Comedy is a very particular and individual thing, often it can be one of the hardest genres to prefect. My own opinion of comedy is that it should be subtle, dignified and have certain personal touch. I often get criticised for not enjoying the American Pie series or Adam Sandler films, frequently being called a snob because I don’t watch them. On the contrary, I appreciate the way in which these films are written and admire the pacing of the comedy, but in all honesty I think they’re just a little too silly and the humour is often a little too obvious.
A Mighty Wind is potentially one of the best comedy films I’ve seen and possibly the best Christopher Guest film. Simply because I think it has more of a certain Guestian flare about it. This Is Spinal Tap, For Your Consideration, Waiting for Guffman and Best in Show are probably the Golden Era of Guest films, but A Mighty Wind seems to have a lot more going for it, it also seems to have much better jokes in it and I also think it has better performances from it too.
The film is one of his mockumentaries, which show the reunion of three folk bands for a memorial concert for folk concert promoter, Irving Steinbloom. Apart from the abundance of well-timed jokes, I admire the little recollections from various characters about Irvin Steinbloom. Something which is almost always used in real documentaries as a way of learning more about the subject of the documentary, but what is brilliant in Christopher Guest films is that they take the stories and make not only ludicrous, but also quite believable, something which ultimately makes them all the more ludicrous.
What I also love about the Golden Era of Guest films is the combination of many of the same actors and improvised dialogue; essentially it’s the perfect filmmaking conditions: being among your friends and making each other laugh all the time. The brilliance of the films, particularly in A Mighty Wind, is that the pacing is flawless with a constant barrage of jokes being aimed at you. Although at times I do find it difficult to keep up because I haven’t got time to stop and enjoy the last joke before the next one arrives, something that mustn’t be interpreted as a negative criticism, but rather a compliment and a testament to the brilliance of the gags.
I also enjoy the way in which essentially the use of the mockumentary is a simple platform to make the scenes and the situations a little more awkward than they already are. The way in which the point-and-shoot method of filming may seem a little lacking in terms of style, but it makes a greater freedom to explore the scene in other ways and it also makes the mise-en-scène spring into play much more. For example, the scene in which Jim Piddock is showing Eugene Levy his model town would not quite be the same if the mise-en-scène were’t littered with tiny jokes, may favourite being the tiny model of a brothel in the ‘French Quarter’, as Piddock labels it.
In terms of comedic style, Christopher Guest and A Mighty Wind have very varied styles which are personified through the array of characters that are present in the film. My personal favourite is his portrayal of social awkwardness, something that he gives a very accessible and approachable dimension to it. Often this type of comedy can be the opposite of this, which is problematic for reaching out to new audiences, as you run the risk of it going over their heads, leaving the jokes too easily lost.
The beauty of Christopher Guest is that he has made an attempt to bring revolutionary comedy to the big screen. In a sense, improvisation and social awkwardness are the best types of comedy because they are very similar – both aim to create a world where things can’t be deleted and the stupid things that people say are always going to be remembered. Unfortunately, this type of comedy isn’t quite universal in cinema but at least Christopher Guest has helped it along the way.
Sunday 29 March 2009
Sunday 22 March 2009
Il Divo
There’s something about the atmosphere of a cinema that makes seeing a film in it much more enjoyable. The simple elements of total darkness except for the light from the screen; wall-to-wall screen and painfully loud surround sound, that when combined, push the cinematic experience over the cliff and straight into the abyss of pure enjoyment. Certain films just beg to be seen in a cinema and Il Divo is one of the finest cinematic experiences I’ve ever encountered. It’s undoubtedly at the top of the list along with Inland Empire, Mulholland Drive and Blade Runner. In terms of style, the film is excellent and manages to utilise all the cinematic constructive elements while still retaining perfect acting and a flawless script.
Il Divo follows certain parts of Giulio Andreotti’s political career, including his controversial ties with the Italian mafia. It also exposes a certain dream-like nature to Andreotti’s persona, making him far from likeable but, ironically, not entirely unlikeable. This is not to say that he is perceived as a fair-handed individual, but rather that he becomes more of an entertaining figure. Whether this was Paolo Sorrentino and Toni Servillo’s intentions is unclear, but it did certainly provide an interesting reflection of a dark, murky and mysterious past.
Sight and Sound recently said that Il Divo was one of the best shot films of the last few years and in all honesty, that is a very fair statement indeed. Like previous Paolo Sorrentino’s films that I’ve seen, Il Divo has a certain flowing and wispy nature to its cinematography. Each film seems to have been shot in such an objective way that it seems to stand back and let you take the film at whatever perception you seem to interpret it, whilst at times feeling somewhat surreal and intriguing. In my mind there are two scenes that immediately spring to mind to highlight this – the first being the large party scene at the start, in which we see the camera seemingly fly around the house; moving from room to room and halting on Andreotti. The second is the scene where Andreotti is simply sat in a chair and he is justifying to the camera, why he is the way he is. Although, strictly speaking, this scene doesn’t retain particularly outstanding cinematography, the sheer plainness and simplicity of it make it all the more engrossing. This monologue also carries itself with such poise and tenacity that it becomes so powerful that it throws you back into your seat, it becomes almost like watching 3 blockbusters simultaneously.
Something that I’ve always admired about Sorrentino is the way in which he uses the sound track. By this I do not mean soundtrack – music, ambience and dialogue – as separate entities, but sound track as a possessive nature; all three together. Sorrentino has always had a definite flair and finesse for making them all seem just as important as the last. Often at times, he seems to make it one of the most defining features of a scene, which is not only awe-inspiring, but it makes the visual and aural elements of the film at a perfect harmony, something which is often over-looked or neglected. Certainly one of the only other directors I know to achieve this kind of harmonisation on any comparable level is Stanley Kubrick.
Although some may say that Paolo Sorrentino is a style-over-substance director, but I would find this to be a mildly ignorant viewpoint, as not only are his scripts perfect and the performances he brings out of his actors sublime, but so is the way in which he controls his films. The fact that he brings out the highest quality in all of the elements of this films is a true testament to a director’s abilities. The way in which he makes his films is a type of filmmaking that seems almost lost in contemporary cinema and the way in which he presents them in the cinematic space of a theatre is one of the most powerful pieces of cinema that I can think of in recent years.
Il Divo follows certain parts of Giulio Andreotti’s political career, including his controversial ties with the Italian mafia. It also exposes a certain dream-like nature to Andreotti’s persona, making him far from likeable but, ironically, not entirely unlikeable. This is not to say that he is perceived as a fair-handed individual, but rather that he becomes more of an entertaining figure. Whether this was Paolo Sorrentino and Toni Servillo’s intentions is unclear, but it did certainly provide an interesting reflection of a dark, murky and mysterious past.
Sight and Sound recently said that Il Divo was one of the best shot films of the last few years and in all honesty, that is a very fair statement indeed. Like previous Paolo Sorrentino’s films that I’ve seen, Il Divo has a certain flowing and wispy nature to its cinematography. Each film seems to have been shot in such an objective way that it seems to stand back and let you take the film at whatever perception you seem to interpret it, whilst at times feeling somewhat surreal and intriguing. In my mind there are two scenes that immediately spring to mind to highlight this – the first being the large party scene at the start, in which we see the camera seemingly fly around the house; moving from room to room and halting on Andreotti. The second is the scene where Andreotti is simply sat in a chair and he is justifying to the camera, why he is the way he is. Although, strictly speaking, this scene doesn’t retain particularly outstanding cinematography, the sheer plainness and simplicity of it make it all the more engrossing. This monologue also carries itself with such poise and tenacity that it becomes so powerful that it throws you back into your seat, it becomes almost like watching 3 blockbusters simultaneously.
Something that I’ve always admired about Sorrentino is the way in which he uses the sound track. By this I do not mean soundtrack – music, ambience and dialogue – as separate entities, but sound track as a possessive nature; all three together. Sorrentino has always had a definite flair and finesse for making them all seem just as important as the last. Often at times, he seems to make it one of the most defining features of a scene, which is not only awe-inspiring, but it makes the visual and aural elements of the film at a perfect harmony, something which is often over-looked or neglected. Certainly one of the only other directors I know to achieve this kind of harmonisation on any comparable level is Stanley Kubrick.
Although some may say that Paolo Sorrentino is a style-over-substance director, but I would find this to be a mildly ignorant viewpoint, as not only are his scripts perfect and the performances he brings out of his actors sublime, but so is the way in which he controls his films. The fact that he brings out the highest quality in all of the elements of this films is a true testament to a director’s abilities. The way in which he makes his films is a type of filmmaking that seems almost lost in contemporary cinema and the way in which he presents them in the cinematic space of a theatre is one of the most powerful pieces of cinema that I can think of in recent years.
Sunday 15 March 2009
Old Joy
Old Joy may seem like another of those films where "nothing much happens", but to hold such an opinion of the film is one that should be taken facetiously. Sporadic dialogue and small run-time might be enough to win over people to such an opinion, but rather is should be felt that this slow-burner is one that is rather an undiscovered masterpiece rather than just another of its kind and should be taken seriously.
The stunning cinematography of the Oregon woodlands is one that is not only haunting and ominous, but works as the perfect metaphor for then film's main themes of the ever-changing nature of friendship. Each frame seems to have been crafted and re-worked so that absolute perfection is achieved and the feeling from them is not so much they are point-and-shoot, allowing the action to unfold in front of the camera, but rather that each one has its own individual significance and meaning, adding to eerie feeling that is being experienced and leaving such an ambiguity to the narrative, characters and ultimately the friendship itself, that it leaves a mystery as to where the narrative is moving and what might or might not happen next.
The two protagonists, father-to-be Mark (Daniel London) and seemingly unemployed bachelor Kurt (Will Oldham) feel like an unlikely pair of friends and as the narrative develops seem to have grown far apart from each other since their last encounter together. This separation of character is present in such minor details in the film such as the way in which they dress, the way in which Kurt talks much more than Mark and even to such small details as the way they order food, but ultimately the separation is determinate via the performances of the two actors. The mannerisms and ways in which the actors carry the two characters are quite extraordinary as they perfectly deliver the distancing that is growing between the two friends. Even when the two characters share the same frame or narrative space (which is a considerably large section of the film) the delivery of the distancing between the two characters is phenomenal, making the tight framing of the film seem even more poignant and exacerbating the feeling that something has happened in the course of this friendship that has altered in such an unforgivable way that the two characters will never be the same again.
As discussed the dialogue in the film is sporadic and mainly emanates from Kurt discussing old times or how the worlds that the two live in are growing apart, doesn't necessarily mean it is weak or adds little to the film's tone, rather that it releases a more poetic feeling and each word leaves a lasting impression. Such an affect in fact, that it’s difficult to recall the last time when words and characters were quite so well crafted. The way in which Kurt recalls his meaningless anecdotes (such as the occasion when he borrowed another friend’s bike) can only mean that they have nothing left to say to one another, something that is also present in the way that Mark spends more time on the phone to his wife than catching up with his old friend.
The soundtrack of Old Joy (composed by Yo La Tengo) is another element of its construction that is worthy of more attention than many would make it seem. Like the dialogue of the film it is erratic and seems only to be used in a few travelling sequences and not over the predictable sections of film such as over poignant dialogue. However this is not a weakness, but rather a cleverly orchestrated tactic so that it doesn’t obscure the meaning and significance of the words. Like the cinematography of the film, the soundtrack leaves a foreboding sense that adds to the film’s core theme of growing old and moving on, which can be felt in the way in which the music is essentially the same guitar part with varying complimentary instruments with it.
The true highlight of the film comes not from its construction or script, but rather from the feeling that the friendship will not stand the test of time and that things may be fine for these two old friends, but it will not last much longer - a feeling that can be felt within each of us, even if it is not immediately so and the sense that you are almost watching your own lives and not those of two actors on screen.
The stunning cinematography of the Oregon woodlands is one that is not only haunting and ominous, but works as the perfect metaphor for then film's main themes of the ever-changing nature of friendship. Each frame seems to have been crafted and re-worked so that absolute perfection is achieved and the feeling from them is not so much they are point-and-shoot, allowing the action to unfold in front of the camera, but rather that each one has its own individual significance and meaning, adding to eerie feeling that is being experienced and leaving such an ambiguity to the narrative, characters and ultimately the friendship itself, that it leaves a mystery as to where the narrative is moving and what might or might not happen next.
The two protagonists, father-to-be Mark (Daniel London) and seemingly unemployed bachelor Kurt (Will Oldham) feel like an unlikely pair of friends and as the narrative develops seem to have grown far apart from each other since their last encounter together. This separation of character is present in such minor details in the film such as the way in which they dress, the way in which Kurt talks much more than Mark and even to such small details as the way they order food, but ultimately the separation is determinate via the performances of the two actors. The mannerisms and ways in which the actors carry the two characters are quite extraordinary as they perfectly deliver the distancing that is growing between the two friends. Even when the two characters share the same frame or narrative space (which is a considerably large section of the film) the delivery of the distancing between the two characters is phenomenal, making the tight framing of the film seem even more poignant and exacerbating the feeling that something has happened in the course of this friendship that has altered in such an unforgivable way that the two characters will never be the same again.
As discussed the dialogue in the film is sporadic and mainly emanates from Kurt discussing old times or how the worlds that the two live in are growing apart, doesn't necessarily mean it is weak or adds little to the film's tone, rather that it releases a more poetic feeling and each word leaves a lasting impression. Such an affect in fact, that it’s difficult to recall the last time when words and characters were quite so well crafted. The way in which Kurt recalls his meaningless anecdotes (such as the occasion when he borrowed another friend’s bike) can only mean that they have nothing left to say to one another, something that is also present in the way that Mark spends more time on the phone to his wife than catching up with his old friend.
The soundtrack of Old Joy (composed by Yo La Tengo) is another element of its construction that is worthy of more attention than many would make it seem. Like the dialogue of the film it is erratic and seems only to be used in a few travelling sequences and not over the predictable sections of film such as over poignant dialogue. However this is not a weakness, but rather a cleverly orchestrated tactic so that it doesn’t obscure the meaning and significance of the words. Like the cinematography of the film, the soundtrack leaves a foreboding sense that adds to the film’s core theme of growing old and moving on, which can be felt in the way in which the music is essentially the same guitar part with varying complimentary instruments with it.
The true highlight of the film comes not from its construction or script, but rather from the feeling that the friendship will not stand the test of time and that things may be fine for these two old friends, but it will not last much longer - a feeling that can be felt within each of us, even if it is not immediately so and the sense that you are almost watching your own lives and not those of two actors on screen.
Sunday 8 March 2009
Deadwood
With this being a film blog, it may seem strange that I’ve chosen to write about a television programme. However, when it comes to HBO drama, I would argue that these are not television programmes, but rather they are serialised films; each season being like one film and when the film is over, there’s always the next season (or film as I like to think of them) to look forward to.
Deadwood is a fascinating show because it has all the glamour of a high-production film and all the daring of great, unpatronising writing. The show is set in the town of Deadwood, where at the tail-end of the American Civil War, a small town has been neglected and with no law or order at all, there is only a large group of thieves and countrymen, where anything can happen. With stunning mise-en-scène and some of the brashest language you will ever hear, Deadwood is one the most original televisual experiences you will embark on.
The first season shows a power-struggle between various townspeople as they try to keep the town civil. The second and third season, shows the town developing and as it develops, we see the impact of new technologies and new prospects that come to light, particularly the implements of a telegraph system and the introduction of a bank. Both of which essentially other towns have to connect themselves to other towns. The second season also shows the inevitable influx of government officials and the power this can hold on the camp. The third season is a progression of the second season and shows how things change within the camp itself. What makes it different is that this time the government has moved directly in and bought out part of the town, essentially muscling its way in to destroy the haven of Deadwood.
As with many HBO shows, it has a large amount of very unique characters, but unlike many I’ve seem, Deadwood’s characters are around 80% real, or at least based on real cowboys and many of the mentioned outside organisations, such as the Pinkertons are also real. It is this way that it links fiction and reality, that I think makes the programme such a genuine daring, and in may ways, a true HBO show.
Like The Wire, The Sopranos and, to a certain extent, Six Feet Under, Deadwood uses characters that are indecipherable and at times inaudible. The force of this then demands that you actually listen to what they’re saying, rather than it wash over you and often what can happen is that you need to re-watch parts again, so that you actually understand what is happening. Coupled with this, the dialogue itself is at times so romantic and fluid that conversations which would normally only last a couple of minute, are doubled and instead of simply telling you what is happening, it takes the long way round leaving a puzzle to decode. A prime example of this is when Cy Tolliver and Francis Wolcott are talking in Cy’s office. The first time I watched this scene, I had no idea what Wolcott was saying and I had to rewind and watch it a further two times before I could understand the significance of it.
In terms of character depth, drama is the best place to create good, solid characters and although the depth of characters does grow over the series, it still doesn’t feel like you’ve learnt much about them or they’ve developed. However, this should not be interpreted as a weakness or a flaw in the writing, but rather as a way of linking the actual concept and point of the programme to the characters themselves. After all, this is a town whereby it doesn’t matter who you are or where you’ve come from, but only the amount of money you’ll spend on whiskey and women and what kind of gold claim you’re looking for. I also feel that the characters are unlike television characters because they’re just so detestable. It’s difficult to sit and think who you actually like, because none are ever particularly nice to anyone. Paradoxically, there are times when I sit there and feel sorry for characters because of the way in which other characters act toward them.
This kind of emotional attachment and reaction is not the kind of thing that you see on screen very much, particularly in television whereby a general mentality seems to be, if I don’t like the characters, then why should I tune to watch them? However, Deadwood and HBO are not normal television; they are a genuine bridge between the big screen and the small screen.
Sunday 1 March 2009
Valkyrie
Personally, I feel that neither of these things particularly matter, but the film should be challenging and slightly slow-burning; while at the same time it should consider the psychological and political notions of what the war means to those directly affected by and around the actions that take place. War is devastating. War is a horrific ordeal whereby people are killed for the sake of something that they don’t entirely understand. War is confusing. Very few war films have this perspective and Valkyrie not is among the elite few. This is not to say that Valkyrie ignores all the basic principles and opinions of a mainstream war film. Sure, it says that war is bad and Nazism was crumbling beneath its own feet. Although, for the mainstream audience member, this has not been said enough and will never become tiresome. I don’t mean to cause any friction between myself and the average audience member, by this, but rather that I feel the mainstream war film itself will never grow old and it will never cease its already bourgeois perspective on the nature of war.
By its very principles, genre has to develop. Steve Neale taught us that. The only problem with Hollywood and their view on genre is that it doesn’t have to, as long as it’s bringing home eight or nine figure profit margin then who really cares. However, the point is that Neale is right and genre does have to develop, or you run the risk of it becoming stagnant and boring. Valkyrie is one that hasn’t done so and essentially it’s quite a run-of-the-mill film. However (and without contradicting myself) this is not my general opinion of the film. There are sections that are interesting and well made, there are sections that are thought provoking and there are sections that make it stand out from other films like it.
I did enjoy the way it had been constructed, the lighting and balance of light and dark was superb and the way in which the camera reacted to it, was on a par with Scorcese or De Palma on a good day. The camera movements were fluid and worked with a sense or eeriness, giving the film a genuine tension and stylistic edge, without becoming too flamboyant. I’ve always admired this about Bryan Singer and I genuinely believe that he is one of the most accomplished directors working in Hollywood today. Although you may not agree with that opinion, you have to admit that when he’s in the driving seat, he certainly knows what he’s doing. Certainly the most enjoyable part of the film, and certainly the most well directed scene of the film, was the attempted assassination scene. This scene carried itself with such grace, poise and genuine tension, that D.W. Griffith and Alfred Hitchcock would have been envious.
My only major criticism of the film was that it was in the English language. I can’t help pontificating myself by saying that if you’re going to make a film about Germans, with a German perspective of a German army, which shows the downfall of a German political party, then make the film in the German language. What confused me more was that the film’s opening voice-over began in German and mid-sentence flowed straight into English. I have such admiration and such respect for actors and actresses that learn dialogue in another language (I know they’re actors and that’s part of their job) but to learn a language with difficult pronunciation, such as German, is indisputably something that deserves applause.
The fact remains though, that this is a mainstream American film, and if you subtitle a film and advertise it as so, then people will not go and sit and “read” a film for two hours. Although Valkyrie is a genuine attempt to push a boundary and to make a mark, it still has too many problems with it. As soon as filmmakers lean to try and cut the ties to Hollywood and grow to not care what people think, then perhaps the genre and the cinema itself can grow.
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