Blue Valentine

Don’t take your girlfriend, they said. Depressing but like real life, they said. Oscar-worthy performances, they said. While all of the above are true, and my girlfriend did leave slightly red-eyed, it was, above all, a superb, transcendentally brilliant film. Intriguing, gripping and heartbreaking in equal measure, it brilliantly walks the line between indie romance and dirty realism.

Blue Valentine tells the outwardly simple story of Dean and Cindy, their relationship and its seemingly terminal decline; it starts with a scream and ends in a firework display. But this is certainly not the stuff of the Hollywood rom-com. For one, it has a quite controversial past as the American board of censors took umbrage at its graphic descriptions of sex – and particularly oral sex – and slapped it with an NC-17 rating, precluding TV advertising. Although it was rescinded on following an appeal, the anecdote certainly serves to show the sort of feathers the film has and will ruffle.

Through a series of flashbacks, the sparse storyline is leant a tragic poignancy as events slide inexorably towards the cathartic conclusion. There we see Dean and Cindy’s background, when they first meet, their wedding; here Gosling’s natural charm and attractiveness shine through. He and Michelle Williams are coruscating as the two leads and inhabit the characters with 70s De Niro brilliance. Their dealings with their daughter, the way they go about their lives and, above all, the way they are with each other contain a seldom-seen realistic quality. The writing and the seemingly haphazard accretion of details, causes, reasons and recriminations only add to this feeling. The fact that Gosling looking around a stone and half a head of hair lighter is meant to signify the nadir of early middle-age loserdom would be my only complaint.

Any film with a (fitting and excellent) soundtrack by Grizzly Bear is going to be leant a stately melancholy, at least in my eyes, and this is no different. Its powerful examination of romance, love, sexuality and the ageing process lingers long in the mind. I am certainly still thinking of it forty-eight hours later. A must-see.

127 Hours

Danny Boyle’s new film doesn’t need much introduction. After the supernova success of Slumdog Millionaire, culminating in the Best Director and Best Picture Oscars, the director is very much hot property. Add respected rising star James Franco, a host of great reviews and smattering of Golden Globe nominations to the mix and you start to see why it has been such a talking point. I can, however, safely report that all the talk is justified. As is the praise.

The film does, of course, tell the story of American thrill-seeker Aron Rolston, who, after a freak accident in 2003, got his arm trapped under a boulder in the desert where, after almost five days, he was forced to cut his own arm off with a blunt knife. One has to ask himself how a story that everyone has heard, with an ending that everyone knows, which essentially takes place in a giant crack can 1) be entertaining, or 2) have any dramatic tension. But somehow, miracle worker that he is, Boyle manages it. The film is both engaging, gripping, fun and, above all, incredibly well-made.

It starts in a caffeine-induced frenzy, frantic action appearing in split-screen, accompanied by the infectious, thumping 'Never Hear Surf Music Again', by Free Blood. The action does not let up from there as we see Aron preparing for his trip, not telling anyone where he is going and forgetting his pen-knife. We then see him drive to the wilderness, leave his car and then cycle (intermittently punctuated by jumps and wheelies – natch) the 17-odd miles to the fateful Blue John Canyon. There he meets two young, female hikers, proceeds to show them a secret drop into a hidden pool, before leaving them as quickly as he has met them. There is the faintest hint of attraction between Aron and the two girls but, for the most part, he is in his own self-absorbed bubble. And then comes the accident.

It is here that Franco comes into his own, as we spend at least 90% of the rest of the movie in his capable company. Where others might o played Aron as a self-satisfied bore, Franco finds a novel humanity and empathy. Claustrophobically  and inventively (not to mention brilliantly) shot by cinematographers Anthony Dod Mantle and Enrique Chediak, the closeness never once gets tiring. The action is interlaced with various fantasies, memories and remeniscences of Aron’s that bring his desperate, dehydrated plight into clear focus. Family, friends and a vague failed romance bring a gentle poignancy to the events.

When the time comes for the ‘hero’ to amputate his own arm I was engrossed. Then I was grossed out, as the bone-cracking, tendon-snapping, flesh-carving spectacle brutally played out before my eyes. If there was any message to be had, it seemed to revolve around Ralston not forgetting his nearest-and-dearest and needing this personal tragedy to paradoxically bring him closer to them and make him a better person. But all that is an irrelevance – go and see it; I can’t think of many better or more fun ways to spend ninety minutes.

Blood Meridian

First published in 1985, Cormac McCarthy’s masterpiece remains as unsettling today as it was on publication. Its infrequently brutal, crude and unemotional depictions of atrocities linger long in the memory. Nonetheless it is an essential novel that aspires to greatness and deals with the weightiest of themes: man’s primordial need for violence.

It tells the story of a young Tennessean known only as the ‘kid’, who is first orphaned and then drawn into a nightmarish world of savagery. He is initially recruited by a gang of filibusters on the U.S.–Mexico border in the 1850s at the time of the Texas-Mexico war. Later, out of luck he then joins the Glanton Gang, a now-infamous band of mercenary scalp-hunters employed by the state of Chihuahua to protect its citizens from rampaging hordes of Apache Indians. Although readily apparent before, it is with Glanton that the primeval lawlessness of the time comes into sharp focus; massacres, rape and pillaging are as common as in the time of the Vikings. As both the whites and the Indians equally partake in the maelstrom, we become aware that this is no ordinary Cowboys and Indians tale.

Among Glanton’s men is the massive, menacing Judge Holden, a hairless, seven-feet tall, twenty-one stone giant who is the apotheosis of bloodthirsty evil. Apparently a historical figure, he is a fine fiddle player, balletic dancer and a polymath capable of holding court on topics as wide-ranging as astrology, philosophy and draughtsmanship. He is also one of the most sinister and memorable characters I have ever encountered; recently voted one of the hundred best characters in all American fiction, he is almost a reason in himself to read the book.

However, one of the things that most impresses throughout the novel is the prose. For, as in all of McCarthy’s books, the type is shorn of any extraneous marks, such as inverted commas or semicolons, and the text is left to speak for itself. And speak it does: the rhythmical, lyrical prose at once evoking Milton and the Bible, the extended descriptions of the sky and landscape evoking Homer’s Greek epics. This allusiveness and ambition never comes over as bombastic, it merely lends the events an importance and grandeur that makes one sit up and take notice.

Indeed, McCarthy does have much to say about the vagaries and violence of our species. Thus, his interweaving of fact and fiction, peppered with a web of allusions, is his own way of lending credence to his views, whilst striving for immortality through fiction. For fans of McCarthy, attracted by his brilliant, The Road: this is an impeccable next stop; for people new to his oeuvre: this is an enchanting, beguiling, hypnotic read. For firm fans of McCarthy: why not have a re-read?

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?