story begins, Colm refuses to answer the door. Pádraic peers through a window, and sees Colm inside, silently brooding at a table. Pádraic knocks again; Colm doesn’t move.

 

Bewildered, Pádraic heads to the pub by himself; the publican, Jonjo (Pat Shortt), can’t believe his eyes. You’ve had a row, he suggests; Pádraic insists not.

 

“A’ least, I don’t tink so,” he admits.

 

Farrell’s expression, thus far, is puzzled and mildly hurt. Assuming that he somehow must be at fault, when Pádraic later corners Colm at a table — the latter also wants his daily pint — Pádraic does what all good friends do, and apologizes for whatever unintended slight may have occurred.

 

It’s a sincere apology. Farrell’s expression is earnest, his gaze both curious and worried.

 

Colm’s response is breathtakingly callous: “I just don’ like you any more.”

 

Blunt as that statement is, Colm’s subsequent explanation is even worse. Being older, he has begun to brood about his mortality, and the fact that — unless things change — he’ll leave nothing behind. He thus refuses to spend another minute with Pádraic — whose simple kindness is “too dull,” and who can spend hours ruminating about what emerges from Jenny’s rear end — in favor of focusing on his fiddle, and composing music that will outlive him. Like Mozart.

 

Farrell’s wide-eyed reaction prompts laughs, because — at first blush — this seems so ridiculous. To Pádraic, it’s like a parent suddenly disowning a child, for no reason. But when it becomes clear that Colm is serious, Pádraic begins a slow slide into deep sorrow. Farrell’s richly nuanced performance is heartbreaking: the palpable embodiment of unrelenting grief.

Belfast: Deeply moving snapshot of a nation in crisis

Belfast (2021) • View trailer

Five stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for violence and profanity

Available via: Movie theaters, Amazon Prime and other streaming services

By Derrick Bang

Armed with an impressive seven Academy Award nominations, Kenneth Branagh’s riveting, semi-autobiographical drama has just become available via streaming services.

 

This is must-see cinema.

 

Buddy (Jude Hill, his back to camera) listens quietly while his mother (Caitriona Balfe),
grandmother (Judi Dench) and grandfather (Ciarán Hinds) explain what has been
happening in their neighborhood.

It isn’t easy to layer an era of chaos, tumult and danger with warmth and humor, and Branagh — who wrote the script, as well as directing — has done so sublimely. He wisely followed John Boorman’s lead, who in 1987’s Hope and Glory similarly depicted the horrors he experienced as a child in London during World War II.

In this case, Branagh’s quasi-surrogate self is 9-year-old Buddy, played with beguiling innocence and impishness by Jude Hill, in a stunning feature film debut. Because this story is viewed through Buddy’s experiences and imagination, Hill is in practically every scene, and he capably carries the film; he’s beyond adorable. 

 

Branagh extracts an amazingly accomplished and nuanced performance from this young lad. It’s a crime that he didn’t secure a Best Actor nod to accompany all the other well-earned nominations.

 

Cinematographer Haris Zambarloukos opens with an imposing, full-color overview of today’s Belfast. We then slide into a crowded, working-class pocket neighborhood; the image turns monochromatic as we’re whisked back to the summer of 1969. Children play merrily in the sun-dappled streets; adults chat amiably while walking to and from the little shops nestled in between row houses.

 

Everybody knows everybody else. When Buddy’s Ma (Caitriona Balfe) calls him in for tea, the message is passed along via children and adults until it finally reaches him. 

 

Then, suddenly, anarchy: An angry mob rounds a street corner like a swarm of maddened bees, laying waste to homes, shop windows, vehicles and anything else in their path … with a focus on Catholic families. It’s the opening salvo of the five-day political and sectarian violence that quickly spread through Ireland and led to the 30-year conflict dubbed “The Troubles.”

 

Buddy, terrified, stands frozen like a deer caught in headlights. We see the disconnect in his gaze; the boy cannot begin to comprehend the savage reality of what’s happening.

 

In that instant, his life — and that of his family, and everybody else — is altered. Forever. The calm of sociable neighborliness has been shattered, never to return; Catholic and Protestant families, once close friends, now eye each other warily. (Buddy and his family are Protestants.)

 

In the aftermath, streets are barricaded; watchers are posted 24/7. Buddy’s universe — this tiny portion of Northern Belfast — has become an artificial island.

 

Wolfwalkers: An enchanting fable

Wolfwalkers (2020) • View trailer

Four stars. Rated PG, for dramatic intensity and sequences of violence and peril

By Derrick Bang

The best animation houses have their own distinctive appearance, pacing and storytelling approach.

 

Classic 1940s and ’50s Warner Bros. cartoons looked nothing like their Disney cousins, and nobody would confuse one of Hayao Miyazaki’s Studio Ghibli efforts with a Pixar entry.

 

After spending some time with the forest-born Mebh, left, the town-bred Robyn begins
to realize that her assumptions about her walled town's relationship with the
surrounding woods are not only wrong, but harmful.

The same is true of Ireland’s Tomm Moore and Ross Stewart, who — as artists, writers and/or directors under the Cartoon Saloon banner — have previously brought us 2009’s The Secret of Kells and 2014’s Song of the Sea, both of which earned Academy Award nominations.

 

Their unique touch is equally evident in Wolfwalkers, which they’ve co-directed and co-written, with scripting assistance from Will Collins and Jericca Cleland. As with the earlier films, this new animated opus — available via Apple TV+ — is steeped in Irish mythology and folklore, and includes a strong environmental message.

 

There’s also a rather nasty jab at Oliver Cromwell’s 17th century invasion and subsequent occupation of Ireland, for those with an historical bent. (Some transgressions never are forgiven, and the Irish have very long memories.)

 

The year is 1650, the setting a British-occupied walled hamlet in Kilkenny. Rule is maintained by the oppressively Puritan — and ironically named — Lord Protector (voiced by Simon McBurney) and his soldiers. The “heathen” Irish townsfolk are essentially feudal serfs: the men tending sheep and working the land, the women enduring back-breaking labor in the cringingly named “scullery.”

 

Over time, the Lord Protector has ordered that the surrounding woods be systematically cleared away, as a means of “protecting” the town from “vicious” wolves. This does not sit well with the wisest townsfolk, steeped in local lore, who understand that a symbiotic balance must be maintained between people, forest and wolves.

 

The wolf pack has long been protected by the powerful, magic-laden Moll MacTíre (Maria Doyle Kennedy), a “wolfwalker” who is human when awake, and transforms into a wolf when her human form sleeps. Aside from her many others gifts — most related to a wolf’s extraordinarily enhanced senses — Moll has the ability to heal wounds.

Herself: Richly poignant empowerment drama

Herself (2020) • View trailer

Four stars. Rated R, for profanity and vicious domestic violence

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.29.21 

There’s a strong sense, throughout this superbly mounted little Irish drama — exclusive to Amazon Prime — that star/co-scripter Clare Dunne writes from personal awareness.

 

I dearly hope that isn’t the case.

 

Sandra (Clare Dunne) and younger daughter Molly (Molly McCann) are delighted by
the progress being made under the watchful gaze of contractor Aido (Conleth Hill).

She stars as Sandra, a single mother with two young daughters, who has just escaped her possessive and abusive partner, Gary (Ian Lloyd Anderson). Although “the system” has kept a roof over their heads, bouncing them from one tiny hotel room to another, she’s barely scraping by. She works two part-time jobs, to keep them fed: as a pub barmaid; and as a housekeeper for Peggy (Harriet Walter), an aging doctor for whom Sandra’s mother once worked, back in the day.

 

But these details come a bit later. Director Phyllida Lloyd, and scripters Dunne and Malcolm Campbell, open their film with a shocking sequence: Gary bloodies Sandra’s face and then stomps on her wrist, shattering it far beyond any hope of total recovery.

 

The worst part? Sandra has anticipated just such an encounter, arming elder daughter Emma (Ruby Rose O’Hara) with a previously written plea for help and a code phrase — “black widow” — that sends the little girl running to the closest store.

 

Despite this, months later, Sandra’s still forced to interact with Gary, given that he gets weekend visits with their daughters. (Seriously? After that display of violence? If this is accurate, either Sandra had a crap lawyer, or Ireland needs to seriously revise its family protective services laws.)

 

And, as always is the case with serial abusers, Gary’s doing his best to wheedle his way back into their lives. Which, to Sandra’s credit, she rejects utterly. She most emphatically is not a serial victim.

 

But she is increasingly desperate, because the status quo isn’t sustainable; lacking a permanent home isn’t psychologically healthy for her daughters. Worse yet, this situation actually lends weight to Gary’s contrasting “stability,” since he’s living with his parents. But Sandra seems without options; rents are beyond her financial ability, never mind mortgages and property prices.

 

One day, a passing reference in one of her daughters’ bedtime stories proves inspirational: Could she build her own home? (Dunne was inspired, as she explains in the film’s production notes, by Irish architect Dominic Stevens, who with friends constructed a wooden self-build in 2012, for roughly $33,000.)

 

Seductive as this notion is, money remains an issue. During an exchange with a bureaucratic clerk that brilliantly illustrates the ludicrous flaws of the welfare system, Sandra accurately argues that a one-time loan would be far cheaper to the system, than the ongoing costs associated with hotel expenses … and gets nowhere. It’s a shrewdly scripted shake-your-head exchange.

Wild Mountain Thyme: A charming romantic fable

Wild Mountain Thyme (2020) • View trailer

3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, and needlessly, for "suggestive content"

By Derrick Bang 

Lovers of British whimsy likely will embrace this leisurely romantic comedy — available via video-on-demand — which takes an Irish approach to the conventional formula.

 

Rosemary (Emily Blunt) has loved Anthony (Jamie Dornan) ever since they were 10 years
old. Now in their mid-30s, with so much time already behind them, she wonders if he'll
ever be brave enough to ask her hand in marriage.

Given the Irish setting and poetic spirit, writer/director John Patrick Shanley’s gentle little fable — which he adapted from his 2014 Broadway play, Outside Mullingar — naturally involves an element of loss, and is fueled by the beloved, melancholy Celtic folk song that gives his film its title.

 

The mood is established immediately by off-camera narrator Tony Reilly (Christopher Walken), who explains — as cinematographer Stephen Goldblatt’s camera swoops above the wild, amazingly green, stunningly gorgeous Irish countryside — “They say, if an Irishman dies while he’s telling a story, you can rest assured, he’ll be back.”

 

Seriously, how can you resist an opening like that?

 

Anthony Reilly (Jamie Dornan) and Rosemary Muldoon (Emily Blunt) have lived on neighboring farms their entire lives, and she has loved him unreservedly since they were 10 years old. Everybody in their closely knit farming community knows they’re meant for each other … except Anthony.

 

He’s an eccentric, tongue-tied introvert who — fearing that he’s “tetched” — believes himself unlovable. He steadfastly works the family farm, having taken over all chores and responsibilities from his aging father Tony, who nonetheless irascibly grumbles that his son “doesn’t have what it takes.”

 

To a significant degree, Tony is nettled by Anthony’s unwillingness to get on with it, and marry Rosemary, fercryinoutloud. She, in turn — her feisty, independent nature notwithstanding — patiently waits for Anthony to come to his senses. (“Romeo’s not able to climb the balcony,” Shanley muses, in the press notes, “and Juliet won’t come down.”)

 

Tony also grouses about the fact that their farm is blocked by two gates that enclose a little strip of road owned by the Muldoons: which is to say, it’s necessary to open and close those gates every time one enters or leaves the Reilly farm. 

 

The death of Rosemary’s father Chris — who spent his entire life “at war with the crows” — proves a catalyst of sorts. Rosemary’s mother Aoife (Dearbhla Molloy) is bereft, and Tony senses that his own time on Earth is drawing to a close. Something needs to be done, and so he makes a decision that dismays everybody: He announces his intention to sell the family farm to his American nephew, Adam (Jon Hamm).