Submarine Review: Piledriver Waltz

Back in the late 50s, the young, incendiary critics of France’s Cahiers du Cinema were the backbone of the magazine and the most progressive film enthusiasts of the country. After getting called out by peers and industry professionals alike, some decided to put their money where their mouth was and make a film themselves. Within three short years, The 400 Blows (Antoine!) was released and, soon after, Breathless (Michel!). In one fell swoop, Francois Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard changed the face of movies and the New Wave was born. While Richard Ayoade’s Submarine may not have the power to change cinematic storytelling, its style and narrative is born of the French New Wave and calls out a bright new filmmaker who has quietly crafted one of the best films of the summer.

Oliver Tate (Craig Roberts) is neck-deep in the violent throes of coming-of-age. Stuck in a dreary Welsh town, his only solace is to day dream. “I often imagine how people would react to my death,” begins one such fantasy in which school girls sob uncontrollably over the loss, the entire town rallies to his memorial, and Oliver ultimately undergoes a glorious resurrection in which he materializes in a halo of light in front of a group of depressed school girls. “Don’t ask how, just know I’m more powerful than ever,” he says to one red-jacketed girl in particular. Her name is Jordana Bevan (Yasmine Paige) and she is the maelstrom that turns Oliver’s world upside down. Their courtship starts auspiciously when they pick on one of their overweight classmates together – not something Oliver is fond of, but a hobby in which Jordana tends to delight (more on that later). His attraction to her juxtaposes against his morals and throws him into a fit of confusion as he tries to figure out what his “thing” really is; he tries smoking a pipe, flipping coins, listening exclusively to French crooners (Note: if Oliver’s music selection was heavy on the Serge Gainsbourg, he could have been on to something…), and finally, a hat phase. None of it works. He now realizes he is fully sprung on Jordana.

So what the hell could Oliver possibly see in a girl like Jordana, who gets cheap laughs out of being a bitch? Well, she’s dark, mysterious…and available. And sometimes, that’s all a 15-year old boy needs to get on. But Jordana is not as cut-and-dry as she seems. Her motivations stem from trouble at home and eventually seep into her and Oliver’s relationship. In one of the lovelier sequences of the film, they make a paper boat in which their relationship rules have been scribbled on its sail: “No Pet Names. No Hand Holding. No Emotions.” This is largely Jordana’s doing, as she does not like getting close to anyone, though Oliver will take what he can get, especially since it distracts him from the stagnant life that his parents (Noah Taylor, Sally Hawkins) have made for themselves. So disinterested are they in their marriage, that they joyfully celebrate Oliver’s announcement of a girlfriend. His father Lloyd even makes a “Relationship Mixtape” that covers the full breadth of a relationship (Side A: Celebratory/Side B: Despondency).  Things complicate for Oliver when New Age Guru Craig Roberts (Paddy Constantine) moves next door. Craig once had a relationship with Oliver’s mom Jill and despite the man’s spiked-out mullet, he still poses a threat to the marriage. As the relationship between Craig and Jill begins to rekindle, Oliver is tugged in two directions- saving his parents’ marriage and tending to Jordana and the dire circumstances surrounding her home life.

The charm of Submarine comes largely from Oliver Tate. At best estimation, he’s a more awkward, stumbly, confused Ferris Bueller. This is a wonderful thing. Oliver plans grandly and even when his diabolical scheming doesn’t seem to shake out quite right, it ends up getting the job done. Exhibit how he carefully crafts an evening alone with Jordana, toasting “to us and a wonderful evening of lovemaking.” Or how he writes a letter to Jill posing as his father in hopes to inject the marriage with a shot of romance. It’s not exactly stuffing a mannequin in your bed and looping a coughing sound effects track, but it is certainly inspired nonetheless.

Aside from the story, adapted from the novel by Joe Dunthorne, the great joy of Submarine is its style. Richard Ayoade is a visually rich filmmaker, in line with the great contemporary Andersons of film (Paul Thomas and Wes, respectively); in fact, montage sequences of rapid-fire found footage and elaborate re-creations echo those directors’ best work (Magnolia and Rushmore, for starters).  Costume design, color palette, lighting, set design. All of these things are carefully considered and it shows. Everything speaks to the world of the film, which is something that too few directors spend time with or are interested in. Add to this mix an achingly gentle, bare-bones set of seven songs written specifically for the film by Arctic Monkeys front man Alex Turner and the result is a lovely coming of age film that can stand proudly with the other classics of the genre.

Submarine is a remarkably balanced film; metaphoric without pretension, honest without being a bore, touching without being heavy-handed. A big thank-you bouquet of flowers to Ben Stiller and Stuart Cornfeld at Red Hour Films for flexing their power-muscle in getting the film distributed in the states, where it would have languished for a few days, then disappeared from existence otherwise. Powers That Be: Please continue to fund more films from Richard Ayoade. His voice potentially marks the start of another New Wave. Bring it on, I say.

Images courtesy of The Sundance Institute and IMDbPro