Film of the Week: Better Man

 

Early on in Better Man, Michael Gracey's Robbie Williams biopic starring a CGI ape (not a monkey, as the marketing and memes claimed), a young Robbie Williams (played by the man himself) listens to his father (Steve Pemberton) discuss celebrity and what it takes to make it. "You either have "it"," explains the older Williams, a deadbeat wannabe comedian as he ruffles the young ape's hair, "-or you're nobody." While a crucial moment in the psyche of Williams, a normal biopic would've treated this moment as the obstacle for the hero to overcome, showing everyone that he's not a nobody, but Better Man makes this Williams's drive, his defining belief that (for better or worse) steers his entire career. Better Man is a story of someone desperately chasing the spotlight, doing whatever it takes to stay in it even as it completely eats him alive. Does Williams have "it", the inherent talent to succeed, or is he just desperate enough, just charming enough, to fake it and force his way there? The film largely leaves this up to you, but even when one strips away the fascinating quandary at the heart of the story, it is an undeniably entertaining experience. 

Better Man is fascinating in that it's a biopic that largely does away with the "inspirational great man rises from nothing" narrative that makes up so much of the genre. Williams gets lucky again and again, impressing the right person at the right time, and he's often so desperate to stay in the spotlight that he's willing to do effectively anything. "Robbie" is the character, a mask that "Robert Williams" can hide behind in his pursuit of fame and fortune. It becomes increasingly clear that Robbie is both a stage persona and a means for Robert to bury his pain, demeaning himself for a cheap audience laugh. Be it turning a pratfall on stage into a comedic spot as a child or jokingly stealing a melon to hide the suicidal rage and grief at being fired from Take That, the boy band where he got his start, "Robbie" is Williams refusing to be genuine, a chance to turn his pain into a laugh and keep up the persona of the arrogant hotshot pretty boy. It even reflects in his art, as he chooses to make throwaway, impersonal pop in hopes of drawing the largest audience, ignoring that it's only when he gets genuine that he's truly able to live up to his own potential. 

It's often said that musical numbers are characters singing to express the feelings that words simply could not. In Better Man, there's a similar sentiment, each song representing the moments where the "Robbie" persona melts away and he speaks how he really feels. From the jubilation of success in "Rock DJ" to the soaring love and crashing heartbreak of "She's The One", each track is a narrative unto itself, depicting the highs and lows of stardom. They're also incredibly well-directed, Gracey masterfully and creatively makes each song feel like witnessing a dream, larger than life and bursting with color and creativity. "Rock DJ" is a creative oner, cleverly playing into Take That's destructive tendencies through the people hurt and stolen from over the course of the ostensibly celebratory song, while "Let Me Entertain You" is an honest to god battle sequence, a literal slaying of demons that becomes so overwhelming and thunderous that Williams's final victory feels less like a triumph and more like just barely regaining your breath. 

Of course, we have to talk about the singing chimpanzee in the room. "All my life," explains Williams at the start of the film. "I've always felt less evolved than other people." The ape is, effectively, a literal representation of that inferiority, that crushing desire to be liked that overwhelms all else. In Williams mind, he's nothing more than a singing monkey, a novelty act that people will get bored of if he doesn't do whatever it takes to keep their attention. The actual effects of the ape, painstakingly brought to life by WETA, are largely seamless, acting and moving alongside regular humans in a variety of environments without the effect ever being jarring. You never quite forget he's an ape, but the large, expressive face and matted fur makes Williams struggle that much more effecting. Of course, you can also see how excited the artists are to flex their creation, showcasing the ape from a child to a fully grown "man" in a variety of outfits inspired by the various looks of Williams careers. (Particular favorites are the skinless ape, an homage to Williams's inexplicably disturbing "Rock DJ" music video and an albino ape as representation of Williams bleaching hir hair.) 

Better Man is a fascinating biopic, one willing to let the star confront the numerous flaws and shortcomings with an earnest honesty, never sugarcoating their mistakes. It's also easily the best musical of the year, gorgeous and ambitious in it's design. I'll doubt we'll ever see another biopic like it, but, hey, let's not worry about that. Let's just sit back and enjoy the show. 

Film of the Week: 28 Days Later

 

For much of the beginning act of 28 Days Later, Danny Boyle's highly influential zombie film, we primarily follow Jim (Cillian Murphy), a bike courier who awakes from a coma to find himself in a seemingly abandoned London. It's a haunting sequence, watching Jim stumble through the empty streets, gathering food and money with no knowledge of the danger that could be behind any corner. It is, admittedly, undercut by the music (we'll talk on that in a bit) but it's a scene that immediately establishes exactly why 28 Days (not to be confused with the Sandra Bullock film) stood out so well from the glut of zombie media that overwhelmed everyone in the 2000s. Boyle directs with a resounding patience, letting tension rise naturally as we wait for somebody, anybody, to break Jim's solitude. It's moody, almost dreamlike in the unnerving quality of the empty streets, and a film a lot more willing to sit and let you sweat on things a little bit. 

Of course, the film never loses this momentum as other survivors enter the fray, and it settles into something a bit more familiar, a story of a group of unlikely people forced together in the face of horrific conditions. There's an easygoing chemistry between the group, comprised of Jim, fiery Selena (Naomi Harris), fatherly Frank (Brendon Gleeson, always a delight), and his daughter Hanna (Megan Burns), and the film becomes something of a road movie as the quartet make their way to an apparent safe haven. Boyle's patience is a virtue here, allowing us to sit with the characters and really feel for them, getting to know them without necessarily overexplaining who they are. In one particularly great sequence, doomed Mark (Noah Huntley) talks about losing his family to a zombie horde, giving a bit character genuine pathos that makes his (in hindsight) quick demise even more shocking and injects a sense of real tension to every interaction. We want these people make it, and the fact that the infected (not zombies!) could be lurking around every corner makes for incredible tension. 

Boyle, one of cinema's most creative and versatile directors, milks this tension for all it's worth, with standouts being the group attempting to fix a tire as a rabid horde pursues them through a tunnel and a genuinely striking shot of a soldier moving from a window to reveal an infected staring at them. Even the loss of Frank, a single drop of infected blood leaking into his eye, feels like a natural endpoint of a world so inherently dangerous, and a way to bring an end to the heartfelt middle act into something a lot more terse. 

There's some debate over the film's third act, whether Boyle's reverence for the Romero-esque "humanity are the true monsters" dragged it's effective pace to a halt or gave the film a more tangible antagonist. I find myself in the latter category, both out of a general fondness for seeing Christopher Eccleston in things and also because the film never loses the intensity that makes it so strong. From the moment we meet Major West (Christopher Eccleston) and his men, there is an immediate sense that something is wrong. Glances held too long, jokes with just an undercurrent of intimidation underneath them, all things that Boyle and writer Alex Garland use to establish that the safe haven. The classic morality play of "what do you do once the rules don't matter" come into play, as does the film's spectacularly violent, tense third act, a bloodbath that sees Jim become just as feral as the infected. It works well enough, and I'm even a fan of the film's shockingly upbeat ending, one that Boyle and Garland had to be dragged into making. 

If there's anything of the film I don't love, it's the score, maybe the epitome of early 2000s musical scores in that it's comprised largely of thudding guitar riffs. It's certainly not terrible, but in a film built so heavily off of long stretches of silence being shattered by surprise attacks or scares, it undercuts the tension. (Much like the ending, this was added because test audiences found the film too nerve-wracking without it. Sometimes test audiences don't know what they're talking about!) 

Minor quibbles aside, it's easy to see the influence on 28 Days on so many modern works, and after watching it, I can't really blame anyone inspired by it. It's a grungy, dreamlike thrill ride, a standout in the very strong career of one of our modern auteurs, and I'm certain that it's sequel will happily carry the torch. 

NOTE: The reviewer has not watched 28 Weeks Later.