There Will Be Blood

Darkness. A fiery spark reveals harsh rock, then just as quickly we are left in gloom again. This repeats. Harsh metallo-lithic noises punctuate a background of laboured breathing. Several minutes later we surface to eye-watering daylight. Dust and stones in every monochromatic direction. And one lone figure, black with soot, black with grime, black with - Oil. Welcome to There Will Be Blood.
Already, in the first fifteen dialogue-bare minutes, the filmmakers have told the audience everything they need to know, and have set the pace, tone and style for the entire film. And while it was widely advertised as a story about power, family, religion and greed, I would disagree. True, Blood does deal with these concepts extensively. But they are not what this film is about. They are merely the furnishings surrounding the pulsing heart of this story. The name of that muscular, pounding heart is Obsession. A more powerful plot-driving engine would be hard to find, and it is exploited to its full potential. So much so that it's easy to imagine the director catching his character's disease - the vision we are presented with is fever sharp, magnificently inexorable, and never wavers for a second. Each cinematic element is honed to an almost painfully fine point then fused one with each other, achieving a ruthless singularity of purpose.
There is no point in isolating one discipline for mention; it would be at the exclusion of many others no less worthy. In fact there is very little I can say about this film without detracting from its brutally spare power and passionately crafted workmanship. But perhaps I can say this: if Wit was a dignified queen, There Will Be Blood is a glorious tyrant, an autocrat whose subjects admire him, fear him, and worship him.

Any small imperfections in this piece are overwhelmed by the sheer momentum of its greatness. This really is a masterpiece. 10.

Wit

In this supercharged time of quick cuts, spectacular visual effects and shock twist endings, Wit stands apart like a queen gazing indulgently at a mob of boisterous children. It has only one sympathetic character, a bare bones plot, and an ending which you know is inevitable from the first sentence. It has no desire to impress, no inclination to showcase - it just wants to talk to you. This is a film that does not deign to clutch for your attention - but will inexorably draw you in anyway.
Much of the credit for this audacious feat can safely be attributed to the wonderful Emma Thompson. Co-writer and leading lady, she carries everything on her shoulders. As an esteemed English scholar who is losing her battle with cancer, she precisely manages a balance between cultured stiff upper lip dignity, and raw human helplessness. And as she talks directly into the camera, letting you into her most personal and painful moments, the divide drops away and you are no longer watching a movie. You are sitting on the bed beside her, holding her hand as she pukes uncontrollably into a bucket - as she answers "Fine, thank you" to unthinking How are you's - as she quietly, tragically, comes to grips for the first time with her beloved John Donne's existential poetry.
Another element which further cemented my admiration for this film was the retention of its theatrical roots. It is based on a stageplay, as are numerous fine films, but the difference lies in how they made use of that heritage. Wit held onto some of that creative license that is quite often seen on the stage, but is sadly scarce at the cinema. It took the liberty of sacrificing realism for truth, and did so in such a fashion that you are not removed from the story but instead continue to be captivated by the simple struggle of one individual with, yes cancer, yes death - but most importantly, herself.
This is true drama.

As for a rating - it only misses out on a 10 because it relies almost entirely on acting to make it the film that it is. A brave choice, but nevertheless that knocks it down to 9.