There are a lot of reasons why this blog has gone dark in recent months, none of which I'm inclined to go into now. But with the passing of Garry Shandling last week, here's an apposite quotation from the man himself:
"The world is too noisy and distracted to probably ultimately survive. Everyone needs to shut the fuck up. The answers are in the silence. Monks set themselves on fire to protest and to make this point. Just consider it."
If 2014 was all about the eyes, then 2015 was all about the ears. The sounds and the groove and the feet. “After a long day of Turing test, you gotta unwind…”
...Oscar Isaac and Sonoya Mizuno in perfect sync to Oliver Cheatham’s Get Down Saturday Night under blood red lights - an infernal disco - Domhnall Gleeson looking on in a state of bewildered horror as Isaac gives that unzipped all-in-one tracksuit a proper workout. My favourite ninety seconds of cinema in 2015…
...Miles Teller frantically calculating whether or not he’s pushing or dragging to the syncopated beat-down of J.K. Simmons' slaps to the face. Jazz as military manoeuvre, percussion as punishment, blood on the drumsticks. Just my tempo…
...The sheer unalloyed joie de vivre as we pull into the final act of Magic Mike XXL, idyllically rendered in the warm glow of the Kings of Tampa preparing to put on One Last Show, a montage to the sound of Heatwave’s triumphant The Groove Line...
And so here’s my Cream of the 2015 Crop, and I don’t have to preface it with tedious preamble about the inherent subjectivity of personal favourites do I? Great! And, obviously, I haven’t seen Everything, because that would be madness. I do have a life, you know? One last thing: These are in No Particular Order. OK, that’s it. Let’s do it!
Birdman (Alejandro González Iñárritu)
I saw this on January 1st and wondered if anything could possibly top it over the next 364 days. Turns out that wasn’t so difficult after all...Whilst no film is for everybody, I didn’t forsee that there would be such a hostile backlash from people who really didn’t like it. I’m with Mark Twain on this: “It were not best that we should all think alike; it is difference of opinion that makes horse-races.”
Whiplash (Damien Chazelle)
Big Hero 6 (Don Hall and Chris Williams)
Fistbump! Yes, I prefer Big Hero 6 to the universally adored Inside Out. No, don’t fucking argue with me about it.
John Wick (David Leitch and Chad Stahelski)
Black Coal, Thin Ice (Bai ri yan huo) (Yi'nan Diao)
Ingredients: Retribution, vengeance, death by ice skate, fireworks, neon, dismemberment and a dance number. Marinate in blood, booze and snow. Et voilà: Superior Chinese Noir.
Magic Mike XXL (Gregory Jacobs)
The Glass Slipper. The Groove Line. The Last Ride. Magic Mike XXL hits all the right (up)beats. Dayum.
Yes, that makes a total of nine. No, I couldn’t settle on a definitive ten. So, here’s an “Any one of these could be number ten”Close But No Cigar list:
Enemy (Denis Villeneuve) Ex Machina (Alex Garland) Inherent Vice (Paul Thomas Anderson) Mad Max Fury Road (George Miller) Mr. Holmes (Bill Condon) Sicario (Denis Villeneuve) The Gift (Joel Edgerton) The Lobster (Yorgos Lanthimos) Trumbo (Jay Roach)
Bonus Hate: Kingsman: The Secret Service (Matthew Vaughn)
I wrote around 1,000 words on the good and the bad of Kingsman: The Secret Service, mostly concentrating on the incredibly dubious gender politics on screen (it ain't called QueensWoman, after all...) but it was exhausting and it wasn't really helping to quell my rage. So here's the lone surviving closing sentence: "Like the shiny platters of greasy fast food that megalomaniac villain Richmond Valentine favours, Kingsman: The Secret Service is vaguely enjoyable to a point, but once you’ve swallowed the whole thing, you just end up feeling queasy and wishing that you hadn’t bothered."
And I’m out. Peace!
"Leave your worries behind 'Cause rain, shine, won't mind We're ridin' on the Groove Line tonight"
The Witch “Think on thy sins!”. Subtitled “A New-England Folktale”, set in the 1630s and in the fine tradition of Witchfinder General, The Blood on Satan’s Claw, A Field in England and Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, with dialogue culled from real diaries and court records of the era, Robert Eggers’ The Witch did something to me in a cinema that has never happened before. Now, I like to think that I’m a hardened horror buff, but this one really burrowed under my skin in a way that I wasn’t expecting. With a devastating sustained control of mood and tone, The Witch was so deeply and oppressively unsettling throughout that my fight-or-flight response kicked in and I almost wanted to get up and leave. I kept feeling that I needed to escape. The discordant sounds, the prowling, unflinching gaze of the camera...The Witch is chilly, bleak, hugely impressive, incredibly effective and I’m pretty sure that I never want to watch it again.
Cemetery of Splendour
Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s melancholy, hypnotic film doesn’t lend itself easily to a pithy, ultimately reductive synopsis. Not strictly magical realism, yet delicately touched with fabulism, Cemetery of Splendour primarily focuses on a makeshift rural hospital ward of soldiers struck down with an intermittent sleeping sickness, fighting in their collective dreams of the past. Layers of reality are piled on top of one another, and spirits wander between each realm without fanfare. Lights and colours shift subtly, and time and space, past and present, life and death, gods, mortals and spirits are revealed to be useless definitions and meaningless constructs. An understated, beautiful waking dream of a film.
The End of the Tour begins in 2008 with the breaking news of the “pleasantly unpleasant” David Foster Wallace’s suicide, before spiraling backwards to David Lipsky’s recollections of the five days he spent interviewing him in 1996, first at Wallace’s home in Bloomington, Illinois and then on the final date of a book tour in Minneapolis. I should note that I’m not overly familiar with Wallace's written work, so I didn’t come to the film with any pro- or anti- opinions about the man or his writings - but I don’t think that matters very much. Whilst I don’t think the film is as revealing or profound as it thinks it is, what it does do very well is examine the spiky, combative and competitive relationship between an interviewer and his subject. Jason Segel plays Wallace as a TV addicted, shambling bear of a man - guarded and somewhat socially awkward but always quick with a quip or a well-turned phrase. It’s fun to just watch the two men shooting the shit with digressions on everything from Alanis Morissette to just how amazing Die Hard is, the simmering, ambiguous undercurrent behind every exchange never far from the surface. Do “brothers of the lung” Wallace and Lipsky genuinely like each other? Or is this just a professional transaction, using each other for their own ends? The End of the Tour also gently prods at insecurity and imposter syndrome, isolation, loneliness, ego (and id), with fine performances from both leads (although it isn’t hard to tell that Jesse Eisenberg probably isn’t a real smoker…). That said, my favourite sequence in the film remains the one where Wallace sits rapt in awe at a screening of John Woo’s Broken Arrow.
A Tale of Three Cities
Check that Dickens allusion in the title - it’s no coincidence. Starting in 1951 before returning to the 30s and 40s to tell the wartime romance of Jackie Chan’s parents - his father a former spy; his mother a former opium smuggler, A Tale of Three Cities is an intimate epic preoccupied with time. The film opens with the carnage resulting from an exploding clocktower, and from there it moves through good and bad times; right and wrong times; victims of the time(s) and a loss of time with loved ones. Soldiers on covert maneuvers are unable to synchronise their watches...because they don’t have them. A car explodes in a shower of black-market watches. It’s a moving love story that looks at immigration and displacement and the toll they take on separated lovers and, whilst the film has one too many subplots that detracts from our central star-crossed couple, this is a thrilling, touching, quietly powerful melodrama.
Some Victoria statistics for you. Duration: 134 minutes. Shot in one continuous take. The film is the third and final (and reportedly, the only successful) take. Based on a twelve page script. Shot over 22 locations. And, cinematographer Sturla Brandth Grøvlen gets the first credit over the end titles, as he should. Taking place between 4.30 and 7am in the Kreuzberg and Mitte neighbourhoods of Berlin, Victoria shows us the hour before a heist and the hour after the heist, with the bank job itself taking place just off-screen in between. There’s an incredible piano rendition of Franz Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz, there are car chases and running gun battles, and then, as the dark angel at the heart of it all, there’s Laia Costa as Victoria. A compelling, extraordinary presence, the camera never leaves her, no matter where it goes, in this euphoric, exhilarating sunrise flit through the streets of Berlin, and it never feels like merely a formal experiment with a single uninterrupted take (in stark contrast to the pyrotechnic artificiality of similar in Birdman). Astonishing.
Adapted from Sylvia Chang’s stage production Design for Living, Johnnie To gets his Verfremdungseffekton with this ambitious 3D musical comic satire on the 2008 financial crisis. Harnessing every trick in the Brechtian Alienation Playbook, To conjures with space and artifice utilising his remarkable multi-level set, from the Huge Clocks (because, of course, Time Is Money) to the way the frame is divided and the characters are separated into distinct areas of the screen, to the symbolic elevators denoting status via movement, this is a bravura piece of work showing a side of To rarely seen.
Better late than never. The 59th BFI London Film Festival wrapped up on 18th October and so I thought I better slap some virtual ink down before those big screen moments were lost in time, like tears...in...rain. Time to write…
I watched a total of twelve films at this year’s festival, so I’m splitting this free-wheeling canter through my dirty dozen into two separate posts. I’m only thinking of you and your limited attention span and your precious, precious eyes. Let’s get on with it before I waste more of your time than the interminable ad-and-trailer slurry you have to suffer through at your local shitplex. Here we go:
Mountains May Depart
Opening night at the BFI Southbank and the festival kicked off in fine style with Zhangke Jia’s time-tossed tale of love, loss, globalisation, dumplings and the unalloyed joy of dancing to the Pet Shop Boys’ Go West. As the film progresses and widens its perspective, Jia utilises form to great effect - from the tightly-packed, dense 1:33:1 frame of 1999 to the wide open, spare 2:39:1 frame of 2025, where lone characters wander, adrift and isolated. As technology connects us more and more, are we actually further away from everyone? Or is it that the further we travel, the closer we are to where we started out? Over the course of the 131 minute running time, Jia covers a lot of ground: temporally, emotionally, geographically and thematically, touching deftly and sometimes almost imperceptibly on ideas of alienation, memory, identity, language, communication, belonging, family, freedom, infrastructure and the ebb and flow that exists between all of them, but if I had to take away one abiding thought from the film (and the film is fluid enough that there are many, many different ways to read it) it’s this: Everybody leaves...but you’ll be OK. Astonishingly good stuff.
Trumbo “We both have the right to be wrong”. The most important thing to know upfront about Trumbo is that it is funny. Very funny. I laughed a lot and smiled consistently, and that’s not what I expected at all from a film about the insidious effect of McCarthyism’s toxic scaremongering on America, the Hollywood Ten and, in particular, Dalton Trumbo. And yet Trumbo uncoils with simmering fury in all the right places without ceasing to be thoroughly entertaining at the same time.
Other Really Positive Things About Trumbo: It’s not a hagiography. For all of Dalton Trumbo’s righteous ideals, the movie doesn’t go easy on him and shows him with all his contradictions and intransigence laid bare (and not just in the bath). Also: this is very much a Writer’s Film (and kudos for making screenwriter John McNamara’s name so prominent over the end credits) - not so much because it documents a writer’s life, but because it captures so well what it means to live with one - hat-tip here to sterling supporting turns from Diane Lane and Elle Fanning as Trumbo’s wife Cleo and daughter Niki, who are just the cream on the top of a very strong ensemble cast, in particular Louis C.K., and Michael Stuhlbarg’s take on Edward G. Robinson
He Named Me Malala
Crucially, Davis Guggenheim’s documentary is not called I Am Malala, after Malala Yousafzai’s memoir. The “he” denotes a significant shift in emphasis, and Malala’s relationship with her father (and her father Ziauddin Yousafzai himself) is the core of the story covered here. Unfortunately, it’s an ultimately frustrating film. Malala is a fascinating person who leads a fascinating life, and yet this is an awfully pedestrian glimpse into it. The filmmaking just isn’t compelling or illuminating enough. It’s a disparate melange of elements that don’t quite cohere, with an over-reliance on (admittedly impressive) stylised animated sequences, archival footage of Pakistan and Malala’s notable public appearances, and scrappy handheld footage of the Yousafzai family’s daily life in Birmingham. The documentary is at its best when it reminds us that, for all her accomplishments, Malala is still just a young girl - studying for her GCSEs, slightly nervous around her classmates, teasing her little brothers and looking up handsome celebrities on Google Image Search.
Grandma plays like a distaff Nebraska, with Lily Tomlin’s terrific central performance as the dyspeptic Elle Reid proving what I’ve been saying for years - foul-mouthed short-tempered bastards can be lovely people too. Grandma passes the Bechdel Test early and often - there are only four male speaking parts in the whole film, and each one fills a distinct role: a mechanic (functional tool); a secretary (subservient peon); an ex-boyfriend (slacker, loser asshole); and Sam Elliott’s judgmental manipulator - and all four of them are, one way or another, totally pwned by one of the three female leads. Shout out to what amounts to the fourth lead character - the 1955 Dodge Royal car (that Lily Tomlin herself owns, having bought it in 1975 for $1,500).
A Bigger Splash
About halfway through A Bigger Splash, I thought: “Hold on a second...this is just a rip-off of La Piscine!”. I didn’t realise until the end credits that this was entirely intentional. It’s a thin line between remake and rip-off…
As much fun as it is to see Ralph Fiennes dancing to the Rolling Stones’ Emotional Rescue (and that is a lot of fun), A Bigger Splash is a little bit too On The Nose for my tastes: You see this guy Harry (Fiennes) he’s a STONE thrown into the tranquil POOL of their lives with a SPLASH which results in RIPPLES. See what they did there? And then there are the SNAKES (both literal and figurative)...
There’s a clunky point about the relationship between the idle rich and refugees late in the film that doesn’t really work either, but the film succeeds in the moments when it embraces ambiguity with miscommunication, ellipses, language barriers and lies. Tilda Swinton is glorious (that’s a general statement, obviously, and doesn’t just apply to this film) with an expressive, almost entirely mute performance, surrounded as she is on all sides by the noise of others and her own legacy of the noise she made as a rockstar.
At the post screening Q&A, director S. Craig Zahler cited a slew of influences on his grisly, horror-inflected Western: Takeshi Kitano, John Cassavetes, Wong Kar Wai, Larry Clark and Lars von Trier. Interestingly, I didn’t detect traces of any of them in there. Instead, I picked up strong notes of Howard Hawks’ Rio Bravo (in particular, the banter between Kurt Russell and Richard Jenkins echoing the grouchy camaraderie between John Wayne and Walter Brennan) and Lucio Fulci’s Four of the Apocalypse, (tellingly, one of the songs on the soundtrack is entitled Four Doomed Men Ride Out) via John Carpenter’s own riff on Rio Bravo: Assault on Precinct 13 (particularly in the first act) as well as Predator. For all the grit and splatter, this is an incredibly strong character piece hidden within the folds of an H. Rider Haggard “lost race” tale, with magnificent turns from Russell, Jenkins, Matthew Fox and Patrick Wilson. Exhilarating, visceral and one of my favourite films of the year so far.
That’s all for now. Part Two of my LFF round-up will appear as soon as I get around to actually writing it.
As of 7.28pm PDT today, the entirety of the Back to the Future series will take place in the past.
Back, forward, past, present, future...now seems as good a time as any to drift into reveries of my own timeline and personal relationship with those films in a piece I wrote a couple of years back: My Density Has Brought Me To You.
I'll leave the last word to the indefatigable Dr. Emmett Brown...
I don't really want to comment specifically on the allegations made by Lord Ashcroft that have been splurged with so much truffle-snuffling glee all over the place directly from the front page of today's Daily Mail. (Whenever I type the words Daily Mail, please imagine that I'm making a dismissive spitting sound directly afterwards...)
But I do want to point out that, if you've ever read Hunter S. Thompson's Fear & Loathing: On The Campaign Trail ’72, this isn't anything remotely new.
…(I)n both the Ohio and Nebraska primaries, back to back, McGovern was confronted for the first time with the politics of the rabbit-punch and the groin shot, and in both states he found himself dangerously vulnerable to this kind of thing. Dirty politics confused him. He was not ready for it…. This is one of the oldest and most effective tricks in politics. Every hack in the business has used it in times of trouble, and it has even been elevated to the level of political mythology in a story about one of Lyndon Johnson’s early campaigns in Texas. The race was close and Johnson was getting worried. Finally he told his campaign manager to start a massive rumor campaign about his opponent’s life-long habit of enjoying carnal knowledge of his own barnyard sows. “Christ, we can’t get a way calling him a pig-fucker,” the campaign manager protested. “Nobody’s going to believe a thing like that.” “I know,” Johnson replied. “But let’s make the sonofabitch deny it.”
The tl;dr version for the benefit of David Cameron et al: Buy the ticket, take the ride...
Just finished reading David Shafer's Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. Loved it. The prose just sings.
Sometimes, if you read the right passage in the right book at the right time, it can floor you.
Like this heartfelt declaration of devotion that kind of comes out of nowhere, and yet feels inevitable at the same time:
"I would like to one day live with you in Rome and bathe our child in an iron tub. Actually, any kind of tub, really. With you, I would always try my hardest - God loves a trier, they say. And I wouldn't lie or hide. I want to feed you and fuck you and ask you what's up and walk with you through whatever searing desert, down any choked street, into what joy and trouble might be ours."
Wow, that's Fantastic.
I was probably softened up for that by the reference to T.S. Eliot that just precedes it:
"For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business." -- T.S. Eliot, East Coker (1940)
The last day of June. Almost, but not quite, the midpoint of the year. It's currently 24°C in ol' London town, the subterranean sweatbox of the London Underground is already ripe with the pungent fragrance of all manner of commingled body odours, and I've been awake since 4.30am with the sun just commencing its ascent. All around, people looking half dead, walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head.
Spent most of June on the down-low, so I'm just breaking cover now with this Proof of Life blogpost. Hello!
June meant Father's Day (and homemade cinnamon choc-chip Pac-Man cookies!)...
...and mooching around the second-hand book-stalls on the Riverside front of the BFI Southbank. One find in particular made my day ...