March 2025

No Other Land

As much as I want to enrich people's lives with the discovery of great cinema, I’m perhaps blind to what little power and importance a critic actually has. Hoisting myself upon a self-constructed soapbox and having a ‘tism powered chin-wag every month, a right ol’ ‘here,ye, here, ye’ about animated snails or spunky strippers, it often brings to mind an inflated sense of world-saving evangelism. Yes, art can save lives, but the fact is, people will watch what they want to watch; despite the latest indie arriving with my exasperated cries of “you HAVE to see this movie!”. But with No Other Land, this time it feels like a matter of urgency. You have to see this movie. 

Similar to Ramell Ross’ Nickel Boys earlier this year, No Other Land cuts through the noise. With the delirious, hodgepodge swill of denial, media bias and abhorrent Zionism trading the loss of lives for singular, digestible statistics, digitised sensationalism has corrupted the very soul of the conflict: It’s the people. The men, the women, the children; and No Other Land champions that humanity. For in the face of devastating dehumanisation, the film truly stands as a study of human resilience and togetherness in the darkest of times: there's something intimately poignant and perhaps jarring to see the people of Masafer Yatta laugh together, as birthdays are held and the children excitedly scamper around a ramshackled playground - like flickers of light amongst this looming, mephitic oppression. Scenes like that support the shining beacon that is the film’s two main subjects: a connection, collaboration and friendship between Palestinian filmmaker Basel Adra and the Israeli journalist Yuvas Abraham paint a microcosm of how things could be, in dire contrast to how they actually are. Both quietly inspiring, but underlyingly crushing. 

I’m perhaps guilty of labelling certain films ‘important’, but this transfer of individual experience, this exposé of evil, this thundering rally of frustration and hope is something I wish everyone could witness - all contained within the battered camcorder of one exceptional documentarian. His name is Basel Adra, and he has a family, a home and a community. And he wants you to watch.

Mickey 17

A new Bong Joon-Ho film at this specific moment in time feels like a divine blessing: he’s back, he’s armed, and as you might have guessed, he has a bit of a gripe with capitalism. We saw it in the devilish dismantling of the rich in both Parasite and Okja, his backhand at bureaucratic bungling in Memories of Murder and The Host, and a pyramidal locomotive in the form of Snowpiercer. His politics are ones I wholeheartedly empathise with, I should clarify, as I may be dodging hurlings of ‘bourgeois pig-dog’ when one of his films (and it gives me no pleasure in saying this) just doesn't gel with me. For where Parasite was slick, snappy and gargantuanly satisfying, Bong’s latest feels grating, incessant and bitter. With a constant talk of “sauce”, Mickey 17 certainly lacks it. 

But first, let's get this out of the way: Robert Pattinson is great. Channelling a vocal mix of Peter Lorre and Adam Sandler, he absolutely sells the feverishly, twitchy neuroticism of the titular 17, as well as the jockish foil of his more macho doppelganger. It’s that kind of pathetic helplessness of Mickey that aids the film’s commentary on the callous disposability of menial, yet essential workers. And in addition to Jung Jae Il’s typically brilliant score, it transforms that critique into something both jaunty and inventive: Bong at his best. 

However, the problem for me lies within that need for cartoonish kook and zaniness: Mickey 17 feels so desperate to be constantly ‘on’. Big expressions, hammy deliveries and a less than subtle Trump caricature, Bong and the cast seem like they’re begging to appeal with a quirked-up, satirical wackiness that unfortunately translates to such a shockingly flat energy. The film inhabits this awkward limbo of feeling too held-back, yet simultaneously priding itself as an off-the-wall, edgy takedown. What it called to my mind however was a thin, Adam McKay-coded load of ceaseless, angry head-beating, with bouts of dialogue reminiscent of an 11 year old that just discovered what swearing is. The presence of Ruffalo automatically made me reflect on Poor Things; a film so unequivocally graceful in its oddness and messaging, furthermore letting moments of deadpan and subtle mannerisms ignite the biggest laughs. Mickey 17 feels like it’s trying so, so hard to be eccentric, yet not hard enough. I was praying for another Bong-hit, and I unfortunately got a Bong-lightly poke: A whispered scream.