When someone is witnessing the birth of a new kind of cinema, words fail. When an auteur arrives who truly eclipses all who have come before him, no superlative adjective seems apt. In the eons to come, when “Cassavetes” devolves into a cheap by-word for glorified home movies, when “Tarantino” is reduced to an ugly slur for violent podiatrists, and “Kubrick” is crudely scrawled above glory holes to invite multiple takes, there will be one director left standing, one name that will stay carry greatness. That man’s name…is “Nathan Hill”.
Who is this God who has graced us mere mortals with his presence? What wunderkind of cinema now walks among us, reshaping everything we thought we knew about movies?
So many of us have blithely come to accept that film audio needs an atmosphere track in the mix, to kiss over environmental sounds recorded in the dialogue. Not Nathan Hill. So many cinematographers have blindly capitulated to dynamic lighting that creates contrast, highlights and visual interest. Not so, Nathan Hill. Every shot in this film is adequately or blandly lit. The effect is mind blowing. You’ll scratch your head, wondering, “Why has no one thought of this before?” Not since Welles has a film maker forced me to reconsider everything I took for granted about film technique.
Consider the protagonist of an action film. Hill has, and broken new ground by doing so. Many might consider that an action star should have charisma, physical fitness and an intense knowledge of and background in martial arts. Jet Li is a former world champion. Schwarzenegger is a Mr. Universe winner. Nathan Hill has taken karate lessons. There is a lesson here and that lesson is, “less is more”. I’m sorry, James Cameron, but you were wrong. We all were, about everything.
When watching Hill in action, many might come away with the perception of a delusional narcissist with the gaze of a serial killer and the sexual magnetism of Toby from the U.S. version of The Office crossed with a sack of potatoes. But those viewers have failed to see the greatness in every flat footed step that this dad bodied Adonis occupies the screen with. Nathan Hill is the new zenith of action stardom and we should all be thankful to have him. Iko Uwais? Sure, he’s fine if you’re into exposed shin bones. Tony Jaa? Great, let’s all break our elbows for the sake of entertainment. Nathan Hill delivers a head blow to a Sumo that could cripple a throw pillow. This is the new standard by which all filmed martial arts will be measured.
What is profoundly evident in this revolutionised cinema is Hill’s love for Asian women. His passion and respect for them is palpable. Where lesser film makers might have chosen actresses based on talent, ability to emote or skill with dialogue, Hill crams the screen with alternatively wooden or over acting women whose merits consist of physical beauty and how sexy they look in latex outfits. Watching Asian actresses garble English dialogue with the oddly stressed intonation you’d expect of Short Round attending a lower tier EAL class was one of the most empowering things I’ve seen for Actresses of Colour. They were not dehumanised, objectified or made to look like fools; Hill has raised these women to the level of steamy, Oriental Goddesses occupying a Rice King’s wet dream. They almost occupy the same Olympus-like playing field that Hill inhabits. Almost.
This kino prodigy can’t help but overhaul notions of plot and narrative either. Not for a moment was I ever confused as to what was happening or where the story was going. The odd diversions like Hill’s angry conversation with his attractive, bewildered next-door neighbour - who is never addressed again - or the strange middlemen who dance with black women, were never confounding. They all feed into Hill’s overall aesthetic, and that is: have you noticed that Nathan Hill is on screen? Everything else is secondary. And when Hill and his dead wife’s sister unexpectedly carve up a dead villain in a bath tub, in what is presumably meant to be viewed as a bad-ass, cathartic act of revenge, but comes across like the masturbatory fantasies of Ed Gein; I was not disturbed, I was dazzled by the filmmaker’s audacity and invention. This film is never dull. Not in the part where a “grief-stricken” Hill talks to his Dad via Skype, not in the bits where the overacting Asian crimeboss berates her underlings. Not even in the long stretches where we stare at Hill’s back while he looks across the city - allowing us to really take in the authentic, third world stitching of the scorpion emblem on the Drive jacket Hill purchased for the shoot. (The allusions between Ryan Gosling’s character in the aforementioned film and Hill’s own plain, rodent-faced protagonist are so subtle as to be invisible. Only the keenest of cinema watchers will pick up on the references) The propulsive pace of this film is like being strapped into a motorised wheelchair. It will force your body to react in ways you never expected. Despite myself, I yawned.
I am truly gobsmacked that this treasure of cinema is not spoken about in the same breathless tones as Citizen Kane, The Godfather or Parasite. The only other rare gem I know to compare Gweilo to is Gramps Goes to College. Why has Hill; this important figure of cinematic excellence, gone virtually unrecognised and unnoticed by the wider film community? Why is he not spoken about here on Letterboxd with the same reverence as Scorsese or Lynch? Where are the dissertations and essays breaking down the complex nuances and revolutionary techniques employed across Hill’s oeuvre? Think of any great name in cinema, and Hill will trump them. Wong Kar-Wai, Kurosawa, Chan Wook Park? Assclowns. Spielberg? A fairground carny who occasionally craps out the odd Holocaust winner. Paul Thomas Anderson? A grandiose, weepy Grandmother obsessed with nutters. Hill doesn’t just merely make films about men like Daniel Plainview; he is Daniel Plainview! Nathan Hill is the third revelation! He has bedded and discarded more dead Asian prostitutes in barrels of acid than women you’ll ever have the courage to approach in your lifetimes! This man is an Uber Alpha, natural born dominant who wipes his arse with beta cuck “arthouse” film makers like Aronofsky or Winding Refn. He eats upstarts like Tarkovsky for breakfast. He uses Hitchcock and Coppola as throw rugs in his living room. He kicked Fincher in the dick and Fincher had a little cry about it. Hill puts out his cigarettes on Ridley Scott’s face. He told Nolan that “No one likes a smart cunt”, and then also kicked him in the dick.
Nathan Hill is nothing short of a living cinematic deity, and if there is any message to take away from Revenge of the Gweilo - and many philistines might argue for its value purely as jerk off material for an ill guided fantasist - it’s this: Hill is here, Hill has arrived; All hail to the King!
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