Set in the Swiss alps, 'E'enfant D'en Haut' - which carries the English title 'Sister' - is about a young boy called Simon (Kacey Mottet Klein) who escapes his grim life in a tower block by spending his days in the affluent mountain ski resort above, where he steals expensive ski equipment to sell on to local kids. Director Ursula Meier's film has a strong undercurrent of grim socio-economic reality behind it, however it's also lyrical and occasionally whimsical - as Simon strikes the pose of a flush, big-time hustler to great comic effect.
Going by the name Julian in the world above, he wears sunglasses whilst dining on fries in the restaurant, mingling casually with upper class patrons - who include serial stilted Brit impersonator Gillian Anderson. In the world below he uses money earnt from selling on stolen goods in order to support his frequently absent older sister - as played with great sensitivity by the coma-inducingly beautiful Lea Séydoux.
Beautifully filmed by Claire Denis' regular DP Agnès Godard, 'Sister' is tragic in its depiction of a situation in which a desperate child is ultimately forced to barter with his only relative for even the slightest expression of affection. Simon is a likeable kid whose one means of escape is not only criminal but destined to be short-lived: the ski season does not last forever and nor can his mischievous hijinks.
If this was made ten years ago 'Captive' would have felt like a shrill, pernicious little piece of reactionary Islamophobia. Coming a decade after the events of 9/11, as tempers cool, it seems all the more unnecessary and unwelcome. In it a group of middle class French tourists - headed up French star Isabelle Huppert - are abducted from their luxury Philippine resort by a group of muslim fundamentalists who seek to use them as leverage to make political demands from the government. They are ruthless to a man, bumping off any who are not worth much in ransom, beheading them and then laughing about it, firing their rifles into the air and shouting "praise be to Allah". They are cartoon villains and lack even genuine spiritual conviction.
They preach at their captives constantly, telling them about the laws of the Qur'an even as they make a mockery of them: for instance, it cuts to one man stealing a hostage's watch as the prisoners are told not to take things that don't belong to them. They also force female captives to marry them in order to have sex with virgins without offending religious tradition. The events of the film are set during 2001, so we are even shown them celebrating 9/11 to the horror of the westerners, who instantly understand the event's significance based on few details. In reality the enormity of those events needed time to sink in, even with access to the shocking images on live television.
Kidnappings such as these - as happen frequently in South America, Africa and Asia - are an interesting and frightening prospect, certainly worthy of an interesting and insightful film. Though this feels like white post-colonial panic. You could say these terrorists happen to be muslim because in the Philippines that is the reality, and that the things they do are similarly routed in a horrific truth that doesn't obey the laws of so-called "political correctness". Yet it's not that the film includes (or even highlights) the Islamic specificity of this kidnap that's offensive: it's that it dominates the movie totally, with many of the abductors' rants sounding like deliberate attempts to put Islam on trial, whilst Christian characters are shown to be charitable, respectful and unwavering the face of adversity.
Set in Alabama in 1969, 'Jayne Mansfield's Car' is a blackly comic film about the failure of each successive generation to learn from the mistakes of the previous one. Here two families from different backgrounds, each with their share of war-scarred men, are brought together by a funeral: an event which basically enables an exploration of the way each character romanticises tragedy - a concept embodied by the wrecked car of ill-fated movie star Jayne Mansfield, which is a local sideshow attraction.
Withdrawn, WWI veteran and traditional southern patriarch Jim Caldwell (a note-perfect performance from Robert Duvall) is saddened when his ex-wife - and mother of his now adult children - dies after years of living in England with her second husband (and fellow Great War veteran) Kingsley Bedford (John Hurt). In spite of long-harboured feelings of bitter resentment towards the man who took his love, Jim invites the Bedford family to come and stay in his home with his children and grandchildren. These include three wildly different sons, all of whom served in WWII.
Director and writer Billy Bob Thornton takes on the role of a decorated navy pilot who finds it easier to relate to machines than people. Robert Patrick is a seemingly uptight guy, whose resents never having seen combat - yet he has subsequently been successful and is head of a nuclear family. Kevin Bacon was also decorated in the war, yet now he is a long-haired hippy protesting Vietnam in the hope that his teenage son doesn't have to go through what he did. Kingsley's son accompanies him to the US - a WWII Japanese prisoner of war. Ray Stevenson is compelling, for once not playing a fun tough guy.
Relatively free of southern clichés, the film pokes affectionate fun at the Caldwell's occasionally tacky manner (as seen by the stuffy Bedfords) without being patronising or mean about the characters. Perhaps it's a little long and unfocused, with some characters (like Frances O'Connor's likeable Camilla) disappearing for long stretches. Yet overall it's warm and fun with moments of effecting tragedy all in service of a laudable anti-war message.
Folks who have no interest in arthouse cinema or festival films probably assume that they are all humourless, chin-scratching borefests like 'Metéora', a Greek film from director Spiros Stathoulopoulos. Over 82 minutes that feel far longer, it's the story of a Russian nun (Tamila Koulieva) and a Greek monk (Theo Alexander) who are doomed to live lives of quiet despair unless they consummate their forbidden love. Turns out they're in luck because, conveniently enough, "the only sin that cannot be forgiven is despair".
They repeat that word, "despair", over and over (in Greek and Russian), whenever they aren't in mournful solitude, gazing through the windows of their remote, mountaintop monasteries across the abyss that separates them physically and emotionally. A stunning setting for the well-worn theme of sexual repression and self-flagellation within the church, with Nun burning her hand in order to resist the temptation to masturbate. Monk is tempted not only by what's under Nun's garments, but also by the simple rural idyll outside the order. In fact he is so much more at home among the shepherds and such that it's hard to understand why Monk became one in the first place.
As an escapist outlet for repressed fantasies, both experience vivid dreams brought to life via crude, jerky animation and styled to replicate traditional Christian art. These segments, infused with provocative religious imagery, deserve credit for being imaginative and, aesthetically, they represent an improvement on the ultra-low quality cameras used to film the live-action stuff. There are some nice touches here and this device is a clever one.
Yet the part of the film that's destined to live longest in my memory is a scene in which a real mountain goat is cornered, captured, stabbed and skinned - a scene which feels unnecessary and cruel. I'm not a vegetarian and am under no illusions about where food comes from (however much I'd rather not think about it), but filming the grisly death of a screaming animal for the purposes of a movie just doesn't sit well with me.
German-speaking elements of the crowd went nuts for 'Barbara', Christian Petzold's film about an unsmiling nurse (Nina Hoss) who desperately longs to escape communist East Germany and her no-frills, small town existence. She lives for tomorrow to the extent that she is cold to colleagues and puts very little effort into her current existence, until she meets an interesting doctor (Ronald Zehrfeld) who admires her talents and compassion for their young patients.
Frequent bursts of howling laughter lead me to conclude that the film it's a comedy, though it's apparently the sort of humour that owes much to "how" rather than "what" is said. A lot of the jokes concern the broad juxtaposition of different worlds: east and west, as well as recurring town versus countryside gags - but, again, these might be funnier if could discern German regional accents and peculiar modes of speech or if I had a grasp of the country's internal stereotypes.
I'm plainly not the ideal reviewer for this movie, which I can't see getting much distribution outside its homeland. I couldn't say with any confidence that I fully understood it. All I can safely say is that Hoss is terrific as the sardonic nurse - a complicated character whose sense of duty and compassion (and ultimate selflessness) suggest her disenchantment with the state is not as a result of apathy. I would also add that it's one of the best films in the competition so far in terms of how it's made, with several entries to date lacking the same polish.
Amid the tearful, slow-moving dramas that dominate events like these it's nice to get a change of pace, especially a few days in. Spanish horror movie 'Dictado', which translates as "dictation" (though the English language title is 'Childish Games'), is that welcome key change and a diverting addition to a so far so inert competition line-up - providing a very different atmosphere and even (whisper it) some semblance of a plot.
It's by no means perfect, taking its sweet time building up to a decent last twenty minutes, but by the time the protagonist goes predictably insane it has become tense and compelling. Written and directed by Antonio Chavarrias, the film follows primary school teacher Daniel (Juan Diego Botto) - a mild-mannered man with a horrific past. Daniel is haunted by the memory of Clara, a young girl who died tragically during a stupid game he and another boy were playing when they were children. Years later the other boy, Clara's brother, has committed suicide after claiming that he has been haunted by his sister, who has been reborn in the body of his daughter Julia (Magica Perez).
Feeling guilt for past events Daniel goes to his late friend's funeral where he meets - and is considerably freaked out by - Julia. Things get worse for Daniel when his compassionate girlfriend (Barbara Lennie) takes pity on the child and offers to become her guardian until a relative can be found. The upshot of this is that Daniel is now living with a girl he believes to be the potentially vengeful reincarnation of Clara. Is the child Clara or Julia? Is she out to get Daniel or not? After several twists and turns these questions are answered in a way which is nearly as pleasing as it is far-fetched.
The first competition film to attract anything like sustained applause from the press at Berlinale Palast this year, Italian entry 'Cesare deve morire' ('Caesar Must Die') follows a group of maximum security inmates - murderers, drug dealers and thieves, many on life sentences - as they put on a prison production of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. Directed by brothers Paolo and Vittorio Taviani, it's difficult to define even if the festival catalogue confidently bills it as a straight documentary.
Ostensibly we're given a behind the scenes look at rehearsals (in stylish monochrome) book-ended by footage of the final production (in colour), yet everything is a bit too elegantly staged and composed to make pure documentary a possibility. Use of sophisticated cinematic techniques, such as reverse angle shots, would also be impossible were the film not entirely deliberate. Then there's the inmates themselves who never stray from the frame or go off on conversational tangents that aren't at least of thematic relevance - frequently waxing philosophical about how the text relates powerfully to modern day life.
Are the prisoners at least who they are claimed to be? Bereft of much additional explanation, I honestly don't know - that's one of the problems when faced with reviewing a film in a festival setting. I suspect it's a blend of fact and fiction, purposefully blurring the line between the two. In any case it's a very watchable film which doesn't outstay its welcome over a sensibly short running time.
It's also buoyed by the fact that the various prisoners have entertaining and easily distinguishable personalities, providing equal amounts of laughter and pathos. As the inmates bicker and contemplate their roles, there is also ample time given to the Bard's work itself as we hear Shakespearian language delivered in regional accents - reclaimed from upper class thespians with the effect of revitalising the material. Occasionally the film strains too hard to promote the modern day relevance of the play, but otherwise there is much to recommend it.
All films carry the well-worn disclaimer that they are works of fiction and that any similarities the characters may have to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The difference with French kidnap drama 'Coming Home' is that this legal message appears right at the start in big letters, promising the film is entirely the work of its director's unfettered imagination. It's a strange claim to have to make, especially because though the plot bears some similarity to the disturbing case of Austrian Josef Fritzl, there are enough differences to make this opening seem over-cautious - raising the possibility that its makers are actively courting the comparison.
As you may have gathered from the above, Frédéric Videau's 'A Moi Seule' is the story of a social misfit, Vincent (Reda Kateb), who keeps a young girl in a purpose-built basement under his house. Held there for a number of years, Gaelle (a strong central performance from Agathe Bonitzer) grows up in isolation in this subterranean lair with only Vincent for company. Whilst he is at work, or entertaining a colleague, she waits below gagged and bound. Yet unlike the Fritzl case they are not related - Vincent snatched Gaelle in his van after school one day - and Vincent is also initially determined not to take their relationship anywhere physical (in terms of sex or violence). Instead he seems to view Gaelle as someone to talk to, though his motivation is never made explicitly apparent.
The film begins with Vincent releasing Gaelle after years of captivity and, after a moment's hesitation, she runs to the nearest bus stop, seeing an old "missing child" poster of herself on the way home. But, of course, she can't simply go home. Everything has changed. The film is then split between the past and the present, as we see Gaelle's life with Vincent and her fresh incarceration within the grounds of a psychiatric hospital. She visits her (now separated) parents, whose lives have been wrecked by the abduction, but she no longer connects with them. They wish Vincent were dead, but Gaelle is defensive of her captor, with elements of Stockholm syndrome setting in - though, like many of the questions posed by the film, this is never satisfactorily explored.
Much like earlier competition entry 'Today' ('Aujourd'Hui'), 'Coming Home' is a fascinating concept that is frustratingly underserved by the resultant film. It's not brave enough to takes the audience anywhere too unsettling, with even a sexual liaison reduced to insinuation and relegated off-camera, whilst the day-to-day interactions between the duo that dominate never end up anywhere particularly deep or interesting. A film like this needs to either disturb the audience or raise questions about human behaviour. For instance Greek film 'Dogtooth' does both brilliantly, with a stylistic flair and distinctive voice totally missing here.
Satche (Saul Williams) is a relatively young man with no obvious health problems, yet he is going to die. He knows it and, seemingly, so does his entire home town. Apparently, in this part of Senegal, people sense the day before their death that they will soon be taken by god - that the next day will be their last on Earth. And it's a celebrated event, observed by whole the community, with even minor local government officials in attendance.
This is never rationalised or explained, probably because "how" and "why" aren't strictly relevant questions to this movie. 'Today', or 'Aujourd'Hui' in its native French, is really a rumination on what a person does knowing they have one day left. It's about taking stock, finding out what's important and contemplating what comes next. Tradition dictates that Satche wake up in his mother's house, but how he spends the rest of this final day is (appropriately enough) up to him. And he spends it the way you might expect: saying goodbye to family and drinking with friends before settling in at home with his wife and young children. He even tries, in vain, to put right the wrongs of a previous romance.
Parisian director Alain Gomis has made a very sleepy, near dreamlike film with Williams acting as if in a limbo state between life and death. Aside from one vibrant sequence, that sees Satche dance down the street, being showered with presents and serenaded by cheering onlookers, the doomed protagonist is a sedate and mostly silent presence. It makes for a meandering (sometimes boring) feature, albeit with some neatly observed scenes (such as when Satche's relatives discuss his life in the past tense with him in the room, pointing out all his faults) and potentially interesting philosophical moments (at one point he takes tea with his soon-to-be mortician).
Towards the end Gomis plays some interesting games with time and reality, notably as Satche's kids suddenly appear to him as young adults. Has he avoided death by choosing to remain with his family or is this a moment of spiritual closure before death: a sign that everything will turn out ok when he leaves our mortal plane? Yet there aren't enough inspired touches like this to liven up the dominant tone of strained silence.
Set within the walls of Versailles palace in the first days of the French Revolution, this dimly lit, distractingly handheld camera reliant period drama casts the beautiful Lea Seydoux (recently seen as a ruthless assassin in 'Mission: Impossible') as a lady in waiting whose loyalty to Queen Marie Antoinette (Diane Kruger) is unwavering and - equally - unappreciated.
From the perspective of Seydoux's Sidonie, we observe major events at a distance, often from palace windows, as King Louis XVI and his entourage consider their response to the storming of the Bastille - prancing about theatrically in the forecourt, wearing wigs and striking poses only French aristocracy could get away with. Through Sidonie we witness as hysteria grips the palace, but whilst there is much talk of nobles fleeing to the countryside in panic, there is little suggestion that any suspects they are living out the final days of an established order. As though this is the whim of a mob who will see sense.
For instance, Sidonie and her friends are still harassed to perform their most frivolous duties for indulgent masters. For her part, she's continually being pestered to deliver an embroidered pattern demanded by the queen - though her majesty has other things on her mind, having fallen deeply in love with a lady of the court who treats her with a level of disdain to which she is unaccustomed.
To see the monarch treated so casually is scandalous to Sidonie: a woman who has sacrificed not only her life but also any sense of personal identity in order to remain close to Marie Antoinette. Though whether this affection is sexual is left entirely ambiguous. What's not in doubt is that the spoiled, self-absorbed queen does not hold Sidonie in the same affection, ultimately seeing the girl as another instrument of her will.
This is a very different picture of Marie Antoinette than that we are used to seeing, with context given for why she was so despised by her people, beyond jealousy at her decadence. Here we are given insight into her political dealings as she leads a political faction within the palace who wish to crush the rebellion at the earliest stages, proposing use of a mercenary army against the people of Paris. My knowledge of French history isn't enough to say with any certainly how accurate this is, but it's certainly a more compelling portrait of this divisive figure than is provided by the oft-cited and likely apocryphal "let them eat cake!"
Director Benoit Jacquot emphasis the size of the palace through shots of Sidonie running (and frequently tripping over herself) down seemingly endless corridors. Despite living on the grounds, she is always late for work (where she acts as a reader for the Queen) - again suggesting the palace as its own vast world, detached from the reality of life in nearby Paris. It's a house of whispered rumours in which the impending terror appears closer to a scandal than an epoch-defining moment in history. That we know differently amplifies the absurdity of much of what goes on, though the film seldom plays this disconnect as satire - a contributing factor in why this sporadically interesting melodrama struggles to hold your attention and fades quickly from memory.
I'm heading off to Berlin for this year's film festival in the early hours of tomorrow morning, where I'll be watching 20-30 films and writing pieces for the Daily Telegraph. Whilst there I'll also record a podcast or two with Jon and Craig, who are going as part of the "industry" (basically they are seeing all the films but don't have to write anything about them).
Though the festival doesn't start officially until the 9th, tomorrow night there is a preview screening of Werner Herzog's second death row documentary - entitled 'Death Row' - which I'm very much looking forward to. There's also a lot of interesting films in the competition, including 'Shadow Dancer' from James Marsh and an interesting French-Philippine drama called 'Captured', about some holiday makers who get taken hostage. I also like the sound of Billy Bob Thornton's ensemble family drama 'Jane Mansfield's Car'. There's also a European premiere for Oscar nominee 'Extreme Loud and Incredibly Close'.
But as with all festivals the best movies will probably emerge from unlikely places and be directed by people I've never heard of.
I'll do my level best to keep this blog updated whilst I'm away, though these things can be chaotic and I'll already likely have a lot of work to do. If you don't hear from me for two weeks then you can expect a huge backlog of reviews to start trickling in from when I return on the 20th.
Apologies for the lack of updates since Berlin. I've haven't been resting on my laurels though. Here is a round-up of the non-competition films from the festival that I wrote today for the Picturehouse Blog. If you look at the entry before that one, you'll see another, even longer, round-up of the competition films.
Other than that I've had a job interview, which is potentially amazing, whilst I'm also preparing to again guest host Flick's Flicks tomorrow morning due to illness. I'm also on my usual slot on Radio Reverb tomorrow (9.15am) if anyone fancies tuning in.
I still intend to finish my review of 'True Grit', which I started writing at Berlin airport, but there haven't been enough hours in the day...
I've also written a full, detailed round-up of the competition for the Picturehouse Blog.
I'll post some more in-depth reflective stuff over the week, as well as my review of 'True Grit', which opened the festival but which I didn't need to review for OWF.
This is just a post to explain the relative lack of activity on this blog over the next two weeks. Tomorrow I'm flying off to spend 12 nights in Berlin so I can take in this year's film festival. I'll be writing multiple reviews every day which you will be able to find at Obsessed With Film, which will cover (hopefully) every single "in competition" film as well as a number of high profile premières. I add "hopefully" because I have no idea right now how this festival works. In Venice you just rock up to each screening, join the queue and wait to see the movie, though I've heard that Berlin requires you to get tickets in advance, which may complicate things. I'll see what happens and try my best to review every film I can.
There may be some articles and links to my work at OWF up here over the coming days, but I can't guarantee it as I'll be writing everything on my Blackberry (as in Venice) and I'll only be able to properly edit this blog if and when I get to a computer. Regardless, there will be lots of stuff up here about my experience of the festival when I return - so do remember to check back nearer the end of this month.
Richard Ayoade is a very funny man. Once president of the Cambridge University Footlights (a role previously held by such luminaries as Peter Cook, Eric Idle, David Mitchell and (oddly) film critic Peter Bradshaw), Ayoade has established himself as a leading figure of British television comedy. He is best known for his role as Maurice Moss in Graham Linehan's once-good-now-terrible 'The IT Crowd', but has also appeared in the likes of 'The Mighty Boosh', 'Nathan Barley' and 'Time Trumpet'. Added to that, he co-wrote and starred in 80s sci-fi pastiche 'Garth Marenghi's Darkplace' and spoof chat show 'Man to Man with Dean Learner' - both as the same character. To my mind he is so gifted a comic performer that he even lit up the execrable British comedy film 'Bunny and the Bull' last year, with an all-too-brief cameo role (the film's sole highlight). Now, following a stint directing music videos for the like of the Arctic Monkeys, he has gone behind the camera to direct his debut feature film 'Submarine', which received its premiere in Toronto in September and closed Brighton's Cinecity Film Festival on Sunday evening.
For his maiden feature film the comic actor has chosen to adapt Joe Dunthorne's 2008 novel 'Submarine', which follows Welsh teenager Oliver Tate as he tries to lose his virginity (before it becomes legal) and prevent his parents from separating. Oliver is coldly analytical about his school classmates and (what he sees as) his parents failing relationship, creepily observing everything and ultimately understanding nothing. His delusions of grandeur and social awkwardness are depicted with unsettling brilliance by the young Craig Roberts. Equally compelling are a restrained Sally Hawkins as his mother and a withdrawn and quite sad Noah Taylor as his father. Another young actor, Yasmin Paige, portrays Oliver's love interest - the fickle and malevolent Jordana. Paige is, on this evidence, a watchable screen presence with bags of charisma. Also cast in a small role is Warp Films regular Paddy Considine, as a spiritual guru who has some of the film's funniest lines.
As you'd expect from a film made by Richard Ayoade, 'Submarine' is a comedy. But it is quite a dry comedy which comes more from the language and the actors reading of the dialogue than from overtly comic moments. In fact Ayoade is unafraid to go fairly long stretches without any obvious "gags" at all. Oliver's "ninja" next door neighbour Graham (Considine's guru character) is as broad as the film gets, aside from the sexual ('Inbetweeners-'esque) crudity of Oliver's school friends, but even then the comedy is never overplayed and the film skillfully avoids the all-out ridiculous. Some of the humour is pretty macabre too. For instance, one scene sees Oliver tell us, via narration, that he has read that pets are important for child development in that they prepare children to accept death. With Jordana's mother suffering from cancer, Oliver then resolves (with the best intentions) to kill her dog so as to soften the blow of her mother's possible demise. It is a relief to see, given his exagerated comic personae, that Ayoade can slip into this whole other gear and make what is a subtle, complex and overall human film.
Rarely in a debut feature do you find a director so in command of the form, as you sense that everything in 'Submarine' has been carefully played out in its director's head and translated exactly that way onto the screen. In the same way that the novel is self-consciously a novel (with Oliver referencing himself as being "the protagonist") Ayoade's film revels in the fact that it is a film, as Oliver talks about the camera techniques the film must implement if it is to tell his story. His megalomania draws obvious parallels with Jason Schwartzman's Max Fischer from the Wes Anderson film 'Rushmore' and other clear Anderson parallels are visible in terms of the films clean and colourful intertitles as well as in Ayoade's use of zooms and tracking shots. Also present is the same love of precision and detail, although these visual motifs and affectations probably owe more to the two filmmaker's shared love of the French New Wave than anything else. Oddly though, the film 'Submarine' most reminded me of was Kubrick's 'A Clockwork Orange' with Oliver's narration recounting his darker thoughts and actions with the same cheerful amorality of Malcolm McDowell's Alex.
'Submarine' is as sweet and at times unsettling as it is beautifully made and wonderfully acted. It is funny - but not too funny - and also melancholic and above all truthful, in spite of that fact that it takes place in a reality heightened by its narrator's ego. When Noah Taylor (a Hove local) introduced the film to the Cinecity crowd at the weekend, he heralded Richard Ayoade as an important British filmmaker for the future. Before the film rolled that might have just sounded like polite hyperbole. After it finished, to a rapturous ovation, I was left in little doubt that he was right.
Now Richard Ayoade joins fellow British comedians (and sometime collaborators) Armando Iannucci and Chris Morris in making a terrific debut film, I am left to wonder: with the bar raised impossibly high, what can we expect from their next efforts? I am certainly excited to find out.
'Submarine' is released in the UK in March next year and is not yet rated by the BBFC. No trailer is currently available.
It is a rare thing in this day and age to go into a film without knowing anything about it. Thanks to the internet's insatiable demand for new content, every second of every day, it is now fairly standard that we can find out almost anything about an upcoming film before it's been made. As a result we are seldom surprised. Barely a secret cameo goes unspoiled and by the time of the first trailer every set-piece or punchline has been revealed. It was a nice change then to walk into Mark Romanek's 'Never Let Me Go' expecting one thing and finding another.
Admittedly I hadn't been hoodwinked by an elliptical marketing campaign, but rather by my own prejudice. Watching a trailer or reading anything about Kazuo Ishiguro's 2005 novel, upon which the film is based, would have given me some idea about what to expect. But happily I went in blind and was rewarded. You see all I knew about 'Never Let Me Go' was that it starred Carey Mulligan, Andrew Garfield and Keira Knightley and I assumed that it was some kind of plummy, award-baiting British drama. How pleased I was to be proved so wrong by this dark and subtle dystopian sci-fi story.
I explain all this because it puts my appreciation of the film in its context. Had I been an admirer of the novel, or had I gone in with my expectations raised any higher, then maybe I wouldn't have found the film anywhere near as fascinating as I did. And as it was I did find it fascinating.
I am reluctant to say too much here about the plot of the film, in the hope that you might have a similar experience to mine when watching it. Instead I'll talk a little about how I feel about it. American critic Marshall Fine concluded in the Huffington Post that with 'Never Let Me Go' "what you end up with is a staid, lifeless tale that never talks about what it's about, or at least not enough to provoke deep thoughts on the subject." I couldn't agree less with that assessment personally. I think the great strength of the film lies in the fact that nothing is ever openly discussed.
Too many sci-fi films get caught up in their own mythology, or their own supposed cleverness, and end up just having their characters exchange cod philosophical arguments as the tedium mounts (step forward 'The Matrix' and, more recently, 'Inception'). By contrast in 'Never Let Me Go' Romanek succeeds in creating a mood which is at times quite affecting and lends itself to contemplation. Instead of being told what to think about the film's dystopian society we are allowed to reflect on it ourselves. In fact the central characters' refusal to really discuss the wrongs of their condition is quite haunting and lends an amount of quiet tragedy to proceedings.
The look of the film is similarly effective, as it is always at once picturesque and melancholy, with the pathetic fallacy of overcast skies throughout. The actors are also good across the board. I am not the biggest fan of Keira Knightley, but she is utterly convincing here, as is the ever-excellent Mulligan - though between this and 'Wall Street 2' she seems to be forging a reputation as Hollywood's go-to girl for on-screen weeping. Andrew Garfield, who I first saw and enjoyed in 'The Social Network' and who I am now eagerly anticipating as the new Spider-Man, is also very good, again playing a gentle and sympathetic character.
'Never Let Me Go' is absorbing, well-acted and raises a number of interesting ethical questions. Like all good science fiction it also reflects upon our lives now and - again, without wishing to divulge plot information - makes us ultimately question our own existence and sense of purpose. It manages to do all this without ever preaching or getting especially high on itself, and all within a well paced two hours which doesn't feel artificially drawn-out. Whether fans of the novel will feel the same, I couldn't say. I have read that the story's central reveal is made much earlier in this film version (presumably in what is, in all honesty, a fairly weak scene featuring Sally Hawkins) and it is possible that a later reveal would be much more raw and emotionally jarring. But all in all I was very pleasantly surprised by the film I saw.
'Never Let Me Go' is rated '12A' by the BBFC and is released in the UK on the 21st of January next year.
According to David Thompson all that stands in the way of George Clooney becoming a modern day Carey Grant is his smugness. Well, I don't think Cary Grant and George Clooney are very similar performers anyway, but that aside I don't really understand the oft-levelled accusation of smugness. I suppose what many people are referring to is his screen persona defining role in Steven Soderbergh's 'Ocean's 11' re-make and its two sequels. In those films Clooney is stylish, cool and in control - the definition of a suave so-called "silver fox" - with every reason to be smug. Whilst watching Clooney's latest film, Anton Corbijn's low-key spy thriller 'The American', it was presumably this view of the actor's image that led a colleague to lean over and whisper that they felt the film to be "one prolonged Clooney wink". I think I know what she meant.
Throughout his recent career, Clooney has demonstrated a knowing tendency to play counter to his star persona, which he does with varying degrees of subtlety and success. Often he will play a broad buffoon, as in such films as 'Burn After Reading' and 'The Men Who Stare at Goats'. At other times he will "go normal", as in 'Syriana' where he put on weight and sported an unkempt beard. But at his best he subverts his image without running away from it anything like as obviously. For instance in last year's 'Up in the Air' he would seem to be playing exactly the same 'Ocean's 11' huckster, only (thanks to director Jason Reitman's trademark cynicism) we see a character who is ultimately left stranded in a facsimile of a life: vacuous and unfulfilled beneath a suave and in control facade. It's like watching Danny Ocean's midlife crisis.
In 'The American' Clooney is again playing up to and against type. Put simply: 'The American' is like 'Up in the Air' with added sex and violence - and without jokes. As Jack, an ageing hitman, Clooney is again faced with the realisation that his lifestyle hasn't allowed him to make any meaningful connections with friends and lovers. He is again handsome and cool - seemingly the creation of another male wish fulfillment fantasy - yet he is an empty vessel. The relationships he does have are fleeting and built on lies (for instance false identities) and, as we learn in the film's brilliantly executed and deathly cold opening sequence, these encounters can also go very wrong. Here Clooney lives the life of James Bond: he beds glamorous women; drives sports cars around beautiful Italian towns; and wears a pistol inside his dinner suit. But he doesn't enjoy it. In fact, quite unlike Bond (well, at least old school Bond), Clooney spends most of the film moping around looking quite depressed. Soon he resolves to quit the hitman racket after undertaking that "one last job" demanded by movie convention. Oh, and along the way things are made more difficult by a gang of Swedish hitmen who are bent on killing him.
For all intents and purposes, 'The American' is a thriller without many thrills. Most of the time it is ironically a very European exercise in introspective slow cinema. We watch long silent takes in which Jack makes a rifle (without enjoying it), or takes a country drive (without enjoying it). Like the Polish thriller 'Essential Killing', Anton Corbijn's follow-up to 'Control' is scant on action and more interested in character study. Only, whilst it is attractively shot and nicely lit (if formally unspectacular), it is ultimately lacking in any real feeling or, dare I say, point. Clooney is left to carry the film and inject into it some life, but unfortunately for the star that proves to be a thankless task. He has those big, sad eyes worked out to a fine art, but ultimately the film feels somehow hollow and fairly dull.
Corbijn and his star have seemingly set out to deconstruct and critique the spy genre, though in fact they only really end up repeating its cliches in a more boring contect without delivering anything especially thoughtful or philosophical. From the trite theme of the hitman's relationship with a local priest, to the prolonged shots of Violante Placido's exposed breasts, 'The American' is simply a very earnest telling of a familiar story. It is especially during scenes of sexuality that the film is at its most disappointingly conventional as we are presented with females as sex objects whilst Clooney remains clothed (save for one brief shot of his rear) and sometimes even disappears off camera, leaving us to leer at a beautiful topless Italian lady. Even 'Casino Royale' employed a Laura Mulvey defying female gaze as Daniel Craig emerged from the sea with his shimmering torso. Yet 'The American' is rooted firmly in the misogyny of the cinematic past.
Perhaps that is the point. After all the film's poster is overtly retro in its styling. But I for one can't see whatever commentary is intended by it, other than that being a sociopathic killer can make you a bit lonely. I certainly didn't feel very much for the main character in this quite ordinary film which seems to be aiming for something profound and ends up failing to even deliver the cheapest of thrills. Oh well George. At least you looked classy in it and, if it's any consolation, I doubt Cary Grant would have pulled it off any better.
'The American' has been rated '15' by the BBFC and is released in the UK on the 26th of November.
When Jeff Bridges won the Oscar for Best Actor at this year's Academy Awards, for his turn in 'Crazy Heart', Colin Firth was considered to be the unlucky loser. In truth, after picking up every award going en route to that ceremony, the Oscar was always going to go to Bridges on the night - a fact Firth himself repeatedly acknowledged in the run up - but there were many who felt that it ought to have gone to the English actor for his compelling performance as a suicidal, homosexual professor in Tom Ford's 'A Single Man'. Yet there is a feeling that it could be second time lucky for Firth who has, seemingly undeterred by that defeat, brushed himself down and taken another swing at it right away, playing the role of King George VI in the award-baiting historical drama 'The King's Speech'.
Firth, along with his director Tom Hooper ('The Damned United') and co-stars Helena Bonham Carter and Geoffrey Rush, will have every reason to approach next year's ceremony with confidence following the film's enthusiastic response in Toronto where it was bestowed the audience award. In the last few year's winners of that award have included the likes of 'Slumdog Millionaire' and 'Precious' and there is a growing feeling that Firth - and quite possibly his co-stars - are due to be, at the very least, among the names nominated.
'The King's Speech' is inspired by real life events that apparently saw the stammering man who would be king, Prince Albert ("Bertie" to his mates), seek out the help of every speech therapist in the Kingdom in an attempt to improve his public speaking. Just when he has abandoned all hope at ever finding a cure, his dedicated wife (Bonham Carter as the Queen Mum) tracks down an unorthodox Australian by the name of Lionel Logue (Rush) who swears he can correct the royals speech - so long as the treatment is done on his terms as with his other (more common) patients. To complicate matters, Bertie's speech impediment becomes a greater concern as his brother Edward's (Guy Pearce) relationship with an American divorcée brings him unexpectedly to the throne.
Also looming in the background is the spectre of the Second World War and the Nazi's charismatic leader Adolf Hitler. When watching a newsreel of the dictator speaking at a rally, Bertie's daughter Elizabeth (the future queen) asks "what is he saying papa?" "I don't know, but he seems to be saying it rather well." It is vital then that in the mass media age Bertie must not only speak, but be able to inspire an Empire that spans the globe. But alongside these lofty concerns sits a personal story - that of the fraught friendship between two men of very different backgrounds: Bertie and Lionel.
The resultant film is, at best, a thematic mess that (as with many biographical films) indulges in cod psychology as it explores its subject. The films feeling towards the Windsor clan is a little confused. On one hand there are frequent (and fairly funny) jokes made at the expense of the upper class: "your physicians are idiots" chides Lionel. "They've all be knighted!" replies Bertie incredulously. "That makes it official then" responds the Australian. There are also numerous moments where the royals very real contempt for the average person comes into full view, and other moments where they seem downright horrid to one another. But ultimately the film is rather smitten with these characters and its treatment of the royal clan is nostalgic and sometimes downright celebratory. Even the Nazi sympathising of Bertie's brother David (the disgraced King Edward VIII) is never really dealt with explicitly. It is alluded to at several points, but 'The King's Speech' is so set on pleasing the establishment that it avoids too much unsavoury history.
Perhaps the film is especially troubling coming now, at a time of economic crisis where the tax payer is apparently due to pick up the bill for a wealthy young billionaires wedding, as it continues to peddle a number of unpalatable myths. At one point the Queen Mum-to-be likens the heavy burden of royal obligation to a form of indentured servitude - admittedly in jest, but the lines humour comes from its perceived truth: that these noble people are in some way suffering a life of slavish public service (jetting around the world waving at people and occasionally posing for photos whilst skiing).
In some sense, the narrative's central problem is also ever so slightly pathetic. The king must labour to read aloud a speech that he hasn't written, about events he will play no practical part in shaping. He literally just has to say the words. And he can't do that. His only bloody job. I'm not intending to sound glib or churlish about those with speech impediments, including George VI who I am sure possessed some measure of courage and a certain steely resolve in order to speak publicly. But the great historical and social weight placed on this personal struggle sums up our supposed love affair with our supposed betters. "Well done!" we are geared up to gamely cheer as the very well kept and expensively educated monarch learns to pronounce his 'P' sounds. Honestly, good for him. But let's not hold a street party.
As infuriating as that premise might be though, it is one which is carried off with disarming humour. Straight after the ultimate speech, his first wartime radio address, Lionel tells Bertie "you still stuttered on the 'W'" to which the king replies "I had to throw a few of them in so they knew it was me". It is to the credit of everyone involved that this film remains affable, watchable and entertaining from start to finish in spite of its royalist ways. Geoffrey Rush is especially likable and funny, whilst Firth is again in good form. His stutter is consistent and improves subtly throughout the film. Structurally it seems to take a wrong turn when the last half hour seems to build to two climaxes (the coronation and the radio address) but it is generally well paced stuff and decently executed stuff.
It is also sometimes "a little bit Richard Curtis", when moments of comedy come entirely out of the sound of an upper class English twit using words like "tits", "willy" and "shit". In fact, Firth is in a couple of scenes required to string together great reams of "fucks" and "buggers" during his sessions with Rush's therapist. Despite this heavy use of profanity the BBFC awarded the film a '12A' certificate, even though 'Made in Dagenham' was earlier this year controversially awarded a '15' for use of the same swear words. This has led to allegations of classism against the BBFC, who many commentators suppose have seen upper class swearing as non-threatening and funny, whilst working class swearing is violent and even potentially revolutionary. Whatever the truth behind that accusation (and I certainly see some) this particular humorous element felt cheap.
Whether or not the film's decent performances are going to prove Oscar winning, we'll find out next year. I certainly don't think the films romanticised picture of the monarchy will be much of a problem for American audiences and it is precisely the sort of backwards looking, period fare that sells all too well in the colonies, for whatever reason. Is Firth's performance here better than that which graced screens earlier this year in 'A Single Man'? Well, no. But more than a few have picked up Oscars for far less, often the year after a perceived snub. With no overwhelmingly clear favourite yet established for next year's Best Actor award, this is perhaps Firth's best chance to grab the glory. If he does, brace yourself for the inevitable stutter joke during his acceptance speech...
'The King's Speech' is rated '12A' by the BBFC and is due out on January 7th in the UK.
Tonight the Duke of York's Picturehouse plays host to a screening of 'The King's Speech' starring Colin Firth as the 2010 Cine-City Brighton Film Festival gets underway. Having won the top prizes in Toronto earlier this year, 'The King's Speech' is thought to be an Oscar hopeful and is directed by Tom Hooper ('The Damned United') and co-stars Helena Bonham Carter and Geoffrey Rush as it tells the story of King George VI's speech impediment set during his impromptu ascension to the throne during the Second World War. Personally, I am expecting something very safe and establishment that romanticises the monarchy, but I'll give it a chance to impress me during tonight's show. Expect a review later this week.
Cine-City continues until December 5th, where it closes with Richard Ayoade's 'Submarine' (another Toronto hit). Along the way are a host of other big films which include 'The American', 'Never Let Me Go', 'Rare Exports', 'West is West', 'Of Gods and Men', 'Howl', 'Somewhere' and 'Biutiful'. I'll certainly be seeing all of those and reviewing them here over the next two weeks.
If you live in or around Brighton you should come and check out the festival, which also takes place at Brighton's Sallis Benney Theatre and features even more films than I have listed here! Here is the link to the web page again, so you can see for yourself.
The other day somebody from Sony was telling me how concerned they were that ‘The Social Network’ might be negatively affected by all the positive reviews: the idea being that they could generate a backlash against it. I can understand that concern because, however much I try to black out reviews and awards from my mind, it can be hard to view a film in a culture vacuum. For example, if you go and see a film that has won Best Picture at the Oscars, no matter how good it is, you might easily find yourself saying “yes, it was good. But it wasn't a Best Picture winner was it?”
I had such an experience last week as I saw Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s ‘Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives’ playing at the 4th Kaunas International Film Festival in Lithuania. Having won the coveted Palm d’Or at this year’s (by many accounts subpar) Cannes Film Festival, I went into ‘Uncle Boonmee’ with dangerously high expectations. To me, post-Cannes, it was no longer a little Thai film from an interesting and experimental director. Instead it was inevitably now stacked up alongside the awards past recipients: “Is it as good as ‘Pulp Fiction’, ‘The Wind That Shakes the Barley’ or ‘The White Ribbon’?”
Of course, this is not at all fair. The award itself has nothing to do with the film, and this disperate band of unconnected past winners is even less relevant. A film should really be judged on its own merits. Perhaps this is true: but is it ever realistic? Or even possible?
Most critics will routinely compare a new work alongside others of the same genre or with other films made by the same director. Is this bad practice? I wonder how different the reception to some films might have been had the critics not known anything about the author going in. Would the 'Star Wars' prequels be so universally hated if people compared them to the bland likes of ‘Clash of the Titans’ or ‘Transformers’ as opposed to the original trilogy? And the opposite is likely true also: I can’t imagine ‘Inland Empire’, divorced from the legacy and reputation of David Lynch, would be endured by as many fawning acolytes.
So it was that I watched the Palm d’Or-winning ‘Uncle Boonmee’ expecting great things. 'Uncle Boonmee' follows the titular character as he looks back on his life whilst suffering from a terminal illness. He is visited by the ghost of a previous wife and by his son who has become an ape, whilst he also relives some past lives: most notably during a bizarre protracted sequence in which an deformed princess has sex with a catfish. The film is nothing if not unique.
I am usually a big fan of the so-called "slow cinema" movement. Recent examples like the Romanian 'Police, Adjective' and the Russian Golden Lion entry 'Ovsyanki' have thrilled me greatly. But 'Boonmee' did actually start to bore me with its long, ponderous takes and silent scenes of relative inactivity. And, in part due to its acclaim, I found myself trying to find reasons why it wasn't working for me. Perhaps I don't know enough about Buddhism and reincarnation? Perhaps I'm experiencing slow cinema fatigue after recent trips to film festivals?
Whatever it was, I didn't connect with 'Uncle Boonmee' on an emotional level and wasn't gripped by the folkloric story. It is unquestionably a bold and imaginative film, with the glowing red eyes of the mysterious monkey gods that stalk the jungle a particular visual highpoint. Weerasethakul is also a master of atmosphere, especially in terms of sound design. Earlier this year I saw one of his short art installation films, 'Phantoms of Nabua' (see bottom of review), playing at the BFI Southbank and it has clear parallels with 'Boonmee' in terms of the sharp nighttime cinematography and also in the way that it uses natural sounds which give you a real sense of being in the middle of a real space. Watching both this and 'Boonmee' I felt as though I was in the jungle at times.
It is also true that 'Boonmee' is often laugh-out-loud funny. One photomontage, midway through the film, shows a man in a monkey suits hugging some military men, whilst in another scene Boonmee describes how he killed communists in his time as a soldier commenting that they were a "pain in the ass". Yet these moments only served to raise my enjoyment levels fleetingly during the film's near two hour running length.
Whilst the Palm d'Or win will inevitably lead to wider distribution than the film could otherwise have hoped for, I don't think 'Uncle Boonmee' has the same potential with audiences as last year's Cannes big hitters did (namely 'Un Prophet' and 'The White Ribbon'). It is certainly an imaginative film which is beautiful to watch, yet ultimately, whether or not high expectations or festival film fatigue were to blame, 'Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives' just didn't do it for me on a visceral, gut level. Would I have felt differently had I seen it at that first show in Cannes when it was still an obscure oddity? It's possible, but I suppose I'll never know for sure.
Below is the art installation short 'Phantoms of Nabua'. 'Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives' is released in the UK on the 19th of November and is not yet rated by the BBFC.
A former freelance film journalist based in Brighton, I have written contributions to The Daily Telegraph and several websites, provided occasional analysis for BBC Radio Sussex and Radio Reverb, and recently I've been involved with several volumes published by Intellect Books.
I've also written about video games for GamesIndustry.biz.
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