Hollywood vs. Arthouse

When trying to make a list of my favourite films recently, I was struck by a few telling things. Firstly: how few films were from mainstream cinema, and, secondly: my mortal weakness for the arty, wanky side of film. I know all the truisms about everyone being different and art being wholly subjective but it did make me reflect on what I value and enjoy in a movie, as well as my expectations from the medium. Without intending it, this quickly debated into a bloodied-knuckle discussion about ‘cerebral’, elitist indie and ‘brainless’, commercial Hollywood – which is better, and why do I prefer it?

I am clearly aware that the objectives of Mike Leigh when making a film are entirely at odds with those of Michael Bay; but it is where their differing methods and ideologies diverge that is most of interest to me. Should cinema be art or entertainment? Or both? Or neither? Should I be worrying about this at all?

As my friends would tell you, I remain an unflinching acolyte of the goofy, dick-joke style of fratboy humour, of which my DVD collection can bear testament. Are these comedies any worse films than other films in my collection, such as Barton Fink or Stroszek? If pushed, I would probably just as happily sit down and watch 90 minutes of (most) Apatow than I would suffer through 120 minutes of Haneke. But then – almost counter-intuitively – if pushed, I would have to admit that enjoyment and satisfaction isn’t the only reason I watch films; and it is by this logic that the quintessence of my taste is defined.

Genre will inevitably define the audience’s expectation of films and I am just the same as anyone in that in my love of horror and comedy, as well as my indifference towards action movies. However, what I truly value is that semi-mythical beast: the transcendent film that makes you think. Not a homo-erotic, greased up Rambo/Stallone “taking names”. And that doesn’t necessarily mean words on the screen and an almost teenage fascination with wanking. It can mean reference-heavy, literate dialogue, like the Coens or Tarantino; beautiful or innovative cinematography, like Roger Deakins or Christian Berger; or even the surrealist, what-the-hell-is-going-on? craziness of David Lynch. And of course much, much more. For me, what’s important is that the material is thought-provoking and will keep you talking in the pub or car or tube or house afterwards.

I think it’s possible to demand more from Hollywood without descending into Empire-reader geekdom or Nuts-buyer bloodlust. Recent startling and brilliant smash-hit Inception, with its coruscating special effects and cornucopia of WTF moments, may well lead the way towards a more nuanced blockbuster, somehow informed by arthouse. But until those days arrive, I’ll be happy with some gritty, weird and beautiful film from a former Yugoslav republic that might, in someway, change my perspective.

Comments, as always, are most welcome.

Never Let Me Go

The relationship between novels and cinema has been a long, fruitful, yet ultimately difficult one. As you might expect, given its position as the preeminent literary genre, the novel still remains the most fecund source for screenplays and there are many more adapted screenplays than original ones. But the novel is a bloated, long, baggy genre with far too much material to be contained in a film of 90 minutes plus. Therefore, plot must be shortened in films and other novelistic effects cannot be replicated by cinema. This annoys fans of original books, in many cases unnecessarily, and is the cause of much debate.

The problems and difficulties of adaption were in full evidence when I went to see Never Let Me Go, a film adapted from the much-loved and eponymous Kazuo Ishiguro novel of 2005. For I had read the book some four-or-so years ago and had very positive – if admittedly hazy – memories of it. It was an odd, tragic and affecting read; Mark Romanek's film is odd and tragic, but never quite as affecting. This may be down to a number of factors, several of which are directly linked to the adaptation of novels.

Without wishing to give too much away, the film tells the story of Kathy H. and her relationship and love triangle with two school friends, Ruth and Tommy. Set in a dystopian alternate-reality England, the film – and book, of course – explore ideas and themes that have been examined very thoroughly in sci-fi. It is a meditation on a number of issues, described last week by star Andrew Garfield as, ‘exitential’. These include: the value of life and the greater good, the existence of the soul, the submissive nature of homo sapiens and enduring love. In its own way, the film is a very insightful examination of the British national character, where stiff upper lip and a melancholic acceptance of one’s fate are two prime characteristics.

The film is beautifully shot, has a good score and is well-paced. The acting is also very fine as Garfield, Carey Mulligan and Keira Knightley are completely convincing as the put-upon trio. But, unlike the book, the revelation is revealed much earlier and therefore has less effect. Granted I already knew the entire story but I did feel more could, or should, have been made of it. That said, its release is entirely in keeping with the rest of the film. Despite the various monologues of Kathy, presumably the diresctor’s attempt to communicate the book’s first-person narration, you do not get the immersive effect and the emotional investment that Ishiguro’s Kathy gives the reader.

Definitely more rewarding for people who have not read the Booker-shortlisted original – but nonetheless interesting for those who have – this is a solid, likeable film that doesn’t scale the emotional heights it could have. Something must have been lost in translation.

Exit Through the Gift Shop

The name Banksy is synonymous with mystery, anarchy, street art and much more. He is a man – or several men if conspiracists are to be believed – who might seem an unlikely auteur of a fêted, Oscar-nominated documentary. But as is his wont, the artist keeps surprising us. Exit Through the Gift Shop is a brilliant, baffling and amusing look at the world of street art and art: entirely in keeping with everything we have come to expect from the figure known as Banksy.

The main man appears intermittently throughout, firstly introducing the action clad entirely in black, with his face obscured and his voice scrambled. Around him is a run-down urban studio, his Bristol twang still in evidence. The viewer is then introduced to Thierry Guetta, a forty-something French emigré living in L.A. who owns a successful vintage clothing business. Guetta describes how he became obsessed with the idea of documenting everything that happened and haphazardly stumbled upon the world of graffiti after a meeting with his cousin, French street artist: Invader.

Immersing himself deeper in the street-art world on both sides of the Atlantic, meeting and collaborating with the likes of Shepard Fairey and Monsieur André, Thierry decides to make a documentary about street art. It is only then that he becomes interested in meeting the Keyser Söze of street art: Banksy. Without wishing to give too much away, the pair meet up on one of Banksy’s Californian sojourns and Thierry wins his trust. Later, Banksy takes over the direction of Guetta’s film and advises him to make some art of his own. The quixotic and likeable Frenchman then sets about re-mortgaging his house and creating a street-art persona: Mr Brainwash (MBW).

It is here that the documentary really takes a left-turn towards implausibility as the film climaxes in Thierry putting on a massive show in L.A. and selling hundreds of thousands of dollars of his art. The sneaking suspicion exists that the whole persona of Thierry as Mr. Brainwash has been meticulously orchestrated by the master prankster-puppeteers Banksy and Shepard Fairey. Is the whole film a herculean joke at the pecuniary art world’s expense? Such questions really don’t matter that much given how well-made, enlightening and downright enjoyable the documentary actually is. It certainly would be entertaining to see what would happen at the Oscars were the Bristol nonentity to win.

Even if Banksy’s bewilderment at the amount people will pay for art and willing participation in that capitalist system do raise some unanswered questions about his ethics, I urge people to go and see it. Fan of Banksy or not, and given the rumours and intimations of a hoax, the Mail on Sunday-labelled middle-class suburbanite may well be having the last laugh.

The Kids Are All Right

As part of my annual watch-as-many-nominated-films-as-possible-before-the-Oscars rush, I recently sat down to watch The Kids Are All Right. Despite being nominated in no fewer than four awards, including Best picture and Best Actress, my expectations were muted. I mean, middlebrow, middle-class comedy-drama isn’t exactly the most enticing genre for a twenty-three year-old male. But in this instance, I am very pleased to admit that my lack of enthusiasm was sorely misplaced. The Kids Are All Right is a warm, unconventional and excellent film.

No doubt causing a quiver of controversy among the American Right, the movie details the fall-out after the two teenage children of a comfortable suburban L.A. family go in search of their sperm-donor biological father; the catch being that the two parents are a lesbian couple Jules (Julianne Moore) and Nic (Annette Bening). As director Lisa Cholodenko is a lesbian mother whose child was conceived by donor sperm and co-writer Stuart Blumberg donated sperm himself while at college, the plot has a veracity and a heart-felt feel to it.

The film starts with an incongruous montage of 15 year-old Laser (Josh Hutcherson) skating, snorting and smoking with a buddy of his, accompanied by the spiky, up-tempo ‘Cousins’ by Vampire Weekend. This opening, combined with the title, is calculated subterfuge, misleading the viewer into thinking that it may be another teen coming of age drama. A relatively minor constituent part, the film is much more than that. Laser’s wayward behaviour is contrasted with his saintly, science whizz sister, Joni (Mis Wasikowska), who is preparing to leave for college at the end of the summer and suffering from unrequited love. On Laser’s instigation, the pair go in search of their biological father, who turns out to be So-Cal dropout, turned successful organic restaurateur, Paul (Mark Ruffalo). Initially mildly irritating, given his penchant for staring glassy-eyed and studding his sentences with “right on”, Paul impresses Joni and disappoints Laser.

It is when their meeting comes to the attention of their “Moms” that the real drama begins to unfold. Doctor Nic is the bibulous, stricter parent and Jules the stay-at-home mother who never quite became an architect; their difference in approach in some way the route of the troubles. After an affair begins between Paul and Jules, the very fabric of their relationship is strained and put to the test. It is as if the conventional is in someway challenging their situation.

A naturalistic, organic film filled with incredible performances, it is engaging and amusing all at once. It is not hard to see why Bening won the Golden Globe as she, Ruffalo and Moore are fantastic in inhabiting the roles they play. The two children also deserve a special mention for their acting. The Kids Are All Right is an intelligent, poignant and witty portrait of a very modern family facing very modern issues. It is certainly well worth both all the acclaim and a watch.

(Out on DVD on 21 March)

Black Swan

Darren Aronofsky has always delighted in making idiosyncratic (read: a little bit mental) psychological thrillers. This trait can be traced from his brilliant debut, π, through the cult classic Requiem for a Dream, right up to his current film, Black Swan. Fans of Aronofsky’s earlier work who were in some way indifferent to the mawkish and depressing The Wrestler will not be disappointed; the film is unhinged delight of a picture with a strong hint of melodrama about it.

Heavily reminiscent of giallo classics such as Dario Argento’s Suspiria, it tells the story of twenty-something New York ballet dancer, Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman), and her struggles to play the lead role in a production of Swan Lake. Brittle Nina can easily pull off the vulnerable white swan but cannot, rather obviously, master the darker, more mysterious black swan. Already haunted by her domineering mother (Barbara Hershey) and the ageing, past-it lead ballerina she has replaced (Winona Rider), eating little and self-harming, Nina’s mind begins to come apart at the seams. To make matters worse, a new dancer, Lily (Mila Kunis), has joined the company and she just happens to be the exact opposite of Sayers: a free-spirited, uninhibited minx perfect for the portrayal of the black swan.

As the tension ratchets up inexorably, Nina plunges headlong into an eerie psychosis. She begins to see things and her reflection continues to stare back at her long after she has looked away. Added to that, her mother’s creepy infantilization and attempts at vicarious satisfaction become more obvious and they begin to clash. The paranoia doesn’t stop there as Nina is convinced that Lily is conspiring with the Gallic sleaze of a director, Thomas (Vincent Cassel), to take her part and an uncanny, feather-like rash begins to appear on her back.

So far, so ridiculous, one might say. But it is exactly that horror movie-style, bizarro lack of plausibility that lends the film such an exquisite charm and is so refreshing from a “big” awards contender. The tale of Swan Lake is so well known that there was hardly much scope for ventures into terra incognita, anyway. The performances, while a touch one-note (as befits the picture) are universally brilliant: a key piece in the films creepy crescendo. Those who go in expecting a strict, realist representation of a young woman battling to overcome her demons will be sorely disappointed. But those who go in open-minded and prepared to be taken along on a hysterical, jumpy, scary, visceral ride will be richly rewarded. Well worth the fare (even in London), go and catch it before Portman inevitably wins the Best Actress Oscar.

The Secret Life of Words

Henry Hitchings’ achieved that rarest of feats in 2008, winning the John Rhys Llewellyn Prize for a work of non-fiction: The Secret Life of Words. For any lover of the English language and its near-infinite richness the book is hard to beat. Meticulously conceived and executed, the book tracks English’s development as a language from its first stuttering Anglo-Saxon steps to its current incarnation as the world’s lingua franca. Through examining the foreign influence on the English language, Hitchings first illuminates the British national character. Then, by examining human beings’ relationship with language and the influence of technology on the world, it mutates into something all the more universal.

The author is an English lecturer at UCL and famously wrote a book about Samuel Johnson and his dictionary; on this showing it is not hyperbole to suggest that Hitchings shares something of the doctor’s love for scholarship and language. The breadth of the subjects and words covered boggles. Seemingly everything from Shakespeare to bukkake to Beowulf to Marco Materazzi is covered with great wit and verve.

To me, part of the book’s great attraction was the fact that each one of the chapters – manageable at around twenty pages – can be taken as a free-standing entity or as part of the narrative whole: namely the development of the English language. The chapters that I found most interesting were ‘Angst’, which examines twentieth-century preoccupations; ‘Blizzard’, which analyzes American English and the United States; and ‘Invade’, which details the Anglo-Saxon languages early struggles for assertion in Great Britain. Every anecdote is studded with a wry observation or humour and the Hitchings’ sheer joy is contagious.

One can hope to take more than a plethora of great facts (such as there are more words in the English language of Greek origin than there were words in Ancient Greek) away from this erudite-yet-accessible book. It certainly helped me to better understand British and European history, colonial or otherwise, as well as to better appreciate my mother tongue. A joyous celebration of a book; read it.

Dogtooth

The winner of the Prix Un Certain Regard at Cannes, this incredible and scary Greek film has recently been nominated for an Oscar. Yet, with the usual dull and faintly saccharine fare nominated for Best Picture, this film couldn’t be more different. Profoundly idiosyncratic, one watches transfixed at all the bizarre-yet-familiar, askew images that flash past one’s eyes. Surely influenced by the Josef Fritzl case of a few years back, the film details the warped lives of a superficially normal, middle-class Greek family. Home-schooled, the three children are taught the wrong meanings of words, encouraged to act like dogs and forbidden to leave the beautiful grounds of the compound they live in. Why things are as they are is only ever hinted at and a sexuality both innocent and otherwise casts a shadow over the proceedings.


The action starts with an ingenious scene in which the three kids are being played a tape-recording teaching them the incorrect meanings of the words like “motorway” and “road-trip”, seemingly needlessly, which immediately plunges the viewer in to this world of sinister strangeness. The action doesn’t let up from there as we see the paterfamilias driving a female security guard from the factory where he works to his home to service his twenty-something son. With the children kept in this stymied state of childishness, the father is the only one to leave their house, going to and from work and running the necessary errands. Inevitably curious, his children yearn to know of the dangers that dwell outside their four walls, their stultified cabin fever leading to random acts of violence against one another.


The cinematography of the film really is something to marvel at, as every single shot exudes a bright and dreamy beauty. At times, the action is shown using a Haneke-esque fixed shot, which beheads some characters and lends the images a Big Brother feel. The acting, it must be said, is universally brilliant. One really feels drawn in to the strange irrational logic (if you’ll permit the oxymoron) of the household, whilst simultaneously being appalled. As the film meanders along unfussily, the gradual accretion of detail provides the plot with real impetus as the security guard is cast off for leading one daughter astray, the children long to be out, and the real meaning of dogtooth is revealed. A mysterious older brother and a Doberman being trained by an outsider deepen the mystery.


A real strength of the movie is that it makes no attempt to justify the perverse actions of the dominant father and his attendant wife. It would surely be impossible in 90 minutes, anyway. What it does provide you with is a blackly humourous, starkly individual exposition of the family. Watch it and be gripped right up until the brilliant ending. Unmissable.

The King's Speech

British films are an odd one. For a number of reasons, I never know how to react to them. The chest-beating, patriotic part of me always wants to think that they are excellent and my other more curmudgeonly part wants to put them down as the cheap, illegitimate step-child of Hollywood. This dilemma – American screenwriter aside – was in full force when I went to go and see The King’s Speech this week. For, that Colin Firth seemed a shoo-in for The Best Actor Oscar and the movie was nominated for another 11 gongs made me vicariously proud; yet I also thought it would be a cynical, trite royal story constructed solely to bother award ceremonies and please the British and American publics. In a way, both of my initial fears and feelings were confirmed.


As everyone will already know, The King’s Speech is about Bertie, The future King George VI of England and his attempts to overcome his stammer before, during and after the abdication crisis. His final goal is addressing the nation by radio at the outbreak of WWII. Said in those terms, it shouldn’t work; but it resoundingly does. What might initially be seen as a fairly pointless story about an uptight, unsavoury and unwilling monarch is granted a degree of universality through his unconventional relationship with equally unorthodox Aussie speech therapist, Lionel Logue. This ‘bromance’ (as Colin Firth has incongruously described it) is the source of much laughter and the human heart of the film. Bertie, or “His Majesty” as he insists on being called, must conquer his inhibitions to overcome his stammer and be King.


As has been mentioned, Colin Firth is magnificent as the stuttering king: convincingly stammering the audience into a visceral frenzy. The supporting cast, especially Geoffrey Rush as Logue and Helena Bonham-Carter as Queen Elizabeth, are also fantastic. So what was it that left me somewhat cold? The movie also seemed well-pitched and very well directed. There have been multiple reports of audience ovations in Dublin and elsewhere. But somehow it didn’t click with me.


It wasn’t really the re-writing  (or airbrushing, depending on your take) of a mildly unsavoury, Nazi-sympathizing chapter in British history that left me indifferent. Though, while I do find that slightly unsettling, one must inevitably bow to the spectacle in these types of films and provide entertainment, not existential angst. I think I simply found it too perfectly-crafted: a decent film about a human subject that held no interest for me at all. Shallow where it could have been profound, it seemed to skirt the big issues. Involving but pointless as it had nothing new to say about human nature, it was a very contradictory affair. Worth going to see if only to see what all the fuss is about, 127 Hours has my vote.