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.
They haven't been in a major film or television series since the mid-90s, but arguably Jim Henson's best-loved creations haven't been culturally relevant for much longer. Yet in 'The Muppets', the characters' glorious comeback movie, this passing of time that might have been a concern (at least for marketing folks at Disney) has proven to be an asset. The Muppets have always broken the fourth wall to poke fun at themselves and comment on the artifice of whatever they're doing, but here Kermit, Miss Piggy and co show an awareness of that faded glory that's the driving force behind the story and much pathos.
In this James Bobin directed musical comedy, co-writer Jason Segel stars as Gary, whose younger brother Walter is a Muppet in all but name. When Gary decides to take his girlfriend Mary (the graceful and effervescent Amy Adams) out of Smalltown and on a romantic holiday to Los Angeles, he brings Walter, a lifelong Muppet fan, in order to give him the chance to visit the famous Muppet theatre. Upon visiting the derelict theatre, Walter is horrified to learn that the evil Tex Richman (Chris Cooper) is planning to buy up the property in order to drill for oil. Walter and Gary then decide to round up the Muppets in order to perform the comeback show that could save their legacy.
Rather than straining to sell the relevance of our heroes to today's kids, this new film rolls with the idea that the Muppets (who include a 70s-style rock act, an Evel Knievel wannabe and a Catskills comic) are indelibly wedded to a bygone era. When Rashida Jones' sharp-suited television executive tells Kermit he needs a celebrity host in order to get the gang a new TV special, the frog delves into his contact book and calls the White House, only to be informed that Jimmy Carter has changed address. In his mansion Kermit is served New Coke by his butler: 80s Robot - very much yesterday's vision of tomorrow. He also struggles to recognise any current celebrities, instead making moribund references to former Muppet Show guests stars like Dom DeLuise. During a cleaning montage the Muppets play a cassette of Starship's "We Built This City" for inspiration.
There is something poignant about all this, especially as Kermit spends much of the film full of regret that he has (like the rest of us) spent the last few years losing touch with his fellow Muppets. This foregrounding of the Muppets as fallen icons is more than just a neat post-modern joke, it also serves to imbue the characters with a kind of purity. As Kermit sings his 1979 classic "Rainbow Connection" we're given a powerful reminder of a less jaded time, yet they are never twee no matter how earnest the sentiment. This straight-faced niceness is exactly why the Muppets seem ideally placed to provide infectious optimism lacking in today's entertainment. Their sworn enemy is cynicism - as embodied in the film by a crass, "edgy" tribute act, "The Moopets" (who Richman champions as "a hard, cynical act for a hard, cynical world").
The film isn't content to trade solely on nostalgia and old-time good feeling though, even if it could probably just about get away with that. There are loads of inspired sight gags, clever one-liners and, best of all, a few infectious song and dance numbers written by Bret McKenzie of 'Flight of the Conchords'. Of these my favourites are the upbeat loneliness empowerment anthem "Me Party", sung with gusto by Adams and Miss Piggy, and the Oscar-nominated ballad "Man or Muppet" - a duet between Gary and Walter.
There are long stretches where it's difficult to imagine how the film might appeal to young children - along with the anachronistic pop culture references are celebrity cameos from the likes of Sarah Silverman and Alan Arkin. Kids aren't the primary audience and - with the script brimming with nods to minor characters and scenes from the first movies, it's probably a more rewarding experience for fans. But even if you don't quite fit that category I still reckon it'd be nearly impossible to watch 'The Muppets' without a smile on your face the majority of the time. Life is indeed a happy song.
'The Muppets' is released in the UK on February 10th and has been rated 'U' by the BBFC.
'The Grey' reunites 'A-Team' director Joe Carnahan with unlikely action hero Liam Neeson, who plays another rugged, no-nonsense, softly-spoken Irish badass with a grudge against mankind. This time he's Ottway - an ace sniper stationed in the harsh Alaskan wilderness, with only the bitter-sweet memory of his departed wife for company. Employed by an oil company with the unlikely job of protecting drill teams from regular grey wolf attacks, Ottway has taken to a life of isolation, bereft of hope for humanity. He sees those he lives with at the end of the world as being "men unfit for mankind" - you sense he has more affinity for the wolves he is paid to slay.
That is until he is one of a half-dozen survivors of a plane crash thousands of miles away from civilisation. Stranded with a handful of others he is forced to reconnect with humanity in the harshest of circumstances, battling the elements and fending off an aggressive pack of wolves in a bid for survival. At times as the men argue their Alpha behaviour seems to run parallel with that of the wolf pack - one of many interesting ideas in a surprisingly theme rich film that also finds time to give God the finger. It hardly qualifies as a spoiler to say the supporting cast (which includes Frank Grillo, Dermot Mulroney and James Badge Dale) exist primarily to be picked apart by ravenous wolves, and to provide Ottway with people to wax philosophical with.
You might find yourself drawn to 'The Grey' by the undeniable appeal of seeing Liam Neeson punch an angry CGI wolf in the face - and there is some of that to enjoy - but amidst the bone-crunching carnage and suspenseful survival action there is time for just as much pathos. As the men discuss their children and Ottway recites some of his taciturn father's poetry: "Once more into the fray/Until the last fight I'll ever know/Live and die on this day/Live and die on this day". From that oft-repeated mantra you can probably work out how it all ends.
Carnahan shoots the film in a restrained and gritty style, with heavy use of grain. By avoiding showing too much of the wolves he ensures that sections of the film play like an impressive monster movie. But it's his handling of the survival stuff that's the film's best asset, particularly in the disorienting, noisy plane crash sequence and in a scene of nerve-jangling terror as the surviving men attempt to cross a ravine using a hastily conceived makeshift rope. In its depiction of men battling the elements, it's also far more visceral and engaging than last year's similarly themed 'The Way Back'. Ottway's strange (presumably made up) vocation and the presence of exaggerated, man-eating wolves sets up a sillier film than 'The Grey' actually ever wants to be. In fact it's more often a brutal and painfully realistic depiction of death and loss.
'The Grey' is out now in the UK, rated '15' by the BBFC.
A sharp and bitterly funny attack on middle class social mores and attitudes, Roman Polanski's 'Carnage' is the kind of movie I'm easily smitten by: a tight little film which primarily takes place on one location (in real-time, no less), peddles deft social satire and zips by in a welcome 79 minutes. It's to the veteran director's credit that it never feels paired down or non-cinematic, despite being based on a stage play: French playwright Yasmina Reza's God of Carnage. Tight close-ups develop a sense of claustrophobia and Polanski's camera seems to relish the few occasions where the characters nearly escape their setting, eagerly rushing out into the hall and returning to the apartment with an air of resignation.
The film hinges around an event briefly glimpsed (from a distance) during the opening credits as one young boy hits another with a stick in a New York park. Then, in one intense, unbroken scene that ultimately seems to find equivalence in the actions of adults and children, the rest of the film takes place in the apartment of the assaulted boy's parents - Penelope and Michael Longstreet (Jodie Foster and John C. Reilly) - who have invited the other boy's parents - Nancy and Alan Cowan (Kate Winslet and Christoph Waltz) - over to discuss about what happened between their kids. It doesn't take long before the mood shifts from one of reconciliation to recrimination (and back again) as the couples turn on each other and feud amongst themselves.
Michael's overbearing attempts to play the good host and considerate husband conceal deep resentment and nihilism that are soon exposed (memorably with the bitter revelation that his wife dresses him as a liberal). Penelope is far less concerned with acting "civilised" and resolving differences than she is with asserting her moral and parenting supremacy over the Cowans. Alan is hyper-rational (or, depending on your point of view, cynical) to the point of seeming cold, aloof and more than a little rude - taking work calls throughout their meeting to the annoyance of everybody. Nancy seems to be the only one entering the situation in genuine good faith - something that's tested by extreme feelings of nausea as a result of the slightest confrontation and, later, by some potent Scotch.
The whole thing is as much about the futility of trying to bring order to chaos as it is about peering voyeuristically underneath the veneer of the characters sense of well-bred respectability. Whilst all of them interact in interesting and ever-shifting ways, the central confrontation is really between Alan, who believes in the inevitability of animalistic, amoral behaviour, and Penelope, who believes with absolute certainty that those in need should be saved and those who do wrong must be punished (according to her own uncompromising standards). Yet these extreme points of view are as easily compromised as anything else: when his phone is broken Alan is less indifferent about human cruelty and suffering, whilst Penelope is more concerned with cleaning up her coffee table books than Nancy's well-being after she suffers a fit of vomiting.
Each of the four actors are superb and wring the most from the script's faultlessly well-observed, caustic humour, though Waltz is again the stand-out performer. Several times in the last year the Academy Award-winning Austrian has been the bright spot in sub-standard films, but here he steals the show in more exalted company. His Alan is deliciously cruel and somehow intensely likable with it. You certainly want to see him get the better of Foster's shrill and conceited Penelope. Winslet gives a very subtle and believable performance, in spite of being given some of the more extreme stuff to do (throwing up and playing drunk). Reilly's innate likability and sensitivity - as the perennially put-upon schlub - are also well deployed and cleverly subverted, providing some of the funniest moments.
'Carnage' is out now in the UK, rated '15' by the BBFC.
When high schooler Peter Parker is bitten by a radioactive spider it doesn't take long for him to use his newly developed super powers to recover the purses of old ladies and foil bank robberies. "With great power comes great responsibility" is the famous mantra. Well somebody should have told the kids in 'Chronicle', a film in which three teenagers develop telekinetic abilities after being exposed to a nosebleed-inducing, glowing rock in a mysterious cave.
But if Spider-Man was born into the idealistic 60s, these kids are definitely from our more cynical present - in that they just piss around aimlessly, content to serve no grand purpose. In the fun first half of the movie, they pull immature pranks on passersby, win a high school talent show and play American football in the troposphere. It's the first super powers movie I've seen in which the kids on-screen do what real kids would actually do: they film themselves doing the sort of stuff the 'Jackass' crew could only dream of and laughing constantly. If 'Kick Ass' was the story of a guy whose vigilante fantasy was limited by his lack of special abilities, then 'Chronicle' is the reverse.
That's already a sound premise but the really inspired part is the decision to frame the film as "found-footage" - with most of it captured through handheld video cameras. A closer cousin to 'Cloverfield' than 'The Blair Witch Project' or 'Paranormal Activity', 'Chronicle' isn't using the style as a neat way to make a movie on the cheap: the special effects are better than average, not least because by the time things really kick off (alas, the childish hijinks can't last forever) we've been grounded in a very tangible, recognisable world.
The film is, for the most part, framed as the video diary of Andrew (Dane DeHaan), a meek guy who decides to film his day to day life, ostensibly to deter his abusive, drunken father. Director Josh Trank, working from a Max Landis (son of John) script, uses the conceit imaginatively, having Andrew levitate his camera, allowing for a greater range of shots than you'd usually expect, a trick which helps to keep the gimmick from becoming irritating or hindering the action (characters bound to video cameras can't exactly fight).
Over its brisk 83 minutes, 'Chronicle' is also buoyed by its deeper-than-expected central character study, as Andrew's home life (his mum is dying from cancer) and his miserable time at school, as a bullied social outcast, combine to give him exactly the sought of pent-up rage you don't want in a teenager suddenly given unprecedented power over his environment. This is another way in which the style of filmmaking ehances the story: as the obsession with filming events deepens, Andrew's feeling of detachment from the world seems to become greater, diminishing his already fragile sense of empathy with grave consequences for the people of Seattle.
'Chronicle' is out now in the UK, rated '12A' by the BBFC.
Seldom do movies live up to that most hackneyed of Hollywood promises: "you'll laugh... you'll cry". But this is one - a film that finds space for some brilliant comic performances and funny dialogue alongside scenes of some poignancy. Alexander Payne's 'The Descendants' is a film with nuance to match its boundless empathy. For instance the Hawaii-set drama begins with George Clooney's Matt King attempting to debunk myths about the Pacific island chain in a voiceover, denying its popular image as some kind of paradise untroubled by worldly concerns such as cancer and heartache. Yet in the same film Payne shows us crystal clear seas and idyllic green vistas, populated by smiling people wearing garish floral shirts, set to sunny local music.
The writer-director isn't interested in replacing one tired cliché with another. Instead he creates an honest and recognisable world characterised by darkness and light: of unbearable sadness and life-affirming tenderness in tandem, with neither ever maudlin or cloying in the least.
Though less acerbic than the director's previous films, 'The Descendants' still follows a suitably Payneian protagonist. His emotionally deficient men (from Matthew Brodrick's beleaguered high school teacher in 'Election' to the two lifelong losers of 'Sideways') always seem to be in the throes of mid-life crisis, and King is no different even if Clooney ensures he isn't so dishevelled (no matter how ill-fitting the flip flops). He may be a wealthy lawyer with a nice big house, yet his wife, Elizabeth (Patricia Hastie), lies in a coma from which she will likely never awaken following a boating accident - leaving him to take sole care of two troubled daughters, Alex and Scottie (Shailene Woodley and Amara Miller), for the first time in nearly a decade.
Furthermore, King soon learns that Elizabeth was having a passionate affair and on the verge of suing him for divorce, a detail known by some of their closest friends - heightening his sense of betrayal and shame. He is also in the middle of brokering a huge land sale which will make his disparate extended family - distantly descended from Hawaiian royalty - insanely rich, but for which he is ultimately responsible. There is pressure from his cousins is to sell, turning acres of pristine wilderness into a another soulless luxury holiday resort, and equally pressure from citizens not to.
Hawaii is not an incidental, colourful backdrop to this story, but a principle catalyst for events. Its pastimes claim King's wife, its islands isolate him from family members and its very soil has the power to divide or unite his family. It's in relation to this real estate dilemma, which seems peripheral for much the film, that it (like Kaui Hart Hemmings' original novel) takes its title. It's not enough that everybody in the state seems personally invested in his decision - King is also haunted by history: by black and white reminders of those who came before, forging his connection to the land in the 1860s.
The film hinges on a fine performance from Clooney whose presence in every scene gives the film a degree of subjectivity. For instance, this explains why we don't see or hear much evidence of the supposed state-wide interest in whether or not King will sell his land - it's not really something he's engaging with given the circumstances, though we feel its effect as one of many pressures bearing down on him. Clooney plays King as a man whose mind is always somewhere else, his face often implying a man haunted by dark thoughts.
Several dozen times we hear King being assured by well meaning friends and strangers that "Elizabeth is a fighter and that she'll pull through" - the emptiness of the platitude is being satirised as we soon understand the reverse, and yet there is no bitterness here: what else can you say? A late scene featuring the always-excellent Judy Greer provides perhaps the best example of how compassionately the film looks at human frailty and how our best intentions can be outstripped by the impulses of the heart.
It's as much about quirks of fate as it is coming to terms with loss or taking responsibility. Why should Clooney have inherited all this land through no work of his own and why should he decide what happens to it? Why did Elizabeth decide to jet ski on that day rather than drive the boat as planned? Why should Alex have stumbled upon her mother's indiscretion by chance? When Clooney finally confronts his wife's lover he is told that the affair "just happened". "Nothing just happens" is King's response, giving rise to perhaps the film's definitive line: "Everything just happens."
'The Descendants' is out now in the UK, rated '15' by the BBFC.
Critics have broadly expressed two major gripes with Clint Eastwood's biopic of notorious FBI director J. Edgar Hoover. The first, and most significant, has been that it's a whitewash: shying away from his rumoured penchant for cross-dressing, coquettishly skirting around the issue of his apparent repressed homosexuality and backing away from any outright criticism of his controversial practices as head of his increasingly powerful state police force, abusing power to his own ambitious ends. In other words it's one of the 20th century's most powerful and influential men given 'The Iron Lady' treatment.
The second complaint has related to the film's heavy use of make-up and prosthetics to allow the eternally youthful Leonardo DiCaprio to play Hoover throughout his life - a decision which has been accused of burying an otherwise fine performance. On this point I agree at least partially. Armie Hammer (as lover and FBI deputy Clyde Tolson) and Naomi Watts (as life-long secretary Helen Gandy) join DiCaprio in donning the unsettling rubber masks and the effect ranges between eerily realistic to distractingly absurd. You get used to watching these plastic people after a while in their company, yet this isn't a process aided by Dustin Lance Black's time-hopping screenplay. Yet it still doesn't quite bury the performances, which are on the whole decent.
DiCaprio is blatantly Oscar-fishing at this point, moving between eye-catching portrayals of big historical figures (perfecting accents, mannerisms and peculiar ticks) and heroic leads in thinking man's genre movies, all under the direction of prestigious filmmakers. And whether he's cultivating dodgy facial hair - as in every film between 2006 and 2010 (such as 'The Departed', 'Shutter Island' and 'Inception') - or piling on the old man make-up (also see 'The Aviator'), there is no doubt he's obsessed with destroying memories of him as that baby-faced, pretty boy of 'Romeo + Juliet' and 'Titanic', or the child star of ''What's Eating Gilbert Grape'. Yet he is always convincing and creates fully-formed characters, with his Hoover no exception.
On the first point however, I would have to take issue. With little prior interest in the history of American federal law enforcement, I only know about Hoover what the film has told me. And though it uses the writing of a biography as a framing device to air Hoover's view on some of his more controversial actions (for instance his use of wire-tapping or mass deportation of suspected political radicals), giving an overall sympathetic depiction of his character, the film leaves little doubt that he was, at best, excessive and at, at worst, criminal: driven by dangerous obsessions and a hunger for personal fame. I also think much of the film's apparently skewed take on history (such as its demonising of the American left in the 1920s) can be seen as coming from Hoover's subjective viewpoint (a point ably made by Tolson near the film's climax, as he challenges Hoover's account of events).
As far as the cross-dressing goes there is only one brief visual reference to it, with no shots of DiCaprio in a dress, but there is nothing so ambiguous or cautious about the film's account of Hoover's relationship with Tolson, which is tender and, in its own way, tragic. True, we aren't shown them in the throes of passion, with Hoover played as a deeply repressed and almost A-sexual being - in thrall to his judgemental mother (Judi Dench) and unwavering commitment to "the bureau" - but there is great warmth between them that goes far beyond mere drinking companions.
It is implied strongly that Hoover employs Tolson because he fancies him. The two men are shown to go on holiday together and promise never to spend a lunch or dinner apart. We see them holding hands as Tolson tells Hoover that he loves him - and Hoover is shown to respond in kind (albeit in a whisper). In the same scene, Tolson gets incredibly upset upon learning of Hoover's consideration of a beard marriage - and, crucially, his sorrow is enough for the otherwise unshakable Hoover to abandon his plan. There is no way you could come away from this account of J. Edgar Hoover and not think that Eastwood and Black (who won an Academy Award for writing 'Milk') were of the firm opinion that he was homosexual.
'J. Edgar' is out now in the UK, rated '15' by the BBFC.
Polish crime/comedy 'Sztos 2' - released in the UK as 'Polish Roulette' - is a sequel to the original 'Sztos' - its fifteen year old predecessor apparently being a well-loved modern classic in its homeland. Having never seen it I was at a loss for much of Olaf Lubaszenko's energetic and colourful follow-up. From what I could make out, it's about a pair of con men who try to get rich with a series of increasingly elaborate slight of hand schemes (none of which are roulette based, counterintuitively). Set in 1983, under communism, the duo travel around the country getting caught between the corrupt and incompetent government officials and their dissident opponents.
Lubaszenko's hyper-active style of direction ensured that whatever I was missing in the twisty, turny plot (which gets increasingly contrived and bizarre as the climax nears) I was far from bored. His camera is almost always moving: panning, tracking, zooming and swooping around the characters. Transitions between scenes have almost no consistency, with fades, wipes and even 80s music video style graphics (as when one scene parts like a pair of curtains to reveal the next). Some of the zaniest cuts between scenes involve huge CGI postcards coming towards the screen, before we zoom into a new location. It's certainly imaginative and oddly compelling, but very much a mess.
Just as odd is the music with the rule seemingly being that one of the film's half-dozen, disparate themes should come in (very loudly) to fill almost every silence. These musical motifs are short and oft-repeated (sometimes on a loop), with the effect that they quickly become unintentionally hilarious. The lighting is even more incongruous, varying wildly from shot to shot. Some scenes are bright blue and orange, others are red or green with purple skin tones. It's undoubtedly a stylistic choice but it's an odd one that reads as amateurish rather than inspired.
Get beyond a lot of these baffling stylistic choices and obvious technical shortcomings, and much of the comedy is dishearteningly similar to that of recent big English language releases. There's lots of silly drunken dancing (see 'The Inbetweeners Movie'), whilst one memorable sequence revolves around a man accidentally getting off with a transsexual, to the amusement of his peers (see 'The Hangover: Part II'). There's also some business with hash cookies, a visual pun that equates a tank turret with an erection and a scene in which a woman invents record scratching during a moment of intense libidinal bliss (in fairness, that bit's actually quite funny).
Some of the jokes that got the biggest rise out of the mainly Polish audience were somewhat lost in translation for the non-Poles, as you might expect with a comedy poking quite specific fun at the nation's recent history. For instance the biggest laugh was afforded a close-up of a sign in a restaurant, which apparently roughly translated as "People wearing coats will not be served".
Amid the larger-than-life buffoonery and nostalgic nods to fondly remembered restaurant signage, there are some clever bits of satire which take aim at the absurdities of a society disorganised with proud military precision. For instance an announcer at a regional train station repeats on a loop a reminder that the station's clocks do not show the correct time. An idiosyncrasy which aptly represents the spirit of Lubaszenko's charming oddity of a film.
'Polish Roulette' is out in the UK now (exclusive to Cineworld) and is rated '15' by the BBFC.
An eye-catching debut from co-directors Tom Kingsley and Will Sharpe, 'Black Pond' tells the story of a middle class family who are accused of murder after a disheveled stranger comes to dinner and asks them to bury him in the woods. We don't see very much of this event enacted, with most of the drama being split between time before and after Blake (Colin Hurley) dies. Mockumentary style interviews with members of the Thompson family talk us through the aftermath, whilst more straight forward drama sees us through the days prior. There is also an imaginatively shot dream sequence, some primitive but effective animation and a sub-plot involving a friend of the family, Tim (played by Sharpe), undergoing very odd psychological analysis under the care of comedian Simon Amstell.
If this sounds like a bit of an uneven mish-mash of styles, it's because it is - though never less than entertaining and interesting. These different strands don't gel smoothly and the tone is inconsistent, though each isolated sequence is shot with an ambition that belies the film's patently low budget. What binds it together is the entirely consistent and rigorously explored theme, with all the stories - of the Thompson family, Tim and Blake - about the tragic impermanence of life and love. A theme which is developed with subtle humour, brilliantly observed depictions of human behaviour (in particular, middle class family dysfunction) and in a way which is genuinely heartfelt.
Among a uniformly impressive cast, former 'The Thick of It' star Chris Langham, unseen on our screens for several years due to a damaging and widely reported court case, is especially stunning as the father. It's great to have him back. As with his under-siege government minister on that TV political satire, he plays a good-natured blunderer - a sweet man whose shortcomings (in this case his inability to express love to anyone other than the family dog) play as tragic. You get the sense he is always trying his best and repressing any negative feeling at his own expense. Both characters struggle vainly to maintain a sense of order and propriety. Both characters are also very funny, with Langham a master of comic timing who can be relied upon to make the smallest moments count.
Yet the film's emotional centre is arguably represented by Colin Hurley, whose shambling, detached, emotionally distant character is portrayed with the utmost sensitivity. He's slightly weird without ever being dangerous, with Hurley never overplaying the crazy or maudlin aspects of Blake. It's a rounded, sincere and gimmick-free performance worthy of accolades.
Like Ben Wheatley's unsung gem 'Down Terrace', 'Black Pond' suggests the emergence of some exciting talents whose next moves will surely be watched with increased interest.
'Black Pond' is rated '15' by the BBFC. Though given a limited release in November, it's still playing one-off shows around the country.
With the most perfunctory of plots and a pleasingly slender running time, Steven Soderbergh's action-thriller 'Haywire' feels like little more than a slight, if effective, vehicle for its authentic female action star. Gina Carano - a former champion mixed martial artist in her first major film role - gets to beat up a lot of people and looks great doing so, wiping the floor with the likes of Michael Fassbender and Channing Tatum in a series of brutal, brilliantly choreographed punch-ups.
She plays Mallory, a contract killer working for a private firm (headed up by Ewen McGregor) who handles contracts for a secretive US government agency (headed up by Michael Douglas). Bill Paxton plays her father - a writer of trashy thriller novels, Antonio Banderas is a shady, Spanish antagonist and Michael Angarano is some average guy she steals a car from/speaks exposition at during a terrific driving sequence which ends unexpectedly.
After a routine assignment, Mallory finds herself framed by the agency without much of an idea why. Like Jason Bourne before her, she spends the film travelling around world cities (Barcelona, Dublin, San Diego) in an attempt to uncover the conspiracy and get revenge on those who betrayed her. Unlike the Bourne films there isn't a lot of character work going on here, with a half-dozen stars given very little screentime, but the action scenes are so far ahead of the curve (and the film so brief) that it would seem a little churlish to complain.
In what seems like a direct challenge to the modern action movie, Soderbergh shoots his hyper-realistic fight scenes with an unfashionably immobile camera - give or take a few lengthy tracking shots. He allows action to unfold within the frame for long spells, giving us an unobstructed view. This decision is no doubt influenced by the fact that he's not having to play tricks in the edit to convince us that Carano can kick ass: she really can and we're allowed to see that.
The choice of a non-actor in the lead is reminiscent of the decision to cast top porn star Sasha Grey as the lead in 'The Girlfriend Experience' - Soderbergh's film about a highly paid sex industry worker. Both represent a bold gambit, especially seeing as how the rest of the cast (along with that of last year's ensemble hit 'Contagion', not to mention the 'Ocean's Eleven' series) confirm Soderbergh's ability to draw from Hollywood's A-list - but in this instance it's vindicated without a doubt.
As well as the fighting, the use of various inner-city locations is also eye-catching. They are all shot in a recognisable and spatially consistent way which feels bracingly ordinary. For instance Mallory escapes pursuers by running through the back of a Burger King, emerging in front of an HMV, during her jaunt through Dublin town centre, ultimately escaping by taxi. Soderbergh creates a very realistic world - one in which Mallory picks up bruises in fights and is winded after falling on her back. This only heightens the excitement and (illusion of) authenticity throughout.
In 2003 a 38 year old woman named Joyce Vincent died watching television in her small London flat, situated above a shopping centre in Wood Green. She wasn't discovered for nearly three years - and then only by people seeking her eviction from the premises for failing to make rent payments. When they found her the TV was still on, playing to Vincent's skeletal remains, which were surrounded by unopened Christmas presents. Immediately questions were raised.
Why hadn't anybody noticed her missing? Didn't her family wonder where she was? Why didn't any of her neighbours report the smell? Or question the why the television had been on constantly for so long? Why hadn't the electricity been disconnected? If she were so isolated, who had she planned to spend Christmas with? What did her story say about British society? Questions abound, prompting documentary filmmaker Carol Morley to run a newspaper ad asking for anybody who knew Vincent - in any capacity - to get in contact.
The result is 'Dreams of a Life': a haunting and moving look at Vincent's life as seen through the eyes of ex-boyfriends, colleagues and acquaintances told almost as a stream of consciousness. Early on Morley establishes that we might never know the facts surrounding her death in any detail: Vincent's body was so badly decomposed by the time of its discovery that a cause was not ascertainable (though a possible asthma attack is one theory), whilst insight into her past is limited by the fact that surviving relatives preferred to remain anonymous. With this in mind the film is a patchwork of often contradictory accounts which reveal far more about the nature of friendships - and how little we know about the people around us - than they do about Joyce Vincent, who remains something of a tragic enigma.
Depending on who is speaking she was either too trusting or had problems trusting others. People similarly can't agree on whether or not she was a decent singer, where she worked or who was in her circle of friends at any given time. Several speculate that she lived several parallel lives, having multiple 21st birthday parties with different sets of mates all oblivious to each other's existence. One man considers her the great love of his life, whilst another bestows that honour upon himself. She was a bubbly, happy, confident person - or perhaps a deeply damaged, reclusive individual. Did she quit a high paying office job in order to go travelling abroad with 20 mates or did she simply start working as a cleaner? Maybe all of these things are true. Possibly few of them are.
What is clear is that Joyce was an attractive and capable woman with aspirations of being a professional singer. At one time in her life she apparently rubbed shoulders with Nelson Mandela, conversed freely with Isaac Hayes and dined with Gil Scott-Heron. She was well liked, had a wide circle of friends and, by all accounts, the manner of her death came a huge surprise to those she knew who couldn't believe the lady from the newspaper reports was their Joyce.
This raises an eerie question which, once contemplated, is difficult to erase from your mind: could this happen to you? It also causes you to ponder how much your friends really know about you and, even, the transitory nature of friendship itself. In many ways her story, whilst extraordinary, is understandable. After all, she was young and fit - if one of your friends of a similar age stopped responding to text messages or hadn't been down to the local pub in a while, would you ever wonder whether they had died? I suspect you'd assume they'd moved away, gotten a new job or - for one reason or another - changed their phone number. You'd probably imagine they just didn't like you any more long before you ever considered anything as drastic as Vincent's chilling story.
Morely's film works well as a loose, dreamlike musing on isolation and the fallibility of memory. I think it deliberately seeks to raise more questions than it answers and it succeeds if accepted on these terms. I expect it's rather less satisfying if you're seeking a straight examination of "the facts". In which case the speculative dramatised reconstructions of Vincent's life up to her death, in which she's played by actress Zawe Ashton, are certain to grate.
These sequences are hit and miss in any case, with the worst far too obvious and maudlin - such as when Vincent is imagined singing "My Smile is Just a Frown" into a hairbrush for several minutes before breaking down in tears in her depressing flat. But they can't spoil this thought-provoking glimpse at the cold anonymity of 21st century city life taken to a horrifying extreme.
'Dreams of a Life' has recieved a limited release in the UK, rated '12A' by the BBFC.
From Steve McQueen, Turner Prize winning video artist and director of the universally acclaimed 'Hunger', 'Shame' is a stylishly shot, cold and uncomfortable look at an empty existence defined by the nebulous disorder commonly known as "sex addiction". New York executive Brandon (Michael Fassbender) spends his every waking moment watching porn, soliciting prostitutes and masturbating in the work toilets. He can't so much as look at a woman on the subway without straying into a world of crass sexual fantasy from which the film offers no escape.
He is handsome, lives in a clean modern apartment and the women he beds are uniformly gorgeous yet his sexual encounters are framed as dirty and sinister. Brandon takes seemingly no pleasure in what he's doing, with sex reduced to a shameful compulsion and a barrier preventing the development of lasting relationships with people - who include his equally fucked up sister Sissy, played by Carey Mulligan. The problem is most of the people in his life - from his irritating sibling to his arrogant jock prick of a boss (James Badge Dale) - prevent this from seeming like too much of a loss.
Co-written with 'The Iron Lady' screenwriter Abi Morgan, the film's view on sexuality seems the product of deep, unhealthy repression - the sort of judgemental, prudish take on sex that we've spent the last decade or so trying desperately to move away from as public discussion of all-things bodily becomes increasingly frank. The way the film attempts to paint Brandon's acts as depraved is absurd at best. We're first encouraged to view his sexual appetites with suspicion after he asks a woman to undress "slowly". "What a sicko!" seems to be the message,
backed up by Harry Escott's suitably ominous and rueful score. Later Brandon is shown to reach his spiritual, emotional and ethical nadir as he enters a gay sauna and is felated by a male stranger - a plot point which feels as homophobic as it does judgemental. Who cares where he sticks his nob so long as it's consensual?
Accepting for a moment that hyper-sexuality is a modern social ill and meeting the film on its own terms for a moment, I still think it's ill-conceived: a ponderous bore. McQueen favours long close-ups which, I suppose, might be said to provoke discomfort or even (and I think this is supremely condescending) give the audience time to think about what they're seeing. The effect is that we are often shown over a couple of minutes what we might have just as easily discerned over a couple of seconds - inflating the running time at the expense of engagement.
'Shame' is out now in the UK, rated '18' 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.
I can be "followed" on Twitter:
http://twitter.com/BeamesOnFilm
