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JUSTIN TANNER REVIEWS BULL
BULL The ‘content warning’ website “Does The Dog Die?” offers crowdsourced spoilers that help people avoid triggering subject matter in movies, with over eighty categories ranging from ‘eating disorders,’ ‘sexual assault’ and ‘drug use’ to ‘eye mutilation,’ ‘soiled pants’ and ‘people being burned alive.’ Fun! Still, it’s a great comfort to know that before I decide to sit through “The Batman,” for instance, I can be prepared for all the ‘audio gore,’ ‘amputation’ and ‘copaganda’ (media efforts to flatter police officers and spare them from skeptical coverage) on the menu. And though no dogs die in the new British revenge flick “Bull,” nearly everyone else does, and in such unpleasant ways that it’s shocking even to contemplate.
Exactly how many shootings, stabbings, burnings, fractures, maimings, smotherings and lopped off limbs happen within its brief 88 minute running time? I honestly lost count. These days, of course, violence in film is as commonplace as decor, as wall-to-wall as the soundtrack. It hardly bears mentioning unless something truly extraordinary occurs. And “Bull” is nothing if not extraordinary. And not just because it’s easily the most violent film I’ve seen in years. Yes, the body count is stupendous and there are things done with a kitchen knife that induced genuine disgust. (I even closed my eyes and hit “mute” at one point when something particularly horrendous took place). So how is it that a movie this aggressively brutal can also be an example of such superlative film making? Assured direction helps. And Paul Andrew Williams (London to Brighton) has built a lean, mean revenge story that runs on adrenaline and gore. Great acting helps too, and every single performance in “Bull” is top-notch. Especially David Hayman’s cadaverous mob boss, Norm, and Neil Maskell’s vengeance-seeking underling, the titular Bull.
There are two stories being told here: the first, set in the present, shows us (in detail) a string of ferocious assassinations as Bull finds, questions and eliminates everyone involved in an undisclosed past event. The second story, told in flashback, parses out the details which lead up to (and include) that egregious event, delaying the final reveal until right before the end. And though we’ve suspected from the beginning that Bull is perhaps justified in his acts of cruelty upon the rest of the cast, it’s only when the betrayal is clarified in all its grim horror that Bull’s actions become understandable. Ultimately, however, it’s the unblinking brilliance of Neil Maskell’s performance and a last minute bit of narrative sleight-of-hand (a breathtaking little twist of the knife) that push this film above the usual daunting pleasures of a violent action flick and move it toward ‘classic’ territory. Bull is not for the squeamish. But if you like your entertainment served up with a healthy dose of gut-punching grit, it’s not to be missed.
ALL MY FRIENDS HATE ME A beautifully assembled exercise in prolonged anxiety, Andrew Gaynord’s feature debut, “All My Friends Hate Me,” is a curt and chilling satire about what happens when you hang onto friendships long past their sell-by date. The premise is simple: former bad boy Pete (a wide-eyed Tom Stourton) gets invited by his old college buddies for a drunken lost weekend in the country to celebrate his thirty-first birthday. A bit of a prick back in school, Pete has come a long way in the decade since graduation and is eager to show everyone that the ‘drunken reprobate’ he once was is now a ‘good guy’ who works with refugees. (One of the movies deft running gags is Pete’s annoying habit of dropping heartfelt refugee stories into casual conversation as often as possible.)
But upon arriving at the grand estate of rich pal, George (a charmingly subversive Joshua McGuire), no one is there to greet him. So he sits and waits, alone, his mood darkening, until the sun goes down. And this is just the first in a series of sleights, digs and rudenesses inflicted upon him by his old friends. Soon he is faced with organized gaslighting, humiliation and the threat of physical violence (all accompanied by polite smiles and dry chuckles in the tradition of class-conscious British comedies). Somewhat disingenuously presented as a horror movie, “All My Friends Hate Me” bears a fleeting similarity to other ‘get-the-guest’ stories like “Ready or Not,” “You’re Next,” or “Get Out,” but it is something more tenuous, weirder and harder to pin down. In a general way, it’s about knowing who your friends are. And coming to terms with the thoughtless acts of cruelty you yourself may have engaged in over the years. And it’s also a thoughtful cultural commentary about our ability to make and take a joke; the tension of being teased and the relief of being let off the hook. But what happens when the joke goes too far? Or what if we discover, to our horror, that the joke isn’t a joke after all? The cast is exceptional. Co-writer Stourton portrays Pete’s every disappointment and surprise with an open-hearted vulnerability that’s both winning and slightly irritating. And Graham Dixon’s drug-fuddled party brat, Archie, manages the incremental descent into narcotic oblivion with a sweetly stupid dexterity, his voice becoming more hilariously congested with each bag of coke he hoovers up. But it is Dustin Demri-Burns as Harry, a mysterious character the gang invites home from the local pub, who walks off with the film. Demri-Burns (looking like Andrew Scott’s wicked twin gone to seed) is something utterly fresh: a sexy, dangerous and unpredictable imp. From the moment he steps on screen, dancing suggestively with a live goose, the movie launches into orbit. Whether he’s whipping off his towel to reveal a delightfully paunchy nude physique, running down a steep incline wielding an axe, or drunkenly crooning a karaoke version of “House of the Rising Sun,” Demri-Burns’ Harry oozes a naughty, seductive charm that keeps us guessing until the final moments just exactly what the hell he’s up to. If there’s a flaw in Tom Palmer and Stourton’s scalpel-sharp script, it’s the somewhat wan imagination they apply to the women characters. As engaging as the female performers are, they are overshadowed by their more richly drawn male counterparts. And if the solution to the puzzle doesn’t quite meet our expectations, that’s all part of the plan; Uncertainty is baked into this cake - and Pete isn’t the only one being gaslit. Even when the final round of teasing comes to an end, we still aren’t sure who’s done what to whom. And as the credits roll it seems totally possible that it’s OUR leg that’s been being pulled the whole time.
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