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.
Saturday, 19 September 2009
Saturday, 23 May 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, 12 April 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, 5 April 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, 29 March 2009
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.
A Mighty Wind is potentially one of the best comedy films I’ve seen and possibly the best Christopher Guest film. Simply because I think it has more of a certain Guestian flare about it. This Is Spinal Tap, For Your Consideration, Waiting for Guffman and Best in Show are probably the Golden Era of Guest films, but A Mighty Wind seems to have a lot more going for it, it also seems to have much better jokes in it and I also think it has better performances from it too.
The film is one of his mockumentaries, which show the reunion of three folk bands for a memorial concert for folk concert promoter, Irving Steinbloom. Apart from the abundance of well-timed jokes, I admire the little recollections from various characters about Irvin Steinbloom. Something which is almost always used in real documentaries as a way of learning more about the subject of the documentary, but what is brilliant in Christopher Guest films is that they take the stories and make not only ludicrous, but also quite believable, something which ultimately makes them all the more ludicrous.
What I also love about the Golden Era of Guest films is the combination of many of the same actors and improvised dialogue; essentially it’s the perfect filmmaking conditions: being among your friends and making each other laugh all the time. The brilliance of the films, particularly in A Mighty Wind, is that the pacing is flawless with a constant barrage of jokes being aimed at you. Although at times I do find it difficult to keep up because I haven’t got time to stop and enjoy the last joke before the next one arrives, something that mustn’t be interpreted as a negative criticism, but rather a compliment and a testament to the brilliance of the gags.
I also enjoy the way in which essentially the use of the mockumentary is a simple platform to make the scenes and the situations a little more awkward than they already are. The way in which the point-and-shoot method of filming may seem a little lacking in terms of style, but it makes a greater freedom to explore the scene in other ways and it also makes the mise-en-scène spring into play much more. For example, the scene in which Jim Piddock is showing Eugene Levy his model town would not quite be the same if the mise-en-scène were’t littered with tiny jokes, may favourite being the tiny model of a brothel in the ‘French Quarter’, as Piddock labels it.
In terms of comedic style, Christopher Guest and A Mighty Wind have very varied styles which are personified through the array of characters that are present in the film. My personal favourite is his portrayal of social awkwardness, something that he gives a very accessible and approachable dimension to it. Often this type of comedy can be the opposite of this, which is problematic for reaching out to new audiences, as you run the risk of it going over their heads, leaving the jokes too easily lost.
The beauty of Christopher Guest is that he has made an attempt to bring revolutionary comedy to the big screen. In a sense, improvisation and social awkwardness are the best types of comedy because they are very similar – both aim to create a world where things can’t be deleted and the stupid things that people say are always going to be remembered. Unfortunately, this type of comedy isn’t quite universal in cinema but at least Christopher Guest has helped it along the way.
Sunday, 22 March 2009
Il Divo
There’s something about the atmosphere of a cinema that makes seeing a film in it much more enjoyable. The simple elements of total darkness except for the light from the screen; wall-to-wall screen and painfully loud surround sound, that when combined, push the cinematic experience over the cliff and straight into the abyss of pure enjoyment. Certain films just beg to be seen in a cinema and Il Divo is one of the finest cinematic experiences I’ve ever encountered. It’s undoubtedly at the top of the list along with Inland Empire, Mulholland Drive and Blade Runner. In terms of style, the film is excellent and manages to utilise all the cinematic constructive elements while still retaining perfect acting and a flawless script.
Il Divo follows certain parts of Giulio Andreotti’s political career, including his controversial ties with the Italian mafia. It also exposes a certain dream-like nature to Andreotti’s persona, making him far from likeable but, ironically, not entirely unlikeable. This is not to say that he is perceived as a fair-handed individual, but rather that he becomes more of an entertaining figure. Whether this was Paolo Sorrentino and Toni Servillo’s intentions is unclear, but it did certainly provide an interesting reflection of a dark, murky and mysterious past.
Sight and Sound recently said that Il Divo was one of the best shot films of the last few years and in all honesty, that is a very fair statement indeed. Like previous Paolo Sorrentino’s films that I’ve seen, Il Divo has a certain flowing and wispy nature to its cinematography. Each film seems to have been shot in such an objective way that it seems to stand back and let you take the film at whatever perception you seem to interpret it, whilst at times feeling somewhat surreal and intriguing. In my mind there are two scenes that immediately spring to mind to highlight this – the first being the large party scene at the start, in which we see the camera seemingly fly around the house; moving from room to room and halting on Andreotti. The second is the scene where Andreotti is simply sat in a chair and he is justifying to the camera, why he is the way he is. Although, strictly speaking, this scene doesn’t retain particularly outstanding cinematography, the sheer plainness and simplicity of it make it all the more engrossing. This monologue also carries itself with such poise and tenacity that it becomes so powerful that it throws you back into your seat, it becomes almost like watching 3 blockbusters simultaneously.
Something that I’ve always admired about Sorrentino is the way in which he uses the sound track. By this I do not mean soundtrack – music, ambience and dialogue – as separate entities, but sound track as a possessive nature; all three together. Sorrentino has always had a definite flair and finesse for making them all seem just as important as the last. Often at times, he seems to make it one of the most defining features of a scene, which is not only awe-inspiring, but it makes the visual and aural elements of the film at a perfect harmony, something which is often over-looked or neglected. Certainly one of the only other directors I know to achieve this kind of harmonisation on any comparable level is Stanley Kubrick.
Although some may say that Paolo Sorrentino is a style-over-substance director, but I would find this to be a mildly ignorant viewpoint, as not only are his scripts perfect and the performances he brings out of his actors sublime, but so is the way in which he controls his films. The fact that he brings out the highest quality in all of the elements of this films is a true testament to a director’s abilities. The way in which he makes his films is a type of filmmaking that seems almost lost in contemporary cinema and the way in which he presents them in the cinematic space of a theatre is one of the most powerful pieces of cinema that I can think of in recent years.
Il Divo follows certain parts of Giulio Andreotti’s political career, including his controversial ties with the Italian mafia. It also exposes a certain dream-like nature to Andreotti’s persona, making him far from likeable but, ironically, not entirely unlikeable. This is not to say that he is perceived as a fair-handed individual, but rather that he becomes more of an entertaining figure. Whether this was Paolo Sorrentino and Toni Servillo’s intentions is unclear, but it did certainly provide an interesting reflection of a dark, murky and mysterious past.
Sight and Sound recently said that Il Divo was one of the best shot films of the last few years and in all honesty, that is a very fair statement indeed. Like previous Paolo Sorrentino’s films that I’ve seen, Il Divo has a certain flowing and wispy nature to its cinematography. Each film seems to have been shot in such an objective way that it seems to stand back and let you take the film at whatever perception you seem to interpret it, whilst at times feeling somewhat surreal and intriguing. In my mind there are two scenes that immediately spring to mind to highlight this – the first being the large party scene at the start, in which we see the camera seemingly fly around the house; moving from room to room and halting on Andreotti. The second is the scene where Andreotti is simply sat in a chair and he is justifying to the camera, why he is the way he is. Although, strictly speaking, this scene doesn’t retain particularly outstanding cinematography, the sheer plainness and simplicity of it make it all the more engrossing. This monologue also carries itself with such poise and tenacity that it becomes so powerful that it throws you back into your seat, it becomes almost like watching 3 blockbusters simultaneously.
Something that I’ve always admired about Sorrentino is the way in which he uses the sound track. By this I do not mean soundtrack – music, ambience and dialogue – as separate entities, but sound track as a possessive nature; all three together. Sorrentino has always had a definite flair and finesse for making them all seem just as important as the last. Often at times, he seems to make it one of the most defining features of a scene, which is not only awe-inspiring, but it makes the visual and aural elements of the film at a perfect harmony, something which is often over-looked or neglected. Certainly one of the only other directors I know to achieve this kind of harmonisation on any comparable level is Stanley Kubrick.
Although some may say that Paolo Sorrentino is a style-over-substance director, but I would find this to be a mildly ignorant viewpoint, as not only are his scripts perfect and the performances he brings out of his actors sublime, but so is the way in which he controls his films. The fact that he brings out the highest quality in all of the elements of this films is a true testament to a director’s abilities. The way in which he makes his films is a type of filmmaking that seems almost lost in contemporary cinema and the way in which he presents them in the cinematic space of a theatre is one of the most powerful pieces of cinema that I can think of in recent years.
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Old Joy
Old Joy may seem like another of those films where "nothing much happens", but to hold such an opinion of the film is one that should be taken facetiously. Sporadic dialogue and small run-time might be enough to win over people to such an opinion, but rather is should be felt that this slow-burner is one that is rather an undiscovered masterpiece rather than just another of its kind and should be taken seriously.
The stunning cinematography of the Oregon woodlands is one that is not only haunting and ominous, but works as the perfect metaphor for then film's main themes of the ever-changing nature of friendship. Each frame seems to have been crafted and re-worked so that absolute perfection is achieved and the feeling from them is not so much they are point-and-shoot, allowing the action to unfold in front of the camera, but rather that each one has its own individual significance and meaning, adding to eerie feeling that is being experienced and leaving such an ambiguity to the narrative, characters and ultimately the friendship itself, that it leaves a mystery as to where the narrative is moving and what might or might not happen next.
The two protagonists, father-to-be Mark (Daniel London) and seemingly unemployed bachelor Kurt (Will Oldham) feel like an unlikely pair of friends and as the narrative develops seem to have grown far apart from each other since their last encounter together. This separation of character is present in such minor details in the film such as the way in which they dress, the way in which Kurt talks much more than Mark and even to such small details as the way they order food, but ultimately the separation is determinate via the performances of the two actors. The mannerisms and ways in which the actors carry the two characters are quite extraordinary as they perfectly deliver the distancing that is growing between the two friends. Even when the two characters share the same frame or narrative space (which is a considerably large section of the film) the delivery of the distancing between the two characters is phenomenal, making the tight framing of the film seem even more poignant and exacerbating the feeling that something has happened in the course of this friendship that has altered in such an unforgivable way that the two characters will never be the same again.
As discussed the dialogue in the film is sporadic and mainly emanates from Kurt discussing old times or how the worlds that the two live in are growing apart, doesn't necessarily mean it is weak or adds little to the film's tone, rather that it releases a more poetic feeling and each word leaves a lasting impression. Such an affect in fact, that it’s difficult to recall the last time when words and characters were quite so well crafted. The way in which Kurt recalls his meaningless anecdotes (such as the occasion when he borrowed another friend’s bike) can only mean that they have nothing left to say to one another, something that is also present in the way that Mark spends more time on the phone to his wife than catching up with his old friend.
The soundtrack of Old Joy (composed by Yo La Tengo) is another element of its construction that is worthy of more attention than many would make it seem. Like the dialogue of the film it is erratic and seems only to be used in a few travelling sequences and not over the predictable sections of film such as over poignant dialogue. However this is not a weakness, but rather a cleverly orchestrated tactic so that it doesn’t obscure the meaning and significance of the words. Like the cinematography of the film, the soundtrack leaves a foreboding sense that adds to the film’s core theme of growing old and moving on, which can be felt in the way in which the music is essentially the same guitar part with varying complimentary instruments with it.
The true highlight of the film comes not from its construction or script, but rather from the feeling that the friendship will not stand the test of time and that things may be fine for these two old friends, but it will not last much longer - a feeling that can be felt within each of us, even if it is not immediately so and the sense that you are almost watching your own lives and not those of two actors on screen.
The stunning cinematography of the Oregon woodlands is one that is not only haunting and ominous, but works as the perfect metaphor for then film's main themes of the ever-changing nature of friendship. Each frame seems to have been crafted and re-worked so that absolute perfection is achieved and the feeling from them is not so much they are point-and-shoot, allowing the action to unfold in front of the camera, but rather that each one has its own individual significance and meaning, adding to eerie feeling that is being experienced and leaving such an ambiguity to the narrative, characters and ultimately the friendship itself, that it leaves a mystery as to where the narrative is moving and what might or might not happen next.
The two protagonists, father-to-be Mark (Daniel London) and seemingly unemployed bachelor Kurt (Will Oldham) feel like an unlikely pair of friends and as the narrative develops seem to have grown far apart from each other since their last encounter together. This separation of character is present in such minor details in the film such as the way in which they dress, the way in which Kurt talks much more than Mark and even to such small details as the way they order food, but ultimately the separation is determinate via the performances of the two actors. The mannerisms and ways in which the actors carry the two characters are quite extraordinary as they perfectly deliver the distancing that is growing between the two friends. Even when the two characters share the same frame or narrative space (which is a considerably large section of the film) the delivery of the distancing between the two characters is phenomenal, making the tight framing of the film seem even more poignant and exacerbating the feeling that something has happened in the course of this friendship that has altered in such an unforgivable way that the two characters will never be the same again.
As discussed the dialogue in the film is sporadic and mainly emanates from Kurt discussing old times or how the worlds that the two live in are growing apart, doesn't necessarily mean it is weak or adds little to the film's tone, rather that it releases a more poetic feeling and each word leaves a lasting impression. Such an affect in fact, that it’s difficult to recall the last time when words and characters were quite so well crafted. The way in which Kurt recalls his meaningless anecdotes (such as the occasion when he borrowed another friend’s bike) can only mean that they have nothing left to say to one another, something that is also present in the way that Mark spends more time on the phone to his wife than catching up with his old friend.
The soundtrack of Old Joy (composed by Yo La Tengo) is another element of its construction that is worthy of more attention than many would make it seem. Like the dialogue of the film it is erratic and seems only to be used in a few travelling sequences and not over the predictable sections of film such as over poignant dialogue. However this is not a weakness, but rather a cleverly orchestrated tactic so that it doesn’t obscure the meaning and significance of the words. Like the cinematography of the film, the soundtrack leaves a foreboding sense that adds to the film’s core theme of growing old and moving on, which can be felt in the way in which the music is essentially the same guitar part with varying complimentary instruments with it.
The true highlight of the film comes not from its construction or script, but rather from the feeling that the friendship will not stand the test of time and that things may be fine for these two old friends, but it will not last much longer - a feeling that can be felt within each of us, even if it is not immediately so and the sense that you are almost watching your own lives and not those of two actors on screen.
Sunday, 8 March 2009
Deadwood
With this being a film blog, it may seem strange that I’ve chosen to write about a television programme. However, when it comes to HBO drama, I would argue that these are not television programmes, but rather they are serialised films; each season being like one film and when the film is over, there’s always the next season (or film as I like to think of them) to look forward to.
Deadwood is a fascinating show because it has all the glamour of a high-production film and all the daring of great, unpatronising writing. The show is set in the town of Deadwood, where at the tail-end of the American Civil War, a small town has been neglected and with no law or order at all, there is only a large group of thieves and countrymen, where anything can happen. With stunning mise-en-scène and some of the brashest language you will ever hear, Deadwood is one the most original televisual experiences you will embark on.
The first season shows a power-struggle between various townspeople as they try to keep the town civil. The second and third season, shows the town developing and as it develops, we see the impact of new technologies and new prospects that come to light, particularly the implements of a telegraph system and the introduction of a bank. Both of which essentially other towns have to connect themselves to other towns. The second season also shows the inevitable influx of government officials and the power this can hold on the camp. The third season is a progression of the second season and shows how things change within the camp itself. What makes it different is that this time the government has moved directly in and bought out part of the town, essentially muscling its way in to destroy the haven of Deadwood.
As with many HBO shows, it has a large amount of very unique characters, but unlike many I’ve seem, Deadwood’s characters are around 80% real, or at least based on real cowboys and many of the mentioned outside organisations, such as the Pinkertons are also real. It is this way that it links fiction and reality, that I think makes the programme such a genuine daring, and in may ways, a true HBO show.
Like The Wire, The Sopranos and, to a certain extent, Six Feet Under, Deadwood uses characters that are indecipherable and at times inaudible. The force of this then demands that you actually listen to what they’re saying, rather than it wash over you and often what can happen is that you need to re-watch parts again, so that you actually understand what is happening. Coupled with this, the dialogue itself is at times so romantic and fluid that conversations which would normally only last a couple of minute, are doubled and instead of simply telling you what is happening, it takes the long way round leaving a puzzle to decode. A prime example of this is when Cy Tolliver and Francis Wolcott are talking in Cy’s office. The first time I watched this scene, I had no idea what Wolcott was saying and I had to rewind and watch it a further two times before I could understand the significance of it.
In terms of character depth, drama is the best place to create good, solid characters and although the depth of characters does grow over the series, it still doesn’t feel like you’ve learnt much about them or they’ve developed. However, this should not be interpreted as a weakness or a flaw in the writing, but rather as a way of linking the actual concept and point of the programme to the characters themselves. After all, this is a town whereby it doesn’t matter who you are or where you’ve come from, but only the amount of money you’ll spend on whiskey and women and what kind of gold claim you’re looking for. I also feel that the characters are unlike television characters because they’re just so detestable. It’s difficult to sit and think who you actually like, because none are ever particularly nice to anyone. Paradoxically, there are times when I sit there and feel sorry for characters because of the way in which other characters act toward them.
This kind of emotional attachment and reaction is not the kind of thing that you see on screen very much, particularly in television whereby a general mentality seems to be, if I don’t like the characters, then why should I tune to watch them? However, Deadwood and HBO are not normal television; they are a genuine bridge between the big screen and the small screen.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Valkyrie
Personally, I feel that neither of these things particularly matter, but the film should be challenging and slightly slow-burning; while at the same time it should consider the psychological and political notions of what the war means to those directly affected by and around the actions that take place. War is devastating. War is a horrific ordeal whereby people are killed for the sake of something that they don’t entirely understand. War is confusing. Very few war films have this perspective and Valkyrie not is among the elite few. This is not to say that Valkyrie ignores all the basic principles and opinions of a mainstream war film. Sure, it says that war is bad and Nazism was crumbling beneath its own feet. Although, for the mainstream audience member, this has not been said enough and will never become tiresome. I don’t mean to cause any friction between myself and the average audience member, by this, but rather that I feel the mainstream war film itself will never grow old and it will never cease its already bourgeois perspective on the nature of war.
By its very principles, genre has to develop. Steve Neale taught us that. The only problem with Hollywood and their view on genre is that it doesn’t have to, as long as it’s bringing home eight or nine figure profit margin then who really cares. However, the point is that Neale is right and genre does have to develop, or you run the risk of it becoming stagnant and boring. Valkyrie is one that hasn’t done so and essentially it’s quite a run-of-the-mill film. However (and without contradicting myself) this is not my general opinion of the film. There are sections that are interesting and well made, there are sections that are thought provoking and there are sections that make it stand out from other films like it.
I did enjoy the way it had been constructed, the lighting and balance of light and dark was superb and the way in which the camera reacted to it, was on a par with Scorcese or De Palma on a good day. The camera movements were fluid and worked with a sense or eeriness, giving the film a genuine tension and stylistic edge, without becoming too flamboyant. I’ve always admired this about Bryan Singer and I genuinely believe that he is one of the most accomplished directors working in Hollywood today. Although you may not agree with that opinion, you have to admit that when he’s in the driving seat, he certainly knows what he’s doing. Certainly the most enjoyable part of the film, and certainly the most well directed scene of the film, was the attempted assassination scene. This scene carried itself with such grace, poise and genuine tension, that D.W. Griffith and Alfred Hitchcock would have been envious.
My only major criticism of the film was that it was in the English language. I can’t help pontificating myself by saying that if you’re going to make a film about Germans, with a German perspective of a German army, which shows the downfall of a German political party, then make the film in the German language. What confused me more was that the film’s opening voice-over began in German and mid-sentence flowed straight into English. I have such admiration and such respect for actors and actresses that learn dialogue in another language (I know they’re actors and that’s part of their job) but to learn a language with difficult pronunciation, such as German, is indisputably something that deserves applause.
The fact remains though, that this is a mainstream American film, and if you subtitle a film and advertise it as so, then people will not go and sit and “read” a film for two hours. Although Valkyrie is a genuine attempt to push a boundary and to make a mark, it still has too many problems with it. As soon as filmmakers lean to try and cut the ties to Hollywood and grow to not care what people think, then perhaps the genre and the cinema itself can grow.
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