Review of Horns (2014)

There’s a passage in Milan Kundera’s famous and wonderful novel “The Unbearable Lightness Of Being” where the notorious philanderer and protagonist “Tomas” reveals that he enjoys sex with the less conventionally attractive women. The women with something distinctive and memorable to mark themselves with are the ones who make more of a lasting impression; the ones who are distinctly themselves. If I remember correctly, the passage involves a woman who is compared to a giraffe with her proportions.

Stretching this quite far, I often find the same applies, for me, to films. There are some films which are all very well and good, masterpieces maybe, but on occasion I am drawn to the rougher films which bear a more personal hallmark, or are just so odd and juxtaposed that they make a stronger impression that something more professional.

And so, we arrive at Alexandre Aja’s “Horns”, a film based on Joe Hill (Stephen King’s son)’s novel, concerning a young man Ig Parrish (Daniel Radcliffe) who, in the wake of the death of his girlfriend from childhood, starts to grow a pair of horns. The small American town he lives in is adamant that he is the guilty, he is desperate to plead his innocence, and we are uncertain for about two-thirds of the film what’s really going on, aside from that it involves Daniel Radcliffe slowly embracing his dark side.

There is an element of narrative trickery here, as extended flashbacks (rather in the style of Stephen King’s novels, it must be said) reveal, slowly, bits and pieces regarding what happened to Ig’s girlfriend. We get to know a few key players, such as Ig’s brother Terry (Joe Anderson), and Lee (Max Minghella), the lawyer defending Ig. James Remar and Kathleen Quinlan play Ig’s parents. We even get to know, kinda, Ig’s girlfriend Merrin (Juno Temple). And then there’s the two policemen convince of Ig’s guilt, the waitress who wants Ig, Merrin’s father, the bastard Vicar…

This is a bloated film, chock-full of characters who probably could have been edited out. But that’s what I liked about it. And as the various narrative strings are pulled, tweaked and manipulated, the film digs itself into so many holes (and so many plot-holes) that to try and view it as a coherent story is futile. It instead has that quality of an old legend, passed down so often and through so many people that little elements here and there have been skewed, distorted, and come into contradiction with other elements. It’s hokum.

Why am I being so forgiving? A few reasons. Firstly, I’m warming to Daniel Radcliffe, post-Potter, immensely. Following his wonderful turn in “What-If” where he conveyed low-self-esteem and guilt so convincingly, it’s a relief and almost a miracle to see him turn on the “creep” factor. He is, at times, a legitimately chilling presence, and his eyes can truly bore into you. He has an intensity to him which is hard to forget.

The second reason I’m being so forgiving is that the film has such a keen and endearing visual style that, even when the “what” is in doubt, the “where” is right there in front of us. Filmed in Vancouver, Mission and Squamish, the film is painted large with greens from the forests, earthy ochres from the treehouse a number of flashbacks are set in, and generally there is the feeling that considerable work was done in post-production to make the reds more red, the blues deeper, the browns earthier. Uniformly excellent cinematographer Frederick Elmes deserve true commendation for his work here.

More superficially, the film has an excellent soundtrack, and any film that namechecks David Bowie’s “Heroes”, and then finds two opportunities to play it, gets a free pass in my book.

Some, understandably, will be more off-put by the jarring script than I. And while there’s one big-reveal that is quite moving, admittedly because it’s largely played off Daniel Radcliffe’s face, even I must concede that it arrives so unexpectedly and from out of nowhere that for it to have any meaningful emotional resonance is a big ask, even for someone as forgiving as this viewer.

It’s odd. It’s gawky. It jars. It’s bereft of ideas. By golly it makes no sense. But, forgive me, I quite liked that.

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 Tom At The Farm (2013)

Tom At The Farm, the latest film from the prolific and prodigious Quebecois auteur Xavier Dolan and adapted from Michel Marc Bouchard's play, announces itself with a stillness and tranquillity bordering on the unsettling. This is unlike what we have seen from him before. It is also very effective; we see Tom (Dolan) driving towards the eponymous farm, in an overhead shot that recalls Haneke's "Funny Games". He destroys his sat-nav system in a rage. Then he arrives at his destination, and walks around. The camera follows him with a Kubrickian feel to it; think a rural "The Shining". His phone is out of signal. Nobody is at home. He walks around the farm, getting his bearings. 

In short, Tom is utterly alone, and Dolan's new found restraint has exacerbated this feeling into an almost nightmarish vision of isolation. These are new notes from someone who was teetering on the edge of repeating himself. Gone are the histrionics (mostly), gone is the slow-motion (mostly), and gone are the doe-eyed relationships obfuscated by the characters blinkered self-centredness (definitely). This is Dolan on horror mode, thriller mode, mystery mode, and the result is a confounding, taut and often beautiful tale full of small erotic pulls, subversive whims, and a certain dissonant quality. This is Dolan's artistic maturity.

Tom is at the farm for his recently deceased lover Guillaume's funeral. First he meets Guillaume's mother Agathe (Lise Roy), a widow. Something in her words, and Tom senses that she didn't know about Guillaime and Tom's relationship. That was some intuition; later, Guillaume's brother Francis (Pierre-Yves Cardinal) wakes Tom up in the middle of the night, holds him down by the mouth and tells him that he isn't going to tell Agathe the truth, he's going to say something nice at the funeral, and then quietly leave Francis and Agathe alone forever. 

Quite why Francis is so desperate to conceal the truth from Agathe is never made clear; Agathe gives off no indication of being homophobic or backwards, and seems like the accepting type. She was expecting a girlfriend to turn up, but that's only because Francis lied to her in the first place. The film toys with incestuous overtones, but not too seriously. This is simply the first of many unanswered questions.

After a funny/painful/sad funeral scene, the film consists of the ever-shifting relationship between Tom and Francis, veering from the amorous (such as in a sequence where the pair rapturously dance the tango in a barn) to what feels like Stockholm Syndrome (in a scene where Tom refuses to leave the farm). It remains maddeningly enigmatic. For example, why does Tom feel such an affinity with Francis when he is so cruel to him? Why is Tom so willing to stay in such utterly hellish surroundings? What is Francis even doing? Is he a sociopath, or worse? Is a revelation regarding Tom and Guillaume towards the end to be believed?  

There is a scene, near the end, in a bar, which I suppose could be taken as an explanation for a fair amount of the above, but to me that seems like the easy way out. This is a film that doesn't want to answer any questions in particular, and that languishes in the murkiest depths of human nature. It's never willing to stick with one genre at any given time; the film can go from resembling "Calvaire" in one scene to some kind of hellish Mike Leigh picture in the next. Everything about it seems geared to keep the viewer on their toes. 

Thematically, it does match up with Dolan's previous work in the near-Oedipal overtones and the consistent obsession with the relationship between mothers and sons. But those are just Dolan's backgrounds; such as Fellini made films about women, Bergman about God, Kieslowski about human relationships, so to does Dolan stick with that one core idea. 

But here, we see him start to spin out a new web from this core, and seeing it is as exciting and bold as the films from the masters I have listed above; company in which I have long thought Dolan belongs, sure, but here is a film which would surely prove it to the sceptic. It's a fearsome, bold move and a fearsome, bold movie. 

Review of I Am Breathing (2013)

They should have been the perfect family. They had every right. The Platts. Him, Neil, her, Louise. Both of them young, intelligent, attractive. A beautiful son, Oscar. A home, loving family and friends. Everything seemed set.

But one day Neil discovers that there is something amiss in his foot, he isn’t walking right. At first he thinks it’s his shoes; he’s wrong. Some time after, he needs a walking stick. Then he is diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease, a progressive and debilitating condition which impairs crucial links in the brain, slowly destroying your ability to walk, move your hands, and eventually your ability to talk.

I am familiar with the disease. I have encountered people who have it. The current Ice Bucket Challenge is raising awareness and funds for research. But as Neil says two thirds into the film, “there’s nobody on this planet who will understand what it’s like.” I’m not going to try.  Emma Davie and Morag McKinnon, the makers of this documentary, are simply conveying Neil's battle with the illness. Do not lecture and do not try and convey what the disease is actually like. They portray, they present, they show.

You may think this this would be an unbearably sad documentary from the description I have just offered. You would have every reason to skip it. But wait until the end of this review before you make that decision.

There are, of course, moments of intense grief, but the principle emotion the film evokes is warmth and fondness for the gentle domesticities of family life. A great deal of time is given over to small, relatively trivial moments such as eating takeaway whilst watching The X Factor, playing on the Nintendo Wii, and dunking biscuits into cups of tea.

We get the sense that the film is saying to treasure these moments. Then Neil comes out and says so near the end, in one of his many small monologues, when he states that he wished he’d done so much more, such as spending more time with his family. In this regard, the film makes the healthy viewer grateful, and reflective. These are noble aims.

Another emotion that the film evokes is togetherness. We see how Neil’s wife, friends and mother all band together to help him. One moment sees Neil’s wife, Melanie, explain her selflessness; “I want to be there for him when he passes… He would be there for me.” This is as honest a film about love as I can think of, about the many kinds of love and caring we can have for one another. Neil is creating a letter for Oscar, so that he can know his father to some degree, and in the letter he leaves a list of tasks, such as rock-climbing and orienteering, to a different “Uncle”. Instead of mourning the fact that Neil is not going to be there for his son, the film instead seems to want us to celebrate the fact that even in death, we are surrounded by people we can rely on, who respect our wishes.

The film-makers chose the right subject in Neil. This is not to say that any person suffering from this disease does not have a worthwhile story to tell, but Neil in particular remains an enigmatic, funny and wise presence even as his various functions are taken away from him. Even when he is being winched into a chair, a process which is undignified by its nature, Neil remains dignified, never pitiful.

He explains that the moment his abilities to swallow and speak are lost, then he wishes to die. This film is not about the moral intricacies presented by the "right to die" debate, but in presenting Neil never relinquishing his own personal autonomy, I would be hard-pushed to see anyone who could not agree with Neil’s decision, if only because he seems to absolute and sure of it. 

The only flaws in this film are ones that cannot really be called flaws; I could say that the film is a million miles from a professional-looking documentary, and in fact is a little crude. But look at what is actually there on screen; Neil is there. His family are there. His blog posts are there. This is all we need; it’s all I needed.

I have now reviewed this film. You may still think that you have no need to see it, that you might find it unbearable. I cannot argue with that decision. But if your curiosity has been piqued, if you think that there is something in what I have described about this film; the compassion, empathy, or something other; then you will be rewarded. It inspires intense reflection, but above all, it makes one happy to be alive. I think Neil would be happy with that. 

Review of What If, Hector and the Search For Happiness, Lucy (2014)

Trying something new here for a change; I've noticed my reviews have tended to be on the longer side, so here I'm going to do three concise reviews of the three films I watched yesterday. There is often the trouble with shorter reviews that you simply can't say all you ever want to say; but then I always think of things I've missed in my long ones anyway. If you can get the general gist with main points, then I'll be happy.

Also, I loathe loathe loathe LOATHE that flashy, gimmicky style of reviewing found in short reviews by people such as Peter Travers, so I will be trying my utmost to not do that.

What If

Daniel Radcliffe and Zoe Kazan charm the socks off of each other, and us, during this unexpected gem. He is smitten with her, and she's in a five-year relationship; the chemistry is undeniable between them, and... Yeah, you can kinda guess where it's going, but in this case the formula works and doesn't feel formulaic because it is emboldened by characters who come across as entirely real and make us care for them. It is lent an extra twist by Michael Dowse's snappy and twee direction, and the cute animated drawings which come alive at opportune moments. This is one of the best films of the year, and I cannot wait to see it again.

Hector and The Search For Happiness

The distinct impression given by Peter Chelsom's Hector and The Search For Happiness is that of a film evaporating before your very eyes. Nothing about it sticks, from the distant cinematography down to the lazy script, and most crucially Simon Pegg's wasted phoned-in performance as a psychiatrist trying to find the root of happiness (clue: it was there all along). Even Stellan Skarsgard pops up for a bit and looks uncomfortable. How deliciously ironic that a film about a man trying to find happiness ends up being so relentlessly miserable.

Lucy

Luc Besson returns after last year's hideous "The Family" with this phenomenal science-fiction/action film about a woman (Scarlett Johansonn) who, after ingesting an experimental drug, unlocks more and more of her brain capacity. Don't stick around to dissect the (bizarre) script, but do stay for one of the first big-budget studio films of the year that is truly alive; visually fascinating and cinematically beautiful, it has the feel of a personal pet project that's been percolating for years. It all goes off the rails, as per, but I haven't been more transfixed by the proverbial train crash in a long time. Cult material.

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).