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.

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.

Deadwood

I always consider HBO to be a mark of quality; a seal for what can may the most interesting and daring television programme you might ever see. HBO is also home to some of my favourites American shows – Curb Your Enthusiasm, The Wire, Big Love, The Sopranos and Six Feet Under all are beautifully written (Curb Your Enthusiasm may be the only exception to this as a large amount of the show is actually improvised), all are brilliantly well shot and directed and the acting is always great. Deadwood is my latest HBO discovery and it is certainly one of the best things to have ever been broadcast.

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.

Valkyrie

The mainstream war film is a difficult thing to get right. No matter how you make it, it’s going to have problems; mainly these problems derive from upsetting your audience. War films are particularly susceptible to criticism, whether this is from those people who want more explosions and special effects, or from historians who consider the uniforms to be inaccurate and their only criticism is that the buttons or the decorative badges on the officers uniforms are incorrect or placed on the wrong side or the character actually has lieutenant badges on instead of a colonel’s badges.

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.

Driftwood

Whether you have an opinion on it or not, you have to admit that the use of Digital Video is a bold choice. It’s bold because essentially it can look either unbelievably amateur or it have some form of social relevance and link to the subject of the film. Unfortunately, Tim Sullivan’s Driftwood is the former of these. Personally, I feel that DV is a mixed bag. On the one hand, it can work very well and have a genuine eeriness about it (The Blair Witch Project), it can be a genuine way of tying together social commentaries with social significance (28 Days Later) or it can be totally useless and not provide anything at all, which is the case with Driftwood.

However, I do feel sorry for it because when it started and became apparent that it was shot on DV, it seemed like it was going to be a genuine attempt to be smart, witty and an interesting twist on a rather increasingly stagnant and tired genre and in all honesty I was quite frustrated when this was not the case.

The film’s premise is quite simple, even if it does sound a little tacky: a teenage boy who has been increasingly obsessed with death since his brother’s death is sent to a rehabilitation camp or “attitude adjustment camp” as it is referred to in the film. On the surface, I felt like it may have been interesting as my initial presumption with the film was that it was going to be a slow-burning, stark and utterly bleak psychological perspective of the American juvenile rehabilitation system and had it stayed within this realm, this review might have been very different. The problem was though, that this simply wasn’t the case and the film wasn’t daring enough and throughout it lacked the audacity to stand up and rely on simpler methods of story-telling, while at the same time taking advantage of good prospects that are right in front of it. However, it fell back on tiresome generic conventions and felt too premature, where the script itself could have done with a couple more re-writes just to have lifted it a little more. Had it exploited the potential of being more about juvenile imprisonment, the film could have such temerity and it would have felt all the more socially significant. I may have then had more respect for its use of DV.

In the specially filmed introduction, director Tim Sullivan and lead actor Diamond Dallas Page stress the point that places such as Driftwood do exist in America and characters such as Captain Kennedy are real, which although hardly comes as a shock (tell me if I sound too British), but what is more important is not necessarily whether they exist or not, but rather what impact these places and people have on the children that attend these institutions and the social significance that it has on the state.

In terms of genre and convention, the film at times becomes almost textbook in the way it is edited and pieced together. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not adverse to genre and generic convention, but there is a level where it simply becomes trashy and cliché and when going into a film with a plot outline such as Driftwood’s, I always feel it necessary to brace myself for some tackiness, but I always think that what lifts a horror film from straight cliché to genuine horror, is its ability to play with the genre and how self-reflexive it becomes. If Driftwood had played on itself a little more and accepted the fact that it was a horror film, I may have appreciated it more, but it seemed like it was relying on it too much when essentially it should have gone the extra mile so that it shone out over other films of the same vein. I also felt that if it had perhaps fallen back and harked more on old-school horror techniques, rather than using modern-day standard techniques of scares, then it may have had such greater potential to have worked.

Although having the occasional segment or section of decency, Driftwood is slightly sub-par and very slightly ham-handed to have been given a better release. It does however have some promise and provides adequate entertainment, even if it does feel a little shy and reclusive at times. Appreciation must be given for the way the film’s conclusion is dealt with because there isn’t one, which although may seem frustrating to some, came as a welcome surprise.

I would also like to thank Anchor Bay for having given me three free DVDs (The Unnamable, The Unnamable Returns and House) and a signed picture of Tim Sullivan as a reward for sitting through the film.

Vicky Christina Barcelona

Titles are important. A title should be reflective and to a certain degree should also be ambiguous; leaving the viewer to decide for themselves what the film is going to be about and not spoon-feeding them what the subject of the film is going to be. Vicky Christina Barcelona is not one of those titles. In fact, I think the title is so weak that alternative titles should be ‘Woody Allen Makes Another Attempt at Trying to be Clever and Interesting but Fails Once Again’ or ‘Middle-Class Sniggering Perverted Sex Romp’.

The film itself was quite a mixed bag and I couldn’t decide whether or not I enjoyed it or not: there were parts where I thought that it was almost classic Woody Allen and found it genuinely quite interesting and mature, but then that was quickly outweighed by feelings of resentment and sheer irritation which emanated from the central characters as they squirm around the screen pretending like they’re happy and know what life means.

Although the characters are one-dimensional and irritating, I feel bad for them because they’ll never overcome their crippling neuroses and inadequacies. Of course, this is Allen’s entire intention, and to be fair, you’ve got to hand it to the man for making a film which explores thematic notions such as having wasted your entire life and never actually finding the right person for you and then to aim the film at a demographic consisting almost entirely of middle-aged and middle-class snobs.

The one-dimensionality doesn’t stop there though; right from the offset we hear voiceover. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to the idea of voiceover narration, on the contrary I find it work incredibly well (Adaptation, Johnny Got His Gun) and often downright beautiful (The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford). But when you literally explain the thoughts and feelings of your main characters through narration, you can’t help but feel like you’ve been condescended. The other thing is, if you use voiceover then pick your voice actor well and bear in mind his or her sole purpose is to speak to the audience directly, so don’t use someone who sounds like they’re trying to sell you home insurance or cleaning products. The narration had an overwhelming feeling like being in an advert created by the Barcelona tourism board.

However, it wasn’t all that bad and there were things I did like about it. Its use of colour was admiral and it sold the landscapes and surroundings well; giving a well-rounded emphasis on the artistic theme, even if it did feel at times like you’d just had a hose of brightly coloured paint sprayed all over your face for an hour and a half. I also enjoyed the way that Allen directed the camera, often subjecting us to meandering shots rather than using standard two-shots and point-and-shoot methods. In a sense, the cinematography was classic Woody Allen as it had a very European cinematic flare about it and this is what I’ve always loved about him.

In terms of plot, narrative and writing it was quite good, but the narration really let it down. It also felt like actions were happening too fast and you didn’t have time to catch your breath before the next event was happening. If it was slightly longer and more about the psychological mindsets of the characters and the repercussions of this on each other then it might have been slightly better and more interesting. I also found that the scene at the end with Juan Antonio, Vicky and Maria Elena which culminated in Vicky getting shot in the hand was a not-so-subtle combination of pointless flamboyancy and the strangest deus ex machina I’ve ever seen. It also had a strange reminiscence of the scene toward the end of Hannah and Her Sisters, in which Mickey nearly kills himself.

Vicky Christina Barcelona wasn’t as bad as I’m making it out to be, the problem lies with it though is that it only has some good things in it, it has some good camerawork, it has some good acting in it, it has some good directing in it, it has some good themes in it, but there just isn’t enough of it.

Revolutionary Road

Sam Mendes has potentially one of the most unique ways of looking at American society. He always seems to have a certain way of showing us the stereotypical mask but under this there is essentially something darker and deeper than meets the eye, something ghostly that cannot be escaped. His latest instalment, Revolutionary Road, is no exception to this. In fact, it could be argued as being his finest work to date.

In terms of plot and narrative, the film cannot be compared to any other that I’ve seen in recent months. The pacing and plot development are flawless and the way in which it engrosses and surrounds you is so drawing that the film itself feels about 10 minutes long. The exposition and character depth that is explored is also almost perfect and by the time the ending credits roll it makes you feel almost guilty for having watched it, the voyeuristic nature and unpatronising way that the film is told can only be compared to Hitchcock’s finest.

The film follows the young and aspirational Wheeler family whose goal is to eventually move to Paris to start their life again. However, when problems develop at home and the happy veneer that the couple have starts to crack, the film quickly develops into an exploration of mind games that the couple play on each other and affect this has on the family as a whole. The film is a nostalgic look into the struggles of a young couple and their adaptation to the social surroundings that they have, it has everything you could want from a 1950s drama, but all the guts of contemporary cinema. It also seems to imply heavily that the problems the family are having are still present and still as valid as they were fifty years ago.

Aesthetically the film handles a difficult task very well as it could have easy fallen into a trap of Sirkian glamour and mid-class dialogue and seemed more like a prequel to American Beauty. However this is not the case at all, Mendes does a great job of applying aesthetic principles used and perfected by Hitchcock and Sirk but brings it up to date by not being so overtly glamorous and uses much more muted tones and colour palettes. The effect of this leaves you with a much more natural and honest interpretation of the film’s themes and settings: it has all the charm and brilliance of a period drama, but has none condescending traits.

As a couple, Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio couldn’t be more perfect on screen; they mirror each other with such elegance that it becomes hard not to like them and by the time you’re leaving the cinema it feels like you’ve just watched a home-movie with a sense of empathy stays with you for long while after. Also, think of the way in which they were in Titanic and the reflection of that in which they are now – that young and sprightly couple have now grown up (if only Jack hadn’t died that is) and have more problems with each other than you can imagine.

In terms of Revolutionary Road and Mendes’ career, I may be bold to think that it’s his best, but in terms of actual depth; quality and sheer brutal honesty it cannot be compared to his others and it certainly haunts you afterwards.

Rachel Getting Married

Here’s a checklist for ten things you’re guaranteed to see in any dysfunctional-family film:

1. An annoying child, or children, of any either gender.
2. A strange and quirky father or father figure.
3. Divorced parents.
4. A self-proclaimed “outcast” or “misunderstood” character.
5. Long, whining passages of dialogue; or monologue by any of the above character types describing how bad their life, or the world is.
6. Lots of booze, or at least one character who is boozed up.
7. Lots of arguing, which eventually lead to a character or preferably characters crying.
8. Easy-to-digest, ‘it’s all okay at the end’ narratives.
9. A death or some kind of injury.
10. The feeling that at the end you’ve just been patronised.

Jonathan Demme’s Rachel Getting Married is no exception to this whatsoever.

The film has an easy-to-follow, digestible narrative that is so ridiculously tame and condescending that by the time you’re walking home, you’re so safe in the knowledge that everything’s going to be okay, it feels like you’ve not actually seen a drama film, but rather a bed-time story.

The film follows the story of Kym who’s just got out of rehab and is spending the weekend back at her family home for her sister’s wedding, pretty ordinary so far, eh? The film opens on Kym (who’s name is also quirkily spelt, just like her quirky self) sitting on a bench waiting to be picked up by her father. We see her with a thick layer of black eyeliner and ‘eff-me haircut’; she then takes a drag from a cigarette. After this was over, I thought I was watching teenagers down at the local park and then realised I was in the cinema. Anyway, back to the film.

As with any normal wedding, the house is an epicentre of mayhem, there are characters of all walks of life doing all manner of normal, wedding-based activities. Then suddenly we see Rachel trying on her wedding dress (did I mention there was a wedding happening because so far I haven’t seen or heard it mentioned in the film itself so far) and as those girls tend to do, as soon as she sees Kym, she goes insane: screaming, jumping up and down and rolling around. At least that’s how I would imagine girls act when they see each other, I can’t be certain of that. There’s then more embarrassing dialogue as the two reminisce over a fantasy that one of them had when they were little, I can’t remember which one it was exactly because they kept talking over each other at the top of their voices in stereotypical, nails-on-a-chalkboard voices and as soon as that happens I can’t understand a word that is being spoken.

The film’s true embarrassments come in two scenes, the first happens around ten minutes later and lasts what feels to be about forty minutes, but is more realistically about fifteen. I’m talking of course, about the toasting scene. This is potentially one of the most disposable scenes ever; the only thing that compares to it is the dancing scene which happens later. The toasting however, introduces many characters which do not motivate or shape the narrative or plot, but rather slow it down. Valuable screen time is therefore wasted and which could have been spent developing the psyche of the principal characters and would have made it much more gutsy and daring and ultimately a much more interesting film, but instead we’re subjected to stories about how the friends of the couple-to-be met them and how much they love them. Although sweet and occasionally comical, they add nothing, literally nothing. All that happens in this scene that is remotely interesting is Kym makes a tit out of herself in front of the family, which leads to another argument. The argument of course it full of half-baked psychological nonsense, which comes from Kym and Rachel. Rachel, by the way is conveniently studying for her PhD in psychology. Very well placed, don’t you think?

Conversely though, you have to give it to Rachel Getting Married for using scenes such as this and also the dishwasher-loading competition scene, as they do add nothing and to script scenes where nothing happens and we learn nothing about characters, instead opting for observational scenes, is quite daring and it is a bold choice because you run the risk of boring your audience. However, it doesn’t use them in this way and it doesn’t exploit this potential and just as it begins to break a taboo or just as it is about to do something interesting, it creeps back in its shell and returns to another boring conventional plot device.

I also felt that to explicitly explain what had happened to their brother was another soft-option. The scariest thing about an audience is their imagination: if you tease them or dangle the notion of something horrible or gripping or even violent in front of them and then leave it to their imagination then what they think they saw or what they think happens is far worse then anything that you could ever show or explain to them. This is not that I approve or find the accidental drowning of your bother acceptable or on any level decent, but rather that if they had left it simply that he was dead of unknown and unspeakable circumstances then my imagination can run wild. The last thing that a drama should be is patronising and spoon-feeding and sadly that is the case with Rachel Getting Married. The film has wonderful potential, but unfortunately none of the guts.

Barry Lyndon

The period drama has become a stagnant and tired genre. It’s become a boil-in-the-bag, easy-to-use concept which has sadly become a staple of the melodrama and romance genres. Barry Lyndon is the ultimate exception to this. In a sense it is the period drama film. The film, like all of the other Stanley Kubrick films, carries itself with such a huge amount of grace that it almost becomes the pinnacle of that genre.

Barry Lyndon is the epic tale of Redmond Barry who lies, cheats and steals his way to becoming a part of the upper-class aristocracy. The three hour story is unlike others of the same vein as the way in which Kubrick moves the camera round the images and characters is an absolute turning point in cinematic history.

I’ve always thought of Kubrick as being the one director who actually knows how to move a camera and actually understands the importance of the camera. He never seems to move the people around the camera, which is often a fundamental mistake most directors make, but rather he manipulates the camera around the people. This is not to be seen as a bad thing, but rather a genuine stroke of genius; a way of drawing the camera and subject together.

The film uses a huge amount of natural light, which although may seem a pretty obvious choice, it seems to leave such a lasting impression on you once the film is over. It is not the daylight shooting that makes the film’s authenticity seem to bloom; it is the interior night shooting that is the film’s strong point. The use of candle lighting is something that is challenging as it produces such a warm and rounded image which is absolutely mesmerising. It also adds to the romance and flamboyancy of the costumes and sets that the characters are in. It also seems to draw focus to the characters and to the settings, as it only illuminates the area very close to the light source itself so essentially there are large sections of the frame that are encased in darkness and it is this contrast of light and dark within the frame that arguably makes the way the film has been made so utterly appealing.

The use of the camera itself is always the defining point in a Stanley Kubrick film and in Barry Lyndon he uses a lot telephoto shots which give the film a very flat and drained look and at times it also seems fuzzy. It this that gives the film a total sense of authenticity and it actually feels like the grand paintings that you often see in large stately homes. There is also a large amount of steadicam and tracking shots, which is always something that I’ve admired about Kubrick because it seems to leave the people the focus of the film, rather than detracting from them. These two techniques also make it seem that Kubrick is moving the camera around the people and the settings, allowing them to move as they normally would. It also makes it seem that he is documenting the actions rather than directing the actions for the sake of the camera.

I’ve always felt that Stanley Kubrick’s films look and seem timeless, they never seem to age or look dated, which also makes it interesting to work out when the events are supposed to have taken place. Even The Shining looks like it could be in a form of futuristic dystopia. Barry Lyndon however is the total opposite to this rule: it took us way into the past and showed us what it would be like to live in a historic dystopia where nothing is easy and we must try and keep trying to get what we want. The film is totally ambitious, daring and ruthless and it exploits this to largest degree and it does it very, very well.

The Wrestler

The Wrestler is the tragic story of Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson who after suffering with health problems is forced to retire but decides to return to the ring for one last fight. Although on the surface it sounds like a boil-in-the-bag sports tragedy, the film is heart-wrenching, obsessive and genuinely compelling. In essence, it’s all you can expect from a Darren Aronofsky film and more.

There’s no easy way to start to criticise what I loved most about the film because all the elements seemed to fit together perfectly. However, if I had to pick one it would be the casting of Mickey Rourke. Rourke himself, who has battled for a long time to reinvent himself and return to the big screen, couldn’t have been more perfect for this film. At times he plays it more like a documentary about himself than a fictional film about a wrestler and his final monologue is clearly not just about Randy’s torment, but Rourke’s. Even from the opening credits which show flyers from Randy’s wrestling career, it cannot help but be felt that it is not Randy’s face in those images, it is Rourke’s and if he doesn’t make his comeback from this and win and Oscar for it then it will be a sad day.

The way the film has been shot is also documentary-esque: the use of hand-held camera work may have seemed an obvious choice, but when coupled with the 16mm film stock that it was shot on, it somehow feels refreshing and appropriate for the subject matter. The use of 16mm also leaves a seemingly improvised feel to the film which works perfectly with the improvised feeling of the dialogue. This is not to say that these are weaknesses to the film, on the contrary they enhance the experience and draw you into the actions on the screen, leaving it with a phenomenal sensory experience that enhances the realism of the film to levels that are unimaginable.

The use of the sound in the film is also quite special as it is such a mixed use of natural sound which has been manipulated and produced in a way which is utterly swarming with realism. The natural sound when Randy is outside of the ring used the theatre space to give a close and tight experience that is quite claustrophobic, something that is reflected perfectly in the way in which it has been shot, not only in the film stock and hand-held, but in terms of shot choice and composition: the majority of shots were in extreme close-up to medium shot, which left it very flat and hued. However, the wrestling scenes used a similar type of sound which was very natural; however, the volume of overwhelming level of crowd noise was clearly manipulated. This mustn’t be considered a flaw or poor filmmaking, but rather a perfect replica of the sensory experience of being in a wrestling match. The actual volume and impact of the soundtrack can only be compared to David Lynch’s Wild at Heart – at times deafeningly loud but the way in carried itself was mind-blowing as it worked on every level and was so engulfing it filled the entire space of the theatre, leaving you feeling quite dizzy but the time the end credits roll.

In a recent Sight and Sound article, Aronofsky said that The Wrestler is a departure from the way in which he has made films before, instead adopting for a new crew and new approach to his filmmaking style. However, I don’t see this to be particularly true, as the themes of obsession and desire are still present as are the way in which he shows an uncomfortable level of violence and also how he has this gripping sense of realism which is at times shocking. In a sense, The Wrestler is more like his earlier work; PI and Requiem for a Dream rather than his last film The Fountain. As a curious little side note to the film and its relationship to The Fountain, it seemed quite fitting that Aronofsky produced The Wrestler after the infamous troubled production of The Fountain. Perhaps he has now learnt to take a greater control of his films and if this is so then it’s all the better for him as The Wrestler is potentially the finest of his work – it had all the potential to be a phenomenal film and it used all its potential with stunning results.

Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr Hunter S. Thompson

Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr Hunter S. Thompson tells the life and death of the infamous pop-culture icon and ‘Gonzo’ journalist Hunter S. Thompson. The documentary is at times very traditional in the way in which this life is told yet it at times often seems to veer away from the subject and within a few reels it seems to avoid very important elements of his psyche and subsequent death.

The film begins with noting his youth as the underdog; the middle-to-lower-class kid who hung around with the spoilt rich kids and never had a penny to his name. Although this section is interesting and clearly has salient information – we learn how he became interested in writing and the subject matters that he wrote about, it seems to be a little too obvious and at times rather bland. The admirable elements of this section though are the way in which the narration is not so much telling you what his life was like, which would have made the film so utterly unpalatable it would have been worth walking out over, but rather opting for excerpts from his books and writings. Although this too could be argued as being obvious and mainstream, I would rather hear narration about a writer through his writings rather than a hack script which tells us about what a terrible life he had and how we should all admire him because he went against the grain. The overall affect of the narration is that it doesn’t patronise us and leaves to make our own minds up about whether he is a certified genius or a rambling buffoon.

The middle section of the film is very hit and miss – the sections which discuss how he once tried to run for sheriff of Aspen are intriguing and ultimately display how someone who does go against the grain can bring voters out and can cause people to stop and think for themselves– something that seems all the more relevant within American society throughout the last six months. The lagging part of the film comes next, whereby it moves into a wandering section about how he befriended ex-presidents George McGovern and Jimmy Carter. Although it did hold my attention and it was interesting as these are the parts of his life that clearly shaped the way he wrote about politics and his ethos as a whole, it did seem to stray into a mumbling section whereby Hunter Thompson wasn’t mentioned but the inner workings of the two presidents’ campaigns were shown.

The real disappointment for the film came at the end, whereby his depressive psyche and subsequent death were traded for the above mentioned section. It seemed to tip-toe into why he had died, but just as it was starting to wade in, it quickly ran away. This fear was quite irritating, as it could have been such a darker and much more developed part of the film; shedding new light on the previous sections and showing how the American Dream that he had long come to admire and respect had come crumbling down beneath him. I would have had such respect for the film to have simply had the guts to have said that he despised the Bush Administration and everything about it and it can be said that this is the reason why he may have killed himself.

The impressive thing about the film is the amount of photographs, videos, tapes and other media that is present about him. He was obviously a man who taped and documented everything that he could and although he may never admit it, he enjoyed being in the spotlight as much as any other cultural figure.

Despite the fact that it somehow trades off the daring material for downright soft-option, Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr Hunter S. Thompson does show an interesting portrayal of its subject matter. However the problem becomes that although there is an entire ocean of Hunter S. Thompson material out there, he is such an enigma that any portrayal of him becomes valid and everyone will go and see it. That is the real disappointment.