Matching Curtains

20,000 Days on Earth

Musician Nick Cave is no stranger to cinema, having performed in, written scores for, and scripted screenplays for movies which bear his signature brooding trademark. In this fictionalised day in the life rockumentary, Cave offers tantalising glimpses into what it feels like to be a contemporary, living rock icon. And yet ...

And yet. These glimpses are fleeting, dreamlike - flash insights during psychoanalysis, or discussions with former collaborators in his car, surreal and wry subversions of the chats one might have with a cabbie, if the cabbie's guvnor was Martin Scorsese. And if the cabbie was Nick Cave, and the passengers Ray Winstone and Kylie Minogue. You get the picture. The Freudian analogy one might draw from the driver/passenger scenarios is surely something Cave is all too aware of, the revelations which follow falling into a deliberately contrived tableau. Cave co-wrote the film with directors Iain Forsythe and Jane Pollard, so he is playing a game with us: our insights will not compromise him, but feed his mystique. He is the purveyor of a musical, cinematic language which draws us in, but keeps us chasing meaning. His reflections on ideas and the transience of truth as they relate to the artist may come towards the end of the film, but they are laced throughout. They also inspire the audience to take more risks in their own lives. As one of only two people in the cinema on a Monday afternoon, it felt like this was a personal invocation. Again, as his mate Kylie says, isn't that what all performers want their audience to think?! That the message is for them and them alone?! Aargh. He got me.

Anyway. I get ahead of myself. The film opens with an infants wail, feedback, and a succession of images symbolising each and everyone of his titular 20,000 days. We then hear Cave discuss the 'cannibalism' he believes is inherent to creativity, suggestive of a guilt or emotional vampirism which has been at the heart of many a writer's moral anxieties. That his wife Susie only appears in reflections, glimpses and old photographs is an interesting element, echoing his own elusiveness. He remains frustratingly close and yet absent. But, to paraphrase Hannibal's Will Graham, this is his design.

Another presence/absence in the film is the influence of Freud. Who doesn't love to play with the father of psychoanalysis and his theories?! And who better than Cave to do so?! We learn of Cave's father reading extracts from Lolita, his relationship to religion when a junkie, watch him chew the fat with long-time collaborator Warren Ellis, and see him and his band perform. Each scene provides a sense of psychodrama and theatre, lurching from one moment to another without warning and yet with a lucid skein of truth connecting them. If it sounds pretentious, don't fear. The same droll humour present in Cave's music is here, dragging the film away from a risk of navel gazing. One of the funniest moments for me, was watching the bearded, slightly mad-eyed Warren Ellis conducting a choir of French kids during the recording of 'Push the Sky Away'. Superb.

Cave's adopted home of Brighton also features heavily, looking poetic and moody whilst being soundtracked by Cave and Ellis. In this aspect, and its apparent search for a creative truth, the film recalled the recent Pulp documentary for me. Life, Death and Supermarkets also contrived to move away from the pedestrian onstage/talking heads rockumentary format favoured by many bands. In Pulp's case, the film looked outside the musicians and to their hometown for clues about their creative process; with Cave's latest project, we are - apparently - venturing further into the auteur's mind. But this in itself is an artifice - everything is precisely scripted and choreographed. The film's beauty and success owes much to the balance struck between preserving Cave's enigma and still conveying his essence - precisely the 'counterpoint' he mentions which is vital to a song's success. And which again recalls our man Sigmund - we can never truly know the unconscious, and Cave delights in this ambivalence.

There are some moving moments - he admits to fearing memory loss, which he worries would deaden his imaginative designs, and the terror in his eyes is naked. The sense of transformation he speaks of when he performs is portrayed startlingly by the directors in a closing montage of 20 plus years of concert footage, before we see Cave back on Brighton beach, the tide coming in. Again, the symbolism is clear; he is after all, an ageing musician and there is a touch of Prospero to this final scene. 

Thankfully though, this is not the end for Cave. Cryptic and mesmerising, with beautiful cinematography, this is a sublime addition to the Cave canon which makes no bones about his compulsion to write and play. What a fascinating and clever man he is and thank goodness we have him.

The rockumentary is dead. Long live the rockumentary.

Angus & Julia Stone - new album

Angus and Julia Stone’s third – self-titled – album is an offering which some didn’t expect to see, after they sort-of-disbanded a few years back. Since then, both have launched solo careers and albums which, whilst captivating, never quite lived up to the magic of their joint endeavours.

Perhaps then, it’s something of a statement to give their comeback an eponymous title; certainly, there is a stridency to the LP which is absent from the duo’s previous efforts. That’s not a criticism of what went before – far from it! I adored their slightly fey, fragile harmonies and twisted fairy tale lyrics. So much so, that I was actually a bit worried about this third outing, concerned that it wouldn’t live up to the love I feel for A Book Like This and Down The Way. The video accompanying ‘A Heartbreak’, the new album’s first single, did little to dispel these fears. Admittedly, I loved the song, the confident, heavy drum beat and lurch into a darker musical vein, but the hipster-friendly video seemed to signal a conscious move away from the bucolic stylings and sound which had beguiled me so much. And for those who slate me for judging on the visuals – shush. This is a band who have always been conscious of their image, contriving a look which  complements their sound. The two cannot be separated in my view. And with the album’s heavier, rockier opening track, came my concern that their folkier stylings were to be cast aside.

I shouldn’t have worried. It took producer Rick Rubin to bring the siblings back together, and his pedigree speaks for itself. The American Recordings he did with Johnny Cash rank amongst some of my favourite albums. So … what of his collaboration with the Stones? Whereas their past albums were best described as gently and slowly beguiling, this is a more determined and malevolent recording - definitely less eager to please and casting a more adult spell. The slick production values are a world away from their past homespun sound, but not at the loss of their intoxicating soulfulness. The aforementioned ‘A Heartbreak’, with its spiteful lyrics, sets the tone. The siblings are not to be trifled with; the magic is still present, but it’s a little more dangerous than before. Harmonies still feature, but are stripped back, often deliberately dischordant, and second place to alternating vocals which make the most of Angus’s drawl and Julia’s crackling delivery. It’s a relief to hear them together again – both are more than competent musicians, but alone Angus’s stoned drawl and deference to the likes of Neil Young risk becoming anaemic facsimiles of legends, and Julia’s elfin whimsy too contrived. Combined, they are so much more than the sum of their parts and prove they are still masters of their craft. Julia takes ownership of a voice which is more seductive than ever, and seems to have developed a maturity which now threatens to overwhelm her brother’s more accessible vocal style.

The album’s first half is immediate, engaging, and brilliant – highlights include ‘Wherever You Are’ and ‘Get Home’, appropriately coming at the album’s core. Angus’s penchant for a wanky guitar solo is just about held in check, but the second half … I think I need to give it more time. Perhaps it will grow on me? Still, this is a confident and welcome return which shows a musical evolution which builds on, rather than departs from, the sound which made them.

Phew.

 

Mood Indigo

Boris Vian’s 1947 novel L'Écume des jours – Froth on the Daydream – is not a surrealist tome I'm familiar with. So thank goodness for maverick director Michel Gondry: his new film Mood Indigo is a very enjoyable adaptation of said novel – if a little frothy (excuse the obvious pun).

The film’s basic premise is a doomed love story involving a water lily growing in the heroine’s lung, a profusion of multi-coloured flowers, a tiny man dressed as a mouse (just because), and a pianocktail (a cocktail-making piano, of course. And yes – I really, really want one). It’s visually daring, silly, astonishingly beautiful, and, in the end – a bit sad. The lupine Romain Duris and the woman who invented nu-gamine, Audrey Tautou, play lovers Colin and Chloe, living in a fantastical, surrealist Paris which quite frankly, had me at bonjour. The pair are divine together, the epitome of Gallic charm. Regular readers will no doubt sense my pleasure at the ascent of Duris, who is utterly seductive as the reformed bon viveur. Tautou is equally appealing (if not stretched) in yet another elfin role. The pair are ably supported by Gad Elmaleh (who fans of French cinema will remember starred with Tautou in Priceless and mined a rich Buster Keaton seam with great success), the stunning Aïssa Maïga, and Omar Sy – all of whom seem to be having a ball.

The story itself is structured within a self-reflexive narrative which takes Breton’s automatism to a brilliant conclusion: the tale is crafted by members of a typing pool in an elaborate, factory-like game of consequences in which it seems the typists compose whatever comes to them, before swinging their typewriter onto their neighbour to do the same. The choreography of these scenes is just what we’ve come to expect from Gondry – pure fun and fizz, the mundane turned inside out. So too are the dancing sequences, complete with pipe cleaner legs and bold cinematography (think that Supergrass video). Surrealism and a sense of play suffuses the film’s aesthetic, but the puns are as verbal as they are visual - you don’t need to scratch your head for too long, to deduce the origins of the character Jean-Sol Partre. Gondry’s dreamlike style pays homage to (and occasionally pokes fun at) these surrealist and existential schools of thought so often associated with the French intellect – and in doing so, gives the film its je ne sais quoi.

It's a shame then, that whilst the film remains hugely original, the film's second half is a little disappointing. The surrealism, whirls of colour, and at times gravity-defying sense of space which characterise the first half abruptly shift to a morose monochrome as Chloe’s life hangs in the balance. The effect on the viewer is instant: I went from smiling so much my face hurt, to feeling pretty flat. The stylist switch is clearly deliberate, but that doesn't mean that it succeeds. This is definitely a movie of two halves – a romantic split screen scene earlier in the movie typifies it perfectly – but unfortunately, the move towards death and murder doesn’t have quite the same effect as the happier scenes. Unlike the emotional punch of Gondry’s Eternal Sunshine, the style begins to overwhelm the substance. Perhaps this is perhaps because Colin and Chloe, charming though they are, are essentially archetypes rather than fully formed characters.

That’s not to say I didn’t find the latter part of the story sad – just that my emotions felt more at a distance. To start with, Gondry captures the feeling of falling in love wonderfully: giddy, giggly and gorgeous. But the film noir cinematography of the second part couldn't sustain the emotional journey Gondry wanted to take us on – maybe because we’d never really cared enough about the couple in the first place. With so much to see, there just didn’t feel room enough to feel.

Still, this is a pleasing little film which is definitely best seen in the cinema, for the magician-like directorial sleights to really impress. Perhaps the story’s segway into death and jealousy is in its way an analogy for the demise of a relationship, the sudden numbness one feels when they realise they no longer love as they used to? Even if the tragedy of Colin and Chloe isn’t as impactful as Gondry’s optical illusions and flourishes, I’d wager that – stylistically at least - this theory holds. Or perhaps I am thinking too deeply about a film which is best enjoyed as if an extended (Duke Ellington) music video. On these merits, its indulgence and initial euphoria can’t fail.

Chef

Think back to some of the nicest meals you've eaten. I bet they've been unfussy, but made with care and attention. Certainly some of my own favourite comfort meals are uncomplicated affairs, but no less enjoyable for their simplicity.

And thus, one could describe Chef. Yes, I will add my own review, complete with culinary analogies, to the already plentiful servings of praise heaped upon this movie.

Chef will have you feeling both extremely hungry and yearning to hug its bear of a director, writer and star, John Favreau. Yup, he is indeed on my list. I love that big unit of a guy. Anyway, raging desire aside, here are my thoughts.

This story of a chef who rediscovers his creativity in the form of a food truck is not only bang on trend (street food is so de rigeur), it’s also an uplifting and satisfying watch. Favreau plays Carl Casper, a previously edgy and hip chef whose talents are stymied by the owner of the restaurant he works in (played by Dustin Hoffman, in one of many celebrity cameos). Whilst Carl wants to concoct daring and exciting dishes, his boss prefers to stick with the same, safe menu which guarantees revenue – if not critical acclaim. The harsh words of a food critic, a meltdown which goes viral, and a road trip later, and Carl finds his groove again – in the process, reconnecting with his young son and ex-wife (played by Sofia Vergara, sexy mum du jour).

Favreau’s self-reflexive nods to his weight gain and the sheer energy with which he shoots the kitchen scenes leave you in no doubt that this bloke loves his food. And my goodness, it all looks delicious. My mouth was quite literally watering, this despite having eaten a massive curry beforehand! But there is no Adam Richman-style gluttony here – the food sequences are tightly composed and never detract from the story, or tip into food snobbery. With the exception of a rather indulgent (and faintly embarrassing) scene involving Scarlett Johansson and a bowl of pasta, the balance Favreau strikes between cuisine and character is just right. The soundtrack is a great accompaniment, too, taking in everything from blues to Cuban. It’s as much of a melting pot as the American towns and cities we visit with Carl; Favreau's direction conveys real pride in a country which boasts so many cuisines and cultures.

Favreau has also assembled a delightful cast; John Leguizamo is stand out in a supporting role as Carl’s sous chef, sharing an easy chemistry with the leading man and proving a versatile and generous on-screen foil. Boardwalk Empire’s Bobby Cannavale also garners his fare share of chuckles. Admittedly,the female characters are notable only for their beauty, their only function to help Carl find his way and look sympathetic at the right moments. But Johansson and Vergara are easy on the eye and not terrible by any stretch. The break-out star is surely Emjay Athony, who plays Carl’s ten year old son Percy. He is an entirely unaffected child actor, whose rapport with Favreau is a delight. As we watch the two repair their relationship over the course of the food truck’s road trip, culminating in some wonderful scenes in New Orleans, you can almost see your heart glow. The father and son narrative is genuinely touching and gives the film a sentimental core which is, thanks to the strong performances and dialogue, charming rather than cloying. I’m surprised that Chef wasn’t released to coincide with Father’s Day to be honest, but there you go. I’m sure the distributors have their reasons.

And speaking of marketing and markets … It’s notable that after the likes of Iron Man, Favreau has returned to an independent style of film-making - though not without calling in some favours from s'leb pals like Robert Downey Jr, who makes a typically smarmy appearance. Perhaps Chef Casper’s yearning for a more maverick approach in the kitchen is reflective of Favreau’s own creative direction, spurning the blockbuster for something more intimate. And as for his diatribe against food bloggers … that has to be a not-so veiled riposte to the film critics who’ve slated him in the past. As a film blogger, the vehemence of his delivery – and the relative invisibility of the reviewer whose words can make or break someone – actually made me feel a bit guilty for the times I’ve slammed movies. It’s clear that Favreau gives his heart and soul to his work and has been hurt by the cruelty of critics, and this is his chance to say his piece. Ironically, Chef’s warm reception can only vindicate him further.

Like the best meals, a simple presentation belies much behind the scenes consideration. Parallel to the father-son relationship, Favreau explores the tension between business and imagination, and the potential conflict between critics and creators. He does so unpretentiously, always putting the story first.

This is a charming film which in its own way, is full of humanity. The secret ingredient? Surely, it’s love (sorry).

First Aid Kit - Stay Gold

I do love a bit of Scandi-pop/folk/rock.

Swedish sisters Johanna and Klara Söderberg caught my attention at a music festival four years ago, and I've followed them ever since. Given their youth and the inevitable clamour of festival going, it is often easy to forget the multitude of nascent talent performing on smaller stages, but there was something so captivating about this duo that ignoring them wasn’t an option. And now with their third album Stay Gold released, they are showing no signs of Difficult Third Album Syndrome.

Quite the contrary, in fact - Stay Gold is a sumptuous and assured blend of country-tinged harmonies and the delicious sound of musicians coming into their own. If The Lion's Roar was First Aid Kit nestling firmly on the radar of indie kids, then this latest offering will prove their cross over moment.

What is it about the magical effect of siblings singing in harmony? From The Everly Brothers and The Carpenters, to Angus and Julia Stone and yes, even the Gallaghers, the alchemy of musical siblings can be exquisite. It is a genuine joy to listen to Söderbergs: their voices blend skywards and soar beyond the mundane, appealing to the emotional core of their audience. Even when their lyrics consider heartbreak or homesickness, the music gives you hope for what is to come. Producer Mike Mogis, beloved of the likes of Conor Oberst, Jenny Lewis and M Ward, brings the same Americana sheen to this recording as to those of his other artists, keeping the girls' vocals at the centre of each song. Perhaps unlike Obert's earthier offerings, however, by placing those gorgeous voices front and centre, Mogis delivers a long player with an almost transcendent, but no less bucolic, quality.

Stay Gold is a sublimely beautiful musical album which easily assures First Aid Kit a place in the folk-rock canon. It seems Johanna and Klara sense this too - you can feel their confidence in each track. With deeper, richer sounds and darker lyrics than its forebear, it is tantalising to consider where First Aid will take us next. All this, and neither of them has yet to hit 25.

Jealous much?

Mis-shapes, Mistakes, Misfits

Music has always been the refuge of the outsider, a place where those who feel out of sync with the world can find a sense of belonging, unleash creativity and forge their identity. It was my salvation during my teens and remains a massive source of joy and comfort. In the last week or so, three music-related events have reminded me of music’s magical sanctuary.

Regular readers will know of my enduring love for Pulp and Jarvis Cocker. Whilst other girls adorned their bedroom walls with Liam and/or Damon, or the more pedestrian Leonardo diCaprio, I was always about the bespectacled, angular glory of his Jarvness. It goes without saying then, that I made damn sure I was able to see the live-streamed premiere of a new Pulp documentary. If I couldn’t get to Sheffield proper to throw myself at Jarv, then the VUE in East Oxford would have to suffice. As we followed the film with fish and chips, the setting and cuisine were rather apposite.

Pulp: A film about Life, Death and Supermarkets, is a totally different kind of music documentary, documenting not just Pulp’s homecoming/farewell gigs in Sheffield a couple of years ago, but also the denizens of Sheffield themselves. Newspaper sellers, market traders, kids, pensioners and die-hard Pulp fans are juxtaposed with footage of the band’s live shows to create a sense of how place can shape a band’s vision and character.

Director Florian Habicht captures the feelings of euphoria I experience every time I see Pulp, through some exquisite performance footage. Of course, it’s hard for me to be impartial about a band I’ve loved for 20 years (bloody hell, I’m getting old). Pulp lyrics helped me to articulate my own feelings about the world and made me believe someone out there understood me. I am then, relieved that the film is worthy of a band who still inspire such devotion. If this is Pulp’s swansong, it’s a suitably fitting paean to their music and hometown. There are some wonderfully droll insights from Jarv, who compares to fame to a peanut allergy (‘it didn’t agree with me’), bittersweet reflections from keyboardist Candida, who has valiantly struggled with arthritis throughout the band’s existence, and humorous observations from Richard Hawley, who comes across as a genuinely generous spirit. Whilst I could’ve done with more Jarvis (who couldn’t?), the relative economy of band interviews must be deliberate: with only one band member still living in Sheffield, Habicht allowed the citizens of Sheffield to represent themselves. In suitably Pulp style, this allows for moments of truth rather than rose-tinted reminiscences – which have never been Jarv’s style. Artfully contrived (and comic) scenes of Jarvis changing a car tyre opposite a block of flats summed it all up: where the band came from, their sense of outsiderdom, and where they are now.

At the accompanying Q & A (compered by Paul Morley, who appeared to be sporting a black eye), one woman questioned the band’s decision to place a non-local director at the helm (eliciting a particularly diplomatic response from Steve Mackie, who’s quite the silver fox). For me, this is more of an asset than a disadvantage. Kiwi Habicht, a relative outsider to the UK, offers a more objective perspective than a Brit might, taking in class, lifestyle and the band’s international fan base. Highlights include his interview with Liberty, who introduced the film at the launch, and is definitely one of its stars. I also loved Steve Mackie’s observation that you’ve done well in Sheffield if you’re told something was ‘alright’. Coming from a post-industrial town where people are just as shy to push themselves forward, this resonated deeply! As Habicht’s camera revealed the more derelict parts of the city, it struck me that he evokes a similar mood to one of my favourite Pulp tracks, ‘Wickerman’, by finding beauty in the quotidian. A wonderful rendition of ‘Help the Aged’ by a group of pensioners in a café was at once hilarious, realist, and bittersweet. Words which could easily sum up the movie itself. This is a director who loves his subject - and has reinforced my own fandom. Sigh …

Jon Ronson’s film Frank is similarly offbeat and on the side of the mishapes and misfits. A poignant, bathos-filled little film loosely based on Chris Sievey and his alter ego Frank Sidebottom, it tells the story of Frank, lead singer in a band who conceals his true identity underneath a giant paper mache head, which he wears even in the shower. The band are joined by young keyboardist Jon (Domnhall Gleeson), through whose eyes we witness their recording and ill-fated trip to SXSW festival in Texas. The band is so obscure that even their name is utterly unpronounceable (Soronprfbs, since you asked), and their tight unit comes under threat following a band member’s suicide and a shambolic performance at said festival. They don’t really fit in anywhere, except with each another; their avant garde output is in marked contrast to the machinations of the music industry, which they’re really not cut out for. Yes, even the apparently ‘alternative’ scene – perhaps a wry comment from Ronson on the commodification of the offbeat.

Come the film’s resolution, comedy cedes to the tragic, with the revelation of Frank’s undisclosed mental illness and a touching reunion with his band mates. Frank explores the fine line between eccentricity and something altogether darker in a truly original way, and really grew on me. It’s initial hipster leanings give way to something altogether more human and raw. A tender account of one man’s illness, it illustrates both the damaging and healing capacity of recording and touring on a delicate soul. It’s not accessible viewing, but will reward audience’s patience. Stay with it. Oh - did I mention? It’s Michael Fassbender under the head.  

Finally in my musical hat trick, I give you Eels. Mark Oliver Everett, or E, visited Oxford last weekend and gave a captivating set traversing what is now an extensive back catalogue. He was simply brilliant: great inter-song banter (he taught us repressed English types what a hug was), a fantastic supporting band resplendent in sharply cut suits, and a fine line in candy-coloured guitars. Highlights included his cover of ‘(I Can't Help) Falling In Love With You’ and ‘My Beloved Monster and Me’. That husky voice conjured up myriad emotions and his knack with a tune, whether rockier or stripped-back, piano-led affairs, proves as strong as ever. The gig was in many ways a trip down memory lane, just as with the Pulp documentary. It’s never a bad thing to remember the sheer force with which one loved music, and found their way in life.

Thank goodness for the misfits, the Beautiful Freaks, and, um, Frank.

Frances Ha

Belatedly, I want to celebrate Noah Baumbach and Greta Gerwig’s black and white movie, Frances Ha. It’s a real treat, which pirouettes its way into your heart to such a degree that by the end, you’re bidding adieu to good pals. 

Director Baumbach co-wrote the movie with girlfriend and star Gerwig, who plays the titular heroine. It tells the story of Frances, unfolding during the course of her twenties. Nothing really happens other than what happens to us all: we grow up, or try to; we experience the ebb and flow of friendships, some of which flourish only in particular circumstances, others constant despite ups and downs. But it is in its quotidian beauty that truth flourishes. Frances is a drifter, a dancer seemingly destined to become an also-rans. She is kooky and awkwardly honest, seemingly a step behind her friends, who are either ‘artistes’ living in NYC on trust funds, or upwardly mobile career professionals who seem to have it made. A brief insight into Frances's humble background in Sacremento reinforces her difference with a warm objectivity. Whether living in hipster apartments, or planning to marry, they seem set on a straight path whilst Frances adopts the desire line. Her existence is peripatetic; she lurches from one set of lodgings to another, she’s always broke but consistently hopeful – if naïve. When considering her tendency to dance at inappropriate moments, she has all the hall marks of a passive but ‘adorkable’ character – otherwise known as annoying. But it’s to the credit of the beguiling Gerwig and a fantastic script, that she’s not. Kooky women are everywhere in cinema – the manic pixie dream girl has long been lambasted on the blogosphere – but rarely are they as human as Frances. She is a flawed delight – the friend we adore, but remain exasperated by. Frances is not defined by the men she dates, and nor are her quirks designed to create a cutesy stereotype. When she comes into money and buys a guy dinner, he wonders if she wants to sleep with him. Her confused but confident response is, in its fashion, more empowered than a rant-filled monologue could ever be. Even if she later realises she has no actual cash on her, and has to run several blocks to an ATM. Which then charges her for a withdrawal. We’ve all been there. Haven’t we?

Gerwig’s involvement in the screenplay is key to her character’s credibility; this is a film which portrays women honestly and can only have had a woman involved in the writing. I can’t help but wonder if the movie would have been so successful if she hadn’t co-written. It has no agenda and yet makes subtle points, which almost seem accidental to the narrative. Skilful or lucky, it doesn’t matter when the act of watching is so enjoyable. Comparisons to the likes of Girls are obvious (indeed, break out star Adam Driver even makes an appearance): the New York milieu, the mid-20s dysphoria, the complexity of female friendships which equal that of romantic concerns. It’s all very familiar. Frances Ha though, is a little more reflective and gentle. The movie reminded me of Woody Allen at his best, dealing with the subtleties of human relationships. Of course, the monochromatic cinematography and New York backdrop reinforce resemblances to Manhattan. But what the movie’s style most recalls are elements of mumblecore and French new wave cinema, this alchemy of niche genres ironically serving to make it one of Baumbach’s most accessible films to date. 

Frances Ha can’t fail to be held dear by the female of the species, or indeed anyone who has ever felt out of step with their peers. It's funny, has a fab soundtrack and is edgy enough to keep the hipsters happy. To paraphrase Frances, things that look like mistakes are often the most endearing. And her trials, undramatic and ‘first world’ though they are, are just that - endearing. And there’s a lovely ending, to boot. I will close for now, for I feel a few dance turns of my own coming on …

Bad Neighbours

Bad Neighbours stars Seth Rogen as a doting new dad who still hankers after his stoner years. It goes without saying that the promotional material for the movie had me at Seth’s hurr hurr hurr. It’s Seth! His laugh! And he’s carrying a baby. What’s not to love?

Before I get carried away with myself, the plot. Rogen teams up with Rose Byrne to play Mac and Kelly, a husband and wife with a new baby, who have shunned their partying past for suburbia and parenthood. Life is sweet, until a raucous college fraternity led by a frighteningly buff Teddy (Zac Efron, inoffensive enough but ultimately an identikit Hollywood hunk) moves in next door. Their partying causes havoc in Mac and Kelly’s domestic idyll, and before long it’s all-out war. Cue: fireworks (literal and metaphorical), acts of sabotage, and prosthetic penises. Of course.

Director Nicholas Stoller is back to his scatological best with Bad Neighbours, after the rather disappointing Muppets Most Wanted. Boasting all the hallmarks of a Judd Apatow production – and many familiar faces – this comedy will please Apatow acolytes enormously, but hold little appeal for those who like their humour sans-bong.

For me, the movie walks the fine line between charm and juvenility with ease, with some hilarious set pieces and one-liners. Baby with used condom? Check. Man milking a breast-feeding woman? Check. Honestly, whilst these examples may sound outrageously offensive, the pay offs and punchlines are worth it, and the set-ups are never employed solely for shock value – though I’m not naïve enough to think this isn’t an element. Thanks to Rogen’s everyman persona and the addition of a very cute baby, Stoller just about gets away with some of the more outré scenes. This is a comedy which is really about growing up and coming to terms with your responsibilities – whether it’s Mac and Kelly’s admission that their party days are over, and embrace of family life, or Teddy’s post-graduation future. In this sense, it’s actually pretty sweet, and a reflection of the maturing of the Apatow stable itself. Anyone who grew up with his movies will be in a similar place to Mac and Kelly and their pal Jimmy, played by the always good value Ike Barinholtz (of The Mindy Project). An exchange between Mac and Jimmy will be familiar to many viewers in their early thirties, as they try to ignore the fact they are adults: one married and the only house-owner in his friendship group, the other divorced. Yup. It’s pretty scary how these things suddenly don’t just happen to older people. We are those people!

The one discordant note in the movie was the casting of Rose Byrne, totally unbelievable as a former raver and party girl. Granted, she does uptight exceptionally well, as Bridesmaids can evidence. However, this role called for someone more alternative and altogether less preppy. A Kristen Wiig, Rashida Jones or Brie Larson would have been far more credible casting. That aside though, Bad Neighbours is mindlessly entertaining enough, if you’re prepared to leave highbrow pretension at the door.

A film which admittedly could easily be enjoyed on DVD, this is at its core a charming offering which borrows heavily from other frat-themed movies. The main draw will be the aforementioned Apatow links, but there is another, equally valid reason. If, like me, you’re a Seth fan, you're in for a treat. If the prospect of him stripping to the waist down outside an Abercombie & Fitch store is tantalising, what in hell’s name are you waiting for?

The Counsellor - DVD review

The Counsellor is an intriguing proposition: boasting a highbrow writer and all-star cast, it’s easy to assume that it has something for everyone. For the literati, Cormac McCarthy’s first original screenplay offers an exciting chance to enjoy a master at work, following his previous adaptations of No Country for Old Men and The Road. For those more interested in celebrity cache, the constellation of stars Brad Pitt, Cameron Diaz, Penelope Cruz, Javier Bardem and Michael Fassenbender shines with alluring promise.

The script is certainly a cut above the usual thriller fare, mining familiar existential McCarthy themes of death, guilt and redemption through long and involved soliloquies of the kind Hollywood is unused to. Fassbender plays the eponymous Counsellor, a lawyer who gets in a little too deep with drug traffickers and realises to his cost that this is not a world one can merely dabble in. Mexico provides a Faustian underworld and counterpart to the Counsellor’s glamorous American lifestyle, which gives director Ridley Scott the opportunity to consider both the tension between the two countries and the dangers of border crossing in more ways than one (transgression being another key theme). It’s unfortunate though, that no clear political message emerges from this, beyond a general sense that the US treatment of Mexicans is not good, and that drug cartels are bad.

Aside from this rather weak engagement with a pressing contemporary issue, the ideas portrayed generally unravel with a cruel and clear beauty– as you would expect from a writer of McCarthy’s stature. The money the Counsellor makes enables him to purchase an expensive diamond ring for his beautiful fiancée Laura (played by a clearly quite pregnant Cruz); ‘value’ and ‘worth’ are replete in speeches reflecting on death and risk, and converge cruelly around Laura’s own fate, as she becomes a victim of her fiancé’s hubris. The material, the emotional and the physical all carry their own relative values, and this is explored in a speech which carries an objective but excoriating truth for our chief protagonist.

The ideas presented are exciting to consider intellectually, though may not be appetising to audiences expecting a more conventional, plot driven movie. They would almost be better served in a play. But the stars are surely worth the popcorn trade-off: Pitt gives a whimsical performance as an enigmatic cowboy drug trafficker who knows his time is up, and Bardem is scenery-chewing as Reiner, a cheetah-owning(!) criminal wearing equally criminal shirts and a hair style best described as Dennis the Menace does acid. He is fabulous, and brings welcome comic relief to Fassbender’s gloomy performance (is there any other kind of Fassbender performance?). As Malkina, Diaz is the machinating seductress counterpoint to Cruz’s naïf, and nails it as the real villain of the piece, even if her accent lurches from Barbadian to American and back again, somewhat incongruously. And speaking of incongruous … the scene in which she has sex with Bardem’s car is particularly bizarre. Yup – you heard me correctly. That and the cheetah-owning are especially random.

If I wasn’t offended by the car masturbation, I was however, irked by the film’s treatment of women. Yes, it was funny to hear Reiner to describe Malkina’s lady parts as like a ‘catfish’ (complete with facial impressions), but overall I wasn’t impressed with the lazy whore/virgin dichotomy presented by Malkina and Laura, and how women are described and used throughout. Cruz is a brilliant actress, but woefully underused – Laura could have been played by anyone, given she is merely a cipher for the Counsellor’s mistakes.

That said, the film isn’t half as bad a film as the critics have said. After a slow start it really comes into its own, the taut and complex plotting a welcome offering to those who like their films with substance. Ridley Scott knows how to keep audiences hooked, and achieves that well in the last half of the film, when we see the story's various strands coming together.  The amoral universe he gives us is not confined to the Americas: the characters travel to Europe too, and this gets under our own skin as truths are revealed to the audience without apology. The truth, the movie shows us, lies outside of moral boundaries. For audiences used to tidy moral outcomes, this will not sit easy. I for one appreciated this grown up, philosophical approach, set primarily against dramatic Texan and Mexican backdrops. The Counsellor may, like Fassbender’s character, be trying to do too much, but that doesn’t make it anything other than utterly compelling.

The Muppets Most Wanted

In the opening musical number of the not-really-a-sequel-follow up to 2011’s glorious The Muppets, songwriter Bret McKenzie acknowledges that ‘everybody knows the sequel is never quite as good’. Was he right, or just teasing? Read on.

Certainly, his tongue-in-cheek opener sets a self-referential tone for the rest of The Muppets Most Wanted, which picks up where we left Kermit and pals – though sadly without stars Amy Adams and Jason Segel (the latter also notably missing from the writing credits). Given that one of the film’s stars is Ricky Gervais, it is perhaps unsurprising that it is more assertively self-aware than its predecessor, but on the whole it remains a thoroughly enjoyable romp. Gervais plays Dominic Badguy, who hoodwinks our furry friends into launching a world tour and switching Kermit with evil doppelganger Constantine, recently escaped from a Siberian Gulag run by Tina Fey’s prison guard, Nadya. With Kermit wrongfully incarcerated and the gang oblivious to the deception, Constantine and his ‘Number 2’, Dominic, use the world tour as a front for their plans to steal the Crown Jewels. As they travel across Europe with the Muppets, taking in Berlin, Madrid, Dublin and, finally, London, they are pursued by Ty Burrell’s French Interpol agent Jean Pierre Napoleon and CIA agent Sam Eagle. Cue some wry cross-cultural banter and ironic stereotypes for the grown-ups, and the usual slapstick for the kids. Ooh – and some cracking songs!

The songs should by rights have equal billing with the Muppets themselves as the stars of the show - McKenzie's musical flair remains as potent as ever (and it's impossible not to imagine them being sung by the Conchords). His tunes are accompanied with equally playful set-pieces and skilfully executed choreography– such as Nadya’s number, welcoming Kermit to prison life, which just about distracts from Fey’s vocal shortcomings. But despite this weakness, she is a delight – as is her comedy Russian accent. It’s clear that she can barely contain her excitement at being part of the much-loved franchise, and she throws herself into proceedings with gusto. Unlike her co-lead Gervais … whilst I’m a big fan of his humour, it just doesn't work in the context of a feverishly enthusiastic Muppets production. Playing up his usual acerbic persona, Gervais jarred against the camp energy bubbling around him. Tongue-in-cheek doesn't mean cynicism! Come to think of it, there's no place for cynicism in the Muppets' universe! Thank goodness for Ty Burrell - he definitely knew how to pitch his performance, playing up French cultural stereotypes with a real joie de vivre. I enjoyed every second of his performance, which I must say threatened to steal the show from our eponymous heroes.  

And what a nostalgic pleasure there is in watching the Muppets! It's amazing  that so many twenty, thirty and forty somethings (and the rest!) still feel such affection for these iconic characters, and are ready to part with their cash to see them at the cinema so long after they burst onto our screens. It seems the writers know that, and there are many self-effacing jokes about their reunions and this being one of umpteen sequels.

The secret of their longevity? Sometimes, the best ideas are the simplest - and the most bizarre. There is certainly a generous smattering of the surreal throughout the film - take for instance, the Muppets doing existentialism, Christoph Waltz performing an, um, waltz, with a giant furry Muppet, or Selma Hayek as a matador wearing a vermilion, skin-tight onesie. Yes, you've probably deduced from these examples, there's a cornucopia of cameos, some so small it's a case of blink and you'll miss 'em.  Of the more notable turns, it’s great to welcome Jemaine Clement (McKenzie’s old Conchords mucker) back to the silver screen as a gulag inmate, complete with comedy baritone and accompanied by Ray Liotta. Lady Gaga and Sean Coombs also join in the fun, and Zach Gafilianakis continues to play to type as he reprises his Hobo Joe role.

But whilst it was fun to play to spot the s'leb, their sheer volume risked overkill, which wouldn’t have mattered had Nicholas Stoller and James Bobin's script been as charming as it's predecessor's. And that's ultimately the problem with this movie - it suffers from being in the shadow of the 2011 offering. It feels a little unfair to compare, when The Muppets was so dazzlingly brilliant, but it's impossible not to. The Muppets Most Wanted is a lark, and certainly makes for a pleasant evening, but your cheeks just won't hurt from smiling quite as much as they did three years ago So, whilst McKenzie's lyrics were in jest(?), one can't help but agree.

Colourful, chaotic, and with catchy tunes - but in need of a little more charm. Still, I think they knew that :-)