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)

Poster

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.