Among the somewhat specialised film festivals that come and go over the year is one aimed at the fashion industry and called rather pointedly 'The Fashion in Film Festival'. Since one of their venues is the National Film Theatre, I do receive details of their offerings in the monthly film programme, and have over the last few years been able to view some of their more obscure selections -- particularly as they are very keen on modernist trends in silent movies from the 1920s. The organisers have occasionally more or less spoiled their film choices by interrupting the proceedings with strutting dancers or models. Fortunately this was not the case with the above movie from the prolific but generally overlooked French director Marcel l'Herbier.
In fact he is the star turn at this year's festival which features five of his films from the late 20s/early 30s and attempts to showcase his obsessions with stylised interiors and costuming. He called upon the talents of many of the foremost architects, artists, designers, and couturiers of his day, aiming to synthesise all of these arts and make cinema a showcase for his aesthetic sensibilities. Indeed this film is a feast for the eye. It is, however, also extremely long and tedious; despite being described in the programme as being 90 minutes long, it ran for a full 130! Ouch! I have seen and reviewed some of L'Herbier's other silents, and looking back on my comments I note that I really liked his "Living Dead Man" (also 1926) but hated his "L'Inhumaine" (1924) which is also being featured in this festival.
The director himself, when asked to base this film on a popular melodramatic play by Charles Mere, protested that the plot was' boring'; he therefore decided to overcome this handicap by creating (in his words) a 'visual sauce' that would counteract the trite action. Unfortunately unless one is au fait with the now largely forgotten creative figures of that period, this is not enough. The rather skimpy plot starts in Russia in 1917 at the height of the revolution. The family of General Count Svirsky cower in their palatial rooms expecting to be eaten alive by the angry peasants. However he does seize this opportunity to murder the dashing young officer Dimitri who has become his younger wife's paramour. Regardless, she stands by her husband and they escape to a louche and luxurious life on the French Riviera. There she catches sight of Henri de Cassel who is the living image (le vertige) of her lost lover. Both roles are taken by the director's muse Jaque Catelain, whom the director treats as the focus and the real star of the movie. I don't know why, but in so many silents the stars look far too old for their roles and in fact Emmy Lynn who plays the Countess Svirska was in her late thirties here and rather stout with it.. It is also something of a problem when the leading man is far prettier than his would-be love. This was the case in spades in the earlier "L'Inhumaine in which Catelain also starred, and it is unavoidedly noticeable here too.
Lynn serves as an adequate clothes-horse for some of the more eye-popping costumes, but it is Catelain who really shines in his double-breasted suits and geometric dressing gown, a beautiful knight out to rescue the fair damsel. However a 'visual symphony' or 'visual poetry' as the film was described on its release are unfortunately insufficient reasons to sit through more than two hours of stilted acting and unrewarding action from some basically unsympathetic characters.
I'm off to the States tomorrow, but will return with some in-flight movie reviews (now that's something I've not done for a while) on my return. See you then...
Wednesday, 15 May 2013
Wednesday, 8 May 2013
I'm So Excited! (2013)
A new film from Spanish maestro Pedro Almodovar is a cause for excitement and enough to get me heading to the nearest cinema showing the work at the first possible opportunity. The flamboyant director always has some new tricks up his sleeve and all of his films since the start of this decade have shown a new maturity, contemplative approach, and a noir sensibility missing from his thoroughly entertaining but often hollow-cored early romps. On the surface his latest movie (which has attracted some of the most lukewarm notices of his career) may seem a throwback to the iconoclastic and empty-headed early farces, but there is far more to the film than that. Even if there were not, it is a joyous ninety minutes full of its own charms.
The original title "Los Amantes Pasajeros" (loosely translated at the Loving Passengers) tells one as little about the movie as the chosen English title taken from the Pointer Sisters' 1984 pop hit -- a rendition of which performed by three more-than-camp air stewards becomes the film's highlight. The action, such as it is, takes place largely on a transatlantic flight of a mythical airline between Madrid and Mexico City. However, in a seemingly unrelated cameo at the start of the film between two of the director's muses (Antonio Banderos and Penelope Cruz), the flight is sent off with a major fault -- its landing gear is compromised. When this becomes apparent, the flight captain radios for help in finding a suitable strip where he can attempt an emergency landing. Nothing seems to be immediately available...
What to do? The passengers and their stewardesses in the cramped economy section are drugged to keep them quiet and to avoid any panic. The panic is largely confined to the three gay stewards who act as the spearheads of the action forming a viaduct between the virtually empty business-class section and the cockpit (and never has that word been subject to more innuendos than in this film). In business class we have seven passengers: a honeymoon couple exhausted after three days of shagging, a failed actress turned dominatrix (Cecelia Roth -- one of the few members of the director's stock company with a major role) who claims to have video evidence of indiscretions by Spain's most powerful men, a famous actor trying to escape from his most recent failed amour, a banker fleeing the aftermath of his financial misdeeds, a shady 'business advisor' who is actually a hitman, and a plain, middle-aged 'psychic' who is desperate to lose her virginity. One of the stewards is the not so secret lover of the married pilot, while the second is panting to pleasure the purportedly hetero first officer, and the chubby third (a memorable Carlos Areces) spends much of his time praying at his portable pop-up shrine.
As the plane flies in circles over Toledo, the seven privileged passengers rattle about in their pastel cabin, exchanging intimacies, at first verbal and then sexual, egged on by the potent brew distributed by the irrepressible stewards -- a mixture of juice, champagne, and mescaline (retrieved from an unmentionable hiding place by the randy groom). Without any inflight entertainment or private telephones, their various secrets are revealed on the one public telephone which provides no privacy, as their conversations are boomed out for all to hear. In this imminently life-threatening scenario, each of them must evaluate what really matters in their lives and what they must do change things -- should they survive. Eventually they are able to land at the totally deserted 'La Mancha' Airport (shades of quixotic adventures) -- but actually a reference to one of two Spanish 'white elephant' airports built during an expansive boom period and now abandoned in the new age of austerity.
The film can easily be read to symbolise the state of the Spanish nation -- the unconscious and helpless majority in the cattle car blissfully unaware of long-range problems, while the privileged few find themselves in a holding pattern, without really knowing how to find the right answers. As a metaphor for Spain's financial woes, one might rate this movie a downer. However all troubles recede to the background in the irreverent hands of the stewards' wonderfully choreographed gay Greek chorus. Without them the film would be just a loosely-knit collection of mildly diverting vignettes, but their infectious joie de vivre in the face of catastrophe makes this movie a wonderfully entertaining trifle. Almodovar examines the state of his nation with a deft and irreverent hand, and while possibly a lightweight outing, this film is far, far from a failure.
The original title "Los Amantes Pasajeros" (loosely translated at the Loving Passengers) tells one as little about the movie as the chosen English title taken from the Pointer Sisters' 1984 pop hit -- a rendition of which performed by three more-than-camp air stewards becomes the film's highlight. The action, such as it is, takes place largely on a transatlantic flight of a mythical airline between Madrid and Mexico City. However, in a seemingly unrelated cameo at the start of the film between two of the director's muses (Antonio Banderos and Penelope Cruz), the flight is sent off with a major fault -- its landing gear is compromised. When this becomes apparent, the flight captain radios for help in finding a suitable strip where he can attempt an emergency landing. Nothing seems to be immediately available...
What to do? The passengers and their stewardesses in the cramped economy section are drugged to keep them quiet and to avoid any panic. The panic is largely confined to the three gay stewards who act as the spearheads of the action forming a viaduct between the virtually empty business-class section and the cockpit (and never has that word been subject to more innuendos than in this film). In business class we have seven passengers: a honeymoon couple exhausted after three days of shagging, a failed actress turned dominatrix (Cecelia Roth -- one of the few members of the director's stock company with a major role) who claims to have video evidence of indiscretions by Spain's most powerful men, a famous actor trying to escape from his most recent failed amour, a banker fleeing the aftermath of his financial misdeeds, a shady 'business advisor' who is actually a hitman, and a plain, middle-aged 'psychic' who is desperate to lose her virginity. One of the stewards is the not so secret lover of the married pilot, while the second is panting to pleasure the purportedly hetero first officer, and the chubby third (a memorable Carlos Areces) spends much of his time praying at his portable pop-up shrine.
As the plane flies in circles over Toledo, the seven privileged passengers rattle about in their pastel cabin, exchanging intimacies, at first verbal and then sexual, egged on by the potent brew distributed by the irrepressible stewards -- a mixture of juice, champagne, and mescaline (retrieved from an unmentionable hiding place by the randy groom). Without any inflight entertainment or private telephones, their various secrets are revealed on the one public telephone which provides no privacy, as their conversations are boomed out for all to hear. In this imminently life-threatening scenario, each of them must evaluate what really matters in their lives and what they must do change things -- should they survive. Eventually they are able to land at the totally deserted 'La Mancha' Airport (shades of quixotic adventures) -- but actually a reference to one of two Spanish 'white elephant' airports built during an expansive boom period and now abandoned in the new age of austerity.
The film can easily be read to symbolise the state of the Spanish nation -- the unconscious and helpless majority in the cattle car blissfully unaware of long-range problems, while the privileged few find themselves in a holding pattern, without really knowing how to find the right answers. As a metaphor for Spain's financial woes, one might rate this movie a downer. However all troubles recede to the background in the irreverent hands of the stewards' wonderfully choreographed gay Greek chorus. Without them the film would be just a loosely-knit collection of mildly diverting vignettes, but their infectious joie de vivre in the face of catastrophe makes this movie a wonderfully entertaining trifle. Almodovar examines the state of his nation with a deft and irreverent hand, and while possibly a lightweight outing, this film is far, far from a failure.
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
Iron Man 3
The critics have been lavish in their praise for this third instalment in the Tony Stark saga, but the fanboys have been having a bit of a moan. Never having been a teenaged comic buff myself, I approached this outing with a fairly open mind and can side with the critics: this film provides fine slam-bang action along with a cheeky and charismatic turn from the ever-likeable Robert Downey Jr.
I have always reckoned Downey and admired his acting chops, even when his personal life was a drug-fuelled mess. That he has cleaned up his act to become one of Hollywood's biggest money-spinners and the star of this Marvel franchise is pretty great in my book. While the first two Iron Man films were directed by Jon Favreau, who has only a quirky cameo in this film before spending the remainder of the movie in a coma, the first sequel was a real let-down. The new director, Shane Black, has lent his fine comic hand to this third outing. Black starred Downey (at about the time he was turning his life around) in his debut feature "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang" (2005), but before that he was one of Hollywood's best 'go-to' writers for comedy-action flicks, penning all of the Lethal Action movies and two of the Bruce Willis actioners. In other words he has a finely-honed sense of the ridiculous and Downey is more than adept at handling his throw-away one-liners, which is to my mind a large part of the film's appeal.
The nay-sayers seem to think that superhero films don't need lots of drama, only non-stop action. Black's outing has action in spades -- possibly a little too much and too exhausting to watch for my grown-up taste -- but he also has time to deal with meatier personal issues. The main gripe against this film is that writer-director Black has taken Iron Man's greatest nemesis from the comics, The Mandarin, and turned him into a big joke. That's sacrilege in their book! As this deadly enemy who Stark challenges and who all but destroys his home and his hubris, (Sir) Ben Kingsley provides a sparkling menacing and then cravenly hilarious embodiment of would-be evil. The real villain it emerges is Guy Pearce's Aldrich Killian who has used scientist Rebecca Hall's findings to create an army of self-regenerating ex-cripples (or something like that). His actual motives are far from clear as he gleefully embraces his nutty world-conqueror ambitions, although he obviously nurses a snub from Stark in his nerdy days thirteen years earlier.
Gwyneth Paltrow's Pepper Potts is back as Stark's very definite love interest and takes a big part in the strange storyline, obviously enjoying being able to showcase her rock-like 40ish abs. Also returning to the series is Don Cheadle as Iron Man's military pal. With William Sandler as the kidnapped President, Miguel Ferrer as an untrustworthy Vice-President, and Paul Betthany lending his superior, dulcet tones to Jarvis (the butler of the suits), the film is smartly cast. However most appealing of all is young actor Ty Simpkins as a techy sidekick who helps Stark when he is at his lowest.
There was perhaps too much jokiness about the supposedly indestructible metal suits falling apart willy-nilly (another no-no from the fans), but this was probably as much to do with creating 3-D effects in the film. Quite honestly, after a while I stopped noticing that the movie was in fact shot in three dimensions and it would lose very little in its 2-D version. This in fact speaks well for Black's opting to combine a bit of serious soul-searching with the all-out action. Otherwise 130 minutes would have been more than I for one could handle.
The film's ending (which I won't reveal) was a strange one, insofar as it does not really set up the action for further sequels, although no doubt Iron Man is contracted to appear in the next "Avengers Assemble". It will be interesting to discover whether Iron Man will remain a fairly satisfying trilogy or whether a new kink will be found to continue with Downey in the role. Of course this is well before some bright spark decides to 'reinvent' the character somewhere down the future pike.
I have always reckoned Downey and admired his acting chops, even when his personal life was a drug-fuelled mess. That he has cleaned up his act to become one of Hollywood's biggest money-spinners and the star of this Marvel franchise is pretty great in my book. While the first two Iron Man films were directed by Jon Favreau, who has only a quirky cameo in this film before spending the remainder of the movie in a coma, the first sequel was a real let-down. The new director, Shane Black, has lent his fine comic hand to this third outing. Black starred Downey (at about the time he was turning his life around) in his debut feature "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang" (2005), but before that he was one of Hollywood's best 'go-to' writers for comedy-action flicks, penning all of the Lethal Action movies and two of the Bruce Willis actioners. In other words he has a finely-honed sense of the ridiculous and Downey is more than adept at handling his throw-away one-liners, which is to my mind a large part of the film's appeal.
The nay-sayers seem to think that superhero films don't need lots of drama, only non-stop action. Black's outing has action in spades -- possibly a little too much and too exhausting to watch for my grown-up taste -- but he also has time to deal with meatier personal issues. The main gripe against this film is that writer-director Black has taken Iron Man's greatest nemesis from the comics, The Mandarin, and turned him into a big joke. That's sacrilege in their book! As this deadly enemy who Stark challenges and who all but destroys his home and his hubris, (Sir) Ben Kingsley provides a sparkling menacing and then cravenly hilarious embodiment of would-be evil. The real villain it emerges is Guy Pearce's Aldrich Killian who has used scientist Rebecca Hall's findings to create an army of self-regenerating ex-cripples (or something like that). His actual motives are far from clear as he gleefully embraces his nutty world-conqueror ambitions, although he obviously nurses a snub from Stark in his nerdy days thirteen years earlier.
Gwyneth Paltrow's Pepper Potts is back as Stark's very definite love interest and takes a big part in the strange storyline, obviously enjoying being able to showcase her rock-like 40ish abs. Also returning to the series is Don Cheadle as Iron Man's military pal. With William Sandler as the kidnapped President, Miguel Ferrer as an untrustworthy Vice-President, and Paul Betthany lending his superior, dulcet tones to Jarvis (the butler of the suits), the film is smartly cast. However most appealing of all is young actor Ty Simpkins as a techy sidekick who helps Stark when he is at his lowest.
There was perhaps too much jokiness about the supposedly indestructible metal suits falling apart willy-nilly (another no-no from the fans), but this was probably as much to do with creating 3-D effects in the film. Quite honestly, after a while I stopped noticing that the movie was in fact shot in three dimensions and it would lose very little in its 2-D version. This in fact speaks well for Black's opting to combine a bit of serious soul-searching with the all-out action. Otherwise 130 minutes would have been more than I for one could handle.
The film's ending (which I won't reveal) was a strange one, insofar as it does not really set up the action for further sequels, although no doubt Iron Man is contracted to appear in the next "Avengers Assemble". It will be interesting to discover whether Iron Man will remain a fairly satisfying trilogy or whether a new kink will be found to continue with Downey in the role. Of course this is well before some bright spark decides to 'reinvent' the character somewhere down the future pike.
Wednesday, 24 April 2013
A Student in Prague vs. One in Chicago
It's not very often that one has the chance to view a film that is 100 years old, so I was thrilled to see "The Student of Prague" (1913) on German television. If you look the title up on IMDb, it is described as a 45-minute short, but in fact the movie has now been restored by a number of cooperating archives to its full 85 minutes. It is often described as the first horror movie and for that reason alone it is of great historical interest, even if it is no great shakes as film art. Co-directed by and starring Paul Wegener who went on to personify the Golem in the 1915 and 1920 films, it is a riff on the German Faust legend mixed with Poe's William Wilson about an impoverished student who sells his soul (in this case his mirror reflection) for worldly wealth, but who subsequently goes mad as he is haunted by his doppelganger. The Germans re-made the story thirteen years later in 1926 with a rather more charismatic Conrad Veidt in the lead and that version it is superior in every way, replacing Wegener's static camera with the heyday of Expressionistic angles. I guess there's not much more to say about this century-old treat, other than to thank those responsible for its re-birth.
So today I shall concentrate instead on a more recent movie (only 33 years old!) with a rather younger student; why is it that in so many silent films the young protagonists appear to be middle-aged? "My Bodyguard" (1980) has aged rather better than many of the teen-focused films from the '80s, but is largely and rather unfairly now forgotten. Directed by ex-actor Tony Bill, it follows the fortunes of 15-year old Clifford Peache, played by the excellent but again now little-known Chris Makepeace. He lives with his hotel-manager dad (Martin Mull) and his kooky grandma (Ruth Gordon) in a swanky Chicago hotel and is a new student at an inner-city high school. With his smart-ass attitude, he is immediately picked upon by the school bully Melvin Moody (impeccably played by a 16-year old Matt Dillon) and his gang of thugs, who have been menacing the weaker members of the student body and extorting their lunch money. Cliff decides not to play ball with this intimidation and tries to enlist the help of big, lumbering school outcast Ricky Linderman as his bodyguard.
Ricky is played by Adam Baldwin (not, let it be said one of the many Baldwin brothers) in his film debut, and while still pursuing a film career, the actor has never been better. He is feared by the other students, as rumours circulate that he has killed his brother or raped a teacher or poked out someone's eye. His shuffling giant may be everyone's idea of a teenaged psychopath, but underneath it all lies a sensitive soul. While he initially shuns Cliff's approaches, they eventually become friends, as they bond over rebuilding the motorcycle that Ricky has been working on for a year. This friendship keeps Moody and his yahoos at bay, until Dillon pays a young tough to be 'his' bodyguard and the gentle Baldwin initially refuses to fight. I won't divulge how the movie finishes, other than to say that it couldn't have been more satisfying.
The movie is also noteworthy for giving early roles to many familiar names: Joan Cusack with a mouthful of shiny metal braces (and the patriarch of her acting clan plays the school principal), director-to-be Dean Devlin, George Wendt, and a recognizable but uncredited Jennifer Beals. The scenes with the high-spirited Gordon are gems as she propositions visiting tourists in the hotel bar (she's old but acts like a kid says her grandson) and threatens her family's tenure at the snobby hotel. That's until her joie-de-vivre seduces visiting staid hotel inspector John Houseman into her web.
All and all this sleeper is a joy to watch and resonates realistically with those of us who well remember the anxieties of being a teenager. I'm so pleased to have seen it again and highly recommend it to all of you both for its nostalgia and its heart.
So today I shall concentrate instead on a more recent movie (only 33 years old!) with a rather younger student; why is it that in so many silent films the young protagonists appear to be middle-aged? "My Bodyguard" (1980) has aged rather better than many of the teen-focused films from the '80s, but is largely and rather unfairly now forgotten. Directed by ex-actor Tony Bill, it follows the fortunes of 15-year old Clifford Peache, played by the excellent but again now little-known Chris Makepeace. He lives with his hotel-manager dad (Martin Mull) and his kooky grandma (Ruth Gordon) in a swanky Chicago hotel and is a new student at an inner-city high school. With his smart-ass attitude, he is immediately picked upon by the school bully Melvin Moody (impeccably played by a 16-year old Matt Dillon) and his gang of thugs, who have been menacing the weaker members of the student body and extorting their lunch money. Cliff decides not to play ball with this intimidation and tries to enlist the help of big, lumbering school outcast Ricky Linderman as his bodyguard.
Ricky is played by Adam Baldwin (not, let it be said one of the many Baldwin brothers) in his film debut, and while still pursuing a film career, the actor has never been better. He is feared by the other students, as rumours circulate that he has killed his brother or raped a teacher or poked out someone's eye. His shuffling giant may be everyone's idea of a teenaged psychopath, but underneath it all lies a sensitive soul. While he initially shuns Cliff's approaches, they eventually become friends, as they bond over rebuilding the motorcycle that Ricky has been working on for a year. This friendship keeps Moody and his yahoos at bay, until Dillon pays a young tough to be 'his' bodyguard and the gentle Baldwin initially refuses to fight. I won't divulge how the movie finishes, other than to say that it couldn't have been more satisfying.
The movie is also noteworthy for giving early roles to many familiar names: Joan Cusack with a mouthful of shiny metal braces (and the patriarch of her acting clan plays the school principal), director-to-be Dean Devlin, George Wendt, and a recognizable but uncredited Jennifer Beals. The scenes with the high-spirited Gordon are gems as she propositions visiting tourists in the hotel bar (she's old but acts like a kid says her grandson) and threatens her family's tenure at the snobby hotel. That's until her joie-de-vivre seduces visiting staid hotel inspector John Houseman into her web.
All and all this sleeper is a joy to watch and resonates realistically with those of us who well remember the anxieties of being a teenager. I'm so pleased to have seen it again and highly recommend it to all of you both for its nostalgia and its heart.
Wednesday, 17 April 2013
Leo the Last (1970)
I should be more careful what I wish for! Having been fond of the late Marcello Mastroianni in just about all of his roles, I really wanted to watch the above film again. I knew that I had seen a television screening in the very distant past, but could recall nothing much about it -- apart from a scene in a swimming pool (which I shall return to below). So when I noticed that an extremely rare showing was scheduled at the National Film Theatre, there we went -- only to be horribly disappointed.
Its director John Boorman has made some wonderful films like "Point Blank", "Deliverance", "Hell in the Pacific", and "Hope and Glory", but this must be amongst his worse, although he was also responsible for 1974's unfathomable "Zardoz". To my complete amazement, he actually won a best director award at Cannes for this mystifyingly bad movie. He apparently wooed dear Marcello to take the lead of the crown prince of a dethroned kingdom, who returns to his late father's cul-de-sac London mansion, and the actor agreed to come to Britain for one of his rare English-speaking roles. Professional as ever, he does throw himself into the part of the otherworldly princeling, but he looks more than his bemused character -- it's almost as if he is asking the world "what am I doing in this farrago?"
Accompanied by his gold-digging fiancée Billie Whitelaw and surrounded by a coterie of protective lackeys, he is only able to view the world through misty windows and his ever-present spyglass. In the basement, his weird major-domo Laszlo, played by shifty-eyed Vladek Sheybal, is marshalling a pack of counter-revolutionaries eager to restore the monarchy. When a soiree is arranged for him, he finds that he is surrounded by greedy guests, gorging and stuffing their faces like a herd of swine. He then discovers that the elaborate mansion is set smack in the middle of a lower-class, largely black slum, and he watches his neighbours' comings and goings much as his twitcher watches the flocks of pigeons that darken the sky. To his horror he learns that his inherited wealth largely derives from his father's having bought up the surrounding streets and that the desperately poor people he is spying upon are his tenants -- shades of the period's Rachmanism. He reluctantly wanders out into the 'real' world, eager to somehow relieve their suffering. His futile attempts to be a do-gooder only tend to make matters worse.
His minders and Miss Whitelaw are horrified that he might give away the wealth that they covet and do everything to prevent his joining the common herd. At one stage she convinces him to attend some sort of New Age meeting in a swimming pool, peopled by a crowd of naked wannabes grotesquely bobbing up and down to the exhortations of their guru. As each of them in turn shouts out that they feel marvellous or reborn, Marcello can only respond that he feels nothing but 'wet'; this was the only amusing piece of dialogue in the entire film! The movie is so very much of its time with nods to flower-power, boho liberalism, and pointless polemic, that it seems more than dated and verges on the unwatchable; none of this is helped by pompous voice-overs quoting T.S. Eliot or by one of the worst musical soundtracks ever.
Among the supporting cast are Calvin Lockhart as a resourceful rebel and 70s singer Ram John Holder as a not very charismatic black preacher; I did not however spot an uncredited Louis Gossett in an early role. Then there's the white rapist Kenneth J. Warren and the object of his lust, trainee-whore Glenna Forster Jones who Marcello tries to redeem. The stand-out performance in the crowd, however, is white busker Doris Clark, who belts out Cockney staples above the noisy melee. In the end the whole mansion comes tumbling down to the cheers of the mob and the mystification of Marcello. I'm sure it's all very symbolic, but goodness knows of what.
Its director John Boorman has made some wonderful films like "Point Blank", "Deliverance", "Hell in the Pacific", and "Hope and Glory", but this must be amongst his worse, although he was also responsible for 1974's unfathomable "Zardoz". To my complete amazement, he actually won a best director award at Cannes for this mystifyingly bad movie. He apparently wooed dear Marcello to take the lead of the crown prince of a dethroned kingdom, who returns to his late father's cul-de-sac London mansion, and the actor agreed to come to Britain for one of his rare English-speaking roles. Professional as ever, he does throw himself into the part of the otherworldly princeling, but he looks more than his bemused character -- it's almost as if he is asking the world "what am I doing in this farrago?"
Accompanied by his gold-digging fiancée Billie Whitelaw and surrounded by a coterie of protective lackeys, he is only able to view the world through misty windows and his ever-present spyglass. In the basement, his weird major-domo Laszlo, played by shifty-eyed Vladek Sheybal, is marshalling a pack of counter-revolutionaries eager to restore the monarchy. When a soiree is arranged for him, he finds that he is surrounded by greedy guests, gorging and stuffing their faces like a herd of swine. He then discovers that the elaborate mansion is set smack in the middle of a lower-class, largely black slum, and he watches his neighbours' comings and goings much as his twitcher watches the flocks of pigeons that darken the sky. To his horror he learns that his inherited wealth largely derives from his father's having bought up the surrounding streets and that the desperately poor people he is spying upon are his tenants -- shades of the period's Rachmanism. He reluctantly wanders out into the 'real' world, eager to somehow relieve their suffering. His futile attempts to be a do-gooder only tend to make matters worse.
His minders and Miss Whitelaw are horrified that he might give away the wealth that they covet and do everything to prevent his joining the common herd. At one stage she convinces him to attend some sort of New Age meeting in a swimming pool, peopled by a crowd of naked wannabes grotesquely bobbing up and down to the exhortations of their guru. As each of them in turn shouts out that they feel marvellous or reborn, Marcello can only respond that he feels nothing but 'wet'; this was the only amusing piece of dialogue in the entire film! The movie is so very much of its time with nods to flower-power, boho liberalism, and pointless polemic, that it seems more than dated and verges on the unwatchable; none of this is helped by pompous voice-overs quoting T.S. Eliot or by one of the worst musical soundtracks ever.
Among the supporting cast are Calvin Lockhart as a resourceful rebel and 70s singer Ram John Holder as a not very charismatic black preacher; I did not however spot an uncredited Louis Gossett in an early role. Then there's the white rapist Kenneth J. Warren and the object of his lust, trainee-whore Glenna Forster Jones who Marcello tries to redeem. The stand-out performance in the crowd, however, is white busker Doris Clark, who belts out Cockney staples above the noisy melee. In the end the whole mansion comes tumbling down to the cheers of the mob and the mystification of Marcello. I'm sure it's all very symbolic, but goodness knows of what.
Wednesday, 10 April 2013
Collateral (2004)
This entry is probably less about the above film than about its star, Tom Cruise -- "the biggest movie star in the world" (trademark!). I was watching one of this week's Sky premieres, "Rock of Ages" (2012) and I really began to wonder about Cruise's appeal, popularity, and power. I didn't particularly care for the film since the pop-rock score all sounded much of a muchness to my tin ear. I far preferred the music in another of the premieres, "Joyful Noise", since Gospel is the more emotive sound, but the film itself was nothing very special, despite stellar turns from both Dolly Parton and Queen Latifah. Cruise acquitted himself reasonably as the troubled, heavy metal rock god in the former movie, but I really didn't give a toss for his character. Oddly enough the best thing in the film was probably the abrasive Russell Brand, who normally gets up my nose, especially in his unexpected love scenes with Alec Baldwin's laidback club owner.
However getting back to Mr. Cruise, I know for a fact that I have seen all of his films up to "Rock of Ages", since that's what I do! However despite my mania for collecting any film that appeals to me, I have only chosen to add two of his movies to my collection on the strength of his performance and in both of them "Magnolia" (1999) and "Tropic Thunder" (2008) he took basically OTT cameo roles as part of an ensemble cast. I admit to owning "Legend" (1985) and "Interview with the Vampire" (1994) as entertaining films, despite Cruise, and to also having "Rain Man" (1988) and "A Few Good Men" (1992) as freebie acquisitions. But if I had to explain why most of his films since his break-out performance in his spanking white undies in 1983's "Risky Business" have left me cold, I would have to say that there is something about the man that just puts me off. He is certainly an adequate actor who is not risk-avoidant and who welcomes roles that challenge his abilities, but he comes across as one who believes that he is infallible. How else to explain the recent entry of a mini-Tom playing the 6' 4" Jack Reacher? Apparently he is extremely diligent and approachable on set, but something about him just doesn't feel real, and it probably has a little to do with his scientologist beliefs. He seems to expect success as his due, rather than something that he has achieved through a genuine or unique talent and nearly all of his roles are overladen with cockiness.
To test my feelings about him, I decide to re-watch the above movie which happened to be playing this week. In it he plays a cold-blooded, silver fox hitman called Vincent, who effectively hijacks cab-driver Jamie Foxx's taxi, for a night of scheduled killings. Foxx's Max daydreams about someday running his own high-class limo service and is initially intimidated by the vicious gunsel in the back seat, but gradually learns the meaning of courage. The pair play well against each and the film holds one's attention, but it's really not a flick I would wish to own or re-watch a third time. Director Michael Mann does a top rate job of portraying the dark side of Los Angeles by night and uses the musical underpinnings effectively. However I think he rather over-eggs the pudding, possibly encouraged to do so by his demanding leading man. The movie might have been sharper and leaner with fewer adoring shots of Cruise doing his thing. I also think it would have had a far more effective ending if Mann's camera had gradually drawn away from the now dead Vincent, rather than making us watch the newly heroic Max walking hand in hand into the sunlight with potential squeeze Jada Pinkett Smith.
The film's supporting cast is interesting and includes Mark Ruffalo and Javier Bardem amongst others, but there's no question about whom we are meant to be looking at; Foxx is good, but he is definitely the second lead here. Incidentally Jason Statham has a blink-and-you-might-miss-him role in the opening shot, but no doubt he relished this opportunity to believe that he was now a Hollywood player. Mind you, his is another career that mystifies me, but that's another story for another day.
However getting back to Mr. Cruise, I know for a fact that I have seen all of his films up to "Rock of Ages", since that's what I do! However despite my mania for collecting any film that appeals to me, I have only chosen to add two of his movies to my collection on the strength of his performance and in both of them "Magnolia" (1999) and "Tropic Thunder" (2008) he took basically OTT cameo roles as part of an ensemble cast. I admit to owning "Legend" (1985) and "Interview with the Vampire" (1994) as entertaining films, despite Cruise, and to also having "Rain Man" (1988) and "A Few Good Men" (1992) as freebie acquisitions. But if I had to explain why most of his films since his break-out performance in his spanking white undies in 1983's "Risky Business" have left me cold, I would have to say that there is something about the man that just puts me off. He is certainly an adequate actor who is not risk-avoidant and who welcomes roles that challenge his abilities, but he comes across as one who believes that he is infallible. How else to explain the recent entry of a mini-Tom playing the 6' 4" Jack Reacher? Apparently he is extremely diligent and approachable on set, but something about him just doesn't feel real, and it probably has a little to do with his scientologist beliefs. He seems to expect success as his due, rather than something that he has achieved through a genuine or unique talent and nearly all of his roles are overladen with cockiness.
To test my feelings about him, I decide to re-watch the above movie which happened to be playing this week. In it he plays a cold-blooded, silver fox hitman called Vincent, who effectively hijacks cab-driver Jamie Foxx's taxi, for a night of scheduled killings. Foxx's Max daydreams about someday running his own high-class limo service and is initially intimidated by the vicious gunsel in the back seat, but gradually learns the meaning of courage. The pair play well against each and the film holds one's attention, but it's really not a flick I would wish to own or re-watch a third time. Director Michael Mann does a top rate job of portraying the dark side of Los Angeles by night and uses the musical underpinnings effectively. However I think he rather over-eggs the pudding, possibly encouraged to do so by his demanding leading man. The movie might have been sharper and leaner with fewer adoring shots of Cruise doing his thing. I also think it would have had a far more effective ending if Mann's camera had gradually drawn away from the now dead Vincent, rather than making us watch the newly heroic Max walking hand in hand into the sunlight with potential squeeze Jada Pinkett Smith.
The film's supporting cast is interesting and includes Mark Ruffalo and Javier Bardem amongst others, but there's no question about whom we are meant to be looking at; Foxx is good, but he is definitely the second lead here. Incidentally Jason Statham has a blink-and-you-might-miss-him role in the opening shot, but no doubt he relished this opportunity to believe that he was now a Hollywood player. Mind you, his is another career that mystifies me, but that's another story for another day.
Thursday, 4 April 2013
Trance (2013)
The British director Danny Boyle certainly has his legion of fans and a pretty varied assortment of films starting with the gritty "Trainspotting", running through the feel-good "Slumdog Millionaire" and the harrowing "127 Hours", but somehow he has never roped me into his fanbase. Of course he is now something of a national hero or even worse a national treasure after his stirring and well-received opening ceremony for the 2012 Olympics. He apparently shot the above film on his offdays from Olympic planning and has himself described it as a "dark evil cousin" to all of the sweetness and light on the Olympic field. It may well have been some sort of light relief for him to work on this neo-noir, but it is something of a quandary for the viewer -- a breathless roller-coaster of deliberately misleading action and reaction.
James McAvoy plays a fine-arts auctioneer with a penchant for gambling and is deeply in debt. He conspires with professional thief Franck (Vincent Cassel -- playing his usual suave and sadistic persona) to cover his debts by stealing a 20 million pound painting for him. This action lasts some ten minutes before the front credits and is filmed at a breakneck pace by Boyle's regular cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle. The fly in the ointment is that after a blow on the head McAvoy's Simon can't quite recall where he stashed the painting. Enter hynotherapist Rosario Dawson whose job it is to unlock Simon's memory and retrieve the artwork for Franck (or more likely for herself as it emerges). The windy screenplay is full of twists and turns which deliberately muddle the boundaries between reality and wishful thinking and hypnotic suggestibility. In short the film is technically superb but narratively obtuse and in the end 100% unbelievable.
I still find it a little hard to view McAvoy as a plausible action hero -- there remains something of the nerd about his character -- and the transition here between poor shlub and ruthless man of action is too much of a stretch. He can be likeable enough which perhaps explains the career he has had to date, but one can think of any number of actors who might have handled this role as well or even better or for that matter more credibly. We are deliberately kept in the dark regarding the past relationships among the three main characters and the revelations, when they come, seem too much of a stretch. Dawson acquits herself well in what in the end is an underwritten role. She manages to sexually manipulate both Franck and Simon to achieve her own ends. I should add that there is a certain amount of singularly gratuitous nudity on her part, which adds very little to the logic of the excercise, although there is no denying that she has a magnificent body on display when she removes her kit.
In mitigation of the above lukewarm critique, I must admit that I was feeling singularly under the weather while watching this film and probably indulged in a little fading in and out of the twisty action. I don't know if a second viewing would correct my inconsistent attention span, but somehow I doubt it. I can picture myself getting even more annoyed by the tricks that Boyle and his screenwriters have lying in wait for the unwary audience. Meanwhile, Danny, enjoy your 'national treasure' role -- such fame is fleeting.
James McAvoy plays a fine-arts auctioneer with a penchant for gambling and is deeply in debt. He conspires with professional thief Franck (Vincent Cassel -- playing his usual suave and sadistic persona) to cover his debts by stealing a 20 million pound painting for him. This action lasts some ten minutes before the front credits and is filmed at a breakneck pace by Boyle's regular cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle. The fly in the ointment is that after a blow on the head McAvoy's Simon can't quite recall where he stashed the painting. Enter hynotherapist Rosario Dawson whose job it is to unlock Simon's memory and retrieve the artwork for Franck (or more likely for herself as it emerges). The windy screenplay is full of twists and turns which deliberately muddle the boundaries between reality and wishful thinking and hypnotic suggestibility. In short the film is technically superb but narratively obtuse and in the end 100% unbelievable.
I still find it a little hard to view McAvoy as a plausible action hero -- there remains something of the nerd about his character -- and the transition here between poor shlub and ruthless man of action is too much of a stretch. He can be likeable enough which perhaps explains the career he has had to date, but one can think of any number of actors who might have handled this role as well or even better or for that matter more credibly. We are deliberately kept in the dark regarding the past relationships among the three main characters and the revelations, when they come, seem too much of a stretch. Dawson acquits herself well in what in the end is an underwritten role. She manages to sexually manipulate both Franck and Simon to achieve her own ends. I should add that there is a certain amount of singularly gratuitous nudity on her part, which adds very little to the logic of the excercise, although there is no denying that she has a magnificent body on display when she removes her kit.
In mitigation of the above lukewarm critique, I must admit that I was feeling singularly under the weather while watching this film and probably indulged in a little fading in and out of the twisty action. I don't know if a second viewing would correct my inconsistent attention span, but somehow I doubt it. I can picture myself getting even more annoyed by the tricks that Boyle and his screenwriters have lying in wait for the unwary audience. Meanwhile, Danny, enjoy your 'national treasure' role -- such fame is fleeting.
Wednesday, 27 March 2013
I am Divine (2013)
Once upon a time in suburban Baltimore there lived an overweight, slightly effeminate, and bullied teenager called Harris Glenn Milstead. He tried to fit in with the high school crowd and even had a long-term sort-of girlfriend. Then one day they went to a costume party together and his leanings became evident when he dressed up as one of his idols -- a rather reasonable facsimile of Elizabeth Taylor. Things were about to change for young Glenn as down the street lived a wannabe filmmaker called John Waters, who was also obsessed with trashy movies -- the combined works of Jayne Mansfield and Russ Meyer. Together with other local gay hipsters and 'freaks' they began a guerilla film-making career and Waters christened his new pal Divine. First was "Eat Your Makeup" (1967) with Divine as Jackie Kennedy in a re-enactment of the Dallas assassination. This was followed by "Mondo Trasho" (1969) where his star's busty blonde persona trashed the town and "Multiple Maniacs" (1970) where Divine's homicidal psychopath ends up raped by a giant lobster (!). What fun they had and what a way to strike back at the establishment that had rejected him.
Divine's trademark look of shaved forehead and massive eyebrows was created for him by the San Francisco drag troupe, The Cockettes, and this strange persona finally entered the public consciousness when he starred in Waters' "Pink Flamingos" (1972) with its infamous doggy-poop eating scene. Their next joint feature was 1974's "Female Trouble" and the pair's fame began to attract straight fans as well. Divine wanted even more and appeared on the New York stage in two drag extravaganzas, before morphing into a disco diva, issuing a series of dance singles and touring the world with his outrageous persona. Lady Gaga is an over-dressed schoolgirl in comparison. However, constant money problems created by his continuous and generous overspending and health problems created by his continuous overeating as his weight ballooned, began to take their toll. He and Waters reunited for "Polyester" (1981) where he starred alongside one of his teenaged crushes, the now slightly has-been Tab Hunter. "How do you feel about kissing a 300-pound transvestite?" the actor was asked, but they got along famously and reunited for l985's "Lust in the Dust".
Divine's final collaboration with Waters "Hairspray" introduced him to the mainstream and Glenn was never happier, even making amends with the family who had previously disowned him. However the fairy tale (no pun intended) did not have a happy ending. Divine never thought of himself as a drag queen but as a male character actor who excelled in over-the-top female roles, and he really craved legitimacy an actor. He did appear in one film as a man, "Out of the Dark" (1988), where he played a slightly camp police detective. His agent had managed to secure him a recurring role in the hit TV series "Married...with Children" and he was over the moon. Filming was to begin on a Monday morning and Divine celebrated at a local Los Angeles hotel, ready for his new triumph, when he died of a massive heart attack, aged 42. What a loss for what might have been.
The director of this documentary Jeffrey Schwarz previously directed "Vito", a biography of Vito Russo, a leading light in the gay liberation movement. Here he has brought together a wide variety of talking heads (of all stripes) who shed light on the phenomenon that was Divine -- a man who proved to the world that you can be whatever you want to be, a man who transcended conventional notions of beauty and taste. The end credits of the film list name after name of persons thanked for the production, since apparently Schwarz partially financed the film via a website where fans were urged to contribute. He eventually raised $38,574 of the budgeted $100,000 cost by this means (I have no idea where the balance of the funds came from) and the 844 donors are credited as Criminals ($5), Shitkickers ($10), Perverts ($25), Maniacs ($50), Jezebels ($100), Hairhoppers ($250), and Chubbychasers ($1000). There were categories for larger contributions which included Chicken Queen, Miss Thing, Glamorpuss, Filthmonger, and finally God, but none of these were subscribed.
Schwarz is to be commended for bringing the life of this now unsung hero of gay fulfillment to a new generation who did not grow up with him and for reminding those of us who remember him well what a remarkable personality he was. The director is currently working on a documentary of co-star Tab Hunter, who was rumoured to be one of Hollywood's then-hidden gays, and that should be another documentary well worth seeking out if "I am Divine" is an example of his informative, enjoyable, and ultimately moving approach.
Divine's trademark look of shaved forehead and massive eyebrows was created for him by the San Francisco drag troupe, The Cockettes, and this strange persona finally entered the public consciousness when he starred in Waters' "Pink Flamingos" (1972) with its infamous doggy-poop eating scene. Their next joint feature was 1974's "Female Trouble" and the pair's fame began to attract straight fans as well. Divine wanted even more and appeared on the New York stage in two drag extravaganzas, before morphing into a disco diva, issuing a series of dance singles and touring the world with his outrageous persona. Lady Gaga is an over-dressed schoolgirl in comparison. However, constant money problems created by his continuous and generous overspending and health problems created by his continuous overeating as his weight ballooned, began to take their toll. He and Waters reunited for "Polyester" (1981) where he starred alongside one of his teenaged crushes, the now slightly has-been Tab Hunter. "How do you feel about kissing a 300-pound transvestite?" the actor was asked, but they got along famously and reunited for l985's "Lust in the Dust".
Divine's final collaboration with Waters "Hairspray" introduced him to the mainstream and Glenn was never happier, even making amends with the family who had previously disowned him. However the fairy tale (no pun intended) did not have a happy ending. Divine never thought of himself as a drag queen but as a male character actor who excelled in over-the-top female roles, and he really craved legitimacy an actor. He did appear in one film as a man, "Out of the Dark" (1988), where he played a slightly camp police detective. His agent had managed to secure him a recurring role in the hit TV series "Married...with Children" and he was over the moon. Filming was to begin on a Monday morning and Divine celebrated at a local Los Angeles hotel, ready for his new triumph, when he died of a massive heart attack, aged 42. What a loss for what might have been.
The director of this documentary Jeffrey Schwarz previously directed "Vito", a biography of Vito Russo, a leading light in the gay liberation movement. Here he has brought together a wide variety of talking heads (of all stripes) who shed light on the phenomenon that was Divine -- a man who proved to the world that you can be whatever you want to be, a man who transcended conventional notions of beauty and taste. The end credits of the film list name after name of persons thanked for the production, since apparently Schwarz partially financed the film via a website where fans were urged to contribute. He eventually raised $38,574 of the budgeted $100,000 cost by this means (I have no idea where the balance of the funds came from) and the 844 donors are credited as Criminals ($5), Shitkickers ($10), Perverts ($25), Maniacs ($50), Jezebels ($100), Hairhoppers ($250), and Chubbychasers ($1000). There were categories for larger contributions which included Chicken Queen, Miss Thing, Glamorpuss, Filthmonger, and finally God, but none of these were subscribed.
Schwarz is to be commended for bringing the life of this now unsung hero of gay fulfillment to a new generation who did not grow up with him and for reminding those of us who remember him well what a remarkable personality he was. The director is currently working on a documentary of co-star Tab Hunter, who was rumoured to be one of Hollywood's then-hidden gays, and that should be another documentary well worth seeking out if "I am Divine" is an example of his informative, enjoyable, and ultimately moving approach.
Wednesday, 20 March 2013
The Paperboy (2012)
Maybe I should start believing the Financial Times' film critic who gave the above movie nought out of a possible five stars and suggested it should be avoided at all costs. Or maybe I should just stop going to see Nicole Kidman flicks where she is attempting to 'stretch' her acting chops. It is sheer coincidence that I saw her in this film and "Stoker" within a fortnight, but I must remember to give any of her forthcoming roles a very wide berth, despite the fact that she was award-nominated by the Golden Globes folk and others for her trashy performance here -- not, let me add, deserved in any way, shape, or form.
Based on a well-respected novel by Pete Dexter which admittedly I've not read, I gather that the film does not do it justice, despite his having a hand in the screenplay with writer-director Lee Daniels. On the strength of Daniels' previous film "Precious" (a hard-going but ultimately worthwhile movie about an overweight and abused black teenager), the film was selected to compete for the Palme d'or at Cannes last year, where it was nearly booed out of existence. Subsequent critics have been no more kind and I can well understand why, despite the movie having its vociferous defenders on the IMDb boards. In the end, it is a very bad film on so many levels: badly constructed, indifferently shot, wildly miscast, and at times almost impossible to understand through the thick regional accidents adopted by most of the actors. The action is picture-framed and narrated by a black maid, Macy Gray, who worked in the family's house at the time of the action -- a post-segregation South but still a widely prejudiced one. If a film is dependent on a narrator as a facilitator of the events, it does help for the character to be able to speak intelligibly!
The story is a hothouse stew of Southern Gothic, but it is no Faulkner or Tennessee Williams. Hotshot Miami newshound Matthew McConaughey returns to his swampland hometown with his black English 'writing partner' David Oyelowo, to investigate a supposed miscarriage of justice. One lowlife criminal Hillary van Wetter, played by John Cusack in a wildly atypical role, is on death row for the murder of the local redneck sheriff, and the reporters with prison groupie Kidman in tow are out to prove his innocence. She has been sending him sex-laden loveletters and is determined to marry him on his release. The scene where the three of them confront van Wetter (what a pompous name for scum on two legs) in the prison visiting room is such an embarrassment of barely repressed sexuality that I didn't know which way to look. Teen heart-throb Zac Efron plays McConaughey's younger brother, a former high school swimming champion who has been thrown out of college for vandalism and is working as the eponymous paperboy of the title. He spends most of the film prancing about in spanking white underpants setting off his well-toned body, and drives his brother around, developing a deep crush on the white trash Kidman in the process. They begin to bond in the now notorious scene where she fights to be the one to pee all over him when he is badly stung by jellyfish. What fun! He is ultimately rewarded with one token 'bonk' but her heart belongs to the abominable Cusack. Incidentally it is well nigh impossible to believe that the two male leads are really brothers, the unlikely offspring of Scott Glenn and a runaway mother, as they don't look or sound remotely alike
Further revelations include the confirmation of one's suspicions that McConaughey is a far-from-closeted homosexual, who Oyelowo has serviced in exchange for favors, and the hotshot reporter ends up in hospital after being badly beaten and blinded in one eye by some gaybashers. Oyelowo succeeds in writing the expose that gets van Wetter pardoned, but admits that he has only been pretending to be English -- a ploy for a black man to forge a career in the still bigoted South. Mind you, his character and surprisingly enough Efron's were the only two I had no difficulty understanding. I shall avoid spoilers by not revealing where all of this steamy action leads, but you can assume that it is as nasty as it is unexpected. If this makes the film sound like some kind of perverted 'fun' or even a guilty pleasure, take it from me it isn't. It's just bad!
Based on a well-respected novel by Pete Dexter which admittedly I've not read, I gather that the film does not do it justice, despite his having a hand in the screenplay with writer-director Lee Daniels. On the strength of Daniels' previous film "Precious" (a hard-going but ultimately worthwhile movie about an overweight and abused black teenager), the film was selected to compete for the Palme d'or at Cannes last year, where it was nearly booed out of existence. Subsequent critics have been no more kind and I can well understand why, despite the movie having its vociferous defenders on the IMDb boards. In the end, it is a very bad film on so many levels: badly constructed, indifferently shot, wildly miscast, and at times almost impossible to understand through the thick regional accidents adopted by most of the actors. The action is picture-framed and narrated by a black maid, Macy Gray, who worked in the family's house at the time of the action -- a post-segregation South but still a widely prejudiced one. If a film is dependent on a narrator as a facilitator of the events, it does help for the character to be able to speak intelligibly!
The story is a hothouse stew of Southern Gothic, but it is no Faulkner or Tennessee Williams. Hotshot Miami newshound Matthew McConaughey returns to his swampland hometown with his black English 'writing partner' David Oyelowo, to investigate a supposed miscarriage of justice. One lowlife criminal Hillary van Wetter, played by John Cusack in a wildly atypical role, is on death row for the murder of the local redneck sheriff, and the reporters with prison groupie Kidman in tow are out to prove his innocence. She has been sending him sex-laden loveletters and is determined to marry him on his release. The scene where the three of them confront van Wetter (what a pompous name for scum on two legs) in the prison visiting room is such an embarrassment of barely repressed sexuality that I didn't know which way to look. Teen heart-throb Zac Efron plays McConaughey's younger brother, a former high school swimming champion who has been thrown out of college for vandalism and is working as the eponymous paperboy of the title. He spends most of the film prancing about in spanking white underpants setting off his well-toned body, and drives his brother around, developing a deep crush on the white trash Kidman in the process. They begin to bond in the now notorious scene where she fights to be the one to pee all over him when he is badly stung by jellyfish. What fun! He is ultimately rewarded with one token 'bonk' but her heart belongs to the abominable Cusack. Incidentally it is well nigh impossible to believe that the two male leads are really brothers, the unlikely offspring of Scott Glenn and a runaway mother, as they don't look or sound remotely alike
Further revelations include the confirmation of one's suspicions that McConaughey is a far-from-closeted homosexual, who Oyelowo has serviced in exchange for favors, and the hotshot reporter ends up in hospital after being badly beaten and blinded in one eye by some gaybashers. Oyelowo succeeds in writing the expose that gets van Wetter pardoned, but admits that he has only been pretending to be English -- a ploy for a black man to forge a career in the still bigoted South. Mind you, his character and surprisingly enough Efron's were the only two I had no difficulty understanding. I shall avoid spoilers by not revealing where all of this steamy action leads, but you can assume that it is as nasty as it is unexpected. If this makes the film sound like some kind of perverted 'fun' or even a guilty pleasure, take it from me it isn't. It's just bad!
Thursday, 14 March 2013
Robot and Frank (2012)
There have been a surprising number of films looking at the problems of aging and incipient Alzheimer's in particular, but none that you could really classify as a 'feel-good' movie. Let's face it, there is nothing particularly noble or uplifting about the deterioration or death that comes for all of us in the end. I first considered seeing the above film when it was featured in last autumn's London Film Festival, since the premise suggested that it might be the one movie that treated the aging process with a light and comedic hand -- the reverse of "Amour" on current release. However, I was misled; while it is a charming and at times amusing film, the end result is just as sad and moving.
Set in the very near future, Frank Langella plays the eponymous Frank, an aging ex-cat burglar, living alone and fretted about by his two adult children, James Marsden (the goofy crown prince from "Enchanted") and the flighty Liv Tyler (still something of a one-note actress). To save his having to make a five-hour round-trip every weekend to reluctantly look after his dear old Dad (and we later discover that he can barely stand him on many levels), the successful Marsden buys him a health-care robot to look after his needs -- to tidy up the squalor in which he lives, to provide healthy meals, and to try to keep his mind active and alert. These early scenes are among the film's best, as the grouchy Frank resents Robot's (he never does give it a name) bossiness and do-good programming. However he gradually realises that the machine possesses the agility at lock-picking that he is beginning to lose and trains the initially reluctant Robot to become his accomplice in a series of increasingly major thefts; the machine has only been programmed to look after Frank and has not been given any moral sense of right and wrong. This gives Frank a new enthusiasm for life and he begins to look at Robot as his best friend, despite the machine's continually reminding his ward that he is not a human being. I should mention here that Robot is voiced by Peter Saarsgaard who gives it a wonderfully passive-aggressive tone.
Langella has been a favourite of mine for many years, since I first noticed him when he was still young and beautiful in 1970's "Diary of a Mad Housewife", where his louche seducer took blithe advantage of hard-done hausfrau Carrie Snodgrass. He was then the sexiest Dracula ever in the 1979 film, a replay of his earlier smash-hit appearance on Broadway as the Count. However, over the years his film appearances have become both smaller and less frequent, as he pursued his first love of stage. "Frost/Nixon" and "Good Night and Good Luck" put him back in the cinema spotlight and he really shines again in this rare leading role. He manages to be both the abrasive old codger as well as the unrepentent crook for whom we root, especially when one of the local yuppies who has closed down the local library, replacing it with new appliances which make the 'written-word' obsolete, is the object of Frank's most daring jewels heist and ultimately his would-be nemesis, attempting to bring the full weight of the law down on poor old Frank's head.
There is also a wonderfully warm role for Susan Sarandon as the local librarian, with whom Frank vigorously flirts, without realising that she is a bigger part of his past life than his deteriorating mind can recall. In the end Frank is forced to chose between his freedom and his BFF Robot. He finds himself in one of the much-dreaded care homes that he has resisted and we are shown evidence of his continual mental decline. In many ways this is as depressing an ending as any, although in its last minutes the skillfully-written film manages to suggest that Frank perhaps does have more of his wits about him than the casual observer might realise.
Despite the relatively downbeat and moving ending, the film -- a first feature from director Jake Schreier -- is both sharp and entertaining, and in so many ways more enjoyable than geriatric 'romps' like "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel" or "Quartet", largely thanks to Langella's thoughtful and winning performance.
Set in the very near future, Frank Langella plays the eponymous Frank, an aging ex-cat burglar, living alone and fretted about by his two adult children, James Marsden (the goofy crown prince from "Enchanted") and the flighty Liv Tyler (still something of a one-note actress). To save his having to make a five-hour round-trip every weekend to reluctantly look after his dear old Dad (and we later discover that he can barely stand him on many levels), the successful Marsden buys him a health-care robot to look after his needs -- to tidy up the squalor in which he lives, to provide healthy meals, and to try to keep his mind active and alert. These early scenes are among the film's best, as the grouchy Frank resents Robot's (he never does give it a name) bossiness and do-good programming. However he gradually realises that the machine possesses the agility at lock-picking that he is beginning to lose and trains the initially reluctant Robot to become his accomplice in a series of increasingly major thefts; the machine has only been programmed to look after Frank and has not been given any moral sense of right and wrong. This gives Frank a new enthusiasm for life and he begins to look at Robot as his best friend, despite the machine's continually reminding his ward that he is not a human being. I should mention here that Robot is voiced by Peter Saarsgaard who gives it a wonderfully passive-aggressive tone.
Langella has been a favourite of mine for many years, since I first noticed him when he was still young and beautiful in 1970's "Diary of a Mad Housewife", where his louche seducer took blithe advantage of hard-done hausfrau Carrie Snodgrass. He was then the sexiest Dracula ever in the 1979 film, a replay of his earlier smash-hit appearance on Broadway as the Count. However, over the years his film appearances have become both smaller and less frequent, as he pursued his first love of stage. "Frost/Nixon" and "Good Night and Good Luck" put him back in the cinema spotlight and he really shines again in this rare leading role. He manages to be both the abrasive old codger as well as the unrepentent crook for whom we root, especially when one of the local yuppies who has closed down the local library, replacing it with new appliances which make the 'written-word' obsolete, is the object of Frank's most daring jewels heist and ultimately his would-be nemesis, attempting to bring the full weight of the law down on poor old Frank's head.
There is also a wonderfully warm role for Susan Sarandon as the local librarian, with whom Frank vigorously flirts, without realising that she is a bigger part of his past life than his deteriorating mind can recall. In the end Frank is forced to chose between his freedom and his BFF Robot. He finds himself in one of the much-dreaded care homes that he has resisted and we are shown evidence of his continual mental decline. In many ways this is as depressing an ending as any, although in its last minutes the skillfully-written film manages to suggest that Frank perhaps does have more of his wits about him than the casual observer might realise.
Despite the relatively downbeat and moving ending, the film -- a first feature from director Jake Schreier -- is both sharp and entertaining, and in so many ways more enjoyable than geriatric 'romps' like "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel" or "Quartet", largely thanks to Langella's thoughtful and winning performance.
Wednesday, 6 March 2013
Stoker (2013)
Until I actually sit down to write this weekly blog, I'm never 100% certain which of the several many films I've watched during the week will take center stage. Contenders for today's slot included "Three Crowns of the Sailor" (a long listed 'must see' early work from Chilean exile Raul Ruiz -- frankly a long and generally incomprehensible avant garde ramble, now thankfully crossed off), "Panic in Year Zero" (a 1962 directorial debut from actor Ray Milland at the stage when his career was beginning to slide and a not uninteresting stab at the period's communist paranoia), and recent Cannes prizewinner "Once Upon a Time in Anatolia" (an overpraised and leisurely policier set in rural Turkey).
Any one of these three might have made an interesting column, although I have some doubts about the first, but finally I decided to opt for the above new release since it arrived with some impeccable credentials and some glowing reviews. However shortly before leaving for the cinema I read a two sentence review from the Financial Times' film critic which more or less said that it was not worth the time or effort or the cost of a ticket. Being the bolshy PPP that I am, I ignored his rant and went to see for myself. The film is the first feature in the English language from Korean director Chan-wook Park, a fest fave for his stylish 'vengeance trilogy' which includes cult classic "Oldboy". Also responsible for the more recent "Thirst" with its priest turned vampire, the viewer is aware of his blood-soaked and oddball propensities, and I for one approached this movie with hopeful anticipation. For that reason alone it was something of a disappointment as he introduced us to the deep dark secrets of the Stoker family -- an interesting choice of surname, even if its vampiric resonance is only tangentially relevant here.
The center of the action is Mia Wasikowska playing the puzzling and sullen India, whose 18th birthday is marred by the sudden death of her beloved father in an inexplicable car accident. Unlike her strong previous roles as Alice and Jane Eyre, where one could sense a precocious intelligence, here she is something of a mystery and not a particularly interesting one. She is slightly estranged from her flighty mother played by the elegant but empty Nicole Kidman. (Parenthetically it is a little peculiar to watch her forty-something character played with the botoxed and filled face of a 21-year old.) Into the household arrives Uncle Charlie, a relation India never knew she had -- her father's younger brother. This immediately creates expectations of an updated version of Hitchcock's "Shadow of a Doubt", where the youngster's original delight in her new uncle morphs into fear as his murderous past unveils itself. However, this is far from the case here, Park makes us wait until well past the half-way mark to discover where the plot will take us. The film's first half is a puzzling combination of estrangement, time shifting backflashes, and various versions of the same scenario, to the extent that we wonder what is real and what is not. When the 'big reveal' comes we discover that not only is Uncle Charlie a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but that his murderous tendencies are embraced by young India as well. Her hormonal teenage angst is mainly a cover for latent sociopathic behaviour, as if killer genes are hereditary.
Charlie is played by British actor Matthew Goode, most recently seen here in the five-part "Dancing on the Edge", and I am not convinced his bland and fairly expressionless demeanor make him the right face for the role. As he casually sexually or mentally seduces both mother and daughter -- his piano duet with India verges on paedophilia -- we grow more and more uneasy, not knowing how to empathize with three blatantly unsympathetic characters. I must add that I think it strange to portray a suburban American family by employing two Australians and a Brit, as well as another Australian in the role of the quickly-dispatched visiting Aunt Jane. This is not to say that the acting left much to be desired, but the three are all playing such mysterious ciphers, that it is impossible to believe in them or root for them. Wasikowska probably did a damn good portrayal of the deeply confused India, but her character is ultimately too weird and hollow to comprehend.
Park brought along his regular Korean cinematographer Chung-hoon Chung who has photographed this farrago with undeserved skill and beauty. Some of the images like India's brushing Kidman's hair which then morphs into long wild grass are striking -- too striking for the nasty nest of the Stoker's secrets. While I can't conclude that the FT's critic had it right, the film was certainly a come-down from the director's Korean best.
Any one of these three might have made an interesting column, although I have some doubts about the first, but finally I decided to opt for the above new release since it arrived with some impeccable credentials and some glowing reviews. However shortly before leaving for the cinema I read a two sentence review from the Financial Times' film critic which more or less said that it was not worth the time or effort or the cost of a ticket. Being the bolshy PPP that I am, I ignored his rant and went to see for myself. The film is the first feature in the English language from Korean director Chan-wook Park, a fest fave for his stylish 'vengeance trilogy' which includes cult classic "Oldboy". Also responsible for the more recent "Thirst" with its priest turned vampire, the viewer is aware of his blood-soaked and oddball propensities, and I for one approached this movie with hopeful anticipation. For that reason alone it was something of a disappointment as he introduced us to the deep dark secrets of the Stoker family -- an interesting choice of surname, even if its vampiric resonance is only tangentially relevant here.
The center of the action is Mia Wasikowska playing the puzzling and sullen India, whose 18th birthday is marred by the sudden death of her beloved father in an inexplicable car accident. Unlike her strong previous roles as Alice and Jane Eyre, where one could sense a precocious intelligence, here she is something of a mystery and not a particularly interesting one. She is slightly estranged from her flighty mother played by the elegant but empty Nicole Kidman. (Parenthetically it is a little peculiar to watch her forty-something character played with the botoxed and filled face of a 21-year old.) Into the household arrives Uncle Charlie, a relation India never knew she had -- her father's younger brother. This immediately creates expectations of an updated version of Hitchcock's "Shadow of a Doubt", where the youngster's original delight in her new uncle morphs into fear as his murderous past unveils itself. However, this is far from the case here, Park makes us wait until well past the half-way mark to discover where the plot will take us. The film's first half is a puzzling combination of estrangement, time shifting backflashes, and various versions of the same scenario, to the extent that we wonder what is real and what is not. When the 'big reveal' comes we discover that not only is Uncle Charlie a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but that his murderous tendencies are embraced by young India as well. Her hormonal teenage angst is mainly a cover for latent sociopathic behaviour, as if killer genes are hereditary.
Charlie is played by British actor Matthew Goode, most recently seen here in the five-part "Dancing on the Edge", and I am not convinced his bland and fairly expressionless demeanor make him the right face for the role. As he casually sexually or mentally seduces both mother and daughter -- his piano duet with India verges on paedophilia -- we grow more and more uneasy, not knowing how to empathize with three blatantly unsympathetic characters. I must add that I think it strange to portray a suburban American family by employing two Australians and a Brit, as well as another Australian in the role of the quickly-dispatched visiting Aunt Jane. This is not to say that the acting left much to be desired, but the three are all playing such mysterious ciphers, that it is impossible to believe in them or root for them. Wasikowska probably did a damn good portrayal of the deeply confused India, but her character is ultimately too weird and hollow to comprehend.
Park brought along his regular Korean cinematographer Chung-hoon Chung who has photographed this farrago with undeserved skill and beauty. Some of the images like India's brushing Kidman's hair which then morphs into long wild grass are striking -- too striking for the nasty nest of the Stoker's secrets. While I can't conclude that the FT's critic had it right, the film was certainly a come-down from the director's Korean best.
Wednesday, 27 February 2013
85th Annual Academy Awards
Here we go again with Hollywood's annual love-in: the Oscars! Much to my surprise I note that last year was the first time that I blogged about the ceremony, despite being a near religious viewer of the annual fun and games. So how was this year's? Good question!
For a start I wish that the powers that be would get their act together when choosing a host for the procedings, rather than opting for a flavor-of-the-month like we had in the form of Seth MacFarlane. While I know next to nothing about the man, never having seen any of his television shows nor yet seen his directorial effort "Ted" (although I must admit it sounds something of a hoot from the reviews I've read), my received impression was to expect a sharp and humourous intelligence. Wrong again! His shtick was a cringing example of bad taste and mis-timed attempts to raise laughs, exemplified by his song number "We've seen your boobs", highlighting well-known actresses who have bared all on screen. The look of disgust on the faces of some of his 'culprits' reflected the audience's unease, even if two of his victims had agreed in advance to react with pretend horror (Theron and Watts I've read). No need to pretend ladies, since his entire routine verged on the unwatchable with sexist, racist, and religious so-called jokes. When the 'god of good taste' William Shatner appeared to him as some sort of deus ex machina telling him to improve his hosting or risk disastrous reviews, we were treated to some clumpy musical numbers to make the opening more 'Oscarly', but which only made one think that what the ceremony really needs is a professional host who gets on with the business to hand.
As usual I have only seen a minority of this year's contenders, although I know that I will catch up with them all in due course, having so far only seen "Life of Pi" and "Django Unchained" on their release. However that in no way stops my having my own biases and prejudices. Staying with these two films for the moment, I suppose Tarantino deserved his second screenwriting Oscar since he is a far better writer than director or god-help-us actor, and Christoph Waltz is a mesmeric screen presence. As for "Pi", it was surprisingly the evening's big winner, if you count receiving four awards as notable. As expected it had two well-deserved technical awards for visual effects and cinematography, a third for its rousing musical score, and I felt a very deserved acknowledgment of Ang Lee as best director. I think that pleased me more than anything else.
However his film did not go on to win best picture, an honour taken by the very popular "Argo", which brings me to the often commented upon anomaly of a best picture 'directing itself 'when its director is not himself nominated. In a way this is inevitable when the Academy decided to expand the list of nominated films to a maximum of ten, while limiting the directorial nominations to five -- although this conundrum existed even when the totals were five and five. If truth be known, I suspect that Lee might have lost the race had Ben Affleck been numbered amongst his opponents, although I think the absence of the other three missing directors would not have mattered. At any rate I'm pleased that "Lincoln" and Steven Spielberg did not win in either category.
Meanwhile Lincoln's star Daniel Day-Lewis went on to make Oscar history by being the first man to win three best actor Oscars. I don't have a lot of time for this infamous method actor, although there is no doubt that he pours himself into his roles, since he often comes across as humourless and holier-than-thou. However I did chuckle during his acceptance speech, after his win was announced by Meryl Streep -- herself no slouch when it comes to nominations and wins -- that he nearly didn't take the role since he was contracted to play Margaret Thatcher, leaving Streep as Speilberg's next choice as Lincoln. Now there are two never-to-be-seen films worth savouring!
As for the other acting kudos, one couldn't help feeling that the awards to Jennifer Lawrence and Anne Hathaway reflected their current popularity rather than necessarily being the best amongst the nominees. It would have been lovely to see octagenarian Emmanuelle Riva win best actress. as she did at the BAFTAs, but most of the voters probably don't know who the heck she is. As for Hathaway's Oscar, this probably annoys me more than any of the awards, not just because her screen time in "Les Miserables" was limited (this didn't stop Judi Dench's receiving the same award some years back for only eight mintues on screen), but because she becomes increasingly more and more full of herself and no doubt believed that she deserved this honour more than any of her fellow nominees. I should say in passing that I have resisted ever seeing the stage version of "Les Mis" despite its having run here for the last umpteen years and I can hardly say that I am looking forward to watching the three hour, totally live-sung musical film. It sounds to me like three hours of purgatory -- but that's probably just me.
Anything else? Well I am fed up with hearing winners say with mock humility that in any 'normal' year their competitors would have been the obvious winner; I think this has been said every year since the year dot. Secondly, while the theme of this year's ceremony was meant to be the celebration of screen musicals, this would have been far better accomplished with one of the compilations that have shone at previous ceremonies, rather than subjecting us to unnecessary re-enactments of the Oscar-winning "Chicago" and "Showgirls" and then giving the cast of "Les Mis" the chance to perform their nominated best song. You really can't mix tributes with nominations, and apart from Adele's winning performance of "Skyfall" the other three nominees were given little exposure. In an average year I normally record between five and eight parts of the evening's jollities to save for my future viewing pleasure, but this year there were only two: the rather well-done tribute to 50 years of James Bond with its crowd-pleasing performance of "Goldfinger" by Shirley Bassey, and the In Memoriam section honoring those now gone, which this year ended with a rare performance by Barbra Streisand. Both she and Bassey still 'have it' even if their voices are not quite what they were at their peak.
Well there's always next year for things to improve and perhaps I will have finally seen all of this years nominations by then -- even if this has to include "Les Mis".
For a start I wish that the powers that be would get their act together when choosing a host for the procedings, rather than opting for a flavor-of-the-month like we had in the form of Seth MacFarlane. While I know next to nothing about the man, never having seen any of his television shows nor yet seen his directorial effort "Ted" (although I must admit it sounds something of a hoot from the reviews I've read), my received impression was to expect a sharp and humourous intelligence. Wrong again! His shtick was a cringing example of bad taste and mis-timed attempts to raise laughs, exemplified by his song number "We've seen your boobs", highlighting well-known actresses who have bared all on screen. The look of disgust on the faces of some of his 'culprits' reflected the audience's unease, even if two of his victims had agreed in advance to react with pretend horror (Theron and Watts I've read). No need to pretend ladies, since his entire routine verged on the unwatchable with sexist, racist, and religious so-called jokes. When the 'god of good taste' William Shatner appeared to him as some sort of deus ex machina telling him to improve his hosting or risk disastrous reviews, we were treated to some clumpy musical numbers to make the opening more 'Oscarly', but which only made one think that what the ceremony really needs is a professional host who gets on with the business to hand.
As usual I have only seen a minority of this year's contenders, although I know that I will catch up with them all in due course, having so far only seen "Life of Pi" and "Django Unchained" on their release. However that in no way stops my having my own biases and prejudices. Staying with these two films for the moment, I suppose Tarantino deserved his second screenwriting Oscar since he is a far better writer than director or god-help-us actor, and Christoph Waltz is a mesmeric screen presence. As for "Pi", it was surprisingly the evening's big winner, if you count receiving four awards as notable. As expected it had two well-deserved technical awards for visual effects and cinematography, a third for its rousing musical score, and I felt a very deserved acknowledgment of Ang Lee as best director. I think that pleased me more than anything else.
However his film did not go on to win best picture, an honour taken by the very popular "Argo", which brings me to the often commented upon anomaly of a best picture 'directing itself 'when its director is not himself nominated. In a way this is inevitable when the Academy decided to expand the list of nominated films to a maximum of ten, while limiting the directorial nominations to five -- although this conundrum existed even when the totals were five and five. If truth be known, I suspect that Lee might have lost the race had Ben Affleck been numbered amongst his opponents, although I think the absence of the other three missing directors would not have mattered. At any rate I'm pleased that "Lincoln" and Steven Spielberg did not win in either category.
Meanwhile Lincoln's star Daniel Day-Lewis went on to make Oscar history by being the first man to win three best actor Oscars. I don't have a lot of time for this infamous method actor, although there is no doubt that he pours himself into his roles, since he often comes across as humourless and holier-than-thou. However I did chuckle during his acceptance speech, after his win was announced by Meryl Streep -- herself no slouch when it comes to nominations and wins -- that he nearly didn't take the role since he was contracted to play Margaret Thatcher, leaving Streep as Speilberg's next choice as Lincoln. Now there are two never-to-be-seen films worth savouring!
As for the other acting kudos, one couldn't help feeling that the awards to Jennifer Lawrence and Anne Hathaway reflected their current popularity rather than necessarily being the best amongst the nominees. It would have been lovely to see octagenarian Emmanuelle Riva win best actress. as she did at the BAFTAs, but most of the voters probably don't know who the heck she is. As for Hathaway's Oscar, this probably annoys me more than any of the awards, not just because her screen time in "Les Miserables" was limited (this didn't stop Judi Dench's receiving the same award some years back for only eight mintues on screen), but because she becomes increasingly more and more full of herself and no doubt believed that she deserved this honour more than any of her fellow nominees. I should say in passing that I have resisted ever seeing the stage version of "Les Mis" despite its having run here for the last umpteen years and I can hardly say that I am looking forward to watching the three hour, totally live-sung musical film. It sounds to me like three hours of purgatory -- but that's probably just me.
Anything else? Well I am fed up with hearing winners say with mock humility that in any 'normal' year their competitors would have been the obvious winner; I think this has been said every year since the year dot. Secondly, while the theme of this year's ceremony was meant to be the celebration of screen musicals, this would have been far better accomplished with one of the compilations that have shone at previous ceremonies, rather than subjecting us to unnecessary re-enactments of the Oscar-winning "Chicago" and "Showgirls" and then giving the cast of "Les Mis" the chance to perform their nominated best song. You really can't mix tributes with nominations, and apart from Adele's winning performance of "Skyfall" the other three nominees were given little exposure. In an average year I normally record between five and eight parts of the evening's jollities to save for my future viewing pleasure, but this year there were only two: the rather well-done tribute to 50 years of James Bond with its crowd-pleasing performance of "Goldfinger" by Shirley Bassey, and the In Memoriam section honoring those now gone, which this year ended with a rare performance by Barbra Streisand. Both she and Bassey still 'have it' even if their voices are not quite what they were at their peak.
Well there's always next year for things to improve and perhaps I will have finally seen all of this years nominations by then -- even if this has to include "Les Mis".
Thursday, 21 February 2013
Hitchcock (2012)
Having been more than a little disappointed by the cable film "The Girl" (2012) screened over Christmas, where Toby Jones swathed in prosthetic make-up made a reasonable fist of portraying the iconic director, I nearly gave the cinema showing of the above movie a miss, especially since nearly all of the main critics came down hard on the film, only begrudgingly noting some splendid acting. So we went to a matinee at our local on its penultimate showing and found that we were far from alone in the small but crowded theatre. I suppose this is because Hitchcock is one of the very few directors whose name and image can conjure up fond recollections, especially among an older audience.
Let me say up front that I really enjoyed the movie and not just because I am an unrepentent film buff. A mixture of biopic, period recreation, and a new look at historical figures from 50s' Hollywood, stirred with a combination of thriller, black comedy, and romance, the film may be flawed and skewed beyond factual recognition, but it is thoroughly entertaining, thanks largely to the characters of Anthony Hopkins as "call me Hitch, hold the cock" and Helen Mirren as his wife, Alma Reville. As fine an actor as he is, Hopkins has not really been at his best when portraying real people -- think of his versions of Nixon and Picasso, whereas he is a master of bringing imaginary characters to life. In this film he too underwent possibly unnecessary hours in the make-up artist's chair to give the impression of the portly Hitchcock, but it was to some extent a waste of time, since he no more resembles the director than did Toby J. However, when it comes to his manner, his way of talking, his inflections and his phrasing, Hopkins is magnificent and one can immediately warm to the bull-headed and sarky beast that Hitch appeared -- despite his many self-doubts and insecurities. Were you to close your eyes, you could believe it was the man himself up there on the screen.
Although ostensibly about Hitchcock during the period when he was making "Psycho", the film in the end is more a love letter to the long-suffering Reville, largely ignored by the public that worshipped her husband, and portrayed here as the real power behind the throne. Mirren has drabbed down somewhat to morph into his dowdy collaborator (in this sense Imelda Staunton in "The Girl" was far more physically believable). She does however bring real strength to her portrayal of the equally talented filmmaker, who has spent years catering to her husband's eccentricities. I think her suggested flirtation with screenwriter Whitfield Cook (a real hack of the period, brought to swarmy life by Danny Houston) detracts from the film's overall interest, as does the spirit of serial killer Ed Gein acting as a macabre mentor for Hitch in certain scenes. Not having read the Stephen Rebello book which forms the basis for this film, I can't tell if these unnecessary sidelights are part of the backstory or merely embellishments by director Sacha Gervasi (a strange choice, this director of failed-band bio "Anvil") and his own screenwriter. Regardless we are privileged to follow the couple during the period when the only way they could fund the classic movie was to mortgage their own home (and swimming pool), since the studio just didn't want to know about Hitch's little horror film.
There is a great deal of fun to be had in seeing the supporting cast of characters in this saga reincarnated. Scarlett Johansson makes a truly scrumptious Janet Leigh. Having seen her recently in "Avengers Assemble", I thought she was beginning to look a little weary, but here she is delightfully lovely and naive; she does not come across in any way oppressed by the would-be lecherous Hitch with his pet blondes. Jessica Biel looks equally yummy as Vera Miles, whom Hitch purportedly 'hates' for having become pregnant rather than letting him make her a star in "Vertigo". James D'Arcy becomes a fair likeness of Anthony Perkins, with all his own neuroses and mummy hang-ups. Toni Collette makes a fine Peggy Robertson, Hitch's longtime secretary-assistant, while Michael Stuhlbarg is 100% believable as the director's megastar agent Lew Wasserman. Right down to Richard Portnow as Paramount boss Barney Balaban and Kirkwood Smith as the prissy censor whom Hitch outmanoeuvres, the casting is spot-on.
The film is not as fine an example of film-making as the average Hitchcock/Reville product, and even at 98 minutes, it does feel over-extended. However scenes like the director dancing with joy in the theatre lobby at the first "Psycho" screening, as he hears the audience's terrified screams, more than make up for the occasional longeurs and probable elisions of the script.
Let me say up front that I really enjoyed the movie and not just because I am an unrepentent film buff. A mixture of biopic, period recreation, and a new look at historical figures from 50s' Hollywood, stirred with a combination of thriller, black comedy, and romance, the film may be flawed and skewed beyond factual recognition, but it is thoroughly entertaining, thanks largely to the characters of Anthony Hopkins as "call me Hitch, hold the cock" and Helen Mirren as his wife, Alma Reville. As fine an actor as he is, Hopkins has not really been at his best when portraying real people -- think of his versions of Nixon and Picasso, whereas he is a master of bringing imaginary characters to life. In this film he too underwent possibly unnecessary hours in the make-up artist's chair to give the impression of the portly Hitchcock, but it was to some extent a waste of time, since he no more resembles the director than did Toby J. However, when it comes to his manner, his way of talking, his inflections and his phrasing, Hopkins is magnificent and one can immediately warm to the bull-headed and sarky beast that Hitch appeared -- despite his many self-doubts and insecurities. Were you to close your eyes, you could believe it was the man himself up there on the screen.
Although ostensibly about Hitchcock during the period when he was making "Psycho", the film in the end is more a love letter to the long-suffering Reville, largely ignored by the public that worshipped her husband, and portrayed here as the real power behind the throne. Mirren has drabbed down somewhat to morph into his dowdy collaborator (in this sense Imelda Staunton in "The Girl" was far more physically believable). She does however bring real strength to her portrayal of the equally talented filmmaker, who has spent years catering to her husband's eccentricities. I think her suggested flirtation with screenwriter Whitfield Cook (a real hack of the period, brought to swarmy life by Danny Houston) detracts from the film's overall interest, as does the spirit of serial killer Ed Gein acting as a macabre mentor for Hitch in certain scenes. Not having read the Stephen Rebello book which forms the basis for this film, I can't tell if these unnecessary sidelights are part of the backstory or merely embellishments by director Sacha Gervasi (a strange choice, this director of failed-band bio "Anvil") and his own screenwriter. Regardless we are privileged to follow the couple during the period when the only way they could fund the classic movie was to mortgage their own home (and swimming pool), since the studio just didn't want to know about Hitch's little horror film.
There is a great deal of fun to be had in seeing the supporting cast of characters in this saga reincarnated. Scarlett Johansson makes a truly scrumptious Janet Leigh. Having seen her recently in "Avengers Assemble", I thought she was beginning to look a little weary, but here she is delightfully lovely and naive; she does not come across in any way oppressed by the would-be lecherous Hitch with his pet blondes. Jessica Biel looks equally yummy as Vera Miles, whom Hitch purportedly 'hates' for having become pregnant rather than letting him make her a star in "Vertigo". James D'Arcy becomes a fair likeness of Anthony Perkins, with all his own neuroses and mummy hang-ups. Toni Collette makes a fine Peggy Robertson, Hitch's longtime secretary-assistant, while Michael Stuhlbarg is 100% believable as the director's megastar agent Lew Wasserman. Right down to Richard Portnow as Paramount boss Barney Balaban and Kirkwood Smith as the prissy censor whom Hitch outmanoeuvres, the casting is spot-on.
The film is not as fine an example of film-making as the average Hitchcock/Reville product, and even at 98 minutes, it does feel over-extended. However scenes like the director dancing with joy in the theatre lobby at the first "Psycho" screening, as he hears the audience's terrified screams, more than make up for the occasional longeurs and probable elisions of the script.
Wednesday, 13 February 2013
Hyde Park on Hudson (2012)
We very nearly went to see this film last October when it was included in the London Film Festival programme. For a start I knew that Michael really likes Bill Murray (me? -- I'm a little indifferent) who was taking the lead role as the well-loved president Franklin Delano Roosevelt and secondly because I have fond memories of visiting Hyde Park (not the one in London, but the setting for Roosevelt's country retreat along the Hudson River, subsequently turned into an FDR museum) as a child. To make an already long story short, we decided per our usual guidelines for 'mainstream' films to wait until it received the inevitable cinema release. Well we had to wait until now and nearly didn't go at all, since the critics' reviews here were lukewarm at best.
Anyhow I'm pleased that I followed my instincts, since it turned out to be a slow, but gentle, 95 minutes in the cinema -- a far cry from the usual slap 'em up, knock-em down features that pull in today's audience. I was surprised therefore that the afternoon showing we attended was reasonably full. The story -- a slight one at best -- is set on a weekend in 1939 when FDR and his entourage are expecting a house visit from King George VI and his wife on the first trip to the United States by a British monarch. Their purpose is to woo American support for the looming forthcoming war; his is to carry on business as usual, juggling affairs of state with managing the bevy of bossy women who surround him -- his mother, his wife Eleanor, and several mistresses.
Unfortunately the story is largely told through the eyes of one of the latter, his distant cousin Daisy, played by Laura Linney. She is something of a drab little thing when she is summoned to keep him company at the country house; she is asked to admire his stamp collection (a ploy like "come up and see my etchings"). They go on a ride together in his specially adapted open-top car, when he pulls up and manipulates her into manipulating him. The camera discreetly pulls away, and as Kenny Everett used to say, it is all done in the best possible taste. The occasional affair develops from there until she eventually discovers that she is one of several, including his long-time assistant Missy, a much stronger and more attractive Elizabeth Marvel. It is when the film moves away from the Linney strand that it becomes more entertaining. Murray does a first-class job of giving us the feel of the crippled president, without in any way really trying to morph into him under layers of make-up. The actor leaves his droll comic chops behind and becomes the rounded, flawed yet loveable rogue we see on screen. Not really an Oscar-worthy performance as some would have it, but an immensely watchable one.
The rest of the main cast is largely spot on. Olivia Williams drabs down to become Eleanor the formidable 'wife' in name only; even so she still looks far too attractive. Samuel West plays the stuttering Bertie that we all know from the Colin Firth film, but still comes across as a feisty tryer, who really wants to become his own man. Only Olivia Coleman as Elizabeth lets the side down, lacking the warmth that Helena Bonham Carter brought to the role, and largely seems a rather unlikeable snob. The highpoint of her dilemma is whether or not her husband will eat a low-class hot dog at the picnic planned for the next day. Bertie manages to charm everyone on the day, despite the raucous entertainment by tom-tom beating Indians laid on by the effusive Eleanor. The real rapport between FDR and the young king comes across in a late-night scene over a few tumblers of whiskey where they admit their various handicaps and how they are best overcome. This was the start of the so-called famous 'special relationship' between the U.S. and Britain.
The director Roger Michell actually shot the entire movie in England, yet he gives us the feeling that we are really tootling along in the rural New York countryside. Similar care is taken with the set design, art direction, and costuming with the result that we feel that we are being given a privileged look into history and a way of life long gone. Naturally everyone smokes non-stop!
Anyhow I'm pleased that I followed my instincts, since it turned out to be a slow, but gentle, 95 minutes in the cinema -- a far cry from the usual slap 'em up, knock-em down features that pull in today's audience. I was surprised therefore that the afternoon showing we attended was reasonably full. The story -- a slight one at best -- is set on a weekend in 1939 when FDR and his entourage are expecting a house visit from King George VI and his wife on the first trip to the United States by a British monarch. Their purpose is to woo American support for the looming forthcoming war; his is to carry on business as usual, juggling affairs of state with managing the bevy of bossy women who surround him -- his mother, his wife Eleanor, and several mistresses.
Unfortunately the story is largely told through the eyes of one of the latter, his distant cousin Daisy, played by Laura Linney. She is something of a drab little thing when she is summoned to keep him company at the country house; she is asked to admire his stamp collection (a ploy like "come up and see my etchings"). They go on a ride together in his specially adapted open-top car, when he pulls up and manipulates her into manipulating him. The camera discreetly pulls away, and as Kenny Everett used to say, it is all done in the best possible taste. The occasional affair develops from there until she eventually discovers that she is one of several, including his long-time assistant Missy, a much stronger and more attractive Elizabeth Marvel. It is when the film moves away from the Linney strand that it becomes more entertaining. Murray does a first-class job of giving us the feel of the crippled president, without in any way really trying to morph into him under layers of make-up. The actor leaves his droll comic chops behind and becomes the rounded, flawed yet loveable rogue we see on screen. Not really an Oscar-worthy performance as some would have it, but an immensely watchable one.
The rest of the main cast is largely spot on. Olivia Williams drabs down to become Eleanor the formidable 'wife' in name only; even so she still looks far too attractive. Samuel West plays the stuttering Bertie that we all know from the Colin Firth film, but still comes across as a feisty tryer, who really wants to become his own man. Only Olivia Coleman as Elizabeth lets the side down, lacking the warmth that Helena Bonham Carter brought to the role, and largely seems a rather unlikeable snob. The highpoint of her dilemma is whether or not her husband will eat a low-class hot dog at the picnic planned for the next day. Bertie manages to charm everyone on the day, despite the raucous entertainment by tom-tom beating Indians laid on by the effusive Eleanor. The real rapport between FDR and the young king comes across in a late-night scene over a few tumblers of whiskey where they admit their various handicaps and how they are best overcome. This was the start of the so-called famous 'special relationship' between the U.S. and Britain.
The director Roger Michell actually shot the entire movie in England, yet he gives us the feeling that we are really tootling along in the rural New York countryside. Similar care is taken with the set design, art direction, and costuming with the result that we feel that we are being given a privileged look into history and a way of life long gone. Naturally everyone smokes non-stop!
Wednesday, 6 February 2013
Django Unchained (2012)
By and large I have enjoyed watching most of Quentin Tarantino's films, although "Four Rooms" was an unmitigated disaster and I have never been able to quite warm to "Jackie Brown" -- one of his fans' favourites. Otherwise there is much to like in the works of this cinema-literate director, although I wish he would curb his enthusiasm to act as well. His role-playing turns are invariably embarrassing and he should stick to what he does best.
I write 'does best' with some provisos in examing his eighth movie. There is no doubt that the man has many ideas when writing his screenplays and is not content if he is forced to omit anything, whether or not these inclusions are worthy. The result can be, as is the case with this film, an overlong and over-indulgent orgy of film violence and episodic action. Tarantino needs to understand the art of editing; his longtime editor Sally Menke died not long ago and somehow this latest film seems unpolished and unpaced. Still there is a great deal to like if the viewer is content to sit through nearly three hours of Quentinisms.
Set in a somewhat mythical South two years before the start of the Civil War, Jamie Foxx plays the title role of a rebellious slave, bought (by gunfire of course) and then freed by Christoph Waltz's dentist-turned-bounty hunter. The latter needs his help in identifying his latest quarry and subsequently trains him and takes him along on his bloody adventures. One must admit that Waltz is perhaps the director's greatest find and Tarantino's dialogue rolls smoothly from his silver tongue; in fact the heart and soul of the movie die with him when he is eventually dispatched. While Foxx does an adequate job as the man with a quest -- to be reunited with his dear wife (the German-speaking Broomhilda von Shaft: another of QT's in-jokes) -- there is no way that he could carry the film without Waltz's support; to my mind, he never quite dominates the action. I understand that Will Smith was originally sought for the so-called lead, but soon departed when he could see that his would be an overshadowed character. There are also meaty parts for Leonardo DiCaprio, playing against type as the cruel master of the Candieland plantation, home of Mandingo fighting, and for Samuel L. Jackson parodying false subservience as his Uncle Tomish 'house nigger. (I would not like to count the number of times that QT liberally includes his favourite N-word).
Then there are the countless small roles and unexpected cameos that are among Tarantino's trademarks: Don Johnson, Bruce Dern, Zoe Bell, Tom Savini, and dozens more including unfortunately QT himself. Some are included like Russ Tamlyn playing 'Son of a Gunfighter' (one of his more obscure roles) and Amber Tamlyn playing 'Daughter of Son of a Gunfighter' solely as more wink-wink, nudge-nudge for the film buffs. The attempts at leavening the violence with humour are rather hit-and-miss, ranging from dressing Foxx up as Little Lord Fauntleroy when he is given leave to choose his first suit of clothes, through a prolonged and unfunny attack by the local Ku Klux Klan where they spend the time complaining about the poorly-cut eyeholes in their flour sack masks. Similarly the director's choice of music is so eclectic, that one bristles at hearing hip-hop riffs in this South that never was. Only the brief appearance of Franco Nero, the original and more charismatic Django from the spaghetti westerns, is really apt.
Of course Quarantino (this is obviously a Freudian slip on my part for 'Tarantino') does have a great deal to say about this shameful period in America's past, an interesting counterpoint to the more cerebral "Lincoln" currently on release, and he certainly says it at length. However he does tend to diminish man's inhumanity to man by using it as an excuse for mindless violence and spurting blood. Gore fans will have a ball! Everyone else can pick and choose between the 'good' bits and the bits that could easily have been edited out to leave a more cohesive film.
I write 'does best' with some provisos in examing his eighth movie. There is no doubt that the man has many ideas when writing his screenplays and is not content if he is forced to omit anything, whether or not these inclusions are worthy. The result can be, as is the case with this film, an overlong and over-indulgent orgy of film violence and episodic action. Tarantino needs to understand the art of editing; his longtime editor Sally Menke died not long ago and somehow this latest film seems unpolished and unpaced. Still there is a great deal to like if the viewer is content to sit through nearly three hours of Quentinisms.
Set in a somewhat mythical South two years before the start of the Civil War, Jamie Foxx plays the title role of a rebellious slave, bought (by gunfire of course) and then freed by Christoph Waltz's dentist-turned-bounty hunter. The latter needs his help in identifying his latest quarry and subsequently trains him and takes him along on his bloody adventures. One must admit that Waltz is perhaps the director's greatest find and Tarantino's dialogue rolls smoothly from his silver tongue; in fact the heart and soul of the movie die with him when he is eventually dispatched. While Foxx does an adequate job as the man with a quest -- to be reunited with his dear wife (the German-speaking Broomhilda von Shaft: another of QT's in-jokes) -- there is no way that he could carry the film without Waltz's support; to my mind, he never quite dominates the action. I understand that Will Smith was originally sought for the so-called lead, but soon departed when he could see that his would be an overshadowed character. There are also meaty parts for Leonardo DiCaprio, playing against type as the cruel master of the Candieland plantation, home of Mandingo fighting, and for Samuel L. Jackson parodying false subservience as his Uncle Tomish 'house nigger. (I would not like to count the number of times that QT liberally includes his favourite N-word).
Then there are the countless small roles and unexpected cameos that are among Tarantino's trademarks: Don Johnson, Bruce Dern, Zoe Bell, Tom Savini, and dozens more including unfortunately QT himself. Some are included like Russ Tamlyn playing 'Son of a Gunfighter' (one of his more obscure roles) and Amber Tamlyn playing 'Daughter of Son of a Gunfighter' solely as more wink-wink, nudge-nudge for the film buffs. The attempts at leavening the violence with humour are rather hit-and-miss, ranging from dressing Foxx up as Little Lord Fauntleroy when he is given leave to choose his first suit of clothes, through a prolonged and unfunny attack by the local Ku Klux Klan where they spend the time complaining about the poorly-cut eyeholes in their flour sack masks. Similarly the director's choice of music is so eclectic, that one bristles at hearing hip-hop riffs in this South that never was. Only the brief appearance of Franco Nero, the original and more charismatic Django from the spaghetti westerns, is really apt.
Of course Quarantino (this is obviously a Freudian slip on my part for 'Tarantino') does have a great deal to say about this shameful period in America's past, an interesting counterpoint to the more cerebral "Lincoln" currently on release, and he certainly says it at length. However he does tend to diminish man's inhumanity to man by using it as an excuse for mindless violence and spurting blood. Gore fans will have a ball! Everyone else can pick and choose between the 'good' bits and the bits that could easily have been edited out to leave a more cohesive film.
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