Author Archives: Daniel McCarthy

Village At The End Of The World | Sundance London 2013

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village_at_the_end_of_the_world_2012_poster_2Following on from the success of her debut feature Brick Lane in 2007, director Sarah Gavron, along with co-director David Katznelson, journey to the remote plains of North-Western Greenland for a transition into documentary feature. The focus in Village At The End Of The World is the small and isolated community of Niaqornat, a coastal village that has seen the fishing and hunting trade decline steadily over recent years and the population whittled down to a scant 59. Gavron turns her camera to focus on four specific individuals in the community; the mayor and chief hunter Karl, isolated teenager Lars, outsider and sewage worker Ilannguaq and Annie, the oldest member of the village. We follow them as they recall their experiences in living in Niaqornat, how they cope with the vast isolation around them and what they plan for the future of themselves and the village.

From its opening breathtaking aerial shots of the sparse and beautiful landscape of Greenland Gavron’s film is clearly concerned with the division, both geographical and spiritual, of nature and man. Early sequences like this reminded me of the incredible documentaries of Werner Herzog. Niaqornat is merely a dot against a large backdrop and much of the drama of the narrative follows the efforts of the villagers attempts to make sense of their lives against such a seemingly unforgivable void. Its thankfully told without much gloom and doom hanging over the proceedings as the villagers at the heart of the story are mostly upbeat about their situation and surroundings. Ilannguaq cheerfully recounts moving to Niaqornat to marry the woman he loves whilst shovelling resident’s waste into a bin. Lars, the isolated teenager, enthusiastically gives us a tour of his ‘virtual life’; the vast array of contacts he has amassed on social networking sites and a tour of Google Earth detailing all of the places he wishes to visit beyond the tiny commune. This sharp contrast between the desolate landscape and digital world truly hammers home the concepts of isolation and longing without jumping off into maudlin territory. The village’s traditional roots and older generations are represented by the older Annie, who recalls frightening yet eerily beautiful memories of days with no electricity in the village and the sound of ice sheets breaking echoing across the plains like cannon fire. Gavron captures such a moment on camera along with other moments of genuine natural awe such as the 24 hour darkness that descends at winter. Moments like this provide a genuine cinematic spectacle that again recall the likes of Herzog or even Terrence Malick in its staggering sense of environment and justify its place on the big screen.

However it’s on the more intimate and personal details that the film stumbles somewhat. Whereas the more episodic and seemingly random recollections and observations are absorbing and even delightful, the central thread of the film revolves around the efforts of the community at large to save the fishing factory that could potentially provide their means of survival. As illuminating as these insights are into the importance of fishing and hunting to the community, the narrative backbone of the film seems terribly convenient and neat as though perhaps the filmmakers felt that that the natural flow of observations and interviews with the locals would not be enough to sustain the film despite their strength. There is also a lack of insight into the relationship between two of the key interviewees that is brought up but never truly discussed in major detail suggesting that perhaps the directors wanted to incorporate it into the story despite one or both of the subjects not being so willing to go into details. At a scant 76 minutes, Village At The End Of The World keeps it brisk and doesn’t outstay it’s welcome though (and I don’t normally find myself arguing this) I would have liked a slightly longer running time in order to delve deeper into the richness of the culture as well as their magnificent surroundings. Gavron certainly has a fine eye for detail and the moments of wonder and warmth she finds in the cold, inhospitable landscape are a joy. Hopefully in her next documentary she can flesh these ideas out to their fullest potential.

In a World Film Review | Sundance London 2013

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In A World… takes it’s title from the unforgettable catchline of the late Don LaFontaine, the
voice actor whose deep, thunderous delivery of said line became synonymous with the film
trailers and advertisements we know today. Over news footage of his passing and industry legacy
we are introduced to Carol Solomon (Writer, director and star Lake Bell), a struggling vocal
coach eeking out a career in the Los Angeles vocal performance community and attempting
to emerge from the shadow of her father ‘Sam Sotto’ (Fred Melamed of A Serious Man), the
current ‘King Of The Voiceover’ after LaFontaine’s death. When a major production company
decide to bring back the ‘in a world’ tag to promote their new fantasy blockbuster franchise
Carol decides to throw her hat into the ring of competition against her father and hideously
chauvinistic upstart Gustav Warner (Ken Marino). May the best voice win…

The brilliantly droll trailer for Jerry Seinfeld’s Comedian aside (Google it, trust me) the world of
film trailer voiceovers sound likes an unexpected and unlikely source for a comedy yet it proves
an inspired choice that owes a lot to the talents of it’s leading lady/helmer. In A World… toes
the line with a cliche triumph of the underdog story arc yet breathes fresh life into the formula
with it’s unique spin of genre tropes and uncanny industry insight. It’s a world where words
don’t just speak louder than actions; they are the action and Bell has a lot of fun with the daily
grind of voice artists, their obsessive commitments to their trade (Carol is constantly armed
with a tape recorder for capturing sound bites from various passersby) and even a hysterically
OTT Rocky style training montage. Fledging these ideas out to a 90 minute running time sounds
like an awful stretch but it’s a testament to not just Bell’s handling of the material but to her
central performance that it works as well as it does. Charm can be an easy word to throw around
but she quite frankly radiates the stuff. Carol faces down a lot of problems that seem recurrent
in comedies of this ilk (a fumbling romance with a sound designer is an amusing subplot) yet
Bell never allows her to be swamped by them or cowed into submission. She breezes across the
screen with an elegant but spikey energy that is infectious, spouting off an acerbic, un-PC wit
that gets laughs by the plenty. She’s ably supported by fellow performers, many of them her own
friends and fellow collaborators, who revel in the brilliant, partly improvised dialogue.

In A World… is not breaking any major new ground and if there are faults to be found it is when
the film strays closest to the formula it is gently ribbing. There are no major surprises to which
way Carol’s professional and romantic endeavours will play out and some may bemoan the
seemingly signposted turns her relationship with her father pop up, though frankly the chemistry
between Bell and the wonderfully bemused Melamed is a joy to watch. A climactic monologue
about the role of women in the industry and ‘finding your voice’ is admittedly quite on the nose
though frankly Bell deserves all the credit she gets for creating one of the most likeable leads of
recent memory and not bowing down to the dull and conformed roles that many actresses have to
submit to in the romcom genre. She picked up a Waldo Salt Screenwriting award for her work at
Sundance Utah earlier in the year and hopefully on the basis of this, it won’t be the last accolade
to come her way.

Touchy Feely Film Review | Sundance London 2013

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Touchy FeelyWith a number of small breakout films (Humpday and Your Sister’s Sister the most recent) and an episode of Mad Men to her name Lynn Shelton is establishing quite the name for herself

on the American independent film circuit. Her latest work Touchy Feely brings together a cast

of established character actors for a comic drama concerning physical and spiritual health and

fragile family and emotional ties. The plot revolves around two middle aged siblings; Abby

(Rosemarie DeWitt), a carefree massage therapist and Paul (Josh Pais), an uptight and painfully

shy dentist. Both are unmarried; she is passionately in love with her new boyfriend (Scoot

McNairy), he is desperately clutching onto his relationship with his sullen daughter Jenny

(Ellen Page) who spends her time assisting her father at his steadily declining family dentistry.

Dynamics shift when shortly after her boyfriend asks her to move in with him, Abby becomes

completely physically adverse to human contact rendering her useless at her job and wracked

with self doubt. At the same time Paul finds that he is suddenly able to ‘cure’ his patients

crippling tooth pain with seemingly no effort at all…

 

Touchy Feely attempts to find laughs in what is fairly niche subject matter for comedy films.

The state of your soul and body is a pretty existential place to search for mirth but the film does

make a decent stab at it in its first acts. The performances radiate with a quiet, unfussy naturality

that you can only expect from such a fine ensemble of character actors. Rosemarie DeWitt in

particular is charming and appealing in the latest of small but winning performances including

the titular role in Rachel Getting Married and Josh Pais is great as melancholy personified.

His Paul shuffles, mumbles and grimaces through proceedings to terrifically funny and oddly

moving effect. It’s a role that incorporates a surprising amount of comic physicality into it but all

the better for it. The rare occasions when he manages to force a smile resemble some form of

nervous, childlike glee and he injects a much needed boost of life into the proceedings.

The main issue with the film is it’s elusiveness; everytime you try to close your hand around it

you catch nothing. Shelton’s typical style of character establishment first and improvisation on

behalf of her performers has done her well in the past when focusing on a small, tight band of

characters. Yet in her first ensemble, there’s simply too much for her loose freestyle aesthetic to

cover up. Are we meant to laugh at the portrayal of new age therapy or be in quiet awe of it’s

supposed restorative qualities? The plot threads appear to tie themselves up without getting into

much detail on the subject. We get a substantial supporting role from Allison Janey as Abby’s

fellow healer/confidante in what like and effort to get more of the concepts across but this is

too underplayed to have impact. Whatever you think of new age therapy yourself, watching the

characters fumble loosely with this for 90 or so minutes can’t keep the attention rapt. Matters

aren’t helped by an undercooked subplot concerning Jenny’s misjudged crush on Abby’s

boyfriend. A final act revelation seems to have wandered in unexpected from another film

altogether (although the scene is beautifully shot) and a bonding, out of body experience between

brother and sister seems terribly neat and convenient.

 

Shelton is a great talent and it’s good to see that her scope is expanding yet she needs to maintain

a firmer hand on her material and a balance between the humour and the maudlin in order not

to fall again into this frustratingly ‘grey area’ of tone. Hopefully this is merely a blip in her

otherwise impressive filmography.

The Look of Love Film Review | Sundance London 2013

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the look of love filmIn an astonishingly versatile career that has lasted nearly two decades, British filmmaker Michael

Winterbottom has turned his hand to an astonishing amount of challenging and diverse output.

His work has strayed from fiction to factual, between comedy and drama and from light froth

to storms of controversy. His new film marks the fourth collaboration with comedian Steve

Coogan, their most notable so far being 24 Hour Party People, an excellent account of the

Manchester music scene of the late 70’s and early 80’s. Their subject matter this time around

is Paul Raymond, ‘The King Of Soho’, a notorious figure of the British media who starting in

the late 50’s built an empire from his ‘gentleman’s clubs’, pornography publications and real

estate properties to become the richest man in Britain, broke many taboos of the post-war era and

led an extravagant lifestyle both in and out of the public spotlight. Such a divisive and colorful

character seems almost tailor made for a tell all, illuminating biopic; a modern day King Midas

story. Citizen Kane by way of Boogie Nights if you will.

 

 

Soho, 1958: Paul Raymond (Coogan) along with his wife Jean (Anna Friel) open their

first ‘gentlemen’s club’ which allow it’s patrons access to displays of sexuality previously

unavailable due to British law. As the years pass, Raymond invests in multiple properties and

starts his own magazine publications which quickly make him one of the country’s wealthiest

men. However his rise to the top is littered with adversity and tragedy shown through the prism

of the other two key women in his life; Fiona Richmond (Tamsin Egerton), cover girl and

journalist for his Men Only Magazine and Debbie Raymond (Imogen Poots), his utterly devoted

and loving daughter who was destined to take over his empire.

 

 

Raymond’s excessive and colorful lifestyle was no secret to the public at large; he had an

uncanny knowledge of PR and treated his name like a brand. The Look Of Love certainly

succeeds at portraying this lavish and sordid empire in terrific detail. Costume and set designs

are beautifully rendered across the decades that the story spans and it’s quite remarkable that

with a fairly modest budget at the filmmakers disposal, the streets are Soho are convincingly

transformed to their period look. Cinematographer Hubert Taczanowski conjures up a stunning

look for the film. The early 50’s set monochrome sequences morph into a lurid, enticing color

scheme that practically drips off the screen and replicates the grainy film stock feel of the era

that thankfully doesn’t feel forced although a number of flashy edits and montage sequences feel

a tad overdone. Unfortunately it’s in discussing the brilliant visual aesthetic of the film that you

can’t help but notice it coming up shorthand in the emotional department.

 

 

Raymond’s life was not without it’s moments of heartbreak and tragedy and the film doesn’t

shy away from them. The problem is that for the majority of its running time it assumes the

veil of a bawdy, knockabout comedy breezing through the darker and more dubious aspects

of Raymond’s career without much time to absorb the morality or the lack of it. A scene

where he faces allegations that one of his clubs is being operated as a brothel is quite literally

blink and you miss it, as though the filmmakers are worried that you may start to dislike

this man. Montages whip past in a blur stopping to name drop many important events and

accomplishments of Raymond’s eventful life yet we rarely get any heft or scope of these events.

At it’s worst it almost resembles a live action Wikipedia biography page. It’s understandable that

the filmmakers would want to market the film to the widest possible audience by keeping the

appeal broad and the laughs coming. It’s certainly not without it’s funny moments and they are

their best when dark and scathing. The sight of Raymond giving his daughter a line of cocaine

to help her through labour elicits gasps and guffaws in equal measure. Yet the film revels in it’s

comic background to a sometimes overbearing degree. Cameos from the likes of Stephen Fry,

Dara O’Briain David Walliams and Matt Lucas (in a an uncanny portrayal of John Water’s

muse Divine) are distracting and many of them far too fleeting to have any major impact on the

narrative.

 

 

Then there is Coogan himself in the central role of Raymond. Coogan is an undeniable talent

and it can be a pleasure to see comedic actors broaden their range with more straight faced

fare. However as talented a performer as he is Coogan feels miscast in the role. One of the

key problems is that the spectre of his most famous creation, appalling self centred Norfolk

based DJ Alan Partridge, hangs over the performance. Many of Coogan’s mannerisms and

vocal inflections skirt very close to that of Partridge (look out for the scene where he coaches

his dancers through their moves) and it can’t help but pull you further out of the world the

filmmaker’s are clearly working very hard to create. It seems almost churlish to criticise Coogan

for being the gifted comic actor that he is but here the pitch of the performance jars badly, the

character is played so much for laughs that when we step into his darker moments there’s a

distinct lack of empathy. Fortunately many of the supporting performances raise the films game,

most notably from the trio of actresses who play the women of Raymond’s life. Anna Friel is

terrifically steely as Raymond’s first wife; a solid bedrock of support for her husband’s ventures

and she provides one of the genuinely raw moments of drama as their marriage falls apart.

Tamsin Egerton piles on the glamour but is no fool as Raymond’s pin up girlfriend. Imogen

Poots arguably steals the whole thing as Debbie Raymond, pulling off what on paper seems like

a character of contradictions; hedonistic and full of life yet fragile and achingly vulnerable. It’s

the scenes between father and daughter that stick in the mind and hint the most at Raymond’s

softer and more conventional family persona. It’s in these scenes that we perhaps get a clearer

picture of what the film was aiming for before the tone got muddled.

 

 

The Look Of Love is certainly no disaster but given Michael Winterbottom’s terrific range

and style this can’t help but feel incredibly conventional, underwhelming and perhaps only as

substantial as one of its protagonist’s glossy publications. A lot of razzle but not enough dazzle.

 

Thursday Till Sunday Film Review

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Thursday-Sunday-editThere would appear to be a growing force behind cinema from Chile in recent years. Pablo Larraín’s  No recently became the first Chilean film to be nominated for foreign language film at the Oscars whereas his previous films Tony Manero and Post-Mortem have joined the likes of Patricio Guzman’s political documentaries (the most recent being the astonishing Nostalgia For The Light) to boost the country’s cinematic reputation of late. Whether or not this is down to a cultural ‘renaissance’ or the ever expanding availability of global cinema is debatable but whatever the reason we should be thankful that such choice is being made available especially in the case of Thursday Till Sunday, an achingly sad yet tender drama from newcomer Domingo Sotomayor that has premiered at various international festivals and picked up the Tiger Award at the Rotterdam Film Festival.

Ana and Fernando (Paola Giannini and Francisco Pérez-Bannen) are taking their two young children Lucia and Manuel (Santi Ahumada and Emiliano Freifeld) on a journey across the country to visit an old lot left by Fernando’s father to him. The long weekend is passed by way of colourful landscapes, locals and naive childrens games and inquisitive questioning of their parents. As the journey goes on, the pre-teen Lucia (and in turn the audience) begin to realise that something is desperately wrong with her parent’s marriage.

 

With a unique, singular directorial style and observations that seem deeply personal yet also universally recognisable, Thursday Till Sunday comes at you like a distant yet powerfully evoked memory. Filmed for the vast majority from inside the moving car and in long static takes, Sotomayor forces us to look longer at everyday events longer than perhaps we are accustomed to (or comfortable with) whether it be a repetitive expression of a child’s boredom or the quiet, awkward and telling silences between mother and father. Rather than alienate however its muted tone makes it easier to focus on the smaller yet dramatic moments that linger in the memory. It’s a relaxing and all too rare  experience to be watching a film that requires you to simply calm down in order to appreciate its pleasures. Keeping the camera firmly within the car for long stretches of the drama certainly creates a feeling of claustrophobia but more so it keeps the action fresh and vibrant, quite a feat given the deliberately slow pace of the proceedings. Whilst focusing on a kids toy being handed back and forth or the constantly shifting landscapes that pass us by, Sotomayor will draw the eye with key actions and conversations taking place in the background, isolated far in the frame or even suggest them offscreen altogether. The film is told directly from the viewpoint of Lucia and the film brilliantly conveys her confusion and anxiety by keeping the family turmoil at a distance. We are never told directly what has contributed to the disintegration of the marriage though we are given hints along the way most notably a detour at a campsite with an old friend of Ana’s of whom Fernando seems suspicious of. Many other filmmakers could have used the pause in the journey as a chance to shed light on the inner turmoil on the marriage but again all the drama is hushed down. An extended shot of Lucia staring out into the night whilst we hear (but don’t see) a potentially crucial plot point says more than most dialogue driven scenes could ever say.

Such a long drawn out journey requires engaging company and thankfully the cast rise to the challenge wonderfully. It’s an advantage to the naturalistic tone of the film that the cast is comprised of unknown faces (both adult leads have extensive CV’s in Chilean television whilst the children are complete newcomers) but these are excellent performances in their own right. Giannini and Pérez-Bannen are given only a minimal setup for the roles of the distanced parents and yet they effortlessly convey the feel of two people who have shared a life together and discovered its shortcomings. You sense the weight of indecision and disappointment on their shoulders and there is thankfully no forced or contrived lapse into melodramatics. The two children are an absolute revelation especially Santi Ahumada as Lucia. Sotomayor kept the exact nature of the story a secret from the two child actors which only serves to make her performance more remarkable. Bright, inquisitive and clearly aware that things are wrong between her mother and father she’s an engaging and delightful conduit into the drama through light and dark moments. A brief scene at the tail end of their journey where Lucia and her father share a quiet moment after all has become clear is so simple in execution yet the naturalness of the performances makes it simply heartbreaking. It is a truly terrific ensemble.

 

It’s not all doom and gloom in Thursday Till Sunday. There are some brilliantly droll observations as Fernando makes little effort to hide his disdain for Ana’s slightly too friendly colleague and the sight of the two children riding atop a vehicle strapped down alongside luggage does raise a smile. But this is a journey toward an inevitable conclusion and as the tone becomes more melancholic and the landscape more sparse and unforgiving the film emerges as a bittersweet account of the end of childhood innocence and the cruel disappointments of adulthood. It’s summed up in one of the more cheerful scenes where Fernando allows Lucia to get briefly behind the wheel giving her a first, almost overwhelming taste of adult responsibility. The evocation of long journeys together and the dawning of awareness that your parents are just people with their own faults is palpable throughout and there’s an honesty to the portrayals that makes the film seem so genuine and naturalistic. Thursday Till Sunday may not be an easy watch for some. It’s aesthetic demands your attention and some may find the subject matter unbearably sad. But to jump to conclusions is unfair; your patience is rewarded with an emotional resonance that lasts long after it ends. It’s certainly one of the best films about childhood I’ve seen in some time and I can’t wait to see what Sotomayor does next.

 

Stoker | Film Review

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StokerThe track record for foreign language filmmakers making their break in English language film is something of a mixed affair. For every Bernardo Bertolucci, Wim Wenders or Ang Lee there are a dozen who get seemingly lost in translation. Even the great Michael Haneke has fallen into this trap with a bizarrely pointless shot for shot remake of his own Funny Games. Now Park Chan-wook, the South Korean director behind The Vengeance Trilogy (Sympathy For Mr Vengeance, Oldboy and Lady Vengeance) heads to the US with Stoker, a contemporary gothic fairytale that despite a change of geography grapples with recurrent themes of his previous work such as crumbling family values, the havoc wreaked by long held secrets and the slow but inevitable lapse into extreme violence.

 

India Stoker (Mia Wasikowska) has her life turned upside down when her father is killed in a car accident on her eighteenth birthday. Living alone with her distant and brittle mother (Nicole Kidman), India’s sense of confusion and adolescent detachment is increased by the sudden arrival of her uncle Charlie (Matthew Goode) whom she never knew existed. Not long after he nestles himself into this shattered family unit, India realises that Charlie has an ulterior and chilling motive for his visit. Rather than horrify her however, it brings to light a side of herself she never knew she had…

 

With all the recent talk of Alfred Hitchcock, both in press and on our screens, Stoker may appear at first to be some sort of astonishingly well timed homage. The basic storyline has been compared to that of Shadow Of A Doubt, in which a mysterious uncle’s arrival (also named Charlie ) also brings dark reckoning to a distant family. One of Hitchcock’s most memorable bits of advice on filmmaking was to ‘film your murders like love scenes and your love scenes like murders’.  It’s advice that Chan-wook has taken very much to heart in all of his work and here is no exception. Whatever you think of Stoker’s macabre and graphic tone there is no denying that it is beautifully crafted to within an inch of its life. Chan-wook’s camera glides effortlessly through through the sparse, lavish yet ominous surroundings of the Stokers’ rural estate where he and regular cinematographer Chung Chung -hoon conjure up colours and shadows that enthrall as well as frighten. There are several stunning edits littered throughout the film most notably between a set of children’s shoes that reduce in size to show the passing of time and strands of combed hair morphing into weeds. When it comes to the bloodletting that has occurred throughout his films, Chan-wook knows exactly when to hold back and when to confront. It is not so much the graphic depiction of violence that unsettles (most of the death actually takes place off screen) but rather the mere suggestion of it and the effect it has on the characters. Perhaps the most lurid (and controversial) scene cuts back and forth between the moment of a murder and a moment of sexual awakening. Rather than seem like cheap titillation it marks a arresting point of no return for the central character. It is one of the more bold and confrontational  moments that the script throws out to us. If there is a central flaw to accuse Stoker of it is that the script by Wentworth Miller (originally writing under a pseudonym to distract from his Prison Break fame) does not throw up as many curveballs in the narrative that we expect from previous films by Chan-wook or the many paths we seem to be being led down at the films opening. The more ambiguous tones strike as unsettling but many are revealed to be nothing but elaborate window dressing and the climactic big reveal feels forced and something of a let down after everything that has preceded it. It doesn’t help that it can’t hold a candle to Oldboy’s jaw dropping denouement. Some may attack Stoker for being a triumph of style over substance. Though certainly not a claim without argument, we should be happy that the style is as assured as it is.

 

Whilst the narrative may have its flaws, it is thankfully  the characters and performances that truly stick in the memory. Mia Wasikowska does a fantastic job of not only credibly passing for a teenager (often a major flaw of adults portraying younger characters) but making India’s slow but sinister transformation believable. With jet black hair and a seemingly permanent set frown borrowed from Wednesday Adams,  India could have easily lapsed in a comical caricature of adolescent torment but Wasikowska has the talent and conviction to turn it round into something both affecting and frightening. Nicole Kidman is a beautiful yet haunting presence as India’s mother, seemingly on a permanent knife edge between fragile grief in the wake of her husbands death or cautious glee at his brother’s youthful, charming energy. A single take monologue filmed in extreme close up late on in the drama where she rallies against her wasted opportunities and her disappointment in raising a child throbs with a tragic rage. Matthew Goode is a revelation as Uncle Charlie playing it straight like a more assured, sexually confident take on Norman Bates. The moment he appears on screen he immediately strikes you with handsome looks and expressive eyes whilst still managing to make the blood chill. His Charlie stands as a potential saviour to India’s lost little girl but never ceases to ooze malice with every single gaze. It takes a lot of talent to be frightening whilst doing very little and Goode simply excels at it.

 

Whether or not Chan-wook  will continue to make films in America remains to be seen. It is refreshing to see a director move outside of their comfort zone and have some (if not complete) success. Had Stoker been helmed by a more mainstream and unadventurous filmmaker then it’s flaws may very well have increased tenfold. Though the violent flourishes (and live octopus eating) have been toned down, Chan-wook has taken a well worn genre piece and enlivened it with an energetic and pleasingly edgy vibe. Many may find the films full on macabre inflictions overbearing, others will find them intoxicating. Whichever side you come down on, it’s certainly never boring.

 

 

Hitchcock Film Review

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‘The Master Of Suspense’, Alfred Hitchcock, hangs over cinema like an all seeing spectre. His work and technical flourishes are so viscerally imprinted on cultural psyche that even someone who has never seen one of his films would still recognise his touch at a glance. Any biopic of such a looming figure (both metaphorical and literal) has huge boots to fill and it’s a task that Sacha Gervasi of Anvil! The Story Of Anvil fame has attempted with a dramatization of behind the scenes of  one of The Master’s most celebrated works.

 

1960: Worried that age is catching up with him and his talent slipping away, Alfred Hitchcock (Anthony Hopkins) boldly settles on the controversial pulp novel Psycho as his next project. It’s lurid subject matter sees him meet refusal from Paramount Picture executives so he takes the unorthodox move to finance the film himself putting at risk his reputation and house together with his wife and longtime collaborator Alma Reville (Helen Mirren). The drama follows them and their efforts to make the picture whilst confronting their own marital stresses.

 

Whilst it may be unfair to immediately compare Hitchcock with another film of similar subject matter, it cannot help but be cursed to have been released in the wake of television movie The Girl starring Toby Jones as the titular director. Whilst not without its flaws, that film presented a darker, more complex view of the man in regards to his supposed infatuation and harassment of Tippi Hedren whilst making the follow up to Psycho, The Birds. Whether or not you agree with the account, it added  layers of credible complexion to a figure whose dry comedic wit and physical appearance dominate public perception of him. Here Anthony Hopkins dons the fat suit and the make up and makes a good stab at the hangdog expression and the constantly  bemused vocal tones. However whilst Hopkins provides the surface for Hitch, what’s beneath amounts to little more than a running checklist of all the well known tics and traits. He liked his food and drink, had the fondness for blondes, was something of a bully on set and so forth. This unfortunately leans more towards mimicry than performance. The supporting cast fare little better. Whilst you can argue that psychical likelihood is not the cornerstone of a biopic performance, neither Scarlett Johansson and Jessica Biel convince as Janet Leigh and Vera Miles respectively. James D’Arcy is surprisingly uncanny as Anthony Perkins yet is given very little to do whilst fine character actors Michael Stuhlbarg and Kurtwood Smith are given practically walk on roles.

 

Of all the principal performances Helen Mirren as Alma easily steals the show. Nobody quite corners the market as strong willed supporting roles quite like she does and she provides Hitchcock with a passionate line that it needs badly. The marriage interludes hinting at Alma’s resentment of her husband’s success and lack of her own adulation do drift towards soap opera material yet Mirren turns it around and manages to convey a fiery will that sees her husband and his projects through. Another intriguing, if brief performance comes from Michael Wincott as Ed Gein, the serial killer whose bizarre and horrific crimes influenced the novel of Psycho (they also served to be the inspiration for another landmark American horror title; The Texas Chain Saw Massacre). Hitchcock imagines Gein in a number of scenarios, taunting him with references to the darker, sadistic sides of the director’s personality. The darkly amusing opening shot of the film sees Gein beating his brother to death with a shovel only for the camera to pan and reveal Hitch who breaks the fourth wall in his Alfred Hitchcock Presents persona. Eye catching as these scenes are they mark a conflict of tone of the film. We get hints of Hitchcock’s psychological impulses and dark desires yet Gervasi never acts on them or brings them fully to the fore. Rather the more potentially questionable sides of his personality are cast aside in favour of playful admiration and constant name dropping of stars and films of the period. It tries to be edgy yet comes off as surprisingly toothless.

 

All in all Hitchcock feels like its treading water when a terrific, meaty subject matter lies just  beneath it. Hopkins and Mirren do their best but the playful idolization becomes too much of a distraction. You could argue that the movie would more benefit those who are unfamiliar with Psycho and Hitchcock. That may be true but then why would you watch this over Psycho or any of the great man’s work?

Zero Dark Thirty Film Review

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News travels fast and the arts, arguably, just as fast. It seems that little time passes between major news, political and cultural events occurring and their portrayal in mainstream media. At time of writing a Julian Assange movie is well into production and Bradley Cooper has just been cast as disgraced cyclist Lance Armstrong. Barely eighteen months have passed since the death of Osama Bin Laden and now Kathryn Bigelow’s thriller about the hunt for the Al-Qaeda leader arrives on these shores amidst both critical adulation and a storm of controversy. Bigelow was already well into production on a project about the failed hunt for Bin Laden when real world events forced a rapid change of focus for the film. Hopes were high following her historic Oscar win for Iraq war thriller The Hurt Locker. Can her return to familiar theatre hold up to scrutiny?

 

Following the September 11 attacks, newly recruited CIA operative Maya (Jessica Chastain) is deployed to Pakistan where she joins a covert team dedicated to seeking out Osama Bin Laden’s couriers in the hope it will lead to his location. The narrative then follows Maya and her colleagues across a grueling decade of dead ends, shifting political landscapes, assassination attempts and haunted obsession before arriving at the inevitable outcome of May 2nd 2011.

 

Bigelow is a master of crafting a tough, machismo drenched world through her camera lens. Her past work has traded in different genres and protagonists from different walks of life. Her aesthetic here is similar to that of The Hurt Locker; lots of handheld camerawork, extended close ups and disoriented framing have a powerful culmanitive effect. What’s fascinating this time round is how much of the drama she chooses to show through screens within the frame. The protagonists of Zero Dark Thirty are shown poring over lengthy intelligence data, hours of interrogation footage, news reports of major terrorist attacks and the frighteningly familiar overhead sights of CIA drones. A good chunk of the final raid is viewed through the first person viewpoint of the SEAL’s night vision goggles. Where The Hurt Locker and films before it portrayed a war fought on the ground side by side with the ‘grunts’, Zero Dark Thirty portrays a unique 21st century attitude towards combat. This is  a war fought through intelligence, data and statistics. It is a cold and stark view that matches our 24 hour media mainlined view of contemporary warfare. That’s not to say that the film branches out in all directions; political figureheads are glimpsed briefly and major events (Invasion of Iraq, Obama’s election) are alluded to but never directly mentioned. There’s a cool and clinical air of detachment over the proceedings.

 

Without a backstory or even a surname, the central character of Maya is presented to us as a decidedly single minded individual with little to no life outside her hunt for Bin Laden. A child’s hand drawing reading ‘Mommy’ is glimpsed but never brought up and she shoots down all questions about her private life from colleagues. Such a portrayal could be viewed as unengaging but a fierce performance from Chastain makes it anything but. Pale, ethereal and with a thousand yard stare Chastain dominates every scene she’s in, her evolution from rookie to veteran wholly believable. While there is a whole other ideology hanging over the films head, it is also possible to see one aspect that attracted Bigelow to this specific take on the story. Maya is one of few female characters in the film operating in what is seen as a  predominantly male environment (read:Hollywood) and she spends just as much time butting heads with her colleagues than she does hunting her prey. ‘I’m the motherfucker who found him’ she cooly intones to a room full of indecisive superiors in what is probably the closest the film comes to a ‘victory’ moment. In many ways Maya’s journey reminded me of David Fincher’s superb Zodiac, another exhaustive, fictionalized account of the hunt for one individual and the havoc it wreaks on those who search for him.

 

Anyone heading into see Zero Dark Thirty will be no doubt aware of the controversy surrounding its alleged depiction of torture of detainees and the suggestion that such methods worked and led to Bin Laden. American senators have written letters to the production company criticising such a depiction whilst author Naomi Wolf wrote a scathing article comparing Bigelow to Nazi propaganda filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl. Certainly Bigelow and script writer Mark Boal do not shy away from the fact that ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’ occurred at American forces hands and the opening scenes showing a detainee being stripped, humiliated and waterboarded are horrifying to watch. However the film portrays the brutalisation of detainees yielding no or useless information. It is when the characters re-examine existing evidence that they eventually wind up on the road to Bin Laden’s compound. I personally don’t agree that the film condones torture and prefer such a brutal stark portrayal to that of the likes of 24 where Jack Bauer’s relentless torture of characters become both repetitive and repellent. I certainly won’t pretend to be smarter than anyone making the allegations; I would point out Alex Gibney’s article on the film which though I disagree with it he argues his points very well. However I would point out the argument of torture being effective (and in turn accusations of condoning American violence) is largely undone by the cold, blunt delivery of the films finale. Bin Laden is finally killed practically offscreen in front of screaming women and children with no triumphant ‘got him!’ moment. The first thing the SEAL’s do when the deed is done? Take pictures with a camera to confirm the kill. More distancing through a digital screen.

 

There’s no ‘ra-ra’ patriot message to end on. The narrative ends hours before Bin Laden’s death is made public. No footage of celebrations in Times Square, rather Bigelow chooses to end on an image that suggests that the decade long mission has brought nothing but a Pyrrhic victory. Maya’s quarry finally caught, her life is practically over. Many may feel differently and either way it is no easy watch. But Bigelow has created a never less than compelling , astonishingly well made thriller which dodges the cliches it could have fallen into and shines a light where similar films have rarely gone. However you feel about that is completely up to you.