1 of 5 | Robin Wright and Tom Hanks reunite in “Here.” Photo courtesy of Sony Pictures
LOS ANGELES, Oct. 26 (UPI) — Forrest Gump, for better or worse, captured what the ’50s through ’80s meant to America. In Here, which premiered Friday at AFI Fest, the same filmmakers spread themselves thin trying to capture centuries.
The premise is that the camera remains fixed on a single location for the entire movie as it evolves. For most of the movie, it is a living room, but it sometimes flashes back to when it was a colonial plantation or forest inhabited by Native Americans.
The families who lived in the house in the 20th century begin with John Harter (Gwilym Lee), a pilot, and his wife Pauline (Michelle Dockery). The next residents are Leo Beekman (David Fynn), who is inventing the La-Z-Boy recliner, and his wife Stella (Ophelia Lovibond).
Al (Paul Bettany) and Rose (Kelly Reilly) move in after he’s discharged from World War II. Their son, Richard (Tom Hanks) grows up in the same house and marries Margaret (Robin Wright).
The technical gimmick of unfolding the entire movie in a single, unmoving frame is easy to follow. Smaller windows in the screen open up revealing transitions into different eras, and computers surely ensured the camera never moved by even a millimeter.
The format shortchanges the plot. It’s hard enough to cover more than a century in under two hours, let alone when every major event has to occur in the same room.
As such, Here feels like a play made up of 30-second scenes with instantaneous scene changes. In those brief scenes, the characters discuss every major event that occurs in their lives.
Gump screenwriter Eric Roth’s adaptation of Richard McGuire’s graphic novel, co-written with director Robert Zemeckis, always feels like characters are rushing to cram every piece of information into a scene before they leave the room.
And yet, characters frequently make sure to drop “here” into conversation and comment on the passage of time. If this concept needs to explain that it’s about the passage of time in a single place, then it’s failed.
Like Gump, the film uses major historical events to indicate where the characters are in time. The Beatles appearing on The Ed Sullivan Show, the music Richard and Maragret’s daughter listens to and aerobics on television indicate the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s for example.
When Here flashes back to the American Revolution, it feels far less natural to hear William Franklin (Daniel Betts) complain about his brother Benjamin’s politics. The Beekmans and Harters also feel like they’re speaking in caricatures of old timey dialects.
It is also strange how loosely Here plays with certain history. Why deal with the inventor of the La-Z-Boy but make up a guy named Leo Beekman? Edwin Schoemaker and Edward Knabusch designed it in Detroit.
In rushing through the 20th-century storyline, we barely saw Richard and Margaret fall in love. Yet, attempts to broaden the scope beyond a White family suffer from gross oversimplification.
A Black family moves into the house after Richard and Margaret, but the film barely checks in with them.
It does show them having a very serious conversation about how to cooperate with police during a traffic stop. That’s one of only two significant scenes of dialogue given to the Black characters.
In covering so much time, Zemeckis employs digital technology to allow older actors to play their characters younger. The technology has improved since even The Irishman five years ago, but the story fails to make a case for rendering Bosom Buddies era Hanks.
Anyone who considers the fate of Wright’s Forrest Gump character to be misogynistic will have similar issues with her treatment in Here.
The experiences of generations over time are surely valid dramatic ones. Sadly, Here feels born of a technical idea and the actual narrative never feels inspired to justify it.
Here opens Nov. 1 in theaters.
Fred Topel, who attended film school at Ithaca College, is a UPI entertainment writer based in Los Angeles. He has been a professional film critic since 1999, a Rotten Tomatoes critic since 2001, and a member of the Television Critics Association since 2012 and the Critics Choice Association since 2023. Read more of his work in Entertainment.
‘4’, the opening track on Richard D James’ (Aphex Twin) self titled 1996 album is a piece of music that beautifully balances the chaotic with the serene, the oppressive and the freeing. It’s a trick that James has pulled off multiple times throughout his career and it is a huge part of what makes him such an iconic and influential artist. Many people have laid the “next Aphex Twin” label on musicians who do things slightly different and when you actually hear their music you realise that, once again, the label is flawed and applied with a lazy attitude. Why mention this? Well, it turns out we’ve been looking for James’ heir apparent in the wrong artform. We’ve so zoned in on music that we’ve not noticed that another Celtic son of Cornwall is rewriting an art form with that highwire balancing act between chaos and beauty. That artist is writer, director and composer Mark Jenkin who over his last two feature films has announced himself as an idiosyncratic voice who is creating his very own language within the world of cinema. Jenkin’s films are often centred around coastal towns or islands and whilst they are experimental or even unsettling, there is always a big heart at the centre of the narrative. A heart that cares about family, tradition, culture, and the pull of ‘home’. Even during the horror of 2022’s brilliant Enys Men you were anchored by the vulnerability and determination of its main protagonist.
This month sees the release of Jenkin’s latest feature film, Rose of Nevada, which is set in a fractured and diminished Cornish coastal town. One day the fishing boat of the film’s title arrives back in harbour after being missing for thirty years. The boat is unoccupied. And frankly that is all the information you are going to get because to discuss any more plot would be unfair on you and disrespectful to Jenkin and the team behind the film. You the viewer should be the one who decides what it is about because thematically there are so many wonderful threads to pull on. This writer’s opinions on what it is about have ranged from a theme of sacrifice for the good of a community to the conflict within when part of you wants to run away from your roots whilst the other half longs to stay and be a lifelong part of its tapestry. Is it about Brexit? Could be. Is it about our own relationships with time and our curation of memory? Could be. Is it about both the positives and negatives of nostalgia? Could be. As a side note, anyone in their mid-40s, like me, who came of age in the 1990s will certainly find moments of warm recognition. Is the film about ghosts and how they haunt families? Could be…I think you get the point.
The elements that make the film so well balanced between chaos and calm are many. It is there in the differing performances between the brilliant two lead actors George MacKay and Callum Turner. It is there in the sound design which fluctuates from being unbearably harsh and metallic, to lulling and warm. It is there in the editing where short, sharp close ups on seemingly unimportant factors are counterbalanced with shots that are held for just that little bit too long. For a film set around the sea, it is apt that it can make you feel like you’re rolling on a stomach churning storm one minute, or a calming low tide the next. Dialogue can be front and centre or blurred and buried under static. One shot is bathed in harsh sunlight whilst the next can be drowned in interior shadows.
Rose of Nevada is Mark Jenkin’s most ambitious film to date yet he has not lost a single iota of innovation, singularity of vision or his gift for telling the most human of stories. It is a film that will tell you different things each time you see it and whilst there are moments that can confuse or beguile, there is so much empathy and love that it can leave you crying tears of emotional understanding. It is chaotic. It is beautiful. It is life……
Rose of Nevada is released on the 24th April.
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A rogue chicken observes the world around it—and particularly the plight of immigrants in Greece—in Hen, which premiered at last year’s Toronto International Film Festival and is now playing in Prague cinemas (and with English subtitles at Kino Světozor and Edison Filmhub). This story of man through the eyes of an animal immediately recalls Robert Bresson’s Au Hasard Balthazar (and Jerzy Skolimowski’s more recent EO), but director and co-writer György Pálfi (Taxidermia) maintains a bitter, unsentimental approach that lands with unexpected force.
Hen opens with striking scenes inside an industrial poultry facility, where eggs are laid, processed, and shuttled along assembly lines of machinery and human hands in an almost mechanized rhythm of production. From this system emerges our protagonist: a black chick that immediately stands apart from the others, its entry into the world defined not by nature, but by an uncaring food industry.
The titular hen matures quickly within this environment before being loaded onto a truck with the others, presumably destined for slaughter. Because of her black plumage, she is singled out by the driver and rejected from the shipment, only to be told she will instead end up as soup in his wife’s kitchen. During a stop at a gas station, however, she escapes.
What follows is a journey through rural Greece by the sea, including an encounter with a fox, before she eventually finds refuge at a decaying roadside restaurant run by an older man (Yannis Kokiasmenos), his daughter (Maria Diakopanayotou), and her child. Discovered by the family’s dog Titan, she is placed in a coop alongside other chickens.
After finding a mate in the local rooster, she lays eggs that are regularly collected by the man; in one quietly unsettling scene, she watches him crack them open and cook them into an omelet. The hen repeatedly attempts to escape, as we slowly observe the true function of the property: it is being used as a transit point for migrants arriving in Greece by boat, facilitated by local criminal figures.
Like Au Hasard Balthazar and EO, Hen largely resists anthropomorphizing its animal protagonist. The hen behaves as a hen, and the humans treat her accordingly, creating a work that feels unusually grounded and almost documentary in texture. At the same time, Pálfi allows space for the audience to project meaning onto her journey, never fully closing the gap between instinct and interpretation.
There are moments, however, where the film deliberately leans into stylization. A playful montage set to Ravel’s Boléro captures her repeated escape attempts from the coop, while a romantic musical cue underscores her brief pairing with the rooster. These sequences do not break the realism so much as refract it, gently encouraging us to read emotion into behavior that remains, on the surface, purely animal.
One of the film’s central narrative threads is the hen’s search for a safe space to lay her eggs without them being taken away by the restaurant owner. This deceptively simple instinct becomes a powerful thematic mirror for the film’s human subplot involving migrant trafficking. Pálfi draws a stark, often uncomfortable parallel between the treatment of animals as commodities and the treatment of displaced people as disposable bodies moving through a similar system of exploitation.
The film takes an increasingly bleak turn toward its climax as the migrant storyline comes fully into focus, sharpening its allegorical intent. The juxtaposition of animal and human vulnerability becomes more explicit, reinforcing the film’s central critique of systemic indifference and violence. While effective, this escalation feels unusually dark, and our protagonist’s unknowing role feels particularly cruel.
The use of animal actors in Hen is remarkable throughout. The hen—played by eight trained chickens—is seamlessly integrated into the film’s world, with seamless editing (by Réka Lemhényi) and staging so precise that at times it feels almost impossible without digital augmentation. While subtle effects work must assist at certain moments, the result is convincing throughout, including standout sequences involving a fox and a dog.
Zoltán Dévényi and Giorgos Karvelas’ cinematography is also impressive, capturing both the intimacy of the hen’s low vantage point and the broader Greek landscape with striking clarity. The camera’s proximity to the animal world gives the film a distinct visual grammar, grounding its allegory in tactile observation rather than abstraction.
Hen is a challenging but often deeply affecting allegory that extends the tradition of animal-centered cinema while pushing it into harsher political territory. Pálfi’s approach—unsentimental, patient, and often confrontational—ensures the film lingers long after its final images. It is not an easy watch, nor a comfortable one, but it is a strikingly original piece of filmmaking that uses its unusual perspective to cast familiar human horrors in a stark, unsettling new light.
NEW YORK (OSV News) – Many potential brides and grooms-to-be have experienced cold feet in the lead-up to their nuptials. But few can have had their trotters quite so thoroughly chilled as the previously devoted fiance at the center of writer-director Kristoffer Borgli’s provocative psychological study “The Drama” (A24).
Played by Robert Pattinson, British-born, Boston-based museum curator Charlie Thompson begins the film delighted at the prospect of tying the knot with his live-in girlfriend Emma Harwood (Zendaya). But then comes a visit to their caterers where, after much wine has been sampled, the couple wanders down a dangerous conversational path with disastrous results.
Together with their husband-and-wife matron of honor, Rachel (Alana Haim), and best man, Mike (Mamoudou Athie), Charlie and Emma take turns recounting the worst thing they’ve ever done. For Emma, this involves a potential act of profound evil that she planned in her mind but was ultimately dissuaded from carrying out, instead undergoing a kind of conversion.
Emma’s revelation disturbs all three of her companions but leaves Charlie reeling. With only days to go before the wedding, he finds himself forced to reassess his entire relationship with Emma.
As Charlie wavers between loyalty to the person he thought he knew and fear of hitching himself to someone he may never really have understood at all, he’s cast into emotional turmoil. For their part, Rachel and Mike also wrestle with how to react to the situation.
Among other ramifications, Borgli’s screenplay examines the effect of the bombshell on Emma and Charlie’s sexual interaction. So only grown viewers with a high tolerance for such material should accompany the duo through this dark passage in their lives. They’ll likely find the experience insightful but unsettling.
The film contains strong sexual content, including aberrant acts and glimpses of graphic premarital activity, cohabitation, a sequence involving gory physical violence, a narcotics theme, about a half-dozen uses of profanity, a couple of milder oaths, pervasive rough language, numerous crude expressions and obscene gestures. The OSV News classification is L — limited adult audience, films whose problematic content many adults would find troubling. The Motion Picture Association rating is R — restricted. Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian.
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