THEY REMAIN
Directed by Philip Gilatt

The first three quarters of the film offers plenty of foliage, treetops, grassy glades.  Two people, a black guy who totes the gun on his patrols around the grassy clearing they seem to bivouac in and a white female, are both scientists.  They inhabit and collect data inside three polyhedron structures composed of translucent triangles.

I thought the sustained mood of tension and suspense was unusually maintained for far longer than in most films, and there were echoes or suggestions of the recent Amy Adams sci-fi visitation film, evocations of, for me, The Blair Witch Project (in part because of all the trees and the soughing treetops), as well as flashes of the Manson crazies of the '70s.

I found the ending disappointing because of what seemed to be unwarranted deus ex machina plot turns of poisoned water and madness on the part of the female.  That these two scientists would be reduced to crawling into a hole in the ground after being warned that this is what had happened in the past disappointed me.  I was hoping for a more powerful dénouement than that they both descended into similar folie à foule, and I had maintained hope that there would be UFO alien connections rather than cannibalistic or atavistic humans.

I found the photography and set design intriguing, pending revelation of what they were seeking.  Despite my patience with the slow-moving unfold, overall, I wonder how many audiences might tire of the repetitiveness of the calendar marching on and on without much happening that could be seen as dynamic.

A walkie-talkie voice collects whatever news the male has to impart (no names of either protagonist), and the bodiless voice on the other end whispers lewd suggestions to the male referencing whether he has "nailed" the female scientist.  But there is no chemistry or hint of interest on the part of either, making the eventual seduction of the male by the female more than a little puzzling.  And frankly, unbelievable.  And unwarranted.

The plot points bump along without reasonable grounding until the last quarter, when the female seems to be going off the rails in subtle but dangerous ways.  The aggression she levels at her colleague seems untoward, since he has done nothing to evoke her rage.  What she does to him seems bizarre and cruel, only partially explicable by the talkie voice who has warned them of unwonted reactions in previous iterations of scientists apparently on the same mission.  The hurt inflicted on the male protagonist is, also, I felt, undue – uncalled for and terrible as a plot device.  I am not sure I believe that the female, heretofore fairly straightforward and unaffected, would become so unhinged or aggressive with her colleague.

It is not a "bad" film, but the snatched at ending detracts from its being satisfying as a completely rendered story.  Thousands of better films and horror cum sci-fi films have instructed us to wring more out of the story and setting we see posited and reeled out at such length.

THE PARTY
Directed by Sally Potter

Potter has been making films since she was a mere 14, interspersing her film work with dance and music of various sorts in her natal Britain.

The Party has been received by a number of reviewers as "humorous" – it is satiric, but humor has a ways to go before this intimate parlor drama achieves a ha-ha response.

Kristin Scott Thomas, playing Janet, is married to a demented-looking Timothy Spall, as Bill.  (His acting choice seemed a major misstep; it took half the run-time to realize that his problem was not sudden-onset Alzheimer's.  His wholly deadened affect didn't help matters).  She has just been appointed Britain's health minister.  She is prepping a celebration of the honor accorded her with her close friends.   Patricia Clarkson, as Janet's bestie, April, delivers her signature cynicism so vitriolic that one wants to run over to her husband Gottfried, played as a cherubic naïf, a touchy-feely healer, Bruno Ganz, to comfort him after every "Shut up, Gottfried" spat out by his icy wife.

At the start of this black-and-white film that resembles some of Alfred Hitchcock's early '40s films, April and Gottfried are on the verge of separation.  For his part, Gottfried confides to Bill how "beautiful" his wife is and how "lucky" he is for having her.

Joining the rancid crew are Cherry Jones (whom April describes as a "first-class lesbian but a second-rate mind."  Her lovely, dewy with youth lover is Emily Mortimer, as Jinny, who has just been informed that she is carrying triplets – all boys.  The pair spend much of their time in the garden, gesticulating and exclaiming largely beyond our earshot.

Then there is the agitated, sleekly handsome, now drug compromised Cillian Murphy, as Tom, whose reasons for agitation and rage become clear as the film proceeds.  A presence mentioned often but not seen in the film proper is Tom's wife, the gorgeous Marianne.

There is drama aplenty, and one supposes there could be viewers who see this intense acidulous unrolling tragedy as "comic."  There are repartee-edged laughs, of course, this being London.  As good drama must, there is an arc.  Relationships shift and change; the end is quite at the other end of where it looked as though it might be at the start.

I wasn't happy at the too-brief length of the film, as the characters establish themselves firmly as decidedly interesting enough for a two-hour length.  Still, this is a superior enterprise in filmmaking, absent CGI and special effects, explosions, or ethnic prejudices.