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Reviews
Fallout 3 (2008)
I know I'm not affected by radiation... but um... it's YOUR destiny?
It is rather... well, dumb, that a video game should feature on a movie database. Particularly because it's fetching quite a high score for what amounts to single player WoW retread for adults. But I guess when you have Oskar Schindler playing the father this sort of thing was inevitable. It's a role playing game with guns instead of force lightning and much contrived swearing and performance-enhancing drugs crowbared in for R rating notoriety. Well thought out, incredibly well scored and (occasionally) well acted. But video games are still a long way off from being genuine art when a child character warns you of "fu*king fire ants" during clunky exposition, and the plot is transparently Mad Max with zombies and mutants. Aforesaid child bothered me so much I later attempted to sell him to the Slavers. Only changing my mind at the last minute as I didn't want to effect my oh so precious Karma and miss out on the 'good' ending...
The ending, after weeks of play mind, was possibly the single most disappointing event this year. A vague Ron Perlman monologue over still shots and the game is over. In fact, once you enter The Brotherhood of Steel the game is on rails, seriously hampering the will to start over. As the Iron Giant was paving the way to the water purifier I began to think "do you even need me any more?" For years it has been common for single player RPGs to encourage exploration outside of the main mission, however I had NO idea which quests would lead me to the end of the game and which would prolong the experience. Exploration is is made easier by the ability to just bring up your Pip-Boy and jump straight to map locations you have already discovered. However to discover locations requires legwork, and unless you have a walkthrough you have no idea what's out there. As going west had me mauled to pieces by Yao Guai and Deathclaws, East was Super Mutant city and North was chocka with vampire weirdos, I played it safe. And by game's end I discovered I had missed out on so much cool stuff like the the Deathclaw 'Sanctuary' and the ghoul mask. When I found the vault with the Matrix-style VR setup I was sill in the process of enjoying the game, leveling up and saving caps to buy the swanky sex fiend interior decoration for my shack (which I still haven't seen D': ). Hell, I never even got to use the mini nukes.
The game adapts to the style of the individual player. My flatmate liked to sheepishly camp out with long range rifles (where's the fun in that?!) and dress his Will Smith lookin' character like a gay fetishist. Whereas I dressed my Hispanic punk lesbian in evening gowns and went to town with mêlée weapons and spiked knuckles. We both ended up at the end of the game at roughly the same time. Didn't matter that he took great pains to avoid radiation and conserve his mines and I charged in fists flailing, it all ends the same way. The ending is the equivalent of spending 7 years in medical school and getting hit by a bus while walking to graduation. You'll be up at the pearly gates complaining to St. Perlman: "C'mon! I was just getting started!" You could, if it have dawned on the programmers during production, send your Super Mutant pal in your stead. Y'know, because he is impervious to radiation. But I guess it was late on a Friday afternoon when that scenario occurred to them... and he followed me into the chamber anyway *facepalm*
Other little things like predicting President Alex DeLarge was a HAL as soon as I first heard Enclave radio, and the game making every effort to dangle forbidden fruit in front of you and punishing you with that music sting when you take a bite, hinder what was otherwise a brilliant game. It just has no replay value. And seeing Moira goulified on a second play through made me so depressed I shot her in the back and stopped playing all together.
Resident Evil: Extinction (2007)
I gotta shotgun
Whereas it is easy to sympathise with Alien, Terminator, Matrix (etc.) fan boys for feeling shortchanged and insulted as they watched their beloved franchises complete the circle from B-movies masquerading as A-movies to ending up as D-movies, I'll never understand the Resident Evil crowd's objection to these flicks. The original video games were not brain food with lines like "Jill sandwich" and "you, the 'Master of Unlocking'" delivered by the most stilted voice actors heard since the Zelda CD-I games. Also, considering Romero and Co. have botched the simple concept of the zombie genre, it's fun to just escape into the post-apocalyptic fantasy land where slow moving flesh-eaters 'live' again.
It helps that I never enjoyed the entirety of Mad Max, Alien Resurrection, The Matrix, Land of The Dead and any number of other movies this steals from. And that they only chose to steal the good stuff and trim away all the talky bits. So instead of all that cod philosophy horsesh*t and exposition meetings with the Yoda Oracle that bore you to tears, you get Milla Jovovovovavich able to bend time and space until Umbrella turn off her power switch. Simple.
The film starts off with a clone Milla biting the dust: 'Evil corporation constantly cloning until they find the perfect specimen' cribbed from Alien 4. Steal from the best, I guess. This was cool. A concept so illogical that it pulls you into the fantasy. Cut to a Mad Max rip off of a truck or bus or whateverdafu*k pimped out in faux-Megaweapon armor dicing the head of a zombie as the kids aboard Dead Reckoning cheer. This was also cool... just because. Some other stuff happens like that annoying comic-relief character from the second movie getting bitten and Milla acting a more likable lead for once. Both very cool. Come to think of it, this movie is perfect at quickly dispensing with secondary characters you had just assumed would become permanent fixtures. "Mar, I don't like her... oh cool she's enveloped by crows!" it took him two movies to get there, but Paul Anderson now knows that people don't want to be annoyed by those on screen.
Although this movie lacks fundamentals like a fortified mall or a Tenpenny Tower safe zone, a Milla ginger muff shot, and a scene of a drunk sniper in a cowboy hat taking gleeful potshots of ambling zombies fueling every ten-year-old boy's dream lifestyle (they used up all three by the second pic), it does have Super Milla64. An indestructible super badass who's super motorcycle boots drove me to cross dressing with super envy. All the wire work in the climatic super duper zombie showdown in a very sandy Las Vegas elicited the same "woah!" from me as when I first saw Ted Theodore Logan bouncing off the pillars wasting regenerating video game enemies with unlimited ammo. And that's kinda the point.
Terminator Salvation (2009)
What! Metal Gear!?
I'm not one to advocate piracy, if only because it gives the McGs, Bays and W.S Andersons an argumentative advantage should any of their dross ever actually lose money. Nor am I one to revisit a widely publicised train wreck simply to stick the boot in. However when this dropped I attempted everything to avoid paying for it without being left out of the water cooler sewing circle. Any internet pundit worth their 'retro gaming' review site was picking apart continuity errors in Terminator 4 long before Bale lost his rag. And that alone is what prompted me to throw my De Bono hat o' many colours into the bog. A large chuck of Western Civilization refuses to grow up. And consider Xenomorphs, T-800s and Autobots cherished childhood memories. Not that this is a GOOD thing, but it is wiser to treat THEIR icons with a lil' bit of respect lest you become as universally loathed as George Lucas.
Yes, the third one was much worse. Even meth addicts knew that. But this installment has the added "fu*k you!" of pulping 25 years worth of fan fiction and comic books depicting the possibilities of the post "Judgment Day" landscape. It's not funny, it's not "awesome", it's not fun, it's just sad. Bale wants to make the effort, but after hearing a line like "you have to send your father back in time so you can be born" all he can do is facepalm. I caught myself at that moment contemplating a chuckle, which is rarer than catching yourself thinking. Feel guilty for making fun of Bale now?
Restraining myself from whinging about bleedingly obvious holes in plot, continuity and logic, the crumminess of the pre-T-800 terminators (complete with Doc. boots and superfluous clothing) and the fact that everybody is trying their damnedest to give weight to the names John Connor and Kyle Reese by pausing and looking shocked after they say them, this is more a hatchet job on entertainment itself. Not so much a night out as slow punishment for those who gave it the benefit of the doubt. What do we have to show for this decade? Dead franchises given the monkey paw resurrection by a small Scientology junta in Hollywood? Slowly turning the act of movie making into an East Asian Communist Republic where being creative will have you labeled 'Bourgeoisie' and thrown in the Gulag until you learn to tow the Party line.
So yeah, piracy alone is responsible for everything wrong with the entertainment industry.
"God, you can go crazy thinking about all this"
Black Books (2000)
An innate tolerance of the emptiness of modernity
That a sitcom which has been off the air for 6 years has now reached an almost Young Ones level of cult status isn't surprising when considering the talents of those involved. A who's who of contemporary British comedians had their chance to be yelled at by Bernard Black. The first episode featured a pre-Office Martin Freeman, and was penned by Father Ted writer Graham Linehan. Like both Ted and Fawlty Towers, the characters each have somewhat of a pathetic past, and fleshed out back stories which make them both sympathetic and identifiable over the three series arc. Gen-X sub-intellectuals who can't survive in the "real" world, and instead occupy a surrealist alternative Ren & Stimpy universe.
The core cast of course have(had) a wealth of brilliant stand-up to build from. Dylan Moran had spent years morphing from the overgrown Harry Potter of his earlier stand-up career, into the bedraggled failed poet whom only wears suits, and drinks the finest of wines while chain-smoking 400 cigarettes a pop. As a book store owner who hates his customers he delivers each line as if he is a disgruntled, brunt out English professor who's hit the bottle after a failed marriage. Alternating to a poetic disgust with the modern world. You can FEEL every cigarette, every glass of wine dousing his blackened lungs. In an hilarious scene from the second season, he removes all the CDs Manny has packed for their holiday and replaces them with 12 inch vinyl LPs and a record player. In an evening out he decides to go to the movies, and after buying his drink and popcorn says to the gormless cashier "Excuse me, I only bought a drink and popcorn, but seem to have spent all of my money". When told "That's how much it costs" he remonstrates like a elderly man not accustomed to the times, with "Why? Does it produce some kind of euphoric high, or something?" Later that evening he tries to barter his belt for fast-food to the same blank cashier. When that fails he takes a job there, and we are treated to the indescribable sight of Bernard in a fast-food uniform. The look of disgust a misery is priceless.
Bill Bailey has gone on to greater heights with his stand-up, but as Manny Bianco he will always be fondly remembered. Despite being the more active and sociable of the misanthropic trio, his naïve innocence hinders him from being able to take care of himself. Becoming a male prostitute on his first day away from "home", and reading aloud from the SAS handbook when locked inside the shop - leading him to devour Bernard's collection of dead bees. He is more than simpleton fodder, he is the key protagonist, and an excellent abusive plaything for Bernard. "Part man, part Fu-Manchu, all BASTARD".
While Green Wing proved that Tamsin Greig only really has one setting, Fran (Enid) Katzenjammer is the perfect female counterpart to Black. And despite being the weakest link, her presence on screen is never unwelcome.
Yes, some of the jokes are weak. And no, canned laughter is never acceptable. But Black Books reaches well beyond all s(h)itcom clichés through cartoonish surrealism. Bernard literally standing horizontally on a wall to illustrate an illness, and proclaiming in a convincingly wretched whimper "I feel like I'm being beaten up under water. I can feel bits of my brain falling away like a wet cake". While the first two DVDs feature audio commentaries which are as entertaining as the show itself, it seems none of the cast really had faith in the third series and thus didn't bother. The first episode of which does feature a choice performance from Simon Pegg, so t'is not a complete write-off.
Black Books was a subversive and entirely quotable series which ended at the perfect time. "Pacman. It's pronounced Pacman."
The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle (1980)
Did we ever find out who did kill Bambi?
From the epicenter of the cultural globe, four working class teenagers attempted to change the world through music and fashion. It was the final attempt to do so last century, and they failed. Before the dust had cleared, band manager and SEX shop proprietor Malcolm McLaren spent the money The Sex Pistols had earned to make a "mockumentary" about his own role in their success. The film was called The Great Rock 'n Roll Swindle (take the hint) and consists of very little footage of The Sex Pistols actually playing music, and quite a lot of footage of McLaren effectively calling the audience idiots.
Cod-surrealist nonsense in which guitarist Steve Jones is a detective on McLaren's tail, soon dissolves so he and drummer Paul Cook can jet off to Rio and spend time with "great train robber" Ronnie Biggs. Ready yourself for the spectacle of three very unappealing men dancing naked to a hideous irony-free version of "Belsen was a Gas" (a song about killing Jews for gold in Bergen-Belsen concentration camp), and another song sung in Ronnie's tone deaf whine which includes the lyrics "God save Myra Hindley, God save Ian Brady" (lyrics that Johnny Rotten would have considered distasteful). The Sid Vicious scenes are few and idiotic. Jumping out of bed in a thong with a swastika over the testicles to sing some bad boy biker song from the '50s. Playing into to the "Punk's a joke" theme of the movie, in an attempt to turn Sid into James Dean. I'm surprised McLaren doesn't take credit for Siddy's death too. The redeeming scenes are those of Sid in Paris and the infamous performance of My Way. The punk rock zeitgeist right there. Mocking an adoring audience before shooting them all. No need for an entire film, just watch that clip on YouTube.
From Julien Temple's far superior (and more enjoyable) 2001 documentary followup, The Filth and the Fury, we were given a more balanced/honest view of what transpired in '78. But there were also a number of scenes that I would have liked to have seen in Swindle (as Fury was basically a reediting of the same material). One was an animated Sid complete with Sid's voice acting; "You f*cken betta wat'ch out, alright, or I'll slice you open" - a still of which appeared on the cover of the Something Else 7 inch - a snippet was shown in Fury, but I don't know what context that originally appeared. Was it in original prints, but removed after Sid's death? Was there more? Fury also shed light on the film Who Killed Bambi, which would have been the mock Hard Day's Night movie McLaren was originally intending to make. It starred Sting(!) as a member of a gay New Romantics group, and looked a damn sight more entertaining than Swindle.
Sod Swindle, t'is a swindle. If you must, rent The Filth and The Fury and revel in music's failure as a world changing polemic.
Charlotte Gray (2001)
Never mind the war, here's a tatty novella
The story of The French Resistance is rarely told. When French cinema did tackle their national shame, the results were oblique, bold, and often the most honest films made about the war. Charlotte Gray is the opposite. It is a dime-store romance novella which uses occupied France as a backdrop. A script and basis which are stultifyingly hypocritical; The heroine (Cate Blanchett) establishing early that the occupation of France is nothing to joke about, then proceeding to trivialise it all in a quest to find her boyfriend. Australian director Gillian Armstrong dispenses with authenticity, and other cumbersome aspects that would hinder her making a popcorn time waster. In other words, she didn't even bother to rent Army of Shadows or Le Corbeau the night before principal photography began.
Grey is not a particularly enjoyable chick-flick either. The faults should be bleedin' obvious, but I will outline those of grating annoyance:
The Accent Problem
The story rests on Charlotte being fluent in French. Blanchett was more than willing to learn French for the part, but Armstrong didn't think that a few months of French lessons would be entirely convincing (or had no faith in Blanchett abilities). Her solution? Have Cate speak in a Scotch accent while in England, then affect an English accent while in France. Er... more convincing? Other actors in the French scenes have accents all over the shop, but then why should a film with such a serious subject matter be realistic?
The Romance(s)
A woman who risks her life, and the lives of others for her own half-baked affair, is a complete flake. Shortly after consummating her relationship with a dashing pilot (whom poses as though for a Biggles cover) he is shot down over enemy territory. The woman embarks on a what would seem like a noble quest to aid The French Resistance, but is actually a way for her to track down her square-jawed love interest. Her bumbling during a first mission gets another woman killed, and doesn't make her at all sympathetic (if all her hypocritical sanctimony at the beginning didn't already). She almost immediately starts peppering a romance with a Frenchman, making the "I will follow you to the ends of the Earth" love between her and Biggles a sad joke. Neither romance is realistic or enjoyable, to the point where you want to see Charlotte lose both.
The Ending
She doesn't lose both, in fact despite all her offensive nonsense throughout the film, she finds and rejects Biggles in peace time, in favour of melodramatic Frenchie! A departure from the book, apparently, and every chick-flick ever made. A slap in the face and a waste of time.
The Comic Strip Presents... (1982)
New Romantics and a single white glove
9 discs of the entire cast of The Young Ones and French and Saunders before they hit their stride. From the opening night of Channel 4 in 1982, to mid-nineties burnout. "Hit 'n miss" is the best description for this collection, but you will have to sit through every episode to find the few you agree with (keep in mind they are over an hour long each, with some at feature length). Each (with the exception of the Famous Five, Bad News and Bullshitters reprises) is completely different, and range from bold and original, to unfunny, or unbearable.
Personal favourites include:
Mr. Jolly Lives Next Door - resides somewhere between Rick and Viv, Bottom and the movie Guest House Paradiso. No-brow humor that will only appeal to those born with a penis. And depends on whether you find Rik Mayall and Adrian Edmondson screaming "Nicholas, Bloody, Parsons! You BASTARD!" funny. Most will.
Bad News / More Bad News - Predated Spinal Tap. As this is made by actual Brits, it gets right a lot of what Tap got wrong.
The Strike / GLC - Brilliant send-up of pretty much everything, the real highlight of the collection and espoused by all. You will never view a British film in quite the same way after seeing this.
Four Men in a Car/Plane - One-offs independent of the series, and the comedians at the height of their maturity. The best each has to offer.
Spaghetti Hoops - Not laugh-out-loud funny, but not meant to be. Toward the end they were finally able to make the art house short they were aiming for.
Private Enterprise and Gino don't have belly laughs, but they do have an enjoyable forward momentum. Whilst others will make you ask "what the hell were they thinking?" The entire series was timely and topical, which means that all the short films are incredibly dated. And most will no doubt play better in the mind's eye than actually watching them again. Making the first few discs write-offs on repeat viewing. Even at their worst, you have to admire their originality.
Waking Life (2001)
The talking heads of a stunted generation
A negative review writes itself. Oft penned by Philosophy graduates whom couldn't bear another lecture. But for serious cinefiles and owners of the Slacker Criterion DVD, Waking Life is off for a different reason. DVD supplemental outtakes from all of Richard Linklater's films drawn out to feature length and animated. With the director's tag "an experimental film told in an experimental way". It is neither. Starting with technique:
The program used was not far removed from Adobe Flash, which over the last 7 years has revolutionised animation. Enabling anyone with a computer to animate professional quality shorts and have them seen on the world stage through the internet. Linklater shot the "film" on a bog-standard 'baby's first steps/wedding video' DV camera, and left the animating to a rather large consort of animators (par for the course for any animation student). Some knew the program layout and limitations, but showed rudimentary animation skills, whilst the opposite is obvious of others. In one scene eyes move independently of the head, background elements like cars are rendered as blue and red blobs, and the constant motion of things will make you seasick. The individual stamp of each animator it not evident when the majority were simply tracing around the lines out of inexperience. Some animators used the format to animate the philosophies and give life to an otherwise bland lecture, which is only really successful in two scenes. Linklater and crew were so keen to be first out of the gate that they didn't tie their laces, running a production that was unfolding as it went along had them tripping over each other.
It wasn't uncommon for animation students to film a day in their mundane lives, tack on existentialism and obscure music, spend a few weeks rotoscoping and present the finished short as an end of year project a few years before this "film's" release. In keeping with all of Linklater's work, it can not help feeling like an overblown student project. Like The Matrix, it was new-ish technique exacerbated in a feature trying to justify its own existence. Smoke and mirrors.
The philosophies and theories are presented at elementary level. Some by professors, others by obnoxious left-wing radio DJs and actors. This isn't "pretentious", it's patronising. Cut from a balding Prof. to a deleted scene from Slacker or Before Sunrise. Going from a man who's put in years of study to a glib actor reciting Linklater's own half-baked drivel. Wiley Wiggins plays the gormless stoned adolescent "Wh..Wha?" As surrogate audience member he is perfect. It is hard to imagine anyone over nineteen wanting to see a repackaging of Slacker (without the charm of 90's zeitgeist to carry it). That aside, Waking Life isn't memorable. You won't quote it, you won't question or evaluate its philosophies or be moved by the flat ending.
Richard Linklater, like his fanboy Kevin Smith, comes from a generation of stunted growth. Just as Smith never grew out of prepubescence, Linklater never grew out of first-year college enthusiasm. A never ending headache of quotes out of context, glib sound bites said in a monotone desperately searching for pitch. At his age, it is embarrassing to witness.
The IT Crowd (2006)
Have a bath?
After The Office and Extras revitalised British comedy, and after the success of disturbing Chris Morris works; BrassEye and Jam, The I.T. Crowd is a lofty step backwards for all involved. Morris, Noel Fielding, Richard Ayoade and Matt Berry have all been far better elsewhere. And while Graham Linehan's sentimental sitcom leanings roped in his surrealist writing partner, Arthur Mathews, to make Father Ted a genuine classic, without Mathews, Linehan is free to indulge in the sub-FRIENDS/Seinfeld sitcom he was always in danger of making. It fact, writing is so hackneyed and predictable that the series feels like a real life version of When The Whistle Blows.
Graham Linehan said that I.T. was fertile comedy ground that no one else had cottoned on to. He used the analogy of a bag of money sitting in the center of the room which nobody had noticed and picked up. It never occurred to him that smarter minds than his had passed on the opportunity for a reason. Several in fact. Computers aren't interesting, office based comedy is obsolete after The Office, sitcoms are dead, everyone hates audience laughter (he insists that it is filmed in front of a live studio audience, but really, who cares! It's awful!) etc etc. Characters are broad and one dimensional, you can see the jokes coming, and there are only two standing sets. The majority of on screen antics take place in a grotty basement set, decorated to resemble a teenager's bedroom. Roy (the obligatory Irishman, certainly no Dylan Moran or Dermot Morgan) and his cohort Moss are played as children as adults. The 'catchphrase' "Are you 'aving a laug..." I mean, "Have you tried turning it off and on?" is about as far as the show delves into Information Technology. Jen the arbitrary female, and broad failed professional woman stereotype (obsessed with shoes, long suffering in a quest to find a man) is proof (if any were needed) that Graham can't write female parts. Expect many scenes where Jen laments her life while Roy plays video games.
There are a few episodes that exceed the suffocating s(h)itcom format, and are funny, even quotable. But as the characters are stock, there is no room for any development or investment. Being British means that it is able to push things further than the American dross it apes, at times excel past it, but that really isn't saying much. The cast are more than competent, and do their best with what little they are given. It's a crying shame that Linehan didn't apply these scenarios and actors to another series of Big Train. And that Chris Morris didn't pen Nathan Barley earlier.
American Splendor (2003)
Life through a filter
At the time of this film's release Harvey Pekar and his comic, American Splendor, had dropped from the pop culture radar. Pekar and his friends had moderate success during the late eighties/early nineties, with regular spots on Letterman and MTV as fodder for ridicule. Harvey for his seedy middle aged appearance (as Letterman puts it, "you look like someone from a police lineup"), and his friend Toby for being a stereotypical nerd. American Splendor kicked-started a series of experimental films celebrating the 'average' weirdos who reached beyond their abilities to gain long since forgotten celebrity (The Devil and Daniel Johnston, to name but one). The experiment here was to mirror a biopic against a documentary. With the real life Harvey Pekar passing passive judgment on his actor counterpart. As cute an idea as this would seem on paper, it wasn't entirely successful in execution.
It is the actor's prerogative to make a character their own, and Paul Giamatti paints a lovable wretch. Difficult to buy when the real Pekar pops up after each scene to remind us that it's all a farce. The real Pekar is sharper, more disgruntled. And Giamatti has but one mode; the cracking voice begging for forgiveness.
Harvey Pekar worked in a menial position as a file clerk for a hospital. He had a small circle of friends, and quite a mundane life when he met cartoonist Robert Crumb through a mutual love of collecting Jazz 78s (an act of cultural authenticity, and a common thread through Crumb related films - Crumb, Ghost World). The friendship led to the two collaborating on a autobiographical comic with the ironic title American Splendor. Crumb's celebrity through the sixties and seventies ensured the comic's success, and brought Pekar's dead end life to the attention of his third wife, Joyce Brabner, and the Letterman producers. Ultimately sabotaging his assured place alongside stupid pet tricks when realising it wasn't shifting comics, Pekar maintained his integrity... and then along came a film opp...
As deconstructing reality, American Splendor is laboured. It has the negative aspects of both biopic and documentary, yielding few positives. Events are rushed so we can get to scenes of the real life counterparts doing asinine things. The charm is carried solely on the audience warming to Paul Giamatti's false approximation. An act so burdened with pathos that it becomes intolerable. This isn't winking to the audience, it's telling them that you are going to, telling them while doing it, and then telling them you've done it and giving a commentary on how it went.
This story would have been told eventually. The fable of the underdog, salt-of-the-Earth battler taking on the forces of ridicule and life-threatening illness and emerging a moral victor. The way it was told, albeit bold, is quite dull. Irony in a house of mirrors. The irony of a man whom shunned the spotlight with an anger toward yuppies and others better off than he, returning to stand as Elephant Man on a university plinth.
Procès de Jeanne d'Arc (1962)
The one Bresson film you need not see
Robert Bresson apparently detested Carl Dreyer's Jeanne d'Arc Passion play, La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc, for "grotesque buffooneries", and one would also assume, overt melodrama. With a such a prompt dismissal, Bresson acted as though the 1928 silent film never existed. And with a cast of non-thespians dusted off Jeanne's trial transcripts for a subdued and downplayed retread. As melodrama would seem fitting the story of a young woman imprisoned and confronted with the omnipresent threat of torture, rape and execution, Bresson felt that the French national icon was instead stoic and self-assured of moral victory.
In the performances there is little to give away character thought processes and motivations, particularly from the English actors playing the guards. The additions to the script now have protagonists stating aloud what they intend to do next. And whether it was on Bresson's insistence to avoid melodrama, or the non-professional nature of the cast, those on screen come across as incredibly wooden and lifeless.
Florence Delay as Jeanne delivers the historic lines without feeling or inflection. To use a gauche comparison, Milla Jovovich whilst not giving a better performance in the same role, at least gave A performance. In between court appearances Delay literally has nothing to do but sit on her bed with her hands on her knees. No contemplation, or conversations with God. Whereas Renée Falconetti suffered regular torment from the guards, and had the weaving of a symbolic crown of straw to occupy herself in Dreyer's opus, Delay simply sits still, shuffles between sets, and reads her lines. Everything of course leading to the stake. However, in giving Jeanne self-awareness and fundamentally robbing her of innocence, the burning is anticlimactic.
Bresson's stark minimalism is unbefitting such a reenactment. The film as a whole suffers from early '60s cinematic conventions, and can not avoid unfavourable comparisons with Dreyer's original, which is widely regarded as a masterpiece. Procès is not simply sub par in the realm of Jeanne films, it is also a blight on the prolific career of Robert Bresson.
The Actors (2003)
They didn't have squibs in Macbeth
In following Dylan Moran's star from the charming misanthrope bookstore owner in the surrealist sitcom Black Books, I could see his comic potential begging to be utilised in theater or larger cinematic avenues. This first big screen outing in a starring role (he had a cameo as Rufus the thief in Notting Hill) had oodles of promise, but like the strained Steve Coogan vehicle, The Parole Officer, has too many creases which should have been ironed out in preproduction.
The plot is so convoluted that I shan't bother repeating the finer details (the script has every character do that for us), and the laughs are sourced from show business in-jokes. Michael Caine is a pompous has-been running a production of Richard III - updated to Nazi occupation (one of the few genuine laughs, a satirical jab at Ian McKellen), in which everyone is forever doing the Hitler salute every time they take the stage. Convincing Dylan that acting should be a conceptual act unto itself, the two plot to steal money from some fairly harmless gangsters by way of their acting prowess. Confusion ensues (both on screen and in the audience), there's a romantic sub-plot between Dylan and the daughter of one of the gangsters blah blah blah and Dylan gets to dress in odd clothes and do funny accents. Michael Caine delivers some choice lines, and Dylan's comic timing is on the money, so why isn't it any good? It does have a certain charm that you would expect from Film 4, but it also has a precocious little girl acting as compass in a muddled and irrelevant plot - a no-no in screen writing 101. Exposition overshadows everything else. You just want to see Moran and Caine acting as comic foil to each other the way the were at the beginning, but when they're together toward the end, the the pairing has lost its charisma.
The Actors is an amusing, albeit underwhelming effort. Should it come on telly during a rainy Tuesday afternoon, then have at you. Otherwise you would be better off watching your old Black Books videos, or renting Withnail & I.
Ghost Town (2008)
Rebecca De Mornay and Clive Warren
In the series Extras we were given Ricky Gervais's views on celebrity, and those who chase it at the cost of their integrity. Following Ricky's career from failed musician to "tinpot" radio DJ, to his success with The Office and the new medium of Podcasting, Ghost Town couldn't be a more blatant vehicle for selling out. It makes no sense. He was building the right kind of credibility in America with his appearance on The Simpsons, and cameo in For Your Consideration. A fan base of American comedy stalwarts like Larry David and Chris Rock, and a groundswell of interest in his Podcasts and stand-up, why would he suddenly sully all he has worked so hard for to make an in-flight rom-com? A pastiche of everything from A Christmas Carol, The Sixth Sense, Fawlty Towers, Groundhog Day and early Woody Allen films. Ghost Town is neither here nor there, and largely forgettable.
The plot is certainly un-Gervais and concerns ghosts, something the atheist Ricky derides at every opportunity in his Podcasts. Missing a glaring opportunity to have Karl Pilkington appear as a blind ghost, casting is instead comprised of the most annoying actors in Hollywood today. Gervais's misanthrope works against the sappy script of redemption, as with a cast this irritating, the sardonic wit of the earlier Gervais is more likable compared to the sniveling wretch he has to become to get the girl.
Gervais was attempting to finally break into Hollywood, which he would have done anyway if he had just kept being himself. Earlier this year he ripped the hell out of Karl Pilkington's film idea (a ludicrous romantic drama which stared Rebecca De Mornay and Clive Warren (sic)) for having a nonsense plot and cast of nobodies and has-beens. After seeing Ghost Town, I know who the money should have gone to.
Professione: reporter (1975)
La Philistines!
You need not watch this more than once to "get" it. You do however have to have a broader grasp of cinema than standard Hollywood schlock. Many (notable) critics have damned the slow pace, and snipe "Pretentious!" at those who espouse it. But entering into a world as glorious as this, I only wish I could have stayed longer. As in any Antonioni film the background itself is a central character, and each shot a stunning compositional statement which could stand alone in any photography exhibition. Working with the finest architectural locations in the world (London, Germany, Barcelona), each scene is staggering in scope, and complements a tactfully subdued plot. You read this film as if it were a classical painting. The dialogue merely hinting at internal thought processes evident in character behaviour. An added bonus.
The story is quite simple; David Locke (Jack Nicholson) is a respected journalist on assignment to Algeria to cover a secret war, which due to the formidable landscape and language barrier, he is unable to find. Isolated by these factors, he becomes frustrated, and when he returns to his hotel to find the man he had been drinking with the night before dead, he seizes the opportunity to change his life by switching identities with the dead man. Locke's wife (Jenny Runacre), upon learning that her husband has died, attempts to track his steps while retroactively examining their marriage. In turn, the life Locke has adopted is that of a gun runner whom was funneling arms to the aforesaid war. So while Locke is blissfully plotting his new life, he is being followed by both his wife and representatives of the regime which want him snuffed out. Like L'avventura, this is a mystery movie where the mystery is irrelevant.
The overall theme is as straightforward as the timeless "Live life while you can" axiom. It is the masterful way it is told which elevates this film. Locke meets a girl in Barcelona whom he recognised in London. Striking up a conversation, he is able to convince her to follow his unmapped journey, and the two form a relationship as kindred spirits. While Locke's abandon hindered his career and marriage, in his new identity it sets him free and allows him to be himself. The English title is more profound than the French Professione: reporter, as Maria Schneider, Nicholson and Jenny Runacre are passengers. Schneider and Runacre passengers of Locke in different capacities, Locke a passenger of his assumed identity. In spiritually, and in a way, literally killing himself, Locke is able to finally live. Like all great works of cinema, everything is relative to the antagonist.
Total Eclipse (1995)
...by pissing on them from a great height
In concept and execution, Total Eclipse is flawed. It is not a biopic, but a snapshot of the affair between Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine. For the artistically minded to question love and the insanity of genius, and not to follow the significant footsteps of the bohemian poets. However, it fails due to a kind of Americanisation of period costume drama. There is a mishmash of accents (American, British, French) undermining the nuance of the French tongue. I still can't understand why trained actors don't seem to have even a basic grasp of high school French, or why the producers and the director were scared of subtitles in an 'Art house' film. It's difficult to buy DiCaprio as Rimbaud (although in appearance he is well cast) as with an American accent he always seems obnoxious even when it is not his intention. Delivering fragments of Rimbaud's poems and philosophy in sound bites renders them hollow. Although he is aesthetically and historically on the mark, the tone and spirit of the portrayal is completely wrong.
Another conceit is that this film marginalises Verlaine. The opening interstitial might as well read "Verlaine's poems were OK, but who cares?" Arthur was known to have an admiration for Verlaine long before the two met, and the love between them genuine. Here though, it is painted as a vampiric relationship of convenience. Paul clinging to Arthur for fear of being alone, Arthur bleeding Paul's influence and money dry.
Hackneyed scenes of Rimbaud having 'visions' of the final years of his life had me gagging, and are inexcusable. The editing of the entire piece is atrocious, particularly Paul's trial. And there are inaccuracies for the sake of ludicrous symbolism. Verlaine shot Rimbaud in the wrist. Though as it is portrayed here, he is shot through the center of his hand, to tack on a gauche Christ metaphor. You are never assimilated into the world these people live in because of the accent problem, and the energies of every cast member shooting off in different directions. Making the effort, you will find yourself wanting to like this film more than it will allow you to. The intention is to make you cry at the end, as other critics attest, but I fail to see how.
Total Eclipse tried very hard to alienate its audience, the problem is that it has largely succeeded. It sours the romantic notion of Rimbaud and Verlaine for those familiar with their work, and has the unfamiliar asking basic straightforward questions which it makes no attempt to answer. "Why would Verlaine keep putting up with Rimbaud's abuse", "Why was Rimbaud considered a genius? He seemed like an arsehole".
If.... (1968)
Arg....
if.... is the cinematic equivalent of Sgt. Pepper's: Revered by baby boomers as the pinnacle of creation, and viewed as rather a silly bit of business by preceding and subsequent generations. Now that the children of the middle classes the world over are seemingly super human due to the internet, and view the prospect of boarding school as a wonderful opportunity thanks to the Harry Potter books/films, the relevance of if.... couldn't be further from modern concern. In fact, many scenes appear so alien and exaggerated as to hint at an inspiration for Pink Floyd's The Wall.
One should never hold personal bias against a film while reviewing, and the cemented date of this film aside, there are a few flaws which others have overlooked. Lindsay Anderson was known to be a fan of Luis Buñuel, on top of generally being too smart for his own good. And despite a straightforward narrative through the first and second acts, the latter portion of the piece it taken hostage by cod Buñuel surrealism and strained attempts at symbolism. Anderson wasn't capable of this feat due to his over-intelligent cynicism, failing to see that Buñuel was jovial in his work. I have not found a critic whom champions the 'Chaplain in a drawer', and am almost certain it still gets sideways looks from those who adore this film. The ending is not so much a concise punch to the established class/values system, as a wet slap on a moving target.
The British public school system was firmly for the middle classes (the upper crust being educated at home by private tutors). And the modus operandi of if.... was to check the boxes of public school life which Lindsay believed had been unexplored in film, thereby savaging middle class pretense. Homosexuality, generational cutlery, cold showers et al. In reality, such issues HAD been covered in many other great British films, if.... merely brought them to the fore. The Browning Version was a more oblique damning of such pomp, to name but one.
if.... is oddly quaint, and simply can not be viewed with modern (especially American) eyes. Kudos to Anderson for avoiding Mick and Kieth in favour of African chant, and a few brownie points for the latent homoerotic overtones. Points deducted for pretension, establishing characters who disappear, and inciting a glib revolution which came to naught.
Umberto D. (1952)
The antithesis of all things Hollywood
Neo-Realism, as it was in the Italian first wave, and as it is today in the form of Gus Van Sant films, always leaves cinema audiences fidgety and illuminating their watches. It is the cinema of anti-cinema. Filming the mundane aspects of life which movie goers are in the theater to escape. Certainly the few long-winded negative reviews were penned with contemporary concerns over pacing and plot confusion. Looking for that which is not there, whilst missing that which is. The experience is best enjoyed on DVD, where one can pause and ponder the images while leafing through a pulp novella before the second and third acts.
Umberto D. portrays an intelligent man slowly forfeiting his dignity to cold post-war indifference. As his pension is too merge to sustain his retirement, he gradually parts with possessions of symbolic importance of his working life. Trying to sell his watch to other pensioners, selling books of strong sentimental value to a callous street merchant at a loss, the nameless others he encounters seem to survive by adapting to modern change, while Umberto struggles fighting against it. In a conventional film Umberto's plight would have large dollops of pathos spread thick, and many sympathetic ears from supporting characters. However, in Neo-Realism it is as absurd as it would be in life. When he relays his story of a bitter feud with his landlady to a former colleague, it just seems somewhat pathetic. Regardless of his problems, he will never go hungry or homeless. A private war being waged only by himself.
A friendship with the apartment maid, Maria, also departs strongly from cinematic values and is true to life. Pregnant to an unknown father (a moral crime of the time tantamount to witchcraft) and with no other place to go, her situation is far dire than Umberto's. But in her ignorance she is content with her lot. And Umberto's old world shock at her shameless honesty, and the class conscious nature of their friendship (she is still the maid after all) mean that the film skews sentimentality. When they part, it is with much awkwardness. And as in life, there is a gaping emptiness after Umberto has said his last goodbyes, boarded a bus and watched her wave farewell in the window of his old apartment. He continues to look up at the windows of buildings after she has faded from view, as you do when you know you are never going to see a long term friend ever again.
As audacious as this film is in severing cinematic ties, there is an odd conceit in a manipulative score, which one would assume prompted Michelangelo Antonioni, Robert Bresson and others inspired by The Bicycle Thief, to drop music completely from their films. Another sentimental aspect at odds with this very unsentimental film is Umberto's dog with the aurally hideous name, Flike. Flike's loyalty and companionship ultimately becoming the one aspect in Umberto's life which he simply can not part with. Choosing acceptance after a failed suicide attempt, it is the purity of the dog's actions which bring Umberto around.
The cinematography of Umberto D. is beautiful, and the acting of a largely untrained cast is superb. Despite the fact that it was later bettered by those inspired by it, the film remains the best of the Italian first wave.
This Is England (2006)
Good skinheads, bad skinheads
The serious actor loves to play the racist skinhead. It is the male equivalent of a lesbian role, as it shows their diversity. See Tim Roth stride down the corridor with a swastika tattooed on his forehead in Made in Brittan. See Russell Crowe bulk up to play a similar goon in Romper Stomper. And (to a lesser extent) see Edward Norton try and add some pathos to a fellow with ugly tattoos in American History X. This Is England is unique, in that it offers a factual origin of skinhead culture, and distinguishes between the good (nonracist, offshoot of punks and Rastas in the early '80s) and the bad (racist, National Socialist) skinheads.
Shaun is a 12-year-old whom life continually shits upon. Recently having lost his father in the Falklands War, he and his mother have slipped below the poverty line. He receives grief at school for wearing flares, and is shown little sympathy from a Pakistani corner shop owner. After a particularly rough day at school, he bumps in to a group of quite affable 'good' skinheads, who take pity and include him in their activities. Once Shaun is fully inaugurated into their clique, a 'bad' skinhead enters the fray. Combo (someone who seems far too old to be hanging out with teenagers) has just been released from prison, and is seething with bitterness and hatred. He convinces Shaun and half of his 'good' skinhead pals to join the dark side. Shaun, bitter himself at what little life has left him with, takes the National Front role with great gusto. Exacting revenge on the Pakistani clerk whom gave him an earful in act one, and generally enjoying the power trip of pushing around minorities. He also finds a kind of father figure in Combo. And when Combo's bitterness gets the better of him, he loses faith, and as the back of the DVD case attests, learns that "hate will get you nowhere". Collective sigh, now on with the faults...
From the opening montage of all that is '80s (Atari, Margaret Thatcher) there are far too many gauche attempts to make this a period piece, instead of crafting an unspoken zeitgeist. They might as well have called it "This is The '80s", as all the anti-Thatcher graffiti doesn't give the viewer the benefit of the doubt. Made in Brittan had the good fortune to be timely, This is England is all hazy memories.
Then there are the mixed messages. Woody, the 'good' skinhead whom first includes Shaun, is genuinely likable, and has an amazing screen presence. He endears himself to Shaun, and to the audience, when he defuses Shaun's mother while she's on an angry tirade. However, when the baton is passed from Woody to Combo, the film shifts from working class empowerment, to bitter and depressing. Woody drops out of the frame completely. And when he is making excuses to leave a party once Combo arrives, I too was with the antagonists in pleading for him to stay. "No don't leave! This movie will be depressing without you!". It makes it difficult to fathom that Shaun would prefer the company of Combo to that of Woody, once Woody has been established as such a nice guy. It adds an ugly "but" to the text. "Be proud of who you are, but not too proud", "go with the flow, but not if it goes in this direction". It's too muddled and not concise enough.
Shaun also romances a dimwitted girl, nicknamed Smells, who is 4 years older than him, but looks like she's a good 10 years his senior. I know this film is autobiographical, but the coupling of a little boy and a "well versed" teenage girl just doesn't look right. There are a few other nameless characters whom seem either far too old, or too young for the context. You would believe it in real life, but strangely, not in a movie.
The ending is a spectacular misfire. A film which has traded on gritty realism throughout, suddenly tries its hand at art house symbolism in the final ten minutes. It's attempt to choke you up fails miserably through bad choice of song, and TV movie closeup. From the second act on, it is far too depressing, not warm melancholic, cold depressing. Yes, it portrays the resentment of those who had the misfortune to come of age under Thatcher, but its purpose it far from clear. It captures many moments of the lower middle, to working class lifestyle perfectly. Particularly the shoe shopping scene, which everyone who grew up without family money can relate to. And how a child can gravitate to odd social groups though simple lack of opportunity. It is the lack of concise point which hinders this film from becoming a classic. Maybe we should all stop looking for some moral high ground in skinhead films. Unfortunately for This is England, they went for atonement. A conceit to post-American sensibilities, tacked on to very British experience. Which still leaves the ambiguous Made in Brittan the best of the genre.
Kids (1995)
Sexploitation
I championed this film for many years. It was the first real document of the '90s teen skateboard set, and I was taken in by the subject matter. However, scrutiny and a broader understanding of film have more than marred its effect. The gritty 'realism' which supposedly elevated this film from exploitation to art, simply does not withstand any serious prodding. The crux of the story, an HIV infected teenager intending to deflower two thirteen-year-old virgins in the space of one day, is rendered difficult to believe by the casting of Leo Fitzpatrick. Bellow average in the looks department, and with an inarticulate lisp, it's hard to fathom that Leo could bed anyone, let alone two virgins and the tally he boasts of. Furthermore, the aimless youth chic which Larry Clark pioneered is ultimately hollow. Consider that his subsequent films are very hard to defend artistically, and you will struggle to derive real depth from KIDS.
Other less charitable critics have called him "pedophilic" in his sustained exploitation of good looking youth. Whilst not entirely fair, there is something of a dirty old man about him. A shot lingering on a pretty girl's crotch in his latter travesty, Bully, more than deflates the notion of Clark as profound auteur.
The redemptive aspects of KIDS are oddly the most exploitative. The scenes in which a gaggle of unnamed youth huff N02 from balloons, and openly smoke pot from a hollowed out cigar, will ring true to those who experienced adolescence in the last two decades. And the emotional punch at the conclusion still remains, unscathed. It is just an incredibly bitter pill to sallow to concede that Clark was proved right. This generation is wretched.
Irréversible (2002)
It seems time doesn't destroy everything
I have only seen this film once, when it premiered many years ago. However, I have not forgotten a single frame. Irréversible is the ultimate act of cinematic masochism. Gaspar Noé acting as both provocateur, and calculating sadist. Running the sequence of events backwards is far from novelty, as the first half of the film is uncompromisingly brutal, and the latter half melancholic.
The camera-work is tailored to induce seasickness, on a cinema screen it can give you a migraine. The one scene in which the camera is static will make you wish that it wasn't. A incredibly brutal, prolonged rape. The graphic way both the rape, and the misguided revenge, are shown is immeasurably painful to witness. The undulating noise on the soundtrack and constant motion of the camera simply will not let you become comfortable, or ponder. Once the fate of the protagonists is sealed, we are introduced to them as characters, and discover all which is lost.
The overall theme of wretched destruction will stay with you. A simple misunderstanding can lead to an irreversible turn of events. What's done can not be undone. What is seen can not be unseen. Once seen, never forgotten.
Salò o le 120 giornate di Sodoma (1975)
"Iz nacht chocking"
To call Salò "shocking" is to miss the point. Such a multifaceted, and fractured social/political document can't really be summarised at all, let alone with a one word dismissal. Catherine Breillat is wheeled out for a Salò DVD supplemental documentary, to comment on the infamous "Circle of Blood" scene. "Iz nacht chocking... Iz beautiful" is her appraisal. And when you understand this film, you will have to concede that she is right.
In adapting Marquis de Sade's The 120 Days of Sodom, Pasolini presents us with no sincere heroes or villains. His intentions were born of an almost paranoid delusional dissatisfaction with both the modern world, and his own previous films of the sexual purity of youth. The libertine captors offer many poetic reasons for their conceptual acts of cruelty and degradation, theoretically justifying a political stance. Becoming frustrated and unfulfilled by the extremity of their actions, none seem to be genuinely aroused by the sexual torture meted out. Which makes them just as much recipients of the torture as their victims. Bound by ritual and a self-defeating political dictum, and locked in a cycle of an impotent lust for power and domination.
The infamous "Circle of Feces" scene was a commentary on the societal acceptance of American junk food, which allegorically, is painfully more profound than Pasolini could have predicted. The manner in which the teenage guards take their role, some begrudgingly, others with gusto, will be familiar to those who have worked menial jobs in fast food. Forcing hysterical laughter at the libertine's jokes, showing no true allegiance or sympathy, they are every bit the teenage middle managers of contemporary society.
What elevates this film beyond glib far-left manifesto, are the nameless captives. One girl established at the start of the film as having recently lost her mother, seems on the surface to be an emotional focal point for the audience. However, her constant weeping provokes the least sympathy from her captors. And as she is often the first subjected to the humiliation, Pasolini's statement becomes clear: There is no room for reflection or self-pity. We are all locked in this inferno, and there is no way out other than death.
When death is dealt, it is unceremonious and certainly not noble. There is no way you can be prepped for this film. If you expect extremity, you will be disappointed by the slow pace. If you don't know what to expect, you will be upset. Salò is as unpleasant for us as voyeurs as it is for the tortured on screen. It was Pasolini's angry, jaded declaration that humanity is truly wretched. And his paradoxical, unromantic mourning of its loss.