NOVEMBER 5 2016 http://www.listener.co.nz 61
hair, an enormous handgun tucked cosily
into the waistband of their old Levis, and
not much else. You wouldn’t think so,
but justice still functions in this parched
dustbowl. It comes, slow-moving, in the
form of Marcus Hamilton (Jeff Bridges),
an old-fashioned lawman in a Stetson and
spurred boots, whose voice sounds like
gurgling gravel drowned in acid.
It takes an outsider to look honestly
at this proud part of America, to see the
wreckage and destitution. Scottish director
David Mackenzie (Starred Up, Perfect Sense)
does so by skilfully and stylishly updating
the Bonnie and Clyde motif, pairing it
with the morality tale of 99 Homes – two
films that have economic depressions as
their context. He marshals extraordinary
performances from the leading trio, turn-
ing villains into fleetingly loveable rogues.
The result is an elegiac, unhurried,
strangely funny and ultimately masterful
film – more Townes Van Zandt than
Randy Travis, if you know your country
music. If this is the direction western
cinema is heading, bring on the rodeo.
IN CINEMAS NOW
Marcus Hamilton is an
old-fashioned lawman
in Stetson and spurred
boots whose voice sounds
like gurgling gravel
drowned in acid.
Now showing
I, Daniel Blake
Ken Loach’s resoundingly powerful
indictment of existence in Austerity
England. Angry, didactic and utterly
essential.
Inferno
Dante’s visions of Hell are nothing
compared with this apocalyptically
boring Dan Brown “thriller”. Tom Hanks
looks embarrassed to be part of it.
Café Society
Woody Allen gets an injection of reined
gorgeousness for this thinly plotted Old
Hollywood comedy.
My Scientology Movie
Louis Theroux recreates notorious
accounts of abuse in the Church of
Scientology, though his subjects escape
his gangly charm.
The Girl on the Train
Reliable memory-loss thriller, but its ine
female cast are reduced to blubbering
too often – an uncomfortable and
infantilising technique.
Hitchcock/Trufaut
A rich, thorough, critical uplifting of
the English master. His French friend is
somewhat sidelined, as are the less well-
known ilms of Hitchcock’s catalogue.
Deepwater Horizon
Shockingly good disaster lick, though
try to leave before the tacked-on
documentary ending.
The Magnicent Seven
Captain Fantastic
Bridget Jones’s Baby
Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar
Children
The Rehearsal
Sully
Films are rated out of 5:
(abysmal) to (amazing)
Inferno
the line under heavy shelling. Two days
later, four men. When hit by a grenade,
he ordered his stretcher-bearers to tend
another soldier first. Again and again, Doss
ran forward into the hellfire without hesita-
tion. For gallantry and unadorned heroism,
Doss received the US Medal of Honour.
Such a story is ripe for cinema. Yet some-
how Mel Gibson, back from a decade spent
in exile for those notorious anti-Semitic
outbursts, manages to completely foul up
Doss’ legacy. Gibson’s act of atonement is
disfigured by overflowing doses of religious
zealotry rather than saluting a genuine
hero with honest humility.
As with all fanatics, Gibson must render
everything unto the Almighty. Nothing
happens in Hacksaw Ridge without inter-
vention from above. Doss’ youth, with its
puritanical awkwardness, takes place in
church, at home with the Ten Command-
ments hung on the wall, or at a hospital
with nun-like nurses. The central dilemma
of the film – whether Doss will be allowed
to serve without carrying a weapon
- functions as a theological debate. Even
the eventual victory on Okinawa (against
hara-kiri-committing Japanese heathens)
is insinuated as God-given.
As if it wasn’t quite clear, the film’s
closing image is of Doss on a stretcher
hung from a zip wire. Arms spread wide,
filmed from below, he is levitated Jesus-
like into a golden heaven.
Catechistic crises aside, Hacksaw Ridge
still runs into outright disaster. Andrew
Garfield, with slinky-like neck and jutting
lower-jaw, plays Doss as a more gormless
Forrest Gump. He even says “Momma”
like Tom Hanks did, and you half-expect
him to address the similarities between
existence and packaged confectionery.
The only thing Gibson could ever do
without sectarian inflection was scenes of
depraved war, and Hacksaw Ridge has its
share of Legs á la Linguine and Offal Salad
served with genuine panache. But thrilling
mayhem alone cannot redeem the film, or
its director. It just won’t do.
IN CINEMAS NOVEMBER 3
Hell or High Water: a
stylish update of the
Bonnie and Clyde motif.