In the same year Kirsten Dunst took her name as tribute for Alex Garland’s Civil War, seminal mid-century photojournalist Lee Miller receives the biopic treatment, courtesy of Ellen Kuras’ succinctly titled directorial debut. Set between 1937 and ‘45, bookended by a flirtation with ‘77, Lee charts Miller’s journey to the heart of the Second World War and her excavation of the damage it reaped. Her images remain as potent now as ever they were. If not so extraordinary in its own execution, the film warrants credit for the pains it takes stress quite why Miller alone could have taken them.
To give credit where due, It Ends With Us knows its likely audience. Or, rather, it knows exactly which quadrant in the four square it’s interested in and makes no bones about the chase. Based on the bestselling novel by self-publishing sensation Colleen Hoover, the film shoots from the hip in search of wildly underserved female filmgoers. This as Deadpool lops arms off in the screen next door – which is not to say Swifties don’t love Marvel too. Where that film scored massacres to Madonna, however, It Ends With Us tailors to Taylor. It’s a glossy and endlessly Instagrammable affair, with floral imagery and synthy soundtrack ballads deployed to almost parodic effect. Real life is messy, It Ends With Us is anything but.
If you thought Deadpool & Wolverine would exercise one iota of patience before wheeling out its show pony – the return of Hugh Jackman to his X-Men origins – then you thought wrong. Shaun Levy’s threequel is but seconds into action when Ryan Reynolds’ Deadpool brandishes the shovel with which he will dig up old man Logan’s grave. It’s a deliciously tasteless opening to an often tastelessly delicious film. Funny, brash and casually bloody, Except, hold up, the body within has wasted away. Just the skeleton remains. The bare bones of former glory. It feels apt and, for once, unironic. For all the gags here levelled at Marvel’s expense, this Merc hasn’t any of the answers for long-term rejuvenation.
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