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No end of spinning has proven a particularly convincing argument that Disney hasn’t lost faith in Artemis Fowl. Indeed, was the writing not on the wall when those high up announced its shift to a digital only release? And this following trailers so dispiriting that fans of the beloved Eoin Colfer book series from which the film originated screeched blasphemy. The result is predictably bland fantasy inaction. What should have been ‘Die Hard with fairies’ hits the ground heavily as National Treasure with tweens.
Perhaps the most criminal failing of Artemis Fowl — bar the inherent lack of criminality to be found in its realisation of the titular boy antihero — is the obviousness with which the film falls flat. In a handbook of how not to adapt best-selling franchise novels, Artemis Fowl joins The Golden Compass and Stormbreaker in failing to translate the essence of its source. How Hollywood can continue its abject failure to recognise the faithfulness that drove the successes of Harry Potter, The Hunger Games and even Twilight boggles the mind. As far as tweaking is concerned, film and literature are different medias and so demand adaptation. When it comes to re-writing the law, bravery meets lunacy.
Working from a script by Conor McPherson and Hamish McColl, director Kenneth Branagh presents an Artemis Fowl so far removed from the original text that one might go so far as to assume that they adapt only the blurb. Colfer’s edges are blunted with remarkable abandon, his first two novels mashed into a mush of over produced picture porridge. What’s left can only alienate Fowl’s long term following but hardly creates an alternative worth jumping on to for newcomers. Precious little here stands apart from the overcrowded sea that it fantasy filmmaking for juniors these days. Less still remains to show what it was that made Colfer’s books so successful in the first place.
For balance, fresh talent Ferda Shaw makes for an engaging enough lead. He plays a rather hirsute Artemis brought up on the Irish fairy tales of his namesake father (Colin Farrell, wasted once again). When Fowl Sr. is snatched from his own boat, whilst simultaneously facing accusations of theft from the world’s most prominent purveyors of priceless artefacts, Artemis is called upon by his kidnapper to recover one in particular: the Aculos. Deep below the Earth’s surface, the hidden world of the fairies is stirring. They, too, seek this acorn shaped MacGuffin.
Said Aculos is not, of course, in Colfer’s books. Other inexplicable shifts include a back story for Lara McDonnell’s Lower Elements Police: Reconnaissance fairy Holly, a gender switch for Judi Dench’s gravely Commander Root and loose framing arc, courtesy of a dire Josh Gad. And yet, all that said, a re-write of the source isn’t where the buck ends for the faults of Branagh’s film. Risible dialogue strands even the strongest of performers here into a mire of embarrassment — ‘Get the four-leaf-clover out of here’ — whilst the weight of computer generated backdrops removes any sense of meaning.
Characters so sharply hewn on the page — Artemis most prominently — merge into stock territory and almost entirely disappear into Haris Zambarloukos’ bland colourscape. Weirdly, Artemis almost never leaves the same three rooms in Fowl Manor, zapping energy from his scenes, The city of Haven, meanwhile, proves oddly forgettable in design. Of the set pieces, battles and exchanges, a measly handful could be said to escape the melee of boredom. The film peaks early with a time-frozen, Matrix-esque escapade amid an Italian wedding only to offer up a reprise in its climax. Unsuccessfully.
With the world still facing varying degrees of lockdown, and Disney Plus wooing subscribers like a dog on heat, the one genuine curiosity of Artemis Fowl may well be in its future. Poor reviews may stem a cinematic release and yet a boring film can seem less so when there is so little else on the cards.
There isn’t a layer of emotional resonance within which Sam Mendes’ latest feature does not excel. A First World War thriller, boasting the dramatic surety Mendes nailed in Skyfall and all but lost in Spectre, 1913 quickly takes hostage of the heart and refuses release. It is electric, devastating and charged with a profound sense for the absolute horror of warfare. That the story comes from the original experience of Mendes’ own grandfather on the Western Front is paramount. This one matters to him sincerely.
‘1913’ is actually a truncated title. More accurately, Mendes’ film ought to be named April 6 1913, taking place, as it does, almost entirely in real time and on that very date. Moreover, 1913 is presented as though captured in a single, entirely unedited, shot. Bar one or two flashes of black, each and every cut made is imperceptibly woven into a delicately achieved whole. The effect is marvellously involving and handled with intelligence enough to sidestep the accusations of gimmickry that normally descend on such creative decisions. Roger Deakins’ camera, beautifully mounted, pushes through all manner of traumas, from the flies swarming around dead horses to the barbed wire abandoned on no man’s land. There is precious little focus: this is simply how it is and how one imagines it was seen.
To this end, the film is not for the faint of heart. At every turn, corpses claw from entrapments of soil and rubble, desperately reaching for aid that will never come. Tonally too, the film is beset with paradigms of futility. If the plot concerns the valour of two young men in delivering orders across the hellscape of No Man’s Land, it is only to warn that the enemy ahead is simply too powerful to be beaten. Indeed, as we are lead through German trenches and fortification, it is only to the revelation that British infrastructures pale in comparison: ‘even their rats are bigger than ours’. And yet, hope will out. It must. Later, a recital of Edward Lear’s sordid Jumbles will close to the distant sound of church bells calling. Crying out from a church that blazes and crumbles still.
Far more than the sum of its technical achievements, 1913 is cast with equal panache. George MacKay (Where Hands Touch) and Dean-Charles Chapman (Blinded by the Light) lead as Lance Corporals William Schofield and Thomas Blake, one embittered and wary, the other tinged still with guns-ho naiveté, both tasked by Colin Firth’s dour General Erinmore to track down Colonel Mackenzie (Benedict Cumberbatch) and deliver a warning. Aerial reconnaissance has revealed that the apparent retreat of German forces from a sector of the Western Front is but a trap to draw the Allies unto the new Hindenburg Line. With all telephone lines cut, 1,600 lives at stake and a dawn deadline looming, Schofield and Blake must set forth on foot. The odds are not in their favour and when tragedy does strike, it comes far sooner and more brutally than might have been expected. There’s nothing traditionally Hollywood about it.
That Blake’s elder brother (Richard Madden) stands among those at risk only heightens the stakes. Much like Saving Private Ryan before it, 1913 is a tale of dichotomous perspective. It is a story both of the wider threat to peace and the very singular drive to save just one life. Unlike Spielberg’s Ryan, however, there is precious little room here for the saccharine. Certainly, a stellar score by Thomas Newman plays not for sentiment but as pulse racer and outright heart stopper. Deployed in unity with Mendes’ breathless momentum, the effect is relentlessly captivating and exists in one of cinema’s most immersive, most insatiable, sets. Blockbusters spend millions these days on creating entirely imaginary worlds but no longer do viewers truly marvel at the capability of filmmakers to achieve it. With its scratological eye for the grit of earth and realist murk, 1913 is, however, beyond comprehension.
One can only imagine the choreography that allowed so technical a feat to be achieved but it is a testament to Mendes’ skill that such never distracts from the power of his narrative. This is, first and foremost, a beautiful and terrifying thriller. It will take your breath away.
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