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Friday, 24 June 2016

Tale of Tales (2015)

I can't recommend this film highly enough, especially if you are a sentient viewer fed up with superhero flicks and jejune fart jokes, and more especially if you relish the idea of a pitch black fantasy laced with surreal humour and horror. Here are some fairy tales strictly for adults.

Directed in English by the Italian director Matteo Garrone who wowed the film world with his mafia epic "Gomorrah", he draws on a selection of tales gathered by the Neapolitan scholar Giambattista Basile and published posthumously by his sister in 1634. The full work known as Il Pentamerone for its collection of tales told over a five-day period (rather less than 1001 nights) is the earliest collection of folk stories, later liberally raided by both Charles Perrault and the Brothers Grimm. Basile subtitled his opus 'Entertainment for Little Ones' but Garrone's movie is anything but suitable for the kiddies.

In its three overlapping and intertwining stories, we are introduced to the rulers of three kingdoms: an unsmiling Salma Hayak who yearns for a child of her own, Toby Young who neglects his once-beloved daughter for his obsession with a giant flea that he has nurtured, and randy Vincent Cassel who beds all the young flesh that crosses his path but who falls for the sweet and heavenly singing of two old crones. Add to this mix, a dancing bear, fire-eaters, tightrope walkers, albino twins born to two different mothers, and a fiendish ogre and you begin to get an inkling of Garrone's brilliant mix. On top of the many curiosities on display, the film is a visual treat in its costuming, cinematography and location-sourcing. Rather than depending on CGI, the action takes place at real fairy-tale palaces such as the Castel del Monte in Apulia, Roccascalenga Castle in Abruzzo, and Donnafugata Castle in Sicily. It seems a fantasy world such as we have never seen before.

All three actors have their moments of bizarre glory but foremost among these is Jones, who woos his fearsome pet with the same "scootchie, scootchie coo" that he once reserved for his infant daughter. When the fearsome galumphing flea eventually dies, he promises to betroth Princess Violet (a feisty but not exactly gorgeous  Bebe Cave in her first feature film lead) to whichever suitor correctly identifies its giant preserved hide, fully expecting all of them to fail and thereby keeping his daughter to himself. Instead a giant Neolithic monster played by 6' 9" French actor Guillame Delanay sniffs the leather and announces 'flea'! Delaunay is actually a pretty gruesome looking fellow in the mould of dear old Rondo Hatton and probably didn't need too much makeup to achieve his monstrous appearance. Of course a King's word is the King's word and Young is obliged to dispatch Violet to the fiend's cave where she is promptly raped. Now in an ordinary fairy tale you might expect the ogre to morph into a handsome prince, but that is not the story being related here and the outcome is far bloodier.

Hollywood star John C Reilly is also in the cast playing Hayak's spouse, ordered to slay a sea monster so that his wife can eat its bloody heart (cooked of course by a virgin!) and thereby become pregnant. His role is really a cameo, ending with his death only minutes into the movie, which makes me wonder why he needed the two assistants named in the end credits. Otherwise the cast (largely Italian) is superb. Special mention needs go to Shirley Henderson and Hayley Carmichael playing the elderly singing sisters. When horny Cassel insists on one of them sharing his bed, Carmichael's Dora agrees if he promises to keep the room in darkness and proceeds to glue down her saggy flesh; when Cassel breaks his word and discovers her ruse, he has his guards toss her out of the window. It's that sort of a story... But a kindly necromancer alters the hag into a naked vision of delight played by Stacy Martin. (Parenthetically I recently sat through all five hours plus of Lars von Trier's self-indulgent director's cut of "Nymphomaniac" which features that largely unclothed actress as the younger and definitely more attractive version of Charlotte Gainsbourg.) When the smitten Cassel makes her his queen, Henderson hopes for a cushy life courtesy of her sister's good fortune, but is reduced to bribing a tanner to flay her skin in the hope of attaining her own renewed beauty. Yuck.

The film is a leisurely 134 minutes but I found it totally absorbing and inventive. Of course it may not be to everyone's taste -- especially if superheroes and CGI make your day, but it is an amazing and ravishing few hours for anyone who relishes something truly different.      

Friday, 17 June 2016

Orchestra Rehearsal (1978)

I have long been a devoted fan of the wild, wonderful, and wacky world of the Italian writer-director Federico Fellini. I've seen all of his entertaining films from his earliest "Lights of Variety" (1950) through his last in 1990, and I do try to re-watch them from time to time. I have certainly seen the above short feature made for Italian television previously, but had forgotten how bizarre and poignant it is.

Like it says on the box, the movie concerns a small orchestra, gathering for their morning rehearsal, in an ancient chapel, now a recital hall with perfect acoustics. We watch as the room is set up and the musicians gradually appear, awaiting the arrival of their conductor, a somewhat Teutonic type in the mould of von Karajan. They quibble, joke, feud, flirt, and even snog amongst themselves, while possessively claiming their own space. Today is a little different since a television crew has arrived to document the proceedings and to interview the various musicians. Also present are various union officials, since this is a mini-portrait of Italy in the 70s (and beyond?); their role is to 'protect' their occasionally reluctant members and to ensure that 'the workers' rights' come first, even if this involves lumbering the orchestra with some superfluous union members who can't even play an instrument but who are due work. 

However the orchestra members themselves from the straight-laced old-timers through the young hipsters seem to be in love with their various instruments. As each is interviewed in turn they make wild claims for the importance and contribution of their particular instrument -- the violin, the cello, the trombone, the bassoon, the harp, and so on -- to the harmony and success of any performance. They each express an almost mystical relationship with their own instrument to the detriment of all the other less significant ones. Even the tuba player boasts that he didn't chance upon the instrument, but that the lugubrious sounding creature found him.

When the actual rehearsal begins, the conductor carps and criticises the players, until the union busybody calls a twenty-minute break. The maestro retreats to his room to freshen up and bemoans how the god-like role of the conductor has been undermined. Long gone are the days when his word was law and he could physically punish any musician who dared to play a duff note. When he returns to the hall he finds chaos. The musicians have become hysterical children, fighting amongst themselves, denigrating the role of the conductor, and defacing the walls with scurrilous graffiti. They decide that the conductor can easily be replaced with a giant metronome, but even that is soon kicked aside in their hatred. The next thing that happens is that a giant wrecking ball begins to knock down the ancient walls, resulting in at least one death. Duly chastened, the musicians resume their seats and begin to play the sweetest of sounds; music does indeed calm the savage beast. But even as the film fades to black, we begin to hear the maestro registering his nit-picking complaints.

One can't help but note and be moved by the simple beauty of the music, composed especially for this film, by Fellini's distinguished collaborator Nino Rota. Rota scored many of the director's movies, dating back to "I Vitelloni" in 1953, and this was their last collaboration before the composer's death the following year. The beauty of the sound contrasts with the parable of how simple it is to spread dissent and anarchy, a sentiment that fits neatly into the Fellini canon.

Friday, 10 June 2016

Finishing School (1934)

If I believed all film reviews as gospel, especially for older movies where I occasionally wonder if the reviewer has actually seen the film in question, I would possibly miss out on watching some very interesting movies. For example, the late Leslie Halliwell whose word I am more prepared to trust then most, described the above movie as "modest pap for the teenage audience". This is grossly unfair, although other reviewers are equally dismissive, and the film certainly bombed on its initial release.

The movie has been on my 'would like to see' list for a rather long time since Danny Peary listed it as 'a sleeper' in his "Guide for the Film Fanatic" (1986). (My goodness, doesn't time fly by when you're having fun?) It was briefly available on You Tube but rapidly deleted by them before I had a chance to watch it. So a fortuitous showing on BBC2 last weekend -- and believe it or not it was a UK television premiere -- finally saved the day.

Produced at the very end of the pre-Code period, it's a fascinating look at morals and class hypocrisy. Frances Dee plays Virginia, the spoiled but naïve daughter of tycoon John Halliday and flighty socialite Billie Burke, who is enrolled in (or perhaps dumped at) her mother's old school Crockett Hall which is actually billed as 'the villain' in the front credits. There she meets room-mate Ginger Rogers, known to all as 'Pony' and not just for her fondness for horses! Pony and her cronies are game for a laugh and think nothing of breaking all of headmistress Beulah Bondi's many rules -- no drinking, no smoking, no lipstick, no anything that it likely to ruin your or the precious school's reputation. Their mantra is that you can do what you like -- as long as nobody finds out and you're not caught. Besides she says such indiscretions are nothing compared to the school's 'genteel racketeering' in over-charged uniforms and outings. The schools's annual fee incidentally is $6000.00 -- and remember this is 1934! Lessons focus on such important things as knowing how many calling cards to leave if the family in question is not at home.

The girls escape to New York for the weekend purportedly to stay with Pony's dear 'aunt' -- a washed up old actress who is paid to meet the school's chaperone on arrival at Penn Station and again on departure; "one step lower and I'll be in the movies", she chortles. Instead the girls check into a seedy hotel ready for a high old time, where the current boyfriends and their pals and quantities of booze are waiting. Dee admits that she has always wondered how it would feel to get tight and they're soon chanting "Ginny gonna get fried" to the tune of "The Farmer in the Dell". When a sozzled Dee subsequently tries to escape from the amorous groping of her blind date, she is saved by heroic hotel waiter Bruce Cabot (Fay Wray's macho saviour in "King Kong"), a medical intern who is moonlighting to pay his way through his studies. When a romantic attraction develops, Bondi and of course Burke wish to end it since they can only see him as a lowly waiter and not as a noble would-be doctor -- to the extent that Virginia is not allowed to spend weekends away and his letters are intercepted and destroyed, even after it becomes self-evident that the young lady is now pregnant. This takes place off-screen in a nicely handled scene where one sees her footprints in the snow after she has escaped for a clandestine meeting gradually fill in with the falling snow as the night progresses. She is led to believe that she was just a cheap fling for this no-goodnik 'waiter' and she contemplates suicide, since nothing must interfere with the demands of 'proper' society.

Of course all of the players are a little too old for their roles, but this is nothing new when one looks at teenage/young adult movies today. Despite this, Dee acquits herself well and one wonders where her career might have taken her had she not placed her l933 marriage to Joel McCrea above screen ambitions. She continued to appear in films through the early 50s, but these were gradually diminishing supporting roles. Incidentally her marriage to McCrea which lasted through his death in 1990 was one of Hollywood's longest and presumably most solid.

It is interesting to note that the film was written and co-directed by a woman, Wanda Tuchock, a rarity at the time. Tuchock never directed another feature but did churn out some notable screenplays from the silent "Show People" and "Hallelujah" through classics like "The Foxes of Harrow" and "Sunday Dinner for a Soldier". There's some lovely dialogue as well, such as when Pony describes the 'suitable' young beaux dragged in for Crockett Hall tea parties as 'If you took the hair off their combined chests you wouldn't have enough to make a wig for a grape". There's also the ditty that Pony sings in the shower: "Never hit your Grandma with a shovel". This was apparently later recorded by Spike Jones in 1942 but it has been suggested that Rogers composed it herself.

OK, perhaps it's not a great film, but it is a progressive and engrossing look at another era -- and a heck of a lot better that some reviews imply.   



   
 

Friday, 3 June 2016

The Sin of Harold Diddlebock (1947)

Considering the fact that writer/director Preston Sturges is one of my great favourites, it's odd that I have never written about him or his films on this blog. Going back to my archives, I find that he was only mentioned as a screenwriter in reviews of "The Good Fairy" (1935) and "Easy Living" (1937). So we shall put that to rights today and look at his meteoric rise and fall.

Sturges (1898-1959) was born into wealth and after a spell in the services during World War I, briefly worked for his mother's cosmetic empire (where he invented the first 'kiss-proof' lipstick). He then pottered with other genius-like but commercially unviable inventions. He did not take up writing -- initially plays and short stories -- until he was 30. He eventually migrated to Hollywood in the hope of earning big bucks for his screenplays, where he scripted a number of 30s classics including "The Power and the Glory" plus the two above and was uncredited on others such as "Twentieth Century". However he soon became disgusted by directors tampering with his scripts and yearned to exercise full control by directing them himself.

He sold his script for "The Great McGinty" (1940) to the studio for one dollar in exchange for the director's chair (and the film went on to win the Oscar for best screenplay). Then in a four year period Sturges churned out some of the most anarchic and successful slapstick comedies of the period: "The Lady Eve", "Sullivan's Travels", "The Palm Beach Story", "The Miracle of Morgan's Creek", and "Hail the Conquering Hero". He was a master of madcap plots, the exquisitely-turned phrase and the pratfall, and he made sneaky inroads into the Breen Office's production codes with his politically incorrect scenarios. At a time when the combination of writer and director was unknown and simply perceived as two separate talents, he briefly became one of the highest paid people not just in Hollywood but in the United States, and he paved the way for other multi-talents like Billy Wilder. He was also the forerunner for today's iconoclastic writer-directors like Woody Allen and the Coen Brothers. His legacy is enormous.

However when his next film "The Great Moment" flopped -- the studio was not ready for a movie (albeit a very good one) about a dentist inventing laughing gas -- the moneymen washed their hands of him. There was then a three-year gap before he directed three more Hollywood movies (including the one above). All were failures at the box office and he retired to France, where he made his last film in 1955 "The Diary of Major Thompson" (also known as "The French they Are a Funny Race") which frankly is not particularly good.

What occasioned today's topic was reading that "Diddlebock" has just re-emerged on disc. When this movie -- financed by Howard Hughes no less -- flopped, Hughes took control of the film, let it sit on a shelf for three years, re-editing it and re-releasing it in 1950 as "Mad Wednesday". I suddenly realised that I had only seen this re-edit (which I recall as being hilarious on my first viewing), but I had never seen the original movie as Sturges meant it to be seen -- some fourteen minutes longer. That situation has now been rectified although I would have to re-view the 1950 edit to tell you definitively how they differ. (I've not done that yet but shall.)

Anyhow the movie is still a treat. Sturges coaxed Harold Lloyd out of retirement to star in his first feature for many years. The film opens with the first reel of Lloyd's 1925 hit "The Freshman" and then considers what has become of the inadvertent college football hero some 22 years on. Offered a job by an erstwhile enthusiastic football fan, he has languished in a dead-end post all these years, before being summarily dismissed. On that day in question where he seems to have no viable prospects, he falls in with Jimmy Conlin (one of Sturges' many stock company actors). He then has his first ever drink (a new bartender concoction christened 'The Diddlebock'). After a number of these drinks and some surprise gambling wins, he awakens the next day to find himself the owner of a garish new suit, a horse, carriage and coachman, and a failing circus with a large number of very hungry animals. There is one lion in particular who has taken a shine to the man and the mayhem ensues. Some humour never dates and we have a replay of Lloyd's famous roof-ledge antics over a city's streets, but this time with a lion in tow.

Bless Preston Sturges for giving us so many memorable movie moments.  For more information, seek out the 1990 American Masters documentary "The Rise and Fall of an American Dreamer". As Sturges said of himself, 'The most remarkable thing about my career is that I had one'.      

Friday, 27 May 2016

We Still Kill the Old Way (2014)

This British gangster flick has been lurking on my hard disc for some weeks now, since I was in absolutely no rush to view yet another samey East End baddies film; the blame for the recent popularity of these is down to Guy Ritchie and his many imitators. I reckoned there must be an upper limit to variations on an increasingly boring theme, but I finally watched the movie as a matter of principle. (I have this weird conviction that it is incumbent upon this self-proclaimed buff to at least try any film that I've not seen previously -- although an increasing number do get wiped halfway through.)

Boy was I pleasantly surprised!  Nothing to do with the 1967 Italian film of the same title, actor/writer/director Sacha Bennett has fashioned a crowd-pleaser of a movie, as long as that crowd is made up of older viewers who are fed up with the insouciant smugness of the young. (I guess I have to lump myself with such dinosaurs). Ian Ogilvy -- remember the handsome actor from "The Witchfinder General" (1968) and television's The Saint? -- may have put on some weight and added a few jowls but he's still a commanding presence. He plays an ex-hard man who has evaded the law and retired to a sybaritic life in Spain. He receives word that his happy-go-lucky brother (a brief appearance by Steven Berkoff) has been murdered back in London. So he returns to his old stamping ground and the welcoming arms of his cronies (veteran actors Christopher Ellison, Tony Denton, Nicky Henson, and James Cosmo) to unearth the culprits and exact vengeance.

We the viewers know from the start that Berkoff was stamped to death by a gang of local youths led by the thoroughly nasty and reprehensible Aaron, played by a young actor with the unlikely name of Danny-Boy Hatchard, when he intervened in a proposed gang-bang of Aaron's most recent bit of skirt. She's played by one Dani Dyer -- would you believe it? -- the daughter of the boorish actor Danny Dyer, who has appeared in most of the above-mentioned rash of Cockney gangster flicks, but who thankfully does not appear in this one. Aaron and his gang are of the generation who think it smart to post their violence on the web in the attempt to be famous for fifteen minutes or so. The whole mob of them, with the exception of his bookish brother who befriends Dyer's Lauren, are so unlikeable that one is left rooting for the oldsters and it doesn't take them long to unearth the reason for Berkoff's death and the likely culprits.

Add to the mix actresses Alison Doody as the local detective who can't quite clean up the streets and Lysette Anthony as the chirpy sparrow who has long had a crush on Ogilvy. Both actresses have been around for yonks, with Doody's first appearance being in the 1985 Bond movie "A View to Kill" back in the Roger Moore days. At first glance she seems rather well preserved until the excessive face 'work' becomes obvious. Anthony on the contrary plays her age and is eager to assist Ogilvie and his mates in restoring the erstwhile 'charms' of the fabled East End. What follows is pretty graphic torture, bloodshed, and shoot-outs between the old fellows and the consistently cocky youngsters (who are soon metaphorically crying for their mommies). The saving grace is that our heroes' mayhem is carried out with a smattering of  black humour, particularly from Cosmo, leaving the viewer firmly on their side. It is very satisfying to see these older actors back in action as a kind of geriatric "Get Carter", and there is a lovely throwaway line referring to the Italian job back in '69.

The film ends with the aging mates itching for more challenges and considering taking on the big bad bankers. And indeed a sequel is currently being filmed entitled "We Still Steal the Old Way". I do hope that movie proves as jolly as the one reviewed here.

Friday, 20 May 2016

Green Room (2015) vs Der Bunker (2015)

Normally if I go to the cinema during the week, the film I choose would form the centrepiece of my weekly ramblings. Not this week! Having been conned by a run of super-positive reviews, a 7.7 rating on IMDb, and my general fondness for the horror genre, I went to see "Green Room" which was flaunted as art-house gore. What a crock and what a incredibly awful film!

I really don't want to waste too much time on this over-hyped flick, but will just say that the whole premise of a rock-punk band being held captive by a bunch of neo-Nazis led by Patrick Stewart was marred by an illogical plot, terrible dialogue, and a cast of interchangeable actors that one didn't give two hoots about. Leads Anton Yelchin and Imogen Poots were super-bland and I bet Stewart would love to delete this movie from his filmography. The only bit I liked was when one of the wounded killer-dogs (yes, people were ripped to pieces by dogs) traipsed off to find his dead master to rest his weary head. Ahhh....

Now you may think that a film titled "Der Bunker" would also be about neo-Nazis or at least some kind of war movie, but no. This German movie by first-time feature director Nikias Chryssos was more of a horror flick than the Stewart fiasco -- without any gore let it be said, but full of quirky action. For lovers of the truly off-beat, amongst whom I would number myself, this film is something very different indeed. There are only four characters; Pit Bukowski, credited merely as 'The Student' ploughs through a snowy and barren landscape to reach the underground bunker-like residence of 'The Father' and 'The Mother', who have advertised a delightful room to rent, where he hopes to continue his unspecified research in pleasant peace and calm. He is shown into a dimly-lit, low-ceilinged, sparsely furnished space with no windows ('if the light can't get in, neither can it get out' says Father). 

At dinner that night Father keeps a record of each dumpling consumed and each serviette used to charge the impoverished student accordingly. He suggests that Bukowski might work off his debt by helping with the chores and in particular taking over the home-schooling of their son Klaus, who they feel is remarkably stupid and unable to learn the important facts (like all the capitals of every country)  that will one day allow him to become President (weirdly of the United States!). I guess Klaus is meant to be a teenager, but he's a great lump dressed like a very young boy a la Little Lord Fauntleroy, and he is played by Daniel Fripan, a 5'3" actor who is 31 years old.

The weirdness doesn't end there. When Klaus is a good boy he is rewarded by being able to feed at his mother's bare breast and merrily slurps away. The family's idea of fun is the occasional 'joke evening' where Mother and Klaus cuddle on the sofa while Father reads out the corniest of old chestnuts. Mother also seems to be in some sort of spiritual connection with a former lodger, with whom she communicates through a cupboard and who manifests himself as a growing, throbbing gash on her leg. Klaus eventually memorises all the capitals after suggesting that the capital of France is Mama-chusetts, but only after the Student has thrashed and bloodied his hands. He also teaches Klaus how to 'play', the concept of which is completely foreign to the lunkhead, and they gallivant about in their classroom playing catch and horsey. After a disastrous birthday celebration, Klaus wants to leave home much to Mother and Father's dismay...but the student is fated to remain in the bunker to carry on his domestic duties.

I've only touched on the inherent strangeness of this unusual film, which becomes even more outlandish as it progresses. I'd recommend your seeking it out, but I suspect that it will never feature amongst Amazon's best-sellers or be readily available to view, unlike the miserable "Green Room".

Friday, 13 May 2016

Florence Foster Jenkins (2016)

I have admitted previously that once upon a time I really didn't like Meryl Streep with her funny accents and barnstorming performances. But that was then! For years now I have joined the club that fetes her many talents and I am constantly amazed not just by her versatility but by her likeability as well.

The above film, loosely based on the real-life Madam Florence, is hysterically funny in parts; at the same time it is sweetly heart-breaking. An aging heiress and a fixture on the New York social and cultural scene in the l940s, her passion was music. She loved to sing and took endless voice lessons. The only problem was that she was a hopeless singer -- and no one had the heart or courage to tell her this. To her own ears, she was a nightingale. The same story (but without the true biographical detail) is also the subject of the recent French film "Marguerite" (2015), with the talented Catherine Frot in the Streep role.

Florence is protected and cosseted by her devoted younger husband, one St Clair Bayfield, a failed English actor and purportedly wrong-side-of the-blanket aristocrat. In truth the pair were never married, but he did indeed become her agent, comforter, and faithful companion -- theirs being a platonic relationship since Florence was syphilitic thanks to her first disastrous marriage. He maintains a love-nest for mistress Kathleen to fulfil his more basic needs, but his foremost loyalty is to the aging diva. This part is played by Hugh Grant with greater gravitas than his most famous roles would suggest possible. He's made relatively few cinema appearances of late and determinedly turned down reprising his role in the latest Bridget Jones movie. I've had the impression that he's more or less fed up with the whole silly business, so the grace and depth that he displays here came as a pleasant surprise. And he can still dance up a storm.

In fact he is so good that there is talk of a potential Oscar nomination, but it's early days yet and movies with spring release dates tend to be forgotten by the end of the qualifying season. Mind you if any of the cast deserves special recognition (apart from Streep whose nomination seems a shoo-in), I would single out Simon Helberg playing Florence's accompanist, the marvellously named Cosme McMoon. Helberg is apparently best known for his recurring role in the long-running TV series "The Big Bang Theory" which I have never seen, so his endearing turn here as the talented pianist struggling to keep a straight face while Madame Florence howls through her arias was an unexpected treat and nothing short of brilliant. 

However without Streep's inspired performance there would be no movie or a far less entertaining one. We all know that she famously studied opera as a young lady and that she can certainly still sing beautifully ("Mamma Mia" being a case in point). As luck would have it I also viewed her previous movie this week, "Ricki and the Flash" (2015), in which she plays a rock-chick who has forsaken her family for the pop career that never quite materialised, and her vocalising is the highpoint of that so-so film. She therefore required special coaching to portray the awfulness of Florence's operatic ambitions and it is impossible not to laugh heartily at her enthusiastic squawks and yowls. Yet we can not help rooting for the poor benighted lady and she is more a figure of pity than a figure of fun. When the truth finally hits home after her Carnegie Hall debut, despite Bayfield's urgent machinations to protect her from the most hurtful of reviews, she says 'Some may say that I couldn't sing, but no one can say that I didn't sing'. It's a bittersweet moment.     

Friday, 6 May 2016

Locke (2013)

It didn't even occur to me to book tickets for this film when it was featured at the London Film Festival, since the premise sounded a little iffy, and I usually assume that I will catch up with any worthwhile British flicks in due course. Much to everyone's amazement it was the surprise breakout hit of the fest.

Tom Hardy is Ivan Locke, heading a cast which includes Olivia Colman, Ruth Wilson and other noted thesps, and he is the whole show. Why? Because he is the only actor on screen as he drives down the motorway at night. Everyone else is just a voice on his car-phone. Although Hardy is associated with action roles in movies like "Inception" and "The Dark Knight Rises", the only actions in this film are the whirling emotions and problems in Ivan's brain as he ploughs towards London, dealing with a constant stream of calls and callers.

The second directorial effort from writer-producer Steven Knight after the Jason Statham vehicle "Hummingbird" (also 2013), Knight was responsible for the screenplays for a number of winning films such as "Eastern Promises" and "Dirty Pretty Things". Hardy may bear the success of the movie on his very sturdy shoulders -- much like the singleton heroes of "127 Hours" and "Buried", but Knight has provided him with a variety of problems to occupy his mind and ours and the 90 minute running time never flags.

Locke lives and breathes concrete in his engineering job and Europe's biggest 'pour' is scheduled for the morrow. However he can't be there to supervise things since an urgent phone call from a one-night stand informs him that she is about to give birth prematurely and is depending on his moral support. Seems he somehow never got around to telling his wife and sons about this; while he has no affectionate feelings towards the hospitalised woman, he does have strong feelings of duty and obligation. Meanwhile there are problems with the preparations for the 'pour' and his somewhat inebriated second-in-command is not quite coping. Poor old Ivan finds himself having to juggle the demands of the needy mother-to-be (and there are birth complications as well), having to hope for some kind of understanding and forgiveness from his family, and having to justify his actions at work to his unsympathetic superiors. 

What the movie teaches us is that one's life can change drastically and dramatically in a matter of a few hours (and in a confined space as well), as Ivan risks ruining his career and his marriage by doing what he believes to be the honourable thing. The film finishes fairly abruptly and we are left to guess whether he will manage to salvage anything from the ruins of his unexpected journey -- and the omens are not promising.

Hardy does a sterling job of keeping us rooting for his hero, despite the calamities that seem to be awaiting at every turn. My only problem with his character was the use of an inconsistent Welsh accent which was completely inexplicable and unnecessary. He would have done even better if he kept his own quite acceptable voice for the beleaguered Ivan Locke.

Friday, 29 April 2016

The Spectacular Now (2013)

Like last week none of the films I watched this week really grabbed me, but unlike last week there weren't many that deserved even a few kind words. The above coming-of-age flick (a latter-day John Hughes type film) was probably the best of the bunch, although I was tempted to focus on "Bad Words" (also 2013) directed by and starring the usually amiable Jason Bateman. He plays a 40-something slacker who, for his own reasons, has finagled the rules to take part in a national spelling bee aimed at eighth-graders and under. It's a mean-spirited affair with Bateman at his least likeable bullying the kiddies and the officials, although he does eventually find some sort of redemption through his relationship with a friendless Indian child prodigy, winningly played by Rohan Chand.

Back to the subject at hand, based on a young-adult novel with a screenplay by the "500 Days of Summer" scribes, the film was a Sundance hit with best actor awards for its leads Miles Teller and Shailene Woodley. Both are now rising young stars. I first noticed Woodley as Clooney's snippy daughter in "The Descendants" and she has made a name for herself in soppy teen sagas and the Divergent/Insurgent/Allegiant series which also features Teller. His breakout role was the young drummer in "Whiplash". While both display fine acting chops, and theirs are the stand-out roles in this movie's large cast, both of them are really too old now to be playing high school seniors, however young-looking they may appear. Mind you, Teller's sprinkling of teenaged acne does help the illusion.

He plays Sutter, a good-time Charlie, the life-of-the party popular jock who has just broken up with dishy girlfriend Tiffany, Brie Larsen (also too old for the role) -- just before her Oscar-winning role in "Room".  To make her jealous he takes up with Woodley's Aimee, a studious, naïve, and vulnerable girl who has never had a boyfriend; not a beauty at the best of times, despite starting her career as a child model, Woodley is drabbed down for the role. Against all expectations it develops into a full-blooded (and shyly sexual) relationship. They meet when he wakes up after a drunken evening sprawled asleep on her front lawn with a 'Dude, Where's my Car' vibe. He's failing geometry, she agrees to tutor him, and things develop from there. They both come from single-parent families and have difficult relationships with their mothers, one workaholic and one feckless (hers brings in extra cash by having a newspaper delivery route, which most days she gets Aimee to service). His is played by the currently ubiquitous Jennifer Jason Leigh, a far cry from her own iconic teenaged role in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High". 

The one disturbing feature of this tale is the amount of alcohol Sutter consumes each day just to bolster his confidence and his 'front' and the consequent amount of driving under the influence that takes place. Aimee begins their relationship as someone who has never had a drink, but she soon becomes quite dependent on the mini-flask that Sutter has gifted. He has been pestering his mother to let him contact his absent father and Leigh has resisted. He discovers his whereabouts from a married sister and off the pair go to find what turns out to be a happy-go-lucky but deadbeat Dad. Sutter now believes that his mother didn't want him to meet the man because she believes he is turning out just like him, shiftless and hopeless. He rationalises his drinking as a crutch  -- he is afraid of the pressure of other people's expectations. When Aimee is preparing to go off to college and hoping he will join her, he lets her broken-heartedly go alone because he genuinely believes he is no good for her. The film finishes with a will-they or won't-they sop to the viewer (which was not in the original novel).

While it's a more intelligent than most scenario, graced with complex characters, much of the action doesn't ring quite true. It's as if we are watching an adult's conception of what it is to be a teenager. In this context, I do wonder how much longer Woodley in particular will be stuck in teen roles. She is only one year younger than Jennifer Lawrence who has broadened her range from the teenager in "Winter's Bone" and the 'Hunger Games' series to a variety of very different adult leading roles. So far the talented Woodley is not another Lawrence.     

Friday, 22 April 2016

A Potpourri of Pictures

It's been another of those weeks where no one film jumps out screaming to be reviewed, but unlike previous similar weeks I watched a number of movies worth mentioning (among the usual dross of course) -- so here goes:

"Little Fugitive" (1953): This one has been on my want-to-see list for ages. One of the first indies -- non-studio, black and white, low budget -- it was the dream project of professional married photographers Morris Engel and Ruth Orkin, and went on to win a Silver Lion in Venice and to be Oscar-nominated for best story. Non-professional child actors (neither of whom ever appeared in another film) play brothers -- the elder Lennie forced to look after kid-brother Joey while their mother is away. As a gag to get shot of the youngster, Lennie and his mates pretend that Joey has accidentally killed his big brother and the frightened child steals some cash and hops a subway to Coney Island. He mooches about stuffing his face with junk food and collecting bottles for the deposits to fund his passion for pony rides. Lennie meanwhile is terrified that he has 'lost' Joey and goes off in search.

With a minimum of dialogue and acres of Cinema Verite on the crowded Coney beach and the adjacent Steeplechase Amusement Park, this is a wonderful evocation of a time and place long gone. The adventures of young 'fugitive' Joey are sweet, endearing, and just a little scary.

"Rubber" (2010): I confess: exploding heads in movies are one of my guilty pleasures and this weird outing has three super ones, along with a final exploding body! It's a very silly movie which seems to covet cult status -- but it really isn't quite good enough, not unless you are prepared to buy into having an abandoned rubber tire as a serial killer. Yes, said tire goes on a murderous rampage in a desolate desert environment destroying flora, fauna, and all else that gets in its way, before recuperating by watching TV and going for a swimming pool dip. Yes, very silly indeed, but occasionally funny too in a very juvenile way.

"Standoff" (2015): Basically a two-hander, one-location thriller with Thomas Jane's suicidal ex-soldier bluffing professional assassin Laurence Fishburne that he has more than a single shell left in his gun. Yes there are other characters, particularly a young girl called Bird who can identify Fishburne and whom Jane feels obliged to protect. It's remarkably well-acted for what is really a B-Movie -- and tense with it.

"Elsa and Fred" (2014): Surprisingly the most enjoyable of the week's offerings, with wrinklies Christopher Plummer and Shirley Maclaine falling in geriatric love. Plummer plays an ornery old fart moved into a small apartment by his bossy daughter Marcia Gay Harden and Maclaine is the free-spirited, kooky next door neighbour -- actually a little too self-consciously kooky for my taste. She's obsessed with "La Dolce Vita" and sees herself as a latter-day Anita Ekberg ready to cavort in the Trevi Fountain. Apparently based on a 2005 Argentinian film which I don't know, the project was intended for Maclaine and Michael Caine until he dropped out. His replacement Plummer  does a lovely job, however, and there are useful roles for George Segal, James Brolin, and Scott Bakula as well.

"Age of Uprising, the Legend of Michael Kohlhaas" (20l3) is a French film starring the Danish actor Mads Mikkelsen in a revenge story very similar to his in "Salvation" which I recently reviewed. However this is much longer and rather less involving. Our hero eventually manages to satisfy all of his perceived grievances -- in exchange for being beheaded. Not a great deal of fun that...

Finally "Filth" (2013) and probably the less said the better. Based on an Irvine Welsh novel, James McAvoy is the whole show as a dysfunctional, dissolute, and despicable Scottish cop using friend and foe alike to secure an undeserved promotion. At once surreal, sex-driven, and very nasty, this is a movie to vaguely admire but not to enjoy.

Friday, 15 April 2016

Lilting (2014)

This is a lovely little film which most movie-goers will never have the opportunity to see. Alternatively sad, funny, bittersweet, maudlin, uplifting, and heart-breaking, it riffs on how two very different people who deeply loved the same person cope with their devastation on his death.

Pei-Pei Cheng, a veteran Hong Kong actress, gives a remarkable performance as a Cambodian-Chinese widow Junn living in Britain for many years, but never adapting to the new culture. The focus of her life since her (from the sound of it wastrel) husband's death has been her only son Kai, who has resolutely coped with all the practicalities for her; she has never bothered to learn English, despite being proficient in various Chinese dialects. Kai is gay and has recently moved in with his boyfriend Richard; reluctantly he has 'parked' his mother in an old-folks home which she hates, since he can not bring himself to 'come out' to the hidebound lady. He plans to finally bite the bullet and confess all, so that she can move in with them, when he is killed by a drunken driver.

Richard is played by the very able actor Ben Whishaw (himself gay), who first entered my radar in 2006's "Perfume" (a wonderful film) and who is now a quirky Q in the Bond franchise. Richard wants to get closer to Junn, not so much as in trying to take Kai's place in her affections, but as a way of keeping his love for his dead lover alive. He hires a Mandarin-speaking interpreter (Naomi Christie) to help bridge the communication gap between them, but is wary about being overly open about his real relationship with Kai, whom he initially describes as his 'best friend'. Whether Junn was actually aware of her son's sexuality but managed to deny it is less apparent than her jealousy of Richard's closeness to her son. Had Kai lived and had the three of them found the strength to accept the realities of their existence, Junn might have found herself with two sons to love. 

Their interpreted 'conversations' don't really succeed in their finding common ground; we hear the anger in Junn's voice when it escapes from her musical Mandarin lilt and the frustration in Richard's when he can not break through to her. In desperation he blurts out the truth of his relationship with Kai. Her final words are that memories are all that she has and must be kept alive 'to comfort me in my loneliness or they will fade like the face of my (dead) husband'. They both grieve for the person they loved best but seem unlikely to ever bridge the chasm between them, despite an uplifting final scene.

The first feature film from Cambodian-born, British-based director Hong Khaou, it is apparently based on a two-hander French play. Wonderfully photographed by ace cinematographer Christopher Doyle, the movie has a lighter touch than the above capsule may imply. Junn has an admirer at the home, Alan, played by sitcom comic stalwart Peter Bowles. He's really just a dirty old man yearning for some slap and tickle, but initially Junn is flattered by his attentions. Only when they borrow the interpreter for some more intimate confessions does it emerge that he thinks her breath reeks of garlic and she thinks he smells of urine! She now wants to avoid the amorous old coot, but Richard encourages her to give him a second chance, as he hopes she will give him as well.

Finally a word or two about the remarkable Pei-Pei. I saw her quite recently in the martial arts classic "Come Drink with Me" (1966), where as a 20-year old she played Golden Swallow (disguised as a man) who is out to rescue an official -- actually her brother -- kidnapped by thugs -- and she acquits herself memorably as an action heroine. She can also be seen in "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" (2000). However neither of these prepared me for her dignified, grief-stricken turn as Junn.  

Friday, 8 April 2016

"The Bald Hairdresser" (2012)

If the above sounds an unfamiliar and unlikely title for a movie, you can be forgiven for not recognising it, since the film in question from Danish director Susanne Bier was released to the English-speaking world as "Love is All You Need". This may be a sappier sounding title, but the above original intrigues. It is also accurate -- albeit unappetizing.

The film's female lead, played by Trine Dyrholm, has just completed a hospital course of chemotherapy and is waiting to learn if her cancer has been contained. She works as a hairdresser and a glamourous blonde wig disguises the fact that she is currently as bald as a coot. She goes home and is horrified to find her husband, Kim Bodnia, humping away on top of his young mistress. Now, in the normal course of things I could accept this scenario as a stepping stone for the action to follow. However, since obsessively watching 'Scandinavian Noir' TV series has become part of my recent way of life, I had trouble accepting Dyrholm's conniving art gallery owner from "The Legacy" being married to Bodnia, the Danish cop partnering the Asperger-ish Swedish cop Saga from "The Bridge". When one has spent several years and several series in the company of these actors, their characters become quite rooted in one's mind. It would be like discovering that Ted Danson's Sam Malone is actually married to Lisa Kudrow's Phoebe Buffay!

But I digress...  Dyrholm's Ida (not-so-cute) meets Philip (Pierce Brosnan) when she bashes into his car (several times) in an airport parking garage. It seems they are both en route to Italy where his son is about to marry her daughter. They end up travelling together, and since everything is going wrong for her at present, the airline manages to lose her suitcase for good measure. Brosnan is a workaholic widower, still mourning his long-dead Danish wife, and a very distant father to his son. Now the whole family must come together for the current happy event, which includes his man-eating sister-in-law Paprika Steen (first seen in 1998's "Festen") and Bodnia, who has brought along his loud-mouthed and slutty paramour.

The scene is set for several family show-downs as well as the growing friendship between Ida and Philip, starting when the middle-aged Dyrholm bravely emerges from her sea-swim totally nude and bald. The various ugly tensions, especially between Ida's soldier son and her boorish husband, are counterpointed by the beautiful sunny Italian scenery and the promise of gracious living. In the end, for reasons that I won't disclose, there is no wedding and the cast of characters go their separate ways. Back in Denmark, Bodnia begs Ida to take him back -- and reluctantly she agrees to do so. However Brosnan (or James Bond/Remington Steele) can't forget Ida, turns up at her beauty parlour, and agrees to open the letter she has received from the hospital but has been too timid to open herself. He wants to spend his life with her, whether it's for years, or months, or weeks. The End!

Director Bier has created a warm and ultimately moving family drama -- and one roots for the two refreshingly mature leads to realise that happiness awaits them, despite previous traumas. I've seen a number of the director's films over the years and they are usually complex and satisfying dramas. However, her most recent directorial stint was for the not completely satisfying BBC serialisation of John Le Carre's "The Night Manager" starring that bloody, omnipresent Tom Hiddleston (see below).

Friday, 1 April 2016

High-Rise (2015)

I didn't exactly hate this movie, but I didn't like it much either. Tempted by the reviews which claimed that British director Ben Wheatley and his regular screenwriter Amy Jump had managed the impossible in bringing J G Ballard's 1975 novel to the screen, we gave it a go. It's always been thought that the book was unfilmable -- and it should have stayed that way if you ask me.

Wheatley is increasingly well-thought of as one of the best directors in the country, but I didn't particularly like any of his earlier flicks: "Down Terrace", "Kill List" (I tried watching it twice), the period piece black-and-white "A Field in England", or the would-be black comedy "Sightseers". There is a cruel streak running throughout his films, not leavened by a light touch, and this latest movie is easily his nastiest. Set in the 70s, the tale is obviously meant to be taken as some sort of parable on the Thatcher years as well as our society today.  'The Architect' dreamer, Jeremy Irons, has created a towering high-tech building which is meant to provide everything the tenants could desire -- from state-of-the-art kitchens and waste-disposal systems, from the supermarket to the pool, from the health spa to the squash courts. He lives in the top penthouse with his spoiled wife, surrounded by lush green gardens roomy enough for her pet white horse and various other farm animals; she can play at being Marie Antoinette to her heart's content. The lower floors are occupied by a hierarchy of classes, with the plebs near the bottom and the would-be aristos towards the top. The main cast of characters includes Luke Evans and his heavily pregnant wife, Elizabeth Moss, with their brood of kiddies, semi-courtesan Sienna Miller and her introverted genius son (who may well have been fathered by Irons), and a nasty lot of toffs led by James Purefoy. Our hero (and I use the word very loosely) doctor Tom Hiddleston has just moved into a flat on the 25th floor.

I confess that I am getting fed up with Hiddleston's omnipresence in film and TV nowadays, with his displaying his slim but buff body at every opportunity. Apparently some ladies lust after this would-be heart-throb, but his appeal leaves me baffled. I understand that he is angling to become the next James Bond when Daniel Craig finally packs it in, but I do hope a better alternative will arise to save the franchise.

Anyhow, back to the subject at hand, things start to go wrong almost immediately -- the lights fail, the lifts don't work, the garbage becomes backed up, and despite being surrounded by acres of free parking, the inhabitants of the tower seem unable or unwilling to leave their microcosm of society. This is where I lose the plot as outlined. There seems to be no logic as to why they are unable to go outside or why their automobiles soon become burnt out wrecks; in fact we actually see Hiddleston go to his office in a nearby research hospital on several occasions. Things go from bad to worse in a kind of a "Lord of the Flies" world, where the rich in-bred bullies try to impose their will on the lower ranks through mayhem and murder. The analogy used in the movie is that of a children's birthday party run riot. The white horse and the many pet dogs soon become the only remaining sources of nourishment, although the diminishing number of inhabitants never seem to run out of cigarettes. It is the l970s remember...and everyone seems to smoke non-stop.

There's two hours of compulsive madness, non-stop carousing, casual sex, and mob-led bloodshed without any likely resolution in sight. One hopes we can look forward to a rosier future than the one created by Irons (and Ballard) in their ivory-tower master-plan for society.

            *        *        *        *        *

To end on a cheerier note, I have finally managed to watch the recent Academy Award animation winner "Inside Out".  It's a brilliant work of absolute genius. I just can't understand the many writers who have given it a one-out-of-ten ranking on IMDb. Draggy? Boring? They must be mad or weird or both.  Or is it me?  

Friday, 25 March 2016

August Rush (2007)/In the House (2012)

Memory is a funny thing...and two films viewed this week demonstrate this.

I first saw "August Rush" shortly after its release and thought, "OK, that was an interesting movie...maybe a little soppy, but OK". Reviews ranged from 'iffy' to adequate and I put it out of my mind. Or I thought I had. Yet snippets of the movie kept coming back to me and a gradual fondness began to emerge, so I decided upon a second viewing -- and I'm pleased that I did. It's a strange and as it turned out in my case a haunting film with much to recommend it.

In short, classical cellist (Keri Russell) and Irish rock musician (Jonathan Rhys Meyers) meet, have a one night stand, and go their very separate ways. When she finds that she is pregnant, she so wants the child as a reminder of that one carefree night in her ordered life, but her father-cum-manager convinces her that her son was still-born and that her career is all that matters. However she has lost the taste for his stern discipline and retires. Meyers too wants desperately to find what he now believes to be his destined and lost love, leaving his group to try to get on with some semblance of life. Meanwhile their child has been placed in a state orphanage, and youngster Freddie Highmore (in a remarkable performance) refuses all offers of adoption, believing in his heart of hearts that his real parents will find him.

Befriended by caring welfare worker Terence Howard, he runs away to New York hoping he will help him locate his family, but arrangements go astray and he ends up in the not-so-tender hands of Robin Williams, playing a latter-day Fagin, who is providing a home of sorts for a bunch of lost boys-cum-street musicians. The young lad has always heard music in the wind and the trees and he soon demonstrates a prodigious musical talent. Through a set of plot contrivances necessary to move the story forward, he ends up living at the Julliard School of Music where this teenaged prodigy composes an incredible urban symphony that is to be premiered (with his conducting) in Central Park. However Fagin Williams does not want to let the boy-wonder (and meal-ticket) escape his clutches. It is a frantic race for him to reach the park for the concert, where Russell has come out of retirement to play and where Meyers too is drawn. The inevitable family reunion is downplayed, yet the viewer knows as the music surges that they will now live happily ever after. 

With its amazing mix of music -- classic, rock, folk, symphonic -- and a likeable cast (except maybe Williams) I'm not surprised that the film stayed with me over the intervening years -- unlike some movies which I viewed last month and can now barely remember. I've always had a soft spot for the underused Russell (who started her career in the Mickey Mouse Club in 1991) though I've rather more ambiguous feelings about Meyers, even if his defining role in the TV series "Gormengast" (2000) is another memory-worm. And as mentioned above, young Highmore gives his all. He's had a wonderful career as a child actor from age seven and seems to be continuing along the same lines as a young man, even if he is now playing Norman Bates in "Bates Motel"! Yes, as it turns out, "August Rush" is a movie well worth remembering.

At another extreme, I scheduled BBC4's premiere showing of the French movie "In the House", even if the storyline seemed to ring vague bells. I checked all my many lists and decided that I couldn't possibly have viewed the film previously, but from the minute we started watching, it all seemed very, very familiar. We couldn't work out where or when we had seen it nor quite remember how it panned out, so we kept on watching. I eventually realised that I own a DVD of the movie. How stupid can you be Pat? Or how forgetful?

It all came back to me -- although completely forgotten over the last few years -- and it was no punishment viewing it a second time. Adopted from a play by director Francois Ozon, whose films delight in playing games, it follows Fabrice Luchini's high school literature teacher (with the lovely name of Germain Germain) as he and his childless wife (Kirstin Scott Thomas) become increasingly bewitched by the essays turned in by one his pupils. Said student, Claude, played by Ernst Umhauer, has ingratiated himself into the family life of one of his classmates on the grounds that he is helping the dim lad with his maths. But he is besotted with 'the middle-class mother, played by Emanuelle Seigner and plots to whisk her away from the Raphas, Senior and Junior. Each instalment ends with the words 'to be continued' and Luchini and Scott Thomas hang on every syllable as the saga unfolds. However one never knows whether the youngster's stories are fact or fiction and to what extent he is trying to infiltrate into his teacher's own life. Luchini's mentoring of the young writer eventually backfires when he loses both his job and his wife, but the insidious little monster is already tempting him with the tales of what he imagines to be going on in many other flats and houses. 

If nothing else I should have remembered Scott Thomas' frantic attempts to make a go of her pretentious and wildly pornographic art gallery and the delightful cameo from one of my favourite French actresses, Yolande Moreau, playing twins. Such are the vagaries of memory.  

Friday, 18 March 2016

Anomalisa (2015)

There are a number of amazing things about this very strange animated film from card-carrying kook Charlie Kaufman, but the most amazing of all is the fact that it was actually Oscar-nominated. Unlike the usual culprits -- Pixar, Ghibli, Aardman -- this is not the expected child-friendly product to pack them into the multiplexes, but a movie directly aimed at an adult audience and one which it will probably be slow to find. Yes, we have had puppet sex before in "Team America", but with doll-like sexless wooden bodies, not with the finely detailed genitalia to be found here in Kaufman's everyman fable.

The second amazing fact is that after his ill-received directing debut ("Synecdoche New York" in 2008 -- admittedly a boxes within boxes complicated movie) no studio would dream of giving him money for a sophomore film, despite his award-winning strengths as a screenwriter ("Being John Malkovich", "Adaptation", and "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"). "Anomalisa" began life as a 40-minute voice play. Having formed a working partnership with animator Duke Johnson (which whom Kaufman shares the directing credit), the project was initially funded on Kickstarter, before scrabbling to finance the balance of the production.

Stop-motion animation is a very slow process at the best of times, but Johnson has done an amazing job of bringing Kaufman's play to life, down to the very smallest movements. Their computer-printed unstrung puppets are surreally lifelike as they go about their mundane lives, even if they do seem rather top-heavy and squat. Disturbingly their face-movement joins, usually painted out in post-production, are left in place -- and occasionally shift or even fall apart -- reinforcing the notion that we are watching some sort of parallel world, yet one with haunting implications for us all. A third amazing feature of this movie is that it has a cast of hundreds, but only three voices.

Our 'hero' Michael (voiced by David Thewlis) is a successful motivational speaker, who has checked into Cincinnati's bland Hotel Fregoli, before delivering his presentation on improving customer service. We gradually become aware that everyone with whom he interacts from the taxi driver from the airport to the soulless reception clerk to the bell-hop to the bar staff -- men, women, and even children -- all speak with exactly the same voice (all furnished by Tom Noonan) and facially they are indistinguishable. Michael seems to be suffering from Fregoli Syndrome, a condition in which one believes that everyone else is the same person but in a different disguise. He appears to be facing some sort of alienated middle-age crisis, desperately trying to bring some meaning to the emptiness of his own life. He may have written a book titled "Let Me Help You Help Them", but he soon realises that pretending to care about others is impossible when everyone else is identical.

And then he hears a third voice, Jennifer Jason Leigh's homely Lisa who seems to be a light in the darkness -- an anomaly, the 'something different' for which we all search. Michael is enchanted with the possibilities embodied in this plain, sweet, and inexperienced woman, and they soon spend the night together. However, despite his cockeyed dream of a future together, he becomes disenchanted with her perceived failings and dutifully returns to his wife, child, and friends -- all of whom look alike and sound alike. There is no redemption or happy ending for this Everyman, even if Lisa seems to have found something meaningful in their time together.

We are probably more receptive to Kaufman's thesis that we are all potentially lost souls by his embodying this nihilistic philosophy in his slightly skewwhiff puppets, rather than employing real actors with whom we might identify. It's an odd movie that will not set the box-office ablaze, but one that is destined to find its own cult audience, even with the yucky business about the antique Japanese sex 'toy' that he has purchased as a present for his young son. Very weird!    

Friday, 11 March 2016

Hail, Caesar! (2016)

OK, I admit I was a little disappointed. Being a dyed-in-the-wool Coen Brothers fan, I had been looking forward to seeing their latest movie, partly for its purportedly all-star cast and largely because anything to do with 'old Hollywood' (especially sending it up) is guaranteed to tickle my funny bone. While this film is far from an all-out dud like their needless remake of "The Ladykillers", it is very definitely middle-range Coen Brothers and not up there with their best.

Despite their award-winning record, the brothers have never claimed to be part of the Hollywood establishment, and pointed barbs from talented outsiders are often on target. However, unlike "Barton Fink" which was ultimately a mean-spirited jab at La-la Land in the 1930s, finally sending the whole shooting match up in flames, 'Caesar' is an episodic and meandering look at 50s Hollywood, with a tongue-in-cheek approach to its output and foibles. Insofar as there is any story being told, we follow one day in the life of the film's main character (Josh Brolin), studio executive Eddie Mannix, based on a real-life and reputedly ruthless behind-the-scenes fixer of the period. A fastidious Catholic who confesses his 'sins' on a regular basis, Mannix's true faith is in Hollywood's 'magic'; tidying up other people's messes is really what keeps him going.

His main problem today is the disappearance of superstar George Clooney (playing his third role as a Coen Brothers 'idiot'), one scene away from completing the epic of the title, who has been snatched from the set in his leather skirt by a disaffected bunch of Communist screenwriters (shades of the anti-American witch trials of the time). Clooney demonstrates that even great Hollywood stars can be gurning boobs as well! We are also introduced to Scarlett Johansson's Esther Williams-esque mermaid, in the club with no husband to hand, for whom Mannix plans a scenario where she can adopt her own kid. (Hello, Loretta Young). Meanwhile on the studio lot we meet acrobatic cowboy Hobie, played by the little-known Alden Ehrenreich, who incidentally gives the movie's best performance, as he is roped into a high-falutin' drawing-room comedy, a la Gary Cooper?, under the exasperated eye of pernickety director Ralph Fiennes. Then there is song-and-dance man Channing Tatum, doing a remarkably able pastiche of Gene Kelly, although rather more sexually explicit than would have been tolerated back then.

The film's cast is huge, and most of them are given very little to do. Jonah Hill has about two minutes of screen time and Coen regular Tilda Swinton playing twin gossip columnists (Hedda Hopper-cum-Luella Parsons) is something of a waste of time. France McDormand, however, has a knock-out cameo as a film editor who nearly comes to an Isadora Duncan sticky end. There is even a Carmen Miranda-ish character for us to identify. The movie largely resembles one of those early talkie productions, where each of the studio's contracted stars did their little bit in the hope that these small turns would add up to a feature film.  "Hail, Caesar" is similarly far too patchy to be satisfying, although there are definite laughs to be found. For example, the scene where various religious leaders are called in to ensure that 'the tale of the Christ' which is shooting will not manage to offend any one is hilarious, especially with Robert Picardo's bolshy rabbi. However these affectionate felicities are few and far between.

Like Woody Allen movies, minor Coen Brothers' films are still potentially more entertaining than most, even if they occasionally turn out to be something short of a hoped-for masterpiece.

Friday, 4 March 2016

Shooting Oscars

This will be the first year that I haven't devoted a full blog to the Oscar ceremony, partly because I don't have a great deal to add to the widespread coverage of the recent event and partly because a film viewed yesterday shouts for some comment.

Considering the brouhaha over the past few weeks about the whiteness of the Oscar nominees, Chris Rock did all that was expected of him to emphasize the problems of so-called diversity and largely with good grace, although a few of his gibes fell resoundingly flat. He had a very valid point in stating that historically having nominees of colour was of little consequence to the black community when your granny is hanging from a tree. And in all fairness, there have been a fair number of black winners in living memory. The point has been made, but I'm not sure it needs to be drummed home ad nauseum. There was certainly a compensatingly high percentage of dark faces among this year's presenters, most of whom felt obliged to add their two cents to the argument, but I'm pretty sure genuine talent will continue to be colour-blind in the years to come. Rock's amusing recasting of black actors in some of this year's nominated films (I especially liked the 'black' bear that violated DiCaprio) drove the point home that not every role calls out for colour-blind casting.

As for the awards themselves, there were actually a few surprises -- always a pleasant turn of events. I miscalled the likely winner of best supporting actress (although I think Alicia Vikander was even more deserving of an award for her amazing turn in "Ex Machina") and I was flabbergasted that sentimentality did not bestow the best supporting actor gong on Stallone. Also surprising is the fact that this year was the first Oscar win for the incredibly prolific and talented composer Ennio Morricone. Leo's win (at last, say some) for "The Revenant" was a foregone conclusion, but I could have done without the incurably smug Alejandro G. Inarritu winning best director for the second year running. However if the Academy once again manages to split the best picture award from the director responsible for its gestation, a far more popular choice would have been awarding the directing Oscar to veteran George Miller. After all, "Mad Max: Fury Road" was the big winner of the night with six technical awards -- and the production design really was magnificent -- a seventh to its director would have capped the evening. I was chuffed to find that Stephen Fry's 'bag lady' Jenny Beaven took home another costume design award for that movie, and you could just about hear the dressed-to-the-nines audience's horrified gasps when she took to the stage in her leather jacket and motorcycle boots.

Now to the second highlight of my cinematic week: "Shooting Stars" (1928). This restored silent film was one of the galas at last year's London Film Festival, and last night was the first of its less spangled showings before its DVD release later this month. The direction and screenplay are credited in retrospect to Anthony Asquith, son of a former Prime Minister, although he is uncredited for both -- the directing credit ascribed to a forgotten A.V. Bramble. Asquith did indeed go on to a successful career in the sound era, but I am certainly underwhelmed by his silent output of which this is the third and final restoration.

Set in a film studio where two productions are underway, the glimpses of early film-making techniques hold a certain fascination, but the story itself leaves much to be desired as do the largely wooden performances. Married couple Brian Aherne, who went on to a distinguished Hollywood career, and Annette Benson present a false picture of marital bliss, while she actually has the hots for Chaplinesque comedian Donald Calthorp. The latter actor continued in memorable British roles throughout the 30s, but Benson seems to have disappeared from the scene after 1931 (there isn't even any biographical information available); frankly she was neither sufficiently gorgeous nor convincing in her femme fatale role. When her adultery (strong stuff for movies for 1928) becomes exposed, she fears for her future because of the morals clause in her contract, and tries to stage Aherne's death on set. Her plan backfires and Calthorp becomes the unintended victim. All highly melodramatic...

In fairness the film did have a few well-staged niceties, in particular its moralistic ending, but the hyped 'boldly expressionistic' shooting style and dramatic lighting from so-called rising talent Asquith is barely in evidence. Variety published two reviews on its original release -- one from an American critic praising the work and a second from a British critic knocking it. However a third review three months later more or less said that the film was of little consequence and not worth screening. Of course now we are meant to hail its brilliance as some sort of masterpiece.

This performance was graced with a live score from composer John Altman and his chosen l2-piece jazz ensemble. The music was the better half of the evening, even if it didn't always seem to tally with the images on screen. Unfortunately we were seated just across the aisle from the musicians and the effect was a little overpowering to say the least.

Friday, 26 February 2016

The Forbidden Room (2015)

The latest film from the so-called Sage of Winnipeg, Guy Maddin, sounded fascinating from the first reviews I read. We finally caught up with it at the six-row Studio in the National Film Theatre. "Well, that's two hours of my life I'll never get back" said Michael, and it is very definitely a movie that will divide viewers into two camps -- with the majority, I suspect, joining Michael who found it a pretentious and nearly unwatchable mishmash.

I, however, really liked it despite its bum-numbing length -- and there can be no argument that it is totally unlike any other film that gets a cinema release. Maddin's output has always verged on the decidedly quirky, often with the feel of silent cinema, normally focussing on complicated but unsuccessful romances, and with not very subtle motifs of sexual repression. I've not seen all of his output, but my reaction has wavered between those which left me bemused like "Archangel" (1990) and "Careful" (1992) and those which I found brilliant, like "Dracula, Pages from a Virgin's Diary" (2002) and "The Saddest Music in the World" (2003).

For the last decade, Maddin has been more involved in installations and art projects. Developed from a series of short scenes performed before the public in front of the Pompidou Centre in Paris and the Phi Centre in Montreal, the fifteen or so 'stories' were edited together into overlapping and fragmented circles to create the final film. Inspired by 'lost' films and abandoned projects, the movie takes its title from the definitely lost 1914 short film from Canadian-born director Allan Dwan (who went on to have a distinguished Hollywood career). The overall feel of this movie is one of dream-like images stitched into a hallucinogenic wash of colour with absolutely no linear coherence, and featuring such weirdnesses as a Filipino vampire, a cult of lycanthropes, stolen squids, a mid-air Zeppelin collision, and a scantily clad amnesiac young heroine who wanders aimlessly through the proceedings. In addition, some footage is shot to resemble deteriorating nitrate stock, reminding one of the really unwatchable documentary "Decasia" (2002).

Add to this the 420 kitschy intertitles in this non-silent movie and one is inundated with something resembling sensory overload. The enormous cast, many of whom play multiple parts, and most of whom are credited with a title card when they first appear, seem to be having enormous fun; the list includes such well-known names as Udo Kier, Charlotte Rampling, Geraldine Chaplin, Mathieu Amalric, Maria de Medeiros, and Elina Lowensohn, as well as a number of Maddin regulars like Louis Negin and Roy Dupuis. Parts of the movie were actually laugh-out-loud funny, like initiation rites of 'offal-piling' and characters regressing into amoeba-like monsters, and most of it was quiet-smile amusing.

However first and foremost the film which the director himself has described as a "basically ectoplasmic splooge" seems to be one long metaphor for the orgasm. From the gnarly seamen trapped in their tube-like submarine whom we continue to revisit as they plot their escape and the many quests through rosy pink caves, the movie ends with a series of explosive climaxes. The viewer too experiences a sense of release that this very odd viewing experience has actually come to an end.

I imagine it would take multiple viewings to absorb everything that Maddin has thrown into his wizard's brew and I don't know that I could stand doing this again on anything less than a large screen. Yet I can definitely recommend seeking out the film. You too might describe it as two hours that you can never retrieve, but they would be two hours of movie-making such as you have never before seen.   
 

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