The Skin I Live In (La piel que habito)

Pedro Almodóvar’s films have always been off-the-wall, melodramatic and a little bit nuts, but few would have predicted that he would make a foray into the rigid generic confines of the horror film. The even more surprising fact, in truth, is that he has done so to such great effect. For his new film, The Skin I Live In, is a smooth, luscious, and almost-satisfying film that entertains like the best of his work.

Antonio Banderas – reunited with the director after 21 years – plays Dr Robert Ledgard, a brilliant yet troubled surgeon, who, we soon learn, is keeping a young woman hostage in his house. Using her body as a canvas for his most outré experiments, Ledgard has set about entirely replacing her skin with an artificial skin that is sensitive yet resistant to flame. The rest of the plot is impossible to summarise without spoilers, hinging as much of it does on a central plot twist, but it can be said that it is typically non-linear and mysterious. The question of who the captive is is the key to it all. Themes of Stockholm Syndrome (as in 1990’s Átame), identity – both sexual and personal –, tragedy, love and loss spring up throughout.

Banderas’s character may be the screen archetype of the mad scientist: hubristic to a fault and tormented by demons from his past, yet his character, like the movie, manages to be so much more. This is, in part, down to Banderas’s fine performance, but also to the striking mix of genres and allusion that the director employs throughout. For, the film contains not only horror, but also sci-fi, thriller, comedy and more – managing to be very Almodóvar and very pulpy simultaneously.

Despite being plainly ridiculous for much of its running time – and archly so – what I felt genuinely let the action down was the relative earliness of the twist – or the lack of a second one. Coming a full half-an-hour before the film’s ending, it has the effect of destroying any dramatic tension that had been fastidiously built up. So much so that I almost lost interest in the final few scenes, even given the pervasive uncanniness, which is always facinating .

All of which is a shame, as The Skin I Live In succeeds in so many other ways. For example: the cast, like leading man Banderas, is great to a man; the cinematography and music, as we have come to expect with Almodóvar, is both beautiful and fitting, too.

Overall, while you may leave the cinema disappointed by parts of the story, there is no doubt that the films eeriness, beauty and fun will stay with you for a long time afterwards.

Captain America: The First Avenger

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Comic-book movies are an undeniably popular beast – you only have to look at some of the most successful films of the summer to appreciate that. Big with blokes, not such a hit with the ladies, they let men indulge their inner child: being as they are adaptations from cartoons that males of my age used to watch in their youth. Incredible, impossible things happen; shit gets blown up; the good guy wins – it’s one of the oldest formulas in the book.

And it’s here that the Captain America: The First Avenger comes in. Not being a comic book reader, I was aware of Captain America, but not of his enduring popularity and prime position in the Marvel canon. Even so, a the prospect of a film about a character that was created during the Second World War for propaganda purposes didn’t seem that appealing. Yet the end product, in fact, cleverly sidesteps that issue – in a modern way – and reverts to the faithful superhero template of Good vs. Evil. Only this time with a few subtle twists.

The First Avenger tells the story of the brave yet puny Brooklyn resident, Steve Rogers (Chris Evans), who hopes to join the U.S. war effort, only to be repeatedly turned down by the Army. Through a huge stroke of luck, a former Nazi scientist, Dr Abraham Erskine (Stanley Tucci), helps him enlist and performs a radical procedure on him that turns him from seven-stone weakling into the paragon of human perfection. While Rogers is forced to be paraded round the troops to boost morale, a crazed Nazi, Johann Schmidt/Red Skull (Hugo Weaving) is busy trying to harvest the Earth’s energy with the help of his cult, HYDRA. Inevitably, Rogers and old pal Bucky Barnes (Sebastian Stan), along with a host of other commandos, go off in search of Red Skull, and much action ensues.

C.A. IN ACTION

The movie makes for good, solid entertainment: a fun two hours in the cinema. The casting and acting are good, the pulpy period details are nice, the start is interesting and the ending is a brilliant set up. But that’s largely where it ends, as the film is somewhat hamstrung by Captain America himself. He’s just not that special, which means the action – a large part of what people love about these sorts of things – isn’t that amazing. There’s no Nightcrawler-in-the-White-House moment, just the standard tanks ‘n’ planes ‘n’ explosions, albeit in cool settings and with lashings of deranged Nazis with lasers.

In addition to that, the rivalry between Steve and Bucky, like the romance between Rogers and Atwell, seem slightly undercooked; and these days one expects a slightly more conflicted protagonist, even in the realm of the comic. But, like I have said, given how entertaining the film is – not to mention the way it refuses to bow to sentiment, these seem like minor quibbles. It ends on an intriguing note, where you wonder what next for the franchise. And that can only be a good thing.

The Tree of Life

I watched The Tree of Life last Friday and it has taken me a long time to get round to writing about it. There are some obvious reasons, of course: it's an epic, over-long, puzzling, glorious behemoth of a film. And over ten days later, I am still asking myself the same question: what does it all mean? Or, indeed, did I actually like it? But then those questions, in turn, lead me to the logical next question: do I have to like or enjoy films? Or can there exist some sort of steely appreciation of a clearly astounding and impressive work?

After the Palme d’Or win, the numerous breathless and negative reviews both during and after Cannes, not to mention the cult surrounding its reclusive auteur/director, it is safe to say that my expectations were high. I mean, here was a film that promised to be a metaphysical “masterpiece”: a refection on memory, loss, nature, being and faith. Grander themes it is hard to imagine. It also had Brad Pitt in it. So there I sat, at six o’clock on the day it opened, prepared for delight and awe. I fear, however, that I may have only felt one of those emotions.

The film itself is perplexing and tough to summarize, so idiosyncratic is its vision. In short, we can just about glean that Sean Penn is a late-middle-aged businessman in New York, remembering his childhood in 1950s Texas and the semi-dysfunctional family life that he lived back then. Through alluring shots of the family, their home and the countryside around them, a partially-idealized remembrance is created. A domineering father and an angelic mother raise their three sons in good, strict Christian fashion. Soon after, the film plunges into an amazing 2001: A Space Odyssey/Koyaanisqatsi-esque sequence, of striking visual beauty and impact. Touching on the birth of the universe, dinosaurs, volcanoes, waterfalls and almost every geographical feature known to man, we are treated to recurring images and sheer visual poetry. After that lengthy sequence, the film does return to the closest it ever comes to a narrative, with less choppy editing and more visions of 50s America, counterpointed with Penn’s present-day search for meaning and a long-dead brother.

Given Malick’s academic background in philosophy, we know that we are in the hands of an intelligent man. Though, given the vastness of the canvas, and the range of subjects (and platitudes) covered, the film did not seem to make total sense to me. Of course, having not had a thorough religious foundation, I must admit that the concept of grace[1], amongst others, was slightly foreign to me: just as is the case when reading works such as A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Maybe it’s just me but clement velociraptors, glowing wombs, doorframes in deserts and families fighting doesn’t immediately make sense. For others, sure. But then maybe this eruption of images is meant to be open to interpretation, but somehow I doubt that.

The recurring imagery and motifs à la poetry do get slightly annoying and even boring, no matter how stunning they look, and the birth of the universe sequence and the film itself are certainly too long. Yet, the themes are always of the utmost interest, and for that boldness, Malick should be lauded. No other living director would have had the gall – or the means – to make a film like this. Thus, anyone who speaks of pretentiousness is surely an idiot, as this was no problem at all. For how can one talk of life or death, the universe and creation in a non-narrative or otherwise way without appearing pretentious? For that same reason, the lack of levity is not a problem either. That said, the ending is preposterous and strangely what I expected from the start, despite being surprised by the majority of the movie. Along with the presence of Pitt, perhaps this was just a hint of Hollywood creeping in.

In summary, the film is not without its numerous flaws, but these are almost compensated for by the majesty of its overall vision and some of the most incredible cinematography I have ever seen. Go and see it and make your own mind up; just prepare to be infuriated and inspired in equal measure.

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[1] Defined in my copy of Dubliners as “In Roman Catholic theology… a supernatural gift freely given by God to rational creatures to enable them to obtain eternal life.”

Boardwalk Empire

I just finished the much-lauded Boardwalk Empire and really loved it. It was, for the most part, a pleasure to watch: an intricate, sprawling series, testament to the roaring twenties and their excesses. That said, I did – and still do – have some serious reservations about certain aspects the series. For, given the fanfare, the presence of Scorsese, and the involvement of many of the best people involved in The Sopranos, we were lead to expect great things. But does it deliver? Or is it unfair to compare anything to The Sopranos and The Wire, even if it invites those very comparisons?

My first thought is that the fact that Boardwalk Empire being a period piece, set in 1920, surely counts against it. As, despite every detail of that decade being accurately and lovingly recreated by the crew, there is a certain lack of depth to some of what is going on – through no real fault of their own. For me, it’s no coincidence that The Wire and The Sopranos are modern day series, filmed on location as much as possible, that reflect the complexities of modern life. Somehow things just seem simpler 90 years ago, and they may well have been: 2D to our 3D. It just means that every problem is one gunshot away from being fixed and storylines can be tied up neatly in an instant. The second Nelson baptism scene is stark evidence of this.

The incredible set

I must say, the look-at-how-different-things-were-back-then vibe isn’t as bad as Mad Men, but there is an element of that in some scenes. The speech of Chalky White (Omar Little from The Wire), whilst being characteristically charismatic and excellent, is almost certainly anachronistic and incongruous, which, considering the efforts made for authenticity, seems a bit dumb. Nucky even asks: “What’s a motherfucker?” after speaking with White, as if to illustrate its ridiculousness.

The acting, though, is almost universally impressive. Buscemi, typically, is a towering presence: an Actor with a capital ‘A’. The support cast (Shooter McGavin, Tommy from Snatch et al.) are also so brilliant you nearly forget your watching a series. The Brits among them certainly prove more adept at Stateside accents that Dominic West as McNulty. However, the one exception is Jimmy: a man so wooden (“He’s shell-shocked”, I hear you cry), I fear he may be a Keanu Reeves-Liz Hurley lovechild. It’s a massive disappointment to see bad acting in HBO dramas, so rarely does it happen, but here is a key character, badly-played and possibly badly-drawn.

That minor setback aside, I love the rest of the characters. Especially Nelson Van Alden, whose Catholic crusade against the sin and iniquities of alcohol and Atlantic City is a key element in the show’s balance. As many of the personae are based on real people, the dichotomy between fact and fiction puts the show in an awkward – if interesting – position. How closely will they adhere to history and does this matter? It certainly sets the series up to be a saga, as the majority of the historical figures lasted a long time at the top.

Nucky speaking to the press

Even so, the Soprano’s comparisons are also slightly annoying, because, if you scratch the surface a bit, you’ll find that many of the concerns are identical. Thus, morality, murder and inner anguish; the women behind criminal bosses and their problems; and the souring of the American dream take centre stage. As good as it is, I don’t think it’s wise to consciously make comparisons with one of the very best things to ever appear on the small screen – 2 Pints of Lager reruns aside. At worst, it seems like déjà vu.

All in all, the first season is a very promising one – better than the first Breaking Bad and Mad Men series were, anyway. I certainly have hope that it will be a return to the grand days of HBO. Not being The Sopranos isn’t a crime, even if they kind of want it to be another Sopranos; I can enjoy films that aren’t The Godfather, can’t I? I’m sure that the next twelve episodes will be better and hope that most of the issues I have will be ironed out. For that I await the Season 2 première with baited breath, as there can never be too much good TV.

Enter the Void (Soudain la vide)

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Gaspar Noé, former enfant terrible of the French cinema world, is a bit mental. No longer an enfant, much of what he commits to celluloid is still terrible – in the truest sense of the word. He has been linked to the movement dubbed the New French Extremity and his previous feature was the profoundly disturbing Irréversible, famous for its never-ending rape scene, amongst other things. His most recent film, Enter the Void, is also transgressive, but is ultimately concerned with the metaphysical matters of life and death – and psychotropic substances.

Before giving a synopsis of the story, I should make clear that the film is completely bat-shit and quite possibly a classic; therefore, what might sound very simple is actually much more: a mind-bending and unforgettable trip (pun intended).

It is initially filmed, blinks ‘n’ all, from the perspective of the protagonist, Oscar, a small-time American drug dealer living in Tokyo with his younger sister. Crucially he has just started reading the Tibetan Book of the Dead, given to him by a hirsute Gallic buddy, and is fascinated by all hallucinogenic drugs. The same evening, he is shot dead in the toilet of a nightclub called The Void after a drug deal goes wrong. From that point on, the camera leaves his body and floats above the city: the soul’s-eye view – at once exploring the impact of his death on those closest to him and looking for a new place to be reincarnated. Reliving a tragic past through traumatic memories and dreams of the characters, the movie is a unique ride, where one is never sure quite what to expect.

It should be noted that the cinematography in this film is some of the best I have ever seen. The camera seamlessly swoops through rooms and walls, rises above the city, and goes in and out of people’s heads and bodies. It is mesmerizing from first to last. The acting, however, is not. It grates at the start, as the French guy is particularly terrible: as natural as Prince Philip at a rave. After you become immersed in the films aesthetic, though, it is less noticeable, but still, occasionally, frustrating. The film is really long, too, but it’s a case of: could he have done it any other way? Not really, for me.

Critics have noted that it’s “not everyone’s cup of tea”, presumably because a lot of it looks like an art film, has a “nightmare-porn aesthetic” and contains abortion, full-frontal nudity, erect penises, in-body ejaculation, Freudian incest, drugs and more. But is the point of art, of which cinema is a medium, not to challenge? To make us think about life anew?

One man’s pretentious (a word used more often than not by idiots) is another man’s life-affirming. Annoying in its “Is-The-Void-really-life-or-death” sort of way, I would recommend this film to everyone, as Noé is definitely trying something new with the medium, which very few can say they are. Long, ambient, indulgent, loopy and frustrating it may be, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a classic.

Number9Dream

UK paperback cover

When reading the foreword to David Foster Wallace’s mammoth Infinite Jest this week, I was struck by the opening few lines of Dave Eggers’ goggle-eyed (yet good) mini-essay. There, he talked about the debate surrounding readability in contemporary fiction: is it a “popular medium”, or should it be “challenging, generally and thematically”? The reasoning behind the latter was that “the rewards can be much greater when one’s mind has been exercised and thus (presumably) expanded.” Of course, he was referring to Foster Wallace’s inimitable style, but it got me thinking – has there ever been an author better at straddling the two sides of the debate than David Mitchell?

I had just read Mitchell’s enchanting second novel, Number9Dream, so my opinions were undoubtedly coloured, if not skewed. But the thought remains, so readable, yet complicated and crazy are his fictions. In fact, Eggers might as well have been talking about him.

Number9Dream is ostensibly a coming-of-age story in eight parts; nineteen-year-old Eiji Miyake has moved from rural southern Japan to the bright lights of Tokyo to complete several rites of passage and, essentially, discover himself. These include (but are not limited to) finding out the identity of his father, overcoming the loss of a family member and dealing with his distant mother. If it sounds straightforward or even derivative, don’t be fooled. What actually unfolds is an incredible, unique, thrill-a-minute story combining computer games, fables, diary entries, fantasies and (of course) dreams. The Yakuza and Kai Ten ‘kamikaze’ submarine pilots also feature, not to mention romance.

Tokyo

What astounds is not simply the sheer heft of Mitchell’s imagination, or even his preternatural skills as a storyteller, but the quality of his prose. For, despite the difficulties involved with the use of the first-person, the lyrical voice and descriptions are consistently beautiful. Especially fine are his depictions of the natural world, their sublimity almost Romantic. Obviously, due to his name-dropping of Murakami and Auster and the non-linear and complicated structure, he is often lumped in with the postmodern. But that shouldn’t, and seemingly doesn’t, put anyone off, which was exactly my point at the start.

I, personally, came to Mitchell late, bogged down by university reading lists, and only finishing his first novel, Ghostwritten, just over twelve months ago. Though, now bitten by the bug, I can see myself reading the rest sharpish. He really is that good, the best sort of literary fiction. As the Wachowskis are apparently adapting Cloud Atlas for the big screen, he’ll probably be brought to an even wider audience, which can only be a good thing.

Cave of Forgotten Dreams

As I have previously pointed out, I am a great admirer of the work of Werner Herzog. And while he hasn’t exactly changed tack over the last few years, his recent documentary filmmaking has been especially impressive. Documentaries such as Grizzly Man and Encounters at the End of The World approach perfection in the form, striving as they do for Herzog’s idea of “ecstatic truth” and the essence of the human soul. The director’s latest documentary, Cave of Forgotten Dreams, may appear slightly different, yet has, in fact, the very same objective.

Through good fortune and reputation, the director had the chance to make a film about the cave paintings of the Chauvet Cave in southern France – the oldest known examples of prehistoric art, made roughly 32,000 years ago. Discovered in 1994 after remaining sealed for millennia, access to the public has always been completely restricted, given that human breath can cause mould to grow on the paintings. True to type, with a crew of only four people permitted, Herzog decided to make a 3D film, in order to make the viewer’s experience and appreciation of the cave more real. So, combining this footage with interviews with scientists and experts, he attempts to provide some sort of background and reason for these miraculous works of art.

Though it is not always executed to perfection, the 3D element is vital to the films success: immersing you as it does in the cave environment. It also allows you to appreciate the walls’ contours and their impact on the paintings. The “serene pace” of the camera’s movement ensures the images stay with you, for they truly are some of the most striking pictures you could ever hope to see – almost too good to be true. Herzog has spoken of the “intensity of the paintings” and the “drama” which affected him; I’m happy to report none of it’s lost here.

Paintings from the Chauvet Cave

There are, of course, some typically Herzogian flourishes in the film: such as an image of Fred Astaire dancing with his shadow in Swing Time (“the most quintessential moment in cinema” according to the Bavarian), plus the superimposed sound of a heartbeat and a crazy postscript involving mutant albino crocodiles; but they all serve a purpose. For Herzog, the key to the human soul is found somewhere in the “abyss” that he sees in the cave. To enter in there is to look back to simpler times and universal truth: why the need for artistic representation? Why no pictures of man?

I should point out that while it is an incredible watch, I didn’t think Cave of Forgotten Dreams quite scaled the heights of his last two documentaries; it felt spellbinding, though slight. Whether it was because it didn’t expose the lack of meaning in life and the cruelty of the world with the trademark bleak existentialism I have come to expect, I don’t know. What I do know is that it is a film that should be seen to be believed: a necessary use of 3D. I can’t wait to see what he does next.

Gang Gang Dance and Highlife – XOYO 16/05/2011

 Eye Contact cover

On Monday, I had the rare treat of seeing a band I really love play an intimate show, just after the release of an amazing, critically-acclaimed new record. The venue was Old Street’s XOYO, the band were Brooklyn experimentalists, Gang Gang Dance, and the record is Eye Contact.

Providing the support was Highlife, London-born NYC musician Sleepy Doug Shaw, who also happens to be the current GGD bass player. I had heard last year’s excellent Best Bless EP and was interested to see him perform. I arrived about fifteen minutes after he started, so I can’t speak for the first few songs, but, from what I saw, he was playing completely different material this time around. Gone were the clean guitar lines and untreated vocals; in were reverb, delay and a host of other pedal effects. The songs were similarly circular, though, and characterised by loops and haunted vocals. Low-key in mood where the E.P. had been up beat and cheery, it was interesting without quite scaling the heights of the tracks that I knew.

Highlife

After Shaw had left the stage, several beers later, without a word, the space in front of the stage thickened up in anticipation for the main act. And the crowd itself was decent. A sell-out, as expected, it had an interesting combination of the older gent, the scenester couple and the ‘regular’ person; all of whom seemed to get more involved than many other small indie gigs in East London venues.

Minutes later, Gang Gang Dance came on stage to a hearty welcome, and, without too much faffing around, plunged straight into some recently released material that was both melodic and out-there, like the band themselves. The second song, ‘House Jam’ – part of which, incidentally, Florence (of Machine fame) cribbed and has to pay them royalties for – got the audience going a bit more. People  even began to sway and dance (yes, dance!) to the futuristic beat. 12-minute single, ‘Glass Jar’, was a particular highlight of the set, unfurling as it does so engagingly, along with new cut, ‘MindKilla’: the later getting the crowd the most frenzied. But, what was interesting for me was that they played a handful of new songs not released in the UK and extended others in a jam-like fashion, not pausing between songs.

GGD from my phone

I absolutely loved every single minute of it, sweatiness aside, and thought Lizzy Bougastos’ siren-like vocals formidable live. Even the Japanese guy who joined them on stage, dancing with a binbag, couldn’t detract from her magnetic presence. For anyone not familiar with their signature sound – or sound palette – it is nigh-impossible to describe; however, their melding of Eastern dance music, sub bass and space-age sounds is incredible to behold, when seen live. I just hope I get the chance to see them again soon, as they are without question one of the coolest live band’s I’ve seen.