Narniatonto
Joined Dec 2016
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Daniel Kaluuya delivers an appropriately rousing performance as the slain leader of the Chicago chapter of the Black Panther Party, whose fervent speeches give life to the civil rights movement. At the forefront, however, is William O'Neal. LaKeith Stanfield, too, elevates the material as the car thief turned criminal informant. Shaka King's film chronicles O'Neal's infiltration of the Black Panthers and subsequent betrayal of its electrifying leader.
One of the first things one notices is that the politics are markedly skewed. The character depictions here are shockingly (Shaka-ingly?) black-and-white. Hampton is presented with little nuance or shade; his only flaw is his trusting nature and unwavering devotion to the Black Panthers. This is his hamartia. The Panthers seek to achieve their goals through the use of force, but those means are justified again and again. The film suggests that the police is an inherently flawed and malicious institution that perpetuates systemic racism, but even the individual cops twirl their mustaches at every chance they get. (At one point, one catcalls a Black woman, hollering, "Hey, Aunt Jemima!") Instead of being a force in the background silently pulling the strings, J. Edgar Hoover appears as the embodiment of pure evil. The movie chooses to present the Panthers as Mary Sues, more or less, and maintains the reductive mentality that all police officers are vehement racists. But viewing the movie purely as a standard criminal informant movie, the beats are remarkably familiar.
In one sequence, a Panther questions O'Neal's identity, and forces the informant to hot-wire a car. The lack of self-awareness or subversion in the utilization of this trope proves especially laughable when one recalls 2016's Keanu's satirical take on it. In that movie, it works; it's played for comedy. King plays it completely straight, however, and the scene lacks any real tension. The outcome is nothing short of predictable, and demonstrates a reliance on the sociopolitical commentary to hold the real weight.
By having a public speaker at the center of your movie, you effectively have a mouthpiece to explain the themes to the audience. And that's all Hampton feels like: a device. O'Neal is nothing more than a device used to explore Hampton, who, in turn, is a device used to explore the ill-fated leader's ideologies. There's a complexity on display in the clip of the criminal informant featured at the end of the movie that is nowhere to be found in the actual narrative. The O'Neal character is integral when the characters are largely limited to depictions of saint Black Panthers and downright evil cops. Yet, he is underwritten. He never feels like a real person, let alone a multifaceted figure. Perhaps a protracted mini-series could properly develop these characters and make their struggles feel real, but the two-hour runtime simply doesn't cut it.
Hampton is precocious, but he is also incredibly naive. He urges his brethren to fully embrace and espouse communism. Capitalism is heavily flawed, but communism is as well (that social and economic freedom comes at the expense of social order; living conditions in China or Cuba, for example, are far from ideal). The movie dramatically undermines the naïveté of Hampton and O'Neal by casting actors in their thirties. What could be a complex portrait of this twenty-one-year-old virtuoso ends up as a matter-of-fact recreation of the events that unfolded during the time period devoid of any real depth or careful consideration.
Sean Bobbitt has made a name for himself working with Steve McQueen, but the cinematography here is a far cry from that seventeen-and-a-half-minute long shot in Hunger. The fact that this is King's second feature is made evident by the over-reliance on close-ups and lack of things to look at in every shot. The body language and nuances of the performances are imperceptible. The sophomoric use of close-ups creates another problem. In addition to the grandiose speeches and monologues that tell the viewer exactly what the characters are thinking and feeling at any given moment, the lack of space between the characters and camera forces the viscera. It's an easy tactic that reflects poorly on the director, but it puts the emotion right on the surface and disallows the audience from gaining anything more from looking deeper. The direction tells the viewer exactly what to think with a guiding hand.
In recent years, Hollywood has received an influx of mere recreations of historical events lacking any real personal insight. Judas is no exception. The movie presents Fred Hampton's ideologies as its own themes, and treats both Hampton and O'Neal with a shocking lack of deference by painting them as mere devices to advance the plot and verbalize the themes. Other reviews have praised it for serving as a history lesson on an event schools seldom and not very thoroughly delve into, but Judas hardly transcends simple edutainment.
One of the first things one notices is that the politics are markedly skewed. The character depictions here are shockingly (Shaka-ingly?) black-and-white. Hampton is presented with little nuance or shade; his only flaw is his trusting nature and unwavering devotion to the Black Panthers. This is his hamartia. The Panthers seek to achieve their goals through the use of force, but those means are justified again and again. The film suggests that the police is an inherently flawed and malicious institution that perpetuates systemic racism, but even the individual cops twirl their mustaches at every chance they get. (At one point, one catcalls a Black woman, hollering, "Hey, Aunt Jemima!") Instead of being a force in the background silently pulling the strings, J. Edgar Hoover appears as the embodiment of pure evil. The movie chooses to present the Panthers as Mary Sues, more or less, and maintains the reductive mentality that all police officers are vehement racists. But viewing the movie purely as a standard criminal informant movie, the beats are remarkably familiar.
In one sequence, a Panther questions O'Neal's identity, and forces the informant to hot-wire a car. The lack of self-awareness or subversion in the utilization of this trope proves especially laughable when one recalls 2016's Keanu's satirical take on it. In that movie, it works; it's played for comedy. King plays it completely straight, however, and the scene lacks any real tension. The outcome is nothing short of predictable, and demonstrates a reliance on the sociopolitical commentary to hold the real weight.
By having a public speaker at the center of your movie, you effectively have a mouthpiece to explain the themes to the audience. And that's all Hampton feels like: a device. O'Neal is nothing more than a device used to explore Hampton, who, in turn, is a device used to explore the ill-fated leader's ideologies. There's a complexity on display in the clip of the criminal informant featured at the end of the movie that is nowhere to be found in the actual narrative. The O'Neal character is integral when the characters are largely limited to depictions of saint Black Panthers and downright evil cops. Yet, he is underwritten. He never feels like a real person, let alone a multifaceted figure. Perhaps a protracted mini-series could properly develop these characters and make their struggles feel real, but the two-hour runtime simply doesn't cut it.
Hampton is precocious, but he is also incredibly naive. He urges his brethren to fully embrace and espouse communism. Capitalism is heavily flawed, but communism is as well (that social and economic freedom comes at the expense of social order; living conditions in China or Cuba, for example, are far from ideal). The movie dramatically undermines the naïveté of Hampton and O'Neal by casting actors in their thirties. What could be a complex portrait of this twenty-one-year-old virtuoso ends up as a matter-of-fact recreation of the events that unfolded during the time period devoid of any real depth or careful consideration.
Sean Bobbitt has made a name for himself working with Steve McQueen, but the cinematography here is a far cry from that seventeen-and-a-half-minute long shot in Hunger. The fact that this is King's second feature is made evident by the over-reliance on close-ups and lack of things to look at in every shot. The body language and nuances of the performances are imperceptible. The sophomoric use of close-ups creates another problem. In addition to the grandiose speeches and monologues that tell the viewer exactly what the characters are thinking and feeling at any given moment, the lack of space between the characters and camera forces the viscera. It's an easy tactic that reflects poorly on the director, but it puts the emotion right on the surface and disallows the audience from gaining anything more from looking deeper. The direction tells the viewer exactly what to think with a guiding hand.
In recent years, Hollywood has received an influx of mere recreations of historical events lacking any real personal insight. Judas is no exception. The movie presents Fred Hampton's ideologies as its own themes, and treats both Hampton and O'Neal with a shocking lack of deference by painting them as mere devices to advance the plot and verbalize the themes. Other reviews have praised it for serving as a history lesson on an event schools seldom and not very thoroughly delve into, but Judas hardly transcends simple edutainment.
Peppermint wisely starts in the action, but the confined space in which the opening fight scene takes place coupled with the lack of buildup are emblematic of the film's many issues. Similar to a John Wick movie, it cares little about developing the characters; unlike that series, however, it fails to provide elaborate action set pieces or meticulously choreographed and filmed action sequences. Director Pierre Morel's earlier effort, Taken, was a hit not for its action, but for an engaging premise and Liam Neeson's cold delivery of threats to the baddies. Here, we have a maternal figure rehashing a decades-old formula.
Peppermint follows Riley North, a mild-mannered and caring mother, as she seeks revenge on the men responsible for the deaths of her husband and young daughter. The antagonistic forces are irredeemable Mexican gangsters who comically adopt sinister, Grinch-like grins when Riley is mocked in the courtroom and deprived of justice. She soon steals a large sum of money from the bank in which she works as well as an arsenal of assault rifles and becomes a globetrotting killer. After ritualistically slaying the three men directly responsible for her suffering, she sets her sights on Diego Garcia - the drug lord who ordered the hit - and an over-the-top cartoon character without any shade or nuance.
Whether intentional or subliminal, the condemnation of the Hispanic characters and romanticization of the gun-toting lead character appeal to the gun culture and xenophobia deeply ingrained in the United States. The gang's mercilessness is matched only by their stupidity. They are continually outsmarted and outgunned by a single individual, who - contrary to John Wick - lacks any formal training. In a particularly baffling scene, Riley invades a piñata store complete with Latin music playing perpetually. She gets injured, but there's no deeper conflict for her to resolve. Her skin may not be impenetrable, but her mind is restricted to unbridled thoughts of revenge. Any potential commentary on vigilantism is drowned out by pervading conservative values.
Many will inevitably draw comparisons to another film that glorifies the vigilante at the center - especially with the Eli Roth remake coming out the same year - and they're not unjustified. 1974's Death Wish follows the same basic premise, but after years of milking the franchise, the formula feels fatigued. Despite the proliferating body count, Peppermint is an excruciating bore. The film is wholly devoid of stakes or compelling characters. Riley's motivations are as simple as seeking justice, and Diego's are as simple as restoring order to his drug business. There's no humanity.
The only attempt to humanize the villain is the blink-and-you-miss-it appearance of his daughter, which quickly reveals itself to be yet another ploy to delay his fate and thus pad the runtime. She is not established previously, nor is she utilized at any point later in the film. Peppermint is achingly transparent.
Morel's latest may not be the greatest display of ineptitude, but the lack of ambition and passion from all involved coalesce in a subpar action movie. While one may expect a revenge flick released in 2018 to comment on the futility of vigilantism, blur the line between hero and villain as the protagonist's actions become increasingly macabre, or delve into the cyclical nature of violence, Peppermint is concerned only with pandering to America's unrivaled affinity for guns and aversion to immigrants.
Peppermint follows Riley North, a mild-mannered and caring mother, as she seeks revenge on the men responsible for the deaths of her husband and young daughter. The antagonistic forces are irredeemable Mexican gangsters who comically adopt sinister, Grinch-like grins when Riley is mocked in the courtroom and deprived of justice. She soon steals a large sum of money from the bank in which she works as well as an arsenal of assault rifles and becomes a globetrotting killer. After ritualistically slaying the three men directly responsible for her suffering, she sets her sights on Diego Garcia - the drug lord who ordered the hit - and an over-the-top cartoon character without any shade or nuance.
Whether intentional or subliminal, the condemnation of the Hispanic characters and romanticization of the gun-toting lead character appeal to the gun culture and xenophobia deeply ingrained in the United States. The gang's mercilessness is matched only by their stupidity. They are continually outsmarted and outgunned by a single individual, who - contrary to John Wick - lacks any formal training. In a particularly baffling scene, Riley invades a piñata store complete with Latin music playing perpetually. She gets injured, but there's no deeper conflict for her to resolve. Her skin may not be impenetrable, but her mind is restricted to unbridled thoughts of revenge. Any potential commentary on vigilantism is drowned out by pervading conservative values.
Many will inevitably draw comparisons to another film that glorifies the vigilante at the center - especially with the Eli Roth remake coming out the same year - and they're not unjustified. 1974's Death Wish follows the same basic premise, but after years of milking the franchise, the formula feels fatigued. Despite the proliferating body count, Peppermint is an excruciating bore. The film is wholly devoid of stakes or compelling characters. Riley's motivations are as simple as seeking justice, and Diego's are as simple as restoring order to his drug business. There's no humanity.
The only attempt to humanize the villain is the blink-and-you-miss-it appearance of his daughter, which quickly reveals itself to be yet another ploy to delay his fate and thus pad the runtime. She is not established previously, nor is she utilized at any point later in the film. Peppermint is achingly transparent.
Morel's latest may not be the greatest display of ineptitude, but the lack of ambition and passion from all involved coalesce in a subpar action movie. While one may expect a revenge flick released in 2018 to comment on the futility of vigilantism, blur the line between hero and villain as the protagonist's actions become increasingly macabre, or delve into the cyclical nature of violence, Peppermint is concerned only with pandering to America's unrivaled affinity for guns and aversion to immigrants.
