Jeremy Allen White

Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu

23/05/26

Cineworld, Edinburgh

I’m going to start this review with a controversial statement: Star Wars is possibly the most overrated franchise in cinema history. Having written this, I can imagine stalwart fans virtually foaming at the mouth at my impudence. But before moving on to the latest offering, let’s examine the evidence.

I do have some history with the series. I can still vividly remember going to the Empire Leicester Square – forty–nine years ago – to watch George Lucas’s Episode IV: A New Hope – and I remember looking up at what passed for a giant screen in those days, and feeling suitably thrilled by what I was seeing, even if I did emerge thinking that what I’d just witnessed was essentially a kind of Space Western. In 1980, The Empire Strikes Back was a palpable step-up and I began to see what all the fuss was about.

But 1983’s Return of the Jedi was the first in a long line of disappointments, mainly because I didn’t really care for the cuddly Ewoks, who felt like nothing more than a callous attempt to sell more merchandise – and was I supposed to cheer (internally) every time they were blown up?

From here it was essentially a case of diminishing returns. I doggedly sat through Lucas’s three humourless prequels, wondering what had gone wrong – and, some years later, really appreciated Simon Pegg’s angry tirade in Spaced, where he excoriated a bunch of school kids for daring to call these turgid efforts ‘good films.’ The prequels were followed by a mixed bunch of releases from other filmmakers, attempting to push the format beyond its original humble ambitions. Of these releases, JJ Abrams’ The Force Awakens (2015) was the most convincing, mainly by virtue of the fact that it felt like a ‘greatest hits’ package, featuring slight variations on the best bets from the first couple of movies. But don’t even get me started on The Rise of Skywalker!

So, over a 49-year run, it’s hardly a great innings.

The Mandalorian and Grogu is of course, based on a TV series of which, I have to confess, I have not viewed a single episode – and indeed, this spin-off film, directed and co-written by Jon Favreau (with Dave Filoni and Noah Kloor) was originally destined to be shown on the small screen. Does it have the necessary clout to make the difficult transformation to IMAX?

No.

And not because the film doesn’t look fabulous – the model work and special effects here are off the scale – but because, for all the millions of dollars that have been expended on it, the resulting movie completely fails to compel me, mainly for one ridiculous reason. The Mandalorian never takes off his helmet and this has a curious distancing effect. We all recognise the distinctive voice of cinema’s busiest actor, Pedro Pascal, but only see his face for something like ten minutes, when his captors forcibly remove the headgear. It’s surely no coincidence that this brief section turns out to be the best part of the film. (The helmet also means that two other performers can don the Mandalorian costume, while Pedro’s off filming something else.)

As for Grogu, he’s little more than a glove puppet and though he occasionally does something cute, its hard to convince an audience that he’s anything but another opportunity to sell merch. And how is he capable of doing such incredible things, when his puppeteers fail to even make him walk convincingly?

The thin plot has the mismatched duo sent off by Colonel Ward (Sigourney Weaver) in search of Rotta (son of Jabba) the Hut . Rotta is voiced by Jeremy Allen White, though really it could be anybody – and he’s been abducted by his scheming grandparents, who have realised that he is the rightful successor to his late father but fancy keeping the kingdom for themselves. The resulting storyline is entirely concerned with the long search for Rotta, the finding of him, the losing of him, the finding of him again and… well, you get the general idea.

There are a LOT of endlessly protracted battles that often push against the boundaries of the 12A certificate, but somehow also manage to feel distanced. To be honest, I soon get bored with them and keep hoping there might be something more substantial on offer – but no luck. Mando and Grogu fight a whole succession of giant lizards, giant centipedes, giant apes, giant dogs and giant creatures composed of equal bits of all of those species. Coming out of the crowded screening, I walk alongside a large crowd of kids who are loudly extolling the film’s virtues to each other. ‘The bit where Mando blew the giant snake’s head off!’ ‘The part where Mando chopped the giant spider’s legs off!’ ‘The part where Rotta fell on that guy and squashed him to death!’

And maybe, when all is said and done, this is exactly the audience that Favreau and co are aiming for. For me, it feels like the last gasp of a franchise that’s been pulled further than it was ever meant to stretch. The final ironic straw is to witness Martin Scorcese (who has been so vocal in his criticisms of this kind of filmmaking) voicing Hugo Durant, a four-armed chimp running a burger franchise. What’s the old adage? Oh yes. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

Sorry, not sorry: this is the worst Star Wars yet. And it was already a pretty low bar.

2 stars

Philip Caveney

Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere

29/10/25

Cineworld, Edinburgh

Many people who, like me, purchased Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska on its release in 1982, must have experienced the same bewilderment as I did. How had the Boss gone from the stirring, upbeat anthems of Thunder Road and Hungry Heart to this bleak, introspective slice of Americana? And, perhaps more importantly, why? Okay, after a few listens, a couple of those ballads did eventually get their hooks into me but, as a career move, it seemed a spectacularly ill-judged decision.

Scott Cooper’s film, based on Warren Zane’s book, sets out to explain exactly what happened and, in choosing to concentrate on that difficult album, runs the risk of alienating itself from those fans who were anticipating an upbeat celebration of the great musician’s life and work (much like the record itself). True, when we first see Bruce (Jeremy Allen White) onscreen, he’s powering through a blistering performance of Born to Run. Coming off stage, he’s informed by his manager and close friend, Jon Landau (Jeremy Strong), that, with his latest album (The River) at number one in the charts, he is standing on the edge of superstardom.

But in the following break from touring, Bruce appears to be heading into a depression. He happens to catch a glimpse of Terence Malik’s 1973 film, Badlands, on TV, featuring newcomers Martin Sheen and Sissy Spacek – and in that moment a spark is ignited. Pretty soon, he’s reading up on Charles Starkweather and the killing spree he and his teenage girlfriend, Caril Anne Fugate, embarked on back in 1958. Bruce starts to write the lyrics of what will become Nebraska’s title track.

He’s driven by powerful memories of his own childhood, the issues he experienced with his abusive father, Douglas, played in flashback by Stephen Graham, who gives a brooding, mostly silent performance opposite an intense turn from Matthew Antony Pelicano Jnr as Young Bruce. Something that happened between father and son in those formative years is clearly behind Bruce’s current malaise.

Back in the present, he enlists the help of recording technician Mike Batlan (Paul Walter Hauser) to capture the new songs as they emerge on a simple 4-track deck at home. But, as his obsession with the new project steadily grows – and his record label continually pester him for new product – so he becomes increasingly determined that the resulting album must be as stripped-back as the songs on the ‘demo’ cassette he’s already recorded…

Deliver Me from Nowhere is essentially about a kind of exorcism, an artist’s attempt to cleanse himself of the emotional baggage he’s carried around since childhood. While the story offers an interesting angle on a lesser-known aspect of Springsteen’s career, it’s not the kind of material that biopics are traditionally built upon. Several viewers at the screening I attend decide to vote with their feet around an hour in. While I’m engaged enough to stay in my seat till the closing credits, I have to admit that overall the film is a mixture of the good, the bad and the downright puzzling.

Jeremy Allen White, it must be said, doesn’t look an awful lot like Springsteen, but still manages to portray the man with absolute conviction and, perhaps more importantly, he captures the Boss’s distinctive voice with evident skill. Strong is an exceptional performer and makes the softly-spoken, nurturing approach of Landau interesting to observe. The man clearly had the patience of a saint.

But the female performers are less well-served. Gaby Hoffman, as Bruce’s mum, Adele, and Grace Gummer as Landau’s wife, Barbara, are granted barely enough dialogue to justify their presence. Elsewhere, we witness Bruce’s on-off romance with waitress Faye Romano (Odessa Young), a fictional character who is a composite of several girlfriends he had around this time. Young does her best with what’s she given which is, to be honest, nowhere near enough.

There’s a frankly exasperating moment where Bruce is finally about to unburden himself to a psychiatrist, to explain exactly what’s been haunting him all these years… only for the camera to suddenly cut away, leaving the audience literally in the dark. On the plus side, there are a couple of upbeat scenes set in New Jersey club, The Stone Pony, that celebrate the energy and excitement of the early 80s rock scene. And a recreation of the original recording session for the song Born in the USA, is a definite high point.

But too often, Deliver Me From Nowhere struggles to justify its considerable running time. Hardcore Springsteen fans will find enough elements here to pique their interest but those with only a passing knowledge of the man and his work may soon start running out of patience.

3.4 stars

Philip Caveney

The Iron Claw

14/02/24

Cineworld, Edinburgh

As I sit watching this film unfold, I can’t help picturing writer/director Sean Durkin’s hopeful pitch to a room full of potential financiers.

“So Sean, what’s this film about?”

“It’s about the world of wrestling – and it’s inspired by a real-life family drama. Oh, and it will star Zac Efron. You know, from High School Musical?”

Whatever those execs pictured in that moment, I’m pretty sure it was nothing like The Iron Claw, but – trust me – the resulting movie is about a hundred times better than it could ever sound as a pitch. If you have expectations, prepare to adjust them.

We first meet the Von Erich clan in the 1970s, when they are conducting their lucrative tag-wrestling partnership and going from strength to strength under the tutelage of their father, Fritz (Holt McCallany), a veritable toxic stew of a man. Fritz thinks nothing of flinging his boys headlong into the wrestling life, even those who are not cut out for it. The Von Erichs have the physiques of Greek gods and the hairstyles to match and, as all-American boys, they do whatever Daddy says, getting little in the way of guidance from their mom, Doris (Maura Tierny), who seems mostly preoccupied with putting gargantuan amounts of carbs on the table.

The oldest (surviving) boy is Kevin (Efron), who, though built like the proverbial stone sewage outlet, somehow manages to maintain his good humour even when being passed over in favour of one of his younger siblings. These include human chameleon Harris Dickinson as David, whose good looks and articulacy make him an ideal frontman and Kerry (Jeremy Allan White), whose dream of throwing the discus at the 1980 Moscow Olympics are scuppered when America withdraws for political reasons. And then there’s young Mike (Stanley Simons), a gentle, optimistic teenager who hankers after a career as a musician – until Fritz derides this as a pipe dream and demands he become a wrestler like his brothers…

As you might expect, the Von Erichs come in for more than their fair share of tragedy; indeed, their story is so overloaded with the stuff that Durkin has removed some of the bleaker occurrences and completely eliminated one member of the clan – Chris, if you’re wondering – arguing that there’s only so much misery an audience can endure in a two-hour cinema visit. Put it this way: if this was fiction, nobody would believe that one relatively small bunch of people could possibly encounter so many slings and arrows in their journey through life. Little wonder that rumours of a ‘Von Erich curse’ proliferated as the family was hit with one terrible disaster after another.

Don’t get me wrong, The Iron Claw (named for Fritz’s signature technique) isn’t one endless blub-fest. Indeed, Durkin ensures that there’s plenty here to lift the mood as the action unfolds. There’s a wonderfully cheesy evocation of the 70s and 80s, with an upbeat soundtrack comprising some of the biggest rock songs of the era, and there’s a whole raft of superb performances from the ensemble cast. Lily James, in a change from her usual ‘middle-class posh girl’ roles, delivers what may be a career-best performance as Kevin’s vivacious and resourceful partner, Pam. And there’s a delightful cameo from Aaron Dean Eisenberg as motor-mouthed wrestling champion, Ric Flair, who comes across as a nasty piece of work on TV, but is revealed to be a nice guy when he’s allowed to be himself.

I was warned to bring some Kleenex to this, but though I’m often shocked by the constant barrage of bad luck the family encounters, I remain resolutely dry eyed throughout. But maybe that’s just me. The Iron Claw is a brilliantly-nuanced story that looks at the toxic nature of the wrestling industry, skilfully eviscerates it and reveals the genuine humanity that lurks behind all that pantomime posturing. 

And it’s clear from the word go which member of the family is chiefly responsible for all that heartbreak.

4.7 stars

Philip Caveney