Friday, February 26, 2016


[continued from here]

A former mainstay of festival competitions everywhere - and still in France, though with varying degrees of success - is the relationship drama, a type of mid-range film that the French did better than anyone else in the 1970s (see Claude Sautet, or some of the more sedate later Chabrol) but that has been progressively squeezed out, replaced in most festival line-ups by equivalent projects made as pan-European or American productions or more openly auteur works. Berlin tends to have at least one of these every year, though usually middling (in 2015 it was Benoît Jacquot's underwhelming Diary of a Chambermaid), but the 2016 choices were smart enough to suggest a sort of inter-generational relay in this sub-genre. The festival welcomed both the veteran André Téchiné with his best film in some years and the relatively youngish Mia Hansen-Løve with a dazzling display of maturity.

     Mr. Téchiné's Being 17, co-written by Céline Sciamma of Girlhood fame, is a finely observed tale of adolescent yearnings in a small mountain village, complicated by familial and social issues. It's a welcome return to the director's best form, openly reminding of The Wild Reeds in its almost effortless weaving of the personal and the public in the tale of Damien (Kacey Mottet Klein) and Thomas (Corentin Fila), two 17-year old schoolmates whose strange, inexplicable antipathy toward each other hides deeper, darker undercurrents. It's been a long while since we've seen the director this energized, to be honest, and even if Being 17 brings really nothing new to the table thematically, it proves there's still life in the old man.

     Ms. Hansen-Løve's Things to Come is what Mr. Téchiné might be doing today if he were a younger filmmaker: a deceptively simple tale of a woman whose intellectual and professional achievements are of no use when dealing with the unexpected blows of everyday life. As always with the director, the film is built of subterranean, loosely focussed episodes that work more by accumulation of mood and detail rather than by narrative flow. Isabelle Huppert radiates her fierce intelligence as Nathalie, the philosophy teacher whose life begins to disintegrate under her very eyes, and Things to Come is a sort of perfect match between director and actress (like Mr. Téchiné had years ago with Catherine Deneuve), while proving Ms. Hansen-Løve (who took home the best director award) can shift up in age from the teenagers and twentysomethings that populated most of her previous work without skipping a beat.

     If France made a sort of comeback this year with two excellent films in a more classical mold (plus co-production duties in a few more), a few countries that are Berlin regulars in the main selection were mysteriously absent. Nothing from Latin America, to whom the festival traditionally pays attention (the highest-profile title was Chilean Alejandro Almendras's Aqui no ha pasado nada in the Panorama section), or Russia, though there was a quite intriguing Polish title, Tomasz Wasilewski's United States of Love, a stylish, formalist roundelay about four women and their romantic heartbreaks just after the fall of the Berlin Wall (winner of the screenplay award, somewhat bewilderingly since it's so obviously a visual experience).

     There was only the one Chinese entry, Crosscurrent, a beautifully shot but derivative, oblique Jia Zhangke wannabe (winner of the Artistic Contribution prize for Mark Lee Ping-Bing's delicate camerawork). And Germany was also not in the running - while present as co-producer in a number of films, the only fully-fledged competition entry was Anne Zohra Berrached's 24 Weeks, a woman's picture that I didn't see but that resonated mostly with the press as a "movie of the week" that hardly deserved to be in competition. Still, the matters of a film's nationality are becoming secondary anyway, given the globalized nature of modern arthouse film production.

     Case in point of this border-blurring: Soy Nero, the latest from London-based Iranian exile Rafi Pitts, shot in the US and in Mexico with an American cast and global crew, backed by the director's regular German producer and co-written by Razvan Radulescu, the Romanian screenwriter behind The Death of Mr. Lazarescu or 4 Weeks, 3 Months and 2 Days. For all that, Mr. Pitts' film is one of those earnest but dull "problem pictures" dealing with the hot topic of contemporary's America xenophobic response to illegal immigration.

     Inspired by true stories of the so called "green card soldiers" (one of which, Daniel Torres, served as consultant and walked the premiere red carpet in his Marine dress blues), Soy Nero follows the trials and tribulations of the titular character (Johnny Ortiz), a teenage son of immigrants raised in the US and deported back to Mexico, who ends up joining the US Army as fast-track way to gain citizenship only to find not even serving one's desired country is enough for a welcome. Everything in this handsome production is so obviously signposted that you have the feeling you already know the outcome even before you go into the theater; while there's enough intelligence and a couple of nice narrative twists in the film's first half, once Nero ships out to Iraq the film gets stuck in the desert sand like an over-loaded Humvee.

[to be continued...]

Wednesday, February 24, 2016


[continued from here]

That Spike Lee's Chi-raq boasted more verve and sheer energy and engaged hot topics better than most of the material selected for the Berlin competition wasn't entirely surprising; the competition does tend to be somewhat better behaved than the sidebars. But it was clear, just from the applause at the end of its press screening, that Gianfranco Rosi's Fuocoammare was destined to be the winner of the festival's top honour.

    The Berlinale prides itself on its political, activist stance, and with the refugee crisis front and center in the news, the Italian documentary filmmaker's look at the Italian island of Lampedusa, for nearly a quarter of a century at the heart of illegal immigration from the impoverished African lands of Eritrea or Sudan into Europe, was the right film at the right time. Mr. Rosi's carefully composed film has all the equivocal hallmarks of his previous work, teetering constantly on the high-wire between sincerity and effect, but it's a beautifully shot and intelligently presented piece suggesting that even in Lampedusa the worlds of Europe and the refugees never really touch. It's a massive step up from his disappointing Venice winner Sacro GRA, and whether you appreciate or not the work it's undeniable that Fuocoammare is the sort of film that gets people talking.

      (As is Israeli provocateur Avi Mograbi's Between Fences, about the dehumanising process by which Israel pretends to take care of African refugees but actually confines them to a desert camp. But Between Fences, following a theatre workshop meant to give these people their humanity back, seemed to be a minor work, intelligent as ever in its questioning of Israel's social paradoxes but slighter than his usual.)

     The only competition work more divisive than Mr. Rosi's documentary was Jeff Nichols' almost-but-not-quite Spielberg homage Midnight Special, an ambitious if underachieving attempt at melding the director's Southern ruralist sensibilities and matters of faith and hope in the future with a genre framework of a sci-fi thriller. Most observers spotted John Carpenter's Starman as a reference, but the obvious starting point is Mr. Spielberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind, with a dash of his earlier chase thriller The Sugarland Express thrown in for good measure.

     Powered by the well-matched intensity of Michael Shannon and Joel Edgerton, Midnight Special is a less accomplished work than Take Shelter, the film that really put Mr. Nichols on the map, but it's proof that you can make a genre film that doesn't sacrifice depth and smarts on the altar of visual effects (of which there aren't that many, and those that are are expertly deployed.) It was as passionately defended as it was dismissed, and its stubborn absence from Warners' international schedules means the studio doesn't really quite know what to do with it, but it's by no means a misfire.

     Iranian hyphenate Mani Haghighi's A Dragon Arrives! would have probably joined Mr. Rosi and Mr. Nichols in the divisive sweepstakes, had it not had the dubious honour of being the very last film to screen in competition. By this time festival fatigue has set in and all bets are pretty much made, but if it had screened earlier this deliberate bucking of the Iranian trend for tasteful realist social drama might have gotten the attention it deserved. Utterly deranged even if ultimately disappointing, A Dragon Arrives! is closer in tone and theme to Ana Lily Amirpour's cult hit A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night. Like Midnight Special, it walks the high wire between genre and meta-fiction, a deconstructed and reconstructed mystery set around the mysterious disappearance in 1965 of a police detective, a sound engineer and a geologist while investigating strange events in the island of Qeshm.

     Mr. Haghighi shifts between lushly coloured, strikingly widescreen vistas and consumer-camera mockumentary with a zip and energy highlighted by Christophe Rezai's beatbox-exotic score. But it makes the fatal error of moving between too many narrative levels to the point of losing the audience, its mysteries remaining just that - mysteries, or rather, MacGuffins used as sheer pretexts for a self-perpetuating Chinese-box Arabian Nights meta-fictional structure. It's a genuinely engaging picture, but one that seems to lose itself down the rabbit hole.

[to be continued...]

Tuesday, February 23, 2016


There is still a sense of not enough time and too much time when the time comes to talk about a festival like Berlin. Not enough time to see all you want to see; too much time spent seeing films to think them through thoroughly. You could easily see four films a day (at the very least) by judiciously mixing and matching from the main competition and the various sidebars. Of course, having to cover a festival professionally in these 24-hour-news-cycle days limits what you can do with this embarrassment of riches - you've barely just come out of the screening and are already being asked to pontificate on what you just saw. The irony, of course, is that, technically, festival films are the ones that actually need the time and space to be considered at length.

     Returning to the festival after being absent in 2015 for personal reasons, my Berlin '16 was shaped mostly by the need to file daily for the day job on the most important works present for a general-interest audience, as well as on the particularly strong Portuguese presence this year, while dipping my toe here and there at the sidebars. From the homeland contingent, my personal favourite remains Salomé Lamas' meticulously thought-out Eldorado XXI, a combination of hands-off, observational documentary and thought-provoking essay shot on location at the forbiddingly remote Peruvian mining village of La Rinconada, that comes off like a post-apocalyptic near-future at the crossroads of Werner Herzog and Wang Bing.

     Premiering at the Forum, like Ms. Lamas' demanding feature, was Vienna-based director Hugo Vieira da Silva's loose adaptation of Joseph Conrad's novella An Outpost of Progress, a wryly ironic indictment of imperial colonization shot in the jungles of Angola; matching the writer's enveloping prose with an almost effortlessly seductive, poisonous mood (shot by Matías Piñeiro's usual DP Fernando Lockett), it's the best film so far by this rare director, though it crashes out spectacularly in a number of ill-advised choices in the last half hour.

     I wasn't much impressed by Ivo Ferreira's stately filming of novelist António Lobo Antunes' letters home from the colonial wars in the late 1960s and early 1970s, premiering in the official competition. Shot by João Ribeiro in an exquisite black and white that reminds of Pedro Costa or Béla Tarr, Letters from War tries too hard to match Mr. Lobo Antunes' baroque, free-associating torrent of words and collapses under the weight of an over-burdening offscreen narration; its stately visuals and logorrheic voiceover seem to be at loggerheads with each other, to paradoxically dull yet excessive effect. Certainly it was one of the best-looking features on offer in what was a less striking competition than I expected or that the names on hand suggested.

     I skipped both the obvious prestige jobs Berlin likes to put in the competition - this year Vincent Pérez's euro-pudding adaptation of Hans Fallada's anti-Nazi novel Alone in Berlin and Michael Grandage's star-powered literary melodrama Genius - and the out-of-competition additions to the official line-up that seem to exist merely to feed the market, most of which directed by second-tier filmmakers and never really go beyond middling releases or direct-to-VOD. Stuff like Kiwi director Lee Tamahori's Mahana or Dominik Moll's News from Planet Mars seem to appear more on the Berlin schedule than on comparable major festivals while usually receiving little to no attention, and the festival's proven track record of unfortunate choices (anyone remember the utterly inexplicable Jennifer Lopez vehicle Bordertown a few years back?) usually make it easy for me to pass them by.

     I made, however, a point of breaking this rule for Spike Lee's incendiary Chi-raq and boy, was I glad I did. Mr. Lee can be a maddeningly irregular director, capable of the disastrous and of the dazzling, and behind its devil-may-care, take-no-prisoners attitude, Chi-raq - an inner-city musical update of Aristophanes' classic Greek farce Lysistrata set on the gang-infested South Side of Chicago and designed as a political tract for the defense of African-America communities -- is his strongest, most heartfelt film in ages: uncompromising, outrageous and, above all, riotously fun, even if it doesn't always hold together coherently. It's Do the Right Thing updated for the #blacklivesmatter 21st century, but it's also proof of life for a director that I haven't seen this enthused since the intricately constructed made-to-order studio thriller Inside Man.

[to be continued...]

Monday, February 08, 2016


Some films just have to be seen more than once for the full effect and, in the case of Quentin Tarantino's The Hateful Eight, you really have to see it on the biggest screen you can find (knowing full well not everyone will have access, alas, to the 70mm prints that seem to be one of the film's raisons d'être). It's one of these cases where a film literally opens up on a second viewing, even if The Hateful Eight is far from being the director's masterpiece and carries a whiff of "look ma, no hands!" showmanship.

     Basically a remake of Reservoir Dogs as a grand-guignol And Then There Were None murder mystery disguised as western, it's yet another of Mr. Tarantino's alternate takes on history as rewritten by genre movies, connecting both to Inglorious Basterds and Django Unchained's period tropes and to Kill Bill and Death Proof's exploitation smarts. Above all, it's an extraordinarily fetishistic film, probably the most ever in the director's career, in line with the texture and feel of a lost Golden Age of popular cinema; Robert Richardson's masterful work explains why he is one of the most consistently underrecognized American cinematographers around, the gloriously tactile, crisp grain of the 70mm stock coming through even in digital projection. And Mr. Tarantino, ever the master of the grand dialogue tease, knows exactly what he's doing with his virtuoso writing that throws all sorts of verbal and physical violence into the mix, simultaneously honouring and subverting all of the codified genre elements he calls upon.

     While there is hardly a flaw in the spot-on casting, it's Tarantino regular Samuel L. Jackson that anchors the film with the performance of a lifetime as bounty hunter Major Marquis Warren (no disrespect meant to anyone else). And if you do feel that the director isn't stretching as much as he is merely exploring a few more back roads of a territory he knows by now as the palm of his hand, you won't be wrong. That is what you get from the film on the first viewing. But, once you settle in for a second time and start paying attention to all the craft details hidden in the tapestry, The Hateful Eight unfolds as such a love letter to cinema, from its lovingly calibrated camera set-ups to the meticulously constructed scripting, that it becomes utterly irresistible.

US, 2015, 168 minutes (standard print)
CAST Samuel L. Jackson, Kurt Russell, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Walton Goggins, Demián Bichir, Tim Roth, Michael Madsen, Bruce Dern, James Parks, Channing Tatum
DIR, SCR Quentin Tarantino; DP Robert Richardson (Ultra Panavision 70); M Ennio Morricone; PROD DES Yohei Taneda; COST DES Courtney Hoffman; SP Gregory Nicotero, Howard Berger; ED Fred Raskin; PROD Richard N. Gladstein, Stacey Sher, Shannon McIntosh
A Weinstein Company production/presentation

Sunday, February 07, 2016


The mid-range adult drama is a tricky one to pull off these days in a Portuguese film scene that seems squarely divided between hardcore auteurism or rank soap-opera-level commercialism. Though made by a crew with extensive television experience, Jogo de Damas doesn't want to be a simplistic blown-up TV movie of the week, and it hasn't a single auteurist bone in its body.

     But Patrícia Sequeira's theatrical debut never finds the foothold it looks for, nor does it settle on an identity. Its female-centred Big Chill-ish tale of five long-term friends spending the night before the funeral of the friend that brought them all together stumbles on the shorthand of soap-opera characterisation and plotting: they're all well off ladies whose only issues are first-world problems and emotions, they all have big secrets that will come out before the allotted 90 minutes run out, the dialogues are less actual back-and-forth conversations than statements. This is rather glaring when so much of the film is anchored in the serious subject of how to deal with death.

     Ultimately, Jogo de Damas never truly rises above the tastefulness of upscale TV drama, down to a length that seems have been carefully programmed to accommodate a two-hour slot's commercial breaks. It's a shame, because there's the kernel of a good movie in here, and the talent to support it in its well-chosen cast and in Ms. Sequeira's functional if anonymous handling. It just isn't enough to make Jogo de Damas more than a well-meaning and ultimately forgettable ersatz of a soulful object.

PT, 2015, 87 minutes
CAST Ana Nave, Ana Padrão, Fátima Belo, Maria João Luís, Rita Blanco
DIR Patrícia Sequeira; SCR Filipa Leal; DP Renato Falcão (widescreen); M David Rossi, Paula Sousa; AD Anabela Santos, Lu Barradas, Ruca Nunes dos Santos; COST DES Rita Lameiras; ED Nuno Santos Lopes
A R. I. Filmes production in co-production with Master Dream Digital Movie; released by Leopardo Filmes

JOGO DE DAMAS, um filme de PATRÍCIA SEQUEIRA from Leopardo Filmes on Vimeo.

Saturday, February 06, 2016


Much has been - rightly - made of Spotlight's pleading for the noble calling of journalism as a public service that sheds light in dark or unexplored corners and improves society in the process. For me, though, what's really most interesting in Tom McCarthy's retelling of the Boston Globe's 2001-2002 investigation on the child abuse cover-ups in the Boston diocese is how it all boils down to selfless teamwork. Spotlight is neither a star vehicle or a vanity project, rather an ensemble piece where no one stands above the rest, where the individual contributions of cast and crew are absorbed into the whole.

     It was the teamwork of Boston Globe's Spotlight team of investigative reporters that made the story happen - Spotlight points out that American theme of community, of everyone joining in and working together for a common cause. Though the film is openly retelling a true story that deals with child abuse and church cover-ups, the opposition between business and morality, the modern crisis in journalism's business model, and the swirling ethics that surround all of these, what Spotlight essentially does is move the conversation forward.

     In the shape of a shoe-leather procedural that moves slowly through trial and error, one-step-forward-two-steps-back, eschewing big stars in favour of a stellar ensemble cast headlined by reliable actors like Mark Ruffalo, Liev Schreiber and Michael Keaton, Mr. McCarthy's patient, unassuming film is all about remembering that behind the headlines and scandals are actual living, breathing, feeling people who have to deal with these things daily. And it's about them deserving that we deal with their story in a level-headed, non-sensationalised way.

     That also makes it mirror the ideal (and idealized) studio system we identify with the Golden Age of Hollywood; it turns it into a reminder of the solidly crafted quality of a certain type of storytelling that has been left behind in the quest for "four-quadrant" films that will ensure global returns, based on high-paid stars and flashy visual effects. That Spotlight has in the meantime become a serious Oscar contender is not a surprise in this modern climate; it's the only avenue a "small" film such as this has left to reach an audience that is underserved, when not ignored, by the teen-oriented marketing machines of the studios. (In fact, Spotlight was not released in the US by any of the majors, but by Open Road, the independent distributor set up by the AMC and Regal theatre chains. I rest my case.)

US, 2015, 129 minutes
CAST Mark Ruffalo, Michael Keaton, Rachel McAdams, Liev Schreiber, John Slattery, Brian d'Arcy James, Stanley Tucci, Billy Crudup
DIR Tom McCarthy; SCR Josh Singer, Mr. McCarthy; DP Masanobu Takayanagi; M Howard Shore; PROD DES Stephen Carter; COST DES Wendy Chuck; ED Tom McArdle; PROD Michael Sugar, Steve Golin, Nicole Rocklin, Blye Pagon Faust
An Anonymous Content and Rocklin/Faust Productions production, presented by Participant Media and First Look Media

Thursday, February 04, 2016


The anomaly is Charlie Kaufman's stock in trade. All his films are about the outward manifestation of singular anomalies, that become visible or tangible in equally singular and bewildering ways. Yet it's worth asking if the acclaimed screenwriter's stock in trade has become a crutch or a refuge. Not that Anomalisa is a sleepwalking effort; it's merely an underachieving one, recycling a "radio play" that Mr. Kaufman wrote ten years ago for composer Carter Burwell's "Theater of the New Ear" series of staged readings. Its strengths and weaknesses both derive from the ingenious device that anchors it: the story of a man looking for that elusive human connection in a world of conformity and sameness has all characters - bar the two leads - voiced by the same actor.

     For the film version he co-directed with animator Duke Johnson, Mr. Kaufman doubles down on this device, by making the film in stop-motion animation, using puppets that all are eerily, implacably identical, all voiced by Tom Noonan. Mr. Noonan reprises his role from the 2005 readings as do the two other actors voicing the leads: David Thewlis as customer service guru and travel warrior Michael Stone, from whose point of view everything is seen, and Jennifer Jason Leigh as Lisa, the customer service rep he becomes entranced with during a Cincinnati overnight stay.

     Lisa is the escape from conformity and dull routine that Michael has been looking for, the promise of a fresh start or a new day. For the short length of the film they're the only ones who truly stand out from the crowd - but for how long can this be? After all, Messrs. Kaufman and Johnson's puppets all look the same, whether it's Mr. Thewlis, Ms. Leigh or Mr. Noonan voicing them, and the film works on that thin razor's edge between hope and disappointment. The beautifully realized stop-motion animation (with an attention to visual detail and craft that many live-action productions don't have) becomes a smart and high-concept device that makes literal the screenwriter's concept.

     But once that device hits peak cruise, the film effectively goes nowhere with it and starts circling in a holding pattern. That doesn't make Anomalisa any less thoughtful, even if surprisingly restrained coming from a writer known for his narrative fireworks. It just means it never truly clicks as you hope it would; at some point I found myself thinking that it might have been punchier as a half-hour short. There's much to admire here, but I came away from it disappointed that I didn't like it more.

US, 2015, 90 minutes
VOICE CAST Jennifer Jason Leigh, Tom Noonan, David Thewlis
DIR Charlie Kaufman, Duke Johnson; SCR Mr. Kaufman; DP Joe Passarelli (widescreen); M Carter Burwell; PROD DES John Joyce, Huy Vu; COST DES Susan Donyun; ED Garret Elkins; SP Derek Smith; PROD Rosa Tran, Mr. Johnson, Mr. Kaufman, Dino Stamatopoulos
A Starburns Industries and Snoot Films production; released by Paramount Pictures

Wednesday, February 03, 2016


What shall we do with Alejandro González Iñárritu? A clearly talented filmmaker, the Mexican director remains the most troubling and troublesome of the trio of fellow countrymen that have made their way in/to Hollywood. Neither a gleeful genre stylist like Guillermo del Toro nor a thoughtful dramatist like Alfonso Cuarón, Mr. Iñárritu is a great maximalist, a more-is-more, look-at-me showman with auteurist aspirations. But the problem, for me, is not in his talent itself, rather in the (in)discipline he applies to it. His work is never subtle or discreet, tending instead to hammer home a point until it's bludgeoning you in the head.

     The Revenant's two-and-a-half-hour length is a good example of that. Though breathtakingly shot (by the master cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki) and handsomely mounted, what starts out with to-the-point directness as a survivalist western quickly gets bogged down in fuzzy mysticism and over-ponderous ruminations, once trapper Hugh Glass (Leonardo di Caprio) is left for dead by the treacherous, grudge-bearing Fitzgerald (Tom Hardy), a member of his own party. At the exact point at which Mr. Iñárritu's film should have taken off, from a gritty quasi-western shot in Herzog-like-conditions into a gripping tale of survival in the wild, it collapses instead, into a dullish collection of son et lumière visuals entranced by its own virtuoso aspects.

     This is not to say there is insincerity in The Revenant, which is for me Mr. Iñárritu's best work since his striking debut with Amores Perros. It's a quieter, less frantic work - the long stretches of silence in the wilderness and the restrained score by Ryuichi Sakamoto and Alva Noto help enormously. But the director's recurrent theme of men taking a shot at redemption while aware that there is no possible grace to be found, only sacrifice, remains stubbornly overbearing. Mr. Di Caprio really has nothing to do other than play the silent martyr, as his actions do not give us a doorway into a character that remains a cypher throughout and the film seems to require of him nothing but his mere presence (see Leo be mauled by a bear!). Mr. Hardy fares better with his curled-moustache villain, but he too has nothing to play against.

     And Mr. Iñárritu, too concerned with making everything "look real" or even "feel real", ends up turning the film into pure diorama in a nature shot with all the awe of Terrence Malick's ecstasies, a mere pageant taking place in front of us in which we never become involved. If much of the media narrative for The Revenant revolves around its you-are-there visuals, it also implies that became the film's sole reason for existing, while diverting attention from the many shortcomings at its center. Someone should tell Mr. Iñárritu to stop indulging so much.

US, HK, TW, 2015, 156 minutes
Leonardo di Caprio, Tom Hardy, Domhnall Gleeson, Will Poulter, Forrest Goodluck, Duane Howard, Arthur Redcloud
DIR Alejandro G. Iñárritu; SCR Mr. Iñárritu, Mark L. Smith, novel The Revenant by Michael Punke; DP Emmanuel Lubezki (widescreen); M Ryuichi Sakamoto, Alva Noto, Bryce Dessner; PROD DES Jack Fisk; COST DES Jacqueline West; ED Stephen Mirrione; SP Rich McBride; PROD Arnon Milchan, Steve Golin, Mr. Iñárritu, Mary Parent, Keith Redmon, James W. Skotchdopole
New Regency Pictures, Anonymous Content, M Productions and Appian Way Productions, in association with Alpha Hong Kong and Catch Play; a Regency Enterprises presentation in association with Ratpac Entertainment, released by Twentieth Century-Fox