Review of Mommy (2014)

Xavier Dolan has long been one of the premier auteurs working in the cinema, a Quebecois maestro whose films are often barnstorming, bruising, blistering achievements of emotional content married to extremes of stylish form. Ever since his debut in 2009 with the tour-de-force "I Killed My Mother", one of the great, and most devastating, portrayals of parenthood that I've seen, I've approached each Dolan film afterwards with an almost spiritual expectation such are the depth that his films seem to reach into my soul and stir my innermost feelings.

His films are so soulful, and come from a place of such sincerity and feeling, that each successive effort hasn't failed to transport me to a world that only the greatest films can, where every action on the screen holds you in rapture, where the characters fill you with love and contemplation, where the visual style is so in tune with the themes and thought; his films are whole, they are events, and they transport the viewer, this viewer, to a world that is often painful to leave. They are the cinema working in full force.

So for me to say that Dolan's latest film, "Mommy", is by far his most emphatic work to date, his most alive and vibrant, and his most mature and complete, then, is a compliment of the highest order. But few films have enraptured me so, even including films of his own oeuvre. From the very opening, in which we are introduced to Anne Dorval's Diane ("Die") in a car crash which doesn't leave her injured so much as leave her swearing and angry, we can immediately sense her irrepressible spirit.

She's on her way to a meeting with a counsellor in a detention centre who tells her that her son, Steve (Antoine-Olivier Pilon) has set fire to a canteen, causing another child to be hospitalised. A faulty walkie-talkie reveals a barrage of crude cursing, insults, swearing. Die smiles; this is her mother's son.

The following scene was one of the best of the film, because it did what it was trying to do so simply, and with such skill in the writing; as we follow Die and Steve on their way home, their relationship is drawn out in full. He is a profane, almost violently exuberant young man who is nevertheless filled with a love for his mother that is almost overwhelming. She, equally, loves his son to the end of the world, but there is tragedy to how she is regards his energy; she knows this is him, she accepts him, but she is also scared of how that energy can sometimes overflow into violence. His actions, loving though they are, have a roughness to them, a force, which comes directly from his overabundance of feeling.

This is all down to Pilon's performance, which is a masterclass in movement. His whole body is his own puppet, and he is in complete control over it. You sense he has gone away and thought about his character, reflected on him, and then inhabited him completely. The performance, and hence the character, is organic, real, home-grown. His violence is not a tic or a cheap acting trick; it feels so real, and hence the tension between them also feels incredibly real.

And on, and on, their relationship, incredibly intimate, almost Oedipal (Steve doesn't shy away from his masturbation habits in front of his mother) is carefully defined before us. On an afternoon where Steve and Die's play-fighting becomes something more serious, however, a neighbour, Kyla (Suzanne Clement) from across the street who has only waved at Die before now enters the house, and almost instantly has a calming and embalming effect on their dynamic. She dresses a cut on Steve's leg, reveals her quiet, stuttering nature, and leaves. Die is in awe; someone like this is sorely needed in this loving but volatile environment. She takes a bottle of wine over as thanks (poured from a cardboard carton in the fridge), which is received by her taciturn, enigmatic husband.

Soon, Kyla is a regular fixture in their house, a teacher on Sabbatical (we sense a breakdown, but Dolan doesn't paint this out) who is drawn in by the pair's energy and enthusiasm.

From here, the film is nothing more and nothing less than one of the most whole, funny, touching, heartbreaking character studies I have seen, observing the behaviours of these three misfits through highs and lows, peaks and troughs. If it all sounds very soap-opera ish, then maybe there is a case to be made that it is, but this is elevated soap-opera, with every frame imbued and embellished with feeling and care; Dolan wants us so deeply to love these dysfunctional people, and we do. Their pair have such rapport, and care so deeply about us, that our feelings are stirred and we too become involved in their fates; we want nothing more than for them to be okay. Think about the last time you cared about characters in a film to this extent.

A word must go to frames, however, as this is easily, on a technical level, the most audacious film Dolan has yet made. Shot in a 1:1 aspect ratio (the film is a square), what could have easily been a gimmick is the film's coup-de-grace. In isolating each character, it is as though they are singled out whenever they are on screen. It allows us to focus on them and consider them untouched by others, and so on whenever each character is placed centre-forward. It's a daring trick, but it works brilliantly.

This is also the most visually beautiful and direct of Dolan's films, a smorgasbord of colour, action and activity, where almost artificially blue skies meet never-ending grey roads, and character bounce along the middle on bikes, skateboards and with shopping trollies. There is an almost cartoonish sense to the film, as if heightened reality, allowing the emotions to take on a palpably prescient quality. This is amplified through the cheesy songs on the soundtrack; even Oasis's Wonderwall is used well. (yes, the most overplayed and over-rated song maybe of all time is used effectively).

And that's the film. I have no flaws, nothing to pick apart. I laughed and cried with ferocity and in equal measure, and I didn't want to leave this world. This is a fairly long film at over two-hours, and Dolan uses that length to startling effect. It is a whole and complete work, and one that lingers in the mind and the spirit for some time afterwards. I am grateful that Dolan made it, because it is more than a film, it is a lesson in empathy and a treatise on the irriducibility of the human spirit.

I, as ever, await the next work by this great master, and if he manages to top this towering piece of work, then he may just cement himself in the pantheon of masters for good; that is, if he hasn't done so already, and I'm certainly arguing his case.

Review of Under The Skin (2013)

What is it that makes us human?

I do not mean in a specific sense, but rather in a more general one. What aspect is it, definable or not, that makes us as a species different from the apes, or the dolphins, or perhaps some as-yet undiscovered race lurking out there. I ask this question because Jonathan Glazer's "Under The Skin" has made me consider it. It is a film about an alien, played by Scarlett Johansson, who has come to earth to lure in men and do... Something, we are never quite sure, although it involves reducing them to sacks of skin. Where she has come from, why she is doing this, and what purpose it is serving, are irrelevant. She is both an alien, and alien.

Her other-ness is constantly made an example of. Early on we see her in a shopping centre, buying clothes, trying to fit in. But her face is distant and cold, and there is no doubt that she's going through the motions; how her face can go from expressive and friendly when she's talking to someone, to completely blank when she's left alone, is testament to Johansson's frankly stunning performance.

She carries on going through the motions. She sets about picking up men for the job she is doing. But something happens; as the film goes on, she begins to thaw a little. A chance encounter with a man (Adam Pearson) who has severe neurofibromatosis in his face results in her questioning her goals, Soon, she is experimenting with the typically "human" things, such as eating at a restaurant.

I have now described the plot up until about an hour into the film. I do not normally go as far as this, but this is a unique film. It could not be less concerned with the dynamics of story and motivation; it is predominantly metaphor and allegory. It has done a supremely genius thing in taking the trappings of your standard science-fiction story and turning them into an exposé of an entire species. This is not hyperbole; I have not seen a film with a higher command over the biggest (and, I suppose, smallest) fundamentals of existence, perhaps since I watched Three Colours Blue for the first time four years ago.

This is a film that understands us. It understands lust; look at how the men are drawn into Johannson's black room. It understands human empathy; look at how people help Johansson up after she falls down. It understands that the sound of a baby crying can unite all people to distress. It understands what it is like to be lonely, crucial since this is fundamentally a film about the ultimate loner. From the very first shot, which is a completely black screen slowly giving way to a small white speck, I assume earth, the film engages the viewer by showing them a picture of their existence from the outside, peering in.

It is, of course, opaque, maddeningly styled, and "arty" in a way that would make some people roll their eyes. I was not bothered by these things, because there was a higher purpose there. It is a film alive in all the ways that film can be, gently joyous, hitting notes of unrefined beauty in a number of key scenes. The cinematography by Daniel Landin is a marvel, and the editing by Paul Watts deserves a mention because he has taken what I assume were shards of film and composed them into a symphonic delight. All this is overlaid by the haunting, unsettling and distressing score by Mica Levi, which, punctuated by harsh violins and staccato, electronic sounding beats, is a masterpiece in and of itself.

Perhaps the most baffling thing, to me, is how this film was once a book, written by Michel Faber. It embodies the concept of pure cinema so well that to imagine it in another format seems... Well, alien. I am completely unfamiliar with the book, but I would be very interested to read it to see how it handles the themes that this film lays out so poignantly and thoughtfully, without ever quite spelling them out.

It is a masterwork. That it is one of the best films of the year is without doubt. But it is also miraculous, and highlights the power of film at its' most potent, to detail the human condition and allow an insight into us all. I'm fairly sure that's why we invented the arts in the first place. Yes, this is a film that goes that deep.

Review of Lilting (2014)

Few films have made me really consider the nature of communication the way Hong Khaou's masterpiece "Lilting" has, a film in which a fair half of the conversations are ones in which a translator repeats what we just heard in a different language, and then waits until the other person has said what they have to say, and translates it back into English for us. About a quarter of the Chinese dialogue in the film is subtitled, as a result of this. The approach is fascinating because it induces a sense of tranquility in which we study the faces and the intonations of in the languages we understand, and don't, for clues. This is also the only film I think I've ever seen where a character forgets what he's about to say, pauses, forgets, searches for it and then when he realises says it that little bit triumphantly. Think about how often that happens in real life; think about how you never see that in movies; you now have some kind of indication of the level of nuance this film is working at.

The plot is simple, reveals itself slowly, and I won't ruin any of it here because the nature of past and present, memory and events which happened some time ago yet impact the now are integral to the structural precision of the film. All I will say is this- there is an older Chinese woman living in a care home called Junn, played by Cheng Pei-Pei, a man called Richard, played by Ben Whishaw, who is the lover of Junn's son Kai (Andrew Leung), a translator called Vann (Naomi Christie), and Alan (Peter Bowles) who is Junn's potential suitor in the care home. 

All five performances are perfect for the film, but the two stand outs are Whishaw and Pei-Pei- they are the bedrock of this film and the film knows it. Shots are very content just to regard their faces for a little while, and the film does prove the old assertion that the human face is the most interesting thing you can have in a film. Both performances have their modes- Whishaw has a deep rooted sadness forever on his face, which is a marked contrast with Pei-Peis twinkly eyes which occasionally becomes sternness. 

There are so many little things about this film I adored. It is tackling big themes such as the grieving process, love, and the nature of relationships between mother and son, yet it is unafraid of going for big laughs (and getting them). It also manages to be compelling not because of the plot, but because it allows us to be invested heavily in the characters and makes us wish them well. Conversations go on and on and we listen intently, because the characters are actually talking about things that matter, and listening to what the other person has to say. Note how characters will say something to the translator, think about it and rescind it, rephrase it- the film explores how we tailor our words to those we are saying them to. 

Maybe I've made this all seem terribly dull and heavy- it's not. This film has a light, almost jolly tone considering, which is in part down to the rhapsodic cinematography from Urszula Pontikos, and predominantly due to the fierce wit which is a strong undercurrent (there are even penis jokes). 

A special mention must also go to the sound department, Anna Bertmark, Matt Johns and Joakim Sündstrom, whose work allows the film that final element which brings it to life. In various places sound overlaps, along with the occasional time-hopping the film does, and there is always the feeling of a tight control over what we can and can't hear. We become inspired to think about this, and why we are hearing what and what that means, and as a result the film is that bit more immersive. 

It's an ultimately noble enterprise, concerned with fundamentals of human experience, a deeply touching film of sensitivity and depth that lingers long after the credits, for creating real people and allowing us to care about them. It's one of the very best films this year, I adored it and cannot wait to see it again. 

Review of God Help The Girl (2014)

Stuart Murdoch, the lead singer of Belle and Sebastian (incidentally, my favourite band) takes on a task in his new film, and if I'm being frank he succeeds in about two thirds of what he tries. The story of the film will strike aficionados as being similar to Murdoch's own life story. A young girl called Eve (Emily Browning) with anorexia living in a hospital ward finds strength through music and her new-found band to overcome her illness over one lazy summer. 

Murdoch himself was struck with chronic fatigue syndrome over a lengthy seven year period and it took becoming a musician and forming his band to make him better and allow him to be a functioning member of society again. One scene early on in the film, where Eve is shown a triangle which has food and shelter at the bottom, relationships in the middle and morality and art at the top, feels like something Murdoch was told during his illness, even if it wasn't. It rings true. 

Other elements ring true. One scene where Eve, having just escaped from hospital, goes swimming, is shot with a subdued ecstasy and, as well as being aesthetically beautiful, feels like the kind of symbolism (baptism perhaps?) that would belong in a Kieslowski movie. And anther scene where Eve and her band, Cassie (Hannah Murray) and James (Olly Alexander) take a day trip canoeing on a river nails the kind of relaxed charm perfected by the old French New Wave films such as Jules and Jim, which had a lively quality. 

It should go without saying at this point that the score from Murdoch himself is wonderful, and is at least as good as the other Belle and Sebastian albums. Personally I slot it between Arab Strap and Storytelling in their overall canon- a lovely effort. 

I also, I think, enjoyed the quiet and contemplative tone of the film most of all. With beautiful cinematography by Giles Nuttgens the film takes it's time and doesn't want to rush things. This is a 80/90 minute film spread out lovingly over 111 minutes, and it's that loving aspect which worked best for me. Murdoch cares about these characters and wants us to care about them too, and coincidentally this is an aspect the film shares with the very best of Belle and Sebastian's songs. Whether it's Lazy Jane painting her lines, Sukie and her slut-slave, or Hilary going to her death because she couldn't think to anything to say, what makes them my favourite band is their sense of empathy for the people they conjure up in their compositions. To see this carried over into the film was a treat. 

And yet... I'm not going to say that Murdoch should stick to music, but there is a sense that what came to him so easily in one medium didn't quite come with the same ability in another. Narratively, this film is troublesome and scenes have a habit of not leading on from one another in a way that the audience can follow. This isn't to say I was confused, but there are times when the film resembles a narrative and others when it feels like a series of loose vignettes, and this distracted me ever so slightly. That the film has one toe in the realm of fantasy (the baying crowds for the band, Eve being let into the club) contributes to this, because if the film is being slightly fantastical then it should have pursued that slightly more doggedly. 

And then there's the fact that if Murdoch does want us to care about his characters, a little more for us to play with would have helped. Eve is a good person, but I would have liked a little more evidence for me to feel it instead of knowing it. Hannah Murray is a luminous presence but her character was woefully underwritten; essentially not written at all. I came away liking James the most, and his thoughtful, morose musings both tickled me and reminded me of myself, if I'm perfectly frank. He's also the character who most resembles Murdoch's persona now- the religious, arty thinker with unprecedented levels of faith in the power of pop music, and I responded to that. 

What we're left with is a film that is at least partially a success- certain elements don't work and the film has considerable issues, but as a whole it just about pulls itself together. 

(I went to see the film at the marvellous Harbour Lights Picturehouse in Southampton, and part of the screening included a recording of a live concert, I assume truncated from the actual concert, by the band. It was excellent, as you could have expected, and I appreciated them playing their early songs. They also teased some new material without playing it, so fans- be excited. I am).

Review of Boyhood (2014)

I cannot recall a film being made which is more geared towards my generation. I am 18 years old. If it doesn't seem presumptuous to say so, this film was made for me. I went to see it with my girlfriend, who is also 18, and although we didn't grow up together we did grow up with the same things, the same music, TV shows, books, and videogames, and I'm fairly sure this film was made for her as well.

The plot is simple, and the manner of telling is ingenious. We follow a young boy called Mason from the age of 5 to 18, with the catch being that the film was made over 12 years, with a segment being shot once a year. Mason is played by Ellar Coltrane, and he was born on the 27th August, 1994. I was born on the 9th December, 1995. There's only a year and five month's difference there. He would only be in the year above me in school, if we were to have gone to the same school. I cannot review this film objectively, because to do so would divorce me personally from the subject matter. However what I can do is give a take on the film grounded in the kind of child it's about.

First and foremost; the film represents an enormous leap of faith on the film-makers, and Richard Linklater, who wrote and directed, in particular. So much could have gone wrong. What if an actor had died? What if Coltrane had decided he no longer wanted to be a part of the film? What if there had been a disagreement during the making as to how the film should turn out? Yet this leap of faith merely highlights how miraculous, and precious, this film is. It is a compassionate and dignified work which humbles the viewer.

A wonderful tracking shot occurs very early on. To the tune of Coldplay's "Yellow", a song I vividly remember as being one of the first songs on the radio that I recognised, we start with a close-up of Mason's face. Age 5, he has the look of a dreamer. We pull back, and see him lying on the grass, looking at the clouds. A conversation with his mother reveals him to be an inquisitive young boy who does his homework, but forgets to hand it in because the teacher didn't ask. Unsurprisingly, he has a habit of looking out the window during lessons.

Consider these scenes, for a moment. Think about how they were shot. In 2002, Linklater and company were embarking on an epic voyage. Surely there must have trepidation; these are the scenes which are going to open a film set on the very precipice of innumerable opportunities. Get them wrong, and perhaps they set up the film badly. Maybe they're in a tone different to the one that will eventually pan out.

That they set the tone perfectly, and the sheer wonder in the film-making doesn't let up for all 166 minutes, simply shows how sure a hand Linklater has over his material.

From here, we go on to find the core people in Mason's life. His mother, played by Patricia Arquette, is a divorcee looking after Mason and his sister, Samantha (Lorelei Linklater, the director's own son). She's at once a caring, thoughtful woman and that very rarest of movie mothers that I cherish; a damn good one. Flawed, perhaps, and with a self-admitted penchant for choosing alcoholic men to be a part of her life, but one who cares deeply for her children.

Samantha is the opposite of Mason in the way that siblings often are opposites; she starts out the film as a bold and brash, precocious and deceitful child, and is the counter to Mason's thoughtful youngster (although she doesn't necessarily end that way). We get to meet her as she sings Britney Spears' "Oops I Did It Again" (another song I remember from my youth) much to Mason's quiet chagrin.

Then the film bursts outwards, in the way our lives expand as we get older and meet more people. Mason's father, divorced from Mom, played by Linklater regular Ethan Hawke, is in Alaska to begin with, although he later moves back to be a more active father in the upbringing of his children, and by the film's close is a regular player (for which I am thankful, because Ethan Hawke is a welcome presence in any movie).

What grabbed me most immediately was how real the film seemed. None of these characters were clichés or stock characters. The mother is well-drawn from the outset. The father evolves from the guilty dad trying to make amends for his absence early on into a loving, thoughtful father (although a very well-written scene implies that he wasn't ready to be a father when Mason was born, and perhaps he did the kinder thing by ducking out of responsibility for the first six years of Mason's life- he's certainly the kind of man who does better with older children).

There are, as I have mentioned, a slew of alcoholic men in Mom's life, and these are perhaps the only characters who seem to be two-dimensional. But sit and think about it; some people are just plain unlucky. Certainly, the men, when Mom met them, were genuine and nice people. Their alcoholism reveals itself slowly, and then suddenly, as one particular dinner table outburst involving the first husband, Professor Bill Welbrock (a memorably slimy and nasty Marco Perella) devastatingly details. Mom, simply, has bad luck with men. Sometimes life just works out like that.

Which is fitting, because this film is as honest as anything where life is concerned.

It is also worth a mention how funny the film can be, especially in the scenes with Ethan Hawke. He brings a genuine puppy-dog enthusiasm that is near-palpable, and frequently hysterical. Whether it's offering up pseudo-intellectual (yet utterly valuable) advice such as "life doesn't give you bumpers", or the cringe/funny moment where he's trying to give Samantha advice regarding contraception and boys, his presence is a beacon of light in the film. I also appreciated the pop-culture references; little things like the songs I've mentioned, along with the TV shows like Dragonball-Z and even the inclusion of the Nintendo Gameboy Advance SP were all staples of my own childhood. Linklater has purposely made the film with a time-capsule kind of element, relishing on the details which were new at the time but are now dated. I like that; the film acts as a paean about, an ode to, and a document of the times in which it was made, times in which I grew up and which are infinitely familiar, and yet this exacerbates the timeless quality of the writing and the characters.

The cinematography, by Lee Daniel and Shane F Kelly has a certain subdued, observant quality which suits the material to a T; we are simply presented the actors in a non-stylised, plainspoken way which doesn't intrude, and allows us to bask in the film.

Where the film is at its best, and luckiest, is in the casting of Ellar Coltrane as Mason. He starts the film as one of the most adorable children imaginable, and ends it as the kind of teenager I knew; the kind of teenager I was, and I suppose am. Throughout the film he carries this abashed, ineffable curiosity and wonder at everything he sees. He also turns out to be that very rarest of movie teenager, like Patrick Fugit's William Miller in Cameron Crowe's Almost Famous, who isn't dumb. He's not sex obsessed, but rather just views sex as another part of growing up- which it is. He has his own ambitions. He's smart. He can be a bit lazy, but his focus is on the things he loves, which turns out to be photography and art. How special it is to find a teenager in a movie who has ambitions at all!

Yet this ambition is a quality shared by the film itself. It's 166 minutes long, and it's one of the shortest 166 minutes I've ever seen (Transformers 4, which is the same length, seemed twice as long). It doesn't waste a single one of those minutes. It touches upon many themes, such as religion, the Iraq war, the early-noughties political climate, popular culture of the time, the nature of family. It also understands the simple pleasures life can bring; the kind words of an acquaintance. A home-cooked meal. Summers spent in a swimming pool and a trampoline. Hell, even the how a bad haircut can be ruinous for a young person, especially in a school setting.

Oh, how I could go on. This is a film that contains multitudes, and is made with an abundance of spirit which cannot help but touch the viewer. I was touched, deeply. It represents an act of nobility on the part of Richard Linklater, who marks himself, along with his "Before" saga (which joins the same couple every nine years at different stages of their relationship), as a director immensely interested in the passing of time. As well as an immensely skilled director.

A personal note. I feel as though this is a film that I will take with me through the rest of my life. So many little touches encapsulate the first eighteen years of my existence. I cannot rate this film more, not just because of what it does, but because of what it means to me.

It ends with Mason finally at college. He has just had a tearful farewell to his mother, yet despite himself he is excited by the possibilities which lie before him. the life he can carve for himself.

In two months, I will be at university, the American equivalent of college. No doubt I will have a tearful farewell to my mother, and my father, which will also run alongside my excitement at the life I am about to live, a life I am about to carve for myself.

The final shot of this film is immaculate in its simplicity. Mason has made three friends on his first day of college, and has gone hiking with them. There is a girl he likes very much, and he is just sat next to her. We regard him, and her, looking about them, taking in their life, taking stock perhaps. They are on the verge of everything that is about to come, for them. The shot is just long enough to call attention to how long it is. Then we cut to black.

I can say what I want as objectively as I can about this film. But as someone who is going to experience their own hike of some description in the near future, all I will say is this; for circumstances as similar to mine, this film is a gift, to be cherished, and all I can say is to see it, see it now, allow yourself to become immersed in it, and come out the other side having seen one of the most humane and tender dramas, films, you could imagine.

Review of Do The Right Thing (1989)

Might it seem like needless agitprop if I were to say that Spike Lee's 1989 masterpiece "Do The Right Thing" is an incendiary film? It's the only word that seems to fit. That, and "explosive". From the opening credits sequence where two young woman dance on an entirely red-lit street to Public Enemy's confrontational "Fight The Power" (a song which recurs throughout the film), to the finale in which race relations culminate in a literally scorching showdown, this was a word which constantly sprung to mind. This is a film that threatens to blow up, right in your face, from opening frame to last. It's exciting, funny, thrilling, a little scary, and never less than utterly compelling.

The plot is a loose, raggedy collection of snippets and vignettes centring around a group of people living in Brooklyn on the hottest day of the year. In places it resembles the film equivalent of an Ornette Coleman improvised jazz piece. We get to know a few familiar faces, such as Danny Aiello's "Sal", who owns a pizzeria, Ossie Davis' "Mayor", Giancarlo Esposito's "Buggin Out", and Lee's own "Mook" (a Lee trademark seems to be odd names, which I quite like. It's a further sign of his originality). Their relations are the core of this film, and in particular Sal's position as a white man (strictly speaking, Italian American) running a business in a predominantly black neighbourhood is the cause of some ire (to some, but by no means to all). When Buggin' walks into the pizzeria and asks why there are no pictures of "brothers" on the wall, only Italian Americans, Sal shoots back that it's his business, his ethnic heritage, and he'll do what he wants with the pictures on the wall. Lee details with equal ferocity both sides of the argument, and I understood where Sal was coming from, and where Buggin' was coming from.

To highlight this fraught state of affairs, Lee is careful to heavily underline the heat of the film, reflecting the political content. He shoots the film so we believe it; sweat, vests, melting ice-cubes, newspaper headlines, streets blurring like a desert mirage, parasols. See, it's incendiary. Lee creates such an immediate sense of place that from the very opening shot, we are hooked. We are there, and Lee has put us there.

His cinematic style reinforces this. As Roger Ebert once said, "[Lee] dances to his own music", and this is in evidence here with his method that is truly, only, his own, using a smorgasbord of techniques, such as tilts, zooms, fourth-wall breaking, moments where the camera resembles a tableaux, and other moments where the camera can't seem to contain itself. This film is wonderfully, thrillingly, alive. It's also populated with characters who are just that, larger than life, funny, and real. Exacerbated by the heat, the characters bounce about, shout and swear, and rub off on each other. Lee creates a friction that you know will only result in sparks later on.

Yet, to explain the technical merits of this film, and there are many, would only be doing half a job. Lee has made an inherently political film, about the state of race-relations in late 80's America, and to watch this film is to address that. Lee doesn't really give you much choice otherwise.

As an 18 year old, white, little-C conservative and big-L liberal living in the South of England, a place hardly known for its multiculturalism (UKIP are kinda popular here, although we do have some excellent Polish groceries), what I took from the film is this; harmony between races is a joint effort, and probably not something that can happen overnight. In fact, literally not overnight, which perhaps explains why Lee turns his "day-in-the-life" into a "day-and-morning-in-the-lifer" by the end. But it's not an impossible goal. The final scene of the film, where Mook and Sal, after arguing, convey a certain understated care for each other, is the biggest clue, and seems to indicate that whilst things can sometimes blow-up, it's all part of the ebb and flow of life and the journey towards assimilation of cultures.

Or maybe I've got it completely wrong. Maybe Lee is providing a depressing eulogy on the future of harmonious living. There's a telling shot near the close, as the whole neighbourhood descends into tumult, where Lee's character sits on a sidewalk, and simply looks tired. Being the director, you cannot overlook the significance of his moment. It could well be that instead of being hopeful, Lee is instead wistful, sad. Perhaps that's the overarching theme; that this situation is completely undesirable, exhausting, yet not going away.

It's certainly a film that can be argued over, and some people have even accused Lee himself of racism. I would disagree, although I would say that Lee is an angry film-maker, using that anger to direct a film that understands there are no easy answers. Yet his anger is justified, for me, because I do firmly believe that it is the right of every culture to have self-determination and representation in all media. I must thus confess to finding this film fascinating in a way that the best films are, because it showed me something I had never seen before, and something I may very well not see otherwise. It showed me a whole, living culture, a part of American history, and as a social document it allowed me to witness one of the most, well, incendiary situations in recent memory. Argue what you like about the film, but for me it highlights the greatest capacity that film has; education.

It helps, of course, that Lee proves himself an auteur with a style as distinctive as any of the greats I could name. The rest of his body of work lies before me like an adventure waiting to be had.

Something That Happened, Regarding "The Fault In Our Stars"

I do not do opinion-pieces often, primarily because I have nothing much to say a lot of the time, and also because this is a movie-review blog and I try to keep it that way. Despite this, however, occasionally there's something relevant or interesting that I come across, film-related, that I think is worth sharing. Tonight, this happened, and I'm going to tell you, because it's made me think and I hope it makes you think too.

I work in a cinema, and we have lately been showing the hugely popular "The Fault In Our Stars", a film I did not much like for reasons I've detailed elsewhere (emotionally manipulative, and thus emotionally dead). Still, it's a hit, and it's attracted a vast number of people, mainly women, mainly aged between 11 and 25 (and their beleaguered boyfriends). It's a curious phenomenon of a film, because it seems to have attracted a cult of sadness about it. See it. Cry. Fit in. Take a selfie of you crying. Post on Facebook. Come across as sensitive and mature.

Exhibit A-

(I found this while cleaning a screen. I call it "the snake of tears")

So, with this in mind, I have taken the film as a pinch of salt. I even commented that really, on the spectrum, the film isn't that sad, to some customers exiting. And, in all fairness, I still agree with that statement. In my opinion it's a film engineered to be sad, and that takes away from the fact that for me, for a film to be sad, it has to just happen. It's a wildly unpredictable thing, but I've cried in a lot of movies a lot of times, so I guess it's not that unpredictable. Roger Ebert said that he only cried at good people in the movies, and that's about where I stand too. Lars and the Real Girl (without which this blog would not be here) made me cry, because Lars was such a strong and virtuous character, and that touched me. Calvary made me openly weep, because Brendan Gleeson's priest is one of the most beautifully drawn, caring characters I've ever seen in a film. And so on.

Hence, The Fault In Our Stars is somewhat false, because from the outset the film is egging you on, in a way. Look, terminal illness. Ooh, she's struggling to breath now. Ooh, look how hard it is for the parents. Ooh, look at how the protagonist soldiers on. Etc, etc.

Except tonight, something happened which startled and disquieted me. A group of Spanish exchange students had come in to watch the film, and they were on the whole well-behaved. When the film kicked out, there was a lot of theatrical crying, hugging, consoling. But I can get behind that, it's a group activity and anything that promotes general human togetherness gets a free pass in my book. So that's all fine.

Except, I start to notice one girl who is really, really crying. She can't be younger than 14, and no older than 17. At first I think she's just sad from the film, but then I realise something else; this film has touched her deep, deep inside.

It's happened to me. It happened, funnily enough, with Xavier Dolan's "I Killed My Mother", which reduced me to pathetic sobs because it detailed a crumbling mother/son relationship right at a point when my relationship with my mother wasn't exactly brilliant. It happens when a film hits you hard at a personal level you're not quite expecting. It sideswipes you.

This girl, and this is pure speculation, I'm assuming has known someone or has had a close relative die of cancer. I just get that feeling. The way she was crying seemed to highlight some kind of deep, personal relation to the material. Also, not that I was eavesdropping, but she was on the phone to I presume her parents, and she kept saying the word "real" a lot, perhaps indicating that the film felt real to her. Being a student, she's clearly a long way from home and that's going to take it's toll emotionally too. I gave her tissues. The exchange chaperone person had to check if she was seriously okay. She was nearly inconsolable, and the whole situation went from mildly amusing to seriously concerning quite quickly. She left the cinema, and as far as I know is okay. I certainly hope she is.

But the incident has set me thinking. I don't think that that particular film is any definition of high art, but it's a film and thus art of some description, and for me this has simply proved the higher function of art; emotional catharsis. Art, at its best, should be like a dream. We dream, I have read, because it allows us to become accustomed to things that could happen to us, or deal with things that have happened. It's necessary to our existence. And I think that this film did that for that Spanish girl tonight. It spoke to her, on some level, about the nature of cancer, and perhaps losing a loved one; basic and arguably fundamental experiences we all go through. It clearly inspired a great emotional response, which in turn is purely indicative of her relation to the material.

It proves that film, when applied to the right person at the right time in the right circumstances, can do absolutely miraculous things. It can bring into focus where we are, at any point in time, and bring about great reflection and consideration. And that, to me, is a rather wondrous thing.

This is not to say that I rescind what I have said about The Fault In Our Stars. But that's the great thing about the subjectivity of art; it really is subjective. I think that The Fault In Our Stars is schlock, cheese and a generally poor time at the cinema. I have lost family members to cancer myself, but despite this I still felt a disconnect with the film. My experience of the illness and the film's presentation just didn't align.

But for this girl, they did. And that is why we should be thankful for films, and books, and music, and paintings and dance and sculpture and all forms of human expression. Because human expression speaks to some people more than others. Without art, we'd be a little less able to look at the very corners of our own souls, a little less capable of introspection, a little less capable of knowing ourselves.

So, it is here that I begrudgingly say thank you, to the makers of The Fault In Our Stars, for creating a film which has led to this kind of reaction in a person. And I say thank you, too, to that Spanish exchange student, because it is the kind of reaction you have had to the film; primal, raw, perhaps unwanted but necessary and beautiful all the same, which has proven the worth of film, and the worth of a film. It has brought about a facet of a human being's capacity for empathy and emotional depth.

As someone who has a lot of time and effort invested in film, that means a great deal to me.

Review of Of Horses And Men (2014)

Benedikt Erlingsson's "Of Horses and Men" is an Icelandic film about just that. A chronicle of life on a small, secluded island, for 81 minutes it quietly observes the behaviours of man viewed through the prism of his treatment of horses. It's an odd premise for a film that befits what can only be described as a very odd film. You know when your first scene details a man's attempts to train his horse, only to have it all unravelled when another horse decides to get it on with that horse, whilst that man is sat atop it... Yeah. I laughed. It's like an arthouse Tom Green movie.

It's from here that the film essentially delivers a series of vignettes about our connection with horses and what it says about us as a species. We get to know a few key faces, such as Ingvar Eggert Sigurðsson's proud Kolbeinn, the poor man on top of the horse at the beginning. Juan Camillo Roman Estrada stars as Juan (IMDb tells me this is his first film, perhaps his last), and he is the centre of the film's best sequence; fearfully navigating the snow as the sun begins to set, and desperate not to die, he finds himself with no other option than to cut his horse open and get inside. It could have been troubling, and it nearly is, but Erlingsson shoots it in a respectful, rather beautiful way, understanding of the fact that this is purely survival. Certainly Juan doesn't seem to be enjoying it that much (he only got into horse-riding to impress a girl he likes). and it represents the film at its best; thoughtful, funny, bizarre and strangely hypnotic. You can't help but look on in fascination and horror.

The film at it's worst, then... Sometimes, at certain moments, there seemed to be a misanthropic tendency to the film which rubbed me up the wrong way. This leaves me in a quandary as a reviewer because I don't think the film is, actually, that misanthropic. It certainly seems to be making a statement about how man is a bit stupid compared to the simple elegance of a horse, but by the end we can see some investment in the happiness of the people on the island. Why did I detect the misanthropy? It came through mainly in the sequences where a man rides his horse into the sea to buy some particularly strong alcohol, ignores the warnings of the seller, drinks it all and dies, and in another sequence where a man tries to cut down a barbed wire fence, it springs back and blinds him.

Why did these sequences bother me? Alas, I do not know. They are good cinema, blackly funny in a way the film invests itself in being, very effectively, although they do seem to dwell on human stupidity in a major way. They signalled a worry, I suppose, that the film was going to be a portrait of dumb people doing dumb things for 81 minutes (they all occur quite early on), detailing a sort of anthropophobic tract. Luckily, the film doesn't pan out that way, and I imagine I'd enjoy it more on a second viewing.

These little niggles aside, the film is very very good. The cinematography is beautiful, and director of photography Bergsteinn Björgúlfsson has created a certain epic feel to the film, with wide open vistas, a well-used 2.35:1 aspect ratio, and an unhurried composition. It's a little slow, but the film wants us to feel the same rhythms, longeurs and repetitions that the people on the island do. I can't fault that. 

I recommend this film, with the caveat that I had trouble embracing it. I had by the end, and on reflection my initial criticisms are unfounded, but yet they linger. I guess all I can say is that I would gladly see this film again, and know during the second run-through that the film isn't going to turn out in the way that I was initially scared of it being. This is an odd angle to take, but, I guess that's fitting, because as I have said and as I'm sure you have gathered, "Of Horses and Men" is a supremely odd film.

Review of Valhalla Rising (2009)

Nic Winding Refn is one of the most interesting directors currently working, and if that sounds like code for “he’s good but not great”, or “his ideas are worthwhile but his films aren’t”, then it isn’t. He’s one of that rare breed of current film-makers, along with Rob Zombie, Lars von Trier, Aki Kaurismaki and others, where you can sense the joy he has in making his film, whilst the film itself remains serious. I appreciate this approach. It often results in films which are fun, unique, thoughtful, and yet maintain their surface effect of being tense, thrilling, scary.

This principle is in effect in abundance throughout Refn’s “Valhalla Rising”, a film which is indebted to David Lynch, Werner Herzog, Andrei Tarkovsky and Sigmund Freud, and yet works perfectly well on its own terms. It takes two endlessly fascinating recurring tropes in art (that of the silent, omnipotent “superman”, and the descent into hell/the heart of darkness), and weaves a giddy, scary, fierce concoction of images around that. Set against the backdrop of the crusades, it’s a fascinating, weird and scary film that slots nicely into Refn’s oeuvre.

We begin with the mute Norse soldier One-Eye (aptly named), who is kept in a cage and fed gruel in a dirty bowl. He is occasionally wheeled out by his owners, and made to fight other men. He’s very good at fighting, as a lot of characters in Refn’s films are. In his very first scene, he is tied to a post, and yet manages to disarm and break the necks of two men attacking him with knives. There is hushed talk of how One-Eye has yet to lose a fight, and maybe, just maybe, he is sent from Hell itself. He is feared, and certainly fearsome. Played by Mads Mikkelsen, he is not so much a character as an interactive piece of scenery Refn decided to use. He is more of an embodiment, of the male psyche, of our desire to be strong, of Christ, of Death, and so on.

One day, One Eye is sold to a new troupe, and in a brutal scene involving evisceration and clubbings, he escapes. He murders every single one of his new owners, bar a child known only as “The Boy” (Maarten Stevenson), who One Eye comes to communicate through. (here we see one of the oldest tropes in cinema come through; you can brutally slaughter any grown man in any number of ways, but a child? No way).

One-Eye and The Boy trek, and trek, and trek some more, until they meet a group of Christian Crusaders trying to find the holy land. After this, the film gets murky in a very Danish way, and the chapter titles that the film portions itself up with get more overtly theological; “Part 3: Men of God”, “Part 4: The Holy Land”, and my favourite, the portentous “Part 5: Hell”.

Refn has composed this film to within an inch of itself, as is his method. There’s a certain rejection of a traditional narrative, and in place of it there is symbolism, imagery; overtones as opposed to a stance. Refn very effectively creates a sense of heightened reality, where all things are imposing and foreboding, accentuated by his use of the booming, pulsing, electronic score, composed by Peter Peter and Peter Kyed. Their work is, arguably, the most important component of the film, or certainly the most prominent, and without it the film may have been laughable, or worse, dismissible. It forces you to deal with it.

Luckily, there is a lot to deal with. Just because Refn has tropes that he appears to return to film after film (mainly, men), doesn’t mean that those tropes aren’t worthwhile. He’s picked a good subject to make films around. The film this time has a loose, strung together style that evokes Apocalypse Now and, in more than one instance, Werner Herzog’s “Aguirre: The Wrath of God”. Those are two seminal films about very similar themes, and it’s good company for the film to be in. The cinematography by Morten Søborg adds a certain sense of unease, shifting from meticulously composed symmetrical compositions to floating, faux-documentary style, from cutting far wide, to entering extreme close-up. And the lighting, too, is a delight, and the obvious use of red-lighting (a weakness of mine) is extraordinarily effective.

By turns horrifying and beautiful, slow and weird, it’s a film where violence is never far away and men hitting each other is the order of the day; just like everything else Refn has done (and in particular it makes a great companion with Refn’s later “Only God Forgives”, which shares this films tendency for the juxtaposition of aesthetic and brutality). There's more than one wince-worthy moment.

The film also has heavy-handed religious themes and ideas, having immense fun with the crusades backdrop (choice dialogue: “we’ve raised the cross, now we will raise the sword!”). It makes us think about the nature of God complexes. There's a recurring image of a man trying to stack stones, but they keep falling down, and the film hints at more than one instance that it's about the sort of nature we try to impose on everything to console ourselves of the cruel, chaotic, deterministic nature of the universe. But then, the film's about a lot of things.

It comes across as a sort of The Seventh Seal on acid, although no flashy grab-line can really do justice to the film. It makes me picture Refn sat by his camera in the Scottish Highlands, giggling to himself as he wonders what would be great to shoot next. Ultimately, it’s the kind of film only Refn could make, and that comes with the caveat that it’s the kind of film only Refn would make. But you know what? Good for him.

Review of Hana-Bi (1997)

Shockingly gruesome violence and moments of genuine love and tenderness make oddly comfortable bedfellows in this brutal yet touching film from Japan’s Takeshi Kitano (or “Beat Takeshi”). The film follows an ex-cop called Nishi, played by Kitano himself, who is no longer on the force due to an incident resulting in the deaths of his co-workers. The film takes a while to arrive at these plot points, however, and marks itself out principally as a terse examination of this character. Take the first scene, where he makes two louts clean his car. When one of them falters, he kicks him to the ground. As with a lot of the characters Kitano plays in his other films, violence is something that comes naturally, too naturally. He’s a more unpredictable variant of the Clint Eastwood “Man With No Name” type.

Yet somewhere, buried deep, he has a heart. We learn that his wife is seriously ill, dying, and through his interactions with her we see that he is a man capable of warmth, love, good humour. One very crucial scene has him robbing a bank to pay for them to take a trip away together, and where another, perhaps lesser film, would have dwelled on the excitement of the heist, Kitano plays the scene off cooly, showing only the elements we need to know. He walks in dressed as a police office. He points the gun at the bank clerk. She understands what to do, hands him the money, and then Nishi leaves.

This stripped back style, which amounts to a tranquillity, pervades the film from beginning to end. The film occasionally comes across as using montage. Take the notorious scene early on where Nishi stabs a man in the eye with a pair of chopsticks. It is a brutal scene, yet it is played in such a manner where we see no actual violence. Nishi picks up the chopsticks, and gestures. We hear a scream. Blood falls onto the table in front. The man, chopsticks in his eyes, falls to the floor. But we never see the chopsticks go into the eyes, and the scene is effective primarily with the power of suggestion. It proves Eisenstein’s theory of montage, that the human mind will make connections between random images.

That’s not to say that there isn’t other, more graphic violence in the film. This is one of those films where when people are shot, they die, and we watch them die. It calls upon the viewer to reflect on the senseless nature of killing. It approaches violence in a manner I found agreeable, not exploitative but instead contemplative, befitting perhaps a Michael Haneke film. It also has a good line in guilt, as we scrutinise Kitano’s expressionless face and find, deep down, a sadness.

Yet for a film concerning itself with much killing, death and anger, what struck me as most moving were the moments of tenderness Kitano peppers his film with. The relationship between Nishi and his wife Miyuki, played by Kayoko Kishimoto, struck me and actually takes up a majority of the second half of the film. I came to admire how Kitano observes Nishi’s capabilities for tenderness. There’s a scene where the pair are playing a guessing game with playing cards. Miyuki is holding the cards up, and time after time Nishi is guessing them correctly. Nishi can see them reflected in the mirror behind Miyuki. It’s a beautifully played scene with a sublime little payoff, and it adds brilliantly to the curious tone Kitano is going for. There is also a scene where Miyuki is putting dead flowers in a jar of water, and a man observes that she must be mad to do so. Nishi beats him half to death as a result. The scene, whilst brutal, I nevertheless found moving because of Nishi’s fierce commitment to his wife.

There’s also a subplot involving Nishi’s ex-partner Horibe, played by Ren Ohsugi. Paralysed from the waist down and abandoned by his wife and children, he is despondent and hopeless, suicidal. Nishi gets him some art materials, and a fair portion of the film is devoted to observed his efforts at artwork. It might seem superfluous, but I liked how it brought into focus the twin peaks of his film, brutality and beauty.

It may not please all people. I came to appreciate the juxtaposition of violence and loveliness, because the two seemed to accentuate each other, but some may find them ill-fitting. The film has a non-linear construction which some viewers may find odd or off-putting, and admittedly the film does take a while to settle into what it’s actually doing. But I found it, above all, to be a poetic and sublime film with a purity to the camerawork and a refreshingly pared back approach to the emotions, which run deep. It’s the antithesis of gangster movies which measure their emotions purely in body-counts and it makes me very eager to see more of Kitano’s work. As a study of guilt, hurt, male rage and love, you won’t see many better examples than this one.

Review of La Belle Noiseuse (1991)

When I was younger, I had an art teacher called Mr Davies. An aloof, scatterbrained man who fit the absent-minded professor role very well, he often found himself despairing at our classes’ general cluelessness and ineptness at creating art. One day, he decided to show us how it was done. He took a canvas, and some charcoal, and he drew one of the buildings in our school. It took about twenty minutes, and not one of us stirred. We watched, intent, as he shaped the outline, and seemingly at random, drew grooves, alcoves, windows, the ivy, the brick shapes, which resulted in a drawing which was utterly unique, yet conveyed something intimately familiar to us all. His hand seemed possessed by something not inside him, and he carried an air of effortlessness with every stroke. Each one of us was in awe.

I thought of him, and that moment, when I was watching Jacques Rivette’s “La Belle Noiseuse”, a four hour film about an aging artist called Frenhofer (Michel Picolli) who, ten years after abandoning his masterpiece, picks up his tools and attempts it anew with the young Marianne (Emmanuelle Béart) as his subject. This is the cause of much disturbance amongst Marianne’s boyfriend Nicolas (David Bursztein) and Frenhofer’s wife Liz (Jane Birkin), although if you are expecting a straightforward drama around these straightforward themes of jealousy, then you may be disappointed. This is instead a film which asks, what does it mean to bare your soul for the artist? Is allowing yourself to be painted a form of violation? Especially when the nature of the painting is one that is presenting you in your most honest form? To what extent is the artist in control of his material, or subject, or vice versa?

I was absolutely enthralled for every minute of the leisurely runtime. This is a film steeped in beauty, and it blossoms like a flower right in front of our very eyes. It is the first work I have seen from Jacques Rivette, but I am certain it will not be the last, as his directorial voice in this film is one that is as strong as any other masters I have seen the films of. He presents a formal, classical and sumptuous control over his material which leaves the viewer spellbound.

But is he really in control? This is a central paradox which the film itself explores. I read that the film had no script, and was simply made up from day to day based on what came before. In this respect, we must observe that the actors, Rivette’s subject, are as much responsible for what we see as Rivette is. Sure, Rivette arranges his camera around them in the way he does, and edits around them in the way he does (although there isn’t much editing in this film; it plays out mostly in gorgeous long takes), but to what extent is the work his, or the actors?

This arises often in the film. We will see Frenhofer arrange Marianne in one pose or another, and she will move ever so slightly, twist her neck, arrange her back, shift her balance, because that’s simply what humans do. We are not meant to stay still. Positions are not fixed, and they are not permanent, yet surely when the artist is drawing, he is trying to capture something permanently? “La Belle Noiseuse” understands this dilemma.

The performances in this film are all perfect; quiet, subdued and observant. Let us observe Frenhofert; he is an old man, with white fluffy hair adorning the sides of his head, and he has craggy features. He is often expressionless, but never more so when he is painting. We slowly realise that he is a man gripped by a certain fear. He understands the true nature of his artwork, and that scares him. Should human nature be explored that honestly?

Marianne is simpler. At first she doesn’t even want to be the subject of Frenhofer’s painting, but she eventually gives in, I guess because we all like to be made idols of. She and Frenhofer maintain a respectful relationship which is notable for how sexless it is. Marianne is naked in a number of scenes in this film, but any erotic tension is purely invented by the viewer. It is not hard to see that Beart is a beautiful actress, and her character relies on this beauty. Yet Frenhofer manhandles her, pulls her to and fro, and seemingly never sees the sexual potential that lies between the two. The art has gripped him.

This disturbs Marianne’s boyfriend, who can’t quite handle the fact that Frenhofer, through drawing her, knows her more intimately than anyone ever will. Frenhofer’s wife, on the other hand, is not prone to jealousy and at first seems overjoyed that Frenhofer has found the resolve to finish his masterpiece (which was originally to be drawn with her). But even she, as the film goes on, finds one of Frenhofer’s actions hurtful, and we see that sometimes the nature of art can be destructive, as opposed to creative.

Look for little clues. Rivette plays up the sound of the crickets on the soundtrack, and when they are absent (mainly when Frenhofer is in the studio), we focus on the silence. Several scenes play out in silence, such as the spellbinding sequence where Frenhofer draws Marianne for the first time. Frenhofer goes about his studio, picking up and putting down brushes, paints, easels, and when he does settle on his tools, we find ourselves on the edge of our seat, because we have just witnessed the whittling down of innumerable possibilities. This film is as gripping as any thriller.

Finally, what contributes so heavily to the success of this film is the fact that we witness key events in real time. Most films truncate their time-frame, so as to give the illusion of a certain amount of time having passed whilst not actually subjecting the audience to it. This film is four hours long, and it takes place over the course of a week. We live through that week, and all of the key moments happen as they would actually happen. The camerawork, which is beautiful, makes great use of all the space on show. The 4:3 aspect ratio, which could have been stifling, instead allows the actors to appear comfortable in their surroundings, and this comfort seeps into the viewer. Far from being boring, we come to know the characters, their actions, and the film takes on rhythms and movements all to itself. The ending, which is frustrating and delightful in equal measure, is the only one that could have fit, although for the life of me I will always want to know what is behind that wall.

This is a film you settle into, and it’s one of the most immersive I have ever seen. It contains movements and shots which I will likely never forget, and it is one of the very few films I have witnessed which I didn’t want to end, because I grew so accustomed to the tale and its manner of telling. “La Belle Noiseuse” translates to “the beautiful nuisance. This film is “La Belle Masterpiece”.