The autumn cinema schedules of 2015 were assailed by the double whammy of Spectre and The Force Awakens– at times making it hard to find a screen showing anything else.
Nostalgia for the good old days of mutually assured destruction? You’d have got long odds on such a thing on 9 November 1989, the day the Berlin Wall was breached. A quarter of a century on, the Americans and the Russians are entangled in a whole other theatre of war in which the idea of negotiating with the enemy is unthinkable. The Soviets may have been abominable commie bastards but, hey, our guys could still clink a glass with them. So Steven Spielberg is able to visit the Cold War in something like a spirit of levity.
Bridge of Spies is much more overtly an entertainment than Schindler’s List and Saving Private Ryan. It’s also an unapologetic defence of American exceptionalism, as embodied in Tom Hanks, an actor who has inherited Jimmy Stewart’s ability to project intelligence matched by integrity. He plays James B. Donovan, a wily insurance lawyer who once upon a time was a prosecutor at Nuremberg. When a Soviet spy called Rudolf Abel (Mark Rylance) is hunted down in Brooklyn, he must be given an American version of a show trial: one in which the wheels of justice are seen to turn, and the accused is given a proper defence. Step forward, Donovan, reluctantly anticipating opprobrium and trouble for his suburban nuclear family of three kids and delectable wife (Amy Ryan, pictured below).
The complication is the CIA and the legislature don’t want Abel to get off the hook. Donovan's instinct, over which he has no control, is to give them a working lesson in the meaning of the constitution (see clip overleaf). Even Abel warns Donovan to go carefully. His advocacy works up to a point. Abel is spared execution, Donovan pleading that he may be useful as a bargaining chip when America wants to retrieve one of her own. Sure enough, a pilot on a top-secret high-altitude mission over Soviet space is promptly shot down in his U2 spy plane and fails to inject himself with poison to avoid falling into enemy hands. Donovan is sent to Berlin as a private individual to negotiate an exchange. Donovan being Donovan, and Spielberg enjoying a tilt against the odds, he tries to get two for one: the pilot, plus an American student caught on the wrong side the day the wall was erected.
This spin down memory lane, a great deal of it more or less based on fact, is the brainchild of Matt Charman, promoted to nosebleed territory from writing scripts for British television about family zoos and police skulduggery. He shares his credit with Joel and Ethan Coen and between them they have cooked up an intensely gripping thriller. The Coens, you suspect, were responsible for tugging the geopolitical face-off towards gentle caricature. The senior KGB encountered on the front line in East Berlin are saturnine but robustly comic, while much fun is had twitting the frustrated pawns representing the DDR. The boot is on the other foot for Sebastian Koch, more spied upon than spying in The Lives of Others but here playing East German lawyer Wolfgang Vogel.
As for the look of the film, America is all polished wood and purring motors, while the spirit of Deighton and Le Carré is invoked in the grim greyness of Berlin on both sides (until we penetrate the Soviets’ plush embassy, that is). Spielberg does what only he can with a camera. He zooms shamelessly in to flag up psychological dilemma. For the moment the spy plane crashes, the clatter of plunging metal evokes that coach dangling over a cliff in Jurassic Park. The denouement is second only to ET for outright emotionalism. If the film has a flaw, it’s that the stories of the two captured Americans go for next to nothing, especially that of Francis Gary Powers, the pilot who was widely condemned for allowing himself to be captured.
The film’s headlining novelty is Mark Rylance, who plays Abel with a vaguely Scottish accent as a poker-faced innocent with quite as much time to think and stare as Thomas Cromwell. He even gets a catchphrase. “Would it help?” he asks when Donovan wonders why he doesn’t look worried (see clip overleaf). Like the early scene in which he extracts a secret message from a tiny contraption (pictured above), the performance is mesmerising in its pernickety attention to detail. His scenes with Hanks are the riveting heart of this compelling - if not always plausible - comic-book history lesson.
Bridge of Spies really is the spy game as just that: a game whose horrors Spielberg has thrillingly sanitised.
MARK RYLANCE’S BIGGEST HITS ON STAGE AND SCREEN
Bridge of Spies. Spielberg's warm-hearted Cold War thriller is lit up by Tom Hanks and Mark Rylance
Endgame. In Complicite's homage to Beckett, Rylance's Hamm is an animated, self-lacerating lout
Farinelli and the King. A witty and moving new play is a timely reminder of just why art matters
Jerusalem. Rylance is unforgettable as Johnny Rooster Byron in Jez Butterworth’s smash Royal Court hit
The BFG. Rylance lends moments of the sublime to standard issue Spielberg
La Bête. Rylance dazzles in astonishing opening monologue, but this callow play coasts on the performances
Nice Fish. Rylance is waiting for cod-ot in this absurdist West End trifle
Twelfth Night/Richard III. Rylance doubles up as Olivia and the hunchbacked king for Shakespeare's Globe
Wolf Hall. Rylance works rare marvels as Hilary Mantel's scheming Tudor fixer
PLUS ONE TURKEY
Much Ado About Nothing. Rylance's Old Vic staging of Shakespeare's romantic comedy with elderly leads gets lost in translation
TO THE RESCUE: TOM HANKS SAVES THE WORLD (AND SOME IFFY MOVIES)
A Hologram for the King. Tom Hanks is the reason to see Dave Eggers's sentimental Saudi comedy
Captain Phillips. Piracy drama prompts bravura all-action display from director Paul Greengrass and captain Hanks
Cloud Atlas. Star company assumes various guises as David Mitchell's time-travelling masterpiece is lovingly told in under three hours
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Oscar-nominated adaptation of Jonathan Safran Foer's novel is lacking in magic
Saving Mr Banks. Emma Thompson as PL Travers and Tom Hanks as Walt Disney track the journey of Mary Poppins from page to screen
Sully: Miracle On The Hudson. Eastwood and Hanks are the right men for an epic of understated heroism
Toy Story 3. To infinity and no further: Woody and the gang (sob) go on their final mission
PLUS ONE TURKEY
Inferno. In Dan Brown's dumbed-down Florence, Tom Hanks saves the world. But not the movie
To create this strikingly original portrait of the man some (though not Frank Sinatra) liked to call "the greatest movie actor of all time", writer/director Stevan Riley has plundered a remarkable trove of Brando's own audio recordings and used them to create a kind of self-narrating autobiography. The notion that we're hearing Brando telling his own story from some post-corporeal ether is reinforced by the device of opening the film with a computerised 3D talking head, based on a digital image of Brando's own head made in the 1980s.
The Bourne trilogy riffed on the idea of an undercover CIA operative who is so thoroughly brainwashed he no longer knows who he is. American Ultra mines that same scenario for laughs. Where Matt Damon looked the part, the weedy Jesse Eisenberg is very far from central casting. Indeed, nothing in his career so far has suggested that he could punch his way out of a paper bag.
That includes the film’s opening scenes, which position Mike as a geeky stoner working the till at a convenience store in the fictional Liman, West Virginia. His girlfriend Phoebe (Kristen Stewart) is the competent one who rescues the omelette from burning, owns quite a nice Subaru and fields his constant apologies. Then one night he gets mugged by two armed thugs. Without an idea how, he dispatches both in a trice and is soon banged up by the sheriff. More killers arrive and this time Mike needs a little longer to do them in.
Meanwhile at CIA headquarters a turf spat has broken out between Mike’s former handler Lasseter (Connie Britton, pictured) and her preppy younger boss Yates (Topher Grace), who has decided to flex his muscles by wiping out her sleeper agent, the only success of a programme to train up mental patients as government assassins.
The script by Max Landis has a twist or two along the way, including a nice reveal about Phoebe that gives Stewart more to do than look on admiringly as Eisenberg lays waste to all-comers. “You’re his girlfriend, his mom, his maid and now you’re his lawyer?” says the cop when she advises him under arrest. Maybe that’s not all she is.
The film crescendos into a festival of splatty, splurgy cartoon violence: director Nima Nourizadeh has been hard at study of action genre tropes. Gore has not been this glorified in a comedy since James Gunn’s Super, in which a loser cast himself as a horribly vengeful superhero.
Are the laughs good enough to keep pace with all the punctured flesh? More or less. The joke of Mike’s incomprehension holds up reasonably well (“Is that a lyric?” he asks when greeted by a bafflingly coded message from Lasseter). Before he has accepted his destiny as a ruthless killer, Mike frets neurotically that he may be a robot. The best laughs are at the expense of the CIA, though there’s nothing to match the sheer bliss of Robert de Niro outwitting the Agency in Midnight Run. Eisenberg and Stewart are likeable, and there are fun cameos for John Leguizamo as a paranoid drug dealer who thinks he’s black and Bill Pullman as a national security capo. The film seems all set to cue up a sequel, but instead compresses it into the closing minutes. By then, the joke has done its job and run its course.
Overleaf: 'Piss My Pants' – watch a clip from American Ultra
Oh Arnie. For two terms Arnold Schwarzenegger retooled himself as the Governator who could save California from debt, drought and Democrats. By the time his term ended, the Californian exchequer was reduced to rubble. A bit, in fact, like the Golden Gate bridge at the start of Terminator: Genisys. When the Terminator said he’d be back he wasn’t wrong. But this time he’s leading a project that’s only pretending to destroy California’s infrastructure.
Jurassic World opens on a close-up. The smooth creamy surface of an egg is shattered by a claw attacking it vexatiously from within. In no time at all a scaly little critter is peeping out at us. It took a mite longer for the latest in the Jurassic Park franchise to hatch. The last film was 14 years ago and this fourth instalment seems to have been on the development slate almost ever since. Now that it's here at last, what’s new?
Teeth. Who’d have them? This documentary about the state of the nation’s gnashers came along at a timely moment for your reviewer. Earlier in the week I suffered my first ever extraction. Didn’t feel a jot of pain, of course, but by Christ you know all about it when the dentist is fiddling about inside your mouth, attempting with a variety of utensils to pluck out the culprit.
Hollywood has never met a cliché it didn’t love; unfortunately, neither has Dylan Costello. His peek behind the curtain of Tinseltown’s Golden Age employs every stock type imaginable, from the boorish, chain-smoking manager to a pill-popping Marilyn-lite. It’s a play with admirable aims, but desperately in need of a good script doctor.
Ron Mann’s laid-back documentary about the career vicissitudes and family life of Robert Altman (1925-2006) takes its cue from the tone of the director’s films. It was Altman’s habit to observe his character’s crises, collapses, and deaths with the same evenness and lack of melodrama with which he observed their humdrum moments.
I hope someone by now has told Neil Patrick Harris how to pronounce David Oyelowo’s surname, but if anyone wants to see how not to host an Oscars, Harris’s stewardship of the 87th annual Academy Awards can provide that service in spades.