A current favourite right now, from Wild Beasts, whose 2011 album Smother is fantastic listening. For me, it's simply perfect pop.
January 2012
January 21, 2012
Shame
Deep breath. I'll be honest, I am not sure where to start. Steve McQueen's second movie Shame is an unremittingly bleak account of sex addiction, starring Michael Fassbender and Carey Mulligan as a pair of damaged siblings living in Manhattan. Not for the fainthearted, I think it's only fair that I point out now, that anyone expecting to be titillated by Shame will be sorely disappointed. McQueen has chosen a tough subject; sex is so often the source of cinematic pleasure that it is all the more unnerving that this movie manages to depict a wide range of sexual escapades without any of them being remotely arousing.
Filmed in mainly cool grey and blue hues, McQueen sets the tone from the very beginning, with Harry Escott's mournful score emphasising the alienation of the key protagonists in at times operatic contrast to the functional, stark realities of their compulsions. Fassbender's compelling portrayal of Brandon, a sex addict whose compulsive behaviour escalates as he engages in increasingly risky scenarios, is a searingly memorable performance. We never really get to know Brandon beyond his carnal adventures; a half-hearted date with a colleague only serves to reinforce his pathological aversion to intimacy. Though anything approaching real emotion proves a turn-off for him, we're gripped, hoping against hope that he will be able to extricate himself from the cycle of behaviour which consumes him. The arrival of his sister Sissy (Mulligan) sheds no real light on the root of his addiction; though she alludes to the 'bad place' they come from, we never find out more than that about their origins. Sissy herself is an aspiring singer who looks eerily like Edie Sedgewick; her self-harming and shambolic lifestyle hint at the pairs' shared dark history. However, instead of this bringing them closer, her problems expose a disturbingly aggressive side to Brandon, whose aversion to intimacy seems to include even his ties to his sister.
Brandon is ostensibly your average wealthy New Yorker: well groomed, charming and very, very slick. But look closer: his hard drive at work is riddled with porn; he masturbates compulsively and picks up women in bars and uses prostitutes the way the rest of us would use hand towels, almost without thinking. The slick, stylised look of the film mirrors his outward demeanour - it's quite refreshing to see that a film can still look this good whilst tackling the most taboo of problems. However, when his married boss spends the night with his sister we see a chink in his sleek, perfectly attired armour - in fact, this is what leads to the climax (ahem) of the film. The finale is something of a carnal Hades, the loneliness and riskiness of Brandon's addiction portrayed in all its tawdry truth. However, the ambiguity of the final scene would suggest that in spite of what could be an opportunity for change, Brandon is too trapped in his behaviour to do anything other than repeat the cycle. Though frustrating, I found this to be a brave decision on the part of McQueen and his co-writer Abi Morgan. Sex addiction is presented without judgement; to have a character recover by the end of the film would be to oversimplify the problem - McQueen's amoral treatment is grown up and doesn't treat his audience like idiots. Likewise, the fact we are never given an explanation for the siblings' dysfunctional behaviour is also interesting: McQueen hasn't reduced anything in the movie to cliche or reductive psychobabble, instead preferring to present the issues unflinchingly and bravely - through the body first and foremost. This is a really interesting approach; all actors are asked to use their bodies for their art, but here the body tells a story of compulsions which language is dull to. The terse script underscores this approach.
Yes, I found Shame sordid and at times an effort to watch. It was definitely about twenty minutes too long, and some of Sissy's behaviour at times risked tipping the film over into melodrama. But this is a very brave movie, as mesmerising as it was difficult. It is not something one enjoys, or feels satisfied by, but it's not designed to be. Shame represents a challenge: to how we view sex generally, it could be argued, as we grapple with Brandon's own attitudes, amplified through his addiction. And certainly a challenge to other directors to produce a movie as bold.
NOTE: you won't be wanting your popcorn.
January 13, 2012
Goon
Last night was ‘Date Night’, so we headed to the cinema to see the sports comedy Goon, starring Seann William Scott as a nice but dim muscle man called Doug, invited to act as a ‘goon’ for an ice hockey team in Nova Scotia. What’s a goon? I didn’t know either. It’s basically a member of a hockey team recruited to protect team mates from being attacked by opponents, by beating them up first. Well, you learn something new every day …
Seann William Scott will forever be Stifler from American Pie to me – a character I still find ludicrously funny, awakening as he does my predilection for humour aimed at pimply teenage boys. Hence why I was open to a film which may not initially seem up my street, given its focus not just on sport, but specifically a sport I have no understanding of at all. I can’t say I was especially blown away by the result – the film was much bloodier than I’d expected and I am not sure it would have ever been given the go-ahead without the likes of Dodgeball lighting the way. However, it’s pretty self-aware and does showcase its star’s unexpected comedic range (and that he’s really beefed up since his American Pie days). Whilst I found most of the humour a bit too violent, there were some moments when I have to confess to giggling: the juxtaposition between soaring classical music and over the top shots of hockey players losing teeth remain very bloodily clear in the memory and speak to the bathos involved in local sports. I also found the burgeoning romance between Alison Pill’s town slut and Doug surprisingly charming – in fact, I’d say that Pill was the best thing in the film and after enjoying her performance in Scott Pilgrim, can’t wait to catch her in other movies. Liev Schreiber also makes a surprise cameo as Doug’s nemesis, a fact I’m still struggling to understand: Schreiber is a respected actor who has no public persona to redeem or career to resurrect – factors usually associated with such turns. Ah, well. Far be it for me to judge! He’s very good and sports a handlebar moustache which anyone participating in Movember later this year would be proud of.
I guess my main problem with the movie was the fact it seemed to ridicule anyone who might be considered to have some kind of learning disability, and that frankly, unless it’s Ben Stiller’s aforementioned vehicle, I tend to turn off when it comes to movies about sport. The unexpected charm which comes from the romantic subplot saved Goon for me, but if my other half is anything to go by, this is one which the guys out there will enjoy regardless.
January 09, 2012
The Artist
Yesterday, Himself took me to see The Artist, French director Michel Hazanavicius's much feted paean to silent movies of yesteryear. The trailers for and hype surrounding the movie have been everywhere and profuse in their praise, and there is much to like about this appealing and beautifully realised homage.But be warned - the movie is not quite the Oscar worthy masterpiece many have deemed it; in fact I'd say its more of a charming, overly long curio.
The movie's story takes place in Hollywood(land) between 1927 and 1932 and tells the tale of George Valentin (Jean Dujardin), a star of the silent movies whose career nosedives after the genre is usurped by talkies, which feature rising star Peppy Miller (a captivating Bérénice Bejo, the director's missus don't you know). Shot in the same aspect ratio as the silent movies it apes, the black and white movie captures the feel of the genre perfectly and it was fascinating to interrogate the different way one responds to movies devoid of dialogue as the movie progressed. There were some nice little set pieces which played on sound brilliantly, and some neat visual symbolism and surrealist gags which I enjoyed, drawing on a lost innocence associated with silent movies. Bejo in particular seemed to encapsulate the charisma of stars of the period (it will come as no surprise that I coveted every single item she wore), and sturdy support came from character actors I always enjoy, John Goodman and James Cromwell, playing a studio boss and Valentin's loyal and long-suffering chauffeur respectively.
However, taking the movie as a whole, I'm afraid I can't join the ranks of infatuated critics. I think I'd have enjoyed it more had it been half an hour shorter - during the final part, I guiltily felt my attention wandering. Though the actors acquitted themselves well and were on the whole innocent of the 'mugging' Peppy associates with silent movies, I found Dujardin's performance hard to sympathise with and felt the film's final scene - which I won't ruin for you - was a little cliched and obvious a choice. This movie is attracting people in their droves, for reasons which I can't argue with. But sadly its rather pedestrian take on the form will do little to revive it.
December 19, 2011
Submarine - DVD review
Richard Ayoade's debut movie Submarine is most easily described as a dark comedy which documents the coming of age of Oliver Tate (Craig Roberts), a teenager living in small town-Wales during the 1980s. However, Ayoade's direction and screenplay ensure the movie is head and tails above the likes of the usual teen comedies out there (if like me, you sat through Easy-A recently, you'll have my sympathy). Ayoade doesn't give us an adult's view of adolescence, distorted over the years - he takes us back through time to experience it firsthand (if knowingly).
Oliver is navigating the tricky terrain of first love with Jordana (Yasmin Paige), a pyromaniac almost permanently attached to a red duffle coat reminiscent of that in Don't Look Now, whilst also tackling his fears about his parents' marriage (Oliver's mother appears to be dallying with former flame turned mystic Graham, played with hilarious aplomb by Paddy Considine).
Story and style blend beautifully in this movie, with a self-consciousness which though reminiscent of Wes Anderson, remains idiosyncratically British. Sophisticated visual flourishes and a corking soundtrack from the Arctic Monkey's Alex Turner maximise the 'cool' quotient considerably. But the script, sharply observed comedy and brilliant performances ensure that this is more than just a hipster movie. Anyone who grew up in the eighties, with any wherewithal at all, will adore this film. Ayoade's past TV projects, The Mighty Boosh, The IT Crowd and Garth Marenghi's Dark Place, are sure to divide opinion more harshly than Submarine - for amidst the movie's self-reflexism and irony lies a genuine tenderness. All the milestones of adolescence are here, amplified through Oliver's narrative and Ayoade's magpie approach to cinematography (think: super 8 film, cartoons, freeze frames). School bullies, first kisses, parents failing to engage with their kids about sex (Noah Taylor as Oliver's dad is stand out). It's all here. In capturing the beautiful weirdness of adolescence whilst garnering many laughs, Ayoade has set the bar high for his next project, and I can't wait.
Meanwhile, this movie has done nothing to quell our ardour to live in Wales. As I dream, enjoy the trailer for Alex Turner's soundtrack below.
December 03, 2011
December 02, 2011
My Week with Marilyn
Director Simon Curtis's My Week with Marilyn is based on the memoirs of Colin Clark, a posh boy who ran away to 'join the circus' as an assistant on the set of The Prince and the Showgirl, starring Laurence Olivier and Marilyn Monroe - a pair described memorably by Clark in My Week ... as "a great actor who wants to be a movie star and a movie star who wants to be a great actor". It is this dichotomy which lies at the heart of this glitteringly insubstantial, but nonetheless sweet take on Clark's writings.
Michelle Williams, long a favourite of mine, takes on the role of the iconic Marilyn - a thankless task for any performer, given the ubiquity of Monroe's legend. However she is brilliant at conveying Monroe's complex vulnerability. Though it's impossible not to see the performance as an impersonation, there are fleeting moments when we are tricked into believing it is the real Monroe we are watching, so finely tuned are Williams' mannerisms. These fleeting moments compensate for what I think is a problem inherent to the whole movie: it's nigh on impossible not to rate the actors involved on their likeness to those they are imitating, rather than the quality of their performances alone. Still, I'm at least glad that WIlliams will be catapulted to wider recognition as a result of this role - it's long overdue. I'm also pleased that she was selected ahead of more obvious choices, such as the ostensibly more Monroe-like Scarlett Johansson, who lacks Williams' subtlety and slightly unworldly grace.
Though Williams gives a performance which is thankfully free of parody, it is actually Kenneth Branagh who I think steals every scene - a problem which was ironically the opposite for his character during the filming of The Prince ... . Branagh's tetchy, diva-like thespian is simply hilarious: he's given all the best lines and as he spits out his frustration with his untrained co-star and her obsession with the Method style of acting, he demonstrates the disconnect between the new and old types of movie making marvellously. Though the love story which Clark claims took place between him and Monroe during the filming is supposed to be the movie's central plotline, for me, Branagh's depiction of Olivier's grudging awe and queenly jealousy of his co-star is far more interesting. It represents the rise of Hollywood and new styles of acting, and the subsequent uneasy relationship between Brits and Americans. Eddie Redmayne acquits himself well as the gauche Clark, but falls victim to my earlier point: the audience is far more interested in seeing stars playing stars, than in a romance which too all intents and purposes may only have taken place in Clark's imagination.
The Prince and the Showgirl was ultimately considered a disappointment as a result of its stars' lack of chemistry. Whilst My Week with Marilyn is less of a let down, it is more of an ephemeral curio than dramatic tour de force. Monroe is too big a subject to be imitated - perhaps by inadvertently reinforcing this, the movie is most successful in honouring its subject.
November 28, 2011
Matilda: the Musical
Roald Dahl's Matilda is one of my favourite childhood books - the dog-eared, much loved copy sitting on my bookshelf evidence of the great affection in which I hold it. So last weekend, some friends and I travelled to the Big Smoke to revel in the RSC's riotously joyful musical adaptation of the classic. A couple of us were greedily wanting seconds, having seen and loved the show during its original run at Stratford a year ago. And the seconds were just as delicious - Tim Minchin and Dennis Kelly, writers of the music and lyrics respectively, have done a marvellous job of capturing the spirit of the book.
The cast are as memorable as the tunes: Bertie Carvel, dragged up as the monstrous Miss Trunchbull, bosoms like ballistic missiles, is inspired as the villain of the piece. As he spat out quintessentially Dahlian insults such as 'maggot!' and 'twerp', his performance culminating in the hilarious show tune 'Phys Ed', he seemed the very incarnation of Quentin Blake's illustrations. As indeed, did Paul Kaye as Matilda's weasly father Mr Wormwood. The child performers were also a joy to behold - the role of Matilda, shared by four girls on a rotating basis, was brilliantly performed just as it had been in Stratford (though I confess I didn't catch either girl's name), with cracking support from the other young performers playing Bruce, Lavender, et al. The energy they bought to the stage was infectious and had me smiling broadly long after the show had ended.
The stage itself was quite the sight to behold: tumbling alphabet blocks provided a colourful frame for events, with desks rising from the floor and swings dropping from the ceiling. There were some fancy flourishes added to the London production, but thankfully nothing which detracted from the the purity and simplicity of the original show. The same cunning effects were used for the infamous pigtail swinging and hair dyeing scenes - not to mention those in which Matilda uses her special powers - to the delighted gasps of children and adults alike.
Like Roald Dahl's story, the show never shies away from the darkness or cartoonish grotesquerie which kids - and lets be honest, adults- love. There are some more poignant moments, but none are too sickly and its great to watch a production in which the kids are the right side of cute. As we root for Matilda to avenge the grown up bullies around her, there are cheeky little pokes at contemporary culture: Miss Trunchbull's office is a parody of a surveillance society, with TV monitors which track her pupils scaling the walls; TV is also pilloried in the Wormwood family home (and perhaps through Mrs Wormwood's ballroom dancing, a swipe is dealt to the likes of Strictly ...? I might be overthinking this :-)). These pokes are complemented with a retro feel to the brightly coloured sets which I loved - the vaulting horses and blackboards of Crunchem School took me right back to primary school, and the C & A bag swinging from Mrs Wormwood's arm would have chimed with many a grown up in the audience.
Minchin, who could almost emerge from the pages of a Dahl book himself with his mad hair and kohl-rimmed eyes, has penned some corking uptempo numbers which capture the ebullience of youth and the right to be 'naughty' wonderfully - the closing number 'Revolting Children' is a little bit School of Rock and a little bit soul. Only the original novel can vie for supremacy as an artistic advocate for a child's right to self-expression. This production is like the best school play ever (and as one of my friends pointed out, will likely become a staple on the school circuit before long); the evident pleasure of the performers is matched by the enjoyment of the audience. And more to the point, its a validation for bookworms like me the world over.
November 07, 2011
November 02, 2011
We Need to Talk About Kevin
It was Halloween eve, and rather than face gaggles of Trick or Treaters knocking at our door, we opted instead for some cinematic escapism. Or, more baldly, horrors of a different kind. Lionel Shriver's award winning novel 'We Need to Talk About Kevin' left an indelible impression on me when I read it a few years ago: I remember feeling totally drained upon finishing it. Told from the perspective of narrator Eva, the novel recounts events before and after her teenage son commits a high school massacre. Eva is that most intriguing of storytellers, an unreliable narrator, and the novel raises interesting questions about her responsibility for her son's actions, whether evil is innate or learned, and - more widely - social norms regarding motherhood. On the latter point, I found it interesting to analyse my own shifting responses to Eva as the narrative progressed - the novel is so decidedly ambivalent that it will forever stimulate debate.
Well written, with vividly drawn characters, it is a fearless director who takes on such weighty material. I'm pleased to say that director Lynn Ramsey has done a sterling job with this disturbing and compelling adaptation - a job which has won the praise of Shriver herself (see her recent Guardian article). Ramsey respectfully includes many key scenes, and I think it is to the movie's credit that we never see the full extent of Kevin's attacks at the school. With only one exception, the casting is superb. Tilda Swinton is tremendous in the role of Eva, eliciting both pity and disapproval as a former high flier uncomfortable with motherhood; Ezra Miller is an inscrutable Kevin, giving one of the creepiest performances I've ever seen. They are exactly as I'd imagined their characters, and though the source material could risk a melodramatic cinematic treatment, both manage to ground the story in a reality disturbingly close to that of the audience. Ramsey plays on their almost androgynous physical similarities to reinforce the perverse connection between mother and son, through visual flourishes and clever camera work matched by her decision to play with the natural chronology of events, flipping between a wine-guzzling, dead-eyed Eva's memories and present day reality. In doing this, our own perceptions of Eva as victim and catalyst for Kevin's crime become increasingly confused, making for a sophisticated presentation of the age-old nature/nurture debate. Is Eva a victim of Kevin, as much as he is a victim of her? I couldn't help thinking of Mary Shelley's own famous analogy of maternity as I watched Eva face the abuse of those who had suffered at the hands of her son, whilst reliving the memories of her own losses.
It's a shame then, that the weak link in the chain comes in the form of character actor John C. Reilly, an actor I am deeply fond of. As Eva's husband Franklin, he portrays a man desperately clinging onto an ideal of family life, apparently unable to digest the warning signs displayed by his son. Unfortunately though, in Reilly's hands his treatment of Franklin's denial comes across as chumpish; he seems to have wandered in from the set of a stoner comedy and lacks the complexity needed to make his character believable. The likes of Aaron Eckhart or Philip Seymour Hoffman would have been far more convincing as a partner for our uncompromising lead. This certainly doesn't lessen the impact of the movie though - even though I knew what was coming, Ramsey ekes every last drop of suspense from the tale to devastating effect. An arresting opening scene paves the way for food-based symbolism which even at its most mundane, is alive with portent: Kevin gnawing at a cooked chicken, slathering jam on sandwiches, or tearing at a piece of bread in a restuarant. All of these otherwise innocuous moments add up to a growing sense of terror, placed as they are within a cunning temporal structure.
Ramsey has done a fine job with challenging material, raising important and often uncomfortable questions about feminism and motherhood. Why do we blame Eva for her son's crime, when her husband is so clearly in denial about his son's problems? His blind optimism could be read by feminists as a cultural legacy of nineteenth century attitudes to women and the 'wandering womb' complex - a hangover which undermines female self expression to dangerous effect. That this is a mother's story only reinforces this idea. Also interesting is the issue of mothers failing to bond with their babies: when Eva ironically coos at an unresponsive baby Kevin that she was happier before he was born, we are shocked. But it's an interesting scene and one which I feel Ramsey was brave for using - what happens when a mother doesn't like her child? Is this a deep-rooted fear which rather than address, we choose to cower behind shock? These aren't questions for this blog, as I know I'm moving further away from sharing my thoughts about the film, but they are certainly worth considering.
I would imagine that this film will speak strongly to all women, and look forward to discussing it more in the future. It's not a movie which one can discuss or form a response to straight away - never have I felt such a tangible silence in an audience than after this movie - but as with the novel, it leaves a legacy of profound discomfort and questioning which extends far beyond the world of movie making.
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