The latest of iteration of Edgar Rice Borrough's "Tarzan" legend is by turns tedious, monotonous, sluggish, turgid and overwhelmingly grey, both in tone and production design. And that's just before you get to the post-colonial minefield the film tries to address at the same time. It tries to be a sweeping adventure story and an exploration of Saidian otherness at once and doesn't just fail, but falls completely flat. It's also the first film where the usual splendid Christoph Waltz seems to be spinning his wheels; now that is scary.
This differs from the usual Tarzan storytelling in that it occurs long after Tarzan, going by Lord Greystroke (Alexander Skarsgard, not hiding his accent or his abs), has been adopted by the West as a savage boy, and actually sees him making the return from London back to his home in the Congo, with his wife Jane. What's interesting is the way this is set up; the film initially and briefly purports to be an exploration of his sense of belonging in the two places Tarzan has come to know, and his reluctance to return to where he was raised amongst apes. The film even threatens to come across as some kind of Dark Knight Rises by way of Joseph Conrad, for a time, with the reformed hero struggling to accept his prior identity as lord of the jungle, and all that.
I say "threatens" because the film never realises these grand visions, and settles for a number of uninspired flashbacks and moody shots of Skarsgard frowning into the middle distance as an exploration of the central character's mental state. The plot undergoes similar burnout as it starts out with Christoph Waltz (playing Leon Rom) under orders from King Leopold to get some diamonds from the natives to help fund Leopold's dominance. The leader, Mbonga, agrees, but only on the condition that Tarzan be bought to him (why this is is revealed partially in multiple flashbacks).
Tarzan, despite the goading of the prime minister (Jim Broadbent, doing his thing), is reluctant, until Samuel L Jackson as an American aide convinces him by warning him of some kind of slave trade. Then we meet Jane (Margot Robbie), who we find out had a failed pregnancy in one of the clumsiest bits of expository dialogue I've seen.
And so on and so on, but not really, because by the time Tarzan is in the jungle it feels like hours have passed, and nothing feels at stake. Even his abs, gazed upon at length, do nothing to save it.
This feeling of detachment, that nobody involved really feels involved, is what permeates the film, from the script to the score to the costumes and sinks it before Tarzan has even arrived back with his natives. I want to say it's a shame, but there's something old fashioned about Burrough's stories, and not in a good way; the whole white saviour narrative thing has always been contentious as far back as "Heart of Darkness", but given the current political climate in particular this film just feels unnecessary. (I hate to get political, but the film has allusions to politics, so I might as well address them).
It's clearly just muddled and unwilling to stick to any particular guns one way or another. The closest the film gets to a postcolonial statement is the recurring motif of Rom strangling various natives with his treasured crucifix, dangling from his hand at all times; a metaphor on whites that I won't spell out for you. There are occasional attempts at portraying the natives as a more than one-dimensional community, and it succeeds briefly, until it resorts to the old tropes (the only named native spends a good half hour of the film mute and in a cage).
But this political element is secondary; if the film had been exciting in any capacity, I could have forgiven it as problematic popcorn fodder, but it simply wasn't. The usually reliable David Yates, responsible for the most emotionally resonant Harry Potter films, fails to deliver, never rising above a sense of studio nonchalance and just getting it in on time and under budget. You know you've got a muddle on your hands when the climactic battle needs expository dialogue referring to a brief flashback an hour earlier in the film to remind you what's actually at stake.
And even with that, you still feel like nothing's at stake. By the time the hour has passed and we actually get to see some vine-swinging, I had long since checked out.
Thursday, 21 July 2016
Sunday, 10 July 2016
The Exquisite Corpus
Peter Tscherkassky’s “The Exquisite Corpus”, running at 19
minutes long, feels like Plunderphonics crossed with early Russ Meyer; a
pastiche cum montage of black and white soft-core porn from what one might fondly
refer to as “the golden age”, it does the opposite of what Debord was trying to
get at with his inversion of existing art. This is REtournement, if you will,
taking various clips and highlights of eroticism of yore and editing it to a
sort of ne plus ultra of eroticism.
And so, hands tenderly unzip stiff jeans and stroke the
invisible treasures inside; seagulls dominate the soundtrack, along with what
sounds like Mogwai turned down; a man casts his net with a naked woman and
jaunts around on a boat; a man looks left and right at a woman on either side
of the screen, smiles, nods bashfully; a woman seductively crosses her legs. At
the end, a haze of erotic pull circles a small boat in a blur; just like the
sex obsessed, initially focussed with the desires buzzing around our heads, as
Thom Yorke might say.
The real hardcore is hidden from view, as it was in the
original works, but this work does more than suggest. It's not coy, and neither will I be.
The result, instead of obscuring the eroticism, instead
accentuates it. This is not a deconstruction, but calling it a celebration
seems a touch glib. It’s an exercise, but more than that, because it captivates
as well as instructs. It’s simply a spellbinding triumph of new meets old, or
old meets new, and it does a very clever thing in capturing the rhythms of sex,
of lovemaking, and being edited to that beat, whilst at the same time
presenting those things. More than a curio; like “Since I Left You”, it works
as itself and should be enjoyed as thus.
Saturday, 30 April 2016
Review of "Captain America: Civil War"
The Marvel train is showing no signs of stopping, with each film growing bigger and bigger as the years go by. Hence, I found it both odd and perfectly logical that the latest film in the series, "Captain America: Civil War" should invert things a little bit. No proper villain to speak of, a great deal of fuss made about the human costs of the building-smashing conflicts that have capped each previous film, and something entirely unexpected; moral relativism. The advertising for this film cannily engages the viewer in a "Team Cap" or "Team Iron Man" debate, but amusingly there is no real side to be picked, just varying shades of grey.
It has a plot that can be described in a few words, or a few paragraphs. It concerns itself with a bill being passed that attempts to regulate the activities of superheroes, in the face of the untold destruction they keep causing. Captain America/Steve Rogers (Chris Evans) is opposed to it. "If I see a threat, I'll neutralise it", he says. On the other hand, Iron Man/Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr) is for it. An early scene sees him accosted by a woman who presses a picture of her dead son into his chest; in saving the world, she says, he died. Ignoring the fact that the scene plays like some kind of Dickensian Christmas-Past thing, it gets the point across. As far as I can tell, Iron Man has always been the heart of the series, hiding his guilts and neuroses behind a mask of flippant cool, and it makes perfect sense that this kind of thing would haunt him (even if the film fudges it).
As the bill is drafted and put into motion, sides are picked, if a little arbitrarily, and the film lumbers towards the widely touted conflict between the group. A lot of screen-time is given to the relationship between Captain America and his friend Bucky/The Winter Soldier, (Sebastian Stan), who were close during the war, and separately frozen and later revived. Bucky was, unfortunately, brainwashed and so can't help killing things. But Captain sees something there, and takes Bucky's side throughout the film, insisting to everyone that he isn't bad.
If my descriptions of the relationships seem a little half-baked, it's because most people are on board by now, but also because my memories of the previous Marvel films are hazy, and this film relies on an apparently encyclopaedic knowledge of all that has come before. This isn't to say that the film isn't accessible, or indeed fun, because it is both of those things, but it does seem that the more you know/remember, the more you will get out of it.
There are a lot of players involved. Some, like Don Cheadle's "War Machine", are unengaging; others, like newcomer Tom Holland's "Spiderman" (the best screen iteration of the character so far), are note perfect. In the end, though, individual comparisons don't really matter, since this film has the rare distinction of a fight where you're rooting for everyone at the same time. This seems counter-intuitive to the general ethos of the modern blockbuster, where things are painted in black and white, but I'm not complaining. The scrap itself is handled excellently, and passes Mark Kermode's six-laugh test in itself.
Various excellent actors pop up; Daniel Bruhl plays shady ne'er-do-well named Helmut Zemo (what a name!), Martin Freeman occasionally distracts as a slimy politician type called Everett Ross, and William Hurt gently nibbles at the scenery as the Secretary of State.
In the end, it all amounts to whatever you want it to amount to. As a relative outsider to this whole saga, I admired it from the outside without ever feeling immersed or overjoyed; others in the cinema seemed to be having the time of their lives. A serious review of this film is ultimately pointless, since it's got a guaranteed audience who know just what to expect. It's directed confidently, competently, and a little impersonally by the Russo Brothers. The actors involved know what to do by now, and they do it well. In places it is far funnier than I'd expected. As an example of its genre it's up at the higher end. It's fun, watchable, never exactly compelling, but certainly never off-putting.
If you've never seen a Marvel film before, pay a little bit more attention, fill in the gaps, and you'll probably have fun yourself.
It has a plot that can be described in a few words, or a few paragraphs. It concerns itself with a bill being passed that attempts to regulate the activities of superheroes, in the face of the untold destruction they keep causing. Captain America/Steve Rogers (Chris Evans) is opposed to it. "If I see a threat, I'll neutralise it", he says. On the other hand, Iron Man/Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr) is for it. An early scene sees him accosted by a woman who presses a picture of her dead son into his chest; in saving the world, she says, he died. Ignoring the fact that the scene plays like some kind of Dickensian Christmas-Past thing, it gets the point across. As far as I can tell, Iron Man has always been the heart of the series, hiding his guilts and neuroses behind a mask of flippant cool, and it makes perfect sense that this kind of thing would haunt him (even if the film fudges it).
As the bill is drafted and put into motion, sides are picked, if a little arbitrarily, and the film lumbers towards the widely touted conflict between the group. A lot of screen-time is given to the relationship between Captain America and his friend Bucky/The Winter Soldier, (Sebastian Stan), who were close during the war, and separately frozen and later revived. Bucky was, unfortunately, brainwashed and so can't help killing things. But Captain sees something there, and takes Bucky's side throughout the film, insisting to everyone that he isn't bad.
If my descriptions of the relationships seem a little half-baked, it's because most people are on board by now, but also because my memories of the previous Marvel films are hazy, and this film relies on an apparently encyclopaedic knowledge of all that has come before. This isn't to say that the film isn't accessible, or indeed fun, because it is both of those things, but it does seem that the more you know/remember, the more you will get out of it.
There are a lot of players involved. Some, like Don Cheadle's "War Machine", are unengaging; others, like newcomer Tom Holland's "Spiderman" (the best screen iteration of the character so far), are note perfect. In the end, though, individual comparisons don't really matter, since this film has the rare distinction of a fight where you're rooting for everyone at the same time. This seems counter-intuitive to the general ethos of the modern blockbuster, where things are painted in black and white, but I'm not complaining. The scrap itself is handled excellently, and passes Mark Kermode's six-laugh test in itself.
Various excellent actors pop up; Daniel Bruhl plays shady ne'er-do-well named Helmut Zemo (what a name!), Martin Freeman occasionally distracts as a slimy politician type called Everett Ross, and William Hurt gently nibbles at the scenery as the Secretary of State.
In the end, it all amounts to whatever you want it to amount to. As a relative outsider to this whole saga, I admired it from the outside without ever feeling immersed or overjoyed; others in the cinema seemed to be having the time of their lives. A serious review of this film is ultimately pointless, since it's got a guaranteed audience who know just what to expect. It's directed confidently, competently, and a little impersonally by the Russo Brothers. The actors involved know what to do by now, and they do it well. In places it is far funnier than I'd expected. As an example of its genre it's up at the higher end. It's fun, watchable, never exactly compelling, but certainly never off-putting.
If you've never seen a Marvel film before, pay a little bit more attention, fill in the gaps, and you'll probably have fun yourself.
Review of "Son of Saul"
If László Nemes' film "Son of Saul", set in Auschwitz in 1944, is ultimately a success, it is because before anything else it understands that a conflict spanning the entirety of the universe can be depicted on a canvas no bigger and no smaller than the human face; in fact, it understands that the human face is the perfect setting for such things. If it falls short of triumph, that's because it follows its own methodologies a little too closely to their ends, and seems slightly too preoccupied with itself as a film as opposed to what it seemed to me to be; a document, a hymn, a paean.
Opening text informs us of the "Sonderkommando", a group of Jews chosen in Auschwitz to work for a few months, before being killed. Saul (Géza Rohrig) is a member of the Sonderkommando; a startling and upsetting opening shot presents him front and centre, ushering in a new truck full of his kin, to be disposed of by the cruel guards. This opening take is remarkable for two reasons, firstly because it's an ambitious long-shot, and secondly because it establishes Saul's character in a way that fundamentally doesn't really change for the remaining 100 minutes. Red cross on his back, hollowed out sunken eyes, mouth slightly twisted, blank expression; he doesn't give anything away.
This creates a paradox which sustains the whole film; just how does Saul remain so emotionless in the face of such unspeakable horror? How can he, for example, not even give a sign of disgust as he drags corpses across a blood-streaked gas chamber floor, or as he is forced to dance for a room full of sneering Nazi guards?
In this sense we do not get to 'know' Saul in the sense that we would typically come to know a protagonist. But there are some clues thrown our way; a passing reference to a conversation from a less hellish time, a couple of moments where we sense his mind has gone blank, and the prevailing sense of his determination. And the driving mechanism for the film is a clue also; Saul becomes steadily more obsessed with a young boy who comes coughing out of the gas chamber and dies shortly after, seeking a proper burial for him. This is the plot in its entirety.
Stanley Kubrick once stated that the problem with "Schindler's List" was that it took a moment of despair in the human race, and turned into a story of hope. Kubrick no doubt would have strongly approved of this film, for it is hopeless (although not nihilistic, thankfully). It stares into the horror and does not ask us for an opinion, or a reaction; instead, to simply observe. It is a fearfully convincing recreation, and I had to look away in all the obvious places.
This is mainly due to the cinematography from Mátyás Erdély, which adopts Saul's perspective and immerses us in it, and the production design from Lászlá Rajk, which is sharp and brutalist, all dingy concrete underground rooms and long off-white corridors leading round into nameless horror (as it should be, as it was).
As the story goes on, we realise that the Saul's journey can be taken either as a Biblical attempt at redemption, or something more mundane, the last grasp of a man facing death attempting to salvage something, and going insane as he does so. In the end, ultimately, it does not matter; he is here, he is doing this, and this is what is. The chaos surrounding him is scary, but he is on a mission. The classical 1:33 aspect ratio is perfect for this, with its intimidating black bars at the side; it mirrors Saul's tunnel vision. The sound design is vast, overbearing, industrial, imposing. The final moments are staggering in both their power and their logic.
However, when I said that the film has a mechanism, I do not mean this in a positive way. For a film staged so excellently and so thematically powerful, being reminded that we are in fact watching a film is one of the last things you want; we should be immersed completely. But there are moments here and there; shots left too long out of focus, as if to say... Well, what? Technique is left to creep in where it shouldn't have done. And when the film breaks its predominant focus on Saul, as it does in a couple of scenes, I felt pulled out of it.
This is a dark and powerful piece, meticulously composed and unlike anything I've ever seen, especially on this topic. That it is so great makes its flaws that bit more jarring. Nevertheless, this is vital, devastating stuff, a film that feels like it needed to be made. And, well, good. Because it did. And, consequently, it needs to be seen too.
Opening text informs us of the "Sonderkommando", a group of Jews chosen in Auschwitz to work for a few months, before being killed. Saul (Géza Rohrig) is a member of the Sonderkommando; a startling and upsetting opening shot presents him front and centre, ushering in a new truck full of his kin, to be disposed of by the cruel guards. This opening take is remarkable for two reasons, firstly because it's an ambitious long-shot, and secondly because it establishes Saul's character in a way that fundamentally doesn't really change for the remaining 100 minutes. Red cross on his back, hollowed out sunken eyes, mouth slightly twisted, blank expression; he doesn't give anything away.
This creates a paradox which sustains the whole film; just how does Saul remain so emotionless in the face of such unspeakable horror? How can he, for example, not even give a sign of disgust as he drags corpses across a blood-streaked gas chamber floor, or as he is forced to dance for a room full of sneering Nazi guards?
In this sense we do not get to 'know' Saul in the sense that we would typically come to know a protagonist. But there are some clues thrown our way; a passing reference to a conversation from a less hellish time, a couple of moments where we sense his mind has gone blank, and the prevailing sense of his determination. And the driving mechanism for the film is a clue also; Saul becomes steadily more obsessed with a young boy who comes coughing out of the gas chamber and dies shortly after, seeking a proper burial for him. This is the plot in its entirety.
Stanley Kubrick once stated that the problem with "Schindler's List" was that it took a moment of despair in the human race, and turned into a story of hope. Kubrick no doubt would have strongly approved of this film, for it is hopeless (although not nihilistic, thankfully). It stares into the horror and does not ask us for an opinion, or a reaction; instead, to simply observe. It is a fearfully convincing recreation, and I had to look away in all the obvious places.
This is mainly due to the cinematography from Mátyás Erdély, which adopts Saul's perspective and immerses us in it, and the production design from Lászlá Rajk, which is sharp and brutalist, all dingy concrete underground rooms and long off-white corridors leading round into nameless horror (as it should be, as it was).
As the story goes on, we realise that the Saul's journey can be taken either as a Biblical attempt at redemption, or something more mundane, the last grasp of a man facing death attempting to salvage something, and going insane as he does so. In the end, ultimately, it does not matter; he is here, he is doing this, and this is what is. The chaos surrounding him is scary, but he is on a mission. The classical 1:33 aspect ratio is perfect for this, with its intimidating black bars at the side; it mirrors Saul's tunnel vision. The sound design is vast, overbearing, industrial, imposing. The final moments are staggering in both their power and their logic.
However, when I said that the film has a mechanism, I do not mean this in a positive way. For a film staged so excellently and so thematically powerful, being reminded that we are in fact watching a film is one of the last things you want; we should be immersed completely. But there are moments here and there; shots left too long out of focus, as if to say... Well, what? Technique is left to creep in where it shouldn't have done. And when the film breaks its predominant focus on Saul, as it does in a couple of scenes, I felt pulled out of it.
This is a dark and powerful piece, meticulously composed and unlike anything I've ever seen, especially on this topic. That it is so great makes its flaws that bit more jarring. Nevertheless, this is vital, devastating stuff, a film that feels like it needed to be made. And, well, good. Because it did. And, consequently, it needs to be seen too.
Thursday, 14 January 2016
Review of The Hateful Eight (2015)
It almost seems daft, really, given that Quentin Tarantino has effectively made a career out of mining his own idiosyncrasies for profit, to level the criticism of "too odd" at his latest effort and eighth film, the bounty-revenge-Western-thriller-sorta-whodunit-but-more-whowilldowhat "The Hateful Eight". And odd is the wrong word anyway. Maybe... Idiosyncratic? Oh dear.
To point; this film, which runs to three hours long, has been shot in a long-retired 70MM format, has a new score from maestro Ennio Morricone, and has a cast billing that reads like a who's-who of Tarantino's greatest hits (Kurt Russell, Samuel L. Jackson, Michael Madsen, Philip Roth, Bruce Dern and more). It's maybe Tarantino's most 'mounted' film in terms of the prestige and craft that has been utilised to bring it to the screen, and the truly odd thing is how slight and insular the story it's telling is. If I were the kind of critic prone to making trite references to Shakespeare, I'd say something about this film being much ado.
A harsh blizzard is threatening the mountains and valleys of Wyoming. Kurt Russell's John "The Hangman" Ruth has captured Daisy Domergue (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and is bringing her in to collect the $10,000 bounty on her head and also to watch her hang, since that's his thing (he claims it's because he likes to keep hangmen in business, but since he says this to a hangman he's just met we assume this could be out of politeness, and also the film makes a point of making us distrust what characters say. I suspect it's another idiosyncrasy and also a device to keep Leigh alive).
On the way to the town of Red Rock, where Ruth can collect his bounty, they are stopped by Major Marquis Warren (Samuel L. Jackson) who manages to talk his way onto the coach through charm and the fact that the two have met before. Then they're stopped by Chris Mannix (Walter Goggins), a racist gang-member who claims to be the new Sheriff in Red Rock; Ruth doesn't believe him, but can't risk it, since Mannix would die in the snow and leaving him out there would constitute murder otherwise. There's also the coach driver, O.B Jackson (James Parks), but he seems fairly calm and non-violent, almost friendly.
This takes about half an hour. They arrive at "Minnie's Haberdashery" to shack up for the night, where they meet Oswaldo Mobray, aforementioned hangman (Tim Roth), Joe Gage (Michael Madsen), General Sandy Smithers (Bruce Dern), and Bob (Demián Bichir). All the characters embody types; Mobray is British, sardonic, overly polite. Gage is grouchy, distrusting and monosyllabic; Smithers is a racist veteran who doesn't leave his chair; Bob is also distrustful, but at the same time tries to be neutral. Minnie and her husband are nowhere to be seen.
As the film goes on it's pretty clear people are playing people and everyone is not quite who they seem. Of course, it's not long before blood starts to be shed; and in true Tarantino fashion, it pours. The most obvious structural reference point is, fittingly, "Reservoir Dogs"; this basically has the same structure as that film but with a half-hour prologue, and the gunfight at the end lasts for over an hour this time, and with a lengthy flashback for good measure.
The fact that it is so long and the length in service of so little is the first and most pressing of the film's issues, but far from its only one. For a start, there's the treatment of Leigh's character. There's an easy defence of the violence perpetuated towards her in that she is a murdering outlaw who has stepped into a man's world. But too often she's hit in the face (in brutal, thwacking, look-away-now crunches) and it feels like the punchline to a joke. Of course violence is often a joke in Tarantino-land (think of Marv from Pulp Fiction), but this feels a little too exaggerated and dwelt-upon for it to actually be funny. It feels like Tarantino is too often making a point of the fact that it's her being treated so cruelly, and this I found troublesome (I also felt the same way about Tarantino's persistent use of the n-word, which feels like he drops it in just so he can; why?)
This is also, to me, the film where Tarantino's vaudeville brand of comedy falls flattest. There's one protracted sequence involving a letter Warren has from Abraham Lincoln that probably runs to ten-plus minutes that grows steadily more risible by the second (although the payoff, where Warren explains the true origins of the letter, is maybe the only time the film gets at something more than just what's onscreen). But so much is made of the exaggerated delivery of words and the humour is so crude that it failed to take off; the levity it could have bought to the film felt heavy in itself.
Also... Once more, it's redundant to say that a Tarantino film goes too far, since he makes his films not so much in spite of but because of those kinds of criticisms, but there is one midway sequence involving a scene of cruelty that would get another less renowned film-maker into trouble. And there is so much of that violence for violence's sake attitude to the film that it becomes wearying. Django Unchained at least had the main character's established desire for revenge, and Inglorious Basterds seemed to be making a genuine statement (or as much as Tarantino can) about Jewish attitudes towards the cruelties enacted towards them in World War 2.
Here... People distrust each other, and then they die. We can never tell who's telling the truth to who, and they occasionally explode. The usual narrative tricks are played, including a voiceover halfway through which was as subtle as a brick through a window. There's no real sense of paranoia, or tension, just the ceaseless knowledge that at some point we're going to be expected to enjoy some death.
Maybe it sounds like I've expected things from a Tarantino film that he was just never going to deliver; too uneven, too violent, too unsubtle, too ultimately meaningless. The point is what's onscreen, he'd (probably) say. But there is no escaping the fact that this story is not worth the effort that has gone into the telling of it. It ultimately comes across as an Agatha Christie novel, if Agatha Christie had a penchant for ruining her twists halfway through and also a fetish for watching people get soaked in other people's brains.
It was too well-made for me to hate it with every fibre of its being (the score and cinematography saw to that), but inside this is by far Tarantino's most morally bankrupt work, and underneath the pretty artifice there is a putrid rotting corpse, at which Tarantino seems to want us to point and laugh.
Forgive me for looking away this time.
To point; this film, which runs to three hours long, has been shot in a long-retired 70MM format, has a new score from maestro Ennio Morricone, and has a cast billing that reads like a who's-who of Tarantino's greatest hits (Kurt Russell, Samuel L. Jackson, Michael Madsen, Philip Roth, Bruce Dern and more). It's maybe Tarantino's most 'mounted' film in terms of the prestige and craft that has been utilised to bring it to the screen, and the truly odd thing is how slight and insular the story it's telling is. If I were the kind of critic prone to making trite references to Shakespeare, I'd say something about this film being much ado.
A harsh blizzard is threatening the mountains and valleys of Wyoming. Kurt Russell's John "The Hangman" Ruth has captured Daisy Domergue (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and is bringing her in to collect the $10,000 bounty on her head and also to watch her hang, since that's his thing (he claims it's because he likes to keep hangmen in business, but since he says this to a hangman he's just met we assume this could be out of politeness, and also the film makes a point of making us distrust what characters say. I suspect it's another idiosyncrasy and also a device to keep Leigh alive).
On the way to the town of Red Rock, where Ruth can collect his bounty, they are stopped by Major Marquis Warren (Samuel L. Jackson) who manages to talk his way onto the coach through charm and the fact that the two have met before. Then they're stopped by Chris Mannix (Walter Goggins), a racist gang-member who claims to be the new Sheriff in Red Rock; Ruth doesn't believe him, but can't risk it, since Mannix would die in the snow and leaving him out there would constitute murder otherwise. There's also the coach driver, O.B Jackson (James Parks), but he seems fairly calm and non-violent, almost friendly.
This takes about half an hour. They arrive at "Minnie's Haberdashery" to shack up for the night, where they meet Oswaldo Mobray, aforementioned hangman (Tim Roth), Joe Gage (Michael Madsen), General Sandy Smithers (Bruce Dern), and Bob (Demián Bichir). All the characters embody types; Mobray is British, sardonic, overly polite. Gage is grouchy, distrusting and monosyllabic; Smithers is a racist veteran who doesn't leave his chair; Bob is also distrustful, but at the same time tries to be neutral. Minnie and her husband are nowhere to be seen.
As the film goes on it's pretty clear people are playing people and everyone is not quite who they seem. Of course, it's not long before blood starts to be shed; and in true Tarantino fashion, it pours. The most obvious structural reference point is, fittingly, "Reservoir Dogs"; this basically has the same structure as that film but with a half-hour prologue, and the gunfight at the end lasts for over an hour this time, and with a lengthy flashback for good measure.
The fact that it is so long and the length in service of so little is the first and most pressing of the film's issues, but far from its only one. For a start, there's the treatment of Leigh's character. There's an easy defence of the violence perpetuated towards her in that she is a murdering outlaw who has stepped into a man's world. But too often she's hit in the face (in brutal, thwacking, look-away-now crunches) and it feels like the punchline to a joke. Of course violence is often a joke in Tarantino-land (think of Marv from Pulp Fiction), but this feels a little too exaggerated and dwelt-upon for it to actually be funny. It feels like Tarantino is too often making a point of the fact that it's her being treated so cruelly, and this I found troublesome (I also felt the same way about Tarantino's persistent use of the n-word, which feels like he drops it in just so he can; why?)
This is also, to me, the film where Tarantino's vaudeville brand of comedy falls flattest. There's one protracted sequence involving a letter Warren has from Abraham Lincoln that probably runs to ten-plus minutes that grows steadily more risible by the second (although the payoff, where Warren explains the true origins of the letter, is maybe the only time the film gets at something more than just what's onscreen). But so much is made of the exaggerated delivery of words and the humour is so crude that it failed to take off; the levity it could have bought to the film felt heavy in itself.
Also... Once more, it's redundant to say that a Tarantino film goes too far, since he makes his films not so much in spite of but because of those kinds of criticisms, but there is one midway sequence involving a scene of cruelty that would get another less renowned film-maker into trouble. And there is so much of that violence for violence's sake attitude to the film that it becomes wearying. Django Unchained at least had the main character's established desire for revenge, and Inglorious Basterds seemed to be making a genuine statement (or as much as Tarantino can) about Jewish attitudes towards the cruelties enacted towards them in World War 2.
Here... People distrust each other, and then they die. We can never tell who's telling the truth to who, and they occasionally explode. The usual narrative tricks are played, including a voiceover halfway through which was as subtle as a brick through a window. There's no real sense of paranoia, or tension, just the ceaseless knowledge that at some point we're going to be expected to enjoy some death.
Maybe it sounds like I've expected things from a Tarantino film that he was just never going to deliver; too uneven, too violent, too unsubtle, too ultimately meaningless. The point is what's onscreen, he'd (probably) say. But there is no escaping the fact that this story is not worth the effort that has gone into the telling of it. It ultimately comes across as an Agatha Christie novel, if Agatha Christie had a penchant for ruining her twists halfway through and also a fetish for watching people get soaked in other people's brains.
It was too well-made for me to hate it with every fibre of its being (the score and cinematography saw to that), but inside this is by far Tarantino's most morally bankrupt work, and underneath the pretty artifice there is a putrid rotting corpse, at which Tarantino seems to want us to point and laugh.
Forgive me for looking away this time.
Wednesday, 13 January 2016
Review of "45 Years"
For a film about a marriage slowly but surely tumbling out of control, it's astonishing, and something of a coup, how assured and precise Andrew Haigh's "45 Years" is. It's a film which doesn't so much ape as embody the spirit of a cinematic mathematician like Haneke, where every shot feels fine-tuned for effect, every angle maximising some important aspect- or throwing us a red herring. A work of some kind of mastery, basically.
All this would be for naught if it was in service of nonsense, or worse, something meaningless, but luckily "45 Years" has an emotional reach to meet its technical precision, and is mining deep thematic wellsprings of ambiguous but bold feeling.
Kate (Charlotte Rampling) and Jeff (Tom Courtenay) have been married for 45 years. We start the film on a Monday- their anniversary party is on Saturday. Their events organiser observes how that's an odd number of years to celebrate, and Kate informs him they would have had it five years ago but Jeff was unwell. You feel that waiting until the 50th anniversary wasn't an option. There's a lot to celebrate.
In that same scene, the organiser also points out that the room in which they're celebrating has a rich history, like any marriage. It was even home to the celebrations of the Battle of Trafalgar. "Didn't Nelson die in the Battle of Trafalgar?" Kate knowingly probes. The organiser replies yes, but a victory like that is worth celebrating.
This is a clever piece of offhand dialogue that in a lesser film would simply set the stage for the upcoming jaunt, but here outlines and echoes the entire themes of the film. Earlier that day, Jeff had received a letter from Germany saying that the body had been found. "My Katia", he says. Kate looks on in worry. We find out that Katia was somebody Jeff was with many years ago. They were climbing a mountain, and one day- she was gone, with nothing but a scream (Jeff's description of that scream is one of the most evocative and perfect pieces of perfectly delivered dialogue you could choose to hear).
But now her body has been unearthed, frozen, and perfectly preserved, which is fitting, because her presence is felt by both Kate and Jeff for the remainder of the film.
There's not much more to the plot itself, and the film explores the ways in which this revelation impacts them in the run-up to a party in honour of their love.
Jeff responds by becoming distant and vague. Not there. He starts to research climate change and becomes intensely interested in how people can be preserved in ice. Kate expresses interest in all of this (with reservations, such as her gentle dissuading of Jeff going to Switzerland to see the body), but soon it seems like this has impacted her in more ways than even she thought. Is she jealous? She can't be jealous of something that happened before (although, we learn, not too long before) Kate came into Jeff's life.
However, Kate knows Jeff, and we can see she senses something's off. Why is he being so mournful over something that happened so long ago? The narrative screws are inevitably tightened and whilst there are late in the day revelations, they are delivered subtly, for us to consider for ourselves, instead of being told how to feel.
The film succeeds so brilliantly because of many reasons. Haigh's screenplay, in a very short space of time and in some quite restrictive conditions (about 85% of the film is just conversations between the pair, or Kate on her own), manages to draw the outline of an entire marriage. We sense their love through small conversations only old married couples can have, such as Kate's quiet surprise that Jeff is reading Kierkegaard again. "You have three editions of that book, but I don't think you've ever got past the final chapter."
The acting is another reason why the film is successful. Where others might play it with an eye to melodrama, Rampling and Courtenay do the opposite. If this is the tale of a marriage falling apart, and I leave that up to you to decide, it's a marriage imploding as opposed to exploding. The sense of routine and order brilliantly established in the first two scenes doesn't dissipate throughout the whole film. Nobody shouts, and lines are delivered with the true emotions implied, not stated. Only two masters of their craft could convincingly pull this off, and there's enough evidence here to suggest that that's just what these two are. Talk has been had of an Oscar nomination for Rampling; she deserves it. Every aspect of her performance is controlled, and studied, to perfection. Every pause, intonation, and look seems utterly natural but tells us something words can't.
Then there's the filmmaking itself. Largely composed of static shots just observing the dialogue being spoken, the film plays with placing and framing to tell us things and give us clues. Look at how Kate tends to be placed nearest the camera, or how many shots there are that show Kate side-on, looking left or right. The film is studying her. It wants us to feel her feelings, in close up. It's an extraordinary example of cinematic empathy. Her feelings become ours.
That's it. There's music, but it comes from characters playing it, as opposed to a non-diegetic soundtrack. There are no fireworks, no drama, no explosions. Just a gentle thawing, like the ice that has preserved Katia, and a trickle that becomes a stream that slowly becomes a jet of feeling. The characters try their best to contain it, but it's there. Whatever happens by the end of this film, and it's left open to debate, things have been altered in unforeseeable ways. Haigh, Rampling and Courtenay are masters of their craft.
Thursday, 17 December 2015
Review of Star Wars: The Force Awakens
*THERE COMES A POINT WHERE POTENTIAL SPOILERS BECOME A PUBLIC SERVICE WARNING, SO JUST TO SAY THAT I'LL BE DISCUSSING THE PLOT AT A SYNOPSIS LEVEL BUT I WON'T BE MAKING DIRECT REFERENCE TO ANYTHING THAT YOU'LL WANT TO EXPERIENCE DIRECTLY FIRST*
JJ Abrams "Star Wars: The Force Awakens", probably the most anticipated film this decade, is a familiar thing, with the usual abundance of spectacle, dogfights and derring-do. It reminded me, in a good way, of John Peel's maxim regarding his favourite band, 'The Fall'; this new Star Wars film is always different, but always the same. The most immediate frame of reference for most people is going to be whether it's better than the dreadful prequel trilogy, or as good as the canonised original trilogy, and my answer is that it is probably good enough for us to forget the prequel trilogy, and if the next two films in this go around the fountain are as good as this one, then there could well be longstanding debate as to which trilogy is better.
What makes it more than just a new Star Wars is that it has a blistering immediacy and deep currents of emotional verisimilitude that for me were lacking from any other aspect of the saga. This is entirely the work of three new lead actors, Daisy Ridley, John Boyega, and Oscar Isaac. Ridley is Rey, a scavenger on a lonely planet called Jakku who spends her days raiding the corpse-like shell of the fallen Imperial Star Destroyer; Boyega is Finn, a Stormtrooper from birth who, after being instructed to destroy a village, finds himself disillusioned with killing and escapes from his ship to Jakku, where he meets Rey. Isaac is Poe Dameron, the best pilot in the Resistance, who are this film's updated Rebel Alliance.
All three of these actors have charisma and charm; Isaac in particular, after Drive, Inside Llewyn Davis, and Ex Machina, is turning into one of those actors that Philip Seymour Hoffman was; magnetic, captivating, willing to transform himself for each role. Every time he was on screen I cheered for him, not just because it was him, but because he brings exactly what is required for each performance, and in this it was enough that we wanted him to survive.
But his character is the least developed, and the real weight of the film hinges on Ridley and Boyega, who make a fantastic central leads and without whom the film would fall apart. They are broadly working types, Ridley is Hermione-esque, uptight and guarded, but hiding deep inner-pain, and Boyega is eager to please, brave, and with a dash too much bravado. But within those types they find contours and modes in which to paint entirely new pictures, and we end up caring deeply about them. For me, the pair felt as well-drawn as any characters from a serious drama. I was deeply rooting for them, and I wanted them to succeed, and in an age where there is nobody to root for and too many special effects, that was the most pleasant surprise of the whole film.
The plot is, as I say, familiar, and is simply the Resistance attempting to defeat the new First Order, who have been set up to continue the work of Darth Vader. The name "The First Order" screams "Reich", and there is indeed a moment where Domhnall Gleeson's General Hux mobilises troops in a way that is reminiscent of Reifenstahl's propaganda films, and Gleeson, all but spitting into the camera, seems to be channelling his inner Adolf.
But the main big bad this time is Adam Driver's Kylo Ren, who has been painted in the promotional material as the new Darth Vader, but in reality comes across more as the new Anakin, his story not quite complete yet and there's plenty of material left to work over in the next two films. As Tom Hardy says in Bronson, "I wasn't bad, I wasn't BAD bad- not yet". But he is a convincing and watchable screen presence, and as various people have noted already, he does in this film what Hayden Christensen failed to do in three, which is give some sense of inner moral conflict and make us believe in him.
And, of course, there's the factor of Harrison Ford's Han Solo, Carrie Fisher's now General Leia, and Mark Hamill's Luke Skywalker, who do just what they did thirty-odd years ago, and bring the required grit and glint to make us believe in them, as we have before, as we will do forever. So much has been speculated as to each character's prominence and role in the film, so I'll keep it brief, other than to say that you won't be disappointed, and the fact that as a collective consciousness, we've come to care so much about these characters, goes respected.
It's fun. That's the big draw, here; it is tonnes of fun. The film reassures you from the opening scene that it's going to be what you'd expect, but done well, and with care and love. I felt like everyone involved had put their all into it. John Williams' score fits alongside the others; cinematographer Daniel Mindel has clearly studied the old films and replicated the look well; Abrams, Lawrence Kasdan and Michael Arndt's script gets the tone, balance and weight right, with an almost mathematically precise formula for what to get right.
It works on an immediate level and on a subtextual level (along with the Nazi parallels, there's also some good feminist and post-colonial stuff in there that I may write about later). It's a film that works for all people, and has been crafted immeasurably well. It won't satisfy everyone and it probably doesn't live up to the hype, but nothing was every going to. This is far better than we could have ever had reason to expect, and I already cannot wait for Episode Eight.
What a masterful piece of blockbuster film-making this is!
JJ Abrams "Star Wars: The Force Awakens", probably the most anticipated film this decade, is a familiar thing, with the usual abundance of spectacle, dogfights and derring-do. It reminded me, in a good way, of John Peel's maxim regarding his favourite band, 'The Fall'; this new Star Wars film is always different, but always the same. The most immediate frame of reference for most people is going to be whether it's better than the dreadful prequel trilogy, or as good as the canonised original trilogy, and my answer is that it is probably good enough for us to forget the prequel trilogy, and if the next two films in this go around the fountain are as good as this one, then there could well be longstanding debate as to which trilogy is better.
What makes it more than just a new Star Wars is that it has a blistering immediacy and deep currents of emotional verisimilitude that for me were lacking from any other aspect of the saga. This is entirely the work of three new lead actors, Daisy Ridley, John Boyega, and Oscar Isaac. Ridley is Rey, a scavenger on a lonely planet called Jakku who spends her days raiding the corpse-like shell of the fallen Imperial Star Destroyer; Boyega is Finn, a Stormtrooper from birth who, after being instructed to destroy a village, finds himself disillusioned with killing and escapes from his ship to Jakku, where he meets Rey. Isaac is Poe Dameron, the best pilot in the Resistance, who are this film's updated Rebel Alliance.
All three of these actors have charisma and charm; Isaac in particular, after Drive, Inside Llewyn Davis, and Ex Machina, is turning into one of those actors that Philip Seymour Hoffman was; magnetic, captivating, willing to transform himself for each role. Every time he was on screen I cheered for him, not just because it was him, but because he brings exactly what is required for each performance, and in this it was enough that we wanted him to survive.
But his character is the least developed, and the real weight of the film hinges on Ridley and Boyega, who make a fantastic central leads and without whom the film would fall apart. They are broadly working types, Ridley is Hermione-esque, uptight and guarded, but hiding deep inner-pain, and Boyega is eager to please, brave, and with a dash too much bravado. But within those types they find contours and modes in which to paint entirely new pictures, and we end up caring deeply about them. For me, the pair felt as well-drawn as any characters from a serious drama. I was deeply rooting for them, and I wanted them to succeed, and in an age where there is nobody to root for and too many special effects, that was the most pleasant surprise of the whole film.
The plot is, as I say, familiar, and is simply the Resistance attempting to defeat the new First Order, who have been set up to continue the work of Darth Vader. The name "The First Order" screams "Reich", and there is indeed a moment where Domhnall Gleeson's General Hux mobilises troops in a way that is reminiscent of Reifenstahl's propaganda films, and Gleeson, all but spitting into the camera, seems to be channelling his inner Adolf.
But the main big bad this time is Adam Driver's Kylo Ren, who has been painted in the promotional material as the new Darth Vader, but in reality comes across more as the new Anakin, his story not quite complete yet and there's plenty of material left to work over in the next two films. As Tom Hardy says in Bronson, "I wasn't bad, I wasn't BAD bad- not yet". But he is a convincing and watchable screen presence, and as various people have noted already, he does in this film what Hayden Christensen failed to do in three, which is give some sense of inner moral conflict and make us believe in him.
And, of course, there's the factor of Harrison Ford's Han Solo, Carrie Fisher's now General Leia, and Mark Hamill's Luke Skywalker, who do just what they did thirty-odd years ago, and bring the required grit and glint to make us believe in them, as we have before, as we will do forever. So much has been speculated as to each character's prominence and role in the film, so I'll keep it brief, other than to say that you won't be disappointed, and the fact that as a collective consciousness, we've come to care so much about these characters, goes respected.
It's fun. That's the big draw, here; it is tonnes of fun. The film reassures you from the opening scene that it's going to be what you'd expect, but done well, and with care and love. I felt like everyone involved had put their all into it. John Williams' score fits alongside the others; cinematographer Daniel Mindel has clearly studied the old films and replicated the look well; Abrams, Lawrence Kasdan and Michael Arndt's script gets the tone, balance and weight right, with an almost mathematically precise formula for what to get right.
It works on an immediate level and on a subtextual level (along with the Nazi parallels, there's also some good feminist and post-colonial stuff in there that I may write about later). It's a film that works for all people, and has been crafted immeasurably well. It won't satisfy everyone and it probably doesn't live up to the hype, but nothing was every going to. This is far better than we could have ever had reason to expect, and I already cannot wait for Episode Eight.
What a masterful piece of blockbuster film-making this is!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)