'The Girl With a Hat Box'/'Outskirts' Berlinale (Retrospective) review:

Part of the Retrospective strand at this year's Berlinale, "The Red Dream Factory" presented a number of inventive and pioneering Soviet and German films of the 1920s and 30s. Of these I saw two directed by Boris Barnet: enchanting 1927 silent comedy 'Devushka S Korobkoi' ('The Girl With a Hat Box') and early sound film 'Okraina' ('Outskirts'), in which small town life is shattered by the coming of the First World War.

'Hat Box' is fantastic - the film people who sit down to watch 'The Artist' think they're seeing, with buckets of charm and loads of really cleverly devised physical comedy and sight gags. Star Anna Sten - as fiercely independent small town hat maker Natasha - is so beautiful and captivating that she seems the Russian equivalent of Clara Bow: highly expressive, inherently lovable and naturally very funny. It's not that surprising that Samuel Goldwyn brought her to the US in the 30s in order to make her a huge international star. Sadly that never worked out as planned with Sten appearing in several flops, though she did star alongside the likes of Gary Cooper (in King Vidor's 'The Wedding Night') and Frederic March ('We Live Again').

As well as being timelessly funny the film is actually fairly risque, culminating the suggestion that Natasha is settling down with both her admirers: a homeless klutz who she hastily marries in order to give him a place to live, and the train station guard who obsessively follows her. Yet somehow this climax feels sweet and innocent to a fault. 'The Girl With a Hat Box' is breezy and light on its feet - the definition of a good time.

'Outskirts' is a very different proposition, with the harmless escapism of the earlier comedy replaced by a much more socially conscious, actively political anti-war film. 'Hat Box' has a political element to it: Natasha and her male friends are hard working and poor, whilst their enemies (the owner of the store that sells her hats and her greedy lover) are decadent and seek to profit from the work of others. Yet this feels incidental and, arguably, it isn't a million miles away from the populism of a Frank Capra movie. By comparison 'Outskirts' depicts the pre-revolutionary Russia as a place where local authorities put down striking factory workers with a cavalry charge.

It's still funny and endlessly inventive - playing games with early sound to create strange sound effects and to enable an increased sense of spacial continuity (for instance, action from a previous scene might still be heard   if the next takes place in an adjacent room). Best of all it enables Barnet's lyrical sense of visual comedy to expand into a world of new sensory possibilities. One inspired gag assigns the same sound effect used for a cavalry charge to a child's rattle, frightening who is hiding from the mounted police. Perhaps its the more important and experimental film, even if it doesn't ever match 'Hat Box' in terms of fun.

'The Artist' review:

Widely tipped to win big at next year's Oscars, 'The Artist' is a French (mostly) silent movie starring the charismatic Jean Dujardin as George Valentin, a star of silent era Hollywood whose career suffers after the introduction of sound. To a large extent it's a retread of 'Singing in the Rain', with large helpings of 'Sunset Boulevard' and 'A Star is Born', as one star's fall from the limelight coincides with another's meteoric rise. Here it's the energetic young Peppy Miller, played by Bérénice Bejo, who becomes the It girl and darling of the early talkies - sparking conflict and romance with her ageing idol and sometime mentor.

Director Michel Hazanavicius has made a sweet movie which only ever aspires to be charming and, for the most part, succeeds. The humour is gentle to a fault, the stars are elegant, gifted physical comedians and the early Hollywood setting is recreated with no shortage of affection. Adding to the good time feeling are cameos from John Goodman as a brash studio mogul, James Cromwell as a loyal limo driver, Malcolm McDowell as a cantankerous old man and Missi Pyle as a shrill actress. There are dance routines, moments of passion and also an adorable little dog. It's a nostalgic crowd-pleaser and, particularly in the first act, entirely joyful and full of laughs - amusing sight gags and clever misdirection jokes. It's about twenty minutes too long, losing its way in a bloated second act, but it's fun nevertheless.



That the film is so unapologetically winsome and uncynical in its reverence for Hollywood, whilst being so superficially high-brow - not only is it silent, but black and white and shot in 4:3 aspect ratio - will be in its favour come Academy Award time. It'll also be helped by that veteran Oscar campaigning powerhouse Harvey Weinstein whose company is distributing the film. If it combines these qualities with the expected box office success there will simply be no way of stopping its rise. I bring this up because Oscar success will (perhaps unfairly) change the way many critics - myself included - feel about the movie in the long-run. Simply put: the film could go from being a modest and delightful curiosity to an over-praised monster. Think 'The Hurt Locker'.

It could become one of those movies people who actually don't really like film bring up at parties as evidence of their great taste and quiet devotion to cinephilia - just like 'The Shawshank Redemption'. Worse still, the Academy giving the Best Picture award to a film like this would be a self-serving gesture on the part of its members, who can use this silent, black and white, French movie as evidence of their integrity. To the watching world it will look like Oscar has stuck his gold-plated neck out for an obscure, boldly different little art film, in spite of the fact that it's, in content and form and by definition, conservative. Ultimately it's every bit as cosy and middle class as last year's champion: 'The King's Speech'.



Yet for a year the American film industry may be allowed to pretend that the Oscar isn't a celebration of great financial success at all, but a simple celebration of art and, like Roberto Benigni before him, Michel Hazanavicius can stand on stage and endear himself to a vast television audience with his adorable European accent, become a Hollywood darling and then quietly disappear back home.

'The Artist' is, truly, a lovely little film. In its present state, free from the inevitable reassessment brought on by such things as Oscar glory, it's one of the year's most charming and eminently watchable movies. But not one of its best. It isn't technically ground-breaking, thematically challenging or formally experimental enough to be considered one of the year's most significant films and, though its derivative nature is central to its charm, it's still derivative. Yet whatever trajectory its critical fortunes take the film's infectious good nature and lightness of touch won't fail to raise a smile.

'The Artist' opens in the UK on December 30th and has been rated 'PG' by the BBFC.

'The Great White Silence' review:

We British are very good at turning crushing defeat into heroic victory, whether it's at Dunkirk or the death of General Gordon in Khartoum. But no British colonial folly has ever been so celebrated as the 1910 journey of Captain Robert Falcon Scott - beaten to the South Pole by the Norwegian Roald Amundsen, before freezing to death on the trip back - Scott is seen as the very model of an English gentleman and his fate is held up as a fine example of the British character. It is in this tradition that photographer Herbert Ponting's celebratory and romanticised account of the badly managed expedition, the recently BFI-restored 1924 documentary 'The Great White Silence', is best understood.

Ponting was part of Scott's expedition as far as Ross Island, charged with taking the photographs that would then form the basis of a lucrative lecture tour for the explorer upon his return home. He was expected to capture the Captain's heroic return as conqueror of the Antarctic, though the documentary as exists takes a different and more tragic direction. The final third of the film is restricted to Scott's journal entries, as well as an inspired mix of rudimentary stop motion animation, model work and staged pre-enactments of Scott's expedition trudging to the South Pole (filmed before the party made the actual trip). This is a film which, from the off, nakedly hopes to capitalise on Scott as myth - with a telling opening inter-title declaring that the following is a tale of courage which should inspire boys around the Empire. And doubtless it would have done upon its original release, with Ponting's miraculous images rendering our most romantic ideal of the "Age of Exploration" palpable.



Doubtless the original run would have been accompanied by triumphant, patriotic music, but this 2011 restoration benefits from an eerie and atmospheric new score by Simon Fisher Turner. Turner's restrained and haunting soundscape lends the whole enterprise a sort of otherworldly quality - as if we are watching strange men from another planet. It puts a surreal, almost Herzogian slant on things which gives the hundred year old footage renewed vigour. It's also often quite funny. Ponting's film is already rich with comic moments - with shots of sailor's dancing, a performing cat and stills of bewildered looking penguins - but Turner's score gives them all a new lease of life. Turner proves that a silent movie well scored can be every bit as effective now as it was then - in fact I'd wager the film is better now.

Yet even Turner's majestic accompaniment would struggle to lift the material were it not for the fact that Ponting's film feels so very modern to begin with. The best part of the film - in terms of running time and enjoyment - takes the form of a wildlife documentary, which sees us observe penguins, gulls, seals and orcas in their natural habitat. And this is takes the form of something instantly recognisable to anyone familiar with the work of David Attenborough. Ponting creates the same narrative as a modern wildlife documentary maker would, asking us to root for a hapless baby seal and its mother as a pod of killer whales closes in. He creates tension and prepares us for heartache as we see that infant struggle to come ashore as its mother frantically tries to push it up onto the ice.

The only anachronism that pulls us out of the moment, and reminds us we're watching antique footage, is the moment's resolution, as the crew of Scott's ship, the Terra Nova (a whaling vessel), harpoons one of the giant mammals and causes the attackers to break away. It's hard to imagine that happening in an episode of 'Planet Earth', but there are many details which flag up cultural changes (for instance, the ship's mascot, a black cat, is called "Nigger"). Also familiar to a modern audience will be Ponting's casting of the animals as little Christian families, with terms like "Mr & Mrs Penguin" or "the husband" used frequently, showing that there is nothing new about the anthropomorphism evident in films like 'March of the Penguins' (2005).



The most eye-catching, modern feature of the film however, is Ponting's frequent reference to the making of the film. He is sometimes seen on-camera himself, walking among the animals, and he often shows several takes of the same incident, allowing us to see how many times a particular set-up didn't go to plan. When watching a seal, he tells us how grateful he was that the "fellow" didn't keep him waiting long before performing the desired action. Better still, after inviting us to see a close-up of the bow of the ship breaking through the pack ice, he pulls back to show us how the shot was achieved - with the filmmaker perched atop a specially constructed wooden rig hanging precariously over the starboard side of the vessel. Ponting demonstrates himself to have been a very fine cameraman, with every frame of the film a beautiful photograph in its own right. His use of a handheld camera was pioneering and one panning shot, as the Terra Nova is buffeted by waves on the sea, sees him afford us an astounding view of the ocean filmed from somewhere up in the rigging.

The film ends with pages of Scott's immortal journal, telling us he and his comrades died like proper, stiff-upper lip Englishman and didn't grumble too much about their "unlucky" fate. Scott wrote that, whatever private misgivings they might have had, morale was always high among the men, who met their fate as esteemed examples of imperial valour. To my mind, these are the writings of a defeated man, once full of hubris, conscious of history and chiseling out his own legend. Even at the time of the film's release in 1924, the heroic ideal was being undermined by the senseless waste of life that was the 'Great War', and now those nineteenth century attitudes - which cast people as the expendable instruments of Empire - seem all the more alien to us. But set to a breathtaking new score and amongst Ponting's gloriously restored images, Scott's tale - and the dubious values of his age - are afforded a new lease of life.

'The Great White Silence' is rated 'U' by the BBFC and has been given a limited release in the UK.

Q&A with live silent film scoring quartet MINIMA

I have been lucky enough to do an e-mail Q&A with Alex Hogg from the brilliant band MINIMA, who specialize in performing live scores for silent films. I saw MINIMA when they performed at the Duke of York's, doing a score for the German Expressionist classic 'The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari' and was awestruck both by how much more effective such a film is with a good live score (becoming much more of an experience) and also by the fact that the group don't do silent film scores in the classic style (they don't use a piano or an organ at all, using drums and string instruments). Here is what Alex had to say to my blog:

When did you guys first hit upon the idea of scoring old, silent classics in this way?
Minima came out of an experimental project with the theatre collective Shunt. Being part of live theatre is very rewarding but ultimately restricts a band to the schedule of the theatre company. Moving to film was a logical step, especially given our love of film as well as music. One of the band members was working at the British Film Institute at the time and hit on the idea of silent film accompaniment. So in 2006 we played our first performances of The Seashell and the Clergyman, in the underground, labyrinthine corridors of the Shunt Vaults, underneath London Bridge station.

I was surprised there was no one at a piano. How did you decide to use such an unusual array of instruments for silent film scoring?
Our eclectic range of personal influences, gives us what we consider a unique take on silent film accompaniment. We can go from drum ‘n’ bass to tango, and from wall-of-sound to folk lament in the space of a few minutes. We are a four-piece outfit: drums, bass, guitar and cello and although we have no backing tracks and play with no pre-recorded sounds, the instruments are put through an array of effects to give us a very big palate of sounds and voices.

Have there ever been any silent movies that you wanted to do live scores for, which (for whatever reason) didn't work? Does German Expressionist cinema suit your style especially well?
We tend to be drawn to the darker side of cinema. We were commissioned to write a score to The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari by the Wellcome Trust in 2008 – they made the connection between the film’s angular stage sets and angst-ridden characters, and our music. But our own choices of film, such as Nosferatu, are edgy and dramatic - and Nosferatu is a great piece of cinema - as this is what inspires us. It also helps that this film is so well known; it is a real crowd-pleaser! It’s good to be asked to do something off your normal radar though – it’s surprising what you can come up with when you’re on unfamiliar ground. We have done a few improvised performances to British silent melodramas and we were very happy with what we came up with as a group when we were put on the spot. We are open to any genre of film and we would also love to work with contemporary filmmakers.

What makes a good silent movie score, in your view?
A good silent film score should not distract from what's happening on the screen - if the audience watch the band too much then it becomes about the band, and you lose the point, which is to watch the film. You have an element of power in performing to silent film: the music imposes a lot of the meaning upon the images, and it sets the tone and the mood for each scene. You have to strike a balance between having an understanding of what the filmmaker intended and having the confidence not to have to follow the images too slavishly. Films from the 1920s have a different pace, and for the uninitiated it can be hard work so a contemporary interpretation by musicians can really help. You can make people laugh, cry and jump out of there seats but we only do this in the name of accompanying the film and helping people to watch the film.

Which score are you proudest of?
Each of our scores has been approached in a different way. The Seashell and the Clergyman was our first and so we’re very fond of it and the attention to detail that we gave it. Nosferatu was written in much more collaborative way and features such a variety of different styles of music. It’s a real romp and matches the film, which is such a rollercoaster and full of now-iconic imagery. Dr. Caligari is in the Minima hot seat at the moment as we’ve just finished a two-month tour with it. We’re now turning our attention to brushing up our score for the Soviet science fiction silent film Aelita, Queen of Mars, which we’ll be playing at BFI Southbank in July.

You guys, obviously, perform live, but I was wondering if you've ever been commissioned to record a silent film score for a DVD release? I know silent movies often get re-scored for new releases.
This is something that's on the cards and we hope that before the end of the year that we might be in talks with DVD production companies to do just this. We have a couple of scores already recorded and ready to go!

Outside of your work, are there any old silent scores you are big fans of? I love Chaplin's 'Smile' from 'Modern Times', personally.
Our musical influences stem from all kinds of genres, as well as film soundtracks. Film composers that spring to mind are Bernard Herrmann, Carter Burwell and Danny Elfman rather than 1920s composers. We tend to write the music for its own sake and enjoy this creative process, rather than feel that we have to stick too closely to the images and the era they were made in.

MINIMA can often be seen touring the countries cinemas. Their current tour dates can be seen here.