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.

GasLand

As I have said before, indignation – as frustrating an emotion as it undoubtedly is – is a good feeling to have when watching a documentary. It means the thing is working. Josh Fox’s directorial debut, the Oscar-nominated GasLand, definitely left me with disbelief and anger in spades, and, in doing so it is an exceedingly effective protest documentary.

The film tells the story of bespectacled thirty-something Fox, a Pennsylvania forest-dweller thanks to his Thoreau-esque “hippy parents”, who is offered $100,000 by a natural-gas company to use his land for drilling. Intrigued and perplexed, he investigates the matter further and discovers that his house is above a shale that is one of the world’s largest natural gas deposits: a “sea of gas”. Further investigation leads him to discover that the process used to extract the water from the ground, known as hydraulic fracturing or “fracking”, has an execrable and toxic effect on the water table, people’s drinking water and the environment as a whole. Like the good, educated, middle-class crusader that he is, he decides the only logical next-step is to make a documentary film about the pernicious effects of fracking and natural gas extraction.

Fox at home

Facetiousness aside, the movie he makes is on a worthy subject and it’s an acutely revealing document. It shows how through the work of public enemy number one (or two, depending on your view) Dick Cheney, the former CEO of Halliburton (one of the largest gas companies) and lobbyists, Congress passed a bill exempting natural gas and oil companies’ from the Safe Drinking Water Act of the 1970s. Therefore, those companies have been free to pollute people’s water with carcinogens and other deadly chemicals, such as benzene. This mix of gas and the fracking liquid has caused not only tap water – yes, good ole H₂O – to be flammable, but also severe health problems, such as brain damage, in people who live near drill sites.

Not fit for tooth-brushing

Surreal shots of flammable water and ruined landscapes form just a small part of the impressive imagery on show in GasLand. The sheer poetry of the bucolic images of the forest and the plains, combined with Fox’s banjo playing, was impressive: a welcome antidote to the usual Inside Job-style barrage of charts and gaudy graphs. The director’s sub-Terence Davies gravelly voice-over work was occasionally annoying, but did spin a poetic line or two every so often, adding to the homespun and likeable tone of the doc.

Better than the eventual winner, Inside job, this is a brilliant, if 15 minutes over-long, film in a year of great documentaries. With the possibility of fracking hitting European shores soon, it is essential viewing.

Lumet and Pacino – Serpico and A Dog Day Afternoon

Despite once being sixteen and revelling in all things East Coast, gangster and Italian, I had never seen two of Al Pacino’s classic films: Serpico and A Dog Day Afternoon. So, in an attempt to appreciate two of the defining works of the late, great Sidney Lumet, I watched them both back to back. While both movies, in many ways, chart similar preoccupations of the director, they are actually very different beasts. Most obviously, genre-wise, Serpico is a curious blend of cop film and biopic, whereas A Dog Day Afternoon is very much a heist movie. However, neither of them is straight down the line.

The trademark social realism of Lumet is obvious from the very first minutes of Serpico; his New York has none of the glossy sheen of Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Woody Allen. What it does have is full-frontal nudity and rapes, chockablock as it is with hoodlums and vagrants. The film recounts the true-life story of New York cop Frank Serpico, an odd, honest officer infatuated with counter-culture who testified against police corruption in the NYPD. Covering a period of roughly twelve years, from Serpico’s graduation up till just after he is shot on the face on the job, the main signifiers of the passage of time are his shaggy dog and even shaggier facial hair.

I did enjoy the film and its unique combination of Greenwich Village hippy-dom and gritty urban policing, yet I also felt it didn’t quite satisfy me on either front. Initially captivating, the film loses its way slightly in the second half, where the testimony scenes are never as tense as they might have been. Even the much-lauded performance by Pacino wasn’t quite as awesome as I had expected – it was released a year after his outstanding turn as Michael Corleone in The Godfather Part One, for God’s sake.

Not as much of a classic as people have made out, Serpico is a solid, interesting portrait of an outsider – with an incredible wardrobe. A Dog Day Afternoon, on the other hand, is definitely a classic. Once more a portrayal of a pariah, it ticks all the boxes that Serpico failed to. For example, the increased back-story we get in A Dog Day helps us to empathise more with Pacino’s Sonny more and the heist-movie twists genuinely make him a more complex and surprising character.

The bungled bank job that form the film’s core show’s Sunny to be a trapped, frustrated outsider, with Sal the Lennie to his George. Pacino is fantastic in the role: a perfect example of brooding brilliance and method acting that truly convinces. Again, the movie deals uncomfortable 70s themes – in this case homosexuality and trans-gender issues – whilst remaining tense and surprising. It also has interesting things to say about TV, news reporting, celebrity and entertainment. In that and Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead, Lumet really did craft two of the best films in that genre. Just don’t believe the hype about Serpico.

A Visit From the Goon Squad

 U.K. Cover

Literary prizes are frustrating things. I mean, we all know that literature, like all art, is highly subjective – but its prizes are riven by politics, seemingly unearthing as many duds as genuine classics. At least that’s my take, having read a fair few recent Booker and Pulitzer winners; for every The Road or Vernon God Little, there’s a Tinkers or The Inheritance of Loss. So, given the fanfare of rave reviews, the 2011 Pulitzer Prize for fiction and the National Book Critics Circle Award, I approached Jennifer Egan’s A Visit From the Goon Squad with much trepidation – even if it did seem like my kind of book.

Thankfully I was wrong to feel apprehensive and can safely state that it is a wonderful book and a worthy winner. It is a bold and idiosyncratic work, which has much wisdom to impart about its central subject matter of time and its effects – and, by extension, the concomitant themes of ageing, loss and compromise. Much has been made of its experimentalism, but I think far too much. Egan herself has said, “experimentation serving anything other than a human story is boring, and I’m not interested in it;” Pynchon or Robbe-Grillet it ain’t. The fact that every chapter is told in a different way: 1^st person, 3^rd person, even 2^nd person – with different focalizations – and that there is a chapter told entirely in PowerPoint, is definitely distinctive. But there would have been no other way to compose the story without seeming repetitive.

For the book tells the story of a large cast of characters orbiting round the twin suns of Bennie Salazar, an ageing record producer and former punk rocker, and Sasha, his faithful assistant. It spans continents and decades: from the 1970s to the future, and explores not just the Proustian themes of À la rechereche du temps perdu, but also the modern effects of technology on human interaction. Therefore, playfulness with form allows the author to paint a more detailed, vivid picture of these sad, changing lives destroyed by excess and tinged with failure.

Jennifer Egan

There is also a virtuoso mixture of genres: ranging from political satire, through David Foster Wallace-esque non-fiction parody, right up to a dystopian future – each one pitch-perfect. Yet, as you might expect, given the central nature of the music industry, many of these stories are profoundly melancholy and affecting, narrating as they do the fall out of past immoderation. Nonetheless, it is the wisdom and compassion of Egan – not the skilful writing – that stood out for me. The characters all seem realistic, no matter how outré their behaviour and it all works towards a conclusion that never feels sentimental or mawkish.

I would recommend this gem of a novel to anyone – as there genuinely is something for everyone. Don’t be put off by PowerPoint chapter (which works wonderfully, by the way) or the word postmodern. This novel-in-pieces forms a triumphant whole. I'm intrigued and excited to see what HBO make of it.

Wes Anderson, Re-evaluated.

Wes Anderson in 'everyday' mode

I have to admit – with the crushing blow to my cinephile credentials that it will inevitably cause – that I came to the work of Wes Anderson late. By late, I mean that 2007’s The Darjeeling Limited was the first film of his that I saw. No, not the much admired Rushmore, or the much-loved The Royal Tenenbaums – the one set in India that drew a tepid response from critics. Yet after people (me included) likened the primary colours and deadpan comedy of the stellar Submarine to the kooky world’s favourite ‘auteur’, I thought I would watch – or re-watch, in some cases –his films and try and draw some conclusions. Chiefly: are his films preening, pretentious, yet ultimately vacuous testaments to a man-child with too much creative control; or are they ironic, incisive and affecting portraits of a particular type of life, as envisaged by a bona fide auteur.

The answer, as always with these sorts of things, is never cut and dry. I did, however, find myself vacillating a ridiculous amount – oscillating between the two different opinions like a schizophrenic. His films, for me, fall into four categories: The Rubbish Ones; The Almost-Rubbish Ones with a Lot to Love and Admire, The Ones I Like; and The Ones I Love. It’s really striking how well they fit into these categories, but given how much creative control Anderson has, the thematic overlap and use of the same pool of actors – it is hardly surprising.

In the first class of film, The Rubbish Ones, there is, in fact, only one film: Bottle Rocket. As his first film, made fresh out of college, it feels slightly harsh to excoriate the bloke for having made it. You have to start somewhere, as anyone who has ever tried anything creative well knows. It’s just I really did hate this film. Its whimsy, 2-D characters and overall tone made me want to tear my hair out and watch Herzog movies on repeat – just to get my cynicism going, so earnest and wide-eyed is it. In that respect, like most early works, it contained many motifs recurrent in Anderson’s later work in embryo. Though, in this case, almost all I hate and almost none that I love.

Bottle Rocket Normality

In the second category, The Almost-Rubbish Ones with a Lot to Love and Admire, there are two films: Rushmore and The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. In the case of Rushmore, I found its protagonist annoying – not something that necessarily makes a tragic-comic character weak. But in Max’s case, I found him pretentious annoying, which precluded any emotional involvement. I found what was going on occasionally interesting, very stylish and quite charming. I just didn’t care. The Life Aquatic was in many ways even more frustrating, rekindling as it did my love for Bowie and introducing me to some great Brazilian covers by Seu Jorge, not to mention looking unfeasibly beautiful for two hours. But just as In Rushmore, something was missing. Maybe it is the “terminal whimsy” of Anderson that Roger Ebert has complained about, which, I agree can be grating. Or maybe it is the affected style, the deadpan emoting of the characters and the slow pace that points to a nothingness very different to any Coen Brothers film.

The penultimate category, The Ones I Like, contains two films: The Darjeeling Limited and The Fantastic Mr Fox, which somewhat balances out the bile I have spat. They are also, curiously enough, the first and last films of his I ever saw. Not that that matters. Why I like them is that for all the director’s idiosyncratic hallmarks, there is some realised emotional depth to the proceedings. For in the case of Mr Fox, the characters are literally two-dimensional and its old-school use of stop-motion animation scream quirky – but it works. Although the artifice of filmmaking is highlighted and it may not be entirely suitable for kids, its familiar tale of a dysfunctional family packs a curious punch. The freedom of composition that animation allows Anderson and the childish subject matter, given “the spirit of self-conscious juvenile playacting [that] has informed his work from the start”, means the movie is, in many ways, the apotheosis of the Texan’s creative vision. Even the American goodies/Brit baddies dynamic couldn’t spoil my appreciation

Foxes In Action

The other film I like, The Darjeeling Limited, is marked by the same things: a dry humour, visual beauty and a great soundtrack. And, like Mr Fox, what makes it successful is that, beyond its glacial coolness, there is some real, heartfelt emotion – no matter how formulaic it may feel. Just as a killer soundtrack doesn’t make you Tarantino – who himself has almost sunk into self-parody these days – a cool-looking film isn’t always an enjoyable one.

The final category, The Ones I Love, is like the first, in that it only contains one film: The Royal Tenenbaums. And I do really love The Royal Tenenbaums. For, unlike the other cases I have noted: where unrealistic and tragically flawed characters fail to provide both tears and laughs, here they do. This is a serio-comedy both poignant and hilarious, crammed with great performances. Here the affectations are essential, just like every arabesque on the Alhambra, you couldn’t imagine it without each one. The famous criticism of Anderson – that he doesn’t “let story take precedence over style”, for me, is not an issue here. Everything just works and fits and it is glorious. Somehow the patchwork of the eccentric and idiosyncratic manages to mimic life itself, forming something at once odd, at once transcendent.

Ben Stiller Does Scouse

So, where do the failings lie? A big part of it, for me, are the recurring themes, motifs and style. Though, I suppose, not too many people still pummel the late, great John Updike for writing mostly about the white middle-class, just as they shouldn’t Anderson. Even though a lack of character development is often a reason for me not enjoying films, I respect Anderson’s idiosyncrasy in this aspect: the world does not need more identikit filmmakers. You just need to make sure there is some sort of connect.

His using the same coterie of actors can often be counter-productive; the palimpsest of the collective imagination is indelibly imprinted with residual memories of actor’s previous roles. Bill Murray is always Bill Murray, as Zombieland showed, which occasionally makes Anderson films seem samey: a flogged, dead horse. That’s why I am intrigued as to whether Anderson’s new film, Moonrise Kingdom, with its new stars: Edward Norton, Bruce Willis and Tilda Swinton, will mark a new stylistic direction. Something tells me it might not; so let’s just hope it’s in the last category. For when they work, there are few as great – and when they don’t, there are few as irritating.

If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller (Se una notte d'inverno un viaggiatore)

Vintage Cover

Having originally come to my attention during a university class on contemporary fiction, I had been meaning to read Italo Calvino’s metafictional classic for some time. Described by David Mitchell as “Breathtakingly inventive” and heralded as a classic in most parts, it has a coruscating – if difficult and slightly wanky – reputation. After reading it, I can report that it is a bravura piece of writing and much, much more satisfying than some people give it credit for – on Amazon, at least.

Its structure is a complicated postmodernist one, recalling the 1001 Nights, Borges and others, whereby the narrative alternates between chapters told in the second person, addressed to “You” the reader, and the beginnings of ten unrelated novels, which stem from a printer’s error. The novel openings are in a number of different styles, including: thriller, western, romance, detective story, satire and more. This can, of course, disorientate and confuse, not to mention frustrate – so beautifully crafted and appealing are the introductions, so stop-start are the different chapters. But as the second-person chapters’ story starts to take shape, the novel becomes all the more captivating as the reader tries to make sense of all that is happening. There, a romance burgeons between two readers of the original novel, as they try and piece together what has happened to the original. The action that follows is part detective story, part elaborate conspiracy: a tale that takes in oppressive regimes, Japan, shady translators, along with several dead languages and republics.

Many themes central to postmodernism are lightly touched on and explored in detail, such as: intertextuality and the problems of authorship. However, much of the book is devoted to the art of writing: why we do it, how we do it, etc.; it is a “meditation on reading”. Those second-person chapters are fascinating and offer genuine insight, rather than trite truisms. Each sinuous sentence has to be mulled over for some time before it meaning eventually rises to the surface; but, given how slick William Weaver’s translation is, this is never tiring – just part of the literary detective’s work. Indeed, every start of a novel at some point contains a playful analysis of the literary techniques in use and their eventual goals.

In fact, considering what I had read about the book beforehand, I am pleased to report that the most frustrating thing about the novel was actually the clash between the British and American spellings of “Traveller/Traveler”. With its understated love story and screwball plotting, If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller is an eccentric gem. Any ideas or fears of a typically postmodern shaggy dog story are quickly banished by the real things that the book has to say about the art of reading and writing. It really is a must for anyone interested in postmodernism, metafiction, writing or reading. It just goes to show that being serious and playful aren't mutually exclusive.

Italo Calvino

The Maid (La nana)

Despite living in London and being a massive fan, world cinema can sometimes pass me by. Often only showing in a couple of cinemas for a couple of weeks, you really have to be on your guard. For my sins, I missed the Chilean film, The Maid, which hit theatres at the end of August last year. Garlanded with great reviews by film critics and “certified fresh” on Rotten Tomatoes, I knew it was going to be interesting if nothing else. However, I wasn’t really prepared for liking it as much as I did.

Set almost entirely in the house in which she works and calls home, La nana tells the story of forty-something Raquel, the maid to an upper-class family in Santiago. Through a birthday scene at the beginning, we discover that she has been working for the family for almost all of her adult life, maintaining only distant contact with her own family. She is shy, awkward and nervous – characteristics that only become heightened when the mother suggests they hire another maid to help out. Through clashes with some of the four children and the new employees, we see Raquel’s world and her mind begin to unravel. as Raquel’s health begins to worsen, her brusque exchanges with her employers and increasingly sadistic treatment of others often threatens to bubble over into psychopath territory.

Despite being shot through with scenes of genuine comedy, the thriller-ish elements of the psychological drama dominate. Through the seemingly haphazard and gradual release of information, another image of Raquel and her life begins to form. This Hemingway-esque iceberg effect felt in the snatches of dialogue and the accretion of information marks Sebastián Silva out as a talent to watch. Is the nature of the work responsible for the stultification and infantilization of the maid? Is it some deep-seated childhood trauma? Is it a problem with society?

The movie largely shies away from socio-economic class criticism as the family are so accommodating and forgiving. There may be a touch with the ice-queen aristocratic grandmother, though, as she seems a blunt relic of a bygone age. Through a clever script and terrific acting by lead, Catalina Saavedra, the movie holds you attention for all of its 90-odd minutes. So well formed was it that I was still thinking about it for days after.

Odd, tense and utterly original – try and find this film, if you can. I know I am annoyed it took me so long to get my hands on it.

Source Code

I previously stated in one of my blog posts that I hoped for “a more nuanced blockbuster, somehow informed by arthouse”; and, with Duncan Jones’s new film, Source Code, it may have just arrived. That does not mean it is without its faults: it is simply an intelligent, ridiculous and fantastical film that will keep you talking long afterwards.

Jake Gyllenhaal plays U.S. helicopter pilot, Colter Stevens, who wakes up inside someone else’s body on an early commuter train heading to downtown Chicago. Opposite him is a woman, Christina (Michelle Monaghan), who appears to know him, even though he has no idea who she is. 8 Minutes later, a bomb blows the train up. Stevens is transported back to a strange, dungeon-esque cockpit where he is strapped in, in full military gear. Ignorant as to whether he is dreaming or not, he is given instructions by a curt air force officer, Goodwin (Vera Farmiga), who tells him that he is part of a “time reassigment programme” called the Source Code. Through this system, he must go back to the train in eight minute bursts and discover both were the bomb is and who the bomber is, with a view to preventing a future tragedy.

So far, so high concept. Despite being very much situated in far-fetched sci-fi territory, the breathless beginning of the film really draws you in. You watch, transfixed, and ask questions later. The movie’s trailer doesn’t really do the film justice, as it is more sci-fi thriller than action smash. Through the desperate and repeated trips back to the train, more is gradually (and cleverly) revealed about Colter, Christina and all of the other characters. There is a strong element of Groundhog Day about the repeated scenes and the humorous interaction of Gyllenhaal with the other passengers, but it is further mixed with the locomotive intrigue of Hitchcock and Murder on the Orient Express. Its concept even reminded me of La invencion de Morel.

Many echoes of Moon and sci-fi stereotypes crop up, such as Chesney Hawkes and the faintly evil scientist with a limp (Jeffrey Wright). However, much of the action is rooted in the human drama, as the desperate Colter begins to fall for Christina and forlornly hopes to save all of the passengers on board. I greatly enjoyed the film and was sucked in by the acting, inventive plot, crisp visual style and directing. What I couldn’t get away from was the ridiculousness of the final part of the film. Little be it for me to suggest that the film didn’t make complete sense, but that was the impression I got. If not, then the philosophy involved is somewhere way above my pay grade.

That and the potentially Hollywood feel of the ending aside, I thought it a tremendously engaging picture from a great young British director. It has everything: love, action, comedy and ideas. As I suggested, the fact it kept me talking for hours afterwards is just what I want from a blockbuster. Go and see it and make your own mind up – I and the Internet clearly haven’t [spoiler warning]. There’s no denying its fun or allure.

Deerhunter – Shepherd’s Bush Empire (31/03/2011)

On Thursday I was lucky enough to go and see one of my favourite bands play live. Having already seen them once 18 months ago, before the release of last years astonishing and critically lauded Halcyon Digest, I knew what to expect and I was genuinely excited. Thankfully I wasn’t let down.

The support came from Lower Dens, a good band who sounded – to my ears at least – like Cryptograms-era Deerhunter. Typically the crowd didn’t get too involved; the most people stretched to was a polite nodding of their heads. It should be noted that many of those heads were balding or already bald, as the Atlanta band, like a lot of music I seem to listen to, attract a very diverse crowd. Age-wise, anyway. Towards the back end of their set, the place really started to fill up and my position near the stairs became more and more moronic.

The view from my iPhone

When Deerhunter finally took to the stage, with their own newfound brand of phlegmatic calm, it was up to affable front man Bradford Cox to do all the talking – and rocking. Guitarist Lockett Pundt and the other members are never ones to go too mental; they just play, trance-like, as befits the tight live band they have evolved into. They started with a new track, ‘60 Cycle Hum’, which they recently played live on the BBC, but it somehow failed to get the crowd going as much as I anticipated.

Second track, the Lockett-led ‘Desire Lines’, really upped the tempo and was one of the highlights. It seamlessly blended two of Deerhunter’s defining characteristics: the love of pop melody and the tendency to veer towards murkier jams. The set also consisted of two songs from Cryptograms, ‘Hazel St.’ and set-closer ‘Octet’, which married well with the rest of their more recent material.

Another highlight was my favourite track from Halcyon, ‘Helicopter’, whose cathartic line: “No one cares for me…” really got the crowd going. But this audience was not entirely for moving: the ponytailed fans certainly remembered My Bloody Valentine the first time round and definitely liked swaying.

Microcastle highlights, ‘Little Kids’ and ‘Nothing Ever Happened’ were performed with as much aplomb as the last time I saw them, but it was the rendition of ‘Cover Me/Agoraphobia’ in the encore that got people most excited. I, for one, loved it all. They really are one of the very best bands around; Halcyon Digest and Microcastle are undoubtedly too of the best albums of recent times; and they are a compelling live presence – dress and fake blood or not. The lack of crowd interaction may put some of the harder rockers off, but listen a bit harder and you’ll be richly rewarded.

Setlist.