Children of Men

Realism is an overly-used concept of British cinema. We praise films for being a ‘classic slice of realism’, or ‘gritty’, but what is more important is not its effectiveness, but its imagination. Children of Men is littered with realistic imagination. Its dystopian vision of infertility is one which, as far as I can recall, is unique, but its true strengths lie within the constructed political and social contexts in which it is grounded in. Such wonderful touches such as the advertisements reminding the Londoners that missing infertility tests is illegal, the faded and worn London 2012 jumper that the central character, Theo, wears, or the Tate gallery which is now inaccessible to the public, really seem to anchor the film’s broader bleak perspective of the London we all know now, the London of bright lights, of entertainment and of times-gone-by.

However, the film’s greatest (and bleakest) perspective is its treatment of immigrants, the abhorrent way in which they are openly treated as second-class, and the fact that the Britons clearly turn the other cheek to this blatant miscarriage of justice. It makes clear that London is a wonderful, vibrant city for people to flourish and start again, but it then destroys this myth in the blink of an eye. When viewing the film for the first time, one is shocked and perturbed by the clear breach of Human Rights that would inevitably be present if the film were set in contemporary London, but what makes this political and social stance even more troubling, is how it hardly feels far-fetched. It’s not a great leap of imagination to think that if the events were ever to become true, that British governments would detain and imprison immigrants in oppressive conditions, in order to selfishly protect their own population. And it is this bleak prescience which makes the film feel even more shocking and, ultimately, more realistic.

In Treatment

Narrative construction and development is too often neglected within television. It's taken for granted and, more often, not enough attention is paid to develop or evolve the length or structure of how we watch television. On average, comedy shows stick to within 30 minutes an episode and last between 6-10 episodes a series. Drama, on the other hand, allows for more depth to achieved, which is why an episode will last up to an hour and there will be around 10-12 episodes a series. It's frustrating that writers and creators have this normality to rely on. Its reasons and motives have to be broadcasters who pay too much attention to schedules, advertisers and ratings, rather than to those who are responsible for making the programmes themselves.

In Treatment, however, not only pushes the envelope of how to watch television, but never patronises its audience and never lets go, even when it feels like it really should. This admirable trait is too rare in contemporary television and is something that is certainly lacking in British television. To give some history behind this marvellous show, it may be worth noting that its a rework of the highly successful Israeli show, BeTipul. BeTipul is very similar to In Treatment in terms of its structure and content, except for a few minor discrepancies, but is essentially the same. BeTipul won many awards throughout its course, the first season even won in most of the major categories, including Best Drama, Best Actor and Best Actress.

The basic structure of In Treatment's unusual narrative is broken down as so: we see Paul meet with four patients and then meet with his Supervisor at the end of the week to discuss his own life. Each session is approximately 20 minutes of air time in length, so each week is around 100 minutes. The structure of season 1 is spread across 9 weeks and season 2 spans 7 weeks. This equals to (minus two episodes in season 1 for unknown reasons) a staggering 78 episodes across the entire series. This structure is highly unique, incomparable to anything else, and a true feat of endurance if you can complete it all in one sitting. What is also interesting is how to watch it. I would say that it is best watching on a week-by-week basis: each week to be screened together in 100 minute viewings, but it is also tempting (but cannot be achieved for a few other narrative details, which I won't reveal) is to watch it on a patient-by-patient basis: essentially watching all of one patient's sessions in one go and then move onto the next. The flaw in this, however, is that it is not chronologically coherent and, as you will see, some patients spill into other patient's time slots.

What is also unique and truly admirable about the construction of it, is how difficult it is to watch in long periods. Watching more than a weeks worth of sessions in one go is actually quite emotionally draining, leaving you often quite cold and reflective of the events you've seen. Breaking between the weeks is needed, but often not viable because the show is just so addictive. What I really admire about this is, is the authenticity this provides for the central character, Paul: back-to-back therapy sessions for psychotherapists must be so tiring and emotionally exhaustive, that ultimately it becomes difficult to continue, but they have to, as it's the nature of the profession.

As many great TV dramas have, there is a great deal of novelistic character depth and fantastic layered acting. Because of the simple nature of the character, it is often difficult to read Paul and understand what he is thinking. It's not until he becomes truly vulnerable with his patients in season 2, that we really gain an understanding of the kind of person he is: he begins to see himself and his family in those around him, something that leads into professional and ethical issues. What I love about this is that the dimensions of this person are so compelling, that it becomes hard to watch because you start to worry about all the characters and how their lives are changing shape before you.

Character development is interesting because, like very few other shows, In Treatment's characters are shaped by themselves or other characters, not the actions that take place on screen. Somewhat paradoxically though, it is actually the dialogue that replaced the action and this is what drives it forward. So what we're left with is the decisions that the characters make in terms of what is said within the confines of Paul's office which moulds the patients he sees.

As with any other HBO drama, the depth of these characters is so novelistic, in that it takes many episodes to warm to the show; that we, as a viewer, must see more that just an episode to comprehend the complexities of the people we are watching and how they fold into each other. This is something that I have only ever seen on HBO programming and is very distinctly unique.

What separates In Treatment to other jewels in the HBO crown, however, is that In Treatment doesn't have a large network of inter-working characters. Often an episode will only contain two characters: the patient and Paul. This may sound like a very obvious analysis, but it is a very relevant one. This stripped-down nature is unlike anything I have ever seen and it is certainly one of the most compelling aspects of the programme, for it means that all is displayed on screen is dialogue between two people for 20 minutes. Again, something which is very obvious, but feels peculiar when watching. What it means from a creative perspective is a tremendous reliability on quality dialogue, because why would an audience tune in if it wasn't interesting, let alone watch a further 78 episodes.

This minimisation is not only apparent in the dialogue, but is also something that permeates to the very core of the production. There is very little in regards to camera angles – often nothing more than a shot and reverse shot method are used. This is difficult to pick up on initially, as it seems too subtle to notice, but is certainly very effective and useful because it detracts focus away from the construction and onto the dialogue, which is the entire point of the show.

Ultimately, I am in awe of In Treatment. Its subtle complexities are masterful, brilliant and, at time, utterly heart-wrenching. It shows how far we have come to rely on high-budgeted action scenes, CGI splendour and closure at the end of each episode. Television should not be like that. It should be a long, arduous journey into the unknown; it shouldn't stop us from thinking and it should always push the boundaries of how and what we consider entertainment.

Green Street

Green Street is another in a series of British football hooligan films that are effective for all the obvious banal reasons but, despite their pluses, are ultimately flawed.

The film begins with somewhat ham-handed way of introducing the central character: Matt, played by Elijah Wood, is a Harvard journalism student; he is the top of his class, of course, and his he is naïve beyond description. Being the nice guy he is, he takes the fall for his cocaine-addicted room-mate and is expelled for it. Without telling his neglectful father, he travels to London to live with his sister who is married to an ex-football hooligan and whose brother is now the leader of his old firm. After several of England's finest alcoholic beverages he is taken to the football by his idiot cousin, Pete. After the match Pete and the Firm go to fight a rival firm and Matt goes back to his sister's house. Along the way, the rival Firm start a fight with Matt and just in the nick of time, Pete's firm turn up. Needless to say there is a fight between the two firms and Matt quickly joins in and enjoys what he becomes a part of. The film progresses along steadily and Matt becomes somewhat of a notorious figure within the Firm. After some profound life lessons and his brother-in-law is killed, Matt decides to return to America and seeks revenge on his former rich-kid college room-mate. The ending scene is so awkward and laughable that I won't go into detail of describing it, in fact this is the highlight of the film, simply because it is so painful to watch.

Apart from it's at times laughable plot, Green Street also has some rather weak dialogue and almost cartoonish characters in it. Unsurprisingly, the film has several instances of Cockney rhyming slang in it, which is inevitably are followed by an agonising conversation between characters on what they mean. As an Englishman I often find scenes like this embarrassing, simply because they're not even carried with a sense of irony. They're so void of humour and self-reflexivity that it wears itself down to simply being painful to watch. Aside from the rhyming slang, I often find with contemporary British films such as these, that the dialogue feels very under-developed and first drafted, and the more “emotional” scenes such as those between Matt and his father or Pete and his brother seem so unrehearsed and insincere that it's difficult to tell if they've actually been scripted or not.

The major flaw with Green Street is that the casting is so unusual that it's difficult to actually accept the film as a serious reflection of British Hooliganism. Apart from the older hooligans of the rival Millwall Firm, the other actors are too fresh-faced and essentially don't look weathered enough to be taken seriously as football hooligans. After having watched the film in its entirety, I still can't understand why Elijah Wood was cast in that role, his actual physique and his facial features don't carry him well enough for such a “tough guy” role. If you compare him to other actors in the film, he is noticeably shorter and less built, facially he is also a lot thinner and his eyes are much larger and doughy than everyone else's. There's nothing more painful to watch than a bumbling Englishman and the same can be said for watching the bumbling American. On the other hand though, Elijah Wood can be argued that he is perfect for that naïve, young and inexperienced type of character, which is true. However, this is only true in some of his earlier work. For example, in Lord of the Rings, Everything is Illuminated and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, he works perfectly, not that these films can be compared on any other level than this, of course. In Green Street however, he stands out too much and it seems too unconvincing.

However, for all its flaws, Green Street does have one or two passably admirable qualities. Firstly it touches upon issues that to a non-British audience, are unknown. Alcoholism being one of the more notable issues, violence of course being the more blatant one. My only problem with films this bland discussing serious issues as alcoholism is that I feel they are actually unaware of the issues they're discussing until after the end credits have finished. I further argue it would never have noticed them at all, unless critics and writers explain this to them.

The other admirable quality of the film is that it at the end, nothing has been resolved and none of the characters have learnt anything. There is no remorse or regret, simply destructive ignorance. However, again such nihilistic characters and sociopathic behaviour is something that weak writers are unaware of until they are being critiqued.

Unlike other 'hooligan' films such as Nick Love's bumbling, The Football Factory and Alan Clarke's actually impressive and disturbing, The Firm, Green Street has too many flaws and problems and not enough actual dare to be taken seriously. Ultimately it becomes something that fails to show sociological problems such as violence in a unique and alarming way. British realism films are a major part of British cinema and cinema as a whole and Green Street is one that can easily be left out as an example of this.

Cloverfield

Realism is a construction of a series of cinematic pieces which when all totalled together becomes a fictional reality. However, when it comes to new technologies being used within and as a major set piece, things become a little more blurred.

Cloverfield is an anomaly in terms of this fictional reality. When it was released, it was said to have given the monster movie a shot-in-the-arm, however this shot didn’t last particularly long; quickly dissipating into nothingness when the next Hollywood fad became apparent. Aside from this, Cloverfield also sought to provide a dizzying insight into an unusual present. What is incredible about Cloverfield is how you can argue it seems real. I for one thought this but quickly erased this from my mind when I realised that it was a monster that was causing the destruction of the human race in the film I have just seen. However, for all its nonsense, Cloverfield is a curious film in terms of how it perceives a bleak present through an easily perceivable reality.
The utilisations of actual cinematic technology have been very much hit and miss. Diary of the Dead seemed to fall down because of it – although most of its weaknesses can be blamed upon a fairly weak script – but in other instances it seems to work quite well, for example, The Blair Witch Project. Although, what is interesting in terms of these examples, Cloverfield can also be included in this, is that they all use the ‘digital camera, POV style of shooting’ to make these blatantly fictitious events seem real. We know there’s no such thing as zombies, witches or gigantic monsters, but as soon as the digital home-movie camera style of shooting is brought in, we’re lead to believe these events within another added dimension. This is not to say that we are lead to believe these events as 100% fact – they are not documentaries – but rather that for that period when the lights go down we are brought into another reality. A constructed reality. This is the power of the digital era and this then moves us into what can be called, The Digital Paradox.

Cloverfield for all its strengths though seems to rely on generic plot developments, becoming at times a parody of itself. The flashbacks which are already on the tape – which conveniently occur when things are getting too rough, or it has been too long since we’re reminded that they love each other – are a weak way of reminding us that the central character is in love with the girl and that he must save her. It also uses news footage to allow us to catch a glimpse of the monsters and although they are well executed, I particularly enjoy that the looters are stopped in their tracks to watch the events unfold. However, it still feels a little too weak and easy to add these.

What is also unusual is how the film was very well constructed in terms of sound; the film has a very complex sonic construction, which at times you can hear bullets whizzing past from left to right, from back left to front right and so on. However, it would never have been captured like that and thus never be able to reproduce in such a manner. Essentially it comes down to a choice between good filmmaking and naturalism. Of course they chose the former, because if the latter had been opted, it wound have diminished the spectacle of the film; making the grand, breathtaking images of the monster seem somewhat dwarfed by a poor sonic representation. With that level of noise too, it would have sounded too tinny and distorted had it been captured on the small microphone contained within a handicam.

For all its failures and construction loopholes, Cloverfield is an intriguing exercise in realism and generic development. It proves that there can be a middle ground between the two and the balance which pushes the film into a fantastic spectacle. One might leave the film spouting that it has a level of realism that can’t be compared and you would be right; the way in which it creates a realistic effect is incredible but the actual events on screen cannot be considered so and this is where films such this really lag.

Right at Your Door

9/11 changed the world in an unimaginable way – economically, socially and politically. Perhaps one of the most interesting changes, however has been the way in which cinema has changed. Cinema has always been affected by social, economic and political changes or movements and when the 9/11 disaster happened it gave Hollywood an excuse to exploit a new sense of realism that has never been seen before. This is not to say that they made entertainment out of the events that occurred that day, but rather that they had a new way to develop what they already had. This lead to the birth of a new type of film: the contemporary terrorist film.

The way in which Hollywood used this tool was through a strange sense of scaremongering; similar to that seen in other forms of media such as newspapers and televised news. The presence of 9/11 permeates into unsuspected films such as Borat and Man on Wire (the latter example of course is a paradoxical combination of redundancy and obviousness) but the way in which films that deal with terrorism such as Right at Your Door, World Trade Centre, Battle for Haditha and countless other examples are meant to make us reflect on the events that occurred that day and make us seem more socially aware of the surroundings in which we inhabit. Hollywood knows this and tackles it not with subtly and dignity (two things in which Hollywood has never been particularly famous for) but rather blatancy and spoon-feeding.

The notion of cinematic realism is fairly straight-forward: it seeks to make create a sense of familiarity through a sense of constructed elements which are entirely dependent on the spectator. Essentially it is a highly personal affair and is created through what you perceive to be real. For example, Full Metal Jacket is a war film set in Vietnam and most of the film takes place in what seems to be a bombed town in Vietnam. In actuality the scenes were shot in London Docklands and Stanley Kubrick had the town built to appear as if it was in Vietnam. Albeit a very obvious example it is the familiarisation we have with the landscape of the set that make us believe the film is set somewhere it isn’t. The contemporary terrorist film uses a very similar way of providing realism to lure an audience in: it uses well established and familiar settings and scenarios to provide an insight into a very big ‘What If’.

Right at Your Door is an interesting example of this. It uses established realism staples such as hand-held cinematography and unknown performers to eradicate all senses of glorification and replaces them instead with a ham-handed sense of familiarity. What is bold about the film however, is that it never explains who has actually dropped the ‘dirty bombs’ or the reasons to why they have done so. That is something that is not present in many other films of this type, which often opt for weak and half-baked excuses which are presented via stereotypical extremist groups. The rejections of this is what make Right at Your Door all the more interesting. Conversely though, it is something that could be argued about as being utterly irritating because it pushes the focus of the film into the direction of the characters that are ultimately quite dim and not particularly well-rounded. However, for all its efforts and weaknesses the film has a very clever and unique ending which actually seems very plausible. It also has a very bleak feeling to it, much like the other films of this genre, but in all honesty it is something that is admirable about Hollywood for a change.

Vertigo

The notion of the ‘it’s all a dream’ or even dream sequences as a whole, have become something in cinema that is frowned upon; a cheap way of creating resolution. In a sense it’s the all-time greatest deus ex machina. However, I’d like to propose that when it is done properly it can be a beautiful and also a terrifying use of cinematic exposition.

In his essay, A Free Replay (notes on Vertigo), Chris Marker points out that “the second part of the film… is nothing but a mad maniacal attempt to deny time, to recreate through trivial yet necessary signs the woman whose loss he [Scotty] has never been able to accept”. Essentially what Marker means by this is that every scene after the sanatorium scene can be considered a delusional dream that Scotty has made up in which to provide closure to his grief. However I would consider it to be more than this. This is not to dismiss Marker’s approach and reading of the film, but rather to build up on it and to analyse it in terms of its construction.

The second half is peppered with small scenes in which we see Scotty tracing his journey so far, we see him at the restaurant where he first saw Madeline, the gallery where he watched Madeline watching the painting and sat outside her house waiting for her to come out. What is important about all three of these scenes is not the simplicity of the fact that he’s revisiting these places and expecting Madeline to be there, but rather the way in which Hitchcock has shown them to us. If you look carefully you’ll notice that they are all shot in the same way and they all occur at the same times of day as when he first went to them. So rather than these being actual events, they can be confirmed as being dreams; copies of an original memory with significant and poignant changes. Of course, the counter-argument to this is that Scotty doesn’t use the same mannerisms that he used previously and due to the obsessive persona he quickly adopts soon after these three scenes, we can assume that it is the foundations of his unhinged psyche. This counter-argument can quickly dismissed by pointing out that during the second half the hazy light that can often be seen behind them is very similar, if not the same, as the flashing lights and backdrops which are used in the more literal dream sequence in the middle of the film.

The idea that Scotty uses direct copies of memories in his dreams can also be noted in way in his he talks to Madeline and Judy. For example, he says to Madeline when handing her a brandy “drink this quick, like medicine” and then says the same thing to Judy when handing her one. There are also more iconic moments in the mirroring such as the way in which he sees Madeline’s suit on a stranger in Ernie’s.

If we also consider in the second half the way in which all the scenes are much shorter than in the first half. For example in the first half, the scene in which he follows Madeline is between 15 and 30 minutes long and in the second half, between 15 and 30 minutes may consist of Scotty’s meeting of Judy and the grinding down in which it takes him to transform her into Madeline. This quick-paced half is in principal, much more like a dream as they flutter past in quick succession, similar again to the more literal dream sequence. The final scene in which drives home this notion, is the sudden and abrupt ending and the way in which there is no actual resolution. Like a dream, the film just terminates without any resolution; nothing has been learnt and Scotty is not enriched as a person.

In his essay, Marker also notes the absence of Midge as a big turning point and an important thing to consider in terms of whether it is, or isn’t a dream. Also note that she leaves at the end of the first half and just a few moments before this actually says “you don’t even know I’m here”. Note that here is the point where she leaves is the point where Scotty abandons his only link with reality, therefore moving into his delusional dream-like status.

At the beginning of this essay I noted that dreams can be a terrifying use of cinematic exposition. I use this as no metaphor, analogy or figure of speech, but rather as a way of stating that what cannot be controlled is utterly terrifying. Dreams are something that we cannot control and something that we do not pick and choose. This wildness is what makes the dream sequence part of the scariest corner of cinema and what makes it so brilliantly beautiful at the same time.

Funny Games U.S.

The remake is something in cinema that is debatable. More often than not a remake is frowned upon and susceptible to negative criticism, simply because there is the hierarchy of the original. However, there are exceptions. The Thing and The Fly are in my opinion better than the originals, simply because they are greater achievements and all have a more personal directorial touch on them.

Remakes are also part of a trend. For example, The Ring; Dark Water and The Grudge were all part of a series of Eastern horror films that were remade for Western audiences, this trend of course is something that is still occurring with the remake of Oldboy that is currently in development. Although I haven’t seen the three aforementioned remakes I feel that what I can say to justify my refusal to watch them is that the spirituality, general eeriness and the sheer story-telling ability that these films posses will be lost in the translation from the Eastern to Western culture. This is not to say that the remakes will be by default significantly weaker than the Western remakes, such a generalisation would be a great misstep, rather that it could be argued that from such a cultural slide and transformation, the quality will be significantly reduced. In such examples, there’s also a certain degree of phenomenology to be recognised – I watched them first and enjoyed what I saw so much, that anything related to it afterwards cannot be matched. This perspective is also a misstep as there is no level of comparison from the original, it is simply a presumption.

A director remaking their own films though is something that is a rare occurrence. To my mind, there are two examples: Alfred Hitchcock and Michael Haneke. Hitchcock’s remake of The Man Who Knew Too Much is an interesting remake to mention, as the reasoning behind it is almost unknown. It has been noted (Stuart Y. McDougal in his essay The Director Who Knew Too Much: Hitchcock Remakes Himself) that Hitchcock constantly remade his own work; often remaking transitions between shots. Examples that I can think of include the following: scenes in Vertigo and The Wrong Man for their uses of psychiatric hospitals, both versions of The Man Who Knew Too Much; Psycho and Vertigo for their use of two narratives (think of this as two sections to the narrative), The Manxman and Vertigo for their use of attempted suicide via jumping into a river, the presence of birds as menace in the parlour scene of Psycho can also be linked to The Birds. There are also parallels between The Man Who Knew Too Much and North by Northwest in which the thieves force a character to be intoxicated and finally the sequence in The Thirty-Nine Steps can also be argued as being a remake of the Albert Hall sequence in The Man Who Knew Too Much. Although I may have run the risk of reading into these examples too much, it cannot help but be noticed that there was an obsessive side to Hitchcock and definitely a very passionate one.

Michael Haneke’s remake of Funny Games, on the other hand, is something much more curious. Not only did Haneke embark on remaking his own film, he remade it in another language and with another cast, something that can also be argued about Hitchcock’s two remakes. However, the crucial thing that separates Haneke and Hitchcock is that Haneke’s remake is an almost shot-by-shot remake, something that Hitchcock did not do. The point of making this connection is simply to establish that there is a drive within a small number of directors for perfection. These directors have found their happy medium in the form of genre and their auteurism, but are still driving to find perfection in the things that they know. This drive should not be considered as a weakness or laziness on their part, but rather a sense that they are striving to achieve the very highest quality of the things that they know.

Haneke’s remake is something of a curiosity though and the reasons why he remade the film may remain a mystery. To think about the reasons why this may have been done, it may be worthwhile looking at the themes and critical strands that the film explores. For example, the film has an outstanding critique of cinema and the media. This is typified in the way in which the fourth wall is broken and Michael Pitt’s character talks directly to the camera. The dialogue also makes references to TV characters like Tom and Jerry and Beavis and Butt Head. It also discusses cinematic language and at one point discusses narrative theory and exposition. Perhaps the most overt link to narrative exposition is the way in which Peter is killed and Paul rewinds with the TV remote what has happened and then changes the events so that Peter is not killed. Michael Pitt’s final stare into the camera also provides a certain sense of circular narrative, that everything is not going to be alright but the previous day’s events have come full circle and will simply occur again.

It was 10 years between Funny Games and Funny Games U.S. and although it is simply the same film, it cannot help but be felt that the film’s themes and notions of cinematic exploration have matured; developing a greater sense of achievement and essentially the film has a new target – the American audience. Although it is unclear where the film was aimed at first time round, it is quite clear where this one is aimed at, with the Hollywood norm being at the centre of the target.

As for Hitchcock, Haneke and the notion of the remake, it is something that is going to continually be developed and something that will continually be used. Remaking is a staple of the film industry, albeit one that may be frowned upon, but it will still be one that will characterise perfection. Haneke and Hitchcock aren’t too dissimilar in the way in which they both are masters at their own game. Hitchcock struggled for perfection and acceptance on a level that cannot quite be paralleled, but Haneke’s films are not far from it.

Red Road

Red Road is the first feature by British born filmmaker Andrea Arnold and in all honesty, it is a noticeable first film. Although there are elements of the film that are worthy of interest and discussion, the majority of the film is weak; badly written and under-developed.

Supposedly the film has been inspired by a conversation between Lars Von Trier, Lone Scherfig and Anders Thomas Jensen, whereby they decided upon a concept for a series of films whereby the same characters must be used, but three separate films are made. Although in concept it seems to be sound and genuinely quite interesting, the problem with this is that the potential of the concept simply doesn’t shine through, leaving the film seem entirely unbelievable and essentially they are lost and never to be picked up on later.

The film itself follows a lonely Scottish CCTV operator named Jackie as she becomes fascinated with a mysterious man she sees through one of the cameras. In principle it could be said that the film’s themes in the first half are worthy of attention – isolation; desperation; curiosity; and the banality of being a low to middle class Scottish woman – all of which would have made the film a much more enjoyable experience had they been explored in greater depth and the film’s centrality being simply those themes and how they impinge on contemporary Scottish society. This form of realism would have made the film so much more intriguing and made the “apparent” Dogme nature of the film become much more vibrant. The other problem with the realism of the film is that it appears, aesthetically at least, to be quite a sleek and well constructed film and had the notions that the film’s themes explore in the first half been explored it would have created an interesting combination of loneliness, bitterness et al along with a cold and often unforgiving mise-en-scene. The two would then have complimented one another beautifully, creating an interesting blip within contemporary Scottish cinema, however it simply is not so and the film does little to rouse attention to that particular cinema.

The last half of the film is shot in a haphazard way that has now become so synonymous with realism that it is recognisable from a mile off and when coupled with the sleekness and stylisation that the first half exudes, it leaves a confusing text that is so much so that it becomes almost a novice mistake that a more developed and matured director wouldn’t have made. It is this second half that creates such a weakness within the film that it leaves you wondering why you even bothered sitting through the first half to begin with. The male character Clyde for example has such poor and ill-fitted dialogue that it renders all realistic and believable character traits to almost nothing and the supposed “hard man” character becomes nothing more than a laughing stock for the remaining thirty minutes of the film.

However the structure of the film itself is competent and well balanced, the shocks and narrative twists are well-timed, leaving the audience satisfied with a semi-decent narrative construction that sadly seems so boil-in-bag it becomes another rookie mistake. What must be admired about this element of the film is that it is essentially quite bold to leave all character depth shallow and minimal until the very end of the film, but if were one so inclined as to cast their minds back to any basic generic thriller or horror film from any other director one would note that this technique has been used a thousand times before and also with greater and more impressive results.

The aesthetic tools of the film such as the cinematography and editing are also at times well crafted and the created a sense of tension that links well to the themes outlined in the first half of the film, but they are not so well sharpened as to leave a lasting impression and are somewhat lost within the next ten minutes of screen time by yet more confused dialogue and acting.

There are some more notable points that the film raises such as the level of graphic sexual content that a small Scottish film will present and to link with this, it could be worth noting how this will impinge on issues of feminism via the way in which the camera lingers on the sexual acts of the film, however there are too many weaknesses in the film that are easily apparent to make such a worthy discussion of these issues. It could also be said that the uses of the sexual content and also the way in which the lead male character talks so sexually explicitly have only been used because it is apparently shocking, whereas one could argue that such levels of sexual content and language actually provide little narrative purpose and details and that using them becomes pointless.

On the whole, Red Road is a semi-decent piece of cinema that although there are intriguing and attention-grabbing elements of the film, there are too many things wrong with the film which make it overall a confusing and bewildering film, with too many reels that are absurd, ludicrous and peppered with character actions and dialogue which simply would not happen, thus exacerbating the already weak sections of film.

As for the concept of ‘The Advance Party’, let’s just hope that the other two films are better because if they are similar to Red Road then the concept will fall flat on its face and will not be able to stand up again.

A Mighty Wind

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.

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.