Film review

  • Blitz

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Steve McQueen (2024)

    The third Steve McQueen film chosen to open the London Film Festival, Blitz contrives to be even worse than its red-carpet predecessors, Widows (2018) and Mangrove (2020).  This is by no means the first dramatisation of London life during World War II or even the first with the title Blitz (Lionel Bart’s 1962 stage musical had the added exclamation mark).  McQueen’s effort, which he also wrote, may be the first WW2 film, though, to give screen time to people of colour in early 1940s London.  The material isn’t autobiographical or the story of McQueen’s Grenadian parents, who were part of the Windrush Generation (he was born in 1969); but that hardly explains why Blitz feels so secondhand.  This is the work of someone who has seen plenty of other British films about wartime London – it’s a whistle-stop tour of genre clichés.  McQueen doesn’t subvert those clichés or show them in a new light through the prism of non-white experience.  He just depends on them.

    What’s more distinctive about Blitz, set in 1940, is the technology that a big-budget movie can now bring to bear on the subject.  The film opens with a bang all right – an aerial bombing.  Perhaps McQueen means us to feel what it was actually like to be on the receiving end of one:  the sequence is ear-splittingly loud though regular filmgoers will have heard worse.  McQueen hasn’t introduced any characters at this point so the bodies destroyed in the air-raid pyrotechnics don’t mean much:  they’re CGI components.  The camera eventually goes inside a terraced house in Stepney to reveal a piano and an elderly man playing it (Paul Weller).  But it’s not until McQueen moves upstairs, to a woman and a boy in a bedroom, that Blitz is jolted to life by real people – or that’s how they seem at first.  The woman is white; the boy is mixed race.  She is Rita (Saoirse Ronan); he is her nine-year-old son, George (Elliott Heffernan), who’ll be Blitz’s protagonist.  When we first see him and his mother, they’re goofing around together on his bed.  Their silly, funny game is interrupted by an air-raid siren.  It’s quickly downstairs and downhill from there.

    Rita, George and Gerald (the piano man, who’s Rita’s father) head with hordes of others for Stepney Green tube station.  An official at the locked entrance insists the place can’t be used as an air-raid shelter; another man in uniform angrily insists that it must be; the crowd rushes through.  George is carrying the family cat in its basket.  As soon as they’re on the underground platform, he opens the basket – I wanted to call out, ‘Don’t be so daft – the cat will run away!’  I admit to an unusual order of priorities when it comes to feline vs human safety but Steve McQueen’s reason for having George open the basket is pretty dubious, too:  it’s so that George, by telling Olly the cat not to be scared, can deliver a bless-his-little-heart moment.  (Olly stays put although he nearly disappears from the film.)  When the family gets back home, Gerald tells Rita they can’t go on like this and she must arrange for her son to be evacuated.  She’s soon seeing him off at a railway station.  George is so furiously reluctant to go that he refuses even to look at his mother as she bangs desperately on the train window – until a railway worker drags her, weeping hysterically, away.

    When George asks her why she can’t come with him, Rita explains that evacuation is an ‘adventure’ for children only.  For a short while, an adventure is what it looks to be.  Two other boys in the same carriage bait George on the train journey but he stands up for himself, then opens the carriage door, flings his small suitcase out and jumps after it.  Case in hand, he starts to make his way back on foot along the rail track.  An approaching train conveniently slows down; George, after removing the sandwich that Rita gave him for the journey, discards his case and hoists himself into the goods van.  There he meets other young evacuees turned escapees; they have great fun on the journey back to London, climbing onto the train roof and so on.  Back in the East End, McQueen introduces other grown-ups in the story:  firefighter Jack (Harris Dickinson), who’s clearly keen on Rita but too shy to say; Tilda (Hayley Squires) and Agnes (Sally Messham), Rita’s pals at the munitions factory where she works.  The women’s supervisor is ineffectually bossy Clive (Joshua McGuire).  The factory gets a visit from a roving radio show that gives talented workers the chance to sing:  Rita is the selected soloist.  The moment she ends her song, another worker dashes to the microphone to make an on-air demand for more underground stations to be available as air-raid shelters:  the plummy BBC voice of the radio show’s host (Alex Jennings) develops a decidedly sharper edge.

    George is hardly back in London before he gets separated from the other kids, and has to try and make his own way home.  Wandering unsurely around Piccadilly Circus, he’s spotted by a kindly ARP warden, who introduces himself as Iffy.  That makes George laugh but Ife (Benjamin Clementine) explains that his name, in the Yoruba language of his native Nigeria, means ‘love’.  George accompanies him on his warden rounds as night falls.  Well-named Ife says he’ll find somewhere for George to sleep and sings him a little song that goes ‘Alleluia … alleluia … alleluia … alleluia’.  A well-mannered air-raid siren waits for the solo to end before sounding.  Ife takes George to a shelter run by a socialist group.  A couple there are nasty to a Sikh man so Ife makes a speech, informing all concerned that they’re equal.  Ife bids George goodnight, telling him he has more rounds to do but that he’ll be back in the morning.  Spoken on screen, those words are a time-honoured kiss of death.  Ife is killed in that night’s air raid.

    Ife isn’t Blitz‘s only non-white adult without flaw; in fact there’s just one, partial exception to the rule.  Next day, as George stares longingly at pastries in a baker’s shop window, the baker shoos him away and makes a racist remark to one of his customers – a bad choice since she’s his only customer of colour.   This is Doris (Erin Kellyman), who calls the baker out and gives him the finger.  Outside, she strikes up a conversation with George, promising him a sandwich in exchange for his name.  Doris isn’t another friend in need, however:  she quickly turns into McQueen’s version of Nancy, taking George to a den of thieves run by Albert (Stephen Graham), a Bill Sikes with evident mental health issues, and Beryl (Kathy Burke), who’s not exactly Fagin but you get the general idea.  Even though this is another element of McQueen’s original screenplay indebted to someone else’s originality, the scenes involving these miscreants are among the film’s best because the gang’s criminal speciality – robbing the dead bodies of bomb victims – is unusual in a wartime London picture.  It’s true that, in order to supply bejewelled corpses, McQueen stages a largely irrelevant set piece:  a sequence in a swanky club, complete with floor show, that’s reduced to rubble in an air raid.  Even so, the follow-up sequence, in which Beryl and Albert nastily imitate the posh accents of deceased diners as they relieve them of their watches and necklaces, has macabre verve – thanks to McQueen’s images, as well as to Stephen Graham and Kathy Burke.

    For the most part, though, Blitz presents an overwhelmingly traditional portrait of wartime East Enders.  The film’s attitude towards local whites is hardly less benign than it is to the few people of colour in their midst – and a much more serious defect.  Hearts of gold and spunk virtually eclipse racism.  The white bigots are the few rotten apples in the barrel.  They arrive in the film then vanish from it within a matter of seconds.  This relieves McQueen of the specific problem of a significant character who’s also a racist, as well as the larger challenge of acknowledging that the same white person in this kind of wartime community might well have shown both admirable fortitude and virulent racial prejudice.  There’s a flashback to the incident with white thugs that sees George’s father (CJ Beckford) dragged away by the police (never to be seen again).  In the local pub, Jack’s fireman colleague makes a racist remark that Rita overhears; when she storms out, thoroughly decent Jack tells the other fireman not to say such silly things.  Rita is a white single mother with a mixed-race child.  There’s no suggestion that either her lack of husband or her son’s ethnicity has ever caused tension in her home or workplace relationships.  (You wonder what a man of her father’s generation feels about it:  does McQueen think he has dealt with this by having Gerald lead a family singalong to Fats Waller’s ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’?)   It’s astonishing to see the maker of 12 Years a Slave (2013) and the Small Axe series indulge in such sentimental evasion.

    Parts of Blitz just don’t make sense.  When Rita learns from representatives of the child evacuation services, who visit the munitions factory, that her son has disappeared she’s angry rather than shocked or incredulous.  When she gets home and can’t sit still for worry, she says she’s going out to look for George.  You might expect her father to say something like, ‘I know you’re upset but think about it:  where are you going to look?’  Not a bit of it:  Gerald says, ‘I’ll come with you’ (his daughter tells him to stay at home so there’s someone in if George turns up there).  It remains unclear where Rita does go looking.  After George has escaped the corpse-robbers (which he does very easily), he ends up spending the night in another tube station – London Bridge this time.  A German bomb destroys a water main and the station is flooded (an event presumably inspired by the flood at Balham underground station in 1940 – as featured in Atonement (2007), which McQueen has also no doubt seen).  George gets out, contacts the emergency services and wakes up next morning in a comfy bed in a terraced house.  A middle-aged woman (Heather Craney) brings him a cup of tea and tells him what a hero he is:  if it hadn’t been for George, she says, many more would have died in the station flood.  This woman is so emphatically nice that you know there’s something fishy about her.  Sure enough, as George is getting dressed, he hears her open the front door to two policemen:  she tells them – her tone now sinister – that she’ll bring George to the station shortly.  Why?  Is it something to do with his heroism or are the police suddenly interested in a missing evacuee (in which case how has George been identified)?  None of this matters to Steve McQueen.  He simply wants a pretext for George to scarper from the woman’s house and run through Stepney streets back to his own home.

    The plotting is so bad you start to believe anything is possible.  A couple of times, I thought:  surely it can’t be … and it wasn’t – but given some of the other ridiculous things that happen in Blitz, you then end up wondering why not.  The first instance was when George met Ife, and I wondered briefly if this was his long-lost father.  The second instance was odder.  George, alone among the sleepers on the London Bridge platform, wakes up and starts walking along the track.  Entering a tunnel, he hears a woman singing.  Could it be his mother?  When he emerges from the tunnel, he can see she’s wearing a red coat, just like Rita’s.  Once Ife materialises and says hello to George, however, you know this a dream – so it’s rather puzzling that the singer isn’t Rita but just another sweet-voiced woman in a red coat.  The film’s ending confirms that what really happens in Blitz is as hard to swallow as what is imagined.  The street where George lives has been destroyed in an air raid.  We see a policeman carrying Olly the cat but George ignores them.  He speaks unavailingly to his granddad, who lies dead in the rubble of his house, then sees his mother, who runs to embrace her son.  She promises George she’ll never send him away again.  Does McQueen think the evacuation of children from London (evacuation ‘away from London’, as an ill-written opening legend has it) was a bad thing?

    Saoirse Ronan’s authority as an actress is a bit of a problem on this occasion.  Her role is so thinly written that Ronan, for all her intelligence and skill, seems just too big for it – and too classy.  She wears Jacqueline Durran’s outfits with aplomb and looks effortlessly well groomed:  you never believe in Rita as a badly-off woman doing her best to look her best.  Elliot Heffernan does all that’s asked of him; it’s what that often consists of that’s the problem.  Heffernan did, though, provoke my only laugh of pleasure throughout Blitz, when Doris makes the offer of a sandwich and George doesn’t miss a beat before specifying a sausage sandwich.  As Gerald, Paul Weller, making his feature-film acting debut at the age of sixty-six, is OK but there’s a grating sense that McQueen is using him in a semi-symbolic way, vaguely to suggest pop music’s intrinsic egalitarianism.  Harris Dickinson, although he has very little to do, still manages to give Jack some human reality (the pitch of his voice, as well as his Cockney accent, is spot on).  Hayley Squires, despite being at the centre of the nearly obligatory British wartime-movie routine of painting stocking seams onto her legs, is bracingly natural and animated.

    As the casting of Paul Weller implies, McQueen is out to make some social and political statements here and, when he does, does so in ways that ring anachronistically false.  George initially tells Ife that he doesn’t think of himself as Black; after Ife reprimands the racist couple in the overnight shelter, George changes his mind and tells Ife as much.  Mickey Davies, the man who seems to be in charge of the centre, is proudly Jewish as well as socialist and played by Leigh Gill, who’s a dwarf:  when Mickey delivers a speech, its rapturous reception in the shelter sounds like approbation of all three of those things.  Yet McQueen so pussyfoots on the racial realities of the time that his greatest hostility seems to be towards bureaucrats – from the jobsworth at Stepney Green tube station to the two evacuation service reps who deliver the bad news about George to his mother.  In any case, Blitz is repeatedly swamped by the director’s taste for spectacular bomb(l)ast (the narrative ends as it began).  Hans Zimmer’s pompous, meaningless score is a fitting accompaniment to this.  Blitz was the first of nine films I’m due to see at this year’s London Film Festival.  Here’s hoping the only way is up.

    10 October 2024

  • The Outrun

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Nora Fingscheidt (2024)

    The Outrun is based on a 2016 book of the same name by the Scottish author and journalist Amy Liptrot.  The book isn’t a work of fiction:  it has been described as a travelogue and a ‘recovery memoir’; it won the Wainwright Prize, awarded to the year’s ‘best work of general outdoors, nature and UK-based travel writing’; and the PEN/Ackerley Prize, awarded annually to ‘an autobiography of literary excellence … by an author of British nationality’.  Amy Liptrot, who grew up on a farm in Orkney, lived and worked in London after graduating from the University of Edinburgh.  During her ten years in England, she became an alcoholic and a drug user.  She returned to Orkney to rehabilitate.  Her book may have been more than a description of the recovery process.  The timeframe involved – Liptrot stopped drinking in 2011 – implies that the very process of writing The Outrun was integral to the recovery.  If that’s so, Nora Fingscheidt’s dramatisation of the material is bound to be essentially different from its source.  Liptrot shares the screenplay credit (with Fingscheidt).  Her screen alter ego Rona, played by Saoirse Ronan, occasionally draws and jots down notes.  Yet the film, good as it is, seems to be happening at one remove from its inspiration – and becomes more conventional as a result.

    It takes time to adjust to Fingscheidt’s fragmented narrative, as The Outrun moves back and forth between Orkney landscapes and London clubs and bedrooms, with flashbacks to the protagonist’s childhood and imaginings of the natural world, and, at one point, an animated sequence.  The splintered structure may well be intentional – a way of suggesting the unmoored existence Rona is leading – but it makes her story frustrating as well as unsettling to watch for the first half hour or so.  At the start, Rona’s voiceover explains the myth of the selkie: a seal that comes surreptitiously ashore and removes her seal-skin to reveal a beautiful human form – if seen by any human eye she can no longer return to her true home of the sea.  This is the first of many voiceover references to Orcadian fauna, flora and folklore.  Attempts to emulate the strongly visual words on the soundtrack with what appears on the screen don’t always work.  Rona’s remark that she often thinks of areas of Orkney mapped onto areas of equivalent size in London introduces a montage of juxtaposed images – an empty field vs a crowded street, and so on – and the effect is a bit banal.  But plenty of Fingscheidt’s image-making is imaginative, DP Yunus Roy Imer’s lighting is ingenious, and Saoirse Ronan’s portrait of Rona gives The Outrun an increasingly compelling focus.

    Ronan spoils us:  she’s always good.  Still only thirty, she has already run up an amazing sequence of brilliant performances – from Atonement (2007), through Brooklyn (2015) and Lady Bird (2017), to Little Women (2019) – in all of which she harnessed dramatic power and humour.  (Her flair for comedy shone through even in a weak film like See How They Run (2022).)  Rona in The Outrun is a worthy addition to Ronan’s gallery of memorable characters.  Everything she does – whether Rona is paralytic or drinking in the natural beauty of Orkney – feels true.  Even when Rona is despondent, as she often is, Ronan is still vivid.  She gets fine support from Stephen Dillane, who plays her bipolar father, and Saskia Reeves, as Rona’s evangelical-Christian mother.  (The parents still both live on the family farm but separately, he alone in a caravan some distance from the farmhouse.)   Dillane was a particular letdown in the largely disappointing second series of Sherwood on television recently so it’s good to see him back on form here.  In her unobtrusive way, Reeves is as reliably excellent as Ronan.  In the London scenes, the younger actors, including Paapa Essiedu as Rona’s boyfriend, don’t have the same opportunities to register but Nabil Elouahabi, though he has only a single scene, comes through.

    After sessions in a my-name-is-and-I’m-an-alcoholic group in London, Rona continues rehab at her parents’ home and then, when her father’s depressed state causes her to fall off the wagon, living alone on the small Orkney island of Papa Westray.  The actor playing the middle-aged man who runs the village store there is (as far as I can tell) uncredited on IMDb – a pity because he’s first-rate in what is a small but crucial role.  When he clocks Rona as a recovering alcoholic, he asks how long she has been sober.  (Text on the screen every now and then supplies her current total of consecutive days without a drink.)  When she returns the question, the man’s answer is 12 years, 4 months, 29 days.  He says taking it one day at a time is the only way.  ‘But does it get easier?’ asks Rona.  ‘Yes’, he replies, ‘but never easy – just less hard’.  The Outrun is not only well acted but well written, too.  The title, by the way, is intriguing.  According to Wiktionary, ‘outrun’, as a noun, can mean (in Scotland) a ‘piece of outlying grazing land on an arable farm’; it’s also a term in ski jumping – the area ‘past the landing point, where the skier can slow down’.  Perhaps Amy Liptrot had both, or something else, in mind.

    For the reasons suggested at the start of this note, Nora Fingscheidt’s film feels constrained most of the time.  It struggles to break free of being a type of screen story – the story of someone whose big-city life is a disastrous mess returning to, and being restored by, their native heath and culture.  The Outrun isn’t merely formulaic, though.  We can see that her much-loved father’s condition has always been a saddening anxiety to Rona.  She says at one stage that she ‘can’t be happy sober’ and it’s one of the film’s strengths that it resists the temptation to oversimplify her recovery.  At the end you don’t think ‘Oh, that’s nice, she’s sober and her life’s happy now’.  You do see that she feels better about herself and has a renewed sense of purpose.  She decides to resume her research degree studies in London (focusing on seaweed biology, in which she has become passionately interested).  You also see that Rona, drink-free, can experience moments of happiness.  Nora Fingscheidt illustrates these in two very different examples that combine to deliver a successful ending – in which the film comes closest to independent creative life.

    As that selkie prologue immediately implied, Rona is herself something of a marine creature.  She swims in the sea more than once.  In the film’s climax, she stands on the shore enthralled, conducting a kind of ecstatic sea symphony.  The contrast to this enjoyably OTT bit comes in the film’s last scene.  While on Orkney, she has been doing part-time work for the RSPB.  This chiefly involves listening out for the distinctive call of the corncrake, an endangered species on the islands, and recording when and where exactly she hears the bird.  When her father asks how the job’s going, Rona admits she hasn’t heard a single corncrake – ‘so not great’.  It stays that way until she’s walking down the road at the end, about to leave Papa Westray.  A sound stops her in her tracks.  She listens, hears the sound again then, as a bonus, sees the bird briefly at the side of the road.  She laughs and so did I.

    3 October 2024

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