A Royal Affair – Nicolaj Arcel – A well acted, powerful
and poignant drama. This historical drama is set in the court of King Christian
VII of Denmark (18th C) and explores the adulterous affair that the
queen pursues with the royal physician. All of the three main leads are
strongly performed, Mads Mikkelson effortlessly exhudes his own, at times
unsettling, intensity and charisma. Mikkel Følsgaard, as Christian, portrays
the king’s mental instability with an exciting amalgam of adolescent
vulnerability (at time redolent of Tom Hulce’s portrayal of Mozart, in the epic
Amadeus) and a debauched libertine defiance,
one that becomes increasingly reckless and inappropriate, given the
expectations of royalty. As the royal physician begins to realise his power
with the king, the potential to wield genuine influence encourages a risky
pursuit of liberating (previously censored and repressed) renaissance ideals.
Exploring the evolution of culture, held back, warped and distracted by
structures of power in the tension between between humanist aspirations and the
decisions of a governing body, seems particularly relevant in recent times of
econmic crisis. Here, the film hinges upon Christian’s court freeing itself
from a beurocracy of tradition, in order to culturally advance with renaissance
values. Right now, with wide spread cuts to the humanities, closing down
libraries and denying the wider public access to cultural experiences we are
arguably allowing the collapse of economic capital to justify the
disentegration of our own cultural capital. In A Royal Affair, infidelity and illicit regal sex aside, we witness
a man and woman fight for the importance of free speech, artistic innovation
and the support of cultural ambition. And yes, it may seeem like tenuous
soapbox indulgence, but right now, with increasingly damaging and widespread
cuts to education, support and facilitation of ‘the arts’; Britain is allowing
a short term levelling of financial problems to eclipse the more long-term
injury to this nation’s cultural health...In light of which, a film like A Royal Affair can become a deceptively
contemporary meditation. But then I belong to a generation (he said,
misrepresenting millions with a brush of incrminating presumption) that have
been stagnating in political apathy for a long time, settled in a coma deepened
by the coalition, and only ever gently awoken by satirical comedy or a decent
film. 7.5/10
Seeking a friend for the end of the world – An interesting
one…Keira Knightly and Steve Carrell in a ‘sort-of’ offbeat, ‘sort-of’ comedy
about the end of the world. In cheap conclusion… it’s ‘sort of’ interesting.
Peter Bradshaw observed that Carrel, with his middle-aged sensible jumpers and
disconnected awkwardness, has the unintentional (?) aura of a creepy serial
killer. Similar to the unnerving energy of Adam Sandler (perfectly realised by
P.T. Anderson, in Punch Drunk Love),
Carrel does have a cold and unreadable dimension to his acting, reminiscent of
his meloncholy turn in Little Miss
Sunshine. The film is at its best and most enjoyable when exploring the
widespread panic and unravvelling of suburban American lives. With straight
faced black humour we are shown a painfully revealing dinner party, in which
marriages wrench themselves apart to reimagine some kind of romanticised pre
marital sexual liberty. In the knowledge of the world’s imminent end, suddenly
the conventions, structures and rituals of middle class American existence are
revealed as absurd, empty and unfullfilling. It is here that the film should
have stayed, revelling in the anxiety riddled bachanalia of renouncing
normality, escaping the mundane and realising the daily routine for its
stifling reality – it takes the end of the world to wake up and smell
mortality…and this, this could have been interesting. Meanwhile Carrel is
resolutely dull and Keira is kooky, consequently making the end of the world
seem an inviting prospect. 5.8/10
Berbarian Sound Studio- A film I was really excited about
seeing…then inevitably missed at the cinema. God bless Tyneside for a cheeky,
one off, second screening. Toby Jones plays Gilderoy, a sound artist/engineer
for films. He is invited to provide the soundtrack for a bizarre Italian horror
(entitled Equestrian Vortex, reminiscent
of the mad and extravagant gore of Lucio Fulci…and yes, I have not yet seen any
of these…nor Argento…need to track some down and catch up!) and unsurprisingly
it soon turns out to be a somewhat unsettling experience. The first half of the
film enjoys the subtle and dark humour of deconstructing a horror soundscape:
plentiful stabbed cabbages and closely microphoned frying oil etc. The
cinematography is impressively delicate; capturing the reoccuring image of a
spindly spider, making its hair legged way across a landscape of the minute.
Atmosphere is also brilliantly concucted, joining the accreuing nightmare of
sound with an ambient pallete of intimate lighting and shadows. The second half
of the film explores the disintegration of sanity, as Gilderoy seemingly loses
the ability to distinguish between what is filmed and what is lived, and we,
the audience, try to decipher whether what has happened is psychological or
actual. Navigating such territory obviously ends up evoking Lynch (Laura Dern
facing the image of herself in the cinema-INLAND
EMPIRE, the repeated mantra of ‘Silencio’ from Mullholland Dr. – seen here in the flashing of the studio’s sign,
even a proliferation of Lynchian red lamps). It’s hard, as a result, not to be
reminded of how Lynch’s films are in comparison far more immersive, compelling
and genuinely unsettling. As this is the director’s second film this is perhaps
an unfair comparison to draw, and it was
interesting, it’s just I think I wanted more. There was a turning point in the
film, in which Gilderoy’s ability (and ours) to securely discern cinema and
reality is lost, and it can’t be denied – this is done with an exciting and
innovative audio and visual flare. I wanted the rest of the film to be as
simarlaly bold-and it wasn’t. It may be needlessly harsh (for a film that was
both artistically and conceptually relatively adventurous), but it eneded up
feeling like an advert for a better film, the tantalizing glimpse of something
bizarre and exciting-not fully realised. I wanted it to be stranger…but then,
this is probably my fault and not the film. I have never been a great coniseur
of restraint. 7/10
Drag me to Hell- Sam Raimi – Resurrecting the
goofy horror of The Evil Dead films,
Mr Raimi proves with gleeful abandon he is still partial to a joyously dumb,
tongue in cheek, slapstick horror/comedy. Christine Brown is a (naturally very
attractive) bank assistant/insurance sales [insert generic bland job title]
person who refuses to extend a customer’s loan, thus forcing them out of a
house. Except that this particular customer is a spiteful gypsy with a
demon-raising curse, just waiting to be brandished. Raimi wastes no time with character
details, there are none, and the plot excitably hurtles into a pantomime of
fortunetellers, poltergeist rattling, pitch shifting vocal warping (so integral
to any and all evil spirits), a sacrificial kitten, a satanic goat, tidal
nosebleeds and Justin Long playing her hapless boyfriend – trailing around like
an adolescent Keanu reeves, with his uncomplicated heart resolutely in the
right place. All the tropes of ridiculously hammy horror are tickled, from
deadpan bad acting, to preposterously unimaginative motifs of unspecific
devilry. But then Raimi is not looking to create subtle atmosphere, unnerving
tension or a genuinely disturbing vision – this is the man of Bruce Campbell,
tree rape and a fondness for using stop motion animation, in the depiction of
swiftly decaying zombies…in short, he couldn’t give a flying gypsy corpse
whether any of the plot, acting or effects really hold up – it’s about the
unabashed enjoyment of unthinking, unchallenging and ultimately unthreatening
horror/comedy adventures. So, if you fancy dusting off an old book in the
cellar, discovering dark incantations, finding an eternally doomed trinket (be
it button, creepy necklace or a reappearing sinister housefly), while the
predictable misadventures of a young couple stumble amidst jets of blood,
ambiguous bodily gunk, screaming, rustling leaves and the essential deep chants
of off-screen monks…then this, this will be fun. But ‘fun’ is definitely the
artistic ceiling here. 6/10
The Return- Andrey Zvyagintsev- Two
young boys are re-introduced to their estranged father, he returns without
explanation and takes them on a long and arduous car journey – its purpose
undisclosed. The father, shrouded in a brooding silence that suggests latent
violence, weathered russian stoicism (of the stereotypical, greying, gritty,
working man…distant, cold and capable of shouldering large logs) and possibly
some criminal secret. The road trip gradually turns into a ritualistic test of
masculinity, the father challenging his sons to step up and prove their
endurance and physicality. Warm fuzzy father-son bonding, this aint! The sparse
and unyielding wilderness reflects the father’s emotional severity, a sternly
punishing spectrum: harsh and empty. The child actors are terrific, each boy
portrays the nuanced confusion and difficulty of the situation with their
characters remaining equally compelling as events spiral and the drama darkens.
The film has the haunting poetry of a minimal and bleak parable – the meaning
of which is not immediate or clear, but lingers after viewing. 7.8/10
Pride and
Predjudice (1940
version) – Robert Z. Leonard – Starring Laurence Olivier and with a
screenplay written by Aldous Huxley, by all accounts this is most probably a
classic. The film varies from the source material in several ways, both in
narrative and costume. I found it irritating and dull, all elaborate costumes,
unfunny social dithering and over theatrical charcter depictions. With more
time, better critical knowledge and an interest I was severly lacking Im sure
this is (in whatever way…) a classic of some sorts….I mean, it does have 100%
on Rotten Tomatoes. Not my cuppa. 4/10
Faust – Alexander Sokurov – The camera swoops
down from a high altitude, through wisps of cloud, down over the wrinkled teeth
of mountains, down further into the grouped roofs of a small town, down
further, finally arriving through old barn doors into a grimly dank space.
Chained to a large vertical slab is a corpse, the camera finally finishes its
epic introductory zoom, to settle in clinical scrutiny upon the cadaver’s limp
penis. As opening sequences go, it’s admirably mad and unexpected.
We begin this unorthdox adaptation
of the Faust legend, in a makeshift morgue: Faust closely inspecting a corpse,
the light dim and natural, sawdust scattered on the damp floor, dishevelled
costumes and architecture - suggesting anything from (as Peter Bradshaw
suggests) the 16th Century of Marlowe’s Faustus…or, as Wikipidea
assuredly asserts, the 19th Century. Clarity is not a prioritised
mode, and, unsurprisingly (given Sokurov’s audacity of innovation – Russian Ark) the film looks very
distinctive. The image occassionaly warps, as if stretching and contorting the
ratio, not dissimiliar from the reflections in fairground mirrors.
Conversations meander as Faust and an impishly deformed incarnation of
Mephastophiles wander through cramped attic spaces, dirt addled impoversished
alleys and mountainous landscapes. Colours are parched and faded, perpective is
constantly changed and confused, meanwhile any sense of purpose or
narrative-structure is evasively stumbled into claustrophobic corners, or lost
in peripheral confusion. All of which makes for a peripetetic and
disorientating journey.
The film navigates between an
exhausting and slow sense of directionless boredom and moments of incisive
epiphany. Suddenly conversation trails away, as if in correspondance to your
lapsing attention, and then, with a dream like fixation, the camera hovers on a
face – its expression/eyes/mouth/features – and suddenly you are transported to
a different plain of attention. It feels as though, quite without warning,
everything hinges upon this moment, this passing glance or incidental
expression. In these lingering, most often silent shots, the visuals become
mesmeric. Facial expressions are imbued with ineffable significance, which, in
contrast to the ambling oddity of Faust’s surrounding wanderings, become
islands of startling and unsettling power. It is a truly odd, singular and
beguiling beast; without its monotony, perplexing pace and visuals, it wouldn’t
be capable of providing such arresting (though often fleeting) beauty. A
complex film that I definitely need to see again at some point. In conclusion:
Sukorov… you cryptic enigma, you nomadic Russian seer, you purveyor of human
truth…obtained, blurred and illuminated via the darkly scenic and indirect
path. 8/10
Archangel – Guy Maddin – Set in 1919, in
the port of Archangel, Russia. News of the war’s end has not yet reached this
community and so, oblivious to historical change, the distinct Maddin imagining
of war rages on, with gleefully cracked melodrama. A grainy black and white
recreates a 1920s silent era aesthetic. White rabbits tumble into a trench,
soldiers are strangled by entrails, and recognizable themes that characterize
Maddin’s other films emerge: masculinity, absurdity, memory, a father figure,
melodramatic love…all rendered and explored with a host of intriguingly odd
touches. 7.5/10
Sunset Boulevard- Billy Wilder – From its opening,
in which our wise cracking, smooth talking narrator is face down in a swimming
pool…to its unforgettable last sequence, with Gloria Swanson descending down an
elaborate staircase and into the huddled cameras of journalists and waiting
police…this is an enthralling slab of darkly comic entertainment! But then, the
status of Sunset Boulevard, as a long
established classic, hardly needs to be argued. Its tone falls playfully
between the psychology and shadow-strewn pallette of film noir, and the less
predictable strain of absurd humour. All of which is twisted with a theatrical
air of gothic melodrama... primarily driven by the unforgettable and skellatol
drama of Norma Desmond. Faded glamour, Hollywood, memory, a dead chimp,
artifice, love, madness and, of course, death – all spun together with a witty
and self consciously filmic attitude. A cautionary tale of stardom’s demise and
the damaging delusion of fame, coiled between humour and hysteria. Billy
Wilder’s vision, supported by a hypnotic and unsettling performance by Gloria
Swanson, makes for a deliciously warped memento mori of cinema: its power, the worship
it inspires and the ghosts it creates. 9/10
Matador – Pedro Almodovar – A lurid, sensual
and enjoyably ludicrous melodrama. The narrative has the heavy-handed feel of a
warped morality play, in which conventional morality is gleefully substituted
with a decadent appetite for transgression. The film follows the fate of Diego
(Nacho Martínez), a famous matador who retired after a violent goring. We are
first introduced to him, slumped in an armchair, eyes glazed, lips curled in
concentration, watching various scenes of elaborate torture: we see the cheap
‘video nasty’ footage of blonde women decapitated, hung up, stabbed, attacked
etc etc. Meanwhile, the heavy breathing matador, shown sliding down the
armchair is feverishly masturbating. And thus, with its graciously subtle
introduction, Almodovar’s exploration of death, via sex begins. In parallel to
this opening sequence we are introduced to the matador’s female counterpoint,
María Cardenal, a female lawyer (Assumpta Serna) who comes to defend one of
Diego’s students (played by a young Antonio Banderas). It soon becomes clear
that María has not only idol worshipped Diego, having avidly followed his
bullfighting fame, but also shares his morbid sexuality. The first time we are
introduced to María, after the delicate portrayal of Diego’s necro-wank antics,
is a deadly sex scene. After mounting some unfortunate victim, she pulls a
pointed metal hatpin from her hair and plunges it between his shoulders and
below the neck – in imitation of the matador’s killing of the bull. Then, like
some crazed praying mantis (the female decapitates the male in
copulation…imagine Attenborough narrating that!), she straddles his newly dead
body, still writhing in shudders of murderous ecstasy.
So, it is not exactly a restrained
or nuanced drama…it is willfully theatrical, abstract and governed by thematic
curiosities as opposed to character naturalism. Underpinning the inherently
dark subject matter there is a bizarre sense of comedy. It is not as simple as
a ‘blackly comic’ vein, but closer to an absurd enjoyment, one which derides
its energy from the unabashed and enthusiastic, almost naïve, abandon with
which Almodovar pursues his subject matter. 7/10
A History of
Violence – David
Cronenberg – [SPOILERS] I feel pretty mixed about this film, quite likely
because I have already seen it a long time ago-in a context not conducive to
absorbed immersion (drinking and talking was a distracting happily eclipsed
concentration). Therefore, perhaps said unsatisfactory inaugural viewing has
somewhat detracted from the story’s impact. Viggo Mortensen plays a seemingly
regular ‘family man’, Tom Stall,in quiet America. The apparent normality of his
existence is disrupted by the appearance of two criminals who attempt to hold
up the diner he works at. Without warning ol’ Tom Stall (‘regular joe’/ ‘honest
servin’ American’) whips out the unexpected violent capabilities of a
professional hitman, swiftly dispatching with the criminal threat and becoming
a local hero. Which, as the plot inevitably thickens, prompts the threatening
memories of a hidden past to unravel the identity of Tom Stall. Viggo Mortensen
is undeniably strong, as he usually is in central performances. Michelle
Williams, who plays his wife, also delivers a convincing and palpably harrowing
turn.
The problem I think I had with the
film were perhaps also hallmarks of its mastery, and, due to my lack of
patience – with a story I half remembered – were duly overlooked in their
potential intelligence. I felt Howard Shore’s soundtrack to be intrusively
sentimental, overbearing a film which was perhaps better suited to letting
nuanced performances breathe.
However, having said that-I feel
that so much of the film could be understood as a deconstruction of a lot of
‘Americana’ and family ideals. We have the troubled son at college, locker room
bullying from jocks and the visceral paroxysm of violence with which the
bullied finally snaps. Different levels and understandings of violence bristle
alongside each other: the criminals with which the film begins nearly collide
in a road accident with the arrogant jocks-who soon realizing, on giving the
middle finger in adolescent rebellion, that they are faced with a different
league of alpha male. The two criminals in the red truck stare with unmoved
hostility at the pathetic ‘middle finger salute’, wordlessly reducing the
charade to embarrassing infantilism – they drive off. These criminals then meet
with Tom (or Joey, with a criminal history from Philadelphia…as is soon
revealed), who greets their attempted hold up at the diner with stoic
professionalism and an unflinchingly athletic commitment to, well, killing.
In many ways much of the intrusive
soundtrack and heavy handed establishing of relationships (one particular
scene, in which Michelle Williams slips into a cheeky cheerleading outfit to
treat her husband to the teenage fantasy they never shared) is probably
developing the obvious sense of artifice at the heart of Tom’s role. This
‘family’ construct is lifted from a bad film, the fantasy is a recycled
pornographic cliché and the son’s high school anguish is a parody of every
American teen drama that features bullies pushing nerds up against lockers. A
friend of mine (who knows the film a tad better) also suggested the importance
of subverting tropes of noir.
Perhaps one of the strongest
dramatic sequences is when we witness Tom and his wife (Edie Stall), in
powerful contrast to the earlier ‘dress up’ sex, grapple on the staircase. In a
moment in which Edie realizes her complicit vulnerability/criminal culpability
with Tom, and, as her knowledge of him is nightmarishly wrenched from trust and
familiarity: they have uncomfortably physical sex. Is this Edie enacting a
deeply entrenched American fantasy? Her husband now mystified as the cinematic
outcast, the gun-toting enigma – an outlaw, a ‘wanted man’…a dangerous man, a
killer. Does this sequence confront and dispel that mythical desire with a
bruising reality? Or, now both characters have been exposed and the illusion of
‘knowing each other’ no longer exists is this sex the painful realization, the
clashing of real and estranged bodies? Or is it more simply a quick escape for
both of them – another kind of violence – the obliteration of the orgasm? I
feel there is probably a lot more to be found /appreciated in this film-that,
for whatever reason was not drawing me in. Perhaps next time, I shall return,
less encumbered by the shadow of ‘not really watching/liking it’ the first time
round and encouraged by my intrigued ambivalence of the second viewing …who
knows. 7/10
Great
Expectations – Mike Newell – Handles the expansive narrative pretty
effectively, only occasionaly evoking a classy BBC drama, and enjoys a cast of
impressive names: Ralph Fienes, Helena Bonham Carter, Robby Coltrane and an
unexpected David Walliams. Jason Flemyng stands out with a particularly natural
and convincing performance as Joe Gargery. In a manner perhaps less faithful to
the original tone, in which she is a disturbed upper class lady (and not the
fully fledged gothic figure of poignancy now often conjured), I wanted Miss
Havisham to be more memorable. Mark Kermode rightfully praised Helena Bonham
Carter’s restraint here, bringing her portrait of Havisham closer to Dickens’
depiction, and yet, and yet…I couldn’t help wanting a flash of melodrama, or at
least a bit more charcter in the cinematography. Instead of dim lighting and
the occasional blurring around the edges of a shot (very in vogue for a lot of TV series aspiring to arthouse credentials…Misfits comes to mind…as if blurring the
periphary of every shot somehow renders it more interesting, more mysterious,
more achingly artistic…) it would have been more satisfying to have witnessed
more thought in set design, more lingering on details, more adventurous use of
sound…granted, I can see the merit in Carter’s controlled performance, but when
twinned with unadventurous direction and visuals,it can help but feel like an
oppurtunity missed. On the whole, fine acting and perfectly enjoyable…just not
world changing. Then again, I feel for Dickens to really work cinematically, his inherently serial narrative
structure would have to be radically re-imagined. 6.8/10
The Hobbit – Peter Jackson - I did
not see this in 3D, or HFR…fortunately, as that would engender an entirely
different discussion. It is pretty
long and, unless you are a keenly enthusiastic Tolkein enthusiast of unbounding
enthusiasm – you will probably notice the length. That said, it was enjoyable,
exciting and very entertaining. I am a massive fan of Lord of the Rings, in all its ‘da, da, daa, da,da,daa,da,da,daaa!’,
glory. While I cannot necessarily imagine the three part structure being a masterstroke
for the adaptation of a book, similar in length to one of the LOTR books – it was still very
enjoyable. The faults it has are, for the most part, the same problems I have
with the book (its more whimsical tone, the abundance of dwarfs and their
exhaustive family backgrounds etc etc). So, disregarding the potentially
patience testing expansion into three films, and the unrelenting sense of
chase-after-chase-after-action-after- chase
(as Gandalf wryly comments ‘out of the frying pan into the fire’) it is a success. No one depicts monsters,
be they orcs or goblins, like Peter Jackson. The Goblins in the mountains…are
brilliantly realised – like smaller, amphibious, diseased orcs. The leader of
the goblins is an amazing visual creation, looking like a morbidly obese toad,
in possession of a tumescent double chin, - wobbling his flesh like a scrotal
landslide. Then there is the glorios reappearance/introduction to a certain
pallid, ‘precious’ stroking smeagol – the Gollum sequence (the riddles scene)
is stunning. It is a sequence that interestingly, along with the goblins,
demonstrates an advance in CGI artistry. In addition to which Martin Freeman
makes a very competent Bilbo, using his comic timing and everyman charms to
perfectly embody the reluctant and uprooted Baggins. It is not in the same
cinematic league as Lord of The Rings,
being more akin to ‘balls out fantasy’ – ‘here come the dwarfs with funny
facial hair’ – ‘Dungeons and Dragons orgy’- sort of a genre. What shines
through is Peter Jackson’s love of Tolkein’s world and his commitment to the
source material, which whether dwarfs are your thing or not, should not be
forgotten in conjuring the film’s
genuine passion and enjoyment. 8/10
