Catfish

Reality is a subjective concept, even more so in documentaries. Dubious editing and an agenda can easily transform the way we see events. But this American film has caused a cacophony of controversy, with manifold critics, including Supersize Me director Morgan Spurlock, alleging it to be the stuff of fiction. Prior knowledge of the film’s polemic past won’t quite spoil the viewing experience, but it did make me constantly reflect on Catfish’s genuineness.

It tells the bizarre story of New York ballet photographer, Yaniv ‘Niv’ Schulman, and his unlikely internet relationship with a prodigiously talented eight-year-old artist and her family. When he receives a mysterious package containing a painting of one of his published photos, he discovers it has been sent to him by preteen Abby. Yaniv’s documentary maker brother, Ariel, and his business partner, Henry Joost, decide to film the younger brother and see what happens. Over the course of several months and following the exchange of more packages, Niv starts a flirtatious and innocent relationship with the attractive musician sister of Abby, through Facebook, instant messenger and other digital means.

The far-fetched proceedings undergo a dramatic change-of-gear when the trio make a trip to Colorado ski resort, Vail, to film the dance festival there. They see the break as the perfect opportunity to visit Abby and her sister at home in rural Illinois and make the trip to her house. Without wishing to give anything away, it is here that the film undergoes a sea change and becomes something altogether more sinister. Nothing is exactly as it seems and, whether it is fact or fiction, the action is mesmerising. Perfectly paced and structured (some would say too perfectly), the film reaches its dénouement with a WTF moment worthy of anything in recent cinematic history.

And yet the nagging doubts remain: true or false, cynical exploitation or snide opportunism? The lyrical, metaphorical anecdote which lends the film its title is especially suspicious. Aside from that, there is one gratuitous scene that clearly transgresses all boundaries of good taste and serves no real purpose, illustrative or otherwise, and ought to be remarked upon. That said it is essential viewing; for, whichever way one looks at it, it as a great deal to say about cyber-relationships, trust and the world we live in. One of the year’s best documentaries, it is sure to keep you talking afterwards. Just don’t mention Skype.

Another Year

Critical approbation isn’t always a good thing for films. At least not for the viewer, anyway. As when you go and see a film that has been lauded to high heavens, things can only go one of two ways: you either don’t agree and leave disappointed, or you agree and go home mildly contented. Neither of which is that great and this scenario could have very well been the case when I went to see Another Year, British legend Mike Leigh’s latest offering. For five-star revives have been plentiful, Cannes audiences were stunned, and there have been very vocal calls for Oscar nominations.

As it happens, I loved it. Though not as in-your-face as 99.9% of today’s movies and very typical of Mike Leigh in its exploration of both domestic life and melancholy, it is exhilarating viewing. Telling the story of middle-aged London-based couple, Tom and Gerri, the action is roughly split over four seasons of the year. ‘Action’ may be the wrong word, as fans of the director’s earlier work will know; the pace is sedate throughout and things are left to develop organically. This may not be to everyone’s taste but given the standard of acting, it is utterly engrossing.

Tom and Gerri very much represent the familial ideal: a solid, loving, successful couple: he a geologist, she a therapist. But their stability is seriously tested given the chaotic intrusion of the perennially unfortunate, alcoholic co-worker of Gerri’s, Mary (fabulously played by Lesley Manville). As well as acting as a counterpoint to their life, making passes at their single son and generally disgracing herself in the process, she hints at deeper problems and the underlying sadness that can easily characterise people’s lives. Other characters not as fortunate as Tom and Gerri’s family come and go, bringing their life into sharper focus.

As Peter Bradshaw has pointed out, it is difficult to decide whether to deride Tom and Gerri for their happiness, or to hold them up as a near-unattainable ideal. I am ambivalent. What it does show us are the vagaries of real life and how pure good fortune can play such an essential role in one’s happiness. A magnificent film; go and make your own mind up.

Another Year Trailer

Dirty Projectors – Koko (09/12/’10)

Having never had the pleasure of seeing one of my very favourite bands before, expectation was understandably high. As was my apprehension. But, like so many of the gigs I have been too recently, it did not disappoint.

Their support came in the form of London trio, Male Bonding, a band that I had heard great things about but only a couple of singles. Superficially an odd choice to open for a band as intellectual and seemingly serious as Dirty Projectors, they in fact provided the perfect complement. Much to my chagrin, not all of the crowd seemed to agree; yet their brand of noise pop, catchy hooks, equally catchy melodies and more noise may not be to everyone’s taste. They may have been loud but they were good loud. The drumming was fast, impressive and precise and the other two weren’t too bad, either.

Their songs may have not been as original as other current bands’ (the act they were opening for being prime among them) but their mid-nineties-influenced material was performed with aplomb. So much so that I am have already got hold of their LP.

Male Bonding - Year's Not Long

After they finished, the old theatre really began to get packed out. The sort of polite jostling that one only gets at brainy indie bands’ gigs was rife. When lead singer Dave Longstreth appeared on stage to fiddle with his guitars, the reaction was muted. When he appeared with the rest of his band the reception was raucous. They proceeded to play several songs I hadn’t heard, off this year’s Björk collaboration, Mount Wittenburg Orca, along with a Bob Dylan cover; and every note was met with an almost trance-like reaction from the crowd.

Every song was marked with some virtuoso musicianship, whether from the spidery fingers of Longstreth and his impressive guitar playing or the siren-like brilliance of Amber Coffman et al.’s backing vocals. So fine were their arpeggiating melodies that I found it hard to believe they could be done live. Particular highlights included the r’n’b crowd-pleaser Stillness is the Move and epic set-closer Rise Above; though, given the all round brilliance, picking highlights seems unfair. Everyone seemed happy, aside from a few lads heard complaining in the queue on the way out. About what I shall never know.

Dirty Projectors - Stillness Is the Move

Vampire Weekend and Ratatat – Alexandra Palace (02/12/’10)

I was lucky enough to get a ticket for this gig the other day, and the line up looked too good to be true. In fact, it was too good to be true as Laura Marling was forced to pull out at the last minute. This may have been due to the adverse weather conditions, or some impromptu illness; I don’t know. Disapointing as it was, it was still an entertaining bill as it was and the chance to see two very different American bands in the faded grandeur of the Alexandra Palace.

Ratatat were, quite obviously, up first and proved an able and enjoyable support act. Their own unique brand of hip hop and electro beats with electric guitar, live drums and other assorted instruments proved perplexing to some of the crowd but most people seemed to enter into the spirit of things. Despite there only being two members, the pair make for an engaging live act, with the head-banging and shredding of guitarist, Mike Stroud, being particularly impressive. To go along with the music, the set up included some hilarious visuals featuring Abba, Arnie in Predator, a wildcat and lots of cockatiels; not to mention two state-of-the-art projectors showing a strings section and more creatures.

Ratatat – Wildcat

After the duo left the stage and some time past, it became evident that Laura Marling was not going to play and the room quickly filled up. Mothers jostled with pre-pubescent children, scenesters, loud teens and middle-aged men of all nationalities. This bizarre mix just highlights the universal appeal of Vampire Weekend and their platinum-selling, meteoric rise. After entering to a blare of hip hop, the band played an immaculate set, incorporating almost every song they have ever recorded. The charisma of lead singer, Ezra Koenig, was never in question, nor the musicianship of the other members, or even the quality of the material. But with just two studio albums to their name, there was no element of surprise in what they were going to play, as the 1h 15m set is around the length of both of their albums. That said, despite not possessing the madcap stage presence of Ratatat or other ‘heavier’ bands, there is no doubting their charm. After the finale song of the encore, ‘Walcott’, the other 6,500 certainly thought so.

Vampire Weekend - Contra (Live at Alexandra Palace)

Cain's Book

I came across Cain's book recently and it really impressed me; not least because I had never heard of it, or its dead Scottish author, Alexander Trocchi. An active member of the Parisian avant-garde of the late 1950s, he ran an English language literary magazine that published Beckett, amongst others, and was a heroin addict for the last thirty years of his eventful life. Cain's book was his final novel: a bracing autobiographical roman-a-clef, which tells of his life on a scow in New York, heroin addiction and his poverty-stricken upbringing in pre-war Glasgow.

In many ways very reminiscent of William S. Burroughs' famous account of junkie life in the 50s U.S. of A., Junky; it is an altogether different exercise. At once more artful and metafictional than Junky, it is crammed with poetic similes, ;iterary language and references and occasionally-amusing soapbox speeches about the Man and the benefits of heroin. Under the blurb on my copy, it has an illuminating quote from literary giant, Norman Mailer: "It is different from other books, it is true, it has art, it is brave." I would be inclined to agree; and recommend.

The action is near always wildly depressing; the word "cunt" rears its ugly head as much as you would expect in a book by a Scotsman; and it is very graphic. This did lead to it being banned but shouldn't put you off.  Nor should sensationalist reports that the book will corrupt young adults and make everyone go off and get horsed up to their eyeballs. It is an authentic, maddening, confusing, yet gripping account; it is, of course, not without its faults but remains incredibly poignant. If you like Kerouac, Ginsburg and other assorted Beats, this book may be for you. Why not give it a go?

Eastbound and Down - Season 2

If you haven’t seen this American comedy series yet, then give it a go. And don’t be put off by its crude, ad-libbed silliness and decidedly un-pc content. It is genuinely funny, in a very in-your-face way.  The highlight of the FX channel’s Thursday schedule (10p.m.), it tells the hilarious story of Southern baseball wild-child Kenny Powers and his attempts to regain some credibility after a spectacular fall from grace. A victim as much of his views as his lifestyle, Kenny cuts a hilarious figure.

In the first season, Kenny is forced to live with his long-suffering brother, Dustin, and his family and work as a P.E. teacher in his old high school. There, he rekindles his relationship with busty-chested former flame, April, who is now engaged to the principal. The comedy not only stems from the outré storyline but also the homophobic, racist and sexist comments of drug hoovering, beer swilling Powers. Will Ferrell, a co-producer, brilliantly guests alongside various other lesser-known names of American comedy.

In the second series, Kenny finds himself soul searching in Mexico, where he ends up playing for the local baseball team, Los Charros. With a new love interest, a new sidekick and new setting, the show manages to change it up, whilst maintaining the same, breakneck stream of jokes. Obviously, much of the humour now stems from Kenny’s misunderstanding of Mexicans, misuse of Spanish and mistreatment of a midget accomplice but the action is still fresh and just as funny. This time around, Don Johnson guests as Kenny Powers and Matthew McConaughey also shows his face in action worthy of the first season.

Definitely one that’s more for lads than lasses, the seven-part season will keep you amused all the way through and Danny McBride, the show’s protagonist and creator, is particularly good. Recommended viewing.

Eastbound and Down Series 2 Trailer

And for people who are already fans, here are some of Kenny's Best moment:s from The first season:

The Wire or The Sopranos?

So which camp are you in? Are you a fan of the gritty realism of The Wire or the slick Hollywood pizzazz of The Sopranos? This question always rears its ugly head when I chat with mates about the two. But I, like a mother with her progeny, have always found it impossible to say because I love both equally. Or do I?

Just like with long novels, I find that every time I sit down to watch a lengthy series, I invest so much in the characters emotionally that I am shocked, saddened and indignant when anything happens to a major character. And this was no truer than in these two landmark television series. I actually watched The Sopranos after I watched The Wire and that might also have had an effect on my inability to decide. For I can’t really separate McNulty from Tony Soprano, or Ralphie from Omar, despite Tony being the more obvious protagonist and Omar being the most unique character in T.V. crime drama. They’re all just too good.

But, I think what it all boils down to, given the proliferation of great writing, memorable characters and artistic achievement in both series is one’s preference of style. Is it the novelistic Wire or the cinematic Sopranos? Both are densely plotted, slow-burning monuments to what the medium of television can do but reflect different visions of reality and the American Dream; The Wire’s is a colder vision, where corrupt institutions crush the little man, The Sopranos is an ostensibly warmer (but ultimately bitter) take on the effect of family and violence on the American male.

So which on is for you? Or, like me, could you not say and prefer to enjoy each on its own (not insignificant) merits?

For anyone who has already seen all of The Wire, feast you eyes on this:100 Best Wire Quotes (contains spoilers...)

Gravity's Rainbow

I recently finished Thomas Pynchon’s 1973 epic, Gravity’s Rainbow, and have been trying to work out how to write about it ever since. Described variously as ‘The postmodern Ulysses’ and one of the finest books of the twentieth century, it is a baffling, beguiling and brilliant read. So much so that Time Magazine have said that “Among American writers of the second half of the 20th century, Pynchon is the undisputed candidate for lasting literary greatness. This book is why.”

I must admit that I was a fan of Pynchon beforehand, as one inevitably must be when attempting to read a 900-page book that contains extended dream sequences, pages of rocket science and more than 400 hundred characters. I can also understand scepticism as feel that whenever one reads a book that is more than 500 pages long, one becomes so engrossed in the act of reading and the characters that it is impossible not to adore the book in question. But, this book is resoundingly different.

In short, it tells the story of Lt. Tyrone Slothrop, an American soldier who finds himself in Blitz-time London, when German V1 and V2 rockets are hailing down on the weary metropolis. After marking all of his sexual conquests on a map of the city, he is noticed by British intelligence, who recognise that his conquests exactly match the sites of rocket attacks. Slothrop is then sucked into an international conspiracy spanning continents where no one can be trusted and everyone is in search of an elusive V2 rocket. Whilst this may not seem like much of a plot, there is a conventional story buried under a phantasmagoric and chaotic mix of styles, digressions, ‘stupid songs’ and surreal scenes.

I would recommend the novel to anyone interested in serious literature and specifically postmodernism as this is, clearly, not a book for everyone. But if you do get your hands on a copy, prepare to be amazed at and entertained by the sheer beauty of the prose and the virtuosity of one of the finest works of possibly the world’s greatest living author.

Of Time and the City

I finally got round to seeing Terence Davies’ much-vaunted 2008 documentary, Of Time and the City last night and I was not disappointed. Such was the critical fuss surrounding its 2008 release that I wonder why it took me two years to getting round to watching it; when one considers that I have had a copy of it for the best part of a year and that it’s only an hour and twenty minutes long, it starts to look like laziness. But then you have to bear in mind that a largely black-and-white, docu-biography about the city of Liverpool, memory and nostalgia isn’t the easiest watch.

Composed largely of archive footage of the Liverpool of the 30s, 40s, 50s and beyond, it recounts Davies’ earliest memories of his family, the city and his interaction with both. Born into a working class Catholic household, the two pillars of church and class dominate much of his reminiscences, his homosexuality providing a counterpoint and much existential angst.

What might have seemed like run-of-the-mill images are lent an austere splendour and genuine poignancy by a brilliantly selected soundtrack consisting of Mahler, The Swinging Blue Jeans, Bach and more. The real star of the show, however, as Mark Kermode would surely tell you, is Terence Davies’ rich, baritone narration. His dense, lyrical musings reward serious thought, frequently citing as he does luminaries such as Eliot and Engels. It is exactly this serious quality that makes me want to watch it at least another time. Certainly one to catch on DVD.

A Town Called Panic Trailer

I thought it would be easier to visualise Panique au village if i added the trailer.

Enjoy.

A Town Called Panic (Panique au village)

I went to see this brilliant and original film today at the Prince Charles Cinema off Leicester Square and I am still smiling now. I honestly cannot recommend it enough. Not even the forty-year-old man-child sitting next to me and his incessant braying could put me off.

Based on a popular Belgian television series called Panique au village, it is an old school stop-motion that eccentrically tells the story of three children’s toys: Horse (Cheval), Indian (Indien) and Cowboy (Cowboy). The story is difficult to summarise but I will have a go. In short, it is Horse’s birthday and Indian and Cowboy try and surprise him by making him a barbecue but accidentally order 50,000,000 bricks instead of 50 from the internet. The bricks, haphazardly piled on top of their house eventually destroy the building and every time they try and rebuild it, the walls are stolen by mysterious thieves. The action that then transpires takes them to the centre of the earth, the middle of the ocean, underwater and across frozen tundra in an anarchic and unhinged sequence of events.

Life-endangeringly funny for both adults and children alike, it has been dubbed “Toy Story on absinthe” and there is some truth in that but it does not do justice to how droll it really is. The directors, Stéphane Aubier and Vincent Patar, are quickly dispelling any lazy British stereotypes about the Belgians being boring with the sheer inventiveness and humour of their picture.

An official selection at Cannes, the movie really deserved more  British recognition and a longer run than it got first time around but, of course, the subtitle factor always plays a part in commercial success. At a shade over 70 minutes, it positively flies by. So much so I want to go and see it again and I would advise you to do the same.

Ganglians, Eat Skull & Graffiti Island, XOYO Monday 8/11/2010

I made my first excursion to the recently opened XOYO on Monday night to see an American band I really like, Ganglians. As expected, the venue (which still smelt of new paint and MDF) was small but perfect for a night with little-known bands and there was more than a smattering of dubious facial hair. That said, the turnout was decent without being sold-out and the people who were there seemed to enjoy the music to varying degrees.

The first, and least heralded, band that was on was Graffiti Island, an American outfit who make music that could be seen as a cross between surf-rock and punk. Their lead singer, dapper as he was with freshly-coiffed hair, kicked off proceedings by screaming “Oh God!” into the mike before continuing to wail like a seasick wolf, before shout/singing the rest of his lyrics. Their songs were short but enjoyable affairs, never once exceeding the two-and-a-half minute mark and replete with simple but amusing lyrics and yet more wailing. At one point the singer stared at the diffident (and possibly indifferent) crowd and shouted something about his nipples being on fire, if only to get a reaction. He left the stage disappointed.

The second act was five-piece Eat Skull, who, as the lead singer was quick to point out, aren’t actually from anywhere as they don’t currently have a home. Having never heard their music, I don’t know what I was expecting but the bongos and clarinet they brought on stage did not prepare me for the aural onslaught that was to come. It was loud. Their music veered between noise and more conventional indie/lo-fi but the singers amusing lyrics, which were high in the mix, (screamed sample: “Your family’s dead!”) brought an element of lo-fi punkiness to proceedings. Their songs varied greatly in length and style, presumably coming from different albums, but all were enjoyable enough to make me want to look them up and the singer’s verbal tics and curveballs (such as the song about cooking) kept me constantly entertained and on guard.

The final act on, and the one I came to see, was the Sacramento band, Ganglians. Having previously seen them in the summer supporting Real Estate at another great Upset the Rhythm night in East London, I thought I knew to expect from these three hairy hippies and their teenage-looking mate who plays the guitar. They even started with two songs of their last album, Monster Head Room, before the singer pointed out that they were going to play mostly new songs and use the gig as “practice”. Unsure of how I felt about being ‘used’ like that, I was actually pleased they didn’t play the same gig twice. The new material was just as occasionally tripped-out, reverb-heavy and prone to jams as the old stuff; yet it was noticeably heavier in places and longer. The audience (teenage moshers included) seemed to like it, too, despite the late start time and the fact that many people left after East Skull. Though one never knows with some British crowds. Their acoustic album cut, Cryin’ Smoke, was a particular highlight and they definitely remain a young band to watch.