Damien Chazelle might be the single most self-confident filmmaker working in Hollywood right now. No matter how idealistic (the grand romantic tones in La La Land), or familiar (the story of Apollo 11 in First Man), or just downright goofy (the colourful string of expletives in the script for Whiplash) his ideas get, there’s never an inkling that he’s meeting any of it halfway. And even when I find myself on the wrong side of some of those aspects, I’ve been unable to deny that there’s a certain infectious quality to how much conviction the man pours into each of his directorial efforts thus far. But his latest seems to be the ultimate test for that methodology, as we’ve gone from a film that would merely benefit from that much confidence behind the camera, to a film that outright requires it to work even slightly.







