Nriks Reviews

From Hell (2001)

Not a bad stab.

[27 August 2003]

This is an interesting - and more importantly - entertaining film, which attempts to weave together the varying mythologies surrounding the Jack the Ripper legend, whilst at the same time, presenting us with a cross-section of Hollywood game-playing. This however, is the film's eventual undoing.

Here we get a horror story, a detective thriller, a social-comment, a black comedy, and a romantic mystery all jostling for our attention. A more intelligent filmmaker may have been able to blend these over-lapping genres so that the audience was engrossed, without being distracted. Sadly the Hughes Brothers bite off more than they can chew, and instead of gliding seamlessly from one scene to the next, end up stumbling around with little interest or clue as to where the characters are taking them. Imagine if someone like Kieslowski had lived to direct this... the effect would surely have been magical.

Luckily for us, the production design and cinematography are exquisite, and even if the Polish exteriors sometimes fail at mirroring the real-life streets of Victorian London, we at least get some wonderful moments of cinematic-colour. The script by Hayes and Yglesias keeps us guessing in a Hollywood kind of way, meaning that the film is enjoyable while it lasts, but gives us little to ponder as an after-thought. Dialog is of a standard... giving us the correct amount of narrative information and just enough character development to satisfy the more learned of cineastes.

Acting is fairly impressive, with Depp once again delivering a charming performance as our lead-protagonist Inspector Aberline… the only criticism being his woeful Michael Caine impression, which is, I suppose, meant to convincingly pass as a real-life London dialect. However, he is nowhere near as dire as Ms Graham, lovelier than ever with dyed red curls, yet totally inept at conveying any sense of emotion... and what in the name of sweet baby James was that accent supposed to be. We also have support from Robbie Coltrane, Ian Holm and the late Katrin Cartlidge, all of whom are very impressive in their respective roles.

It is rare for a Hollywood thriller to display a large amount of visual imagination, accuracy and an interest in Historical politics... so it is doubly disappointing that none of the film's separate elements come together as successfully as they should. Still, this is an enjoyable little romp, defiantly worth a viewing... and maybe even a few repeats. 3/5

A Matter of Life and Death (1946)

Such a cliché, but... possibly THE greatest film ever made.

[23 August 2003]

What can be said about A Matter of Life and Death that hasn't already been stated? What combination of words can do justice to the visual poetry created by our intrepid filmmakers? Yet here I am, rummaging through my mind to find such words to explain my devotion to this visual extravaganza of pure cinematic ecstasy.

This is a film that entices the viewer with an image of love so unashamedly romantic, so achingly beautiful, that one could write five pages of gushing critique without even mentioning the competence of its makers or the extent of their excess - and believe me, this is a film filled with excess. Similarly, one could easily devote as much space to describing the intricacies of the script; the narrative experimentations, the juxtaposition of reality and fantasy, love and death, war and peace, woman and man and so-on. We could discuss the subtle beauty of the film's climax; that 'only in the movies' mentality that, in the hands of other [lesser] filmmakers, would come across as either disgustingly sentimental or completely false. The Archers don't have this problem; they create such an intoxicatingly dense reality, not only with the opening scenes of Peter's bomber engulfed by flames, but with the film's fantastical [literally stellar] introduction.

We have the use of voice over - a comforting [obviously BBC radio inspired] voice - describing to us with very calm reassurance the intricate workings of everything from heaven and earth and the cosmos to the notion of humanity and fate. There is no way of explaining just how audacious this would have been considered at the time of the film's release, demonstrating the notion of inter-textual pastiche long before post-modernism became the buzz word of the western world. No other filmmaker has ever attempted such a daring use of narration since, with the possible exception of Greenaway with A Zed & Two Noughts. However, the Archers aren't simply concerned with being clever, because for all the tricks and turns the film takes, it never loses sight of its central concern... the gloriously realised depiction of love. The love in A Matter of Life and Death is of ecstatic yearning, of youthful ebullience and giddy glee; so wonderfully personified by the characters of Peter and June.

This is a film that is constantly building and revealing its self, offering us something [be it external or internal] that is absolutely jaw dropping. The realisation of heaven as a monochromatic abyss, filled with lost souls that watch silently like curious children as the celestial court is held must be one of the most stunning images of the twentieth century. Even more rapturous is the depiction of the real world, with its luminous Technicolor and jarring camera angles. Every element of cinematic technique only adds to the joy of the film; the bold colours, the intoxicating use of the camera as a spectator, with its god like compositions and almost ecstatic use of movement. The editing is rhythmic; dissolving, jumping, matching, and fading... it carries us along with the characters, creating excitement out of the most mundane of tasks [the table-tennis for example]. And this is the point of the film, this image of a bureaucratic heaven, with its militant orderliness, its 'Americanised' regimes, its stern councillors, and eccentric Frenchmen. Compare it to the mid-night picnic, the dinner scenes at the doctor's house, even the image of the naked shepherd boy and the deserted coastal wasteland and we have a depiction life's true splendour.

There's also politics, satire, bravado, stiff-upper-lipped heroism, dementia, longing, loneliness, love, death, patriotism... and so much more than that. There is also the mirroring of war within the film's subtext; e.g. the depiction of battle, the consequences of fate, the crossing of boarders, the rivalry between the US and Great Britain, the forming of allies, the French as traitors, the image of the English soldier lost amidst a foreign [possibly alien] landscape, etc. Then we have the acting, with every performance a standout. Niven is both helpless and heroic as Peter, teetering between life and death but never loosing his charm. Livesey, as the doctor, the father figure, and so much more - who watches the town below from his camera obscurer like some kind of god - comes to represent the voice of science, of intelligence and above all else, reason. And finally Kim Hunter as June; stern, loving, confident, honest... and without a doubt the most gorgeous woman to ever grace the silver screen.

A Matter of Life and Death is a film that transcends the art of criticism; writers of my ineptitude could never do justice to its beauty no matter how hard we try. All I can do is urge you to experience this film... to bathe in its beauty... bask in its ideas and worship the genius on display. This is more than just a classic of British cinema; this is the reason for cinema's very existence, a film so powerful in its design that the mere mention of its title should compel us to seek it out. Now how many films can rival that?

The End of the Affair (1999)

The end, is the beginning, is the end.

[10 August 2003]

Rain-swept locations, men in hats, desperate longings, sex during the blitz... there are some interesting stylistic touches in Neil Jordan's The End of the Affair, but few of them manage to overcome the curiously stilted, somewhat detached performances by the central trio of characters.

In mounting (no pun!) this adaptation of Graham Green's semi-autobiographical novel, director Jordan has opted for a restrained, somewhat old-fashioned tone. Yes, there are still enough scenes of jiggling bare-buttocks and the knocking of boots to keep the 'art-house crowd' happy, and yes, Ms Moore does 'get them out'... but apart from the odd scene of soft-focus humping the film is fairly unabashed in its romanticism. The effect is less DH Lawrence, more Mills & Boon, with Ralph Finnes either moping around post war London, or sitting in front of a typewriter pouring out his "diary of hate". ...in fact, the film works better as a detective story than a romance, as Finnes tries to piece together the events that actually led to the end of the affair... which, needless to say, makes for much more rewarding cinema than the description above. In the film, Finnes plays Maurice Bendrix, a sort of alter ego for Green, who after meeting an old acquaintance during a midnight stroll in a rainstorm is re-introduced to his one-time lover, Sarah. For the rest of the film we flash backwards and forwards between past and present as Bendrix questions how the affair began... and why Sarah decided to end it. Coupled with this, we also have Maurice's difficult relationship with Sarah's husband Henry who suspects that his wife is involved with someone... but is painfully oblivious as to who that someone is.

Of course we know that the film will build to an inevitable, emotionally staggering finale, but one must regardless of expectancy, commend Jordan for actually pulling it off. In a film filled with particularly ridged characters, it is a miracle that we ever managed to care anything for our protagonists at all. With these final scenes, director Jordan is aided by composer Michael Nyman, who supplies the film with a lush, highly sensual score, bringing to mind his most popular work for The Piano. Cinematographer Roger Pratt deserves special mention also, for giving the film a wonderfully old-fashioned Technicolor glow, no doubt drawing his inspiration from the fantastical compositions he created for Terry Gilliam. The other key, technical contributor is production-designer Anthony Pratt, who creates an evocative, and wholly believable recreation of post-war London.

Naturally the whole thing looks spectacular, with each contributor being the best in their chosen field, but, regardless... the film never really takes off the way it should. This is all down to performance. Finnes is strong in the lead, lending the film an old-fashioned charm, sort of like Trevor Howard in Brief Encounter, but he fails to spark any form of chemistry with his supposed love-interest, Julianne Moore. As for Moore, well, technically speaking her performance is fine, but this is the problem. She's simply going through the motions, never really feeling her character or allowing her emotions to take her beyond the limitations of the story. She isn't helped by her put-on English accent, which I'm sure sounds fine to anyone outside of the UK, but to us natives, she is far too mannered and overly pronounced. Stephen Rea is also a disappointment as Henry, again struggling with the English accent and never really 'interacting' with either Sarah or Bendrix.

Overall, this is still a highly impressive film, with some fine support by Jason Isaacs, Ian Hart and the youngster Sam Bould. As previously noted, every technical element is as impressive as it could be, whilst Jordan's script manages to overcome some problems in drive by retaining a much-needed subtlety, which is more than you can say about some films. I'd speculate that the film's financial failure was probably down to the controversy kicked up in America due to Ralph's naked backside writhing around atop Ms Moore, something they call 'strong sexuality'. This will be most misleading to European viewers who are more than familiar with films like Romance, The Idiots, Intimacy and Baise-Moi. So if you're planning on watching The End of the Affair merely on the basis of explicit sexual content, then don't bother... the only things 'stiff' in this film are the upper lips.

Save for a few scenes of mild sexuality, this is a film about lovers, as apposed to love. It's often quite bitter and sad, and never really celebrates the joys of life [possible exception; the scenes that take place in Brighton] as one might expect from such a film. However, this is something that makes The End of the Affair all the more unique. Its old-fashioned-ness seems alien in comparison to such films as Fight Club or The Matrix and I for one find that very commendable. If Jordan had perhaps directed his actors to be a little more 'spirited' then we may have been looking at a classic. This isn't a classic, but it's certainly very good.

Interview with the Vampire: The Vampire Chronicles (1994)

"Fictions, my friend... The vulgar fictions of a demented Irishman"

[9 August 2003]

Interview with the Vampire is problematic, to say the least. Problem one: the film is directed by Neil Jordan from a script by Anne Rice. Remember the last time Jordan tried to make a film from someone else's script? The result was We're No Angels, an overcooked turkey in the eyes of all... so bad in fact, that Jordan was forced back to Ireland with his tail between his legs [until the success of The Crying Game made him hot property once again].

Problem two is Rice herself. It has always been my opinion that she lacks real depth as a writer, her style is simply too bland and superficial. She does have a rudimentary skill with creating mild tension, and her central characters are always memorable, but in terms of literary or storytelling ability she pales... especially in comparison to the infinitely superior likes of Margaret Atwood or Angela Carter. The book's episodic narrative and stream-of-conscious style fails to translate well into captivating cinema, which is a shame, considering the hard work done by the production designers and cinematographer in creating a wholly evocative world.

This brings us to problem three: Character and performances. Now, with a cast made up almost entirely of super-hunks it comes as no surprise to see that the IMDB rating system lists the film's primary viewers as women, aged 18 to 45. Now this may have resulted in a box-office hit, and I do respect Cruise and Pitt as 'serious' actors, however both men are way off form here. Cruise's effeminate pouting and constant swishing of hair gives him all the lure of a Loriel model as opposed to the suave, blood-sucking playboy he is supposed to be. Pitt similarly has little to do, other than act as window dressing. Even towards the films climax, when he essays the role of narrator he gives a performance as enthusiastic and spirited as Terry Kiser's in Weekend at Bernie's.

Support is made up of Christian Slater, Antonia Banderas, Jordan regular Stephen Rea and the wildly over-praised Kirsten Dunst. Slater is fair, although still trading off his Jack Nicholson impersonation, whist Banderas and Rea seriously struggle with accents... coming across as wildly over-the-top caricatures. Dunst isn't THAT bad, although she's largely one note, and we've seen much better debuts from child actors before and since... the fact that she's gone on to star in some of the most offensive, vacuous teen-fluff imaginable doesn't do any favours for her reputation as a serious thesp. Needless to say, this being Jordan, the film is absolutely stunning in terms of mood, atmosphere, production design and cinematography, whilst Eliot Goldenthall turns in yet another memorable score, in addition to his work the previous year on Alien 3.

I've always wanted to like this film... I've watched it many times in the hope that it will somehow get better, but it's becoming pretty obvious now that it won't. The overall problem is simply this; the film goes nowhere. It lacks bite [no pun!], offering us nothing new to the vampire cycle or the horror genre as a whole. The climactic crane shot, set to the Rolling Stone's rollicking classic Sympathy for the Devil is gutsy and endlessly impressive. Just a shame that this final display of balls-out, rock and roll angst fails to change the fact that Interview with the Vampire is a largely emasculated, and totally toothless affair. 2/3

Lisztomania (1975)

It out-Tommy's TOMMY all right...

[30 July 2003]

Ken Russell has become something of a tragic figure these days, forced to shoot his films on digital video with a cast made up of strippers and close friends... on a soundstage built in his own basement no less. However there was once a time when Russell was British cinema's driving, artistic force. Women in Love, The Music Lovers, The Devils and Savage Messiah were back-to-back classics, mixing overwhelming visual spectacle with historical accuracy and wonderfully detailed performances. He even managed to score a US box office hit with Tommy, his over-the-top realisation of The Who's rock-opera. Things were looking very bright indeed.

However, now with the ability of hindsight it is easy to see Tommy as the beginning of the end for Russell's career. For the first time he'd gone past the barrier of stylisation, passed the checkpoint marked 'taste', and somehow been rewarded with the greatest commercial success of his career. Thus, Lisztomania was born. Re-teaming with The Who's lead singer Roger Daltrey, Russell has gathered together a bunch of rock-star mates and thrown the filmic rulebook straight out of the window. So, whereas most biographical pictures go for fact, dignity and quiet restraint, Russell has instead willingly indulged himself in a vision of out-and-out creative excess... clearly, there was no going back!

What Lisztomania attempts to do is cross-reference the life of 19th century composer Franz Liszt with the birth of the pop-star phenomenon. So, as Liszt prepares to give a piano recital of one of his greatest works, one hundred screaming teenage girls wave flags and banners adoringly, whilst backstage, be-wigged music execs gather to rub shoulders with the press. Russell also throws in sci-fi philosophy, voodoo ritualism, musical criticism, Nazi ideology... and more naked flesh than you can shake a 50ft cock at. Oh, and did I mention that there are prog-rock musical numbers too. Rick Wakeman provides the score, allowing his imagination to run wild with the music of Liszt and his arch-nemeses Richard Wagner, which I'm sure seemed like a good idea at the time.

Not that I want to give the impression that Lisztomania is a bad film you understand, on the contrary, no... It's atrocious. To call it 'bad' would be an understatement. Daltrey is the films major problem, giving a performance of complete ineptitude, swaggering about the place with his arse hanging out... displaying about as much charm as a piece of cardboard. This is less Amadeus, more Confessions of Pop Star, with Daltrey lusting after all manner of buxom young ladies like an over-sexed teenager. Russell's use of fast-motion photography in these scenes also fluffs the issue, owing more of a debt to Benny Hill than Federico Fellini. Other cast members are simply directed to be as annoying and over the top as they can be, with former Beatle Ringo Starr's cameo as the Pope being the film's more surprising highlight.

Russell's career never really recovered from Lisztomania. Although Altered States proved to be a Hollywood success, there was none of the imagination and cinematic skill that marked out his early classics. At a time when Christopher Nolan is seen as being Britain's most creative filmmaker, the lack of a full-fledged enfant-terrible such as Russell is a great loss to a generation of film devotees. In a perfect world Women in Love, Savage Messiah and The Devils would all be available on letterboxed DVD, with digital sound and restored picture. As for Lisztomania's future reappraisal, well... there's no rush. 2/5

Wonderland (1999)

Wondrous Winterbottom's wonderful, Wonderland.

[22 July 2003]

Wonderland is a breath of cinematic fresh air. It does nothing wholly original, with its depiction of interconnected lives, family traumas and social despair having a great-deal in common with the best of Robert Altman. And as for filmic style, well... the use of handheld cameras, improvised performances, and jarring jump cuts have been around since Jean-Luc Godard left audiences ‘Breathless'. However, for a British film to present us with such as honest depiction of everyday life; yet incorporating enough hope, imagination and wonderment to break away from the Mike Leigh/Ken Loach School of social realism... well, that is a truly remarkable achievement. 5/5

The Claim (2000)

An understated western, brimming with emotional intensity. (some spoilers)

[10 July 2003]

The town of Kingdom Come sits atop a hill looking out across desolate planes of snow, its buildings both grand yet near to collapse. No weapons are allowed to be brought into Kingdom Come; the townsfolk simply go about their business with little toil or trouble, content with their simple way of life, always safe beneath the watchful gaze of their no-nonsense 'mayor' Mr Dillon. That is until Dalglish - a charismatic railroad surveyor - and his party of workers bustle into town.

This is a film about secrets... a story of one man's personal redemption told on the largest scale. The key elements, betrayal, power, ambition, identity, loss... are all separate elements of one rich-tapestry, creating a sort-of Greek tragedy amidst the decline of the Wild West frontier. This description may conjure images of Peckinpah and The Wild Bunch. However director Michael Winterbottom is as far removed from Bloody Sam as any filmmaker can get. Here, the director's cinematic approach is one of quiet restraint. The film begins unassumingly with no music and no credits, just rapid, hand-held shots of Dalglish and his posse riding into town. Voices over-lap, horses stamp their hooves into the snow, characters drift in and out of frame, as Winterbottom forces the audience to identify with these outsiders, forcing us to feel their confusion of entering this alien-world.

Hostility and camaraderie are both set-up in these opening scenes, as is the quasi-love-triangle between the central trio, Dalglish, Dillon, and Dillon's mistress Lucile, who owns the town's whorehouse and sings flamenco in the local bar. Added to this troika are two mysterious women. Hope, a young lady who believes Dillon to be a relative of her long-lost father, and Elena, Hope's TB stricken mother. Writer Frank Cottrell Boyce integrates these characters slowly, letting relationships within relationships build as if part of an extended chamber piece. The film's central enigma is treated in a similar fashion, with flashbacks growing from scenes of personal longing, almost seamless in the way they drift into the film - never hurried or forced - they transmit information through confusion, forcing the viewer out of the film temporarily and then easing us back in.

The use of the town as a central metaphor - or as testament to Dillon's prevailing greed and anguish - makes Winterbottom more akin to filmmakers like Fassbinder and Herzog, as apposed to Altman or Cimmino, whose McCabe and Mrs Miller and Heaven's Gate are so often sighted as reference points here. With the town, and to an extent its brothel, used as a symbol of capitalism - of exchange and demand - we see many similarities emerge with Fassbinder's Lola or Querelle. The naturalistic filming technique and over-lapping dialog, or the heightened sense of confusion employed in the opening scenes can also be seen as a continuation of the German director's 'In a Year of 13 Moons'. Even one of The Claim's most ambitious and impressive sequences - the moving of Dillon's house - owes an obvious debt to Herzog's Fitzcaraldo - another heavily symbolic film about obsession.

Winterbottom takes Alwin H. Kuchler's widescreen photography, which should suggest epic beauty, and couples it with scenes of gritty despair. Here the technique mirrors that of Fellini's in Satyricon or Casanova, in which the façade of a seemingly sophisticated society is brought into decline by outside elements; but shot through with an antiseptic sheen of designer misery. The handheld cameras, jarring jump cuts and continual shifts in focus belie the film's literary roots, as does the relocation of setting, so radical in it's approach that one could fail to notice that this is an adaptation of Hardy's very English novel 'The Mayor of Casterbridge'. Here Boyce and Winterbottom have made the change in an attempt to internalise the character's tragedy, to suggest a coldness to their relationships, creating the grand vision of a town swamped by surrounding desolation.

The Claim is about restraint, emotional, personal... even cinematic. It is only towards the film's climax - as the events spiral out of control - that any sign of emotion is aloud to build within the characters. As Michael Nyman's score grows, the enigma of The Claim becomes clear; with the image of Dillon, his face blank of expression, his eyes burning with intensity, striding through his empty town as fire consumes it. An echo of the scene in which the trail wagon explodes, leaving a horse to retreat into the hills, engulfed by flames. This is a powerful, sombre film. mixing notions of western mythology with the codes of social realist drama. The slow pace and non-reliance on narrative tension may seem off-putting for some, just as the sparseness of information delivered in the opening scenes may prove somewhat elliptical or distracting.

This however, is unimportant... since this a film that favours emotion over narrative, offering us a bleak depiction of one town's redemption. Winterbottom - who also directed a version of Hardy's Jude the Obscure - knows perfectly well the limitations of text to screen translations. Thus, The Claim acts in opposition to this, shattering the novel's external window-dressing and instead, creating a work built around internal and individual desires; similar in vain to the director's own masterpiece, Wonderland.

Eraserhead (1977)

"I don't know much of anything!"

[1 July 2003]

Black clouds of cosmic dust circulate around the planet; it's surfaced cracked and peeled like the face of a burns victim. It's outer shell of rock and granite masking the bony, toothless freak that sits beside a window, frantically pulling at shafts and gears, in some madcap attempt to stop the whole thing erupting or exploding into shards of broken crust and pebbles.

This is Eraserhead, a film that represents the wounded, soulless day-to-day grind of our society. A world in which parental responsibility is enough to enslave you in a four-walled-cell, where ants mindlessly collect dirt in your underwear drawer, homeless people fight in the street below, and a hamster cheeked lady in your radiator promises you that "in haven everything will be fine". This is the cinematic equivalent of a Radiohead album. Exploding onto our screens in a barrage of mind-boggling images, throbbing with cinematic experimentation and structural metamorphosis. What is Eraserhead anyway? Is it a black comedy, or some kind of overtly pretentious student film? Perhaps we're dealing with a social satire? We can never be certain. Eraserhead is all of these things and more, representing David Lynch's second greatest filmic achievement and perhaps his most purely realised vision of hell.

For our protagonist Henry Spencer... this is a hell on earth -- if we can call it earth. Henry is a shy man, imprisoned in a uniform of grey-flannel-suits, pocket protectors and half-mast trousers. His hair stands on end like some sick mockery of a cartoon character, as if some instance in his young life terrified him so much that his hair shot up and refused to come down. Everything surrounding Henry practically oozes foreboding. Even dinner with his girlfriend Mary ends with bleeding chickens, spasmodic fits and the news of an unwanted pregnancy. And with Mary's mother chewing and salivating all over Henry's face, is it any wonder that he prefers to sit alone on the end of his bed, listening to the strange carnival music that pulsates from some far-off corner of his psyche. Not really.

This is Lynch's darkest vision. A film filled with despair, longing, and an oppressive atmosphere that damn near chokes us. We're searching for an escape route from Henry's shoe box apartment long before Laurel Near arrives to tell us how "we've got her good thing, and she's got ours". No matter how much slapstick humour Lynch throws into the mix it can't silence the screaming chickens and almost constant industrial hum that fills the soundtrack throughout, dragging us along with Henry, kicking and screaming to the brink on insanity. We can turn the tape off, we can walk out... we can escape the tempting lure of hamster-face and her lull of sweet insanity... Henry is incapable of this. The over-the-top performance by Jack Nance as Henry simply adds to the film's overall surrealism... whilst the black and white photography and exceptional use of sound-design effectively create a world like no other.

The film grows stranger and stranger with each scene, as copulating couples disappear into the flowing, milky liquid that pours out of the bed, whilst mutated babies laugh at their father's social weaknesses, resulting in death, destruction and metal collapse. This is one of the strongest films you'll ever see, a vision of bleakest, blackest life, a snarling monster of a film that massages our brains before pulverising them with a pair of scissors. The black blood flows as the planet explodes and lightness invades the screen. Sure this isn't a film for everyone, it isn't supposed to be. Nothing is ever explained here, some things need no explanation, and thus we are free to feel Henry's confusion... No, this is a film for those unafraid to stare into the darkness in the corner of the room, a true landmark in experimental cinema, and in the art of filmmaking as a whole. 5/5

The Last House on the Left (1972)

The Last House on the Shelf (spoilers)

[28 June 2003]

I've damn near given myself a nervous breakdown trying to surmise my feelings on the tawdry little film, going through draft after draft of meaningless arguments for and against this so-called controversial classic. However, regardless of my prolonged manifestation of writer's block I have finally come to a conclusion, and that is; that The Last House on the Left is a bad film... pure and simple. Here is a movie that hides its underlined exploitatation behind a pretence of documentary realism. This makes it all the more detestable. The story, if you can call it that, follows two teenage girls from the countryside embarking on a trip to the big city to see a band called, of all things, Blood Lust. Needless to say... they never make the gig.

Instead, having tried to score some grass from an obvious smack-fiend, they are kidnapped, driven into the woods and repeatedly raped, tortured, abused and ridiculed before finally being hacked to pieces or, in the case of the lead girl, forced to wade out into the lake where she is shot in the back of the head. Now, there's a lesson for you kids, if you're gonn'a buy drugs from a sweaty, strung-out hustler then for god's sake don't follow him into his apartment... the fact that the one of the two girls is supposedly familiar with this part of town makes you wonder how she could make such a stupid error of judgement... unless by 'familiar with' they meant in the same way that director Craven is 'familiar' with art of filmmaking.

Scenes of sexual violence and narcissism are composed to a lovely folksy soundtrack by lead scumbag himself David A. Hess (who where you expecting, Bob Dylan?). Now, in all honesty Hess is a pretty talented musician, and in fairness I would seriously think about buying the film's soundtrack album. However, when you couple songs like Wait for the Rain and All Alone with scenes of rape, torture and mutilation the effect it has is so jarring that we are immediately whisked out of the moment. Now Craven has argued that the music was used in this way to give the film a more sinister underlining -- think of how Kubrick used Beethoven in A Clockwork Orange. However, since the crew seem to be shooting for realism surely the more jarring and disturbing thing they could have done would have been to leave the soundtrack empty, forcing the audience to watch and connect with the images undisturbed by what is being put into their ears. Silence is, as someone once said, golden.

Last House on the Left is a film full of irritating elements like this that split my mind in two, leaving me half impressed and half depressed by what Craven is forcing us to sit through. The rape scenes, which fall into the mid-section of the film, have caused me the most bother. Not because they disturbed me in any psychological way -- there was never enough connection established with the characters to warrant tears of sympathy or rage -- but rather, disturbed at how frivolously Craven and the filmmakers were treating the notion of rape. In a more serious film I could have bought into this scenario, but in a work so knowingly exploitative as this it became crude and distasteful. Admittedly, there was more need to actually see the rape than there was in, say for example Peckinpah's Straw Dogs, in which the rape of Susan George was, to me, one of the most pointlessly misogynistic scenes ever committed to film. I had similar feelings about the latter scene involving oral-castration, something which should have left me reeling on the floor in agony just from the thought of it... left me completely cold. This is perhaps because much like the rest of the film it happens too fast to linger and is done so heavy-handedly that we half-expected it anyway. It seems that subtlety is another word Mr Craven is unfamiliar with.

The climax of the film looks like a dry run for A Nightmare on Elm Street, with booby-trapped houses, chainsaws and knife attacks. All wrapped up with a jolly credit sequence which wouldn't have looked out of place on 60's British sitcom. This is juvenile, puerile and completely irresponsible filmmaking, which is now talked about alongside A Short film about Killing, as if The Last House on the Left is some kind of serious indictment against sexual violence. Well... it isn't. Any film that begins with a teenage girl soaping up her breasts in the shower holds a somewhat dubious notion of what constitutes as female empowerment. The only saving grace of this film is Fred. Lincoln, once actor, now porn-director, and the only member of the cast to write this film off as the turkey it most certainly is. Lincoln gives an amazingly mannered performance as Weasel, the older member of the group, and watching this I couldn't help but wonder why his career never took off. He has the charisma and screen presence to carry a film, but instead he's wasted in stuff like this. Last House on the Left is not a classic, its not essential viewing, it isn't scary and it's definitely not disturbing. Here is a cheap exploitation film that fails on all levels. Not even cinema extremist Mark Kermode could confess to liking this embarrassment. ...I haven't even mentioned the two bumbling police officers that pop up throughout the film to supply comic relief, or the fact that this travesty is a re-make of Bergman's classic The Virgin Spring. Common knowledge will attest that this film spent 30 years hidden away in the vault's of the BBFC. All I can say is... they should have left it there. 1/5

Smokey and the Bandit (1977)

Smokey bacon!

[9 June 2003]

"Snowman what's your 20, you got your ears on, comeback? We got a Smokey convoy on our tail moving eastbound and down, with the peddle to the metal and the thing to the floor". If any of that makes sense to you it means one of two things. Either you were a young male in the late seventies who dressed in cowboy boots and drove a trans-am... or you have seen the film Smokey and the Bandit.

Smokey sees classically trained thespian Burtrand Reynolds essay the role of the Bandit, a mythical, almost Quixotesque figure, who cuts across the American landscape in a black Pontiac firebird, the ultimate phallic representation of male dominance. The densely layered plot sees Bandit become involved in a quest of Arthurian proportions, attempting to do "what they say can't be done". As it goes, there's a drought in old Atlanta, and the fine townsfolk are gagging for some liquid refreshment for the upcoming monster-truck derby. Luckily, Bandit hears that there's beer in Texarkana, and sets out across country to bring it back... no matter what it takes.

Director Hal Needham, surely an auteur of Hitchcockian proportions, keeps the first act moving along at a steady pace, and there is always close attention paid to characterisation. However, it is in act two that things really get interesting, for no sooner has the Bandit and his ever-faithful slave... sorry, sidekick Snowman loaded up the truck with the brew... than they are set upon by a runaway bride (Sally Field), a fleet of southern law enforcers, and the formidable Sheriff Bufred T. Justice (Jackie Gleason), whose catchphrase "that sun' bitch" proved to be as lastingly funny as a dose of the clap. From this point on tension is cranked to eleven, with more jaw-dropping moments than the entire Indian Jones series combined. Don't believe me, take the scene where Bandit attempts to jump the bridge... if this doesn't have you standing on your seat screaming "go bandit go... yee-haw", then quite frankly nothing will.

Bandit is one no-nonsense jive-talker, an enduring character whose down with the kids (and the blacks), making him one fine example of a true southern gent. We never doubt our hero will fail at his mission, especially not with the benefit of hindsight, since Bandit managed to evade the law and return for the imaginatively titled Smokey and the Bandit II. Here his bounty was an African elephant that, understandably, had the hots for the moustachioed one. Then there was the third instalment, which had a script so bad Reynolds himself turned it down. Here the sh*t-kickers formula was repeated... just without the kick. Smokey and the Bandit is, admittedly, not high art. It's not even low art. But it does represent some kind of period piece, a history lesson, or the pinnacle of late seventies cinema.

Your enjoyment of the film depends on your first viewing experience. If like myself, you were a young boy growing up in the mid-eighties, you will have no doubt lived for the endless thrills, spills, car crashes and second-rate jokes that pepper Bandit, and its two sequels. It's easy to laugh at now, and a young audience will probably be left scratching their heads at the sight of Burt Reynolds mugging uncontrollably to the camera for ninety-minutes whilst Jerry Reed gets to 'sing' his good ol' boy theme tune 'East-bound and Down' for the one-millionth time, but there is a perverse pleasure in seeing bell-bottoms, grown men with CB radios and muscles cars the size of small houses, the likes of which most people won't have seen since 1982. 3/5

Prospero's Books (1991)

Blurs the boundaries between excitement and boredom.

[8 June 2003]

For anyone who remembers the video to Kate Bush's 1985 hit 'Running up that Hill' -- in which Kate and her non-descript himbo use interpretative dance to convey the all-important issue of, err... running up hills -- Prospero's Books should offer a warm feeling of recognition, as it gives the audience that very same concept stretched out over two very long hours.

With this film, director Greenaway attempts to mix Shakespearean theatre with the style of the Hollywood epic. He fails. For me this film represents the old adage 'art for art's sake', no matter how much poor Pete waffles on about films not having to conform to story telling, he fails to pick up on the fact that a film without a story is nothing more than a string of interesting images tied together for no apparent reason. Does this make Greenaway any different from MTV hacks like David Fincher or Bret Ratner? It's questionable, however I for one believe that art films did more when they concentrated on the kind of stories and ideas that mainstream cinema was too afraid to pick up on. Compare Prospero's Books to any of Bergman's masterpieces and the cracks in Greenaway's theories begin to appear. Bergman managed to mix highly intelligent story structures with personal and expressionistic ideas, still offering us hauntingly beautiful images of ethereal grandeur. What does Greenaway give us? Naked cherubs pi*sing on each other... Bravo!

However, to write off Prospero's Books as a complete failure is unfair. It does have enough going for it to warrant attention from the more curious of cinema fans. Gorgeous photography, interesting set designs and a wonderful Michael Nyman score all add to the dramatic atmosphere and enjoyment of the film. Nyman and cinematographer Sacha Vierny -- both of whom contributed to Greenaway's most well know film, The Cock, The Thief, His Wife and Her Puppies -- are the true stars here. Nyman's score lifts the film to new heights, as he manages to wring feelings of true excitement from the most mundane of images -- fat men dancing naked in a footbath is one recurring motif -- whilst Vierny photographs the picture as if it were the work of Rembrandt or Michelangelo. If the film fails in any department, it's mainly down to Greenwaway's reluctance to give the audience anything to connect with. Characters drift in and out with little impact to the film, whilst great actors like the late sir John Gielgud and Bergman regular Erland Josephson are wasted in trivial performances. Greenaway is so obsessed with creating unique or shocking visuals that he often breaks the connection the audience is slowly establishing with the film, making it feel longer and more tiresome than it actually is.

This means that at a mighty 140 minutes or so, Prospero's Books becomes something of a chore to sit through. This is dull and un-involving cinema that should have been much, much more. The quality of the people Greenaway has working with him is astounding, but he fritters away any potential talent. I was so convinced I'd like Prospero's Books that after I saw it I felt slightly betrayed by my won sense of judgement. However I am a strong believer of always giving films a chance, and I suppose, no matter how dull I found Prospero, I'm glad I made the effort... simply put, there are things in this film that need to be seen. The level of hard work that has been put into effect by the technicians and craftsmen is exquisite, and it is for this reason alone that I suggest those who are interested in art cinema should give it a try. For anyone who likes a story to their films... or for those who are easily offended by 'excessive' nudity, then you might want to give the film a miss, because you certainly wont enjoy it. 2/5

Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992)

"Ze luckiest man in ze world... iz he who findz true luv" ~ Dracula

[15 May 2003]

With more than a nod to 'Carry on Screaming' Francis Ford Coppola's production of the Stoker classic goes for high camp, pressing fangs firmly in cheek as all involved are directed to ham it up something spectacular. Or so it would seem. This film proved to be a surprise success for Coppola -- who during the previous decade had more turkeys than a supermarket at thanksgiving -- which in hindsight isn't surprising at all really, since Coppola has done what many a washed-up filmmaker has done when desperate for a hit... aim for the lowest common denominator.

Here Coppola directs like a man who hasn't been given this much studio leeway for the best part of his career, piling on the gore and visual effects and rushing things along with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. An a-list cast of Hollywood young bloods try their hand at a British accent... and fail miserably (note: not everyone in Britain speaks like the Queen), whilst Anthony Hopkins and Gary Oldman's German accents elicit the kind of laughs today's comedians could only dream of. It's all a hideous mess... but an entertaining mess. The quick pace, Coppola's lush visuals and the unintentional comedic elements add up to a fully enjoyable experience. Even if the mid-section seriously lags.

Amongst the standout sequences are Oldman's crotchety old Dracula morphing into a hulking great werewolf creature and raping Sadie Frost. Hopkins methods of decapitation take the actor into realms of overacting that he wouldn't return to until Red Dragon ten years later. Plus, we also have future Matrix reloaded star Monica Bellucci popping up... and popping out, as she reveals her breasts to plays one of three seductive vampire queens. Not exactly high-art then. Despite the film's would be pretension, this is still an enjoyable slice of over the top guff, with blood spitting women, bug eating Tom Waits and a pre-jail Winona Ryder, Dracula stands as the best thing Coppola has directed for over a decade. 3/4

Funny Games (1997)

Heavy-handed Haneke

[5 February 2003]

I've been watching a lot of films directed by Michael Haneke recently. Why? I don't quite know, probably a combination of things really, availability (UK channel film-four dedicated a Eurovision's season to his work), boredom, and mainly curiosity. When a director has the power to divide an audience as smoothly as the red sea, I take note. When a film comes along that seems to challenge its audience to switch off, look away, find something more rewarding than the monotony of cinema, I can't help but be intrigued. However, reputation and moral outrage does not, a good film make -- and the over-hyped shock of reactionary audiences could not be more present than in the backlash/acclaim dished-out to Haneke's psychological thriller/cum social conscience -- 'Funny Games'.

The title, 'Funny Games', is a curious one, because there's nothing in particularly funny about these Games -- this is without a doubt one of the most unrelenting and unnerving films ever made. It's not horror, but it's tightly wound scenes of tension have a shocking affinity with 'The Texas Chain Saw Massacre' and 'The New York Ripper'. And despite the certainty that this is definitely not a comedy, the majority of the actors still make sly, ironic references, and mug uncontrollably to the camera, the sort of behaviour more at home in a Mel Brooks' spoof than a 'serious' film. However, the multitudes off-putting contradictions only derail Haneke's subtle cinematic depth (he can be a good director when the mood suits him). Hitting us with a message that is so crystal clear, you could write it on a blackboard and even the most shortsighted student at the back could make it out.

The film begins with a family car travelling through a lush Austrian countryside, filled with willowing green trees and homely lakeside cottages. The family, comprising of mother Anna (Susanne Lothar), father Georg (Ulrich Mühe) and young son Junior (Stefan Clapczynski), are on their way to spend a relaxing week of boating, fishing and entertaining with friends, a truly stereotypical portrait of the bourgeoisie. I wouldn't want to ruin the set-up, but from the minute the family arrives at their glorious lakeside home, a mere ten-minutes into the film, you can tell things are about to turn nasty. In setting-up the arrival of the two, white-clad young menaces, Haneke lays down the heavy-hand. Signposting events to the audience with glee, he makes the two youths come across like the killer equivalent of Laurel and Hardy, rather than a male counterpoint to Bonnie and Clyde. Understandably, from this point on, 'Funny Games' spirals way off track.

What follows is one of the most heart stopping, nihilistic and degrading portraits of humanity ever produced. An hour-long onslaught of violence -- sexual, physical, and mental, often at the same time -- and although Haneke goes to great lengths to make sure none of the violence is ever depicted on screen, we are frequently treated to one bloody aftermath after another, complete with copious amounts of screaming from the victims and 'comic' head-scratching from the victors. But unlike a lot of commentators of the film, my negative reaction isn't based on moral outrage, but on the principal fact that 'Funny Games' just isn't a good film. It attempts to convey a serious message, but does so with all the shallow, stylistic emptiness of a Hollywood blockbuster.

To those who trash the film on grounds of violence and pretension, I think you're watching the wrong kind of movie. 'Funny Games' is (supposed to be) about violence, if you know of its reputation then you'll know Haneke is hardly a close cousin to Steven Spielberg, so why is there such surprise when the events turn nasty. In terms of cinematic pressure building 'Funny Games' doesn't do to badly, there is at least a spark of ingenuity to some of the set ups. However Haneke does nothing with these sequences -- his entire objective with the film is to play off the audience's lust for violence and anticipation for characters to be picked off. His message is clear from the start, and after an hour it becomes grating.

Simply put, 'Funny games' doesn't want to do anything other than shock the audience. There is no insight, no creativity and no direction -- in short, it's a film with great promise, but little discipline. If you've seen the pathetic 'Man Bites Dog' or Oliver Stone's over-indulgent 'Natural Born Killers', then you've seen this kind of thing done a million times before and you'll understand why films like this never successfully work . This is the cinematic equivalent of a car wreck, it's messy, violent and never something you'd want to be involved in, but to the spectator it holds an almost forbidden, voyeuristic curiosity. So if you decide to brave the nihilistic mayhem of 'Funny Games', and for whatever reason, find yourself feeling outraged and appalled by the excessive diversions the film takes, don't say you haven't been warned. 1/5

Brimstone & Treacle (1982)

Controversial, but slightly lacking, early Potter re-make. (possible spoilers)

[28 January 2003]

A brainchild of Dennis Potter, grand purveyor of the kind of surreal, darkly-comic TV landmarks that set out to shock the system, the public, and the finger wagging likes of Mary Whitehouse et al, comes the surreal, darkly-comic but not quite landmark 'Brimstone and Treacle'. Much like the Alan Clarke/Roy Minton borstal set drama 'Scum', 'Brimstone and Treacle' began its life as part of the BBC's revered and highly popular 'play-for-today' series. However, when auntie Beeb and the powers that be took a look at director Barry Davis' rough-cut, the vision of a Pinter-esque fallen-angel despicably conning his way into the home of a middle-aged couple and their handicapped daughter, who he eventually rapes, was just too much for the woolly-jumper, Wogan worshiping suits at the beeb -- who banned it outright before it's proposed airing back in nineteen-seventy-six.

The script, we presume, then lay at the bottom of Potter's desk drawer whilst he busied himself with something called 'Pennies from Heaven' (classic BBC musical drama with Bob Hoskins, later given an MGM make-over starring Steve Martin and Christopher Walken), eventually resurfacing in this cinematic incarnation, with direction from Richard Loncraine, and starring (of all people) former Police front-man Sting. The casting, which should be crucial to a piece like this, seriously fails here, with the sight of the (then) reggae-influenced pop-star swaggering about the screen like Billy Idol's freakish younger brother, emitting a feeling of true disappoint -- especially when compared to the detailed characterisations of Michael Gambon's Philip E. Marlow in 'The Singing Detective' or Albert Finney's Daniel Feeld from 'Karaoke'. And if his camp-theatrics aren't bad enough, surely the sight of his bare-buttocks wriggling atop a frontally nude Suzanna Hamilton is as embarrassing for the now 'serious artist' as it is for the disconcerted viewer.

Thankfully the supporting cast are exceptional, both Joan Plowright and Denholm Elliot (who reprises his role from the original version) give the film a touch of old school charm, whilst Hamilton pulls off the embarrassing task of playing mentally retarded with a willing confidence. It's a shame the producer's decided to go with the "bankable" choice of Sting in the lead, because at its very core, 'Brimstone and Treacle' had the potential to be one of Potter's strongest work. It sadly falls somewhat short, and admittedly, it's not all Sting's fault. Although there are many familiar Potter trademarks, notably the use of thirties music -- used hear as bookends -- conjures up memorable images of Marlow crooning along to Vera Lynn in 'The Singing Detective', but the elements just don't gel. The golden oldies seem to grate, especially when coupled with contemporary artists like Squeeze, The Go-Go's and (of course) The Police -- something which would seem to signal a conflict of interests between the writer and director's distinctive sensibilities.

Potter hints and psychological guilt, and sexual repression, but looses the TV play's strongest metaphysical link somewhere in the celluloid translation. In the original, Hamilton's character Patti comes home early to find her father in bed with her best-friend, forcing her to run into the street in disgust, where she is hit by a truck. For the film, Potter has opted for the more conventional playing away with the receptionist routine, turning the proceeding events into a conventional tale of guilt, rather than the implied oedipal fear of paternal molestation that is a constant foreboding in the original work.

What we have instead is an almost-pastiche of Hammer horror movies and a somewhat condemnation of organised religion as a whole. There is the lack of faith in the guilt ridden Mr Bates that is countered by the caring of the maternal (but blinkered) Mrs Bates, who spends the film spouting reactionary quotes to her husband's claims of "There is no God" with the likes of "I'd sooner be dead than think like that"... is there a message here? Or did Potter simply have his knickers in a twist. Admittedly this is one of his more self-consciously shocking works, and nowhere near as enjoyable as later productions would prove to be, but thankfully there is at least a spark of imagination, something that is lacking in current British film. 'Brimstone and Treacle' may be Potter-lite, but it's certainly worth a look.

Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex * But Were Afraid to Ask (1972)

Rabbits, sperm, giant breasts and a woody!

[28 January 2003]

Representing something of an early high point in Woody Allen's career, this scattershot spoof of David Rueben's highly popular sex-manual has become somewhat sadly overlooked in favour of the more mature and whimsical charms of 'Annie Hall' and 'Manhattan', but 'Everything you always wanted to know about sex' is just as enjoyable as his later works, if not more so.

Although the overt intellectualism that many of Allen's detractors criticize in his subsequent work is already beginning to take form here, not only in the concept (seriously, who'd adapt a sex-manual?) but also in execution, which owes more to the high-brow Fellini and Godard than the low-brow Mel Brooks or John Waters, includes a great deal of metaphysical surrealism, bizarre camera angles and deliberately self-indulgent dialog. Here Allen's filmmaking approach is more self-serving than ever before, casting himself as a medieval stand-up comedian, a heroic leading man and a sperm, yet still finding time to feature in a lengthy satire on early-seventies European cinema. The reason it all comes together without succumbing to self-importance is down to the simplicity and stupidity of most of the set pieces.

The more interesting segments come at the beginning of the film, and if seeing Woody trying hopelessly to unlock Lynn Redgrave's chastity belt and miss-quoting Shakespeare to form a condemnation of T.B. doesn't bring a smile to your face, then the sight of Gene Wilder in the throws of foreplay with a sheep will probably do little to convert you. Humour for the most is juvenile, puerile and immature, but carried off with such hilarious comedic style, that the Farrelly brothers should really reassess their careers. Allen is as likable as ever in his many surreal incarnations -- appearing in fifty percent of the sketches -- his ultimate triumph being the oily, Italian play-boy causing a stir when he and his frigid girlfriend par-take of a little outdoor nookie. And even if he is less confident when trying to be socio-satirical, as in the molestation game show, Woody still manages to inject a wit and ingenuity to the proceedings, always carrying off the gags to his trademark self-deprecating style.

However, despite technical assuredness, the finished product borders on the same hit and miss territory that befalls most anthology films, however, it has to be handed to Allen for making a genuinely intelligent movie that basically celebrates boob-gags and outbursts of rampant misogyny. The best policy with 'Everything you always wanted to know...' is to ignore the false starts of the later segments, and howl at the sight of Woody fighting a giant breast ("Don't worry, I know how to handle tits"). Nevertheless, if your idea of sophisticated humour doesn't include bestiality, orgasms, transvestism, homosexuality, ejaculation, perversion or Burt Reynolds, then feel free to give it a miss.

Caligula (1979)

"Let them hate me, so long as they fear me!"

[14 September 2002]

With the images and themes of bestiality, incest, sodomy, sadomasochism, lesbianism, cross dressing, homosexuality, decapitation, castration, necrophilia, impalement, disembowelling, urination, defecation and nudity, 'Caligula' is unsurprisingly as far from family entertainment as you can get... Then again, it's as far from any entertainment as you can possibly get, with very few people willing to sit through a two and half hour onslaught of depravity and overacting, all dressed up with 'Spartacus'/'Ben-Hur' pretensions.

Chronicling the life and times of the controlling Caligula Caesar, the film paints the man as a two-dimensional caricature, lusting and thrusting his way through the senate with wild eyes and a joker-like smile. He is portrayed by the usually reliable Malcolm McDowell, he of 'A Clockwork Orange' and 'If...' fame. Once a respected actor, McDowell can now be found prostituting his self-respect in the likes of 'Fantasy Island' and 'Gangster No 1' -- which asks the question, where did his career go wrong?

Well, all eyes will probably fall on 'Caligula'. Perhaps the most debauched film with the most infamous of histories. It's the kind of film where the 'making of' would probably have been more enjoyable and entertaining, if only the cast and crew were willing to speak frankly, and in full, about the production. Alongside McDowell there is a wealth of British acting talent being flushed down the pan, with Helen Mirren as Caligula's wife Caesonia, John Gielgud appearing briefly as Nerva -- wisely bowing out after the first ten minutes -- and Peter O'Toole, who fares least well in the embarrassing role of syphilitic paedophile Tiberius, a role which probably did his ailing career little favours.

Of course the film will no doubt be written off on the grounds of the sex and violence, which are purposely excessive. But knee-jerk reactions aside what is just as shocking is the lack of technical ability and overall grandeur the film demonstrates. The exterior sets do look majestically impressive, but interiors look like two walls, some curtains and dramatic lighting to mask the façade of the set. Direction and cinematography relies heavily on panning and zooms that often look improvised, as the camera will begin to zoom in, only for an actor to step out of frame, forcing the camera to quickly recompose, which makes you wonder whether or not this effect was done for cost cutting reasons, in order to reduce the number of editing hours, or whether it was insisted on by the censors to creatively pan and scan the more salacious and explicit sequences.

Because of this it becomes a task in it's self to recognize which cut of the film you are watching, since there's apparently three or four different versions available -- including the penthouse-cut, featuring fifteen minutes of hardcore footage shot by producer Bob Guccione that was deemed too offensive by the BBFC, detailing everything from erections to penetration. Then there is the directors-cut, which removes the hardcore sex and replaces it with further narrative development, and then finally the edited version, which removed almost all traces of violence and sexual activity -- which in a film like 'Caligula' would be the equivalent of a film version of the moon landings where you never actually see the moon. I believe the version I sat through was the director's cut, with some creative work done by the powers that be to remove footage that failed to meet the taste and decency guidelines.

Because of these offending images, the resulting ban of the film in many countries means that 'Caligula' now, somewhat undeservedly, has acquired a place in cinematic history as "the first pornographic epic" -- the proud words of Mr Guccione. As legend and folklore continue to grow around the film, giving it a mythic, almost classic status and reputation, people will judge the film without actually seeing it. This is a film in which greatness relies on reputation, a reputation more than this mediocre event deserves.

The Seventh Continent (1989)

Far from recommended viewing -- especially for those suffering from depression.

[25 August 2002]

Perhaps the most painful and miserable film in the history of cinema, Michael Haneke's 'The Seventh Continent' is like a full-blown punch to the stomach. Like watching someone bleed to death, this nihilistic debut feature from one of European cinema's most singular visionaries is slow, painful to look at, and far, far from enjoyable. Beginning with a credit sequence that shows a family vehicle moving through a car wash, in real-time -- taking about ten-minutes in total for the car to be hosed down, waxed and buffed, before they pull out of the garage and drive away -- is a sequence as infuriating as it is hypnotic, and expertly sets up the idea of cleansing that will be central throughout, with Haneke returning to the car-wash motif many-times during the early stages of the film.

The oppressive mood and subject matter is unsurprising when you consider Haneke's involvement. Never a director to shy away from more down-beat aspects of life, his films have dealt with everything from torture, to screen-violence and more recently incest, making him the least likely filmmaker to be heading up the call-back list for 'Charlie's Angels 2' (although he might have a chance with the next 'Scary Movie' sequel). With 'The Seventh Continent' he chronicles the downward spiral of a seemingly normal middle-class family with intricate, almost surgical precision. He shoots the film entirely in locked-off close-up, meaning a full twenty-minutes go by before we see anything remotely resembling a human face -- this is because Haneke is more interested in the actions of the family rather than who they are, the message simply being that this could be any family in any country on any street -- even yours.

The use of repetition works well, but after the first hour it does becomes obvious. We see the family get up, brush their teeth, wash, have breakfast, get in the car, go to work/school, come home, have dinner, go to bed -- and then the whole thing starts over again, always returning to the same set-up or shot. However for all the cleverness and thought that has clearly gone in to making the film resonate to such a degree I doubt Haneke's message is going to reach that many people. The film is far too overwhelming, and I'd imagine most viewers' will be reaching for the video remote or looking for the exit after the first hour or so. Acting is sub-par for most, mainly because much like Haneke's 'Funny Games' he doesn't really respect his players, merely uses them to promote his message. However the detached mental state depicted in the final build-up, in which moments of loud confusion are transformed into a crippling silence, are completely effective.

Style aside though, and under close scrutiny 'The Seventh Content' begins to fall apart. Save for a couple of clever stabs at visual symbolism -- tropical fish lie on the damp ground after their tank is smashed, slowly dying as they flutter about the floor in a painful attempt to grasp the last few moments of life -- the film never has the answers to its questions or the much needed depth to the characters plight -- are we just supposed to accept that they have naturally come to this conclusion in their life? This is all purposeful on Haneke's part, and it's hard to properly explain these flaws without giving too much away -- which, with a film like this would be wrong and detract from the bizarre surprises that build as the film approaches its climax. In short, 'The Seventh Continent' is an interesting but extremely flawed feature, not the masterpiece other would have you believe and definitely not recommended to those already suffering from depression.

The Element of Crime (1984)

"Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink " (possible spoilers)

[22 August 2002]

Opening a trilogy of films dealing with the effect and decline of post-war Europe, this extraordinary, heavily referential psychological thriller marked the first cinematic outing from Danish maverick (and dogma godfather) Lars von Trier. Unfolding in an undisclosed European country, where day and night no longer exist, rain seems to be falling almost constantly, and the only colour we see is a thick yellow sepia that is only occasionally pierced by jarring shafts of neon light.

Building on ideas such as faith, redemption, love and mental anguish, familiar in symbolic rigour to the works of Ingmar Bergman, but with a fragmented composition and style aching to the framing of Andrei Tarkovsky or industrial surrealism of David Lynch, 'The Element of Crime' presents an alluring potion of haunting images, heart stopping bursts of violence, convoluted philosophies, unashamed pretension and a plot that writhes right the way through to its unflinching climax. From the opening images of a donkey basking in the hot sands of a Cairo desert, to the waterlogged depiction of Europe, filled with burnt-out cars, decaying animal carcasses and lost children, 'The Element of Crime' creates a world, so murky, so damaged and so lost within the abyss that it expressionistically conveys the sense of detachment and pain felt by the main character.

Fisher is a washed out former detective, who after living in Cairo for a number of years returned to his native Europe to help his mentor Osborn with a murder investigation. In the first scene -- which takes place two months after the events of the main story -- an unseen Fisher sits in a psychiatrist's office, the set comprising of one solitary wall and a desk, conversing with the doctor, who promises to help him find the root of his problems. Here von Trier is able to utilise the simplicity of the set, and one of his own favourite narrative devises, hypnosis -- as he blends together the character's psyche with the action in the film. From this point the entire film takes place from Fisher's point-of-view, his voice-over only rarely broken by the psychiatrist to keep his story on track.

In the lead role, Michael Elphick acquits himself admirably, this was back when he was an actor of some reputable standing, before the cockney 'comedy' antics of 'Boon' made him something of a joke (in Britain anyway). Here he is used more like a puppet than a traditional actor, manipulated by von Trier to fit with the framing and style of the film, though with his rugged appearance and monotonous delivery of lines, he does successfully ease himself into the role of the gumshoe perfectly, brining to mind some of the genre's best-loved anti-heroes. However, what is amazing about 'The Element of Crime' far beyond acting, is von Trier's way of breaking down the genre -- not content with producing a carbon copy of classic thrillers run through with art-house dramatics, he sets about subverting and destroying both design and ideology -- like a schoolboy scribbling graffiti in a textbook, the result is jarring, criminally audacious and completely astounding.

Here white linen suits replace hats and trench coats, reflections are used in both mirrors and clouded puddles to heighten the idea of fragmented personalities and schizophrenia, just as the use of sepia printing suggests the murkiness to Fisher's subconscious. The neon light that breaks the composition of the frame, usually from a police light or a flickering television set act as beacons to the hidden depths of Fisher's mind -- whenever some moment of remembrance occurs, a light will often be present to signify to the audience the usual emotion connected with the colour (blue - recollection, green - sickness, red - anger etc) -- just as the use of double exposures and heavy sound-design build the flashbacks, dreamscapes and memories within memories.

The other actors in the film are used like puppets to a greater extent. Whereas Fisher is here for our benefit, they are there for his. Osborn for example, who is played with ailing charm by the great British actor Esmonde Knight, gives the information that will lead both plot and dénouement, whilst the casting of Me-Me Lai as Kim again subverts the usual preconceptions of the femme-fatal by being a teasing, manipulative prostitute -- with dark Asian looks that undercut the usual 'wasp' stereotypes. Her character presents both complications and a love interest cum sidekick for Fisher, as well as other more meaningful purposes as the film moves towards the ambiguous climax -- suggesting a state of abandonment and complete mental breakdown, as the shocking twists begin to pile up.

Surpassing 'A Clockwork Orange' and '1984' in its subversive attack and artistic vision -- 'The Element of Crime' presents to us a definitively dark and unrelenting image of Europe, in which chaos has overthrown order, analytical approaches to police work have been replaced by Gestapo bully tactics and the chance of a changing season is nothing more than a pipe dream. This is a staggering and inventive mish-mash of ideas and stylistic references that, coming from one of modern cinema's brightest talents, should not be missed. Von Trier would evolve his style throughout the 'Europa-trilogy' before maturing with 'The Kingdom' and his most successful work 'Breaking the Waves' -- all further proof of his immense filmmaking abilities.

Rosetta (1999)

'Rosetta' fails to tap into the mind-set of the character, resulting in a monotonous viewing experience.

[28 July 2002]

The turmoil and tenacity of a seventeen-year-old girl, desperately seeking employment in the slums of Belgium is documented in 'Rosetta', the new film from those happy go lucky scamps Luc and Jean-Pierre Dardenne -- directors of the 1996 laugh riot 'La Promesse'...

Well, to call their work humorous would be an overstatement, and to call it original or even high quality would be an even bigger exaggeration. For ninety-minutes we follow Rosetta (Émilie Dequenne) around the Belgium ghettos with a cinematic intimacy that boarders on pornographic -- with handheld cameras pressed so close to her face that her breath fogs the lens, and one wrong step off the mark means the actors run the risk of physical penetration -- the film looks like the work of a demented Lars von Trier fan, only with the lack of subtlety and restraint usually reserved for Joel Schumacher productions.

Acting however is first class, with Dequenne finding the humanity within the character, taking it far above the level of quality this picture deserves. It's a sad fact though, that for all her efforts, her work is coupled with a story that never builds any real level of interest or imagination and a script that just refuses to make us care. It's also comically reminiscent of the old hackneyed 'kitchen-sink' dramas of the British new wave. Just switch Belgium for Manchester and throw in a pregnancy sub plot and you wouldn't be at odds to find Alan Bates standing in the corner crying: "By eck, it's grim up north"...

My overall problem with the film is basically this: I don't see the point in it. It doesn't entertain, it doesn't give anything back to the audience and it certainly has no educational relevance. An hour and a half of physical and emotional degradation, followed by a dénouement that made me think I'd accidentally pressed stop on the video remote -- until the end credits began to roll and I saw that THIS was the end -- and what was it all for? The look and style of the film is traditional Euro/Indy film cliché, all handheld camera and rough jump cuts, treated here as if they were cutting edge, but in reality have been used and abused by everyone from Godard to Spielberg and even MTV. This is a film-designed solely to ring a response from the viewer, which, if successful, isn't a bad thing. Having recently watched Bruno Dumont's excellent 'L'Humanité', a film that mixed shocking sexual imagery and updated neo-realist technique to deliver a story and a character that gripped rather than griped, it worked in shocking contrast to 'Rosetta', which was an hour shorter than 'L'Humanité' but felt much, much longer.

With an interesting story and a character that works well to not only enrich, but also guide the audience through the film, 'Rosetta' might have worked. But there is no guide here, simply because there is nothing to guide us through -- the filmmakers show us the ramshackle collection of bleeding-heart images, but instead of taking us deeper, simply sit back and gloat, as if they have created something truly unique. Fraught with contradictions and a plot that goes nowhere -- delivering the same repetitious scenes over and over and over again -- make ‘Rosetta' ultimately, a very unsuccessful film.

Weekend (1967)

Marxist ideals, bourgeois metaphors, ten-minute tracking shots, and Jean-Pierre Léaud is there anything else worth mentioning?

[19 July 2002]

'Week End' is a poor attempt to mix highbrow political attacks with a lowbrow sensibility from one of cinema's great artists. Here we have Jean-Luc Godard at both his most political, and his most experimental, throwing together ideas about Marxism, cannibalism and consumerism, and not caring one little bit whether or not the audience understands his angle of attack, or even his reason for it. Beginning the film with juvenile captions like "a film adrift in the cosmos" and "a film found on a dump", 'Week End' desperately tries to set up a nonchalant attitude to politics, society and the role of the filmmaker, but instead, simply smacks of pretension.

Godard's early movies demonstrated both a love and understanding for the medium for which he both embraced and reinvented, at the same time producing a number of classic films. However, sometime during the mid-sixties Godard became less interested in linear storytelling, and more concerned with empty provocation, which is illustrated clearly in 'Week End'. The disjointed, often rambling 'plot' follows a young Parisian couple, Roland and Corrine. Both at the height of the swinging-sixties revolution -- they openly have affairs, and delight in telling each other about their seedy escapades in sordid detail. When sex isn't motivating them, money is, or at least the prospect of money. So much so, when the chance arrives to visit Corrine's dying father, they plot to finish the old man off, and then reap the benefits of the inheritance. An odious act you might say, but up until this point the film has been quite interesting, almost enjoyable, showing us a very witty deconstruction of our preconceptions of the modern Parisian couple. But as the pair hit the road, Godard takes his message and proceeds to whack the viewer square in the face with it.

Beginning with the in/famous ten-minute tracking shot (following Roland and Corrine as the try desperately to negotiate a traffic jam on a county road), their journey takes them on an episodic odyssey that is supposed to represent a symbolic cleansing for the characters. As the film progresses they witness bizarre fairytale people who preach liberalistic nonsense, all manner of unexplained car crashes, raving lunatics and a band of terrorists. All this is supposed to strip away Roland and Corrine's bourgeois façade, making them pure human beings again. The message is blunt, unsubtle and heavy-handed, without the mindless consumerism of modern society, man and woman can function purely, as they where meant to. But despite Godard's self-confidence, it is unclear from the film where his own political allegiance lies. It would seem he feels strongly in favour of anti-commercialism/anti-consumerism, but his argument is fatuous -- and lacking sufficient and believable ammunition to back it up -- his only alternative to everyday modern life would seem to be joining a band of cannibalistic terrorists. Or maybe this was a metaphor for society's often-violent ways.

On a plus side, 'Week End' sees Godard at his most primitive, both stylistically and visually. He composes each frame with the brightest of colours, has his actors speaking monologues directly to camera, and then the aforementioned, long, unbroken tracking shots. Of course despite having an interesting quality, these stylistic flairs mean absolutely nothing. It's merely Godard's attempt to make the audience pay attention to what the characters are saying -- but since they are all speaking pure drivel it would seem to have been a bad move. By the time the film reaches its inevitable, ambiguous climax, the whole event becomes all the more tiresome. As Godard runs out of things to say (which is long after the film ceased to make sense of its ideas), he begins building up images of collective degradation and supposed black-comedy satire, neither of which work successfully... and I haven't even mentioned the acting yet.

The only decent performance you'll find that is even remotely worth watching (i.e. not entirely detestable a characterisation), is Jean-Pierre Léaud's double cameo as 'saint-just'/'singing man in phone box'. He is an extremely likable actor, familiar to audiences as the young Truffaut-alike in 'The 400 Blows'. Unlike the other cast members (with the exception of Mireille Darc as Corrine), he is clearly in sync with Godard's particular filmmaking style, and for a brief moment, makes the film almost enjoyable. I feel bad criticising Godard like this, he is a rare filmmaker, and one who has never been afraid to speak his ideas courageously -- demonstrated by the list of relevant issues here -- but they are just not communicated well enough. It's a great shame then that Godard had to make his film so heavy-handed in its ideals, and so excruciatingly slow in pace that it fails to work on any real, important level. A huge disappointment 2/5

Humanity (1999)

Interesting character -- Uncompromising film -- ultimately asks too much...

[18 July 2002]

At a time when most films are content with simply bullying a reaction out of the viewer, along comes Bruno Dumont's 'L' Humanité', an unrelentingly grim detective story that has the rare power to get right under the viewer's skin from almost the first frame, engrossing the audience in a plot that is both repulsive, yet dangerously enthralling. Omitting the usual genre clichés, 'L' Humanité' instead chooses to look at the ideas of loss, self-loathing, obsession and forgiveness, viewed through the eyes of a central character who would seem to be an almost inept amalgamation of contradictions

From the outset Pharaon De Winter (Emmanuel Schotte) seems to us, almost childlike, and certainly not somebody who should be in charge of a serious murder investigation. However this makes the character come across almost as the representation of innocence throughout the film -- he flees from crime scene screaming, we often find him lingering in the background of a scene, observing with eyes that burn with a deep sadness, he let's his so-called friends push him around and make fun of him because he has no other outlet for human communication -- and so on.

He is a character that some would call pathetic, I would disagree. He is an extremely likable character, and our only real source of identification in this film that is overflowing with characters that are detestable, underhanded and manipulative. These characters elicit a multitude of feelings and interpretations from us -- with Pharaon we always know where we are -- we want him to win. We want him to overcome his obstacles and hopefully find his little piece of happiness, to see him without that aura of melancholy and loss that seems to resonate with his every facial tick. But we know that prospect is not very likely.

One of the interesting things about 'L' Humanité', the thing that sets it apart from other films, is the subtlety, both in terms of writing and performance. Dumont seems very much in favour of the Bresson/Fellini approach to casting -- choosing real people tailor made for the role as opposed to hiring actors who could play them. The nuances to Schotte's performance work brilliantly, his entire body language and delivery of lines suggests the overall mood and inner torment the character would seem to be going through. It is the same with the other cast members, they don't seem like they're playing a part but actually living it.

This of course gives the film a realism that makes the proceedings at times hard to watch. The atmosphere of misery and pain amongst these characters sucks a lot of the enjoyment out of the viewing, and Dumont's use of uncompromising sexual imagery means that 'L' Humanité' is a film a lot of people will have a problem with. With a pace that is deliberately slow and a subject matter that is consciously downbeat and unrelenting, 'L' Humanité' ultimately asks far too much from the audience -- however, those who feel up to this harrowing tale, will no doubt walk away from it with a lasting impression.

Amélie (2001)

The Fabulous destiny of Amélie Poulain

[20 June 2002]

Amelie (Audrey Tautou) is a winsome young woman who works as a waitress in a small Parisian bistro. Raised by a nervous mother and a doctor father (Rufus), the only attention she was given as a child was when he would give her an annual medical check-up. This fleeting display of love would make her heart beat so fast that her parents believed she was sick, too sick to go to school, so Amelie created her own fantasy world, filled with danger and adventure. Amelie glides through her adult life unaware that the loneliness she carried as a child is slowly building inside her, until one day, after hearing of the death of Princess Diana, Amelie decides she must do something to help herself.

This she does, by helping other people. After finding a small box hidden in the wall of her apartment, Amelie decides she will find the original owner and return it to them. This she does anonymously… Watching from afar, Amelie sees the overjoyed impact this has on the old man, who is reunited with his prized childhood possessions, and from this, she is hooked, hooked on helping the people closest to her. However, when Amelie sees an old friend, who as a child was an outcast similar to herself, Amelie's beating heart once again goes into overdrive. The man is Nino (Mathieu Kassovitz). Nino works for the most part in a sex shop in the lower part of town, but his major hobby is collecting the discarded pictures from public photo booths, and assembling the images in his scrapbook.

Both Amelie and Nino would appear to be made for each other, but still Amelie is unable to approach him. Instead she decides to follow him around; playing mental games similar to the ones she played on the people whose lives she was able to sort out. All of this is secondary however to Jeunet's striking depiction of Paris as a rose-tinted, candy cane world, in which the clouds are shaped like bunnies and love conquers all. It is through this empty majesty of photography, production design, and one of the most adorably different leading ladies in the from of Tautou, that we allow ourselves to be pulled into this world.

The film coasts along from one good deed to another, with one glorious shot after another, so detailed in its execution that just thinking about a scene later will make you wont to re-experience the film all over again. Certainly there are some minor flaws to the film, a little to sugary in some places, but nothing too distracting, and it certainly isn't the dumbing down of foreign cinema that some critics hailed it as. Amelie is nothing more than a sweet natured film about, for the most, a sweet natured character, and is a film so entertaining and enjoyable, that after viewing Amelie once you will no doubt be intoxicated by the joy that the film transmits. 5/5