On guardian.co.uk
The films I caught at this year's LFF rebutted what the song's been telling us all these years. Getting what you want is the easy, keeping it is the tricky part.
Sugar, the eponymous hero of indie darlings Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck's second feature film, wants to be a legendary baseball player. Trouble is, so does every other kid in the Dominican Republic. There, baseball has become an industry, and Sugar, yearning for an escape from the life of poverty that's all his country can offer, is just another cog in the machine - a part that can replaced by so many identical others as soon as his performance on the field dips below exemplary.
First-time actor Algenis Pérez Soto expresses the extreme pressure his character's under expertly. He's especially good when Sugar – promoted to the American leagues after proving his worth at home - starts to achieve his goals. Success at this level of the game equates to more pressure and less freedom and on Soto it shows. He looks progressively exhausted with each trip to the mound – an effect that Boden and Fleck enhance by saving their close-up shots for the scenes later on in the film. There will be no spoilers here. Let's just say that in the end Sugar's dreams aren't worth the price he pays for them.
Boden and Fleck are natural romantics and as such their films are a strange mixture of gritty morality tale and syrupy feel-good story. Their debut - Half Nelson, which starred Ryan Gosling as a functioning crack-addict who was able to not only teach a class of inner-city kids, but inspire them – invited incredulity. Sugar is harder on the viewer and much the better for it.
The lead character in Kelly Reichardt's sombre Wendy & Lucy has relatively straightforward wants compared to Sugar's grandiose fantasies. She (Wendy) has lost her dog (Lucy) and wants her back. A safe place to sleep and something to eat would be bonuses.
Reichardt, who directed 2006's Old Joy – a long old dirge of a movie based on an awkward camping trip between two college friends – had some work to do with her second film. Thankfully, Wendy & Lucy exhibits the elements of her debut that were worth salvaging – the sparse use of sound in particular – while having a much stronger lead in the form of Michelle Williams.
Williams, in the part of an isolated homeless woman, could have easily have played it kooky or weird – the disjointed loner chick. Instead she gives Wendy the tenacity that someone fighting to get back the one thing she had (and lost) would need. She gets what she wants too – Wendy and Lucy are re-united - but realises that, due to her lifestyle, she can't keep it. Their final separation is restrained, but very moving stuff.
Charlie Kaufman does moving occasionally. But then Kaufman – famous as the writer of Spike Jonze's Being John Malkovich and Michel Gondry's Eternal Sunshine Of A Spotless Mind – covers most emotions in his surreal and sprawling scripts. His directorial debut, Synecdoche, New York, is no different.
The film grew from Kaufman's attempt to script a horror movie. Not a conventional, fantastic (in the old sense) horror movie, but one based on the things that scare us on a daily basis - doubt, illness and loneliness: the really dangerous things in life. The film's hero, Caden (Philip Seymour Hoffman) – a theatre director who builds a life-size recreation of New York in a cavernous performance space - is a chronic sufferer of all three, even before his reality dissolves into the usual Kaufman-esque heap of swapped identities, stretched taboos and twisted American stereotypes.
The film is at its best in the first hour when Kaufman is at least on nodding terms with narrative structure. It's easier to care about Caden's only desire – to be loved for what he is – when his age, health and gender isn't fluctuating every other scene. Both Caden and the audience learn that by moving too far from reality you're left with nothing to hold onto. And nobody wants that, do they?
Monday, November 3, 2008
guardian.co.uk film blog: 20/10/2008
On guardian.co.uk
Your partner is staring at the floor. He/she glances at you briefly - a look of confusion or hostility or hope. You know there's something you can say that will set everything straight, but you can't imagine what it is. You feel like you've seen this scene before but you're still not sure how it's supposed to end. You grab for the most appropriate phrase and your voice cracks, it comes out wrong and then there's more unresolved misunderstanding and hurt.
It never happens like this in the movies. In most films arguments are climatic (they start little, grow big and explode), predictable (they need to happen towards the final act for dramatic effect) and reconciled, generally with promises of eternal devotion - AKA the You Had Me At Hello scene.
There's little that those of us unwilling to try the "You complete me" line can learn from Hollywood when it comes to affairs of the heart. Romantic comedies rely on the audience empathising with the characters more than any other genre, but it's tough to do that when most movie stars are built to a different blueprint to the rest of us.
It's hard to believe that Jen and Vince are really feeling pain because they look incredible, will be rejuvenated in time for their next movie and are therefore invulnerable to love's sting. Ultimately we can relate to their on-screen problems as much as we can relate to a police car flying through a helicopter. The components of the experience are there (we've seen cars, we've seen helicopters) but the way they interact is unbelievable based on our experiences with them.
For romcoms to really work we need movie stars that look and act like us – that offer an escapist version of everyday relationships that isn't quite so removed from our own experience.
Ricky Gervais' Ghost Town is a good start. Gervais, by his own admission, is not a good-looking man and has described his character in the film, Bertram Pincus, as "flawed – real, normal and everyday". We can believe the film despite its silly plot (man helps a ghost protect his widow from the advances of a sleazeball by attempting to seduce her himself) because Gervais, as chronically awkward and hopeless as always, is us. At least, more "us" than others. We need more of this.
So, the next time you're faced with that painful silence, looking for that pithy movie one-liner to break the tension, try anything, however ridiculous. You can be safe in the knowledge that, for once, Hollywood is with you on this one.
Your partner is staring at the floor. He/she glances at you briefly - a look of confusion or hostility or hope. You know there's something you can say that will set everything straight, but you can't imagine what it is. You feel like you've seen this scene before but you're still not sure how it's supposed to end. You grab for the most appropriate phrase and your voice cracks, it comes out wrong and then there's more unresolved misunderstanding and hurt.
It never happens like this in the movies. In most films arguments are climatic (they start little, grow big and explode), predictable (they need to happen towards the final act for dramatic effect) and reconciled, generally with promises of eternal devotion - AKA the You Had Me At Hello scene.
There's little that those of us unwilling to try the "You complete me" line can learn from Hollywood when it comes to affairs of the heart. Romantic comedies rely on the audience empathising with the characters more than any other genre, but it's tough to do that when most movie stars are built to a different blueprint to the rest of us.
It's hard to believe that Jen and Vince are really feeling pain because they look incredible, will be rejuvenated in time for their next movie and are therefore invulnerable to love's sting. Ultimately we can relate to their on-screen problems as much as we can relate to a police car flying through a helicopter. The components of the experience are there (we've seen cars, we've seen helicopters) but the way they interact is unbelievable based on our experiences with them.
For romcoms to really work we need movie stars that look and act like us – that offer an escapist version of everyday relationships that isn't quite so removed from our own experience.
Ricky Gervais' Ghost Town is a good start. Gervais, by his own admission, is not a good-looking man and has described his character in the film, Bertram Pincus, as "flawed – real, normal and everyday". We can believe the film despite its silly plot (man helps a ghost protect his widow from the advances of a sleazeball by attempting to seduce her himself) because Gervais, as chronically awkward and hopeless as always, is us. At least, more "us" than others. We need more of this.
So, the next time you're faced with that painful silence, looking for that pithy movie one-liner to break the tension, try anything, however ridiculous. You can be safe in the knowledge that, for once, Hollywood is with you on this one.
guardian.co.uk film blog: 26/09/2008
On guardian.co.uk
Most British actors can't do action movies. Keira might think she is a "bowntay huntah" but we all know she busts out of corsets better than she does a room full of goons. James can curve bullets but he can't distract us from the curveball he threw us with the sight of his muscular-but-adolescent frame. Liam, with his "very particular set of skills", is horribly out of place in an action flick. He's Aslan, not a tough guy, and that won't change, no matter how many thugs of Middle Eastern origin he throws through plate-glass windows.
It's not surprising that there aren't many Brits skilled in the fine art of blowing everything up when our leading action star, luv-a-duck bruiser Jason Statham, is so sorely under-appreciated in this country.
For those unfamiliar, the typical Statham movie is a roundhouse of frantically violent misogynist tomfoolery where the men punch more than they talk and the women are all sass and ass. Jas stomps through the melee with a pitbull's decorum, pausing only to snap a sharp one-liner into the explosion that used to be his adversary. It's the kind of thing that Schwarzenegger was great at before he went (sort of) postmodern.
Outside the UK, Statham's as much of a big hitter off-screen as on. The dearth of young, macho leading men in Hollywood has seen his popularity boom over there, where his biggest action movie, The Transporter 2 (2005), took $43m at the box office. Here it grossed less than £1m, a sad fact when you consider that, while the Knightleys and McAvoys of our film industry always have another costume drama to fall back on should their forays into other genres fail, Statham is effectively the lone British gun in a field dominated by the Americans.
Death Race, Statham's latest big'n'loud'n'stupid flick, is out in the UK tomorrow. Our filmgoers will probably remain indifferent (I can't see it doing anywhere near the $33m it made at the US box office) but it will be another instance of Statham breaking his way into a film genre where traditionally the Brit is simply the baddie and there's as much value in that as there is in seeing Keira harping on about "the concept of freedom" in another ridiculous wig.
Most British actors can't do action movies. Keira might think she is a "bowntay huntah" but we all know she busts out of corsets better than she does a room full of goons. James can curve bullets but he can't distract us from the curveball he threw us with the sight of his muscular-but-adolescent frame. Liam, with his "very particular set of skills", is horribly out of place in an action flick. He's Aslan, not a tough guy, and that won't change, no matter how many thugs of Middle Eastern origin he throws through plate-glass windows.
It's not surprising that there aren't many Brits skilled in the fine art of blowing everything up when our leading action star, luv-a-duck bruiser Jason Statham, is so sorely under-appreciated in this country.
For those unfamiliar, the typical Statham movie is a roundhouse of frantically violent misogynist tomfoolery where the men punch more than they talk and the women are all sass and ass. Jas stomps through the melee with a pitbull's decorum, pausing only to snap a sharp one-liner into the explosion that used to be his adversary. It's the kind of thing that Schwarzenegger was great at before he went (sort of) postmodern.
Outside the UK, Statham's as much of a big hitter off-screen as on. The dearth of young, macho leading men in Hollywood has seen his popularity boom over there, where his biggest action movie, The Transporter 2 (2005), took $43m at the box office. Here it grossed less than £1m, a sad fact when you consider that, while the Knightleys and McAvoys of our film industry always have another costume drama to fall back on should their forays into other genres fail, Statham is effectively the lone British gun in a field dominated by the Americans.
Death Race, Statham's latest big'n'loud'n'stupid flick, is out in the UK tomorrow. Our filmgoers will probably remain indifferent (I can't see it doing anywhere near the $33m it made at the US box office) but it will be another instance of Statham breaking his way into a film genre where traditionally the Brit is simply the baddie and there's as much value in that as there is in seeing Keira harping on about "the concept of freedom" in another ridiculous wig.
guardian.co.uk film blog: 27/08/2008
On guardian.co.uk
Outside the Palazzo del Cinema, come seven o'clock tonight, amongst the excited chattering of the Venetian star spotters, you might overhear this:
"LOOK! There's Brad Pitt! Arggggghhhh! Brad! Ohmigod! George Clooney! Eeeeeeeee! And ... ummmm ... Anne Hathaway? ... Did you see Brad Pitt? ... Who's this? Frances McDormand?! Hmmm ..."
And well might they hmmm. International festivals rely on star power and this year the consensus is that Venice ain't got none. Apart from Brad and George of course. The writers' strike has delayed US releases that would have premiered at the festival, while the global economic downturn has put the squeeze on the studios, shackling their ability to put Hollywood somebodies up in appropriately luxurious hotels (the lowest priced double room at the Hotel Cipriani goes for around £700).
But even with an array of A-list US stars in attendance this year's festival would have failed to match up to its British counterpart, the London Film Festival (LFF), for one simple reason. Like Cannes, Venice has glamour, style, big-money sophistication, but little attempt is made to attract the casual film-goer, the kind of viewer that all festivals should court if they want to encourage cinema attendance as an alternative to that old satanic ritual, illegal downloading.
I think the organisers at the LFF realise that it's not the star power you've got, but what you do with it that counts. So, while many of the films at the LFF may well go straight from their premiere on the BFI Southbank's screens to the immaculate glass-fronted DVD displays propped outside of them, the festival's organisers do at least make concessions to the "ordinary" film fan. Last year saw a series of Leicester Square premieres - a number of them star-packed crowd pleasers (Juno, The Darjeeling Limited, Bee Movie) where you didn't have to read the subtitles or nuffink. Factor in those screenings with Q+A sessions with the directors and stars of the movie and you have that rare thing - an arts event relevant to both the artistic community and the casual punter.
Film festivals like Venice shouldn't have to dumb down their programmes, but they should think about how they could use Hollywood glitz to introduce more people to the art of cinema as the LFF has done. And realise that most people go to cinema to be entertained, a point that Marco Müller, director of this year's Venice festival has (reluctantly) acknowledged: "Cinema is also entertainment, and this year, we try to remember that."
Maybe they've finally realised that full cinemas are just as important as a full red carpet?
Outside the Palazzo del Cinema, come seven o'clock tonight, amongst the excited chattering of the Venetian star spotters, you might overhear this:
"LOOK! There's Brad Pitt! Arggggghhhh! Brad! Ohmigod! George Clooney! Eeeeeeeee! And ... ummmm ... Anne Hathaway? ... Did you see Brad Pitt? ... Who's this? Frances McDormand?! Hmmm ..."
And well might they hmmm. International festivals rely on star power and this year the consensus is that Venice ain't got none. Apart from Brad and George of course. The writers' strike has delayed US releases that would have premiered at the festival, while the global economic downturn has put the squeeze on the studios, shackling their ability to put Hollywood somebodies up in appropriately luxurious hotels (the lowest priced double room at the Hotel Cipriani goes for around £700).
But even with an array of A-list US stars in attendance this year's festival would have failed to match up to its British counterpart, the London Film Festival (LFF), for one simple reason. Like Cannes, Venice has glamour, style, big-money sophistication, but little attempt is made to attract the casual film-goer, the kind of viewer that all festivals should court if they want to encourage cinema attendance as an alternative to that old satanic ritual, illegal downloading.
I think the organisers at the LFF realise that it's not the star power you've got, but what you do with it that counts. So, while many of the films at the LFF may well go straight from their premiere on the BFI Southbank's screens to the immaculate glass-fronted DVD displays propped outside of them, the festival's organisers do at least make concessions to the "ordinary" film fan. Last year saw a series of Leicester Square premieres - a number of them star-packed crowd pleasers (Juno, The Darjeeling Limited, Bee Movie) where you didn't have to read the subtitles or nuffink. Factor in those screenings with Q+A sessions with the directors and stars of the movie and you have that rare thing - an arts event relevant to both the artistic community and the casual punter.
Film festivals like Venice shouldn't have to dumb down their programmes, but they should think about how they could use Hollywood glitz to introduce more people to the art of cinema as the LFF has done. And realise that most people go to cinema to be entertained, a point that Marco Müller, director of this year's Venice festival has (reluctantly) acknowledged: "Cinema is also entertainment, and this year, we try to remember that."
Maybe they've finally realised that full cinemas are just as important as a full red carpet?
Snow Patrol - Bloomsbury Theatre - 27/10/2008
Gary Lightbody's arms may be spindly, but his T-shirt's tight enough to bunch around them anyway. Purple cotton corrugates along his small biceps as he raises his arms - a move mirrored by the crowd, who will soon be enraptured by Snow Patrol's relentlessly dull Topshop rock.
The T-shirt rides up with Gary's soft falsetto - exposing a pale stretch of beer-bellied midriff as his little face contorts around the lyrics to the band's 2004 hit 'Chocolate'. Come the predictable 'big'n'stirring' chorus, a bank of lights flare directly into our eyes. He stares at us with undisguised delight. You can almost see him thinking: "You may not like us, churlish hack. But check out the hundreds of paying punters who do."
And they do. They really do. There's coach-loads of people here (literally - we saw them pulling up outside the venue) screaming along to every "What have I done?", "I'll be right beside you" and "Would you lie with me?"
Critical analysis of Snow Patrol's performance and emotions-by-numbers songwriting isn't going to cut it tonight. Similarly, any gripes we have about the sound (muddy, with the backing vocals falling to their death within five feet of the stage) or the suitability of the volume for this venue (it's an intimate space, so why are they hammering away at stadium levels?) will be blocked out by the memory of several hundred people stamping along to songs they cherish.
The thumping peters out and Gary coaxes the crowd through a singalong of 'Shut Your Eyes'. Looking around, ours are the only open ones in the house. And that's what music is about, really: a group of people coming together through a shared love of song - forgetting daily life's distractions, shutting their eyes and singing along. On nights like this it almost doesn't matter if it's "good" music or not. That's just taste and fashion.
The T-shirt rides up with Gary's soft falsetto - exposing a pale stretch of beer-bellied midriff as his little face contorts around the lyrics to the band's 2004 hit 'Chocolate'. Come the predictable 'big'n'stirring' chorus, a bank of lights flare directly into our eyes. He stares at us with undisguised delight. You can almost see him thinking: "You may not like us, churlish hack. But check out the hundreds of paying punters who do."
And they do. They really do. There's coach-loads of people here (literally - we saw them pulling up outside the venue) screaming along to every "What have I done?", "I'll be right beside you" and "Would you lie with me?"
Critical analysis of Snow Patrol's performance and emotions-by-numbers songwriting isn't going to cut it tonight. Similarly, any gripes we have about the sound (muddy, with the backing vocals falling to their death within five feet of the stage) or the suitability of the volume for this venue (it's an intimate space, so why are they hammering away at stadium levels?) will be blocked out by the memory of several hundred people stamping along to songs they cherish.
The thumping peters out and Gary coaxes the crowd through a singalong of 'Shut Your Eyes'. Looking around, ours are the only open ones in the house. And that's what music is about, really: a group of people coming together through a shared love of song - forgetting daily life's distractions, shutting their eyes and singing along. On nights like this it almost doesn't matter if it's "good" music or not. That's just taste and fashion.
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