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Yawn. Poorly Filmed Snooze Fest.

The film never slows down or bores, plunging from one harrowing sequence to the next.

Although I seem to have had higher expectations than I thought, the movie is super entertaining.

An old-fashioned movie made with new-fashioned finesse.

One reviewer suggested that the director, Joanna Hogg, works in the manner of Yasujiro Ozu, so I got curious. That reviewer turns out to have only the most superficial appreciation of Ozu. I am a great admirer of filmmakers like Ozu, and Farhadi, directors whose skill is in subtleties. Hogg's work, at least on ARCHIPELAGO, is empty not only of fresh ideas, let alone subtle insights, it is also empty of plot, of feeling, and of mood. Well, that's not quite true. It is moody, but it sustains one mood throughout, with no ups, downs, or cadences of any sort.While Ozu's quiet films build power, Hogg's movie (this is the only one I will ever watch) build nothing but anticipation, and even that peters out after a few scenes in which nothing-- and I mean nothing-- happens. Hogg nails the camera to a spot, usually about 10 feet from the actor(s), and lets the film run while they do something or, less likely, speak. We watch a woman going down stairs. A man gets ready for bed, then gets into bed. A woman cleans the kitchen. A woman gets on a bicycle and pedals out of the frame. A man paints a landscape. Minutes go by... more minutes... When there is dialog, the tedium actually worsens. My yawns almost dislocated my jaw. Her actors stammer in the manner of Woody Allen's neurotics, conveying nothing. When they do express a thought, it's invariably a stale one: the sister disapproves of her brother's humanitarian work, declaring it a "luxury," and saying he should "get a job like the rest of us." Nothing fresh about the observation, the way it is made, or the way it is filmed. The whole film is like that; I assume the whole Hogg is.Tom Hiddleston is in three of Hogg's movies. Even he-- as engaging and expressive as any active film actor I can name-- is not enough to make ARCHIPELAGO worth the nearly two-hour running time. I, for one, am grateful that he has moved on to films and plays worthy of his time, and ours.

A family of middle-class Brits goes on vacation to Tresco, located in the Scilly Isles. The main aim of their venture is to say farewell to Edward (Tom Hiddleston), who amidst his quarter-life crisis (who comes up with these idiotic concepts?) decides to volunteer to Africa (who as everyone knows need all the bumbling idiots they can get there hands on). His mother Patricia (Kate Fahy) and older sister Cynthia (Lydia Leonard) decide against inviting Edward's girlfriend in order to spend it in a purely familial atmosphere. This, however, does not stop them from enlisting a Rose (Amy Lloyd) as household help and cook or Christopher (Christopher Baker) as the enigmatic art teacher. Amidst the idyllic country slowly the closeness brings about stark differences and erupts, revealing the lingering fractures.The tensions escalate, but with true Brit restraint, they never real flow over the exterior, instead seeping like a wound festering beneath a bandage. The conflict unravels very slowly, rarely explicitly brought into the conversations, instead eternally hinting. We observe the family venture on a bike, go on a picnic, go eat to a restaurant or simply eat dinner at home, small-talking around the table. The dialogue is diabolically trite, as if director Joanna Hogg explicitly delivered the actors no dialogue, instead forcing them to be 'themselves' within the confines of characters, thus releasing subconscious purely English tension into their banter. This is probably, where the movie got lost to me, as I felt the dialogue drifting away from my attention and the story thus labouring to find affinity with my own experience.Pretty sure that this is a purely Brit movie, dedicated to indigenes, who are supposed to find themselves and their idiosyncrasies hidden beneath the characters, as if looking at yourself through a mirror. The fallacy of this is the ease with which the whole story is lost in translation, even though the characters still speak English, their character traits and personality seem so obscurely islandish, that non-UK audience is bound to be left unfamiliar and tuned off, especially given the movie portrays a group of unsympathetic spoilt hi-enders bickering on vacation. The prolonged wide shots of nature almost seem like relief from the inconsequential chatter of on-screen protagonists.

The thing that above all else singles us out from other species is our empathy, our sympathy, our ability to help, to sort things out. A pair of albatrosses may mate for life, and even show signs of real affection for each other. But if one of them breaks its wing, there is little the other can do except watch its partner die an agonising death. Nature is utterly indifferent to hurt, trauma, whatever. However beautiful that nature is, it is completely unengaged in the fate of its denizens. Here we have a posh family arriving in the Scilly Isles in November, taking up residence in a presumably familiar environment. They are going to paint and enjoy some well-cooked food served up by an employee, a girl from Hertfordshire. They will be joined by somebody else, who we have to assume is the father, though we are never told this explicitly – and needless to say, he never arrives (Is that a spoiler? How can you spoil a film like this?). And we know that, like Godot, he is never going to arrive.One of the deeply annoying things about this film is that we discover nothing much about the family – their history, their background, where they come from, whether there are other siblings. We learn a few things about the son – he is doing some sort of volunteer work in Africa, related to Aids. His sister who is in unspecified full-time employment, disapproves of his life choices. He has a girlfriend (not present) whom, bizarrely, he is only going to see once in the next year because she is not allowed to join him in Africa. Of the mother we know nothing, her existence is totally wrapped up in her neurosis about her (presumably) dying marriage. Clearly there is conflict in this family, at odds with the vacuous serenity of their surroundings. There is another player in this bleak tableau, a pretentious professional painter who is tutoring members of the family. He is perhaps the most annoying character of them all, spouting painterly platitudes, being embarrassed by the gaping wound that is the dysfunctional family, ultimately unable to help, just observe in a state of boredom (like us the viewers). Painters should keep their mouths shut.Now I love the Scilly Isles. But the Scilly Isles in the off season? Really? When you are already traumatised, upset, depressed, bored? What a monumentally bad choice of a venue for a damaged family to take a holiday.The dialogue and acting are extremely naturalistic, we could be earwigging on an actual event. This could be a documentary, so utterly real and pedestrian is the conversation and activity. Hence the three stars I have awarded it. We are observing and listening to something deeply uninteresting, the interaction between real other people we neither know nor like. I'm now thinking that perhaps the painter is a real-life painter, in which case I withdraw my earlier comments. His paintings actually look good if they are real. But back to our characters. We don't even get to see them in close-up until the end. All we are given is the beauty of Tresco, with its windswept alien plant life.I watched to the bitter end, because I was expecting a caped crusader to come flying through the window with a laser gun. Or the cook to use her set of knives to good purpose and slaughter everybody. Or the helicopter to blow up. None of this happened, unfortunately. These unlikable, uncharming people just packed up and left. The end. After watching it I was desperate to immerse myself in something warm and fuzzy, possibly involving Hugh Grant or Jackie Chan. Or Audrey Hepburn. With some songs and some sex. And an exploding helicopter.

I loved this film. It is an absolute deadpan satire, dry, wry and very sly. And it made me laugh out loud, which is quite unusual... I don't know how much of the dialogue is improvised, but it is spot-on. The performances are stunning and the lighting, camera-work and composition are beautiful. I love the way the camera keeps its distance for so much of film before moving in close. You could turn the sound off and just watch this film for the pleasure of the visuals alone.One reviewer mentioned Tarkovsky; comparisons are odious I know, but I just have to add that it reminded me of Antonioni – and for me it doesn't get any better than that.I'm surprised how many reviewers seem to miss the point of this film completely. For me, it was like those old Magic Eye pictures: you could of course look at it and not really see anything, but change your focus a little and this amazing hidden gem appears.It's not all subtle sarcastic send-up either, I think the picture has a real heart, and it's all the more moving when it is eventually revealed.Great moments? There are tons. Here are three: The Cook carefully wrapping up her knives, as much like a surgeon as a chef, dissection over perhaps, or time to stop the stabbing. The role of the Cook is excellent: the witness to it all, the presence of the director/writer perhaps. The hand puppet round the door is a brilliant scene, loaded, as is so much of this film. Christopher's lines to Edward who is looking at his painting, a quick look at the Blues, a statement of intent from the writer, a great bit of improv? It finishes: "I quite like that blue: Joyous". Cut. Superb.It is a real shame a film of this quality is rated 5-point-something. It's a great piece of work and it deserves proper recognition.If you hated this film I would urge you to watch it again; if you haven't seen it you really should.