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.

Che: Parts One and Two

Steven Soderbergh’s latest instalments come in the four and a half hour epic that is Che, the now legendary story of Argentine doctor Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara and his two campaigns in Cuba and Bolivia.

Obviously the film’s defining characteristic is its narrative. Which may seem indigestive and, to some, unapproachable at the length it is. Although, the brilliant thing about it is that it is so unbelievably well paced: it never seems to drag and there never seems to be a lagging or unnecessary moment where each step along the incredible story seems absolutely screen-worthy. As mentioned above, the two films show two campaigns – the revolution in Cuba and the failed campaign in Bolivia; which led to his assassination. Although the two may at first glance seem very similar, they actually have totally different tones and themes throughout each narrative, resulting in rather mirroring texts.

Che: Part One is a quite straight-forward film in terms of how it portrays the revolution and Cuba’s rise to power over Fulgencio Batista’s dictatorship. However it is coupled with black and white excerpts from his address to the United Nations and various other events that occurred after the initial revolution and Che’s very brief stay in New York. Although the black and white scenes bracket the colour scenes and give a form of closure to them, allowing for necessary developments for part two, they seem at times quite inane. It leaves one wondering what it would have been like if the interview sections had been left out and what kind of development the film could have had.

Part Two, on the other hand, is somewhat slower burning and at times feels rather existential and sympathetic to Che. It shows how he can no longer function in “regular” society with his new wife and family; how he has been into hiding and has to deal with an ostensible celebrity status, and as the film progresses it seems that there are feelings of doubt and regret to their actions.

In terms of filmmaking and cinematic quality, the film is breathtaking. The way Soderbergh moves the camera around the landscapes is beautiful and as the film progresses; so does the quality, whilst at times it leaves quite a haunting feeling and by the closing half an hour it draining and bleak. The use of sound is also mind-blowing, with all channels of the soundtrack being used to genuinely encapsulate a feeling of at times freedom and space but by the end it feels drowning and engulfing, leaving the film’s themes and political notions to really shine through.

Benicio Del Toro’s acting in the film is also flawless, the quality of his portrayal is amazing and at times it feels like you’re actually watching Che speak. A similar kind of encapsulation can only be compared to Bruno Ganz’s depiction of Adolf Hitler in Der Untergang (Downfall). Each second that Che is on screen seems to have been carefully calculated and thought-out so that the utmost accuracy can be shown. This can also be said for the filmmaking too: as the film progresses it becomes richer and fuller and by the time the film has ended the text has now become so vast that ending and Che’s execution comes a shock and genuinely heart-breaking moment.

At first I thought the films would work better as one long epic, but on reflection perhaps they do work better as two films. The two narratives do oppose each other and do show very different times of Che’s life and if done as one, it could have been that the sudden change in the middle would have become too negative. For the being though, relish in the fact that the two separate films are glorious and provide everything you could need in an epic.