Highangle Film Reviews

Serenity (Joss Whedon, 2005, 119 minutes)

2005-10-18T18:23:00.000Z

For those of you unaware of the short-lived Firefly series, here’s a brief synopsis: Five hundred years from today, under the leadership of Malcolm Reynolds (Nathan Fillion), a renegade who fought against the newly-unified central government (the "Alliance"), the crew of the Firefly-class vessel Serenity struggles to survive any way they can, flying between the border planets to keep away from the Alliance and below its radar.

Serenity picks up some time after the series ends: psychic River Tam (Summer Glau), an amnesiac passenger aboard Serenity, is starting to remember the secret she learned when kidnapped and experimented on by the Alliance – something so important that nothing will stand in the way of the Operative (a magnificently bad Chiwetel Ejiofor), who intends to silence her, and all who stand with her - which, unfortunately for them, means the crew of Serenity.

Capturing everything that made the series so popular – classic sci-fi elements such as intergalactic conflict, evil and faceless governments, witty banter, bittersweet moments, and nods to classics ranging from The Empire Strikes Back to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid – Serenity is the science fiction film of the year. In anyone else’s hands, these characters would be generic cannon fodder, but the mixture of humour and humanity Whedon elicits from Mal and his crew members brings these sci-fi stereotypes to big-screen life. Here are characters that one actually comes to care about, and when something bad eventually happens, it won’t just be the hardened Firefly fans reaching for the kleenex, complaining that they’ve got something in their eye.

The transition from small-screen to cinema is seamless, with sets and effects equalling anything else seen on the big screen this year. The opening shot of Serenity, tracking through the entire ship, is a sign that Whedon has embraced the opportunity that cinema has afforded him – such a panoramic trick was never attempted within the confines of a TV screen, but works perfectly here.

The plot could be criticised for using something of a sci-fi staple (the intergalactic secret that just happens to rest with a member of the crew), but if this is the price paid to bring the series back from oblivion, then it’s a small one. What the film may lack in plot, it more than makes up for in characterisation, action, and a deft balance of comedy and tragedy. The cast are in the fortunate position of revisiting characters they already know intimately, which means the chemistry and interaction between all is fluid, the atmosphere one of a family (albeit a slightly dysfunctional one).

Serenity is Whedon’s first directorial outing on the big screen, but, if this sets the standard, audiences will be coming back for more.

Review by Ian Jordan

They Came Back (Les Revenants – Robin Campillo, France 2004, 110mins)

2005-10-16T14:05:00.000Z

In an inexplicable phenomenon, the dead are coming back to life. Reports are coming in all over the world that millions of deceased have left the cemeteries and are returning to their cities, towns and villages. The opening shot of this film recalls elements of 1950s American science fiction movies – with a bit of George Romero mixed in for good measure. We see a procession of the newly un-dead emerging from a cemetery in a provincial town in France; the light is bleached and the figures proceed forth in a slow and steady tempo lending a dream-like – if not surreal quality to the scene. However, the comparison with the sci-fi/horror genre diverges because the issue at heart here is not a paranoid fear of loss of individuality; rather, it is focused on the deeply personal and unique nature of mourning. An existential zombie film of sorts, perhaps, but what They Came Back is most certainly is an imaginative and thought-provoking meditation into death – and its aftermath –as an ultimate concern of the human condition. For the co-writer and co-editor of Laurent Cantet’s films, including Time Out (L’emploi du Temps) and Human Resources (Ressources Humaines), it will come as no surprise that Robin Campillo’s directorial debut feature is rich with such philosophical considerations.

In voice-over we hear the official statistics: the average ages, number of women vs. men, what measures are being taken to examine their state of health, etc. We watch as the town begins to tackle the management of an impossible reality. Scientific and political arguments are integral to the narrative. We learn that physically they haven’t quite come back to full 100% life: their body temperature is lower; they demonstrate acute symptoms of aphasia and they move at a semi-comatose pace. Because they are unable to communicate in an articulate, responsive manner we are not sure to what degree consciousness and memory are present – if at all. But as citizens they have rights – rights to pensions, employment, etc. However, it soon becomes apparent that the limitation of their reinstated condition affects their job performances and they are relegated to employment of a mindless, repetitive nature. Increasingly, the undead are becoming second class citizens and they’re not happy about it. They begin to meet at night, forming a secret society of sorts and the tone of the film moves from one of wonder and amazement to a feeling of menace that increases with steady momentum till the film’s denouement.

The film continuously shifts between the public arena to the domestic and personal; from the municipal to the private, focussing on the effects of the phenomenon on three families: the mayor of the town and his returned wife, Isham and Véronique, whose son has returned, and Rachel and her returned husband, Mathieu. Each of the three families respond to their situation in unique ways, and it’s not always with joy at having their beloved ones returned to them. Fear, ambivalence and guilt are some of the myriad emotions they encounter. One particularly poignant scene is when Véronique allows her to son to leave; Ishman’s heart is broken, but Véronique is visibly relieved.

They Came Back has much to commend it. The ideas played with here are indeed profound and the re-working of the sci-fi and horror convention is innovative. But unlike his work with Cantet, in particular L’emploi du Temps, where we are held in a vice-like grip of suspense and painful empathy, the effect here is just too subtle. The quasi-somnambulistic aura that pervades the film – the means by which we identify with how those that have been returned from the dead experience life, is in fact its very flaw. We’re veritably lulled into the same numbed state of being as the undead, precluding our ability and need to feel first hand the gamut of emotion so central to the film’s narrative success. This subtle and dreamlike approach, however, is not without its merits. The elegance with which the central conflict is resolved leaves us in a state a contemplative state somewhere between dreaming and awakening.

Review by Erica Rosen

Keane (Lodge Kerrigan, USA 2004, 93mins)

2005-10-16T14:04:00.001Z

In this compelling drama about a young man’s grief and suffering over the purported abduction of his six-year old daughter from New York’s Port Authority station, Lodge Kerrigan returns to some of the thematic elements in his first feature, Clean,Shaven (1994), which was about a schizophrenic man in search of his daughter. Keane is an intense, compassionate and intelligent study of grief, loss and mental illness.

We are plunged immediately into the drama from the opening shot of the film. We first meet William Keane (Damian Lewis) desperately searching for his little girl, who, William claims, disappeared from the station – presumably kidnapped – some months previously. William is beside himself with grief; he obsessively tries to work out the exact minute that the incident took place – that precise moment we are lead to believe changed the course of his life irreversibly. William returns to the station with ritualistic compulsion. In his confused and disturbed state of mind, he seeks comfort first in the fantasy that he can change the events of time by recreating the excruciating moment when he realised his child was missing, and secondly, that by repeating the experience over and over again, he will eventually break through the pall of grief, guilt and anguish and come to terms with his loss. But all he succeeds in doing is setting up a vicious circle he is incapable of breaking.

We can see from the outset that this is a person that exists on the margins of society. The commuters in the station treat him with standard urban indifference. He’s just one of scores of thousands of sad loners, probably homeless, that they come across every morning and every evening as they make their way to and from work in the city. Because we’re thrust in a near-claustrophobic relation to William’s reality, initially we’re lead to believe that his deranged state is, understandably, a result of his unfathomable grief. But gradually the validity of William’s story becomes increasingly under question.

William is given a brief respite from the loneliness and isolation of his life when he meets Lynn Bedik (Amy Ryan) and her 7-year old daughter Kira (Abigail Breslin), who are temporary residents of the same run down motel as William. Lynn is hard up for cash, and William, enchanted by Kira and genuinely touched by Lynn’s circumstances, lends her $100 to help her out of her immediate financial pressures. Lynn’s almost automatic and utter trust in this complete stranger does beggar belief – particularly when she entrusts William – whom she’s only known for a couple of days – to look after her child overnight while she goes in search of her husband who is seeking work and accommodation in upstate New York. But we go with it because it brings the narrative tension and ambiguity that has slowly been building to a resounding head. We wish William to have his chance of redemption, but equally we are unsure of where the situation will lead because William is suddenly confronted with a moral dilemma and we’re not too sure that with his fragile mental state he will be able to act responsibly.

Kerrigan keeps William in the frame the whole time. The film is shot entirely by handheld camera and it is lit mostly by the available light from, largely, real locations. Additionally, each scene feels as if it taking place in real time, which gives us access into how William experiences the world about him. Kerrigan’s intention no doubt is to heighten the emotional impact and secure a closer identification with William’s plight. This all makes sounds sense, and with an affecting performance from Damian Lewis, we are unquestionably drawn into William’s story. Yet despite the verité technique and the integrity of the script, we never really experience the emotional punch you’d expect. Instead, we remain resolutely detached and end up as observers of William’s drama instead of feeling it.

It is a testament to Steven Soderburgh’s commitment (he acts as Executive Producer) to financing more challenging topics and film techniques to broaden the horizons of mainstream cinema and in this respect, and for the sheer courage and humanity towards his subject, Lodge Kerrigan’s Keane does not disappoint.

Review by Erica Rosen

Riviera (Anne Villaceque, France, 2005, 94mins)

2005-10-16T14:04:00.000Z

Beginning with sun-bleached scenes of a beautiful young woman riding a motorbike along the shore, Riviera starts as you would expect for a film named after the famous French seaside region. Any expectations of an easy ride are rudely interrupted, however, when we are introduced to Antoinette (Miou-Miou), an ageing and hardworking woman who makes a living by cleaning guests’ rooms in the Grand Hotel. Meanwhile her daughter, the stunningly beautiful Stella (Vahina Giocante) table dances in a nearby nightclub and struggles to say no to the plethora of sexual advances that she receives from all directions. Mother, obviously worried about her scantily clad daughter, indirectly prompts her to meet a guest at the hotel who seems respectable. Things go horribly wrong, however, when it becomes clear that the man she has set her daughter up with is a mass of neuroses that threaten to rise to the surface in a very violent way.

As a film about the sordid and criminal underbelly of the Riviera, the film is not a success. As an investigation into latent and conflicting sexuality, the film is far more interesting. Everybody in the film seems to be trapped by their sexual desires: Antoinette is single and even goes so far as to try and seduce a young pizza delivery boy in her desperate attempt for comfort and sexual gratification. Stella, meanwhile, is a mass of sexual contradictions. She states that she has only slept with four men, all of whom she has loved, but seems to perform fellatio on relative strangers at the drop of a hat. Even peripheral characters are obsessed with sex and clearly threatened by Stella’s beauty and sexual precociousness.

Villaceque’s film is most successful when dealing with the dynamics between mother and daughter. Although they are rarely seen in the same frame (most of their dialogue happens on the telephone), there is a very real and well-illustrated sense of their relationship dissolving with Stella’s coming of age. Antoinette has hit middle age hard and is bitter and painfully lonely. Without her daughter’s company (the two never seem to see each other), Antoinette’s life is a desperate cycle of work and loneliness that threatens to overwhelm her. This crushing sense of isolation is felt in the film’s claustrophobic framing - Riviera is composed almost exclusively of close-ups. To compound this effect, Villaceque refuses to use establishing shots, making the film as particularly disorientating and disquieting experience. She also eschews back-story for the characters, making it very hard in parts to discern the characters’ motivations – a mistake when the final, very violent act in the film seems incongrous without explanation.

A slow burning, beautifully shot but obtuse film that is only partly successful.

Review by Barnaby Welch

Shopgirl (Anand Tucker, USA/UK, 2005, 104mins)

2005-10-16T14:03:00.001Z

Adapted from Steve Martin’s own novella, Shopgirl is a bittersweet romantic comedy that harks back to the days of the classic Melodrama, whilst still retaining a very contemporary edge.

Mirabelle (Clair Danes) is a young girl fresh from Vermont, who has moved to Los Angeles and works at the glove counter of Saks Fifth Avenue. Just as she is about to become desperate about her lack of romantic opportunities, two very different men walk into her life: Jeremy (Jason Schwartzman) is an artist and graphic designer-cum-slacker that she meets at the local Laundromat. After an uneventful date and a night of comical sex, Mirabelle decides to call it a day. The very antithesis of Jeremy is Ray Porter (Steve Martin) an older, but far more sophisticated and wealthier man, who runs his own multi-national computer company and who woos Mirabelle with dinners at fancy restaurants and expensive clothes. Understandably, Mirabelle falls head over heels in love with Ray, who is unable to reciprocate her feelings. Emotionally distant, Ray seems unable to commit and his inability to engage with Mirabelle eventually drives her away.

Shopgirl may, like the countless “women’s pictures” that it is inspired by, offer pure pleasure in its romantic ideals and wish fulfilment, but it is too confused a film to be truly successful. Once you get over the fact that Martin (now into his 50s) successfully seduces Danes who is perhaps thirty years his junior, you have to accept that anyone such as the prim and conservative Mirabelle would fall for a loose cannon such as Jeremy. Suspension of disbelief, then, is a prerequisite for watching this film but, once you are over the numerous inconsistencies and unlikely events, Shopgirl has much to recommend it. Danes in particular shows that she is more than capable of carrying a film and makes Mirabelle into a three-dimensional and sympathetic character. Schwartzman, whose genius has been honed in such films as the masterful Rushmore and the confused I Heart Huckabees transforms a clichéd and underwritten character into a memorable and hilariously funny counterpoint to Martin’s seriousness – obviously a conscious attempt to move away from the broad comedy of his most famous characters, Martin’s script and his character are remarkably sombre.

And here lies the fundamental problem with the film. The two opposing potential boyfriends of Mirabele represent two very separate and divisive halves of the film: the comedic and light Jeremy story and the more mature and profound tale of Ray. That these two sides never truly gel into a whole is the fault of Martin’s script and source material – something that feels under-developed and obvious.

Tucker, who is better known for his film Hilary and Jackie starring Emily Mortimer, does his best in the circumstances and there are some moments in the film to treasure – Jeremy’s trip with the rock group The Warm Tears; his and Mirabelle’s first attempt to have sex and Mirabelle’s eventual realisation that Ray is unable to love her in particular. It is a pity, however, that Martin’s unsteady hand as a writer is unable to incorporate these situations into a convincing and heartfelt whole.

Review by Barnaby Welch

Burnt Out – Sauf Le Respect Que Je Vous Dois (Fabienne Godet, France 2005, 90mins)

2005-10-16T14:03:00.000Z

Fabienne Godet’s earnest first feature is the story of a white collar Everyman who’s finally had enough and will take no more. An unlikely hero, mild-mannered Francois Durrieux (Olivier Gourmet), middle-aged, middle-management, husband and father is pushed to breaking point after his close friend and colleague commits suicide. This tragic event utterly shifts the balance of Francois’s life and he suddenly finds himself thrust into an arena for which he’s had no precedent in the predictable and ordered life he’s lead up to this moment. But conscience, grief, and rage over what he believes to have been a grave injustice have awakened him to a new, brutal but more truthful reality.

The corporate tactic of employing invisible psychological oppression has become an unfortunate norm in our contemporary global society. For those unable, or unwilling to abide by the rules of the game, it can become an intolerable situation, and outspoken but emotionally vulnerable Simon (Jean-Michel Portal) would prove to be an absolute case in point. Bruner (Jean-Marie Winling), the autocratic MD of the printing plant for which Francois and Simon work is the quintessential smiling viper. With a smile on his face, he metes out ultimatums couched in upbeat management jargon. All the employees are under considerable pressure – big restructuring plans are in the make and redundancies will be sure to follow. Frustrated at his colleagues for what he sees as meek submission, and furious at senior management’s casual exploitation of an already overburdened workforce, Simon lashes out, but his rebellious behaviour merely seals his fate. Bruner has him right where he wants him and sets a trap that unwitting Simon walks right into – with fatal consequences.

The film opens at the crucial moment that will irreversibly change the course of Francois’s life. In a disorienting sequence of shots we see a character (that we soon learn to be Francois) ramming the back of a car that he has been pursuing down the motorway. We then meet Lisa (Marion Cotillard), a young woman from the wrong side of the tracks, and Francois’s wife, patient and calm Clémence (Dominique Blanc). The film then brings us back in time to show the path that has led Francois to this point. Towards the middle of the film the opening sequence is repeated and we are then deposited in the present time where the story then progresses. By this point, Francois has become a fugitive. It seems that the car he rammed off the road not only contained the senior board members of the company, but Bruner himself, who was actually killed in the accident. The unusual story attracts the attention of Flora (Julie Depardieu) an idealistic young journalist who reveals that Simon had actually been sacked (a point the company kept silent about at the time of his suicide), which helps her to understand Francois’s violent outburst and take up his cause.

Godet ambitious attempt at making a noir-ish thriller with a social imperative is indeed noble as it is timely, and the fact that she has managed to rally so many heavyweights of French and Belgian cinema to her cause is testament to her humanist and artistic integrity. But somehow neither the sum nor its parts manage to make a powerful enough impact. The film fails to grip us in suspense or pull at our heart with any lasting effect and you can’t help feel that it should. To be sure, the suicide of Simon is harrowing and can’t help to elicit shock and pity, but the fact is that we never really get inside Simon’s shoes. We see that he is sensitive and vulnerable; that is, he has the appearance of a complex character, but scratch the surface a bit and what he really is at best is a cipher; at worst a thinly drawn character. And Francois, despite a compelling performance by Olivier Gourmet, suffers from the same problem. The employment of archetypal characters is fundamental to the noir form and in positing these formal elements within a realist milieu has an unquestionable appeal to it, but Godet has not yet developed the skill to pull this off convincingly enough. The most obvious example is the unlikely pairing of Lisa and Francois. Lisa, whose hard life has taught her how to survive, represents the rebellious free spirit and guiding light that fortifies Francois’s resolve to overcome his fears in pursuit of inner truth and freedom. This ploy is as hackneyed as it is ridiculous and the situation is made all the worse by Marion Cotillard’s amateur, over-bearing and utterly unconvincing portrayal of Lisa.

Fabienne Godet’s academic and professional background in psychology is evident in the humanist concerns of her subject and in her interest in the psychological make-up of her characters. These are valuable attributes and while Burnt Out is not quite as assured a debut as one would have hoped considering the pedigree of the cast, it will be interesting to see what the promising young director will next produce.

Review by Erica Rosen

Proof (John Madden, USA, 2005, 100mins)

2005-10-16T14:02:00.001Z

John Madden’s humourless adaptation of David Auburn’s much-lauded Broadway play is a missed opportunity.

Catherine (Gwyneth Paltrow) is a young woman who has spent the last five years caring for her Father Robert (Anthony Hopkins), a once brilliant mathematical genius who is losing his mind. After he dies from an aneurism, Catherine inherits his large collection of notebooks. Ex-student of Robert’s, Hal (Jake Gylenhaal), is determined to read each one, in the hope that there may be fragments of his brilliant mind hidden amongst the nonsensical ramblings that fill most of the pages. Catherine, unable to cope with Hal’s advances, her father’s death and the presence of her super-organised but patronising sister Claire (Hope Davis), who is fresh off the plane from New York, begins to question her own sanity and wonders just how much of her father’s madness, or genius, she has inherited.

It is a challenge for film adaptations of plays not to feel stuck within the confines of the proscenium arch. Many plays-turned-films feel geographically static, unable to truly utilise the possibilities of the cinematic medium. Proof does not suffer from this particular problem, but it still feels like a filmed version of a play, thanks to Auburn and Rebecca Miller’s adaptation and central performances that fail to gauge the tone necessary for the screen. Thus we have overbearing performances from Paltrow and Davis and a clumsy and misjudged performance from Gylenhaal, who normally excels in subtle delivery. All the difficulties with the film stem from this central problem, as it is impossible to get caught up in or involved with characters that you don’t really believe. We never really feel sympathetic for the damaged and depressed Catherine or related to the vicious relationship between the two sisters. It is only in the scenes with Hopkins that we get an all too fleeting glimpse of something that feels real.

Madden says in the production notes to Proof that the film “explores a mystery whose solution lies somewhere between the certainties of mathematics and the shifting perspectives of human experience, and deals with the intangible values that are difficult to verify: trust, love and sanity.” If only it did. One wonders if the play touched on these interesting and vital issues that are filled to the brim with cinematic potential – the film merely brushes the surface before moving on to another barely-investigated psychological issue. The contrast between the certainty of mathematics with its absolutes and the uncertainty of life where chance, coincidence and subjective whim control our paths is fascinating and deserves artistic attention. Proof, however, never really sets up such a contrast, nor engages us enough in the character’s plights to make us truly care about them, or the theoretical possibilities of the script.

That is not to say that the film has its moments – there are one or two scenes that are deftly written and well performed, but these are too few and far between to rescue a film that is flat, uninspired and uninteresting.

Review by Barnaby Welch

Crossing The Bridge – The Sound Of Istanbul (Fatih Akin, Germany, 2005, 92mins)

2005-10-16T14:02:00.000Z

This fascinating documentary follows Alexander Hacke (bassist with the legendary German industrial band Einsturzende Neubauten) as he travels around Istanbul, recording Turkish music, both traditional and contemporary. Directed by Fatih Akin (last year’s much-lauded Head On), the film is an intelligent and sympathetic investigation into Turkish music and a profound look, all too timely considering Turkey’s imminent joining of the European Union, at the ideological and geographical distance between the East and the West and the cross pollination that is occurring on both sides of the Straight Of Bosporus, the body of water that separates Turkey from Europe.

It is fitting then, that the first band Hacke talks to is the post-psychedelic Baba Zula, who insist on playing and being interviewed aboard a boat on the dividing straight. A rag-tag group of hippies, Baba Zula are the bastard child of The Doors, Pink Floyd and traditional Turkish music and, after their an album of theirs was mixed by production supreme The Mad Professor, are far better known in Europe than in Turkey, where they are considered to avant garde for the mainstream.

Orient Expressions are two DJs from Istanbul and a changing group of musicians who add a distinctly electronic edge to traditional Turkish music. Duman (or Smoke) are your typical grunge indie musicians whose lead singer learned all his knows in Seattle, where he moved at the height of the grunge movement. The Replikas are a bit more sophisticated and make dangerous, edgy, noisy music that is reminiscent of American bands such as The Paper Chases and Blonde Redhead which sets them apart from most of their rivals. Their Turkish identity, however, still beats strongly through their music. Erin Koray, godfather of Turkish Rock music has been going since the 1960s and has had his fair share of trouble with the authorities for his unusual combination of Turkish culture and rock music (he once covered Beatles and Rolling Stones songs using traditional Turkish instruments). Now respected as the forerunner of the modern music revolution in Turkey, he is a hero to most of the bands interviewed. Ceza is the closest that Turkey gets to Eminem. Not bothered with the “bullshit” of American gangster rap, Ceza embodies the spirit of a Turkey that is situated between the East and West and writes powerful, political chants that have beguiled Istanbul’s youth.

Hacke also interviews many more traditional musicians such as Selim Sesler, Brenna MacCrimmon, a Canadian woman who sings in perfect Turkish, Orhan Gencebay, world-famous recording artist and actor, 86 year-old Muzeyyen Senar and Aynur, a Kurdish singer who has an extraordinary, haunting and mournful voice that represents generations of the oppressed.

Akin does not concentrate on Hacke’s motives in recording the sounds of Istanbul but lets the music very much speak for itself. Whatever his reasons are for travelling across Europe to collect the songs, it is clear that he has a heartfelt connection with Istanbul and loves the varied music that is around every corner. The interviews with the younger musicians are particularly interesting – on the verge of being absorbed into Europe (it is pretty much an inevitability that Turkey will be integrated into Europe within a decade), they are struggling to maintain their Turkish identity whilst grappling with the influences from across the pond. It is a fascinating time for Turkey and this shows strongly in the creative explosion in music that has occurred in the last couple of years – something that Crossing The Bridge conveys entertainingly.

Review by Barnaby Welch

Dark Horse (Voksne Mennesker, Dagur Kári, Denmark-Iceland 2005, 106mins)

2005-10-16T14:01:00.001Z

Responsibility is not exactly Daniel’s (Jakob Cedergren) middle name. Working a regular job and paying taxes and rent are foreign concepts for this amiable slacker. Cocooned from the world in his vintage Fiat 500 and listening to 'The Well Tempered Klavier' on a set of headphones virtually sutured to his person, Daniel is blithely unaware that the time for living off his idiosyncratic charm is soon running out.

Daniel is a graffiti artist whose commissions are from young romantics who give him messages of love to be sprayed on the walls of Copenhagen City. An endearing and harmless occupation, it’s just not exactly legal and Daniel is wanted by the police. And it’s not just the police who are after him: Daniel has serious issues with the tax office and his landlord, too. Daniel is so far behind in his rent that his landlord resorts to selling his belongings in a makeshift yard sale run by the landlord’s 7-year old daughter (who drives a very hard bargain), and he’s having a hard time reconciling his accounts with the tax office who have become just a tad suspicious as Daniel has only declared earnings of seven dollars for the past four years. To make matters worse, Daniel has fallen in love with ex-bakery girl, psychedelic mushroom-eating Franc (Tilly Scott Pedersen), who is the love interest of his best friend, Grandpa (Nicolas Bro). Too shy and insecure to have declared his feelings for Franc, he sublimates his disappointment and redirects his energy into becoming a football referee with evangelical zeal. Grandpa, is of course opposite to Daniel in every way. Big and fat, he is an ardent moralist with a strong need for law and order (a need that he takes to excessive measures on the football pitch). He is proud of being a responsible, tax-paying citizen and proud of his job as a lab technician in a sleep clinic.

While Grandpa prepares for his debut match, things are beginning to come apart for Daniel. Unable to even cash-in on his good looks because his parents will appropriate the money (if it weren’t for their good genes he wouldn’t be so good-looking), Daniel can’t raise the rent money and gets evicted. Not only that, he gets busted by the police who catch him red-handed with spray gun in hand. He receives a relatively light sentence from the Judge (Morten Suurballe), a married, middle-aged man with a serious mid-life crisis. Unbeknownst to either of them, their brief crossing of paths sets them on a parallel journey where each will cross a threshold critical to each becoming their own complete person – albeit in very different and unexpected ways.

Dagur Kári’s second feature is a fairly formulaic “indie”-slacker film that is appealing enough though it has little to distinguish it from so many others of that ilk. There are a number of good, if but predictable gags, and the black-white photography recalls the visual style of early Jarmusch. Dark Horse would have benefited from a shorter running time and a crisper, more robust approach to its editing and narrative exposition, but all-in-all it is an amiable but slight and forgettable film.

Review by Erica Rosen

Bee Season (Scott McGehee and David Seigel, USA, 2005, 105mins)

2005-10-16T14:01:00.000Z

Bee Season (Scott McGehee and David Seigel, USA, 2005, 105mins)

Thematically complex, Bee Season, which is based on Myla Goldberg’s bestselling novel, is a partly successful portrait of a family in crisis, but one that is bogged down with half-finished spiritual ideas and transcendental baggage.

Religious Studies professor Saul Naumann (Richard Gere) lives with his wife Miriam (Juliette Binoche) and their two children, Aaron (an impressive Max Minghella) and Eliza (Flora Cross). On the surface, they are a traditional and happy middle-class family. All changes, however, when Eliza wins the local round of the Spelling Bee and Saul’s attentions are focussed on the little girl. Convinced that she is somehow capable of communicating with God through her spelling, Aaron begins to tutor her in the ancient ways of the Kabbalah and the teachings of mystic Abraham Abulafia. Meanwhile, his life is falling apart: Aaron, in a desperate search for his own spirituality, meets a beautiful Hare Krishna (Kate Bosworth) and begins to convert and Miriam breaks down, revealing a past of mental anguish that has been hidden for many years. Finally, in an act of selflessness, Eliza attempts to bring the family back together.

McGehee and Seigel are directors who have produced two stunningly different movies: Suture, a dark and difficult black and white noir-ish thriller was memorable for its stark design and complex racial politics. The Deep End, a radical remake (of sorts) of Ophul’s The Reckless Moment, was a rich and satisfying blackmail thriller that also managed to be a touching and profound investigation into the notions of family and responsibility. Their interest in the family unit is explored further in this film and it is the deeply divided family dynamics that obviously brought them to Goldberg’s novel. The domestic scenes in Bee Season are the film’s most successful moments and define the film’s heart. It is a pity, however, that the shifting dynamics within the family (Saul’s overbearing need to control and to live his life through his daughter; Miriam’s rapid descent into mental instability and the discovery of her Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) are so badly portrayed. The lack of any coherent character structure makes any change in their behaviour almost impossible to fathom. It is only through the character of Aaron that we get to understand the spiritual vacuum that exists in the family home and Saul’s desperate attempts to fill it with his daughter’s perceived “talent” – something that drives the film into the third act.

The Kabbalah is at the centre of the film’s story. Thankfully, this is not the same variant that Madonna and other celebrities wave around, but the ancient teachings of Abraham Abulafia, who believed that intoning various word exercises could facilitate reaching a state of mystical connection known as Shefa. In the film, it is Eliza’s precocious talent for spelling that leads Saul to believe that she may be able to reach higher spiritual plains through her particular gift. Language and the nature of words is a definite concern of Goldberg’s, but this fascination with etymology is replaced in the film by a partly religious, partly magical tone that results (in a scene more at home in The Exorcist) in Eliza being able to levitate and physically reach another spiritual level. It is from this point that the film loses its way. What started off as an interesting investigation into family and spirituality (or, in this case, the lack of it) becomes a quasi-religious tract on faith and compulsion that, at no point, rings true.

Richard Gere as the dismissive and self-centred Saul is badly miscast. He tries hard, but cannot avoid coming across as creepy and clawing in the scenes with Eliza, played by the wooden Flora Cross. Binoche, who does the tortured and introspective woman so well (see Kieslowski’s Three Colours Blue) has little to work with here and her transition from calm and organised mother to disturbed and confused kleptomaniac is sudden and unexpected. Only Max Mingella (son of director Anthony) really shows some understanding of his role and he is certainly a talent to watch for the future.

Bee Season, in relation to McGehee and Seigel’s first two films can only feel like a disappointment. Whilst some of their talent for atmosphere is present here, particularly thanks to regular collaborator and cinematographer Giles Nuttgens, there is little on show that made their previous films so special.

Review by Barnaby Welch

They Came Back (Les Revenants – Robin Campillo, France 2004, 110mins)

2005-10-06T17:59:00.000Z

LONDON FILM FESTIVAL REVIEW

In an inexplicable phenomenon, the dead are coming back to life. Reports are coming in all over the world that millions of deceased have left the cemeteries and are returning to their cities, towns and villages. The opening shot of this film recalls elements of 1950s American science fiction movies – with a bit of George Romero mixed in for good measure. We see a procession of the newly un-dead emerging from a cemetery in a provincial town in France; the light is bleached and the figures proceed forth in a slow and steady tempo lending a dream-like – if not surreal quality to the scene. However, the comparison with the sci-fi/horror genre diverges because the issue at heart here is not a paranoid fear of loss of individuality; rather, it is focused on the deeply personal and unique nature of mourning. An existential zombie film of sorts, perhaps, but what They Came Back is most certainly is an imaginative and thought-provoking meditation into death – and its aftermath –as an ultimate concern of the human condition. For the co-writer and co-editor of Laurent Cantet’s films, including Time Out (L’emploi du Temps) and Human Resources (Ressources Humaines), it will come as no surprise that Robin Campillo’s directorial debut feature is rich with such philosophical considerations.

In voice-over we hear the official statistics: the average ages, number of women vs. men, what measures are being taken to examine their state of health, etc. We watch as the town begins to tackle the management of an impossible reality. Scientific and political arguments are integral to the narrative. We learn that physically they haven’t quite come back to full 100% life: their body temperature is lower; they demonstrate acute symptoms of aphasia and they move at a semi-comatose pace. Because they are unable to communicate in an articulate, responsive manner we are not sure to what degree consciousness and memory are present – if at all. But as citizens they have rights – rights to pensions, employment, etc. However, it soon becomes apparent that the limitation of their reinstated condition affects their job performances and they are relegated to employment of a mindless, repetitive nature. Increasingly, the undead are becoming second class citizens and they’re not happy about it. They begin to meet at night, forming a secret society of sorts and the tone of the film moves from one of wonder and amazement to a feeling of menace that increases with steady momentum till the film’s denouement.

The film continuously shifts between the public arena to the domestic and personal; from the municipal to the private, focussing on the effects of the phenomenon on three families: the mayor of the town and his returned wife, Isham and Véronique, whose son has returned, and Rachel and her returned husband, Mathieu. Each of the three families respond to their situation in unique ways, and it’s not always with joy at having their beloved ones returned to them. Fear, ambivalence and guilt are some of the myriad emotions they encounter. One particularly poignant scene is when Véronique allows her to son to leave; Ishman’s heart is broken, but Véronique is visibly relieved.

They Came Back has much to commend it. The ideas played with here are indeed profound and the re-working of the sci-fi and horror convention is innovative. But unlike his work with Cantet, in particular L’emploi du Temps, where we are held in a vice-like grip of suspense and painful empathy, the effect here is just too subtle. The quasi-somnambulistic aura that pervades the film – the means by which we identify with how those that have been returned from the dead experience life, is in fact its very flaw. We’re veritably lulled into the same numbed state of being as the undead, precluding our ability and need to feel first hand the gamut of emotion so central to the film’s narrative success. This subtle and dreamlike approach, however, is not without its merits. The elegance with which the central conflict is resolved leaves us in a state a contemplative state somewhere between dreaming and awakening.

Review by Erica Rosen

Keane (Lodge Kerrigan, USA 2004, 93mins)

2005-10-06T17:58:00.000Z

LONDON FILM FESTIVAL REVIEW

In this compelling drama about a young man’s grief and suffering over the purported abduction of his six-year old daughter from New York’s Port Authority station, Lodge Kerrigan returns to some of the thematic elements in his first feature, Clean,Shaven (1994), which was about a schizophrenic man in search of his daughter. Keane is an intense, compassionate and intelligent study of grief, loss and mental illness.

We are plunged immediately into the drama from the opening shot of the film. We first meet William Keane (Damian Lewis) desperately searching for his little girl, who, William claims, disappeared from the station – presumably kidnapped – some months previously. William is beside himself with grief; he obsessively tries to work out the exact minute that the incident took place – that precise moment we are lead to believe changed the course of his life irreversibly. William returns to the station with ritualistic compulsion. In his confused and disturbed state of mind, he seeks comfort first in the fantasy that he can change the events of time by recreating the excruciating moment when he realised his child was missing, and secondly, that by repeating the experience over and over again, he will eventually break through the pall of grief, guilt and anguish and come to terms with his loss. But all he succeeds in doing is setting up a vicious circle he is incapable of breaking.

We can see from the outset that this is a person that exists on the margins of society. The commuters in the station treat him with standard urban indifference. He’s just one of scores of thousands of sad loners, probably homeless, that they come across every morning and every evening as they make their way to and from work in the city. Because we’re thrust in a near-claustrophobic relation to William’s reality, initially we’re lead to believe that his deranged state is, understandably, a result of his unfathomable grief. But gradually the validity of William’s story becomes increasingly under question.

William is given a brief respite from the loneliness and isolation of his life when he meets Lynn Bedik (Amy Ryan) and her 7-year old daughter Kira (Abigail Breslin), who are temporary residents of the same run down motel as William. Lynn is hard up for cash, and William, enchanted by Kira and genuinely touched by Lynn’s circumstances, lends her $100 to help her out of her immediate financial pressures. Lynn’s almost automatic and utter trust in this complete stranger does beggar belief – particularly when she entrusts William – whom she’s only known for a couple of days – to look after her child overnight while she goes in search of her husband who is seeking work and accommodation in upstate New York. But we go with it because it brings the narrative tension and ambiguity that has slowly been building to a resounding head. We wish William to have his chance of redemption, but equally we are unsure of where the situation will lead because William is suddenly confronted with a moral dilemma and we’re not too sure that with his fragile mental state he will be able to act responsibly.

Kerrigan keeps William in the frame the whole time. The film is shot entirely by handheld camera and it is lit mostly by the available light from, largely, real locations. Additionally, each scene feels as if it taking place in real time, which gives us access into how William experiences the world about him. Kerrigan’s intention no doubt is to heighten the emotional impact and secure a closer identification with William’s plight. This all makes sounds sense, and with an affecting performance from Damian Lewis, we are unquestionably drawn into William’s story. Yet despite the verité technique and the integrity of the script, we never really experience the emotional punch you’d expect. Instead, we remain resolutely detached and end up as observers of William’s drama instead of feeling it.

It is a testament to Steven Soderburgh’s commitment (he acts as Executive Producer) to financing more challenging topics and film techniques to broaden the horizons of mainstream cinema and in this respect, and for the sheer courage and humanity towards his subject, Lodge Kerrigan’s Keane does not disappoint.

Review by Erica Rosen

Tsotsi (Gavin Hood, UK and South Africa, 2005, 94 Minutes)

2005-09-26T14:58:00.000Z

Every aspect of the closing few scenes of this film; the direction, the music, the acting and the meaning culminating through them, is simply as good as any film sequence can be. This, as the saying goes, is what it is all about. The viewer, who has slowly become increasingly charmed by the compelling take of the young hoodlum struggling to come to terms with new-found morality, is caught in the powerful grip of emotions and realisation, of the fate of one human being and the ramifications for many others. Without favour or prejudice, it is very easy to say that these final scenes are the very best on show at this year's Edinburgh International Film Festival.

The plot is very simple. The young thug, hardened well beyond his years by a life of poverty and of violence, attempts to flee the confinements of his surroundings by stealing a car. To do so, he first needs to shoot the owner, a black middle class female, which he does without either questioning the morality of the crime or hesitating to commit it. Once inside the car and speeding off though, he realises that the woman’s baby has been left in the back seat. Unable to kill the child or leave it to die, the thug decides to look after it and attempt to raise it as his own. As he does so however, he becomes increasingly aware of right and wrong, and is in the end persuaded to return the child to its parents, which leads to the closing scenes.

Like all truly excellent films though, the plot gives only an indication of the overall viewing experience. That Tsotsi relates to the discovery of conscience of a previously mindless thug says one thing about the film, but cannot begin to explain its real success. Through beautifully crafted character development, realistically acted emotions and settings, and (one would assume) a genuine personal interest in the time and place of the film, Gavin Hood has created something which is at once both uplifting and yet harrowing. The film addresses many issues relating to South Africa, to poverty, to youth and to the consciousness of others, but the overriding sentiment is that the film is depicting life; an exploration of love, of loss and of mourning.

At the very outset of the film, we are introduced to the young gangsters as they gamble; rolling dice in order to determine which way the money changes hands. Right from the start, Hood very clearly and deliberately sets the atmosphere as one of despair, where life is cheap and those who do not win, whose dice does not roll fortuitously, soon find themselves in deep trouble. The misc-en-scene also attempts to very quickly depict the harsh realism of the overcrowded city, as time and again we see billboards announcing that ‘we are all affected by HIV and AIDS’. The isolated and inconsequential lives that each of the characters live is also depicted at this stage, as the director chooses a number of long distance slow shots, perfectly encapsulating how small these boys are in the huge world which surrounds them. For most of the remainder of the film, the direction is excellent, perhaps most notably in one scene where the young thug has the baby in his small home, and the contrast of the darkness surrounding the elder child with the ray of sunshine lighting the infant both creates and reflects the ambience in which the relationship between the two, and ultimately the entire film, is played out.

Throughout the film the direction mainly consists of long, provocative zooming shots as the sentiment or reaction of each character is displayed and evolved. Perhaps too often, this style of direction can become lazy, as the shot stays too long on a character who has too little to show for themselves, but thankfully Tsotsi never threatens to become either long or dull. The cast is superb, in particular the efforts of Presley Chweneyagae in the title role, but also Terry Pheto as the young mother who is firstly terrified by him before coming to see him for what he is; a mixed up dangerous child in a very mixed up and dangerous environment, and throughout the film there never feels like a single wasted minute. The soundtrack is also very enjoyable; it’s emotive, touching moments perfectly complementing the sentiments of the film.

The many scenes between the middle class family whose child is stolen from them and the young thugs are compelling, and continue to become increasingly so throughout. Whereas Hood could simply have taken the easy option and played the remainder of the film out as a class struggle between the impoverished and the wealthy, he mercifully had a great deal more to offer. What is derived through the many subsequent scenes, particularly those involving the young thug and the baby’s father, is a sense that they, and as a reflection the entire South African people, are really in effect just the same. When the young gangster stares into the father’s eyes, and they both sense the fear and desperation in each other’s face, any study of social class or of power evaporates. In truth both men are powerless, both trying desperately hard to replace the things they miss most in their lives.

Near the start of the film, the thug (who we eventually learn is actually called David) is accused by one of his accomplices of having ‘no decency’. While at the time he dismisses this lecture, viewing the conscience of his friend as a weakness, in time, through firstly his own ‘rebirth’ signalled by his interaction with the child, and the personal relationship he builds with the young mother, in addition to his increased feelings for the father of the child, David slowly begins to understand what his friend meant by this, and embraces the decency he alluded to in the final scenes as he returns the child to its mother. The transformation is so well paced and so beautiful that it is impossible for the viewer not to become involved in the film, and not to hope that David does eventually do what is right.

Just prior to the stunning closing scenes, as he is on his way to the home of the middle class family, David shares a final moment with the baby as they rest on top of a hill. With the backdrop of the city behind them, and the superb music score of Guy Farley providing further provocation, the scene is not only cinematically pleasant but also very powerful. The same can be said of the entire film. Tsotsi is absolutely fantastic; an emotive, provocative and engaging journey for the viewer, a genuine filmmakers’ film in a time of far too few, and a credit to all involved. Gavin Hood has created a film which represents all that is wrong with lives that are deemed too cheap in some places of the world, and has created a character who struggles within this life just as Michel of Robert Bresson’s Pickpocket did within his. In the end, it is only in capture and confinement that either character can ever find shelter.

Review by Alex McMillan

The Great Ecstacy of Robert Carmichael (Thomas Clay, UK, 2005, 98 Minutes)

2005-09-26T14:57:00.000Z

Intellectually stimulating, challenging the perception of violence in a world which seemingly tolerates it in some forms while condemning it in others, conducting a tough but realistic exploration of the adolescence of the twenty first century, and paying homage to many of the greatest directors and texts in the history of cinema, Thomas Clay’s debut feature is quite audaciously impressive, bettered only in its ambition by its ability to succeed when the yardstick defining its success has been set so high. That it may suffer at the box office, or perhaps struggle to find the widespread critical appeal it so deserves, is due not to any lack of quality on the part of either the film or its outstanding direction, but due to the graphic sexual violence, and subsequent criticism, of its closing scenes. It is no great overstatement to suggest that The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael may prove to one of the most important films produced within the UK for decades.

Throughout the film, we are introduced firstly to time and place, and secondly to the characters. Resultantly, it is possible to criticise Clay’s lack of emphasis on the characters, and perhaps their inability to really engage with the audience’s attention, but the misc-en-scene on display is absolutely superb, both stylish and reminiscent of the likes of Jean-Luc Godard, as well as addressing the many issues such as political upheaval and disassociation in which the lost teenagers of the film live their lives. Each beautifully crafted scene is linked to the next as the camera follows on from one character to another. The direction is simply masterful, recalling the external tracking shot of a house in The Untouchables, Scorsese’s 360 degree spin shot from Taxi Driver, and the wonderful slow panning shots of films such as Godard’s Le Mepris.

As far as the actual plot goes, everything is secondary to creating the atmosphere which depicts growing up in today’s Britain. While the plot is interesting, and ultimately leads to a climactic finish, it never truly manages to charm or engage the viewer as much as the direction does. The Robert of the title, Daniel Spencer is an awkwardly talented teenager who excels in playing the cello, but like all teenagers is easily influenced by others, and becomes involved in drugs and general troublemaking. Far from being a coming of age story though, Clay chooses not to tell the story through any one character’s personal circumstance, but to allow the camera to stay back and to have each scene played out as if with no agenda as to its conclusion. While this creates a setting free of the usual ‘crime and punishment’ formula, and allows the viewer to make their own mind up about what they themselves think of the situations depicted through the film, the lack of emphasis on the actors does make for a few weak performances, and none of the cast particularly impress.

What also comes from such ‘holding back’ of the shots however, is a look at a wider community of the film’s time and place. Although some of the characters appear on set far more than others, there is a large cast, all of who are given time to develop and to create the character of who and what they depict in a modern British town. Among these are a celebrity chef and his wife, who seem for almost the entire duration of the film to be completely pointless, before becoming major players in its climax. Through these characters, Clay is commenting on the very idea of celebrity in modern Britain, of the artificial lives that such people lead and the harm it can do to wider society. Other characters, such as the local policeman who attempts to help Robert’s friend Joe, or the school teacher who depicts the passion that Clay obviously holds for the creativity of film, serve to portray the members of society who do attempt to create a world in which youngsters can thrive and create, but ultimately are doing do within the same environment which supports war and bloodshed, the overriding sentiment of this film.
Both cinematically and intellectually, the issue of drug taking, and Robert’s introduction to it, is handled extremely well. Whereas many other films attempting to shock or to entertain their viewer often depict such acts as cool and appealing, The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael does not, preferring instead to expose it for the exploitive world it is, where youngsters do not really choose to take drugs but feel they have to, and generally take whatever drugs are pushed in front of them, as opposed to actually finding out what drugs (if indeed any) they may or may not like to use. This stage of the film also offers one of its very finest scenes, which is stunning in its excellence, and a classic example of exactly how misc-en-scene should be used. As the teenagers lie around in the living room of a flat, their heads spinning in reaction to the many varying chemicals they have experimented with, a television faces the shot. On the screen is Tony Blair, making his case for the invasion of Iraq. Next to him, another youth spins records while one of Robert’s female classmates, high on the drugs provided free of charge by Larry (Danny Dyer) is raped, over and over. Encapsulating perfectly the connotation of Blair as the metaphorical rapist, as the young men ignore the screams of the girl as they attack her again and again like animals, the scene is powerful, both in terms of what it attempts to represent and as a stunning piece of cinema.

There are many more deeply interesting and thought provoking sequences in the film. Like many modern films, the effect violence has on art and vice-versa is also examined, as Robert the beautiful cello player comes to embrace the destructive realism of the former as opposed to escapism and fantasy of the latter. For a film which ultimately uses brutality and extreme violence in order to make its point, it may be deemed hypocritical that Clay chooses to comment on the rise in violence, and arguably the resultant fall of art, in the most recent generation of contemporary films. However, what The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael does, and what a great many other films do not, is take this violence and make artistic use of it. Whatever criticism may be aimed at this film, regardless of any banning or recommended avoidance its reputation may have to endure, it is a film which makes a very serious point about modern Britain. In all likelihood, Thomas Clay probably expected the film to receive criticism of this nature, which perhaps only furthers his point about a country which allows a certain style of violence to encircle the lives of its children, yet attempts to put a stop to anything which, in the true light of day, is only ever an expression of violence. This film is not the mindless brutality of computer game inspired trash, nor is it the cool and hip mock-sophistication violence of the latest attempt at a Warhol-inspired Tarantino-wannabe gangster film. It is an intelligent, serious, and beautifully crafted text which raises questions about what kind of world the youngsters of today are growing up in. The argument can of course be made that it is really no different to in the days of the first Gulf War, or the Vietnam War, or of any of the wars preceding these, but it remains an argument worth having nonetheless.

The closing scenes of the film, which recall Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange, show Robert and his friends carrying out a robbery of the celebrity chef’s home, justifying the act because ‘we can’t own a car like that’, in reference to the role of society in these characters, and in essence everyone’s, fate. Once inside the house, having taken not money but the needless possessions of the upper middle class couple, the boys then rape the woman as her husband watches. These scenes are difficult to watch, so sexually violent and graphic are their nature, but again raise many valid points. Robert, the artistic virgin, initially caresses the woman, touching and admiring her beauty, before destroying her. In a sense, one imagines, this is what Clay is attempting to suggest throughout the film; that what people, politicians, and the world do is take things which are beautiful; youngsters, nations and the world itself, and destroy them, forever raping and killing, with no necessary rhyme or reason for doing so, just a multitude of societal influences.

The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael is simply excellent film making. It is masterfully directed, intellectually stimulating, and a genuine expressive piece of art. Due to its style and its violence it will also likely be a very acquired taste, but like all art forms, the merits of a great film cannot simply be derived from its popularity. Perhaps this world which is so desensitised to violence has also become desensitised to serious filmmaking, but if nothing else Thomas Clay has at least managed to restore a sense of this sensitivity to the audiences acceptance of brutality. Whatever has or has not been said about the closing scenes of this film, nobody in its audience will laugh and clap at the violence; nobody will think that this violence is either cool or acceptable. Which perhaps makes best its point.

Recommended as absolutely necessary viewing. As good and as thought provoking a film as has been made in Britain for years and years. With direction like this, the sky is the limit for what Thomas Clay can achieve. One simply hopes that he stays true to his ideals and continues to make such serious films.

Review by Alex McMillan

Oliver Twist (Roman Polanski, France, 2005, 130mins)

2005-09-23T16:40:00.000Z

It is not difficult to see what has drawn Roman Polanski to Oliver Twist, Dickens’ enduringly popular classic tale about an orphan boy who gets caught up with a gang of pickpockets in 19th century London. With its central theme of hardship faced by the dispossessed, it is essentially a story of survival.

Made after his Oscar-winning holocaust film, The Pianist, Oliver Twist is Polanski’s attempt to make a film for the whole family. On the whole, this handsome looking adaptation is entertaining enough, but it lacks the grit, grime and narrational dynamic that would have made it stand out in its own right against David Lean’s 1948 expressionistic, nightmarish black/white version or Carol Reed’s 1968 musical hit Oliver!, with which it is bound to be compared.

The film starts beautifully: Oliver Twist (a meek but effective Barney Clarke) is returned to the local workhouse by Mr Bumble (Jeremy Swift) when his years working in the fields of the village are over. Branded a troublemaker from the beginning, Oliver is offered as an apprentice to anyone who will have him—penance for having dared ask or more gruel at the evening meal. Narrowly escaping apprenticeship as a chimney sweep, a fate not much better than death in Victorian England, Oliver is given a menial position at the village coffin-maker, the henpecked Mr Sowerberry (Michael Heath) and his shrew of a wife. After an altercation with a more senior employee, Noah Claypole (Chris Overton) that results in a beating, Oliver escapes to London, where he meets pickpocket The Artful Dodger (the wonderful Harry Eden) and is introduced to Fagin (Ben Kingsley) and his band of merry thieves. When Oliver is falsely arrested for stealing Mr Brownlow’s (Edward Hardwicke) handkerchief and passes out in the police station from fatigue and ill health, the gentleman takes pity on the young boy and takes him home to his comfortable town house in Pentonville. With his dirty, smelly rags burned and his freshly scrubbed skin attired in brand new clothes, Oliver is the very picture of decency.

Meanwhile, Fagin, terrified that Oliver will alert the authorities to the gang’s activities, instructs violent thug Bill Sykes (the terrifying Jamie Forman) to collect him from the house and return him to the hovel in Spitalfields, where him and the boys live. Back in the den, Oliver is tricked into describing Mr Brownlow’s house and, before he knows it, is taken back and forced to break into his benefactor’s home. Sykes shoot Oliver by mistake when Brownlow wakes and is rushed back to Spitalfields, where Fagin and Sykes plan to kill him. Nancy (Leanne Rowe), Sykes’ girlfriend, unable to sanction Oliver’s murder, informs Brownlow of Oliver’s position and the police close in…

The story may have been part of our subconscious since the famous 1968 musical version starring Mark Lester, but does Polanski’s version offer anything new (or different) to what we already know about the The Parish Boy’s Progress? Certainly, Polanski’s Twist is an attempt at a “back to the source” adaptation that introduces elements of Dickens’ story that were ignored or changed by recent adaptations – the venue of Nancy’s murder being one obvious but important example (in the 1968 version, Nancy is murdered on London Bridge, here, as in Dickens’ book, she is brutally bludgeoned in the claustrophobic and far more disturbing interior of her own room).

Polanski’s version also presents a Fagin that is not intrinsically evil, but is more a product of his brutal environment. Even though Kingsley’s Fagin is played as the racial stereotype of the hoarding Jew (how else can one interpret Dickens’ detailed character description), there is a glimmer of goodness (and even melancholy) in the hunched and hideous man that has been missing from other adaptations. In the films final scenes, when Oliver visits Fagin, who is preparing to be hanged in a few hours, there is a touching moment of understanding between the two characters that is the result of their shared struggle to survive as outsiders (as Jew and as orphan). Polanski’s intrinsic understanding of this bond as a result of his own experience as an outsider, makes Fagin a partly sympathetic character but also one that is worthy of more study.

Polanski’s film is beautifully designed – from the dim and dirty scenes in the workhouse to the opulent interiors of Brownlow’s house, no expense has been spared. Performances too are strong and convincing – in particular Jamie Forman makes a huge impression as the psychotic Bill Sykes and Harry Eden as Dodger is perfect. Where the film disappoints is in its flatness of tone that is all too sparingly interspersed with brief moments of action and its refusal to truly engage with the filth and degradation of London’s streets. If Polanski had followed Lean’s lead, rather than obsessing over making Oliver Twist suitable for the whole family, his adaptation would have been something truly special.

Oliver Twist is released in the UK on the 7th of October 2005

Review by Erica Rosen and Barnaby Welch

The Sun (Russia, 2005, Aleksandr Sokurov, 115mins)

2005-09-23T16:39:00.000Z

Director Aleksandr Sokurov is Russian, and although this is a film set almost claustrophobically in Japan, The Sun is a largely European co production. Yet this is understandable: the subject matter is likely to be controversial even now, since it involves not only the depiction of Emperor Hirohito (who, it is made clear, is considered a divine descendant of the Sun) but also his involvement with the Allies during the dying days of World War II.

There is a definite Sokurov effect that can be traced throughout all his films, including this one. Partly its the effect of his long-take style and the slow camera movements, partly the stylised (almost somnambulant) acting and the unhurried pace of the narrative. It provokes a disconnection which is particularly well-suited to this setting, like trying to perceive history through many layers of distortion and ideology. As a viewer, it can certainly be off-putting: I thought that his Mother and Son (1997) was one the longest films I'd ever seen, despite it's running time being little over 70 minutes. I wasn't very much more enamored of Russian Ark (2003), however grand the settings and however brave the one-shot ethic.

Yet, setting The Sun apart is the inherent strangeness of the setting (to me as a Westerner, no less than to Sokurov – and it is a film, after all, which has been filtered through his perceptions). Further, there is the strangeness of the protagonist, Emperor Hirohito, who takes his place in Sokurov’s recent series of world leaders during wartime: there has been Hitler (in Moloch, a film which was shot as if it were history viewed on CCTV camera) and Lenin (in Taurus). Here, the lead actor, Issey Ogata, is effective in conveying the very isolation of a man who is treated as a God – who indeed, is a God to his people. Everything is done for him, all around him bow with respect and are quiet. In putting this on film, it could easily become oppressive (especially when combined with the severely restricted colour palette, on which more later), but the key tactic is not to be too dour – something which was almost too strong in the two earlier filmic portraits.

There is, for example, a wonderful scene where Hirohito and his attendants inspect a package which has just arrived from the Americans containing Hershey bars. The wonderment of the servants and their trained reticence in opening or even identifying the gift as chocolate is swiftly replaced by the excitement of Hirohito as he hands the bars out to them. When the scene is abruptly curtailed by the arrival of a visitor, one of the quieter servants is beside himself that he has missed out on a bar, but his mute yelps of protest are shuffled off to the edge of the frame. As in many of the film’s scenes, a lifetime of social conditioning and behaviour is enacted, but with a graceful levity of spirit.

Equally, there is the apprehension and surprise of Hirohito when he is at the headquarters of General MacArthur and is excused from the room, abruptly required to open the door without the aid of a servant. It's the kind of thing that is more humorous when you have over time learned the dour nature of the servants, and witnessed the faces of the government ministers, each one of them set in a rictus of fear and terror as they deliver their reports on the country’s progress. There is very definitely a pain that runs throughout the Japanese performances in the film, but yet this tragedy is never more than glimpsed (as in the ruins that Hirohito sees from his cavalcade as he processes to the American HQ).

This is because the focus is on Hirohito himself, and the Emperor is unaccustomed to speaking about himself in the first person, let alone truly in touch with the outside world of his Japan. The mist that seems to cloud the visual frame of the movie scarcely lifts when finally the Emperor leaves his residence and stands outside. Until he renounces his divine status at the close of film and finally broadcasts (off-screen) the surrender of Japan, there is little direct light cast except for a dull pallor permanently filtered through the smoking ruins of war. Its an effective strategy for a film which consciously makes play in its title with the Emperor’s light-giving descent.

Similarly, for most of the film, everything he comes in contact with is dead or close to it: his servants are elderly, the furnishings of his home, his formal suits sourced from another era, there are the corpses of marine animals he carefully dissects, and stultifying levels of formality in both language and body movements. When the Americans and MacArthur enter the narrative, they start to strip Hirohito of these morbid attachments: his first contact with the Americans is watching some young GIs chasing a bird on his lawn, his candid conversations with MacArthur lead him to discuss his family and his fears, and when one time he tries to discuss the beauty he feels at beholding the form of a dissected catfish, MacArthur gets up and abruptly dismisses himself. Finally, he is involved in a photo-shoot outside the Palace, hamming it up like Charlie Chaplin. At this point, his wife enters the story for the first time, and they fumble naively on the sofa trying to remove her hat (presumably it always would have been done by a servant). It's a change in demeanor that seems to be explicitly linked to his decision to surrender to the occupying forces, and a change that is brought into focus only more acutely by the admission that the young man who taped his surrender speech has committed hara-kiri.

This final reminder of ritual death is scarcely now able to derail the risen sun that suffuses the closing image. For Sokurov’s film has moved, slowly but inexorably, from the morbidity of a lost War into a new light of peace, and it is for this that Hirohito has given up his divine descent. The Sun is finally free to shine.

Review by Ewan Munro

Howl’s Moving Castle (Hayao Miyazaki, Japan, 2005, 119mins)

2005-09-23T16:38:00.000Z

Miyazaki and his Studio Ghibli have, for many years now, been on the cutting edge of animated entertainment. Less sentimental than Disney and far more daring than Pixar, they have, since the classic Laputa, Castle In The Sky (1986) forged a distinctive place for themselves in the market. After the Oscar winning Spirited Away (2001), it seemed that the West finally embraced Miyazaki and his team and with this latest offering, they will no doubt continue to thrill a whole new audience.

Based on the novel by British born Diana Wynne Jones, Howl’s Moving Castle tells the story of 18 year-old milliner Sophie (voiced by Emily Mortimer in the English Language version), who manages to get on the wrong side of the powerful Witch Of The Waste and is cursed to live as a 90 year-old woman (voiced by the wonderful Jean Simmons) for all eternity. She meets the powerful wizard Howl (Christian Bale), who is rumoured to steal the hearts of beautiful young girls and who lives in a strange castle that moves across the countryside at any given opportunity. In a desperate search for a cure to her predicament, Sophie ends up living in the castle and working for Howl and his young apprentice as cleaner. Howl, who has given his heart to a fire demon called Calcifer (voiced by Billy Crystal) is incomplete – not only is he without a heart, but he is torn between loyalty for his country, which is at war and has requested his presence on the battlefield, and his own pacifism. His existential angst is only compounded by the fact that the State is on the verge of removing his magical powers if he does not reply for duty.

A more adult tale than Spirited Away, Miyazaki seems to have had contemporary issues on his mind when adapting his latest. The film takes place in a strange “retro future” (reminiscent of the world in Ghibli’s Laputa) in a land that is at war with its neighbours. Although the exact cause of this conflict is never illuminated in the film, it is obvious that a clash of religious or ideological beliefs is the central reason for both countries taking up arms. Miyazaki never delves into the parallels between his story and what is happening in the world, but the similarities are obvious.

Howl’s Moving Castle may have serious and introspective moments, but Miyazaki’s buoyant imagination and visual flair are on full display here. Miyazaki has always managed to thrill at every turn with unexpected or surreal visual treat and this film is no exception. From the opening shot of Sophie sewing plastic fruit onto a hat, to the more surreal moments of Howl at war, the animation is astonishing and just as good as anything that Ghibli has produced in the past.

A treat for young and old.

Review by Barnaby Welch

Tickets (Ermanno Olmi, Abbas Kiarostami & Ken Loach, Italy & UK, 2004, 115 Minutes)

2005-08-27T15:35:00.001Z

Split into three occasionally intertwining stories, much like Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu’s Amores Perros, this film tells the tale of three very different sets of passengers aboard a train journey heading firstly from Germany to Italy, and then from Northern Italy through to Rome. Given the calibre of the three directors, and their past feature films, the viewer is entitled to expect a great deal from Tickets, and thankfully is generally not disappointed.

In the opening part, Ermanno Olmi depicts Carlo (Delle Piane) as an ageing businessman, forced to travel by rail as all flights have been cancelled due to a security alert. The latter is a theme throughout the entire three-part film, as the presence of officialdom – be it through the police, the armed forces, or just some extremely vigilant rail staff, is highlighted throughout. To this end, each director examines the culture of a ‘terror-wary’ Europe, and the freedoms its citizens are paradoxically denied in the name of their protection. From knocking a bottle of babies milk to the floor, to intrusively checking the contents of an old lady’s handbag, the ‘security forces’ are shown to be more a burden than a saviour; creating a negative attitude of suspicion wherever they go, seemingly never leaving the passengers in peace.

As the train slowly pulls away from the station, and the biochemist embarks on his journey home, he hears a small piece of Chopin which stirs within him a childhood memory, the exact details of which are not made transparent at this stage, but it’s nature is clear; it is a memory of his youth, of hope and promise. Gently tapping a key of his laptop, he decides not to write about business, but instead to write a letter to his assistant while in Germany, a warm and pretty Valeria (Bruna Tedeschi), thanking her for taking care of him, and examining his feelings for her.

How Olmi decides to portray these feelings is in a slow, melancholic manner, through a number of fantastical scenes where the words of the letter, and of Delle Piane’s thoughts, are acted out like scenes from a play. Every so often, we return to the train journey, and again hear the music, which we soon realise has as much an effect on the other passengers as on the ageing dreamer. As he turns and gazes at the eyes of a beautiful young black girl, the sentiments of Olmi’s message are clear; in the music there is hope and inspiration, regardless of sex, age, or ethnicity. There follows a series of light, warmingly affectionate moments as a young mother and her child play with the buttons of the train, as the ageing man flits between the memory of one occasion and the fantasy of another, all complimented by more Chopin of course. It feels very personal, which is testimony to Olmi’s skilful creation of atmosphere, and the viewer does feel involved, albeit that the story is not gripping or compelling, just charming and inviting.

What spoils everything; for Delle Piane’s character, for the little black girl, for the young mother and her child, and for the warm, positive attitude, are the soldiers who patrol the carriages of the train, chiefly the man who sits directly across him, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, constantly monitoring all that happens around him. Though subtle, and slowly played out, Olmi’s point is made clear. The atmosphere changed immediately, the sounds now not of beautiful music but of the tears of a child, the biochemist no longer able to write the poetic words of his letter, instead choosing to abandon the idea, and the hope, the dream, altogether. In the end though, as he quite literally stares into the face of authority, there is defiance. After the child’s bottle has been smashed, leaving her poor mother with nothing but kisses to offer her, he requests from the onboard waiter a glass of warm milk. When it is delivered, and as the whole carriage of passengers watch, Delle Piane stands and takes the drink to the infant, forcing the soldier to hide his face behind his jacket. Through a simple act of kindness; of humanity, the old man is able to display the madness of an atmosphere which requires military presence in our daily lives.

The second part of this film, directed by Kiarostami, centres around the relationship between an ageing woman and her young male carer, forced to look after her in lieu of his national service. Very slowly played out, with carefully constructed shots, attempting to create an emotive atmosphere displaying the gulf between the polarised opposites of generation, the film never really manages to capture its viewer’s imagination, seeming far longer than the stories which come before and after. As characters, both the old lady, aggressively clinging to her independence, and the twenty five year old man, whose help she badly needs, are amusing, though lack an engaging story or pivotal moment to better centre this comedy, and their opposites, around. In the end, this segment of Tickets disappoints slightly, leaving the viewer feeling that they could have learned much more, that the characters could have been explored far deeper, rather than just scratching at the surface of their idiosyncrasies. There is plenty of potential, as we see that Filippo (Fillipo Trojaro) has unresolved memories of his own, particularly regarding his ex-girlfriend and his late father, but overall the plot feels lazy, the lack of energy perhaps a result of the director’s intent on the film remaining very real, and very inconsequential.

Any fears that the film may have peaked during Olmi’s show however, quickly evaporate at the outset of Ken Loach’s high energy, convincingly funny, and ultimately very touching piece, centred around the journey of three young Celtic fans to a football match in Rome. The trio, all of whom appeared in Loach’s superb Sweet Sixteen, are initially seen as loudmouthed, typically British tourists, insistent on singing their songs, imposing their celebratory atmosphere on the passengers around them, and generally having a very good time. The humour is typically gritty working class slagging off, and all the better for it; the dialogue is so typically Scottish, and suffers nothing when transported into another environment, beyond being magnified.
The whole tone of the film changes very quickly though, when one of the lads Jamesie (Martin Compston) realises that his ticket is stolen, the culprit a small Albanian boy who the three had befriended. Completing the circle of the three stories, the boy belongs to the same family whose baby’s bottle was knocked over by the official in Olmi’s opening segment, and through their interrogation of the immigrants the football fans, and thus the viewer, are told the story of the desperate family; a tale of suffering; of a fight for survival, for preservation, and for freedom. That the film flirts with becoming overly sentimental at this stage can be overlooked given the message Loach is trying to depict, but unfortunately the character of Frank, until this point the most amusingly outspoken of the three, and acted superbly by William Ruane, undergoes a complete metamorphosis of sorts, instantaneously changing from the hardened, selfish football fan abroad into an individual prepared to sacrifice his holiday in order to save the family. If only this sudden consciousness of the plight of others could be true of the entire Western world.

In the end though, everything works out for all those involved, save for the wretched authorities. The three boys have passed the test of their humanity; emerged as more intelligent, caring souls for the experience, and can now get back to what they are truly here for; to noise up the Roma fans at the airport. The sentiment, though powerful and lasting in its message, is consciously dropped by Loach, careful not to exhaust its preaching, and the energy and comedy of the film returns, the audience leaving the theatre with a smile on their face, and a strangely wistful feeling that life could so easily be better for everyone. In the end, for all the criticism and the momentary disappointments, Tickets is an excellent film, beautiful throughout, and exceptionally emotive in moments.

Review by Alex McMillan

Tour De Force (Antoine Prum & Boris Kremer, Luxembourg, 2005, 78 Minutes)

2005-08-27T15:35:00.000Z

Currently the strongest man in the world, boasting over twenty Guinness’ Book of Records achievements, and carrying in his armour a box of logic-defying tricks and Herculean-strong muscles and teeth, Georges Christen, ordinarily of Luxembourg, arrives in Moscow, as part of a Russian tour displaying his brute strength and likeable, though certainly not overly charismatic, personality.

This documentary basically follows the giant of a man, mostly through the eyes of Prum (Co-Director) as he goes from city to city, enjoying many of the country’s beautiful, though often contradictorily poor areas, and sets and breaks more world records, including pulling an entire ship with the force of his teeth, and somehow managing to push a car along a road, using the length of a spear, the sharpened edge of which is pressed dangerously against his throat.

As Christen himself says, he is after a fashion, a performing sportsman, acting in the same way that many such sportsmen did a century ago, before many of their feats and games were made official through associations and unions. Interestingly, as someone whom excels to the point of being the worlds greatest in his field, his own humility and generally approachable persona, allied with his necessary dedication and obvious love for his sport, would serve as a timely example to many of the much higher profile present day sportsmen.

Unfortunately, beyond the viewers obvious amazement at what truly are incredible displays of strength and power, and the occasionally charming or endearing moment between Christen and the Russian people, the film has extremely little to offer. Any craft or flamboyance in its direction goes completely unnoticed, peaking at the very outset of the film where we skip from a gas hob being lit to a train screaming past, both of course symbolising power, and far too much of the dialogue is reliant on the (often incorrect) interpretation of Christen, naturally a French speaker, and Prum, whose first language is of course Russian.

The film is occasionally interesting viewed as a study of how many of the achievements of Soviet Russia are still being celebrated, evident when we are shown the ‘Cosmo-Museum’ in Gagarin, or when Christen lays a wreath at the memorial to the many thousands of Russians who lost their lives in the second world war, but far too often the documentary lacks substance of any level of compelling content. Prum, for his part, looks uncomfortable in front of the camera, and occasionally seems baffled by his guest, who does his very best to entertain, but just plainly lacks the charisma, or the outspokenness, which would warrant a documentary about his life. With so many documentaries presently on offer, this one is simply impossible to recommend.

Review by Alex McMillan

The Art Of Losing – Perder Es Cuestion De Metodo) (Sergio Cabrera. Colombia, 2004, 105 Minutes)

2005-08-27T15:34:00.001Z

Form its very outset, this film feels good. Regardless of the quality of what is to follow, the early scenes offer a murder, a complex and multi-layered plot, an extremely likeable lead character who just can’t help but find trouble, and a vast number of support roles, all of whom have their own stake in the story, and none of whom are prepared to relinquish it, which can only lead to intriguing consequences. In a nutshell, The Art of Losing is film noir. Not quite classic film noir; neither The Maltese Falcon nor The Long Goodbye, but an extremely creditable effort to rekindle one of films most enjoyable, most ambitious genres, so rarely seen in recent years.

Chain smoking and heavily drinking, having recently seen the love of his life walk out on him, meanwhile attempting to write the one great novel of his life that can tempt her back, Victor Silampa is a journalist who stumbles upon the story of an impaled, hanged body, and decides to investigate. After becoming excessively drunk in a bar doubling as a brothel, he happens across the beautiful Quica, a prostitute played by the unconvincing Martina Garcia, and the two embark on a very dangerous, though unfortunately far from believable, romance.

Here the film threatens to lose sight of itself somewhat, as it flirts between a comedy (reminiscent somewhat of the Coen brother’s The Big Lebowski) and a much more serious film, harshly critical of Colombian society. To his great credit, Sergio Cabrera manages to pull it off successfully, never over indulging in either style, always maintaining the very unpredictable story as the key vehicle of the film. On the allegorical level, the businessmen and politicians are portrayed as complicit, self-preserving individuals, keenly prepared to resort to extortion, bribery and violence in order to get what they want, while the women of the society; depicted through Quica, are shown to be weak, reliant on the men, and seemingly only through their bodies able to justify their positions in the world. The chief of police, assisting Silampa’s investigation in return for his writing of a speech, is shown to be equally corrupt, though as a result of the society he works in, rather than through his own selfishness or wrong-doing.

Given the ambitiousness of the plot, the questionable quality of much of the acting, and the fact that although the storyline’s unpredictability is enjoyable it never truly manages to make its audience care deeply for its characters, it is perhaps surprising that the film works. That it does is a result of many things, not least the fact that it never appears to take itself too seriously. There is violence, but never graphic violence, and generally the atmosphere is light enough to be enjoyable, while managing to portray the frustrating corruptibility of those in power.

What really makes this film good, and thus recommended, is the performance of Daniel Giminez Gacho as Silampa. Handsome, though by no means a stereotypical clean cut icon of Hollywood handsome, intelligent without lacking instinct, and managing throughout to both create and react to the good humour of the film, his is not an outstanding performance, but one which does very well to remain within the boundaries of what he has to offer as an actor. Like the direction of Cabrera, and overall the film itself, he is controlled, very capable, and thoroughly entertaining.

Review by Alex McMillan

Mirrorball – Fresh Tracks 1 (Various directors and performers, 2004/5)

2005-08-27T15:34:00.000Z

Much lauded and widely advertised in and around the Edinburgh Film Festival, Mirrorball offered a great deal of promise, though perhaps as a result of such a build up couldn’t quite, on this early showing, justify its hype. Comprising eighteen music videos, from a hugely diverse number and style of performers, and a similarly stretching gulf in the manner each video was shot and what content they were made up with, there was certainly plenty on offer; an almost endless number of examples of clever camera tricks and either computer generated or digitally enhanced movements. Which ultimately explains their overall bland, disengaging lack of appeal.

For ardent fans of such short films, or those who simply enjoy some clever footage or funky imagery to accompany their favourite track, the very long eighty or so minutes that Fresh Tracks 1 lasted may prove to be a delight; a welcome change from the simple act of sitting back and engaging with a feature length plot, direction and characterisation. For committed film fans however, who perhaps enjoy challenging acting and expressive realism a little more than basic 3-D tricks or camera foolery, this film is anything but recommended.

Not that it was all bad. Indeed, the very first video, Galvanize by The Chemical Brothers (directed by Adam Smith) offered an interesting tale of youngsters defining their identities through face paints, before hitting the streets in search of trouble. Other notable successes included DJ Format’s 3 ft Deep (Keith Schofield) which amusingly showed two rappers belting out their lyrics into a games machine, and 100mph by El Presidente (Rupert Jones) which, though fairly conventional for a music video, could at least boast footage of surely the sexiest drummer in music today.

Unfortunately, the bulk of the fifteen remaining videos offered little more than further frustration at why such lavish budgets are spent on material surely far less consequential than the many independent films not being made in Britain today, a great number of which fail in the production stage as a direct result of such funding. Even leaving such politics aside, and avoiding the issue of the questionable music quality on offer, the videos themselves lacked originality; from the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s violent children to Kano & Mitchell Bros observations of the snobbery of expensive high street shops. The 3-D films, numbering three in total and all shown in a row, initially looked interesting, though speedily became nauseating, and eventually simply boring.

For anyone who really, really does love music videos, this show is unmissable. Anyone not so enthused by the ‘products’ would be far better advised to find a genuine film where the actors have to portray characters, and attempt to express feelings and emotions. It is impossible, upon viewing these films, not to surmise that, for as long as music video direction remains a viable route into feature film direction, British and American pop films will continue to lack genuine class of craft or auteurism as a result.

Review by Alex McMillan

Pale Eyes (Les Yeux Clairs) (Jerome Bonnell, France, 2005, 86 Minutes)

2005-08-27T15:33:00.000Z

At the very outset of this film we are introduced to Fanny (Nathalie Boutefeu), a mentally unbalanced thirty-something who lives with her brother Gabriel and his wife Cecile. Over the course of the first half of the film, a certain charm to Fanny’s madness becomes apparent, in that she is in essence the embodiment of a little girl trapped within the form of an adult. We also realise that Gabriel, a teacher, has many unresolved issues regarding their late father, while defending his mother’s memory with the passion of a committed Freudian. Finally, among many other things, we see first hand evidence, as Fanny herself does, that his wife Cecile is unfaithful. Before we learn any of this though, and before the latter half of the film is allowed to disappoint us; never fully realising the early potential of the story, we are shown that Fanny’s greatest passion is music.

In the very opening scenes of the film, Fanny works as a housekeeper for an elderly lady, though is unsuccessful even in this most modest of tasks, having to hide one of the lady’s undergarments, burned by the iron she works with, before she is paid and leaves the house to walk home. The camera then follows her as she walks purposely along the tracks of a secluded country road, steps over the body of her exercising brother without even a word of recognition or welcoming, marches up the stairs of the house, and presses play on her musical stereo, which greets her touch with the comforting sound of a piano. Even through this smallest of examples, the charm of Fanny’s character is immediately evident, and becomes increasingly so as the film develops. In a complex world, within which her own past, present, and state of health make her life further complicated, what shines through above all is her simplicity. When she doesn’t like something, like the constant humming of her contented sister-in-law, she mentions it to her brother. Upon discovering that the same person has been promiscuous, she does not tell Gabriel, nor threaten Cecile or attempt to make her tell him, but instead resorts to pushing over her coffee cups and pulling her hair, culminating in a fully blown scrap in the kitchen of the house, at which point her brother, weary of trying to keep the two women he loves happy under one roof, suggests to Fanny that perhaps she should return to the hospital. Taking the suggestion perhaps no better than could really be expected, Fanny opts not to return to the hospital, preferring to steal his car and head off on a road trip to Germany in search of the burial place of their father.

Up to this point, the direction of the film is masterful; full of long, slow shots, so common with French films of this style, which allows for a dedicated, seemingly endless study of the expressions and emotions of each character, and for the relationships between the respective characters to be developed and carefully dissected. The character of Fanny, initially an extremely troubled and petulant woman, forced at times to implore the voices from within to ‘shut up’, and taken to hiding in the wardrobe of Gabriel and Cecile’s bedroom in order to hear their intimacies, is explored and displayed much further, to which end we see a far more quirky side of her; a woman who smokes cigars, who plays piano constantly, and who struggles deeply with the sensitivity of her past, highlighted best when she attempts to discuss with her brother the reasons behind her absence from the father’s funeral, and her general distance from the rest of the family. Throughout, Boutefeu handles the part extremely capably, to the point where it appears the role asked few questions of her acting prowess, though this may obviously be simply the sign of a truly excellent performance.

When she departs for Germany, leaving both in search of her departed father’s grave and by way of an escape from her brother and his wife, and a life which suffocates her, the film changes abruptly, and unfortunately suffers a little for it, mourning the loss of these two characters and the tense atmosphere of realism their presence created. As Fanny drives into the night, more than once we see shots of her point of view, where the road she drives along through a dark forest is blurred, with visibility poor. For the first, and perhaps the only real time in the film, the viewer is shown the world through the eyes of this lead character; her vision hazy, every turn leading into the unpredictable, the unknown, and the feared.

Sadly, for the duration of the film its already pedestrian pace becomes laboured, dragging its characters through an uncomfortable forty minutes or so, struggling throughout to justify the slow movement; its effect quite contradictory to the natural speed it should have travelled with, as one would imagine the braking wheel of a train may scratch along its track. While some of the shots Bonnell carefully picks are unquestionably beautiful, and though the introduction of Oskar (handled with considerable distinction by Lars Rudolph) provides more charm and craft to the plot and setting, too much of the remainder is over indulgent; too often the viewer finds themselves staring at something for at least a few seconds too long. There is nothing wrong with either the long slow shot, or the silent sequence. When used correctly, both rank amongst the most skilful, most pleasing sequences in film, but in this instance neither seemed to complement the other at all well. For the long, slow, still shots, there was no dialogue to engage the viewer. Likewise, where both characters silently glanced at one another, playing out the romantic tale of two people destined to come together but unsure of exactly when and how it is to happen, the misc-en-scene never really offered enough to intrigue the viewer, who as a result becomes increasingly disengaged by what they are watching, and by the end feels relief that the courtship is over almost as much as joy for the pair when they do eventually succumb to one another’s advances.

Jerome Bonnell is a very talented director, whose style is reminiscent of some of the very best of cinema since the early years of the French new wave. Unfortunately, the temptation to dwell too much on carefully constructed, conservative sequences such as the meeting of Fanny and Oskar, which plays out more like a guide for women on how to change a car tyre than a genuine collision of destiny, has on this occasion proved too strong, and the slowly strummed chords of this particular love story’s harp means that it’s tune isn’t quite as exciting as it may have been. While this means very little in terms of the quality of Bonnell’s future films, which will no doubt continue to be both charming and highly recommendable, it does unfortunately render Pale Eyes as disappointing, though mostly due to its inability to build on its excellent opening. It’s a decent film, though by no means a great one.

Review by Alex McMillan

On A Clear Day (Gaby Dellal, UK, 2004, 98 Minutes)

2005-08-22T21:13:00.000Z

Unquestionably one of the finest British actors of the last decade, highlighted particularly by his remarkably emotive depiction of Joe Kavanagh, the recovering alcoholic in Ken Loach’s masterpiece My Name is Joe, Peter Mullan here takes the lead role of Frank, an ageing shipyard worker struggling to come to terms with his recent redundancy. Surrounded by his friends and former workmates (a perhaps unimaginatively cast range of support actors who mostly flounder when sharing the screen with Mullan) Frank, also troubled not only by a very distanced relationship from his son (Jamie Sives; good looking, charming, but hellishly predictable) but also with the memory of his youngest son’s tragic drowning, attempts to come to terms with all of these things by resolving to swim the English Channel, and in the process offering what everyone around him, what modern day glasgow, and what he himself desperately needs: hope.

The Glasgow portrayed in this film seems a little unreal; almost a caricature of the actually very modern, much more cosmopolitan city which could once boast one of the leading shipyards in the world. Nevertheless, Dellal chooses to highlight the still very working class atmosphere of the town, through backdrops of huge high-rise flats, chip shops on every corner, a blue-collar white-collar divide amongst the shipyard workers, and an existing level of racism towards immigrants. What this creates, alongside the quite superb portrayal by Mullan of Frank as a character finding it hard to come to terms with changes; both his own, as he gets older, and those of society, is a thoroughly believable atmosphere of difficulty and despair. As he watches his friend attempt unsuccessfully to fix a broken mobile phone, Frank comments that ‘things aren’t meant to be fixed nowadays’, which in a sense encapsulates the struggles of not only the characters of the film, but of Glasgow and many more cities like it. Where once working class areas could boast craftsmen, hard work and dedication, and as a result produce world renowned quality, this entire ethos has become redundant by the rise of commercialism, which calls for every viable commodity to be endlessly replaced, upgraded and bettered, on an annual basis.

Throughout, whether arguing in the face of this injustice (depicted by the bosses of the shipyard who refuse to pay insurance to a fellow worker who has lost an arm) or silently thinking regretfully of the ‘loss’ in very different ways, of both his sons, Peter Mullan is able to obtain viewer sympathy with ease. His sullen, withdrawn emotions, always threatening to explode in an uncontrolled fury, but hidden deep within him as if he can ignore them forever, come together in such a way that even the slightest outpour; from a slow downward drop of the eyes, to a confrontational turn and stare, offer more by way of emotions than some of the best lines of modern day scriptwriters ever can. In a sense he displays exactly what it is to be Scottish; so full of Celtic passion, but unable at most times to come to terms with his emotions. It is a thrilling performance, the viewers appreciation of the film formed chiefly by their unavoidable feelings of concern over the character.

Absolutely no hindrance to all of this is of course Gaby Dellal’s often beautiful direction. With all the right ingredients, from the surroundings to the aforementioned acting quality, the camera tends to stay back, allowing the characters and their envirmonent to be portrayed and developed successfully. The shots of the water, whether from the deck of the boat, from the shore watching the waves slowly fall into land, or close up shots of Frank as he forces his arms to drag his body against the currents, make up all of the best sequences of the film. Whether Dellal may be a water enthusiast, or simply has a wonderful eye for a beautiful, natural shot, these scenes, accompanied mostly by very little dialogue but by soft, charming music, are truly a delight. Where in many other films silent montages are unable to match the quality of their centre acting, Dellal shows herself more than capable of setting, and prolonging, the mood and the tempo of what culminates as an extremely impressive feature debut.

Perhaps surprisingly, in that the film involves a build up of atmosphere before the crescendo of released tension as its end, its very best scene comes near the start. Recently made redundant, Frank goes to the benefits office in order that he can sign on for jobseekers allowance while looking for another job. After thirty six years of working as a proud and vital member of a once world-leading enterprise, and being of the certain ‘old school’ of working class men that feels a sense of shame at being out of work and hence ‘useless’, the pride-swallowing and humiliating ordeal is made all the worse for Frank when he is dealt with by his daughter in law, a worker in the office. What this moment perfectly encapsulates, beyond the struggle of Frank and Angela (Johdi May) To deal with the awkwardness of the situation themselves, is the clashing of old working principles and of new. Frank is a skilled, trained worker who toiled for years in a laborious environment while his wife brought up the children, whereas Angela works in a smart, modern office while her husband, Frank’s son, stays at home to care for the children. In this one scene, the film manages to portray a generation of societal changes in terms of sex, class, and values. Frank tries to deal with the situation, but is unable, and in the end storms out of the office, his proud character shattered. Angela understanding the difficulty of his coming to terms, looks just as upset by the circumstances.

This scene is actually revisited, to an extent, much later in the film. Frank, now completely dedicated to his swimming, is late for his grandson’s birthday party, and his son criticises him for it, accusing him of ‘never being the one who bought the presents’ when he was a child either. Later, when the two confront each other in the swimming pool, the emotional outpour from Frank belies how unaffected he initially seemed by the words. ‘Thirty six years, twelve hours a day’, he roars, ‘when was I supposed to have time to buy the presents’.
On a Clear Day is one of those films where everything just seems to fit together so perfectly. The support cast does struggle, nobody more so than Billy Boyd (of Lord of The Rings fame) who, while seemingly being given all the best lines, does very little to impress; neither particularly funny nor touching. Sives too, who gave a tremendous performance in the title role of Lone Scherfig’s Wilbur Wants to Kill Himself, seems now to be pigeon holed as the funny, good looking, but one dimensional sidekick to a character with much more emotions to express. Towards the end of the film, the stakes for Frank do become a little too high, as we learn that his youngest son had drowned, something he has never once forgiven himself for, which has also caused the void to form deeper in the relationship he holds with his existing son. Arguably, this development was unnecessary, as the importance to Frank of what he was doing needed neither heightening nor further explaining, but perhaps Dellal, anxious to impress in her first feature as director, wanted to ensure that she held the audience’s entire attention throughout. With Mullan in the lead role, she needn’t have been concerned.

There are literally dozens of great scenes in the film, another classic example that of Frank being inspired by a young disabled swimmer who simply refuses to stop swinging his arms and legs until he reaches the other end of the pool. There are also many funny moments, with a single-scene appearance by the fantastic Tony Roper as Merv ‘The Perv’ also note worthy. All in all, this is a terrific, entertaining, and effortlessly touching film, which manages to not suffer too much from its odd moment of predictability, and ultimately deserves all the success it will receive.

Review by Alex McMillan

Salesman (Albert Maysles, David Maysles & Charlotte Zwerin, USA, 1969, 85 minutes)

2005-08-22T21:08:00.000Z

Following a team of door to door Bible salesmen in middle America, each of whom have varying degrees of success, this documentary displays the tough, often crippling world of sales targets and profits, of closing deals and hard selling, and ultimately of the suffering that not only the unfortunate consumer, but also the world weary salesman, must endure in order to ensure that targets are continually met by the world of commercialism.

It is easy to see why Albert Maysles would be interested in this particular group of people. Of course, the act of selling Bibles has connotations well beyond the simple act of forcing working-class Americans to part with their hard-earned cash for a book they are likely to already have. In the middle ages, as the Catholic church missionaries were sent all over the world to spread ‘the good word’, they would convince the ‘simple’ people of Africa or South America to buy into their ideas of religion through staged miracles, the offer of peaceful cohabitation, and tales of redemption, of heaven, and of the need to save oneself from an eternity of hell. In the 1960’s middle America, the ‘missionaries’ of the Bible selling company use funny stories, perhaps a shared ethnic identity (most prominently Irish Catholic) or the fear that without the Bibles, their children may grow up unaware of the great principles and stories within the largest selling book in history.

For their own part, the salesmen appear to live miserable lives; constantly travelling from one city to the next, working firstly through the snow of Massachusetts, before driving through the streets of sunny Miami, forever being told that they ‘cannot hide behind alibis and excuses’, and that they need to ‘accept responsibility for success and failure’.

In the right context, these words could be both optimistic and wise. At a sales meeting of the company, where the men are told that a number of their colleagues have recently been ‘eliminated’, it is instead fear-instilling and soul destroying, particularly for Paul, once capable of twelve sales a week, but now thoroughly weary of the job, badly out of luck, and finding himself unable to ‘push’ anymore. Though he too is guilty of badly miss-selling the products, and of horrendous treatment of a young female customer who attempts to back out of the deal she had made with his colleague, Paul, the eldest of the four travelling salesman, comes across as just too nice a guy for the business he’s in, and does manage to solicit at least a degree of viewer sympathy, something his colleagues, and particularly the ‘excuses not accepted’ attitude of his boss, are completely incapable of.

As we follow Paul’s last day in Miami, watching helplessly as he attempts firstly to sell the overpriced (though undoubtedly beautiful) product firstly to an impoverished single mother of four, and secondly to a lonely old widow, the link to Willy Loman of Death of a Salesman is unavoidable. David Brent, of the famed television series The Office, also quickly springs to mind, his own cringe-worthy, pathetic performance around his colleagues, and its audiences reaction, mirrored as we see Paul stoop from one new low to the next. Mercifully, Paul does stop short of losing all sense of humility, and does eventually leave each customer alone, but there is little comedy here. Whereas Brent is a caricature of what a person should not be; a fusion of a dozen little traits each of which on its own is unattractive enough, Paul, like Loman, is basically just an honest enough guy, trying desperately hard to succeed in a world which condemns failure, and forced by its pressures to act in a manner one imagines he himself is ashamed of.

Throughout the film, Maysles’ direction is classic for the documentary genre; from his close up shots of the characters as their emotions are displayed, to his long, intruding shots that perfectly encapsulate the solitude of Paul as he becomes more and more detached from the increasingly successful members of his team. These techniques, combined with the unfolding of the contrasts between the main characters of the film; from their individual selling techniques to their respective confidence levels, develops as a study not solely related to the cut-throat business of Bible sales, but of life itself. It is no coincidence that Paul, the eldest of the team, struggles to maintain the optimistic drive which served him through his more successful years, while his younger colleagues, wary of having his negative energy affect their own performance, distance themselves from him. As in life itself, as the candle slowly burns away and the preceding years and accomplishments are met with new found perspective, attitudes are shaped not directly by increased age, but by the realisation that nothing can go on forever.

Of course, none of this is missed by Maysles, who continually intersects footage of Paul’s increasingly desperate attempts to sell as he used to with shots depicting youthful freedom; firstly in the form of a small boy dragging a sledge through the streets of Massachusetts, and later through a shot of a bird flying through the Miami sky, completely unburdened by the world below it, a million miles removed from the stresses and pressures Paul finds himself under. Towards the end of the film, as one of the salesmen (nicknamed ‘The Bull’) closes another deal for a Catholic Encyclopaedia, quite poignantly we hear an instrumental rendition of The Beatles’ Yesterday.
As a documentary, Salesman feels as new and as innovative now as it was thirty six years ago. Stylishly shot, offering an intriguing, sometimes funny, often tragic subject matter, and mercilessly free of voiceover or directorial presence, it is a lesson to many of the ‘MTV generation’ documentaries released on a seemingly endless basis over the last few years. From an audience perspective, the film does labour it’s point somewhat however, and as a result feels a little longer than the eighty five minutes it offers.

As a study of the door-to-door salesmen of 1960’s middle America, the film is interesting, though only to an extent. As a study of life, and of the impossibility of delaying its ageing process as a younger generation, hungrier and more ambitious, inevitably supersedes its predecessor, it is extremely personal, though perhaps a little too intrusively so. One wonders if the subjects of the documentary truly knew what they were letting themselves in for.

Review by Alex McMillan

Gamblers (Les Mauvais Joveurs) (Frederic Balekdigan, France, 2005, 85 Minutes)

2005-08-22T21:07:00.000Z

Set in a multi-cultured Paris, following the exploits of first, second and third generations in the city, and paying homage strikingly to Martin Scorsese’s New York classic Mean Streets, Gamblers is an enjoyable tale charting the lives of the youngest generation of Lebanese and Chinese immigrants, as they beg, borrow and hustle in an attempt to negotiate a future within their tough surroundings. Accompanied by an excellent soundtrack of both new and old popular songs, and fast moving, hand held roaming direction which adds to the atmosphere of a music video, but happily manages to sustain most of the interest for its entirety, Gamblers is a creditable attempt at a modern version of such an ambitious film as Scorsese’s 1973 classic.

Central to the web of interweaving characters, most of whom start out as simple, one-dimensional stereotypes before undergoing varying degrees of transformation, is Vahe (Pascal Elbe), a petty crook with a heart of gold, who has had his heart ripped apart by his estranged girlfriend Lu Ann (the beautiful Lin Dan Pham) and refuses to get over it, explaining his sensitivity to his friends by surmising that ‘even if a teacher at school yelled at me, I’d start crying’. Lu Ann, for her part, is portrayed as a cold hearted bitch, choosing the comforting arms of a rich, smartly dressed businessman over the dark passion and enflamed love of the gambling, hustling, but devoted Vahe.

While Vahe and his friends work and con their way through the streets they know so well, always trying to get ahead, one big step further up the ladder are some Armenian gangsters they have to deal with, who effectively police the immigrants; granting unofficial citizenship and visas to whomever they deem fit, i.e. whoever can pay for it. One such character, hopelessly in debt and generally uninterested in working his way out of it, is Yuen (Teng Fei Xiang), a reckless but endearing youth who just so happens to be the brother of the sultry Lu Ann. Just as Vahe is Balekdigan’s Charlie, Yuen is quite obviously his Johnny Boy, and the fates of the two are intertwined. As Vahe is the centrepiece of the film and thus the focus of the viewers’ main attention, which is also testament to a very capable acting performance by Elbe, and since he sees Yuen as a disengaged but harmless kid, the viewer feels empathetic towards both.

Things begin to deteriorate when Yuen, who owes a great deal of money to the Armenian gangsters, continually skips work in order to spend time with his young love, who he intends to marry, start a family with, and live happily ever after. Through his love of the very young looking Yin do we see the best of Yuen; the romantically headstrong, fun loving kid caught in a world which offers him no opportunities and no consolation. As the parallel between the two characters continues, and as Vahe’s attempts to win back his own love continue to flounder, this charm which flows easily from Yeun also rubs off on his self-styled guardian, as if the younger man is to an extent depicting Vahe at that age, when he too felt ‘immortal’, long before he realised the world could be so cruel.

More than once at this stage Balekdigan quite deliberately cuts to the image of a goldfish bowl, perfectly encapsulating the sense of the characters being stuck in this small world of short memories and no escape. Just like Mean Streets, and like Mathieu Kassovitz’ La Haine (also heavily influenced by Scorsese) the stakes are heightened beyond any recovery when Yuen chooses to compensate for his youthfulness, his poverty, and his lack of power, by using a gun. After he is beaten, he shoots one of the gangsters, and the gamble, which was already far from a winning one, starts to go badly wrong for all concerned. As he sits in hiding with Yin, preparing to make their escape far away from the city, the gangsters catch up with him, and he is not seen again.

But for a brief sexual reunion with Lu Ann, which gives away far more of her true feelings for him than she would like him to realise, Vahe’s downward spiral never threatens to be anything but a collapse. Having avoided violence wherever possible throughout the story, even as all others around him often relied upon it, he now lashes out; dispensing his pent-up fury with the world in an attack on Lu Ann’s current boyfriend, and ending up received a beating himself in the process. By the time she discovers that she is pregnant, and Vahe presumably the father, he has shot and killed the leader of the Armenians. The past is behind him, the moral debt to an extent cleared, but just like Charlie in Mean Streets, there is an overwhelmingly sickening sense that the worst is yet to come.

This film is well acted, competently directed, and packed full of pop culture, from its enjoyable soundtrack to its fashionable look. It is neither as elegant as its many Parisian film predecessors, nor as gritty and thought provoking as the excellent La Haine, but it does work well within the boundaries it sets itself as a small time gangster film full of petty criminals seemingly unable to escape their fates. While it is perhaps unfortunate that the film sticks so closely to the Scorsese formula, and suffers in comparison as a result, it is certainly one of the most successful attempts to make such a film in recent years, and can to an extent stand up in its own right as an enjoyable and thoroughly well put together, if by no means innovative film.

Review by Alex McMillan

Kinky Boots (Julian Jarrold, UK, 2005, 106 Minutes)

2005-08-22T21:06:00.001Z

The recipe for British comedies, from Bend it like Beckham to Billy Elliot, seems to have become so formulated and so routine that very little can be found to be innovative, and hence funny, about hearing and seeing similar scenarios played out once again; not quite like before, but really not much differently either. Take one extreme character, outcast them as a result of their ethnicity, tastes, or sexuality, remove them from their safe environment into one full of ignorance, intolerance and abuse, add a touch of soul searching, season with the coming together of the once binary opposites, and Hey Presto! Before you know it we’re all better people, the audience included, leaving the theatre and walking into a far rosier, far brighter world.

Except, that modern Britain doesn’t work like this, and these films, though no doubt made with the intention of breaking down stereotypes, offer simplified, one-dimensional solutions to problems of society. In essence the British comedy is still stuck in the years of the Carry-on; still laughing at someone’s colour, background, or sexuality, the only difference being that now the jokes are inverted; we laugh at those who laugh at others, flood the whole situation with ridiculously unimaginative sentiment, and resolve it with completely unrealistically portrayed levels of emotion. After half an hour of Kinky Boots, there is no need to watch the remaining six and a half hours; the only surprise is that it is never actually ambitious enough to attempt to provide one.

Yet, at its outset, the film doesn’t immediately look quite so bad. Charlie (Joel Edgerton), recently engaged to Nicola (Jemima Rooper) who is rather plain-looking –therefore guaranteed at some stage to turn into a monster, has inherited a shoe factory from his deceased father, and struggles badly to manage it, or to capture the imagination of his staff who looked so inspirationally to his father. The factory is in trouble, we learn, as the age of craftsmanship has been replaced by commercialism, and Charlie has no idea how to compensate for this formula. Instead, he makes fifteen members of staff redundant, the last of whom (Sarah Jane Potts) implores him to at least try and act to save the factory.

Enter Lola, a drag queen, played capably by the regularly impressive Chiwetel Ejiofor; who himself either has a particular penchant for female attire or badly needs a new agent. Predictably, Lola has suffered at the hands of ignorance, both of society and of her father. Nonetheless, she takes it upon herself to rescue Charlie from a beating at the hands of some nameless thugs, who had been harassing Lola herself, and the pair end up backstage at the club where she sings. Charlie sees her ‘fabulous’ shiny thigh-length boots, two plus two just about makes four, and before you know it, the factory is back in business, having found its market niche in the unlikely form of men who wear stilettos.

There are a great number of things which are irritating about this film, primarily its stereotyping, but not least how much it asks its viewers to take for granted. For one thing, it presumes that heterosexual men, even stupid ones, cannot tell the difference between a man in drag and a woman. Ejiofor may be as gorgeous as his tight dresses are well fitting, but to suggest that the workers of the factory would clamour so desperately for his attentions do not simply come across as unrealistic, but as an indictment of a director and script team unable to imagine a scene where Lola’s attraction could better be portrayed.

Similarly disappointing is the never-innovative, single layered comedy of this film, and most others like it. At its best, camp comedy works; anyone who has ever seen a sketch by Eddie Izzard, or to a lesser extent Craig Hill, can no doubt testify to this. Unfortunately, films such as this one are just not creative enough; rather than attempt to be innovative and to create a less dated version of a transvestite they rehash a commonly displayed, albeit often successful, formula. In the filmmaker’s defence, the formula does work, and in all likelihood this film will attain considerable commercial success, but one wonders what people who have perhaps found themselves in a situation similar to that of Lola, who presumably is supposed to be a semi-serious role, would think of the same jokes, the same attitudes of all concerned, and the same one-dimensional, stigma-attached character of a person who happens to enjoy wearing clothes more commonly associated with the opposite sex.

Though some of the direction is very nice, from slow shots tracking leaves blowing in the wind at the funeral of Charlie’s father to the many shots of shoes and of people’s feet as each scene is introduced, very little besides is ambitious enough to be singled out for any particular praise. Edgerton does very little wrong in the role of Charlie, though hardly impresses, while all else involved (save for Ejiofor) seem themselves to settle for being pigeon holed single-character actors, rather than attempting to explore the person they are supposed to represent.

That the second half of the film is actually worse than the first perhaps owes to nothing more than the simple fact that it hasn’t ended yet, but does contain some truly awful scenes, without question the worst being that of Lola arm wrestling the local pub champion, in order to gain both his respect and that of the other men of the factory, and by proxy the women. When she eventually loses, after a battle so long and so ridiculous that it actually evokes memories of Sylvester Stallone’s Over the Top, it is abundantly clear to all watching that she has allowed him to succeed, in order that he is not shamed. Potentially, this could actually be a decent enough moment, but for Julian Jarrold’s unwillingness to give the viewer even the least scrap of credit for being able to work out such a simple scenario. Instead, we have to endure a couple of minutes of Lola explaining to the man exactly why she allowed him to win. That said, given the way the majority of the film’s working class characters are portrayed; i.e. stupid and ignorant, perhaps the director does actually believe that the explanation is necessary given the films target audience.

With its manufactured feelings, overplayed emotions, and inability to come anywhere close to obtaining the viewers belief in its storyline or message, Kinky Boots is as far from recommended as could realistically be envisaged. Was it funnier, and less sickly in its ‘please feel good’ request of its audience, it could have actually been much better. Many recent trashy American comedies, such as Old School, Anchorman, and Wedding Crashers, which really offer no more stimulating content than this film, have succeeded for the simple reason that they have clearly decided to avoid preaching a message to their viewer, and insisted on remaining strictly comedy. Julian Jerrold, in his future films, would himself be advised to make a similar choice.

Review by Alex McMillan

Voices Of Iraq (The People of Iraq, USA & Iraq, 2004, 79 Minutes)

2005-08-22T21:06:00.000Z

In the midst of the many arguments and counter-arguments as to who exactly is mostly to blame for the current plight of the state of Iraq – the American’s freed the country from the tyranny of Saddam Hussein, but in doing so killed many thousands of the county’s inhabitants, and had originally brought his regime to power in any event, often it is the very people of the country who are forced to suffer the violence, poverty, and misery whose voice is not heard. Through this documentary however, made throughout the early rebuilding process after the latest war, the civilians of the country are given the opportunity to voice their opinions on everything from world politics to world music, and at the same time depict the culture and diversity of one of the world’s oldest nations.

And this they do with great energy, which makes for an innovative, compelling, and mostly successful documentary. This is film in its very truest form; somewhere between journalism and artistic expression, with a complete freedom of content and opinion throughout. That the film was eventually edited in the USA would perhaps raise some questions over what influences may have ‘helped’ shape its eventual form, but by and large it certainly gives the impression of being given a fairly unrestrained political licence, and includes divided opinions from the multi-faceted sides of the debate on the many arguments which currently encompass Iraq’s future. It also shows extreme footage from both supporters of the new ‘democratised’ state, and those who oppose it. Particularly notable, both for their powerfully emotive nature and their simplistic brutality are the footage of the torture of Saddam’s regime, and the videos of the ‘Insurgents’, used to appeal to Arabs, both inside and outside Iraq, to rise up against the American’s influence.

Far too often in these days of ‘reality’ television, documentary filmmakers over-impose themselves on their subjects; the camera always seeming to linger in the face of the emotional character for a few seconds, or sadly sometimes minutes, too long. In many of these examples, the viewer becomes uncomfortable, as the human being in question is exploited by the camera, a small piece of who they are stolen from them in the process and displayed publicly. Its cheap television, and often cheap filmmaking. Voices of Iraq however, feels entirely different. Here, for the first time, these people have access to a voice, a representation of their culture, their suffering, their hopes and their fears, which can realistically attain a global audience. When they cry; when they break down and mourn the loss of their loved ones, and a world which seems unable to condemn killing other than by more killing, the sentiment is that they deserve to have this seen. This is their moment, their chance to grieve their children, whether falling at the hands of the previous regime or of the Americans, in the same manner that the people of Britain, America, and the rest of the Western world mourn on those rarer occasions when they too are the victims of bombs and killing.

Though it is possible that this film has been edited ‘carefully’, it would not do justice to its makers, or to the ideals they began creating it with, to suggest that the feelings of the Iraqi people are not uniquely expressed through it. It is an innovative, provocative, and emotionally attention grabbing film. Its very best moment comes near its opening, when a small girl is asked what message she would give to the world if they could hear her. ‘These explosions’, she simply replies, ‘are hurting everyone’.

Review by Alex McMillan

Me And You And Everyone We Know (Miranda July, USA, 2005)

2005-08-17T18:33:00.000Z

Do you love me? Even though I'm a little bit irritating?

Romantic comedies are a guilty pleasure. For me, the joy they provide is in the insights into human relationships and reactions, but more often than not they're saturated with unpalatable schmaltz. A truly entertaining and intelligent romantic film is one of life's rare treats and with her feature debut, Miranda July has made a particularly refreshing and touching story about two people moving slowly towards love. Me And You And Everyone We Know is not merely a romantic comedy though; it is an ensemble piece, similar to a Todd Solondz creation but instead of the car-crash dysfunction there's a novel, funny and profound way of looking at the world.

Shoe salesman Richard Swersey (John Hawkes), newly separated from his wife and living with his two sons, is optimistic and ready for amazing things to happen, although when he meets Christine (Miranda July) he resists her advances. Christine is a part-time artist and driver for 'Eldercabs' who persists with a self-deriding romantic optimism: one of her art pieces is of her voice asking a recording of a cheering crowd, 'Do you love me? Even though I'm a little bit irritating?' These are apt questions as even if you find her a little bit irritating there is a lot to grow to love about her. If she ever veers towards behaving like a hopeless singleton romantic she will hit you with a bitingly funny line. To herself she bemoans Richard's lack of interest, 'We've got the rest of our lives to live together! But you've got to call me first, fucker!'

Richard and Christine are not the only characters trying to come together; Richard's two sons are having their own dramas of growing up and are the targets for others' relationship desires. Peter (Miles Thompson) is a cool, does-his-own-thing 14 year old whom the local girls want to use to play growing up with. For 10 year old Sylvie (Carlie Westerman) this involves a 1950s idealised version of domesticity, where her idols are the latest kitchen appliances; for best friends Heather and Rebecca who want to be sexually experienced, he is their plaything to practise on. Robby (Brandon Ratcliff), the 7 year old son, is having an inappropriate chat-room relationship with a woman - as inappropriate as a 7 year old could get. As with his brother's sexual experimentation, this storyline makes for scenes that are superficially shocking, but real, touching and hilarious with their innocence.

July workshopped the script for Me And You And Everyone We Know for two consecutive years at Sundance, and the time spent on it pays off through every scene being not only taut but also novel and engaging. There are limited human emotions to represent but limitless ways of showing them and July never lapses into trite cliché. Common situations are quickly deflected by something unexpected. Christine is giving a lift to one of her elderly clients, Michael, who has recently fallen in love with the aged and ailing Ellen, when he muses to Christine that perhaps he needed 70 years of life to be ready for a woman like Ellen. Just as you start to equate this information with Christine's loneliness they spot a goldfish in a bag of water left on the roof of the car driving along next to them. That a goldfish can cut through a discussion of love with the more pressing issues of physics, morality, mortality, duty, action and drama as they try to figure out how to the goldfish could survive this bizarre situation, is something remarkable.

Although July has worked with film before, she is a multimedia artist as comfortable with performance art as short story writing. Her aesthetic sense is reflected strongly in the look of the film, from Christine's cute and artsy wardrobe to the way things look against the blue sky of a sunny day. And the days are sunny and even the browns look appealing. Miranda July shares a look and a sensibility with two other actresses who, irrelevantly I'm sure, share her first initial, Maggie Gylenhaal and Margot Stilley: intelligent women with an independent spirit, which I hope there will be a lot more of to come.

Review by Jenny Jacoby

Primer (Shane Carruth, USA, 2004, 77mins)

2005-08-17T18:32:00.000Z

It's not uncommon for people in a job that doesn't inspire them to think about giving it all up and pursuing a dream, maybe even scripting, directing and acting in their own film. 31 year old engineer Shane Carruth did just that, and after three years of teaching himself filmmaking, the result is the Sundance Grand Jury Prize winner, Primer. The film is an impressive debut, a culmination of the interests, skills and craving for creative expression of the overactive mind of an intelligent and unsatisfied young man.

This engineer and maths graduate chose physics as the subject that drives his characters. Not a sexy topic, nor one that Carruth knew much about at first, but being entranced by the concept of invention, he immersed himself in its language and themes to create a naturalistic script and story about two physics enthusiasts tinkering with various inventions. Like himself, Carruth's characters Abe and Aaron are more interested in their extracurricular passions than their paid employment. Outside of work the geek-chic friends develop a machine that blocks the gravitational pull on objects placed inside it, reducing their apparent mass. While playing about with their invention, they discover a side effect of the machine that has much further reaching consequences than they could ever have imagined.

Abe and Aaron's friends and colleagues in their small side-business of selling mail-order computer error checking devices, soon disappear from the action as the two gingerly enter into an adventure with their invention. One of the most pleasing elements of the film is that there is nothing out of the ordinary about Abe and Aaron. They are regular guys with reactions we can understand; they are distinctly unglamorous, their conversation unremarkable. What they have discovered is extraordinary but their reaction to it is not. The crux of the film is how people respond to a turning point in their lives - when Abe and Aaron decide to play around with their discovery, their lives change for good. In this way, universality is brought into the film: nobody could really make this discovery but we can watch our possible reactions to it played out on the screen in houses and lives that could be our own.

Carruth masterminded the whole project with a strong aesthetic. Even though the film was made 'for the price of a used car', Carruth knew he didn't want to compromise on his medium and recorded on film rather than digitally. For a science fiction film, the production surprisingly eschews any modern trappings. Filmed on Super 16mm and blown up to 35mm, the result looks over-exposed and retro, which makes the whole film seem yet more real or possible.

My strongest criticism is that the 'realness' intrudes to the point that the dialogue is so naturalistic that it can be mumbled, and the background noises so deftly considered that the speech can be very hard to follow. Two physics enthusiasts getting carried away with the possibilities of their noisy machinery would be difficult to understand or even hear, but in a film where the plot does take some complicated turns, it's very important to know what's going on. Otherwise, it could be like watching an old cinefilm of your brother in his shirtsleeves.

Review by Jenny Jacoby

The Secret Lives of Dentists (Alan Rudolph, USA 2003, 105mins)

2005-08-10T21:01:00.000Z

The chaos of middle class family life and the moral complexity of marriage are deftly captured in this melancholy domestic comedy-drama. Adapted by Craig Lucas (Longtime Companion), from "The Age of Grief", Jane Smiley’s best selling novella, The Secret Lives of Dentists is a story of passivity and evasion in the face of confrontation. Dana and David Hurst (Hope Davis and Campbell Scott) are a seemingly happy couple with all the requisite attributes and accessories of a comfortable middle class lifestyle: three young daughters, thriving joint dental practice, comfortable suburban home and a house in the country. David is perfectly content with his lot, but Dana yearns for more. As their marriage cools, David begins to suspect that his wife may be having an affair.

Told predominantly through David’s point of view – an internal monologue of sorts, the film opens with his ruminations on life, teeth, and the encroachment of middle age. At 38, David tells us that he is entering the age of grief. He also tells us that patients can’t be trusted with their teeth – a harsh indictment for faithful adherents of good dental hygiene, but one that bears currency in the guise of Slater (Dennis Leary), an angry patient with lousy teeth for whom David needs to fill a tooth. Dana, who has joined the chorus in a local opera company, is performing in a production of Verdi’s Nabucco. After David and the kids have dropped off Dana at the theatre, they discover that she has forgotten her lucky rabbit foot. David runs to return it to her, but when he spots her backstage speak softly to a man in a particularly intimate manner, David, startled and shaken by what he has witnessed, cannot confront her and quietly returns to the car instead. Seated beside his daughters in the theatre, David is trying to make sense of what he saw when he is suddenly and brutally shocked out of his reverie by none other than Slater, who loudly and publicly berates David because his new filling has fallen out. During the performance, David listens to the opera, letting the music recall memories of their courtship, their marriage, the birth of their first child, and the opening of their dental practice. Worried that his marriage might not last, David begins to see his life with Dana pass before his eyes.

Caught up in the routine of daily life, David seems to use his professional and domestic responsibilities as an excuse to avoid challenging Dana with his suspicions – even after she starts to return home late. His inertia merely fuels his anxiety, which manifests itself in fantasies about Dana’s sex life and in imagining that Slater is by his side – an alter ego as such, who derides David in a running commentary for not acting like a “real man”. It is to the credit of Campbell Scott’s restrained performance that we experience the turmoil within David’s mind whilst also observing the passive, unemotional persona he projects to the outside world. When the whole family comes down with a nasty flu, David’s fantasies become increasingly paranoid and violent, and perhaps to ameliorate the guilt and anguish these cause him, throws himself with heroic vigour into the care of his family. When the fever breaks and family health is restored, David hopes that equilibrium, too, has been restored. But when Dana does not return one night, Slater churns up David’s insecurities to breaking point.

Alan Rudolph worked as assistant director to Robert Altman and adapted Altman’s method of improvisation, small budgets and free form narrative into his own oeuvre, making a name for himself for representing the humorous, the paradoxical and the melancholy side of emotional relationships. He gained critical acclaim for Welcome to LA (1976), the quirky love roundelay Choose Me (1984), The Moderns (1988), Mrs Parker & the Vicious Circle (1994) and more recently, Afterglow (1997), an odd and moving portrait of two couples in search of emotional salvation outside the boundaries of their respective marriages, which suddenly brought him into the limelight when Julie Christie was nominated for a best-actress Oscar.

But despite intelligent and sensitive handling of his subjects and a fluid quality to his visual style, Mr Rudolph’s films never really make a lasting impact, and The Secret Lives of Dentists is no exception. While we’ve been privy to the emotional breakdown of the central character from within his mindset, we never really engage with him. David’s wilful resistance to confrontation is so irritating that we understand why Dana strays. Though this all makes perfect sense in terms of narrative structure (emotional distance is a position David prefers as a means of protection from the very real – and painful – situation he finds himself), there is then the problem that pathos, too, is kept at a distance, thus making the 105-minute running time feel longer than it is. Ultimately we merely witness a relationship in crisis, but what feel and experience is little more than a mild toothache.

Review by Erica Rosen

Yes (Sally Potter, UK/USA, 95mins)

2005-08-03T15:44:00.000Z

After Auschwitz there can be no poetry – Theodore Adorno
After Auschwitz there can only be poetry – Tony Harrison

Creative responses to traumatic events have always been problematic. For some, like Adorno, the sheer force and collective shock of an event such as The Holocaust makes it impossible for anyone to engage creatively ever again - in a world that has been scarred by such acts committed by a human hand, there is no room for trifles such as poetry or creative thought. Harrison, however, turns this idea on its head and believes that the only way to deal with trauma is to react creatively. For him, these acts cannot be understood in rational ways and need to be filtered through creativity to make any sense at all.

Sally Potter started to write Yes shortly after 9/11 and, although the film is not directly about the event, it hangs heavy with the confusion, anger and distress of the days immediately following the attacks. In part, Yes is a thoughtful and poignant film about the break-up of a relationship between successful molecular biologist (simply known as “she” and played with sparseness by Joan Allen) and a British MP (played by Sam Neill). It is also a film about division – whether it be sexual, religious or cultural. Joan Allen’s character is desperately unhappy and even though she is living with her husband, she is isolated to the point of being extricated from the relationship. She meets a Lebanese man (simply known as “he” and played by Simon Abkarian) at a function and so begins an intense relationship that liberates her from her husband’s clutches, only to place her in the centre of a war of words and ideologies.

On the surface of it, Yes is a simple love story. That the man is a Muslim and from the Middle East and the woman from America complicates matters somewhat, as does Potter’s decision to write the film in Iambic Pentameter – the form of verse that Shakespeare favoured. For Potter, the decision to write the film in poetry, rather than in naturalistic speech perhaps suggests that she is more in tune with the ideas of Harrison, rather than Adorno, but it also makes Yes a particularly frustrating and pretentious experiment, rather than an engaging and poignant metaphor for our global state of play.

Potter seems confused about what she wants Yes to be. Opening with the philosophical ramblings of the woman’s cleaner (Shirley Henderson) – an all seeing, all knowing Greek chorus-like voice to the action, and continuing with the story of the growing sexual, emotional and intellectual bonds between the Muslim man and the American woman, the film is a strange hybrid of many styles and ideas, none of them adding up to anything particularly significant.

Potter’s film does have moments of beauty, profundity and power, but these are all too infrequent. A heated conversation between the man and the woman in an underground car park lays bare their differences and, for the only time in the film, makes clear the distinctions and similarities between their relationship and the ongoing war and tensions between the West and the Muslim world. Likewise, a scene of the woman at the bedside of her dying Aunt (Sheila Hancock) is beautifully touching and is Potter at her very best. The stillness of the scene coupled with the aching power of the dying woman’s voiceover is almost too much to bear. Potter also utilises dance in a surprising and innovative way. Having started as a dancer and choreographer, it is not surprise that she understands movement and in Yes, she uses dance when words fail – as a non verbal but deeply poetic form of communication.

Although there are fleeting moments of carefully crafted brilliance in Yes, it fails to live up to the power of its individual parts and at best is a brave but self-absorbed reaction to our current global crisis.

Review by Barnaby Welch

Bandolero! (Andrew V McLaren, 1968, USA, 106 Minutes)

2005-07-24T08:02:00.000Z

From early classics such as John Ford’s 1939 masterpiece Stagecoach, through to latter day successes like Clint Eastwood’s Pale Rider (1985) or Unforgiven (1992), the Western genre is one which has, perhaps more than any other style of film, encapsulated what classic Hollywood cinema at its very best has to offer. In a current climate when most of the larger budget American films are poorly reflected remakes of previous commercial successes, the pioneering of early Western directors and screenwriters, through texts such as The Searchers (1956) and Red River (1948) looks increasingly innovative in its simplistic approach to the art as time goes by.

Unfortunately, Andrew V McLaren’s Bandolero! Is definitely not such an example of the genre’s success.

Like a great deal of things, the success and failure of a film is generally gauged and defined by the slightest of margins. What can promise to be a classic can often brutally disappoint, in the same way that many films regularly defined by the industry as classics are often borne from the least likely of sources. Where Bandolero! fails to fulfil the potential its cast, direction, and terrific music score promises, is primarily through the casting itself. James Stewart, Dean Martin and Racquel Welch signify an expensive and all star cast for 1968, with George Kennedy a more than able addition. But it is each individual’s role, and not necessarily the actors themselves, which really doesn’t work. As an actor, and particularly as a Western star, Stewart’s abilities are unquestionable, his roles in films from The Naked Spur to The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance pleasing and memorable. What he seems to be trying to do here though, is to take his noble, inherently good charms, and transpose them into the character of an outlaw rebel, which is the least likely of accomplishments for the most versatile actor, which Stewart, for all his appeal, would never be found guilty of being.

Stewarts miscasting pales, however, in the horrendous decision to give Welch the role of a tough Mexican ex-prostitute mourning the loss of her husband, killed in the opening scenes by Martin’s character. Though deliciously beautiful; a fusion of ladylike elegance and powerful sexuality, Racquel Welch struggles terribly in just about every aspect of the role, from her comically appalling accent to her attempts at realistic emotions of loss over her new found love (Dean Martin’s character, quite unsurprisingly). For a film which could be accused of borrowing too much from other late sixties Westerns like The Professionals, this role of the scorned, hardened woman struggling in a male dominated environment is pivotal. Welch quite simply is no Claudia Cardinale. Likewise George Kennedy, who can occasionally deliver performances which would suggest he is often badly cast and underrated, squirms inadequately in the role of the good Sheriff who doesn’t get the girl, looking uncomfortable throughout.

In the end though, it is the Sheriff who leaves with Welch, as all the other characters perish in a scene extremely similar to the closing scenes of The Wild Bunch, though not quite so well acted or edited. What this proves with regards to the message of the film, is that those who stay on the right side of the law can survive, while all those who live by the metaphoric sword should ultimately die by it. For his law-abiding efforts, the Sheriff doesn’t necessarily end up with the girl whose attention he craves, but he does at least survive where all the others, who have given into temptation and greed throughout, do not. The moment Stewart’s character makes an opportunistic bank robbery, one of the most pleasing sequences of the film, is the moment his fate is sealed.

What does save this film somewhat though, what lifts it from the level of complete mediocrity and gives it an easily watchable appeal, are its three best assets; namely the direction of McLaren, the delightful music score throughout, and the charismatic acting of Dean Martin who, in a role far weaker than his career best of Dude in Howard Hawks beautiful Rio Bravo, nonetheless delivers his lines with the wit, conviction and steel that is the highlight of his acting career. What Martin, like the film in general, desperately needs is a strong character, along the lines of those portrayed so well by the likes of John Wayne and Lee Marvin, in order to bounce his vulnerable-bad-guy-with-a-heart off. The characters played by Stewart and Kennedy would have been ideal of course, but one of the biggest problems with the film is that it can’t quite decide who the good guys are, and who the bad guys are, other than the bizarre representation of very native-American acting Mexican bandits. Had John Wayne played the role of the Sheriff, as he so memorably did in Rio Bravo, or the elder brother of Martin’s character as worked so well in The Sons of Katie Elder, it is conceivable that the outlook of this film would have changed dramatically.

McLaren’s direction, though by no means a break from previous styles of the genre, does offer some excellent shots, a fine example being the water spraying from the Rio Grande as the posse of bounty hunters drive their horses through it. Along with the music score accredited to the legendary Jerry Goldsmith, the direction does its very best to make the film look far better than it may otherwise have been, and does so to a degree of success.

Given the time of the film’s creation, in comparison with the many other similar films made in this era, it is nearly impossible to recommend. As a terrestrial television Sunday afternoon matinee, it would provide a couple of hours of light entertainment. For those slightly more serious about their film viewing, it is a disappointing and scantly significant text from a genre bursting with many classics. Fans of Westerns will already know this of course, while those new to such films should be pointed in the direction of far better efforts made by the likes of John Ford, Sergio Leone, and Howard Hawks.

Review by Alex McMillan

Kiss Them For Me (Stanley Donen, USA, 1957)

2005-07-24T08:01:00.000Z

Based on Luther Davis’s stage play "Shore Leave", Kiss Them For Me is a perfunctory forces comedy that lacks the bite or sparkle of other similar films.

Andy Crewson (a lacklustre Cary Grant) and three of his fellow soldiers hitch a ride from their base in Honolulu to San Francisco for four days of leave. They scam their way into the Ambassadorial Suite of the swankiest hotel and in town and proceed to party their leave away – with raucous results.

Kiss Them For Me is a strange mixture of a broad sex comedy (most of the film’s humour comes at Jayne Mansfield’s expense or from Grant’s misogynistic quips) and serious, contemplative post-war movie. At the beginning of the film the ragtag group of soldiers, led by Grant’s suave and handsome Crewson, wonder what they will do with their lives after the war has ended. For the soldiers, the war has become their lives and the homes and loved ones that they left behind are vague memories. There is some real (and contemporarily relevant) poignancy in these scenes which simply and beautifully elucidate the journey from civilian to soldier and back to civilian again. These quieter moments, however, are brushed under the carpet when the group arrives in San Francisco and convert their suite into a honey trap, luring most of the women in the city to their rooms with false promises of nylon stockings. This is where Kiss Them For Me becomes stale, uninteresting and fails to make the transition from page to screen. The overlong sequences of endless parties in the suite do nothing to speed the plot along and, once we have realised that the men will do anything to prolong their time in the city and delay their return to duty, the fizz is lost. In parts, the film is reminiscent of the far superior Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, but Mansfield is no Monroe and Grant tries too hard to keep the comic edge whilst exploring darker, more serious territory.

Kiss them for me is released as part of the Twentieth Century Fox Studio Classics series and is available from the 1st of August 2005.

Review by Barnaby Welch

Madagascar (Eric Darnell & Tom McGrath, USA, 2005, 86mins)

2005-07-16T09:28:00.000Z

Dreamworks' latest adventure follows four friends from the cultural melting pot that is New York as they leave the city for the first time on an adventure in Madagascar. Alex, Marty, Gloria and Melman are of course animals, however; united in originating from Africa but never having been there. Instead, they're human-friendly, hip, New York City Zoo animals, familiar with bouffants and beef steak but not their natural state where Alex the lion and Marty the zebra would be hunter and hunted rather than best friends. In Madagascar, this relationship is put to the test: will friendship or nature win out?

As Marty, voiced by Chris Rock, celebrates his birthday, his friends notice all is not well with the zebra. He has heard tell of 'the wild' and is desperate to find out what it's like before he is too old, even if his friends think it's a terrible idea. When they discover Marty has made a break for it, they have no choice but to enter the urban jungle themselves to bring him back. Of course, four big African animals do not go unnoticed even in anything-goes New York, and they only reach Grand Central Station before being captured and turned into the poster-animals for the campaign to renaturalise zoo animals. Before they know it, they are shipped off to Kenya.

The main architects of the zoo breakout are the hilarious penguins: tiny birds with big plans. When they realise the boat they're on is bound for Kenya rather than Antarctica, they hijack it and make a such a dramatic handbreak turn that the four friends fall overboard to be washed up on the shores of Madagascar.

With animation technology advancing at the rapid rate needed to realise the ideas that companies like Dreamworks dream up, marveling at the new developments becomes an inherent part of the experience of each release. In the face of this, Madagascar at first seems like a backwards step where the animals look more synthetic than characters from the earliest days of computer animation. On top of this, the animals seem to behave differently - bobbing and spinning like the Tasmanian Devil rather than anthropomorphically. With Madagascar, the filmmakers are revisiting the glory days of cartoons, where the physical clowning is as important a facet as plot or characterisation. This squashing and stretching called for a technological development to achieve what can be easily done with a pencil. At first the effect is disarming: Alex, the zoo's star lion, darts and spins about the screen for no apparent reason, seemingly very 2D for a Dreamworks character. When the dashing about settles down and the story develops, the cartoonish nature of the film becomes one of its most enjoyable aspects.

New York is rendered impressively, looking better than life, with every detail captured accurately. It's a flat, autumnal place, though, which gives contrast to Madagascar's colourful, lush jungle. One of the hardest things for computer animators to represent are realistic crowd scenes, and in the jungle the friends come across one of the strangest crowds yet imagined: thousands of lemurs of every ilk, dancing to 'Move It Move It' by the light of colourful lanterns. Stranger still than this group is their king, Julien, voiced by Sacha Baron Cohen. Julien is a classic Baron Cohen invention, sounding like Borat if he was Indian. And French. Needless to say, he is a bonkers and often hilarious character; an amusing distraction from the four solid characters going through their own changes.

In Madagascar, the friends are put to the test. Away from the zoo's pampering and meat supply, Alex reverts to his natural, uncivilised state; in one of the film's several sequences parodying other films, he dreams he's languishing on a bed of steaks, with more steaks raining onto him like American Beauty's rose petals. Ben Stiller is one of the few people who could give an innocent, child-like character like Alex the depth needed when he begins to feel at odds with his nature. While Alex does some soul-searching, Melman the giraffe finds his new environment provides him with even more opportunities for worrying about his health. Melman with his hypochondria and gangly legs is mostly a comic distraction, and David Schwimmer fulfils this role with exactly the sorrowful comic mastery he gave us in Friends. Gloria the hippo is given life by Jada Pinkett Smith and as the only girl in the group, makes sure her boys are OK and even manages to heal the rift between Alex and Marty.

So, friendship wins out: it's an old story and here it's told through disconnected ideas and old fashioned cartooning, but its humour is fresh and it's a very entertaining story.

Review by Jenny Jacoby

The Descent (Neil Marshall, UK, 2005, 100mins)

2005-07-07T12:13:00.000Z

A year after Sarah (Shauna Macdonald) loses both her husband and child in a horrific car crash, a group of her extreme sports loving friends decide to take her to America to go caving in a remote and largely unchartered series of underground caverns. Juno (Natalie Mendoza), a tough and rugged woman with caving experience leads the girls deep inside the earth. They soon get lost and find themselves trapped when a narrow passageway, seemingly the only way out of the cave system, is blocked by a rock fall. Desperate to find an exit, the girls soon discover that they are far from alone in the dark. The crawlers, a vicious group of creatures that live deep in the pitch-black have sniffed the visitors and are ravenous.

With Dog Soldiers, Marshall proved himself a master of the low-budget horror. With little more than a forest setting and a few rather suspect werewolf costumes, he fashioned one of the most effective British horror movies of recent years. With The Descent, he tops it – and then some.

With our inherent fear of the dark and enclosed spaces, it would not take much to make a film that takes place in claustrophobic caverns scary, but Marshall seems to have a remarkable talent for making even the most innocent locations frightening. The beginning of the film, complete with horrifically gruesome car accident is filled with dread, as are the hallucinogenic moments when Sarah wakes up from a coma to find her family dead. Before we have even entered the caves, Marshall throws a number of significant scares in our direction, unbalancing us and further preparing us for the ride to come.

Where The Descent differs from Dog Soldiers is in the formers complete lack of humour. In Marshall’s previous film, the scares were almost always followed by a tension-releasing giggle. In this film, there is no such discharge. Once the group enter the earth, it is a terrifying, unrelenting journey through horror and out the other side. When the final confrontation between the women and the crawlers arrives, The Descent turns into a bloodthirsty and horrifically violent fight to survive.

As in most horror films, the characters in The Descent are almost forgettable. Marshall does, however, investigate the dynamics of the group with conviction and portrays their shifting loyalties, exposed secrets and eroding relationships believably. This gives a depth to the otherwise generic plot, but seems unnecessary given the films relentless drive to scare the bejesus out of you.

Review by Barnaby Welch

Overnight (Mark Brian Smith & Tony Montana, USA 2004, 81 mins)

2005-07-07T12:12:00.000Z

When Mark Brian Smith and Tony Montana teamed up in 1996 to document the meteoric rise of their drinking buddy, Troy Duffy, from struggling musician-screenwriter-bartender-bouncer to Hollywood darling, little did they think that the project, which they expected would take about a year, would turn into a 7-year odyssey. Their intention was to offer a verité-style, behind-the-scenes account of a blue-collar sensational success story – a perfectly understandable assumption considering the facts at the time. Within a few months after completion, Duffy’s script for The Boondock Saints had created a frenzy among Hollywood executives, landed him a contract with the William Morris Agency, and saw him featured on the covers of “USA Today” and “The Hollywood Reporter” when an unprecedented deal with Miramax and Harvey Weinstein was made – a deal, which also included an offer to feature a soundtrack produced by Duffy’s band “The Syndicate” as well as to purchase J. Sloan’s (the bar where Duffy worked and drank), as part of his contract.

Four years of intensive filming, 350 hours of footage and hundreds of stills later, what they ended up with was Overnight, a rags-to-riches-and-back-again story, which presumes to be as much of an indictment of the film industry as it is of the belligerent, abusive and over-rated personality at its core.

Documentary gives way to mockumentary here in part through the almost comic unravelling of events and fortunes of Duffy, who manages through the course of the film to fall out with his friends, family and associates, but also through a self-conscious (if not pretentious) use of “indie” film style gimmicks including everything from use of split-screen to the proverbial grainy visual effects inherent to the “indie” aesthetic. The filmmakers boast employing an impressive array of formats that included 8mm, Mini-DV, Beta SP, Super 8 and 16mm. Though this aspect might present great appeal to budding filmmakers, Smith and Montana seem to have been carried away by style-over-substance to the extent that the film feels a helluva lot longer than its 81-minute running time. More than enough time however to ponder what it was that Harvey Weinstein saw in Duffy and The Boondock Saints project in the first place, particularly as there is very little about the making of the film itself. More effort is given to the development and ultimate disintegration of the band and soundtrack, but despite the rather sympathetic portrayal of Duffy’s patient and beleaguered brother, Taylor, the music – derivative of the ZZ Top school of rock – doesn’t exactly pique one’s interest.

While Duffy’s star was still in the ascent, we see big names such as Mark Wahlberg and Willem Dafoe swanning around – attracted no doubt to the aura of the next big “indie” director and what that could potentially exploit for their own purposes. But glory fades, and in Duffy’s case it went out like a light.

Review by Erica Rosen

In My Father’s Den (Brad McGann, New Zealand, 2004, 112mins)

2005-06-24T10:55:00.000Z

A moving and poignant film, In My Father’s Den tells the story of Paul Prior (an excellent Matthew Macfadyen), a world-respected but failed war photographer and journalist. After his father’s sudden death, he returns to his native New Zealand – the country that he fled from 17 years earlier. There he is reacquainted with his religious fanatic Brother, Andrew (Colin Moy) and meets his wife, Penny (Miranda Otto). New Zealand is a collage of painful memories for Paul and he instinctively wants to leave as soon as he gets there. Responsibility, however (as well as a deep-seated but unspoken desire to find his roots and unravel the painful mess that is his life) forces him to stay. Paul soon throws himself into small town New Zealand life. He lectures students on photography at the local college and lands a part-time job as an English Teacher there. He meets and befriends Celia (a fantastic Emily Barclay), a loner and daughter of Paul’s ex-girlfriend. The two begin to spend time with each other and are drawn together by their common disinterest in the rest of the world and their separateness from society. However, when Celia goes missing and is presumed murdered, blame falls on Paul and the numerous secrets about his past and repressed memories come flooding back.

It is difficult to describe In My Father’s Den with much precision. Like Ray Lawrence’s superb Lantana (2001), the film aims high, attempting to construct a patchwork quilt of human experience within a small town, and the effect that a violent crime has on that delicate balance. Matthew Macfadyen’s Paul is quiet and haunted, desperate to understand his continuous feelings of regret, anger, loss and disappointment. Likewise, his brother Andrew is constantly searching for the answer to his Mother’s sudden disappearance and desperate to fill the whole that her death created – even going as far as marrying Penny, who looks remarkably like her. Everyone in the small town that Paul returns to is tinged with sadness. In particular, Paul’s ex-girlfriend Jackie (Jodie Rimmer) seems never to have recovered from Paul’s departure and is contained in a relationship with a man who seems more interested in her daughter.

The film’s languid pace leaves enough time to get to know the characters in the town intimately and understand their respective plights. Paul, who uncovers many painful secrets about himself and unearths repressed and horrific memories during his visit, is our guide through the emotionally damaged waters. His life has been a constant running away from responsibility and permanence. This constant fleeing from anything of substance has resulted in a life devoid of boundaries, friendships or love. His relationship with Celia (although purely platonic) seems the continuation of the relationship with her mother, Paul’s first (and last) love. It is also what changes his life forever. Like the final piece of a puzzle, Celia’s disapearance is the catalyst to Paul discovering the horrific truth about his own situation.

In My Father’s Den is a superbly written film that, even in the more conventional and genre-based moments in its final act, retains a dignity, depth and complexity that is rich and poignant. Although the final emotional revelations come a bit too thick and fast towards the end, it is hypnotic and heart-rending. Macfadyen, who is better known for the BBC series Spooks, proves himself as a world-class actor of weight and substance and Emily Barclay as Celia is affecting and totally believable as a girl on the verge of womanhood, who is painfully disappointed with the world that she has grown up in.

In My Father’s Den is a surprisingly rich and multi-layered experience that first demands your full attention and then pays out generously.

Review by Barnaby Welch

Sin City (Robert Rodriguez/Frank Miller, USA, 124 min)

2005-06-15T18:30:00.000Z

It’s been a pretty good year for comics legend Frank Miller. Batman Begins, loosely based on his back-to-basics Batman: Year One series, is taking cinemas by storm, and his collaboration with Robert Rodriguez on Sin City has yielded one of the most successful comic-to-screen adaptations ever.

‘Adaptation’ might be something of a misnomer – ‘transplant’ might be more apt, as the directorial pairing has literally transferred Miller’s series of monotone graphic novels from page to screen, complete with grotesque characters, dialogue ripped from Philip Marlowe’s darkest days, and surreal, almost cartoon violence.

Split into three parts, the film is based on three of Miller’s graphic novels: the first , The Hard Goodbye, chronicles hulking Marv’s (Mickey Rourke) quest for revenge after the only woman he ever loved is murdered. The second, The Big Fat Kill, follows a gang war between an organised crime syndicate and the prostitutes of Old Town, while That Yellow Bastard is the story of Bruce Willis’s grizzled cop hunting down the paedophile son of the city’s most powerful man.

The ensemble of big name actors who virtually beat down Rodriguez’s door to appear in the film is impressive, as are their performances, but of them all, Rourke elicits the audience’s empathy as Marv, a monster of a man with an outdated sense of honour, and Elijah Wood terrifies as Kevin, a cannibalistic, serial-killing martial artist.

If one criticism could be levelled against the film, it is that the characters are two-dimensional. However, given that the source material is itself two-dimensional, lacking the time or inclination to develop the characters beyond their personal vendettas/crusades, this can be excused when seen as part of the big picture.

And what a big picture this is. It is spectacular – the splashes of colour amongst the beautifully-lit blacks, whites and greys highlight the unique nature of Sin City, a noir thriller given a post-millennial spin, where everything is computer-generated, from urban rooftops to snow-covered fields.

If you’re a fan of film noir, graphic novels or Robert Rodriguez, you’re in for a treat. If you’re not familiar with any of the above, this will leave you hungry for more.

Review by Ian Jordan

Swimming Upstream (Russell Mulcahy, Australia, 2004)

2005-06-04T14:39:00.000Z

The story of Australian swimmer Anthony Fingleton and his journey from the Brisbane suburbs to national swimming championships and eventually to Harvard University on a full scholarship, Swimming Upstream is a typical ‘triumph over adversity’ picture that, apart from two terrific performances by Judy Davis and Geoffrey Rush as Fingleton’s parents, has little to recommend it.

Young Anthony, his two brothers and sister grow up in 1950’s Brisbane and seek solace from the sun and their tempestuous home life in the local municipal pool. Overshadowed by his brothers, Anthony eventually stands out when it becomes apparent that he has a particular gift for swimming. Their overbearing father, Harold, eventually takes notice and begins to coach Anthony and his younger brother John. Soon, Anthony begins to enter and win national championships. Harold, however, takes a turn for the worst and begins to drink heavily, becoming abusive and vitriolic. After fuelling rivalry between the two brothers for an important national competition, Harold loses interest in his sons’ and sinks further into an alcoholic quagmire of self-loathing. After Dora, Harold’s long-suffering wife, attempts to kill herself with an overdose of sleeping pills and eventually leaves Harold, Anthony becomes Commonwealth champion and is eventually offered a full scholarship at Harvard University.

There is no doubt that Fingleton’s story is an amazing one. For a person to triumph when the odds are so firmly stacked against him is extraordinary and a testament to the power of the human spirit. Unfortunately, the film seems perfunctory rather than extraordinary and has little of the drama that is inherent in Fingleton’s dramatic rise to the top.

The main reason for the lack of engagement is stylistic. Mulcahy chooses to shoot the scenes in the family home with a free-flowing, casual and hand-held camera that makes the most of the claustrophobic interiors. For the most part, these are the most successful moments in the film. Harold’s initial warmth (at one point he even sings ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’ whilst dancing with Dora in kitchen) turns to violence and despair as he begins to drink heavily to block out his own tortured past. In contradistinction, the scenes of swimming competitions are shot to resemble a car advertisement – all pumping techno and split-screen effects. These scenes not only seem completely out of place within the rest of the film, but intrude into the quieter, more personal moments, making Swimming Upstream seem like watching two completely separate films and further alienating the viewer from the story. This, coupled with an unengaging performance from Jesse Spencer as Tony (Tim Draxl as his brother John outshines him in every scene) makes Swimming Upstream a disappointing exercise.

Review by Barnaby Welch

Semi Permanent 2005

2005-06-04T11:49:00.000Z

The major international design conference Semi-Permanent lands at London's Barbican Theatre, 10 and 11 June.

The team behind the internationally renowned online design portal Design Is Kinky is making its long-awaited London debut with the design conference, Semi-Permanent, co-presented by RES Media Group and Diesel.
The two day event takes place at London’s Barbican Theatre Friday 10 and Saturday 11 June.
The event is co-presented by RES Media Group, responsible for the globe-trotting digital film-and-more festival RESFEST. RES will screen highlights from the annual RES 10 exhibition. RES 10 is a group of artists making a difference in their respective worlds, and whose creative impacts on film, music videos, commercials, music, interactive media will be felt in 2005 and beyond.

Fashion house Diesel is the presenting partner, and will also be exhibiting their Diesel Wall project.
The Semi-Permanent events present the latest in design innovation in a relaxed and accessible environment. The conference surveys a diverse range of design fields: graphic design, broadcast, illustration, photography, special effects, web, fashion, film, graffiti, animation, and more. Six speakers present their work on each day, for an hour at a time.
Each speaker is at the top of their field. They are: Mill (post production house, UK), The Orphanage (high-end special effects, US), TWiN (motion graphics / directors, Australia), MK12 (motion graphics, US), Pixelsurgeon (online creative resource, UK), Marmalade (magazine, UK), Lobo (motion graphics, Brazil), Gum (magazine, US), 123Klan (vector graffitists, France), Wieden & Kennedy (advertising agency, Netherlands), Surface to Air (design collective, US), Universal Everything (design collective, UK).
Unlike many design conferences which focus on technology, Semi-Permanent delves into the creative side of design, focusing on the passion that creative people have for their work. Semi-Permanent is tailored to all whom find design inspiring, whether first-year students or advertising agency creative directors.

As well as this unique opportunity to see these creatives discuss their work in person, all attendees receive free the 240pp full-colour collectible book ‘Semi-Permanent 05 London’. The book features art from all participating speakers, as well as other submissions hand-picked by the presenters.

Tickets are £120 for both days (or £90 if bought by Fri 27 May), and £60 for students.
Tickets and info: semipermanent.com

Phone: +44-(0)20 7638 8891 (daily 9am - 8pm; plus £1.85 per transaction, includes first class postage if time permits). Group booking: +44-(0)20 7382 7211 (Monday - Friday 10am-5pm)

Paradise Lost 1 and 2

2005-06-04T10:53:00.000Z

Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills (Joe Berlinger & Bruce Sinofsky, 1996, USA, 150 Minutes)

Paradise Lost 2: Revelations (Joe Berlinger & Bruce Sinofsky, 2000, USA, 130 Minutes)

From Michael Moore’s attacks on the Bush administration, through Robert MacNamara’s discussion of the modern history of the United States foreign defence policy, to Morgan Spurlock’s display of the consequences of eating too much junk food, recent years have seen both a heightened attitude to documentaries in America, and with it an elevated profile for their makers. For seemingly the first time, it is the journalists themselves, and not the actual subject matter, who have become the stars of such films, with prestigious awards (not to mention vast financial rewards) beckoning for those who successfully grip their audience’s attention.

Like anything else which offers such spoils to those who succeed, the genre of documentary, or ‘investigative journalism’, has become susceptible to abuse. In a period of time which heralds the emergence of ‘reality’ television as a widespread cultural (and financial) success, question marks are now raised over the quality (or otherwise) of such films. While highlighting the damage done by adhering to an exclusive McDonald’s diet may be viewed as both informative and instructional by its audience, it is fair to say that a precedent of undefined quality is set. Was Spurlock to decide not to target fast food for instance, but instead, say, alcohol, and consume only beer and peanuts for thirty days, would the results (which would likely prove even more worrying) have the same effects on its audience, or be met with such critical acclaim? Likewise, where will the line under such ‘innovation’ be drawn? Twenty years from now, will we watch avidly as someone displays the effects of thirty days of Heroin abuse?

Predating all of these commercially successful documentaries by nearly a decade, Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills is a frank, shocking, and incredibly detailed exposure of a dangerously sensitive murder case and subsequent trial. It is at once moving yet damaging; harrowing while intellectually thought provoking.
Set in West Memphis in 1993-94, the documentary is created by Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky, who quite reassuringly and refreshingly do not appear at any point during the film; displaying a lack of self promotion and a concentration solely on the issues raised that none of the other documentaries cited above can lay claim to. Through this simple withdrawal, the viewer is able to become acquainted to the facts and figures of the subject matter, and not the frowning face or damning verdict of the filmmakers themselves. Furthermore, no voiceover is heard during the film; replaced simply and effectively by on screen text. In comparison to many other documentaries such as Aileen: Death of a Serial Killer, which arguably served as much to promote its creator (Nick Broomfield) as to highlight the plight of the late, and much troubled murderer, this allows for an unbroken link between viewer and subject, which serves to effectively heighten the level of engagement between the two.

And Berlinger and Sinofsky are certainly not shy in displaying the subjects, as is evident from the opening scene, presenting three dead bodies of the eight year old boys, one of which is shockingly, disgustingly mutilated. In this vein the documentary opens; we are quickly shown the horrors of the crimes and the evident sensationalisation of the circumstances around them. Immediately following this the viewer is introduced to the families of the young boys, who are understandably appalled and physically shaken by their children’s fate, but who (in true ‘Bible Belt’ fashion) swear vengeance upon the accused ‘and the mothers that borne them’, decrying them as ‘weirdo’s’, ‘Satanists’, and ‘devil worshippers.’

The filmmakers then take the viewer through a journey which shows the local environment; predominantly centred around the extreme Christianity strand of religion, its bible-quoting and gun-toting inhabitants only too quick to leap upon any bandwagon headed in the opposite direction of change or difference.

Last of all, once the viewers mind has been shocked by the images of brutality; after their hearts have gone out to the mothers of the murdered children, are they introduced to the accused; three teenage males whose guilt seems without question even at this early stage; with barely a quarter of the film gone. What this backdrop to their introduction provides, certainly in terms of cinema and audience emotion, is a shallow sense of surprise when it becomes clear that the three men under scrutiny actually come across as startled, confused adolescents, dangerously caught in the storm of Christian values versus satanic evils.

And what a storm it is. From very early on in the documentary, the filmmakers convey the intrusive, almost unbelievable media circus which encircles both the victim’s families (to the point of filming one mother as she breaks down in tears outside the courthouse) and the accused. While factually very important in understanding the environment and spotlight under which the trials take place, this is extremely ironic given the presence of the documentary cameras themselves which, while earning their qualitative salt through depicting the extreme atmosphere of the entire case, also serves to heighten the (already ridiculous) level of unprofessionalism of the police and local courts. This is evident very early on in the film, as the judges and lawyers discuss the security surrounding the first of the two trials. This is indeed a very grey area; the presence of the documentarists serving to combat the right-wing, presumptuous, rumour mongering of the local press and television stations, while attempting to safeguard the rights of those accused. The confession of the first defendant, the profoundness of which is pivotal to both his own trial and that of his two co-defendants, is shown in a questionable light; far removed from the ‘concrete evidence’ it is described as by much of the Memphis media.

Throughout both trials, the access afforded to the filmmakers is quite remarkable given the sensitivity and severity of the case. Lawyers, both those representing the prosecution and the defence, are seen discussing their trial tactics, the reactions of family members on both sides are shown, and the filming goes almost unnoticed as all parties concerned attempt to administer justice USA-style. The question of whether justice is indeed administered is of course posed by the documentary; but unlike so many others of the genre it is done so in an unobtrusive, unsuggested manner which gives license to the viewer to draw their own conclusions. That the facts allude to a particular conclusion may be true, but rather than reflecting the opinion of the documentarists this seems plainly to show the facts as they are; as almost completely transparent and genuinely unbiased a documentary as has been made.
Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills is an extremely well made, endlessly thought provoking, and thoroughly necessary watch. The huge reaction it has incited in many who have seen it bears as much testimony to its slow, naturally unfolding style of story telling as it does to the compelling story itself. Along with The Fog of War, this is the most informative, engaging, and concerning documentary of recent years.

As part of his appeal, Damian Wayne Echols, one of the three teenagers convicted of the murders at the time of the first documentary, criticised the performance of his defence lawyers, citing their acceptance of the documentary itself as fundamentally detrimental to his case. Whether as a direct result of this argument or not, Berlinger and Sinofsky brought us Paradise Lost 2: Revelations, though were this time barred from entering the courthouse during the proceedings of Echols’ appeal.

It’s the same place, in more than one sense. The viewer is given the perception, through more shots of the local environment and more interviews and newsreel footage, that five years (the timeline between the two documentaries) sees very little change in West Memphis; either in the physical appearance of the state or in its attitudes. For the benefit of those who may not have seen the original film, and perhaps to compensate for the lack of any new courtroom footage, a great deal is shown of the events of five years earlier, unfortunately proving less than exciting if both films are viewed back to back. Likewise, the unwillingness of all but one of the victims parents (John Mark Byers), while perhaps sensible, makes for a slightly diminutive follow up.

Focussing mainly on the technicalities of the initial trial, and shedding new light on what may or may not be new evidence central to proving unequivocally the innocence or guilt of the jailed men, Revelations is a necessary watch for anyone who has seen the first film, though unfortunately pales in comparison. As much as Byers attempts to make up for the absence of the other parents of the victims through his bizarre behaviour and ongoing bitterness, and as interesting as the widespread and incredibly fast paced movement to ‘Free the Memphis Three’ is, the documentary stumbles around too much between the history of the case and how it has evolved in the five years, and in truth lacks any real developments which would warrant its creation. What is striking is how the three imprisoned men have grown, and how they have each attempted to adapt to prison life, while strenuously maintaining their innocence. The very best footage of the film is perhaps the interviews with Echols himself, who seems to have not only grown up but grown wise; far removed from the distant, almost conceited youth of the first film.

What is also extremely interesting is the deep rooted and widespread support the men have received from many viewers outraged by what is perceived as a lack of evidence leading to their convictions in the first film. From east coast to west coast, many numbers of supporters converge upon West Memphis to back Echols during his appeal hearing, which perhaps strangely is headed by the same judge as the initial trial. This second documentary also includes interviews with the leading police officer of the case, who maintains his conviction in the righteousness of his work, while providing a startling character profile of Byers, the main victim’s step-father, which alludes indirectly to the possibility that he may have been overlooked, quite incorrectly, as an obvious witness.
It is always possible to judge a sequel in terms of how it would stand up without its predecessor, and unfortunately Paradise Lost 2: Revelations would probably have gone largely unnoticed without the original. That said, it is inconceivable to watch the first film and not wish to find out what the five years since have seen, even if the answer is depressingly little change, either in the fates of those involved, or in the attitudes of the courts and the citizenship of West Memphis.

Both films are being toured nationally throughout June 2005.

Review by Alex McMillan

Guerrilla: The Taking of Patty Hearst (Robert Stone, USA, 2004)

2005-06-04T09:43:00.000Z

Their flower-power logo, crude and sinister; their name, obscure and arresting: ‘The Symbionese Liberation Army’. In 1974, the SLA – no national army but a group of US homegrown terrorists operating in the San Francisco Bay area – pulled off a spectacular coup. They kidnapped 19 year old Berkeley student Patricia Hearst, millionaire heiress to the Hearst media empire. They kept her with them for almost 2 years and converted her to their cause. Hearst, in her new guise as SLA member ‘Tania’, became a media icon. In her guerrilla pose, sporting a revolutionary’s beret and brandishing a machine gun, the granddaughter of ‘Citizen Kane’ (William Randolph Hearst), captured the American popular imagination, personifying the SLA.

While Patty Hearst’s own story of her kidnapping and subsequent ‘brainwashing’ by the SLA terrorists has been recounted in her biography (and interpreted in Paul Schrader’s film Patty of 1988), this remarkable documentary relates the events from other points of view. In Guerrilla: The Taking of Patty Hearst, Robert Stone interviews several key figures, notably SLA members Mike Bortin and Russ Little, interviewed here for the very first time. Little had become involved in prison activism and black nationalist politics. The SLA’s inception was spearheaded by Donald DeFreeze, a magnetic black nationalist who’d escaped from prison. The group’s ideology was a hazy mix of Marxist revolutionary beliefs, anti-Vietnam War activism, and, whether out of convenience or conviction – no witness interviewed is quite sure - a fight for the rights of black prisoners.

Little was serving time when Hearst was abducted. He’s been sentenced together with Joe Remiro for the assassination of Marcus Foster, a respected black headmaster in the Bay Area. Ultimately retried and acquitted in the early 1980s, Little has been living in Hawaii ever since under a different name.

A month after Little and Remiro’s conviction, the SLA kidnapped Hearst, their idea being they would trade her release for that of the two prisoners. When the plan failed, they began a series of ideological tactics, demanding that her father Randolph Hearst distribute millions of dollars of free food to the San Francisco poor, many of whom were black. Though Hearst complied, his daughter chose ‘to stay and fight’, fell in love with her captor, and helped her SLA group rob a bank.

Taped communiqués from the SLA and Patty to the media are interspersed through the film. Their hysterical rhetoric (‘death to the fascist insect that preys upon the life of the people!’) alone is entertainment. But Stone’s documentary is no sensationalist account. Nor is it morally neutral. It relates how their assassination was bungled: as Little remarks, it seemed absurd and a gross miscalculation to kill Foster, a black man. Their second murder, of Myrna Opsahl during a bank robbery, was also clearly a mistake. In retrospect, Little describes the SLA as a ‘militaristic fantasy’. Mike Bortin further deflates the past glory: there was ‘not a fingernail of charisma among them’ he says. They were ‘so middle class’.

The news footage Stone has gathered is powerful and crucial in our understanding of this case of celebrity terrorism. Some of the material was sourced from a San Francisco news archivist who had stored cans of 16mm film when his company converted to video in the early 1980s. The media feeding frenzy around the Hearst mansion is brilliantly documented. The food distribution programme is shown to have ended up a chaotic mess. An SLA shootout in Los Angeles exposes the wilfully trigger-happy incompetence of the LAPD.

While these events seem far removed from the political paranoia ominously revealed by recent documentaries such as Adam Curtis’ The Power of Nightmares, Errol Morris’ The Fog of War, or Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 911, it is nonetheless instructive about the inner workings and changing motivations of a terrorist group. It also suggests the then emerging power of the cult. The SLA gets caught up in the fantasy they themselves fabricated in the wake of 60s political upheavals and foretelling the 70s surge of religious cults.

‘What we think of as the sixties generation,’ notes Stone, ‘kind of disappeared into a blur of disco and cocaine. The revolution, if it ever existed, was over.’

Review by Vivian Constantinopoulos

My Life as a Dog (Lasse Hallstrom, Sweden, 1985, 101 Minutes)

2005-06-01T13:19:00.000Z

While multiple references are made to ‘man’s best friend’ throughout this film, the dog of the title appears to refer primarily to Laika, the Russian astro-dog, who was sent into space in 1957. In reality, Laika died only a few hours after being launched, but the official story was that she had circled the earth for five months, before eventually succumbing to starvation. The latter is certainly the version of the story that this film subscribes to, which is an example of the charm and innocence of its characters and settings. The analogy of Laika travelling through space with no idea of where she is heading from or to fits perfectly within the confines of what quickly emerges as a charming, effortlessly touching story.

Ingemar (Anton Glanzelius) is a boy who just cannot stay out of trouble. Within the opening stages of the film, we are introduced to him and watch helplessly as he firstly wets the bed, is caught ‘pretend sleeping’ with his female companion, and even manages to get his penis stuck in a glass bottle whilst acting as a human prop during a display of ‘how babies are made.’ Simultaneously, we see the other side of Ingemar; the boyish, mischievous child who is at once rash, clumsy and thoughtless, but is so in a manner which is conversely innocently adorable; the kind of innocence that only the young can truly possess. This is highlighted very early in the plot when he is confronted by his exasperated mother after the penis/bottle incident. His response, when asked exactly why he found himself in such a position, is that he doesn’t know, ‘I guess it’s just a phase’, he comically remarks.

Both parent and child smile, Ingemar displaying the cheeky grin which becomes so infectious as the film develops, but this unity is short lived, as it soon becomes evident that all is not well regarding his single parent mother. Left to raise both he and his gun-happy elder brother, the woman is suffering from acute stress, which quickly becomes very serious, heightened somewhat by the continuing trouble making of her youngest. When she becomes seriously ill, the brothers are forced to leave her to recuperate for the summer; the elder sent to his grandmothers, while Ingemar is sent to live with his uncle and aunt, though his main concern at this stage is for the wellbeing of Sickan, the family dog.

Throughout My Life as a Dog, the script is generally very impressive, full of charming anecdotes and double meanings. When Ingemar enquires about Sickan, and what the consequences will be should he not take to the change of scenery, there is a sense that the question relates to his own destiny; not only his immediate predicament but also to a higher sense regarding his (and ultimately everyone’s) lives. From start to finish, the film is a study of life; of choices, consequences, fate and chance. Perhaps predicatably, given the style of the film and its Swedish origins, there is a semblance of Ingmar Bergman’s work in the atmosphere and personality of the film. Not of his finest work perhaps, but more a sense of a continuation of many of the senses he often portrayed. Whereas Wild Strawberries encapsulates perfectly the reflective years of a person’s life as the candle slowly burns away, Hallstrom’s film quite beautifully illustrates the years when youthful innocence is met by a world which seems to condemn it. As Ingemar is met with one catastrophe after another, as he is passed from one home to the next, he is, through his boyish rationale, able to keep a sense of perspective on things which allows him to soldier on, very undramatically, and for the most part unaffected.

Like all films, My Life as a Dog is not beyond criticism. Picturesquely touching though it is, the film does on occasion overplay its emotions, never more so than when Ingemar sees his mother in hospital for the last time, and asks her what she would like him to buy her for Christmas. It’s a naïve, clumsy line from Hallstrom, and feels uncomfortably out of place with the majority of all that has gone on before and does so after. Likewise the metaphor of the dog, though inspired in its simplicity, and perfectly believable within the mindset of Ingemar, is eventually devalued through its overuse. Towards the end of the film we see him breakdown and begin to bark like Sickan. While this would be entirely forgivable (even sentimentally enhancing) for a few seconds, the longevity of the performance diminishes its worth; the end product being that the viewer feels insulted, as if the metaphor of Ingemar as Laika needs to be explained. Through this, the initial innovation and power of the imagery is lost somewhat.

The direction of the film excels to the point of being almost unnoticed, a style which is often underrated. With the beautiful scenery of the Swedish countryside, the quirky charms of the variety of individual (and often contrasting) characters, and the underplayed power of the story, Hallstrom seems confident enough with the content of the film to be able to simply stand back and allow the actors and plot to emerge. And they certainly do not let him down. The film relies on many small parts, from a beautiful woman who all the men of the village love, to the tightrope unicyclist, but no performance is quite able to match that of Anton Glanzelius in the lead role of Ingemar. In an age when child actors are too often encouraged to overplay their emotions in many films, the young Swede carries his character of Ingemar through the entire story; its pitfalls and its glories, in a manner which many of his elders would do well to replicate. The very best scene of the film occurs on his return from his uncle’s, when he sees his sick mother in hospital. Immediately excited, he begins to tell her all the stories of his summer, his eyes widening as he gauges her response to the funny or sad sentiments, but his mother is exhausted, and forced to ask him to stop. A close up of Ingemar, as his mother suffers a fit of coughing on her hospital bed, shows his instant, and crushing response. In truth, it is not his mother’s illness which breaks his heart, but his own inability to make her smile.

In some ways this film is reminiscent of another excellent, more recent European film, Goodbye Lenin! Both films examine the relationship between a son and a dying mother, and in both films the son wishes to prolong the short time they have together; to allow them to make their mother happy for just a little bit longer. It’s a sentiment which cannot fail to create an atmosphere of empathy for the lead, particularly given the style and class of both Hallstrom and Wolfgang Becker (director of Goodbye Lenin!), and an extremely gripping prologue to a film plot. As highlighted, there is always the danger that the filmmakers invest too much in the emotive nature of the story, but for the best part, My Life as a Dog (save for the Christmas gift line) manages to cycle along the tightrope on one wheel. It’s an extremely recommendable film.

It is always extremely difficult to explain why certain films work, where many others of the same style do not. In this case, the real success of the story is in no small part down to the casting and performance of the actors, but also the script, which gives each individual character the opportunity to define themselves as something more than a stereotype of passing face. The death of Ingemar’s mother could quite easily have led to a grandstand finish full of tears and memories, but instead there are no scenes of her burial or the void left in her wake. The result of this exclusion is that the viewer feels a sense of protection for Ingemar, in that it feels there is a certain part of the story which is kept out of the audiences reach, and thus remains personal only to him, as if some sentimental bond remains between the parent and child. For his part, Ingemar describes the sense of loss as being akin to the man who attempted to take a short cut across a sports field and was stabbed in the chest by a Javelin. Quite how this line, encapsulative of the mood and charisma of the film, could have been bettered, is simply unimaginable. The film is an effortless watch, and surely the best of Hallstrom’s much lauded work.

My Life As A Dog is released on DVD on the 6th of June 2005, RRP £15.99

Review by Alex McMillan

Only Human (Teresa De Pelegrí & Dominic Hari, Spain, 2005, 89 mins)

2005-05-27T18:44:00.000Z

Only Human (Teresa De Pelegrí & Dominic Hari, Spain, 2005, 89 mins)

When prodigal daughter Leni returns to the bosom of her Jewish family in Madrid, bringing her fiancé Rafi, she neglects to tell her controlling mother Gloria, wayward sister Tania, Zionist brother David and blind grandfather Dudu that her beau is Palestinian. Following the inevitable conflict when Gloria finds this out, Rafi escapes to the kitchen with orders to defrost the soup for dinner. Watched by Tania’s daughter Paula, the hamfisted Rafi manages to send the tub of frozen soup flying out of the window, braining a passerby in the process.

Believing he has killed the unknown man, Rafi tells Leni who, already worried by her family’s possible rejection of Rafi, wants to cover up the incident, phoning in an anonymous report of the accident. Rafi, horrified by this duplicity, nonetheless goes along with the subterfuge. He is understandably incapable of forgetting the incident, and, in keeping tabs on the ensuing tumult outside the apartment, makes himself appear even stranger to the family. An uneasy suspicion grows in Rafi’s mind that the man he has possibly killed could also be his prospective father-in-law, Ernesto.
What begins as an unpromising farce, complete with ‘wacky’ opening music, slowly develops into an engaging black comedy. The hapless Rafi is faced on one side with the newly-converted ex-pat’s zeal of David and the rifle-toting militarism of the senile Dudu on the other. Leni becomes embroiled in her mother’s marital (i.e. sexual) problems whilst trying to assuage Tania’s feelings of low self-esteem and sibling jealousy. If this weren’t enough conflict, the issue of the dead man and his possible identity begins to spotlight the potential problems in the new lovers’ own relationship.
Spanish/English husband and wife team Teresa De Pelegrí and Dominic Harari, who co-wrote and directed the movie, attempt with Only Human to deal with family frictions, the ‘meet the parents’ experience, the pitfalls of new love and the Israeli/Palestinian conflict in the space of 89 minutes and almost succeed. Given the scope of their intentions, they manage to cram in an extraordinary amount of dramatic action whilst still imbuing their characters with sufficient colour to make each one distinct and memorable.

The issues of Middle East politics are dealt with in a rather glib fashion, but it would be churlish to over-criticise this attempt to bring them into a Spanish family drama. Addressing issues of nationality and political allegiance into a human situation whilst keeping a consistent level of humour throughout is difficult without resorting to lengthy soliloquies, and this movie certainly falls into that trap. Aside from this, Only Human is a very funny, very likeable movie with a lot of heart and little sentimentality.

Review by Gavin Bradshaw

Consequences of Love / Le Consequenze Dell’amore (Paolo Sorrentino,Italy, 2004, 100mins)

2005-05-23T18:03:00.000Z

Paolo Sorrentino’s second feature is a stylish, gripping psychological thriller that gives a whole different look and perspective to the Mafia story we’ve become accustomed to.

In a small, discreet hotel in the Tirol, 50-year-old, elegantly attired Titta Di Girolamo (the superb Toni Servillo) has spent the last 8 years of his life alone in seemingly infinite silence. Titta’s routine consists mainly of sitting in the hotel bar smoking endless cigarettes in a state of anticipatory ennui. With the exception of the occasional card game with an elderly, aristocratic couple who have fallen on hard times, Titta keeps himself pretty much to himself gazing out the window at a world he appears to have lost much interest in. Alone in his thoughts, he tells us that he is not a frivolous man - that he has no imagination. He speaks of duty and honour with philosophical and moral certitude suggesting that this nullified existence is one of silent redemption. The hotel is a cage within which he is condemned to a pay penance in a role of observation, patience, and obedience. The impassive gaze Titta presents to the outside world eventually reveals itself to be nothing but a carefully honed façade camouflaging a deep, dark and very dangerous secret. When Sofia (Olivia Magnani), the young, beautiful barmaid at the hotel begins to penetrate his hermetically sealed existence, Titta is forced to confront the painful consequences of his reawakened sentiments and emotions as he fights to regain his life.

Paolo Sorrentino has created a character of fascinating complexity in Titta. We see him from both within the confines of his strangely ordered world as well as how he is perceived on the outside by others. Despite the subtle luxury of the hotel and inconspicuously expensive wardrobe, Titta leads a fairly Spartan life with the exception of a couple of peculiar indulgences: a weekly fix of heroin on a specific day and time, and eavesdropping on his elderly neighbours by night with the use of a stethoscope, as if monitoring the heartbeat of others to remind him that he, too, is still alive. His efforts to remain anonymous merely intensify the inquisitiveness of the few people with whom he has contact – even to the point of exasperation. Fed up with never receiving so much as a “thank you” after two years of impeccable service, Sofia lashes out at him one day, breaking the stultifying silence of the bar and breaking through to Titta’s heart at the same time. Her reaction takes place at just the right moment rendering the bringing together of these two unlikely types utterly believable. Toni Servillo’s portrayal of Titta is the epitome of restraint and nuance. He imbues this elusive character suspended between two worlds with an aura of dignified melancholy and resignation, which, despite the outwardly cold and impenetrable demeanour, can’t but help to stir our compassion.

Though the drama unfolds well, supported by Luca Bigazzi’s (The Keys Of The House) slick cinematography, which creates this world-within-a-world that Titta inhabits, the film is not without its flaws. When the carefully wrought tension developed in the first half suddenly breaks out into the more dynamic second half of the film, the cut is clumsy. The film is further undermined by Pasquale Catalano’s score, which makes some of the action scenes seem more like dated product placements for BMW rather than integral parts of the narrative. Still, this is an engaging and absorbing take on the mob genre as well as being an unusual love story.

Review by Erica Rosen

The Hunters - DVD (Dick Powell, USA, 1958)

2005-05-23T18:01:00.000Z

Set in 1952 Japan, following a squad of American fighter pilots sent to serve in the Korean War, this film doubles as a tale of war, and more specifically of those caught within it, and of forbidden love, almost threatening to become a fallen woman film at times. As always, Robert Mitchum, whether playing a love struck sheriff or bible quoting murderer, is outstanding, this time in the role of Major Cleve Saville, a decorated and renowned war hero, earning both his reputation and stripes by serving his country during the Second World War.

Given the political climates both now and at the time of the film, it is perhaps predictable that much of the message Powell conveys through Saville's words seem similar to many pro-war films since. Not that these words would necessary be a genuine account of Powell’s view on the war, but as this film was made in 1958, and created with the full co-operation of the USA air force, it is perhaps inevitable that lines such as ‘We’re not paid to ask questions’, would be heard from a character depicted as a war hero.

Nor does it end there. In the opening half hour, the viewer is bombarded with similar sentiments. ‘War’, according to Saville, ‘gives me a chance to do what I do best’. When asked by the pretty wife of one of his co-pilots (May Britt) whether or not he likes the war, Saville replies ‘It’s the only war I’ve got’. Throughout, when all others around him question the point of the war, particularly so soon after the end of WWII, Mitchum’s character remains unaffected, always believing that his role is to win wars, not to question them. This style of ‘strong American hero’, played to great success at the time not only by the likes of Mitchum but by John Wayne and Henry Fonda among others, can be traced up to the present day, through even more dramatic (and often much less believable) characters made famous by actors such as Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

The direction, particularly given the films era, is extremely innovative, many of the shots of air battles; comprising dipping, swerving aircraft outmanoeuvring their opposition, having been copied since. Without question Top Gun, the 1986 commercial success, owes a great deal to Dick Powell’s film, even going so far as to sample the nickname ‘Ice man’, for its most accomplished pilot. But whereas Top Gun has particularly average acting, no meaningful message, and a thoroughly less than believable romantic plot, The Hunters has Robert Mitchum, whose acting style and screen presence absorb all the viewers attention, a powerful (albeit seemingly pro-war) message, and a love story which, though never truly capturing the viewers heart, does at least contain a level of believability.

Like many other American films of this time, an emphasis was placed on the ‘old school’ compared to the ‘new breed’. Possibly reflecting the clashing post war values of the two dominant generations, this is represented through the respective characters of Mitchum and the young Robert Wagner (playing Lt. Ed Pell). Wagner’s character is a defiant, risk taker to whom the world simply isn’t big enough; ‘I’m a killer man’. Whereas Mitchum carries an air of quiet confidence, fully aware, as all around him regardless of rank are, that he is by far the best fighter pilot, having been there, and done that, many times before.

Generally, the film is very for its light-entertainment qualities. Unfortunately, it is not as engaging as one would have hoped, but given its subject matter, the period in time at which it was made, and the fact that none of it was shot on location, it is an extremely well made, and very enjoyable watch. It’s a classic Christmas or Sunday afternoon lazy film, not quite The Great Escape or Hell in the Pacific, but certainly a great deal better than your average modern American movie.

The Hunters is released by Twentieth Century Fox as part of its 70th birthday celebrations. For more, visit www.foxstudioclassics.co.uk

Mysterious Skin (Gregg Araki, USA, 2004, 108mins)

2005-05-21T09:18:00.000Z

In retrospect, it is surprising that director Gregg Araki and novelist Scott Heim have not collaborated before. Both have a fascination with the music and culture of the 1980’s; both have a penchant for exploring the darker side of gay life and both produce work that is stylised and deeply personal. Mysterious Skin, then, is a perfect amalgamation of both mens’ concerns. It is also a deeply moving and powerful story of obsession, desire and abuse that shows off Heim’s ability to portray deeply damaged characters sympathetically and is further proof that Araki has matured as a director and is capable of producing understated, narrative cinema as well as the more hyperactive and experimental films he is better known for.

Mysterious Skin tells the difficult story of two young boys growing up in a mid-western town during the 1980’s. Brian (Brady Corbett) is a quiet, freckly and bespectacled boy whose overbearing Mother throws out his abusive and drunkard father when he is seven. Obsessed with UFO’s since seeing one from the roof of his house one summer, he is convinced that a five-hour period of time that he cannot account for is the result of an alien abduction. Driven almost to the point of madness by recurring dreams of him lying prostrate on a metal table, green, elongated fingers caressing him, he tries everything possible to seek out others who have had similar experiences in order to rationalise his own. The truth of the missing time, however, is far more sinister.

Neill (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), a raven-haired boy with torch-blue eyes, starts little league baseball when his alcoholic mothers realises it is a good way to get him out of the house so that she can carry on with her numerous affairs. One afternoon after a game, when his mother does not arrive to pick him up, Coach (Bill Sage) takes him back to his house and systematically abuses him. So begins a regular cycle of sexual abuse, which leads to Neill becoming a teenage prostitute. The two boys’ stories collide in a startling moment of revelation that changes both of them forever.

Araki is a director that has no time for subtlety. His first widely distributed feature, The Living End (1992), a road movie of sorts about two HIV positive men who start out on a hedonistic, self-destructive journey across the States, was a particularly brash and caustic debut. His next few films continued his obsession with a John Waters-style trash aesthetic and disregard for narrative continuity: Totally Fucked Up (1993) was a Godardian take on gay slackers; The Doom Generation (1995) was a lo-fi look at teenage disaffection and Nowhere (1997) an acid-tinged, surreal and heinously over the top parody of teenage mores. Mysterious Skin, then, is a move towards a more traditional cinema for Araki and one that shows off his ability to direct with passion, sensitivity and subtlety.

Adapting Scott Heim’s novel was always going to be a difficult challenge. With its trilogy of narratives and large passages describing hideous acts of sexual mutilation and abuse, it is not an obvious choice for the transfer to screenplay. On the whole, Araki (who also co-wrote the screenplay with Heim) does an admirable job of suggesting the acts without showing them explicitly whilst retaining their power and narrative importance. Mysterious Skin is, by its very subject matter, controversial and challenging and Araki approaches his material with maturity.

With the help of an excellent cast (in particular Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the damaged and monosyllabic Neill and Bill Sage as the abusive Coach), Araki explores the harsh and different realities of his characters. He also evokes a realistic portrait of the 1980’s. Perhaps not quite as resonant as Richard Kelly’s portrayal of the same decade in Donny Darko (Araki and Heim’s vision of the 80’s are inspired by music and fashion rather than Kelly’s foreboding sense of cold-war isolationism), it is still a deeply evocative reconstruction of the decade both the writer and director grew up in.

With Mysterious Skin, Araki has finally broken out of the “Queercore” pigeon hole that he well and truly constructed for himself and made a film of emotive power and imagination that lingers in the mind and promises great things for the future.

Review by Barnaby Welch

DVD - Another Lonely Hitman (Rokuro Mochizuki, Japan, 1995, 106 minutes)

2005-05-13T19:48:00.001Z

The main theme throughout Mochizuki’s depiction of the Japanese underworld is the desperate, hopeless struggle the characters face to avoid their fates. At the outset, we are introduced to the main character, Tachibana (Ryo Ishibashi) and quickly learn that he has recently completed ten years imprisonment for the murder of a rival family’s boss. But while this act has earned him a great deal of respect among the lower factions of the crime organisation, the ten years gone by have seen the upper tier changed beyond recognition. The ‘code’ of principles to which the Yakuzu once lived by now discarded, replaced by Capitalism, and greed.

This style of Gangsterism is completely alien to the reformed drug addict Tachibana, and he struggles to come to terms with his new surroundings. Reaching out beyond his loneliness, he forms a connection with Yuki (Asami Sawaki), a prostitute and dope addict. Although first appearing complete opposites, it becomes clear that the pair have a great deal in common. Both are exploited for other’s ends, both make a living by being paid for actions which at least should be seen as demeaning, both are at the very lower rung of society, and both are extremely lonely. The importance of this relationship is best testified towards the end of the film, when Yuki simply tells Tachibana that ‘We’re well matched’. Prior to this, Tachibana has refused to sleep with her, while ironically taking the extreme of chaining her to the bed in order that she beat her drug addiction. As he does this, he asks her to ‘Be my Woman’, underlining not only his loneliness, but his belief that she (like he) should not waste the remainder of her life as she has thus far.

At this point we have the most pivotal scene of the film. As Yuki sits, her arms chained, she begs Tachibana to free her, in order that she may use the bathroom. He refuses, and she is forced to urinate herself in front of him. As she does she screams ‘I can’t stop it, I can’t stop it, I can’t stop it’. This refers not only to her present predicament but to the overall environment of the film, particularly in connection to Tachibana. Try as he might, he cannot stop the breakdown of the old regime of gangster. He can’t free himself from his feelings of remorse for the girl he shot, and he cannot become a permanent fixture in his daughter’s life. Once more, the theme is the inability of any soul to escape the misery of their destiny.

The film carries many of the traits of the modern Japanese film genre. The slick, gory style of the violence obviously borrows somewhat from Rokuro Mochizuki’s Manga background, but is surpassed in quality on the few occasions where the violence is not seen; happening just off screen or behind a wall, providing an awkward moment for the viewer as it is left to their imagination to decide how Tachibana will, on this occasion, administer his punishment.

Throughout, Ishibashi’s performance is introverted, charismatic and touching. With more than a slight resemblance to ‘Beat’ Takeshi (indeed the entire film is strikingly similar to Sonatine) he is able to play a tough, ruthless killer, yet combine this with genuinely believable sentimentality and a self depreciating attitude to his character. Unfortunately, the support cast of Another Lonely Hitman does little to help him, with only a couple of characters (most notably Tatsuo Yamada) providing any challenge to his monopoly of screen presence and viewer attention.

Besides his relationship with Yuki, Tachibana’s only other really meaningful interaction is with his younger partner Takayama, who he attempts to free from the organisation. Takayama is headstrong and impressionable, and fairly obviously there is a large degree of the young Tachibana in his character. By negotiating both their releases from the gang, Tachibana is in the process able to exorcise his ghost of the past. Once again however, the sense that one cannot escape their downfall is evident, as Tachibana later reads that Takayama has been arrested for the killing of a rival gang boss, and faces ten years imprisonment. So the vicious cycle continues.

An interesting scene, and a great example of the subtlety of Mochizuki’s direction, comes towards the end of the film. Throughout the story we have seen Mizohashi, one of Tachibana’s bosses, attempting to strike a huge and profitable deal which will propel the family into a lucrative and powerful position. As he hears that the deal has eventually collapsed, we see Mizohashi standing alone in his office, next to a small tank which contains a rather large fish. Though easily missed, the connotation of the greedy, ambitious Capitalist within the small band of criminals is clear.

In addition to the film is an excellent array of special features, comprising not only an innovative and insightful twenty six minute interview with director Rokuro Mochizuki, but a feature length commentary by Tom Mes which, like far too few commentaries, is an extremely worthwhile addition.

As the film draws to its conclusion, we see Tachibana’s character changed full circle from the Heroin taking murderer we were introduced to. Having escaped the life, with some retirement money to boot, he then sets about righting the wrongs of his personal life. What we then see is an incredibly touching moment, almost out of sync with the harsh violence preceding it. Tachibana meets his daughter, and gives her half the money, telling her to pass it to her mother. When she returns the gesture by wrapping her scarf around his neck, the lonely hitman is reduced to tears. It is a long, powerful yet not overplayed moment of genuine sentimentality.

Tachibana then sets off to visit his mother and sister. Upon seeing him though, his mother shouts ‘murderer’, and refuses to accept either the money, or her son. In a scene very reminiscent of Brian De Palma’s Scarface, Tachibana’s sister chases after him, promising that she has never blamed him for anything. Tachibana gives her the money, announces he is to marry Yuki, and they part on good terms. He and Yuki then travel to the sea, where he is offered a job as a fisherman (symbolic of his life change). Just as they are about to embark on their new lives, Tachibana is shot in the back by a man with whom he had earlier fought over Yuki; proving once again that neither the prostitute, nor the hitman, can avoid their fates.

Review by Alex McMillan

DVD -Salaryman Kintaro Volume 1 (Tomoharu Katsumata, Japan, 2001, 105 minutes)

2005-05-13T19:48:00.000Z

It’s extremely difficult to tell first hand whether this series of Manga has been intended for children or adults. Certainly, the various messages seen as the story unfolds seem to be aimed at children; a strange sort of hybrid of far Eastern values mixed with the principles of Aesop’s fables. Some of the scenes of violence however, and occasional content of rape, prostitution and murder, would clearly suggest that the animation is in fact for adults.

In the first episode of this collection, we are quickly introduced to our hero, Yajima Kintaro, the Salaryman of the title. We also quickly learn the Yajima was once the feared and deadly leader of a gang of bikers which comprised some 10,000 in number. Quite why he is now working within the office based environment of the Yamato Construction Company remains a mystery at this point, but does make for some interesting interactions with his colleagues, a few of whom he manages to save from a brawl on his first day. Aside from this, his hours are spent sharpening pencils proficiently, while attracting not an insignificant interest from the female workers. We also learn that he has a son whom he raises alone, the child’s mother having died during labour.

Episode two starts with the men celebrating payday, and inviting Yajima along for the party. They get a little drunk, Yajima attracts more than his fair share of female attention, and some of the local Yakuzu take offence. Predictably, a fight breaks out, though quite unpredictably, the white collar office workers of Yamato manage to fight off their gangster opponents. Hardly famed for throwing in the towel early, the Yakuzu then attempt to gain revenge by turning up at the head office of the company and demanding to speak with the president. Trouble beckons, but when the going gets tough Yajima is rarely found wanting and he is quick to settle the dispute, this time not through violence but through his long held friendship, dating back to his biker days of course, with the leader of the Yakuzu. When the president hears about all this though, he is less than impressed. He attempts to fire all the men involved, including Yajima, but is foiled by the Chairman of the company, who insists that all the men, but most importantly Yajima, keep their jobs. The president becomes furious, not only with the new salaryman but also with Chairman Yatamo.

The third episode serves initially to give some light to what exactly has been going in within the first two chapters, and also to provide further background to the hero. As the story goes, Chairman Yatamo was marooned at sea, floating hopelessly to his death, when he was saved by Yajima, who swam for seven hours to rescue him. Understandably staggered by his fellow man’s sacrifice, the Chairman agreed to grant him any one wish. Bizarrely, Yajima’s request was that he be allowed to become a white collar worker. Back in the present day story, the Chairman takes Yajima fishing, and for the first time in his life catches a ‘parrot-fish’, with which he is thrilled. Meanwhile, back at the office, trouble is brewing. Along with some associates, the president is attempting to negotiate control of the corporation away from the Chairman, an attempt which Yajima can ‘feel’. The Chairman offers to quit, and to take Yajima with him as his adopted son, but the salaryman refuses, instead insisting that the Chairman must stay for the benefit of the workers. Towards the end of the episode, Kintaro again saves a life, this time that of the Chairman’s grand-daughter. The Chairman then decides to stay with the company.

The fourth and concluding chapter of this DVD again tells of Yajima Kintaro’s past, this time through the words of a former fellow biker who is now a drag queen. This is the first real attempt the series makes at genuine sentiment, and in fairness, handles it rather well. We are told of how Akemi Kintaro (Yajima’s blind wife) was raped by three men, and how he stood by her throughout. His response, rather than killing the guilty parties, was to group together over 20,000 bikers and ride through Tokyo in defiance of the authorities and their rules. He then left the biker gang, known as the Hasshu league, to live the quiet life as a fisherman with his wife. Trouble is once more brewing back at present day Yamato however, as the salarymen discuss whether to attempt to stage a coup d’etat.

On the whole, I struggled to determine the value of this series. It is not Manga in the straightforward, ultra violent yet irresistibly entertaining sense, yet neither is the message it carries particularly clever or meaningful. Throughout each of the episodes, the characters (and hence the viewers) are told that they must live strong, noble, just lives. They are told that ‘You can ruin your whole life over a bit of fun’, that ‘real men make sacrifices’, and that it is better to become a white-collar hero than an outlaw. That all of these lessons are worthwhile is not in question, but whether they are entertaining, and whether this collection is simply a compromise between violent adult anime and meaningful children’s programming, and lost somewhere in the confusion between both, certainly is.

The DVD comes with a couple of extras, most notably an interview with Tomoharu Katsumata, who discusses the future of Manga, but differs very little from any standard Manga collection.

Review by Alex McMillan

Private (Saverio Costanzo, Italy, 2004, 90mins)

2005-05-13T19:47:00.000Z

Even though there are so many acts of terror and infringement on personal liberty happening around the world at any time, it is very easy to think, as Chamberlain did of Czechoslovakia being invaded by Hitler, that it all happens to strange people in faraway places. The Israeli/Palestinian conflict is one such example, being self-contained, globally funded but far away, and, in terms of what hits our news, seemingly just a repeating loop of news stories. Private, a new film by Italian director Saverio Costanzo, is an attempt to remind us that Palestinians and Israelis are affected personally by the conflict, and are people just like us, with families, priorities, fears, principles and arguments just like us.

A Palestinian family living in the south of Israel is sleeping one night when a band of Israeli soldiers burst into their house, shooting, shouting and forcing them all downstairs into their lounge. A truly terrifying moment where the sleeping silence is suddenly ruined by this violent outburst, results in the soldiers occupying the upper floors of the family house and the family being forced into one room to sleep. Nothing is explained, but you don't take long to acceed to a group of shouting men aiming guns at you in your bed.

The father, Mohammad (Mohammad Bakri), is a principal at a secondary school and completing an PhD in Victorian literature. He has been encouraging his eldest daughter to go to Germany to study medicine. His four other children attend school each day, throughout the occupation of their home. Samia (Areen Omari), the mother, pleads with Mohammad to let the family escape, but Mohammad, an active pacifist, is determined to have the family stand its ground and become freedom fighters. The soldiers want the family, and all Arabs in the area, out of the south, but more predominantly they want the use of the house as a local base. Those are their orders. Thus a complex web of desires, principles and orders connect the residents: the soldiers are commanded to remain there, the father refuses to leave, the family who want to leave are instructed to be there by their father. A stasis is established and life stumbles on.

This is all we know of the reasons for the situation. Politics is never broached, as it is expressly Costanzo's purpose to explore the personal side of the situation without judgement. There are many cases across Israel of soldiers inhabiting Arab houses where the owners continue to live. As the film represents, many of these soldiers are young conscripts, who understand why they are there as little as we do. The film's focus is on the family and how they all respond to the situation and Mohammad's orders for them to stay put. In one horrifying moment, the youngest daughter somehow gets locked out of the lounge where the family sleep, and has to spend the night in the hallway, surrounded by the soldiers firing their guns in the darkness. The next day she goes to school as normal, but is visibly, subtly changed. A rift breaks out between Mohammad and his wife and eldest daughter Mariam (Hend Ayoub), and the teenage son Amir (Amir Hasayen) cries to his mother asking why he can't go and stay with a schoolfriend. His school friends think he's a brave freedom fighter, but with Mohammad's enforced passivity, Amir feels incapacitated and far from being a freedom fighter.

The seven members of the family have clear and understandable reactions, but it is Mariam who starts to behave strangely by sneaking into the forbidden upper floors to hide in a cupboard and eavesdrop on the soldiers. More than just creating suspense, her spying illuminates the personalities of the soldiers. They are not just the evil 'other'; even the leader, the fervent Commander Ofir (Lior Miller), who terrifies the other Privates, expresses personal frustration and sadness when the group is moved onto another home. He prefers to stay and make relationships with their 'hosts'. Mariam develops an obsession with sneaking upstairs to spy on the soldiers - something that could cost her and her family dearly - and it is probably because she comes to see the soldiers as humans with problems of their own (Private Dan would rather play his flute than be a soldier) that she can overcome her fear of them.

This eludication of the Israeli side is an intelligent move from Costanzo. Not only does it add a level of intrigue to the film that would otherwise be missing, but it gives a balanced, non-judgemental side. While there will necessarily be a level of judgement on the occupiers over the occupied, both are seen as humans rather than political actors. Costanzo had to move the production from Palestine to Italy - it was filmed in Calabria - to enable the Palestinian and Israeli actors to work together. This balance is the film’s only hope of being shown in Israel. Even with its humanist viewpoint, the film will be a difficult one to market there, although it reflects the experience of a lot of Israel’s younger generation as soldiers.

The power of the film aside, Costanzo has achieved something quite impressive with Private, purely by getting Israeli and Palestinian actors to work together with some degree of mutual understanding.

Review by Jenny Jacoby

Star Wars Episode III - The Revenge Of The Sith

2005-05-10T19:27:00.000Z

The Star Wars saga comes to a close with this, the darkest and most bloodthirsty of the series.

Three years after the end of Episode II and the Republic is under attack in the final moments of the Clone Wars. The Sith and rebellious Separatists have kidnapped the head of the Galactic Senate, Chancellor Palpatine, and are close to destroying the democratic harmony of the Council. Obi Wan Kenobi (Ewan McGregor) and his apprentice, the fiercely ambitious Anakin Skywalker (Hayden Christensen) are despatched to find and rescue the kidnapped head of state, who is being held hostage by the evil and powerful General Grievous. Meanwhile, Anakin begins to question the motives of the Jedi Council when they deny him the rank of Master and becomes more suspicious when they ask him to spy on his mentor, the mysterious Palpatine. When Anakin begins to have premonitions that his pregnant wife, Senator Amidala (Natalie Portman) will die in childbirth, the dark side and Palpatine’s advances seem more tempting than ever.

From the first shot of the new Star Wars movie, it is clear that George Lucas has pushed the series up a visual notch. Thrust straight into the action of an enormous space battle, the camera hurtles around the battleground with remarkable fluidity, whizzing over, under and through burning spaceships that are under attack from rebel forces. Perhaps taking his cue from Peter Jackson, who employed a gamut of vertigo-inducing virtual cinematography in his Lord Of The Rings trilogy, Episode Three sees Lucas in a particularly boisterous and energetic mood. By the end of the 15-minute, highly impressive opening sequence, however, it becomes clear that, although his visual sensibility has been pushed up to fifth gear, his ability to create believable characters and realistic dialogue is firmly stuck in first.

Expectation was always going to be high for this final chapter in the series. Although the more recent Episode I and Episode II have had cooler receptions that the original films, Episode III was always seen as Lucas’s chance not only to prove his abilities as a writer (Skywalker’s journey to the dark side is full of dramatic possibilities), but was going to be the film that acted as the connecting part between the much loved and admired original films and the subsequent prequels. It is also the film that sees Anakin Skywalker turn away from the Jedi and join the dark side to become Darth Vader. In some ways, Lucas succeeds in creating a viable and believable journey for his most evil of characters. It is a pity, however, that he does not fully engage with the emotional and human potential of the story. Much of the blame has to lie with Lucas’s constant insistence to mask the human elements of the story with heinously complicated sub-plots involving the political machinations of the Senate and the workings of the Galactic Council. Things are not helped by Lucas’s trademark bad dialogue. It seems that Harrison Ford’s statement about his lines – “You can type this shit, but you sure as hell can’t say it” still stands. That said, the transformation of Palpatine from leader of the Senate to Sith Lord is beautifully crafted and at odds with other elements of the story – perhaps those rumours about Stoppard being drafted in to fix some of the dialogue are not as far fetched as they first seemed.

Not many people go and see Star Wars to get involved in debates about the (lack of) verbal verisimilitude, however. What most people are excited by in the series are the design and visual effects and in that respect, Episode III delivers in every area. A quantum leap ahead from the last film, Revenge Of The Sith dazzles with its rendering of a totally three-dimensional and inventive universe that is populated by some wonderfully bizarre (and terrifying) creatures. In particular, the Separatist leader General Grievous is a brilliantly conceived human/robot hybrid that is almost as terrifying as Vader himself. Lucas even seems to finally get his head around shooting digitally – the world of The Revenge Of The Sith is deeper and richer than ever. There are also some spectacular set-pieces that rival the pod racing sequence from Episode I (perhaps the most visually impressive sequence from any of the films thus far). Obi Wan’s battle with Grievous that begins in a spaceship hanger and ends many thousands of miles away, in particular, shows off Lucas and his team’s digital skills, as does the protracted Clone War sequence that opens the movie. It is quite obvious at moments like this that The Force is most definitely still with Lucas and his team of digital magicians.

Review by Barnaby Welch

A Dirty Shame

2005-05-06T19:25:00.000Z

After the rabid attack on the American mainstream film industry in his wonderfully over the top Cecil B Demented, John Waters turns his attention towards suburban prudishness and intolerance in this, his most outrageous and most entertaining film for years.

Sylvia Stickles (the superb Tracy Ullman), works in Baltimore with her Husband Vaughn (Chris Isaak) at the local Park ‘n Pay. Her Daughter, Caprice (Selma Blair), or Ursula Udders as she prefers to be called, has “criminally enlarged breasts” and is under house arrest in the granny flat upstairs. Along comes sex messiah Ray Ray (a surprisingly effective Johnny Knoxville) and his posse of sex addicts, determined to liberate suburbia and discover the one last sex act that has not been performed. After a vicious bang on the head after her car breaks down in traffic, Sylvia is transformed from polite and prudish housewife into a horny, sex-obsessed, rampantly promiscuous whore and the latest convert to Ray Ray’s ways, with hilarious results.

Ever since the days of Pink Flamingos (1972) and Female Trouble (1974), Waters has been a bastion of bad taste and an underground, queer-core saviour of indecency and filth. Apart from a brief moment of politeness (the 1990’s saw Waters produce his safest and most audience friendly pictures – Crybaby, Serial Mom, Pecker), he has been a spokesperson for the disenfranchised, gender-confused, criminal and perverted. Thankfully, A Dirty Shame is a return to his roots.

There are so many euphemisms for the sexual act in A Dirty Shame that one is tempted to go back and see the film for a second time with pen and paper. Granted, the humour in the film is as base and base can be, but the whole thing is carried off with such a combination of scatological glee and childish freneticism, that it is difficult to not to be swept away. Even when the plot loses its way and becomes ridiculous even by John Waters standards, it is hard to criticise a film that takes such pleasure in offending every possible sector of the audience in so many ways.

Waters’s reputation has always allowed him to secure names for his projects. Although all of his films have the air of being independent, underground features, the presence of A (or B) list stars has allowed him to gain financial support from larger studios. One also feels that the stars themselves love the opportunity to break out against type (think Melanie Griffiths in Cecil B Demented or Kathleen Turner in Serial Mom) and, camp it up. A Dirty Shame is no exception – even David Hasselhoff plays a small (but vital) role as an unknowing provider of sexual ecstasy (saying any more would ruin the shock and surprise).

A Dirty Shame is vintage Waters and proves that neither age, nor success are able to mellow the spirit of this most peculiar and provocative filmmaker. Let’s all shout “Vagina” to celebrate.

Review by Barnaby Welch

Palindromes

2005-05-04T17:45:00.000Z

As the film’s opening credits roll, we hear the sombre chant of the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead. It’s the funeral of Dawn Wiener, the heroine of Todd Solondz’s remarkable first feature Welcome to the Dollhouse (1995), and in a moving speech by her older brother Mark (Matthew Faber), we’re told that Dawn “lost it in the first round”. In an earnest attempt to validate his sister’s unfortunate life, he plays a tape of Dawn’s musical efforts, which, needless to say, hammers the proverbial final nail into poor Dawn’s coffin. With this opening sequence, Solondz sets up the dynamic that has become his finely tuned trademark: that of juxtaposing pathos with bitter, sardonic wit in his continual pursuit to challenge our perceptions of character, narrative, identity, and love. Was Dawn’s life a complete failure, or is it just our institutionalised notions of normality and what constitutes social acceptability that is at fault here? For Mark, Dawn was by no means a failure; on the contrary, she was a person who touched and enriched his life. However, for their 6-year old cousin, Aviva Victor, Dawn’s life is the stuff of nightmares.

In a plea to her mother to not let her “end up like Dawn”, Joyce Victor (Ellen Barkin) assures her distraught young daughter that no such fate could befall her because “no matter what happens sweetie, you’ll always be you”. And with these prophetic words, Aviva’s fate is sealed forever. After this episode, the story fast forwards to Aviva as a withdrawn, awkward, insecure adolescent, subjected to listening to esteem-bolstering self-help tapes inflicted upon her by her anxious, socially ambitious, though well-meaning parents. But all Aviva wants in life is a baby and to be a mother. She nearly succeeds in her goal, but ultimately succumbs to parental pressure and terminates the pregnancy. Traumatised by the experience, Aviva runs away, determined to get pregnant again. Aviva’s journey throws all sorts of new, coincidental – and very strange - experiences her way but eventually she comes full circle and returns to the family home. We’re left to ponder if anything really has changed.

In an ambitious experiment to explore what clearly is for the filmmaker the implacable, ‘palindromic’ nature of character and personality, he uses different physical and racial types to make up his central character. Aviva is portrayed by a variety of different people – one black woman (Sharon Wilkins), and one white (Jennifer Jason Leigh), four adolescent girls between 12-14 years old, one 12-year old boy, and one (black) six year-old girl. The intention, presumably, is to drive home the point that no matter how many different ways we experience a person, they fundamentally will always remain the same. Intriguing a premise as this may be, the resulting effect succeeds only in utterly distancing us from the character and story, annihilating any potential for empathy or sympathy. It is not so much of a disaster as it is a disappointment as all we are left with is a bleak indictment on the nature of personality.

Todd Solondz has described Palindromes as a love story. Indeed, he sees all of his films as love stories of a sort, and while they do not fit into the acceptable parameters of mainstream romance, his films have unquestionably pushed us to see this most complicated of emotions in its less seemly guises. For Solondz, love is brutal, ugly, uncomfortable, and downright disturbing, yet it is, nevertheless, love. But even though he presents his arguments here similarly as in Welcome to the Dollhouse, and even more poignantly, in his1998 masterpiece, Happiness; that is, against a backdrop of alienation, dysfunction, and disillusionment, Palindromes, is myopic in scope in comparison to its predecessors, and comes across merely as an angry rant; a veritable tirade of negative pessimism that would have even old Schopenhauer himself running towards the Dalai Lama.

Review by Erica Rosen

In Your Hands

2005-05-04T10:03:00.000Z

It is 10 years since the first film sprung from the Dogme manifesto, Festen, brought global fame and respect to the Danish film industry. Even with the embrace of the Dogme concept, Danish films are still made on a very small budget - indeed, the Dogme back-to-basics manifesto makes big budgets redundant. The monetary and artistic constraints the manifesto imposes make a strong storyline vital to a film's success, and this latest Dogme offering provides a rich and thought-provoking story and with it a very strong film.

The 34th official Dogme95 film, In Your Hands, is a story about faith and in whose hands one should place it. Set in a Danish women's prison, it pits the healing and supportive roles of two women who arrive at the prison on the same day against each other: Anna, a well-intentioned and liberal newly-qualified priest on her first job, and Kate, an inscrutible inmate transferring from another prison. Anna is at the prison to guide the prisoners through their guilt and help them recover from the problems that set them there. Kate arrives surrounded by rumours of being able to cure junkies of their addictions. The two women's arrival sets formalised Christian faith against a mysterious magic wand, and examines whether religion is for general guidance or miraculous help.

When Marion (Sonja Richter) starts detoxing because the prison's pusher Jossi (Sarah Boberg) witholds heroin, she tests out the rumours of Kate's (Trine Dyrholm) miraculous healing. One night in Kate's room leaves Marion clean and off the junk. At the same time, Marion strikes up a friendship with Anna (Ann Eleanora Jorgensen) and tells her about the miracles happening in the prison.

Anna is the sort of priest an atheist could get along with: not only young, pretty and living with her boyfriend who is excited by the idea of 'priest sex', she hates the word 'preach' and is aware that the Bible is above all a metaphor offering guidance and counsel to Christians, rather than any kind of magic solution. Marion's stories therefore intrigue Anna and mark the beginning of her crisis of faith.

Anna and her boyfriend Frank (Lars Ranthe) have already accepted that they are not able to conceive, but after Kate tells Anna to look after the child she's carrying, Anna finds out that she is indeed - miraculously - pregnant. Not only does Anna begin to think Kate might be onto something, but when she finds there is a chromosomal abnormality with the foetus she starts to question whether her God is a fair one. And when the couple have to decide on the fate of the potentially damaged foetus, Anna puts her faith in the hands of modern medicine before God.

Both Anna's lifestyle as a female, unmarried priest and the liberal conditions of the prison mark the film as distinctly Danish: one of Europe's most progressive nations. While these aspects are fascinating in themselves to audiences from more conservative countries, they are but a layer in what becomes a sparsely-scripted but rich tapestry of human needs and privations. Each of those needs has an affect on everyone else; even Anna loses compassion and professionalism when she feels her problems are the biggest, and this loss of perspective causes the shocking and bleak denoument. The emptiness of the ending is cathartic, however, and irrespective of faith is a powerful human drama.

Review by Jenny Jacoby

Around The Bend

2005-05-03T18:46:00.000Z

A partly successful inter-generational drama, Around The Bend attempts to trawl through the turbulent history of a particularly disparate family, the Lairs. Jason (Josh Lucas) is a banker who looks after his grandfather (the octogenarian and ex-archaeologist Henry, played by Michael Caine.) He is also been in charge of his sprightly young son Zach (a wonderful Johan Bobo) since the separation from his wife. His long estranged father Turner (Christopher Walken) arrives unannounced and throws the family into turmoil. Not long afterwards, Henry dies whilst eating his favourite meal – Kentucky Fried Chicken – but not before he has left an elaborate series of instructions for the family to carry out as his last wish. These include driving across the USA and stopping at a local KFC, where the trio is to have a meal before sprinkling his ashes in a significant spot near the restaurant. Henry’s final venue, however, brings the ghosts of the past too close for comfort.

The first feature by writer/director Roberts, Around The Bend is full of good ideas and a heartfelt desire to explore the male side of a family that has been driven apart by drug addiction and violence (Turner abandoned his son after the death of his wife in a car crash and as a result of his increasing addiction to heroin). A pity then that Roberts does not give any of his characters (apart from Turner– the result of Walken’s performance rather than Roberts’s writing) a three dimensionality that would make them truly believable. In particular, the character of Jason, a vital link between the older and younger generations in the family, is, due to a combination of a reasonable but hardly convincing portrayal from Josh Lucas and an underwritten script, totally without resonance. Due to a number of holes in his history (what caused the break-up between him and his wife, why does he have custody of the child), we are left with a half-formed and ill-fitting portrait whose dramatic potential is untapped.

Roberts also chooses not to involve the female characters in his film. Women in Around The Bend are either briefly glimpsed (Jason’s ex-wife), hysterical (the mother of a neighbour quite obviously going mad) or played for comedy (the embarrassingly broad Danish nurse Katrina played by Glenne Headley). This lack of female characters ignores the fact that these damaged men are as much a product of their fathers as their mothers and simplifies their characters further.

That said, Christopher Walken gives a wonderfully evocative performance as a man who is living in a constant state of grief and regret. He makes the perfect choice for a character like Turner whose choices have forced his extrication from both his family and from a society that has no time for ex-addict musicians. It is a performance of understatement and sympathy, but one that further accentuates Josh Lucas’s overplayed and underwritten character.

Although Around The Bend has some moments of quiet beauty, it has little of the understanding of character to make a film such as this work successfully.

Review by Barnaby Welch

Mean Creek

2005-05-03T18:45:00.000Z

When an adolescent prank goes horribly wrong, the group of young perpetrators are suddenly and brutally confronted with life issues for which they are ill equipped to deal with. In this impressive debut as writer/director, Jacob Aaron Estes has re-worked the classic theme of the schoolyard bully and made a stirring, atmospheric film about how we navigate our way through friendships, responsibility, and the moral maze.

When shy, diminutive Sam (Rory Culkin) gets beaten up in school one day by George (Joshua Peck), who is at least twice Sam’s size and weight, Sam tells his big brother Rocky (Trevor Morgan) so as to finally put a stop to what has become a daily ordeal. The two devise what they consider will be the perfect payback scheme that will result in George’s utter humiliation. Pretending that it is Sam’s birthday, they invite George on a boat trip down the river together with two of Rocky’s friends, slender and thoughtful Clyde (Ryan Kelley), who comes from a well-to-do family of “two Dads”, and Marty (Scot Mechlowicz), representing the very opposite end of the spectrum, whose father killed himself when he was a little boy and who lives in a trailer with an absent mother and low-life older brother. Sam brings the only female in the group, beautiful flaxen haired, pony-tailed Millie, who hopes to become Sam’s girlfriend. All are in on the gag, but once the journey gets under way and they get to know George a bit better, they understand that his behaviour is born out of feelings of intense insecurity and inadequacy, and they recognise that all he wants to be is part of a group. Sam then calls off the prank, but midway through the journey a terrible accident takes place that catapults the group into a situation they could never have foreseen.

This is very much an ensemble, character driven piece, and considering Jacob Aaron Estes is a first time writer and director, he has drawn a remarkably sophisticated cast of complex characters who, in turn, are played beautifully by each of the actors in their respective roles. Rory Culkin, a veteran child actor, seems to have all the benefits of a precocious talent without any of the more cloying ones associated with many in his peer group. But it is Josh Peck’s astonishing portrayal of George that must be given special mention. George has all the ephemera of adolescence – the digital video camera, computer game console, etc., but none of the ones necessary to make him attractive to other people. Obese, burdened with learning disabilities, and lacking in social skills, George compensates for his intense feelings of inferiority and inadequacy with aggressive, obnoxious behaviour. He seems to have no sense of etiquette or boundary and never seems to know when to stop. This is a role that takes insight, intelligence, and a great deal of courage. Josh Peck seems to veritably inhabit the role with an astonishing degree of maturity for such a young actor (he is 17-years old).

The film has been attributed with the inappropriate moniker of an “adolescent Heart of Darkness”, and while the river journey is pivotal to the narrative and psychological development of the characters, this is a cinematic classic coming-of-age tale akin to films such as River’s Edge and Stand By Me (both 1986) and in many ways is far superior to these antecedents, not least for the naturalism of Sharone Meir’s cinematography (Mean Creek was shot almost entirely with natural lighting and with a handheld camera) and supported by Tom Haju’s discreetly emotional score. This is a moving, thoughtful film that should have wide appeal to adults and teenagers alike.

Review by Erica Rosen