By Peter Keough

Once again, critic A.S. Hamrah sheds perceptive light on our cinematic malaise.

The Algorithm of the Night: Film Criticism 2019-2025 by A.S. Hamrah. n + 1. 554 pages. $23

If film criticism – and film itself – survive the ongoing cultural, political, economic, and technological onslaughts they face, it will be due in part to writers like A. S. Hamrah. His latest collection (there are two, in fact; I have not yet read Last Week in End Times Cinema, but I am sure that it will also be the perfect holiday gift for the dystopic cinephile on your list) picks up where his previous book The Earth Dies Streaming left off, unleashing his savage indignation on today’s fatuous, lazy critical conversations and the vapid studio fodder that sustains it.

Not that it is all negativity. This inexhaustibly illuminating and entertaining assortment of reviews, essays, mordant Oscar roundups, and freewheeling, sui generis bagatelles first seen in such publications as n+1 (for which he is the film critic), The Baffler, the New York Review of Books, and the Criterion Collection is filled with numerous laudatory appreciations of films old and new — all of which you should watch or watch again. I was impressed with his eloquent, insightful praise for Debra Granik’s Leave No Trace (2018), his shrewd analysis of Abbas Kiarostami’s masterpiece A Taste of Cherry (1997) and its mixed critical reaction, and his reassessment of John Sayles’s neglected epic of class warfare Matewan (1987), among many others.

Also not to be missed are Hamrah’s absurdist ventures into his personal life, many in theaters (or not in theaters, as when Covid shut them down in 2020), such as the time he observed a menacing attendee at a screening of 2010’s Joker. “It would be best to see [Joker] in a theater with a potential psychopath for that added thrill of maybe not surviving it,” he concludes. One strikingly admirable characteristic of Hamrah’s criticism is that he consciously avoids writing anything that could be manipulated by a studio into a banal blurb. You will find no “White knuckle thrill ride” or “Your heart will melt” or “A monumental cinematic experience” here.

The book does boast a bounty of blurbable bits, but they are not the kind that any publicist will put in an ad. These are laugh-out-loud takedowns of bad movies, vain filmmakers, and vapid performers. Some of my favorites among these beautiful barbs include his description of The Banshees of Inisherin (2022) as “[S]horter than Wakanda Forever by a whopping 47 minutes but still too long,” his dismissal of Jojo Rabbit (2019) as “combining Quentin Tarantino and Wes Anderson in the worst, cop-out ways,” and his exasperated take on Edward Berger’s 2022 remake of All Quiet on the Western Front (“What happened to the German cinema?”).

Film critic A. S. Hamrah — another inexhaustibly illuminating and entertaining assortment of writings on film. Photo: n+1 benefit.

He also displays the rare critical ability to reassess  a director and give him his due. In his review of Berger’s 2024 Conclave, he admits that “Berger directs [it] like he is a totally different filmmaker than the one who made the 2022 version All Quiet on the Western Front. Unlike that film, this one is highly burnished and tightly wound.” (Watch out – close to blurb material there!)

The book ends with an apotheosis of the listicle called “Movie Stars in Bathtubs: 48 Movies and Two Incidents” in which Hamrah summarizes nine decades of cinema. It ranges from Louis Feuillade’s 1916 silent crime serial Les Vampires (“‘It is in Les Vampires that one must look for the great reality of our century’ wrote the surrealists Aragon and Breton”) to Brian De Palma’s 2002 neo-noir Femme Fatale (“There is a picture book called Movie Stars in Bathtubs, but there aren’t enough movie stars in bathtubs. De Palma’s Femme Fatale, which stars Rebecca Romijn, does much to correct that.”)

Around the volume’s midpoint, Hamrah includes one of the two “incidents” of the title. In “1951: The first issue of Cahiers du Cinema” he celebrates the astonishing cadre of cinephiles, many of whom are depicted in Richard Linklater’s recent film Nouvelle Vague, who put out the publication that reinvented an art form. “Unlike critics today,” Hamrah points out, “these writers did not complain that they were powerless. They defended the movies they loved and excoriated the ones they hated. For them film criticism was a confrontation, its goal to change how films were viewed and how they were made.” It’s a tradition that Hamrah, who combines the personal point of view and cultural literacy of James Agee with the historical, contextualizing vision of J. Hoberman, triumphantly embraces.

Peter Keough writes about film and other topics and has contributed to numerous publications. He had been the film editor of the Boston Phoenix from 1989 to its demise in 2013 and has edited three books on film, including Kathryn Bigelow: Interviews (University Press of Mississippi, 2013) and For Kids of All Ages: The National Society of Film Critics on Children’s Movies (Rowman & Littlefield, 2019).

‘The Secret Agent’

Directed by Kleber Mendonça Filho (R)

★★★★

“This is one of the year’s best films, and one of the most distinctive,” said Matt Zoller Seitz in RogerEbert.com. An award winner at Cannes, the sixth feature from Brazilian writer-director Kleber Mendonça Filho is “a drama, a satire, an intriguingly laid-back espionage film, and a re-creation of a time and place,” yet that’s not all. Wagner Moura stars as a young widower on the run who returns to his home city to check on his young son in 1977, during Brazil’s brutal dictatorship. “Murder is everywhere,” a constant threat. But Mendonça is less focused on the violence than how people learn to adapt to it, and “if you’re willing to bend with the story, The Secret Agent will take you places movies rarely go.” Moura, whose
character goes by the alias Marcelo, “carries the film with a star turn of suave determination,” said Richard Brody in The New Yorker.

You’d think it would be easy to parody beloved period British dramas because they have so many guilty pleasure repeated tropes: huge historic houses, romances within and between upper classes and their servants, swooningly fabulous clothes, luscious meals, fabulous furnishings, and dialogue that sounds witty even when it isn’t because it is delivered in heavenly aristocratic accents with exquisite, RADA-trained diction. But the secret to the really great parody is truly loving whatever it is you’re making fun of. Thus, on a scale from the top (by Grabthar’s hammer, that would be “Galaxy Quest”) to the sloppy (I love you, Wayanses, but noticing something is not the same as being funny about it), “Fackham Hall” comes in around the middle.

Its watchability comes from the very elements it is trying to undermine: the fairy-tale setting of a huge country house, antique furniture, and beautiful people wearing gorgeous period clothes, speaking in accents ranging from elegant upper-class to cute commoner. Most of its jokes are based less on observing what makes these works so popular than on what is silliest or most outrageous. But what’s funny in the writers’ room does not always work on screen. An example of the tone is the title, the name of the characters’ residence, which a character says aloud to make sure we know it sounds like a crude insult to everyone involved.

The story is set in 1931, or, to put it in context, after the end of “Downton Abbey” and around the third of the ensuing films. We are informed, in case you have no exposure of any kind to this genre, in which case, why are you even watching this, that “England was a nation divided by class.” The country is suffering through a depression, but the Davenport family, who have occupied their ancestral home for 400 years, have no such concerns. (The 2,500-acre estate of Knowsley Hall, also featured in “Peaky Blinders,” plays the part of the ancestral home.) 

“The sheer grandeur of Fackham Hall was a testament to splendor and an enduring family legacy,” we are told by a narrator whose identity we will not discover until the end. “They led a decadent life and barely had to lift a finger.” Indeed, Lord Davenport (Damian Lewis) is sipping a cocktail from a glass held to his lips by a servant. He and Lady Davenport (Katherine Waterston) are congratulating themselves on the upcoming wedding of their daughter, Poppy (Emma Laird), to the presumptive heir to the property, Archibald (Tom Felton). “I’m just delighted she’s finally found the right cousin,” Lord Davenport smiles. As anyone who knows this genre understands, only males can inherit the land. Since the Davenports’ four sons, John, Paul, George, and Ringo, all died, this marriage is the only way they will be able to stay in their home. Thus, the motto on the family crest is “Incestuous ad Infinitum.”

The Davenports’ other daughter, considered too old and independent-minded at 23 to be likely to find a husband, is Rose (Thomasin McKenzie). She will soon meet a plucky orphan lad and kind-hearted pickpocket named Eric Noone (as in “no one”), played by Ben Radcliffe, handsome and charming enough to play the lead in any period romantic drama, and wisely calibrates his performance as though he is doing just that.

Noone is sent to deliver a message to Fackham Hall just as Poppy and Archibald are about to get married, except they don’t, because Poppy makes a dramatic race from the church to the arms of her low-born beloved. This puts the pressure on Rose to take over as Archibald’s fiancée and save the family home.

This is one of those “throw everything at the screen and by the time you realize that one wasn’t funny, four more will have come at you” movies. These include running jokes, anachronisms, sight gags, potty humor (in one case, chamber pot-y humor), slapstick, an extended dick joke, an extended “who’s on first”-type joke involving a character named Watt, sight gags, and verbal misunderstandings, e.g., “You fought [in WWI] with my father.” “No, we were on the same side.” And a tailor shop called “Tailor Swift.”

One element of this film that works well is that the actors understand the assignment, no winking at the audience, except for British comedian/presenter and co-writer of the screenplay, Jimmy Carr, playing a vicar who cannot help running the liturgy texts together to make them sound dirty. The score by Oli Julian and the costumes by Rosalind Ebbutt are also perfectly suitable for the kinds of movies this one spoofs. It’s just the jokes that, like British cocktails, are to American taste lukewarm.