THROW DOWN
Desire courses through Céline Sciamma’s gorgeous Portrait Of A Lady On Fire in warm, constant waves. This period piece feels vivid and timeless, a contemplation of forbidden romance and silent communication made urgent through stares and brush strokes. Adèle Haenel captivates as Héloïse, a young woman promised to a Milanese suitor who must have her portrait painted for him. And Noémie Merlant is devastating as artist Marianne, the dynamic between painter and subject shifting as the women dance around devotion and find themselves hopelessly drawn to each other. Sciamma frames love in its haptic details: the smell of another’s skin; the softness of their lips; the burning heat of arousal. Men speak maybe three times in the film — making this feel like a sanctuary for femininity, a lesbian utopia, an enormous exhale.
A moving and surprisingly earnest work (and tribute to Akira Kurosawa’s debut film, Sanshiro Sugata) from Johnnie To, Throw Down — which follows down-on-his-luck former judo champion Sze-to Bo (Louis Koo) on a path to some kind of redemption — feels like a character study wrapped in the guise of a genre flick. Visually, the film is defined by bold colours and heavy shadows, indicative of a more straightforward thriller, but To complicates it by wringing sincere emotion from often surreal circumstance. Though the title suggests otherwise, Throw Down isn’t as heavy on action as one might expect, its largest setpiece playing out silently in the background of a performance in a neon-lit jazz club. It isn’t so much about the thrill of competition as the self-improvement that comes from that ambition. Even with its farcical comedy and numerous judo montages, it might be To’s most personal, heartfelt work, as well as his prettiest.
“Best” is such a subjective word. Critics had their claws out for Cats from the word meow, perhaps because the prestigious Christmas release window-framed it as an Oscar hopeful, as opposed to the camp audience-participation classic it so clearly deserves to become. Yet Cats never fails to entertain, albeit for all the wrong reasons. Atonal performances, nightmarish musical sequences and a mind-blowing lack of self-awareness equals a perfect storm of awfulness that doubles as a genuinely hysterical makeshift comedy. It’s the true embodiment of a cult film: Cats sways with a manic, hypnotic energy, feels intoxicating and intangible, and prolonged exposure to it is likely to push you to the very edges of your sanity. You will laugh, you will cringe, but most of all, you will wonder aloud to anyone who’ll listen: how in the name of ever-loving fuck did this get made?