We keep you alive to serve this ship. So row well, and live.
Boardgame Design (5)
Boardgames (29)
Books (2)
Cats (4)
Computer games (10)
Design (13)
Films (49)
Grumpy rants (4)
Literature (1)
Music (8)
Opinions (30)
Site news (16)
Stuff (35)
Tech (5)
Theatre (2)
Travel (1)
Weird (2)
World (2)
Headless Hollow posts, categorised for your convenience and enjoyment. On this page you’ll find all the posts vaguely related to Films.
A friend sent me this fantastic promotional photo for Battlestar Galactica. Great stuff. Also note, Fantasy Flight Games have just released a Battlestar Galactica board game, which has been getting great reviews. It’s a co-operative game—that is, until, one or more players are revealed as Cylons …
Battlestar Galactica
[click image to enlarge]
PS: No spoilers please! I haven’t got hold of Season 4 yet.
Warning: some spoilers!
Well folks, I finally got to see Indy IV—despite the fact my original plan to see it in luxury La Premiere style (comfy chairs, waiter service, bottle of wine) was scuppered by family visits and various other commitments. Instead, I took an afternoon off work, swallowed my pride and went alone to Hoyts where, as usual, you get treated like scum that they must begrudgingly provide with a minimal service in exchange for being fleeced (already it’s on the ‘put it in the loungeroom-sized cinema for those few losers who didn’t see it in the first two weekends’ list).
But this isn’t the place to enumerate my numerous complaints with the soul-sucking Hoyts chain of cinemas; that’s for a later post. This is about Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, the one film all us life-long Indiana Jones fans have been champing at the bit to see, the return of our beloved hero and his whip-cracking adventures. And the verdict?
Meh.
Oh, it’s OK. It’s light, predictable fun. I had a good time, walked out of the cinema, and promptly forgot all about it. Because you could beat yourself senseless agonising about all the things this film could have been. You could scream that that they should have left Indiana to ride off into the sunset at the end of The Last Crusade, that Harrison Ford is too old to play the character anymore, that there’s no magic, no Indiana Jonesness, to the whole exercise. Or you could just pay your money, have a laugh, and forget about it afterwards.
The question is, it the films themselves, or is it us? I watched the 1972 sci-fi film Silent Running by Douglas Trumbull the other night, and it seemed clunky and slow, and in places (especially the Joan Baez songs) silly. When I saw it as a kid that film blew me away. It seems all our old popular culture memories are either being plundered and destroyed, or held up to a light far too bright for them to endure. Nobody has an “I remember that, that was fantastic” moment anymore, because we see all the old films and TV shows again when we buy the lavish DVD box sets, and replace the warm, special glow of childhood with the harsh glare of experienced adulthood.
So maybe I’m too experienced now. When Indiana flies to the Nazca lines in Peru, my ten-year-old self would have been wrapped up in the exotic mystery of such a place. But now I’m 42 and I’ve actually been there myself, and flown over them in a light plane. I know there’s no hill overlooking the spider symbol with an old Peruvian graveyard on the top. Of course suspension of disbelief is all part of the fun, but there are plot holes and unbelievable sequences here that reach out of the screen and slap me in the face.
This brings me to my next question, has it all been done before? Have we seen all the good ideas in cinema, and especially in the ‘wisecracking adventurer’ genre? There’s nothing about the plot in Indy IV that surprised me or that seemed clever or new. There were no memorable lines that people will repeat to each other for decades to come (“snakes … why did it have to be snakes?”) There’s very little wit.
Of course, I have to lay some of the blame at the feet of George Lucas. He seems to see storytelling as a railroad track his characters follow against their will—a bit like Indy strapped to the rocket sled in a sequence at the start of the film. Anakin Skywalker never seemed to make one damned decision in the whole three of those odious Star Wars ‘prequels’. It gets worse here towards the end—Indy and his little Scooby gang go through the motions, not affecting anything around them. Indy doesn’t make a difference, do anything heroic, he just becomes a cardboard cut out following the scriptwriter’s dotted line. He doesn’t do any of what he so famously used to do—“make it up as he goes along.”
There was a lot of potential here. Indy could have been dragged successfully into the 50s, with its McCarthy paranoia, cold war conflict, 50s B-movie aliens. It just needed a script cleverer than this one, which makes perfunctory nods in the direction of these plot devices and then doesn’t go anywhere with them. Cate Blanchett brings a lot of charisma to her sexy Russian, but there’s no chemistry between her in Indy, and nothing is done with her character except fill the boots of bad guy. Shia LaBeouf is a good young actor and there could have been some great father-son stuff with Indy, but it never really happens. Marion Ravenwood (Karen Allen) could have been Marion Ravenwood instead of the strangely two-dimensional character here. Steven Spielberg still knows how to direct an action sequence, but this time they feel pasted in, with no relevance to anything, and there’s none of that brilliant ratcheting up of the stakes that was done so well with sequences like the flying wing fight in Raiders.
Yep, it could have been a great film. But by some combination of lack of ideas, the feeling we’ve seen it all before, and the fact that I, and the filmmakers, and the actors, are all a lot older—well, it just never gets there.
But I’m still giving it three fedoras out of five. It’s an OK couple of hours, even though Indiana Jones should have been left to ride into the sunset.
You don’t go into the latest 3D animation spectacular with very high expectations for scriptwriting and direction, but I must say I was pleasantly surprised with Beowulf. While for the most part it’s the usual CGI bluff and bluster, there are a few moments here actually that make an emotional impact, and perhaps remind us that we really are in the early days when it comes to this kind of film-making, and that anything may happen yet. For the first time I could see that fully motion-captured acting and animation really does have potential.
The first surprise was a lovely long, long pull-back from the Danish mead hall that is the centre of the action back into the countryside. Not only is the shot almost meditative in its length, but the director was smart enough to let the sound design do the work without cluttering up the atmosphere with music—the result is a truly stunning shot.
There are a few other moments nearly as good, but most of Beowulf is taken up with rollicking violent action, and it’s hard not to think that 10th century storytellers of the original Old English epic poem might have approved, before generations of tweed-coated bespectacled Oxford linguistic professors made it all worthy and boring. This is the kind of special effects bash that would have gone down well around the fire after a hard day’s pillaging.
Of course, writers Neil Gaiman and Roger Avary and director Robert Zemeckis have their way with the original poem and add several plotlines and motivations. The story is simple, with a cautionary edge that makes it a little interesting, and the famous Grendel is written as a sympathetic murdering psychotic monster instead of just a murdering psychotic monster. The film certainly feels more like a modern graphic novel that a timeless epic classic, which perhaps is a lost opportunity, but understandable.
The actors do a good job with their motion-capture work, though Windstone’s tough-guy London accent can get grating, especially when mixed with the hodge-podge of other accents that echo about this Danish melieu. Angelina Jolie is suitably seductive as Grendel’s mother, Anthony Hopkins has a great time playing the sodden King Hrothgar, and John Malkovitch, as usual, plays John Malkovich.
Despite exploring adult themes, the animation is hilariously coy in order to get the film’s PG-13 rating, often with the result of jarring you out of suspended disbelief. The convenient placing of mugs and candlesticks when Beowulf fights naked is unintentionally hilarious, and Grendel’s mother seducing Beowulf when she doesn’t even seem to have nipples, let alone working genitalia, takes the sexual tension right out of the whole exercise. It’s a shame they had to pander to the censors in this way.
On the whole however, I found Beowulf a fun ride. Make sure you see it in 3D for all the diving-straight-into-the-camera fun. You even get a bit of good scriptwriting and direction thrown in among all the action.
Three-and-a-half severed limbs out of five.
The Princess Bride was a funny, charming, irreverent film made back in 1987 that has become something of a classic, and it’s wonderful to see some of the same magic recaptured with Stardust. This lovely fable, based on Neil Gaiman’s second novel and directed by Matthew Vaugn, is an entertaining ride from start to finish—that is if you still have a soft spot in your heart for tales of ghosts and witches, kings and princesses. If you don’t—be off with you, hardened cynics with no imagination!
The story has simple faery (isn’t it wonderful how changing just one letter recaptures the magic the word ‘fairy’ has lost?) story roots, but a healthy mixture of inventiveness and a determination by the cast and crew not to take anything too seriously keeps the film fresh and fun throughout. Of course readers of the original novel may disagree, and say that Vaugn has been far too influenced by The Princess Bride. That may be—I have yet to read it—but as a film Stardust works. The cast throw themselves into the fantasy with relish, the Scottish and Icelandic locations are stunning, the effects are excellent and the directon is, for the most part, stylish and interesting.
In some reviews leads Charlie Cox and Claire Danes have been accused of being flat but I found them both charming, especially Danes who has a wonderfuly animated face and brings so much more to her role than would most characterless ‘pretty-actresses-of-the-month’. It’s also wonderful to see Michelle Pfeiffer back and stealing the show as nasty witch Lamia, desperately pursuing the prize of eternal youth in a role an actress more of a prima donna would balk at. All the players are obviously having fun and make the most of their parts, especially Mark Williams doing a hilarious turn as a goat turned into an innkeeper, David Kelly as the old man guarding the wall between England and Stormhold, Robert de Niro bringing a new dimension to pirates in a post-Pirates of the Caribbean world, and Julian Rhind-Tutt as one of the hilariously detached ghostly princes. Everytime the film is forced by the demands of the plot to dally dangerously near the pretentiousness that fantasy is sometimes prone to, a well-timed and frequently subtle joke brings it back on course. It’s a trick that looks easier than it is, and requires a good eye for avoiding the obvious and a desire to avoid treating your audience like fools.
If you have a little magic left in you, and are touched by fables that end with ‘and they lived happily ever after’, Stardust is for you. Four can-cans out of five.
PS Sorry about the dearth of entries lately. I’ll make an effort to update a little more frequently.
In keeping with my new pirate-themed masthead, I finally get around to reviewing Pirates of the Caribbean 3: At World’s End. Not that I should really bother, since you’ve probably long ago gone and seen it. Like the two films before it Pirates 3 has had its all-important opening weekend, raked in the cash, and once again Hollywood has successfully wrapped its greedy fingers around the throat of a once evocative and fascinating theme and shaken furiously until all trace of juice has been squeezed from it. Everybody’s sick to death of pirates—pirate films, pirate books, pirate toys, pirate fast food cross-promotions … and now pirates are doomed to join dinosaurs, Star Trek, mummies and Aliens in limbo until someone years down the track with some real creativity can resurrect the genre a la Batman Begins. Next! I hear it’s going to be more of the same in Arabia with Prince of Persia.
Of course they could have gone out with a bang and made a decent film, but At World’s End sure doesn’t cut the mustard. It feels as tired and messy as the actors in it look. Orlando Bloom continues to go for the crown of Most Forgettable On-Screen Hero by further honing his astonishing lack of charisma. Johnny Depp puts his Keith Richard-schtick on auto-pilot (and Keith Richard proves how much more amusing the caricature is than the man himself). Geoffrey Rush hams it up OK despite having nothing interesting to actually do. The only person really working hard for their pay cheque is Keira Knightly, who refuses to admit that everyone’s lost the plot and, no doubt charged with the energy of youth, does inject some life into the tired proceedings.
After watching a few ‘Making Of’ specials on DVD I can understand why they’re all so tired. After filming the last two back-to-back, enduring a couple of hurricanes and organising crews of several hundred million people, the overweening impression that comes across on the screen is that everyone wants to get this over with and go home. There are some truly bad scenes, and long sequences of padding where everyone stands around in clumps on board one ship or another and tries to look interested while someone works their way through another twenty chewy mouthfuls of exposition. No, we don’t understand what’s going on either folks! In a desperate attempt to mythologize the whole trilogy, Gore Verbinski and his writers lose sight of the reason the first—and to a lesser extend the second— films were enjoyable; they were fun! Not only has it all become grim and tedious and way too complex by this third film, but those opportunities created by the mythology are criminally wasted. Davy Jones himself looks rushed to screen—it’s now quite easy to see that he’s computer-generated, unlike last time—and is completely emasculated as a character. All film long we lead up to the reveal of Calypso and her relationship to DJ, and when we finally get there, any glimmer of pathos is swallowed up in a wave of computer-generated gumpf. The character of Jack Sparrow loses all his charisma by pretty much disclosing that he has in fact, a serious multiple personality disorder. I can hear the studio execs now—“everyone loves Jack Sparrow, let’s put ten of him on the screen at the same time!” At least Verbinski avoids the obvious happy ending, but the alternative is unsatisfying and leaves you with more questions than answers.
Once again, the blame lies with the script; and at the speed all concerned were expected to work by the studios, I’m not surprised. The lack of soul in At World’s End is the inevitable consquence of working creatives like galley slaves and rushing a film to the cinema in order to squeeze every last possible cent out of the public.
Truly this is a disappointing film. I went into the theatre expecting rip-roaring adventure, actor chemistry and several shiploads of pirate fun. I came out feeling like I’d been hit over the head with a dead salmon wrapped in a wet blanket for three hours.
One and a half wooden eyes out of five.
Sam Raimi is a genius director.
Not your deep, philosophical, meaning of life-and-death genius director, but a director who understands fun film-making. This hit me in some subliminal way back when I first saw Evil Dead 2 and realised he was scaring me and making me laugh at the same time. And it struck me again as Spidey and the Green Goblin and a giant Sandman and Venom and Mary-Jane jump and fall and punch and scream all over the screen in the climactic scene of Spiderman 3. Here’s a director who understands comics, and how they were (and are, I hope—even Venom is too contemporary for me) full not only of action, but humour, pathos, fear, love, hope … the whole shootin’ match.
Like the best of comics, Raimi packs it all in for Spiderman 3, and like the genius director and writer he is, he juggles it all with consummate skill. He has only 140 minutes to give us Venom, the Sandman, the new Green Goblin, not to mention relationship problems, competition at work, struggles with the nature of power … yes, it’s busy, but I think those who have criticised the film for too many storylines miss the way it all comes together, and how skilled Raimi is at giving us so much with so little. The Sandman background scenes, for example, are short but wonderfully economic, giving us just enough to really empathise with the character.
And besides, it’s all fun! Everything here is entertaining, even the slightly over-the-top ‘bad’ Peter Parker dance routine. It all works because Raimi has style and a wonderful visual inventiveness, and he isn’t afraid to enjoy himself and take the audience along for the ride. Like being on a rollercoaster, you just have to give yourself up to the experience.
It’s what comics were all about before they became too deep and meaningful. And the icing on the cake is the way the three films are nicely wrapped up as a trilogy. Nice one Raimi. I can hardly wait to see Spiderman 3 again. Now, all we need is a few more sarcastic wisecracks by Spidey when he’s fighting, and we’ll be spot on.
Four alien meteorites out of five.
There’s little doubt that the original trailer for this film was one of the most exciting in recent memory. The totally original graphic look, the spectacular slo-mo, amazing cgi, pumping soundtrack—it all combined to get the blood racing. Unfortunately however, if you extend the trailer to a movie of 117min, what you get is one long film clip that ultimately makes you feel like you’ve binged on too many sickly sweet lollies, and leaves you desperately hankering for a film of substance.
Back in high school one of my favourite stories was the battle of Thermopylae and the Persian Wars, and I lovingly memorised ever fact and ever date from the period. I’d love to impress you with all that information now, but of course virtually none of it remains in my head. And 300 is certainly not the place to go to be reminded of the facts. It takes the basic story of 300 Spartans holding the pass at Thermopylae against the Persian army (here shown in insanely exaggerated scale worthy of Herodotus) and pretty much turns it into a two-hour slug fest. It sure must have been easy to adapt this film for the inevitable video game.
Some of the battle scenes have a balletic beauty, but as is often the case with these cgi extravaganzas, with the dial turned up to ‘11’ all the time there’s no opportunity for light and shade, contrast, impact … even the loudest noise can lose its impact if it never stops. In a desperate attempt to sustain the volume, we get scenes of totally unnecessary brutality and garishness—the giant bondage mutant exceutioner, the lesbian dancing girls with bad skin (“decadent Emperor’s court—do we have lesbians?—check!”), the lovingly extended decapitation scene. The only point of contrast, a political subplot involving King Leonidas’s wife back in Sparta, feels like an afterthought.
What I really missed was a good script. Surely this kind of epic subject material cries out for equally epic language; speeches you can really get your teeth into, Henry V-style rousing stuff. Instead we greet endless variations of bland ‘here we stand!’ sentiment, actors throwing as much spittle into their shouts as possible to prove they’re being passionate. David Wenham, a strange choice for narrator considering his distinctive accent, annoyingly telegraphs every move in his voiceover as we see it. (“Leonidas was very angry”—yes, we can see he’s angry!) Considering the fact that the entire film was done on a bluescreen soundstage, the actors are perhaps to be commended for their performances, but it’s all too po-faced and mock serious (in true Frank Miller style).
I’m usually a cry baby when it comes to the heroic sacrifice theme, but I was left dry-eyed and unaffected by this film. Yes, it is spectacular (especially when seen in brain-melting IMAX format, as I did), occasionally beautiful, sometimes exciting. But it suffers terribly from having a completely hollow core, pasted over with flashy cgi and casual brutality. Please, give us some heart with our guts.
Two and a half piercings out of five.
You know, I was going to write a review, but my friend anaglyph over at Tetherd Cow just beat me to it.
Work and other distractions has made me a little slack on the blog front of late. But rather than have the experiences drift into oblivion, some tiny potted reviews of recent films I have seen follow:
Hot Fuzz A lot of fun from the boys who made Shaun of the Dead, complete with action-movie cliches galore; endless jumpy editing and over-the-top sound effects. And the de rigeur early Peter Jackson-style violence. Not a bad plot either! Four montages out of five.
Notes on a Scandal Wonderful to see Blanchett and Dench crackle together on screen. The young Andrew Simpson isn’t bad either. An excellent film only spoiled by a lazy ending. Only Bill Nighy doesn’t feel right, but perhaps that’s because he’s been doing so much comedy lately. Four art classes out of five.
The Illusionist Slightly made-for-TV looking nineteenth-century magician tale. Fails to deliver anywhere near as much atmosphere and interest as the similarly-themed The Prestige. Edward Norton lacks charisma, Paul Giamatti is unconvincing and Jessica Biel is just plain wrong. The celebrated twist in the tale reminds me of the kind of lame stuff M. Night Shyamalan haas been churning out lately. Two rabbits out of five.
“Religion is an insult to human dignity. With or without it you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion.” Steven Weinberg
I strongly urge you to watch this documentary by Richard Dawkins, which takes a good, long, hard, rational look at the damage that religion is doing to the world, and the bigotry and fundamentalism it is perpetuating. There are some truly frightening people out there, fully convinced that their version of truth is divine truth, and determined to drag us back into a dark age of ignorance. And what is even worse, they are indoctrinating the adults of tomorrow with their own twisted version of reality.
How many times has the cry echoed throughout history while the most horrific atrocities were committed: “God is on our side.”
I hope, without much hope, that one day the human race will wake up to itself and abandon primitive superstition. Only then can we hope to embrace tolerance for our fellow humans, ethical behaviour untainted by the expectation of reward or punishment, and fully enjoy all the wonderful diversity of which we are capable. Now that would be heaven on earth.
I have to admit, James Bond is a guilty pleasure, even more guilty since I recently got around to reading the Ian Fleming series (I tracked down a whole set of the 60s Pan editions, with their beautifully designed covers) and experienced some of the dodgy writing, casual racism and full-on contempt for women that characterise the series. Despite the innumerable flaws however, there’s a reason James Bond has become one of the most enduring of cinematic characters, and the books are such entertaining page turners, perfect for plane journeys—he is seriously, unremittingly cool.
Of course there have been times (Roger Moore *cough*) when the filmakers completely forgot this essential fact. To give them their due, take a look at the average 70s haircut and wonder at contemporary definitions. But Bond was never supposed to be cool in a fashionable, trendy way. He was cool in a hard, uncompromising, lone wolf kind of way.
Director Martin Campbell and writers Neal Purvis, Robert Wade and Paul Haggis get it. The first stroke of genius was casting Daniel Craig, whose steel blue eyes and craggy face are perfect for the role, not to mention the acting chops he brings with him. It’s a breath of fresh air to see emotional depth in the lead character’s eyes in a James Bond film. I can only shake my head in amazement at those who campaigned so vehemently against his casting, and wonder if they ever read the books.
The second stroke of genius was abandoning all pretence at there being a chronology (the films have never followed the order of the books anyway) and taking Bond back to his first assignment. This is more character development that we’ve seen in the last ten films put together (with the possible exception of some of what happened to Brosnan’s Bond in Die Another Day, before it got very silly).
Of course there’s an alluring girl, Eva Green (Vesper Lynd), an interesting if slightly undeveloped bad guy Le Chiffre (Mads Mikkelsen), and a convoluted plot. Thankfully missing is the villain’s huge underground/undersea/in space lair, the dumb gadgets and stock funny Q scene (in the books, Bond often bemoans the fact that he doesn’t have any gadgets to fall back on). Present and accounted for is torture (Bond is captured and tortured surprisingly often in the books), incredible action sequences (the opening is one of the best chase sequences I’ve ever seen), tense gambling sessions in expensive European hotels, and real danger and visceral punchups. The writers have obviously had great fun shaking things up (“Shaken or stirred?” asks a waiter. “Do I look like I give a damn?” shoots back a pissed off Bond). Of course there are a few flaws—most notably the plot gets messy towards the end and loses momentum.
But this is the best thing that’s happened to Bond since Connery. How long can it last? Not long I suspect. Another director will eventually bring back the lame humour and derivative phrases. But if you’ve ever enjoyed a Bond film make sure you catch this one. And next time you get on an airplane, enjoy one of the books.
Four cane chairs out of five.
Guillermo del Toro has come into his own with his new Spanish-language film Pan’s Labyrinth, a stunning journey through two parallel worlds of cruel reality and uncompromising fantasy.
I was lucky enough to see this film over a month ago when we won free tickets to a sneak preview, and now that the film is in the cinemas it’s a pleasure to see it receive such wide acclaim. del Toro has definitely realised the potential he showed in relatively mainstream fantasy actioneers such as Blade II and Hellboy.
Pan’s Labyrinth tells the story of Ofelia (Ivana Baquero), a young girl forced to live with her ailing mother and cruel stepfather in the countryside of Spain in 1944. Her sadistic Fascist stepfather Capitán Vidal (a frightening Sergi López) is determined to rid the area of Republican sympathizers who are hiding out in the woods. The harsh reality of this story is interwoven with Ofelia performing several dangerous tasks given to her by a faun (Doug Jones) she encounters in a labyrinth near the house, who tells her she is the rightful princess of the underworld.
To his credit, del Toro doesn’t let either of the threads of his story—the real or the fantastic—dominate, but skillfully weaves them together, allowing each to reinforce the other. The fantastic world can be cruel and horrifying—the incredible Doug Jones is a very scary child-eating, tottering creature called the Pale Man whose skin hangs in loose folds and sees through eyeballs in his palms like stigmata—but the real world can be equally so—Vidal tortures and kills members of the resistance without emotion. While sometimes difficult to watch, the reality of both worlds is reinforced by the unflinching violence. This is not a film for kids, parents, even if it is about fairy tales!
Ivana Baquero plays the young Ofelia with an ‘unprocessed’ innocence and intensity, in sharp contrast to the cocky little adults Hollywood so often casts as children. Also excellent is Maribel Verdú, whose performance as the housekeeper is a lynchpin of the film.
Not surprisingly, the film looks stunning. It’s obvious that del Toro has thrown his heart and soul into this film, and any interview with the director will tell you how devoted he is to the telling of fairy tales—fairy tales, thankfully, in all their raw, original state, still dangerous, not the Disneyfied, G-rated versions.
Four and a half chalk lines out of five.
After reading a cagey article in Empire about Christopher Nolan’s new film The Prestige (from the book by Christopher Priest), I was eager to go and see it before reviews, and friends, started ‘accidently’ giving away the plot. Not to mention that Nolan (Batman Begins, Memento) is one of the more interesting mainstream directors out there. If you haven’t see it yet, I recommend you stop reading now and get thee hence to the nearest cinema—while I won’t be giving anything away, this is a film best enjoyed with as little foreknowledge as possible.
For those of you still with me, The Prestige explores the bitter rivalry between two turn-of-the-century stage magicians, Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman), and Alfred Borden (Christian Bale). The tragic outcome of a trick turns these colleagues into enemies, driving in a wedge that, as the years pass, further prises apart their already very different personalities. Angier is the showman desperate to discover the secret of his rival’s greatest trick ‘The Transported Man’, Borden the intense and obsessive magician lacking flair but wholely committed to his art. Cutter (Michael Caine), an ‘ingeneur’ (a man who designs new tricks for magicians) and Olivia (Scarlett Johansson), an assistant, are both drawn ever further into the obsessive competition between them.
The Prestige is one of the most satisfying cinema experiences I have had for years; a film that—at last— doesn’t treat me like an idiot, but trusts in my ability and willingness to go along for the magical ride. In typical Nolan form, the plot weaves and jumps back and forth through its timeline, slowly building up a collage of mystery and obssession that captivates and entrances. The acting is excellent (Hugh Jackman’s most impressive turn to date); the production flawless, the period atmosphere heavy. Even David Bowie surprises with his best work as the softly spoken inventor Nikolas Tesla.
Also worth noting is the minimalist, threatening music by David Julyan; I was surprised to discover he wasn’t responsible for Batman Begins (though he did do the music on Memento and Insomnia), because a similar dark build-up of chords is used here to equally strong effect.
Best of all, the plot keeps you guessing. I thought I had worked it all out up until the last ten minutes, when all my presuppositions were shattered. We walked out of the cinema comparing notes, discussing the plot, looking for holes and weighing each other’s impressions; the sure sign of a thought-provoking and intelligent film. I look forward to enjoying its rich detail again and again on DVD.
But don’t let me give anything away—go see The Prestige now, before some so-called ‘friend’ can’t help themself and gives away a crucial plot point!
Four and a half canaries out of five.
Disney unexpectedly struck gold with this franchise, despite their fears that nobody wanted to see a pirate film (oh come on, Cutthroat Island wasn’t that bad). The second in the trilogy, Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest delivers the rollicking adventure we all expected, and if there were some of us who were hoping for something a little bit more special, well, I guess we can still just enjoy the ride.
From start to finish we hardly get a chance to draw breath as Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp channelling Keith Richards), Will Turner (the competent Orlando Bloom), Elizabeth Swann (an energetic Keira Knightley) and a cast of assorted misfits jump from one action sequence to the other. And like an adventure ride, there’s not a whole lot of concern with rhythm and pacing — Gore Verbinski basically throws every pirate cliche you can think of in a bag, gives it a good shake, and pours it out on the screen with the aid of absolutely stunning digital effects and a cast who are obviously enjoying themselves.
Talking about effects, I have it on good authority that Bill Nighy, who plays Davey Jones complete with squirming tentacles and slimy squid skin, doesn’t actually appear in one frame in this film. Every shot with him in it is completely digital. When you see how well they have captured his performance, you’ll be amazed—despite the covering of tentacles, those are Nighy’s mannerisms to a T. The digital effects work in this film, with a very few exceptions, is absolutely astounding. In fact it’s almost so good it can be distracting; I found my eye sometimes wandering to the myriad of little details in the background as a main character was speaking.
Sure, Bloom’s leading man is as one-dimensional as ever, but this is Depp’s film and he knows it. Flush with the success of his foppish, half-drunken characterisation in the first film, he lays it on thick here. Jack Sparrow has quickly become a loved film character, but if the writers are skilled enough to develop him somewhat further in the third film he could become a classic.
Along with all the running, sailing, swordfighting and rolling (yes, rolling, and lots of it) we do see a little bit more emotional depth, which I found myself hoping for about halfway through the film. It’s a bit of an afterthought but augurs well for the third in the franchise.
But all these quibbles don’t detract from the fact that Pirates is a bloody entertaining film. It could have been something really exceptional, but if you shut your brain off and strap yourself in, you’ll be taken on a fun ride.
Four and a half rubbery barnacles out of five.
Self-referential, actors-playing-themselves films have become a lot more common these days, probably since Being John Malkovitch, which I remember at the time seemed so revolutionary with its use of Malkovitch playing Malkovitch (well, a somewhat larger than life version, anyway … and a version whose head you could enter through a little passageway in the wall of an office building).
So faced with filming the nine volumes of Laurence Sterne’s novel, “The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, Michael Winterbottom in fact gives a pretty light look into the world of film-making, mixed with a bit of the novel here and there. Not having read the book, I can’t tell you if the themes explored here reflect the themes of the book, but if they do, that’s another layer on an entertaining and funny film that can happily be taken at face value.
Steve Coogan, actor and comedian, aka Alan Partridge, plays a somewhat larger than life version of himself as the eponymous hero. You can tell Coogan had a lot of fun with the part, happily sending himself up as an egotistical and somewhat petty actor trying to do a ‘serious’ role. Well let’s hope he’s sending himself up anyway. Rob Brydon plays his genitally challenged cousin (war wound)—and himself as Brydon dealing with Coogan’s ego armed with an array of excellent voice impressions; Gillian Anderson has a brief cameo as the Widow Wadman—and herself; the crew deal with the demands of a tight budget and a nitpicking historical advisor (I bet he plays boardgames), Coogan deals with his wife and baby on set while he is tempted by an affair; and we get a fascinating insight into the ego clashes and compromises in a day on a film set.
Winterbottom keeps all these balls in the air, and more, with great aplomb, and there’s a wonderful fly on the wall feel about the whole film. There are some excellent moments with Dylan Moran as an inept 18th century doctor, and a brief appearance by Stephen Fry who seems to be popping up in a lot of things these days. It’s a post-modern book about a book that was post-modern before there was any modern to be post about … to paraphrase Coogan.
Three and a half powdered wigs out of five. Oh, and stay for the credits.
In these times of rampant religious bigotry, it’s unfortunately no surprise that the production of Deepa Mehta’s new film Water was dogged by violent protest by Hindu fundamentalists. This film, the third and last in a trilogy by the Indian director after Fire (1996) and Earth (1998) shines a light on the milllions of Indian widows forced to live with social and cultural discrimination; a practice that shamefully continues to this day. How bad is the discrimination? Get this: widows must remain loyal to their deceased husbands or, according to ancient Hindi law, be reborn in the belly of a jackal. Ain’t religion great?
Filming began on location in Varanasi, on the banks of the river Ganges, but after the production was plagued by protest, death threats and political manipulation, had to continue in secret in Sri Lanka. It seems some were unable to accept the film shows certain Indian cultural practices in a poor light (perhaps they find the mindless garbage churned out by Bollywood to be a more fitting filmic ambassador for the country). Not to mention the fact that Hindu fundamentalists seem indisposed towards discarding a cultural and religious practice that, like the caste system, keeps the rich and powerful on top and the poor and disadvantaged on the bottom.
While Water is undeniably a political film, it also deeply romantic and quite beautiful. Sarala, an eight-year-old actress full of life and charm, plays newly widowed (yes, at eight) Chuyia, who enters the ashram and begins shaking things up. The stunningly beautiful—though, it must be said, very Western-looking—Lisa Ray plays Kalyani, a young widow forced into prostitution to support the other widows of the ashram, who captures the heart of a progressive Ghandi disciple and law graduate Narayana (John Abraham). There are moments of heart-rending beauty here—after Narayana first meets Kalyani, we see him walking, smiling, through the driving rain, intercut with Kalyani and Chuyia playing and dancing in their little hut. The pure happiness of the moment is beautifully captured, aided by music by A.R. Rahman.
When I walked out of the film there were still tears welling up inside me bursting to get out. The assured blending of personal romance and tragedy, the real knowledge of so many lives spoiled by ancient religious dogma, the beauty of the Ghats along the riverbank and the way they are filmed—all of these elements work together to make a stunning filmic experience. Highly recommended.
Also make sure you catch the other two films of the trilogy. Fire is excellent and tells a highly controversial (for India) story of a lesbian love affair. I’m still tracking down a copy of Earth.
Five rasgullas out of five.
Oh yeah. Oh. Yeah. Take an 80s graphic novel by Alan Moore, set in an near-future alternative Britain under totalitarian rule, featuring the anarchist/terrorist ‘V’ in trademark Guy Fawkes mask, and influenced by Thatcher-era British politics. Make it into a film that breathes new life into the original themes and perfectly relevant to our times without spoon-feeding, yet still makes it work as both action-adventure and stylish future noir. Tough call, but V For Vendetta pulls it off.
V For Vendetta is a dense, multi-layered film directed by James McTeigue from a screenplay by the Wachowski brothers (the Matrix trilogy). I haven’t read the original graphic novel, and perhaps Moore’s desire to distance himself from the film is justified, but I can’t imagine how he could be unhappy with the rich experience this film delivers. The lynchpin is Hugo Weaving as ‘V’, who manages to create a fully fleshed out and fascinating character without ever revealing his face, with the help of an intelligent script that never once falls into ‘superhero stereotype’. Not far behind is Natalie Portman as Evey, the woman he rescues from creepy government ‘Fingermen’ and who becomes involved in his crusade to make the nation’s oppressed citizens rise up against their tyrannical government. Portman—her wooden turn as Princess Armidala in Star Trek now thankfully far in the past—has become an incredible actress with real presence and subtlety, and for me this is her best performance to date.
V For Vendetta manages to do two things at once—it challenges and inspires by appealing to universal themes like all good science fiction and fantasy, and yet at the same time it doesn’t spell out solutions or lead the viewer by the hand. By walking this thin line it challenges you to use your brain, to counter the ‘with us or against us’ mentality of those who think in black and white with reality, complete with all its grey areas. I’m sure there will be many who misinterpret the film as a result, who see it as exorting terrorists to blow up buildings. What it really is, however, is exactly what our force-fed culture needs—a good boot up the backside.
And there’s a cracking good knife-fight and some mighty explosions.
My rating? Of course—five fifth symphonies out of five.
Philip Seymour Hoffman—what a bit of acting he does in this movie. Truman Capote was a man of memorable affectations, and an actor could have easily fallen into parody in portraying him, but Hoffman walks the finest of lines like an acrobat, bringing complexity and reality to his performance. Befitting a story that lies deep in life’s complex grey areas, he shows us a man that cannot be summed up in a sentence, even one as expressive as the man himself could write.
Capote focuses on his research for his last finished novel, the stunning In Cold Blood. If you haven’t got around to reading it, do so now; it’s one of the seminal books of the 20th century. Were the events of this time responsible for Capote never finishing another novel, descending into alcoholism and eventually to an early death at 60? We’ll never know, but the film makes a strong case for it. Like In Cold Blood, it also concentrates on the killers in the case of the murder of a family in Halcomb, Kansas in 1959; the murdered people have no voice. But the film is about Capote after all. It’s about his relationship with Perry Smith, a sensitive man who Capote developed a connection. And it’s about the Faustian path Capote found himself on when finishing his greatest work.
Capote doesn’t lead us by the hand towards pat solutions. It moves slowly and steadily through the events, yet without ever dragging or losing its way. It looks beautiful, grey and cold and desaturated; even the light on the Costa Brava, where Capote escapes with Jack Dunphy (Bruce Greenwood), seems overcast and heavy. Catherine Keener puts in a quiet but strong performance as Capote’s friend Harper Lee. Bennett Miller’s direction is confident and quietly stylish. Perhaps Clifton Collins Jr. as Perry Smith is not quite as good, but then there’s a vacancy about the character which seems strangely appropriate.
I was mesmerised by the film from start to finish. Four and a half wide grey skies.
Despite some flaws, I found myself unable to stop thinking about this slow, sad and beautiful film long into the evening after emerging from the cinema. Ang Lee, back in Ice Storm form after the confused Hulk, has crafted a deeply affecting tale out of a short story by E. Annie Proulx, and I’m sure she’s relieved to see one of her tales brought so sensitively to life after The Shipping News, which so effectively ignored the poetical prose of the novel.
The big surprise here is Heath Ledger, who is completely convincing as Ennis, the hunched, tight-lipped cowboy who spends the summer of 1963 tending sheep on Brokeback Mountain with Jack (Jake Gyllenhaal) and thus begins a forbidden love affair that is to last 20 years. It’s the first half of the film that is the strongest; the harsh beauty of the Wyoming mountainside, dark clouds gathering on the green slopes, the slow burning bond that develops between the two men, utterly believable despite their very different personalities.
It’s after the two men get married—Ennis to the sweet Alma (Michelle Williams) and Jack to the rich girl Lureen (Anne Hathaway), then after a four year separation meet again to find their love as strong as ever and begin years of regular ‘fishing trips’ together, that the film loses a bit of the initial magic. We start a fast-forward through twenty years which is sometimes a little confusing as the characters don’t age very convincingly, and we leave behind the slow, luxuriant pace of the first half. It’s no coincidence that this is the area where the screenplay elaborated most on the Proulx short story, and it shows.
However, these minor points aside, the film is a long overdue and deeply sensitive exploration of a previously—if not forbidden, then rarely explored more then superficially—love. It’s a testiment to the director and the actors that you pretty much forget that this is a film about gay love—it’s a film about love, pure and simple, and a love that has to face more insurmountable challenges than most. It’s also nice, for a change, to see male love portrayed as something more than a lifestyle of drugs, raves and leather harnesses a la Queer as Folk. Actually, the leather harnesses are here—this is a film about cowboys after all.
Four electric carving knives out of five.
Peter Jackson must feel if he has to tell the story of how the 1933 King Kong inspired him to be a filmmaker one more time, he’ll explode. But there’s no denying it’s wonderful to hear about someone actually realising their fondest childhood dream—and let’s face it, out of all those fledgling flimmakers who played with plasticine and Super8 cameras as kids, how many of them go on to make a $200 million version of their favourite film?
It’s perhaps because of Jackson’s close emotional attachment to the original that King Kong isn’t a complete and utter success; it feels as if he’s been playing with these ideas all his life and isn’t willing to give up any of his toys. Yes, it is too long, at just over three hours. Let’s get that out of the way. I have nothing against long films, but in this case Jackson obviously ran out of time to finish and fine-tune the film. There are places where the compositing work is embarassingly rough, and I imagined how unforgiving the audiences of twenty years hence (hell, the audiences now) will be of those scenes—in much the same way the original’s effects now look naive. Since there’s a good twenty minutes of stuff in the film that could have been left on the cutting room floor, hard decisions should have been made about losing some scenes and allotting more time to others. It’s much like the Director’s Cut of Return of the King: that Paths of the Dead ‘skull avalanche’ sequence should have been trodden underfoot and never seen again. And talking about The Lord of the Rings, here there’s some of the same uncomfortably choppy editing we saw in that trilogy, especially in the film’s first third. In fact I felt things only started to hit a real rhythm at the appearance of the Skull Island natives, twenty minutes in.
There’s a lot of great stuff here, and almost of the great stuff has Kong in it. There’s no question Andy Serkis and the Weta animators have done an incredible job bringing him to life: so much so that he outshines the human actors in the depth of his character and acting. And here, it seems to me, is another lost opportunity. The other characters remain 1930s cardboard cutouts—especially Jack Black as Carl Denham (out of his depth here) and Adrien Brody as Jack Driscoll, who struggle with flat material. When the script tries to flesh out character it feels tacked on: especially when the Venture’s first mate starts quoting slabs of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. It’s a huge credit to Naomi Watts that she manages to bring so much character to Ann Darrow. It can’t be easy getting all that emotion across when you’re in a green studio staring at a guy in an ape suit and fake fangs with motion control dots all over him. But there is a real repoire between Kong and Ann that gives us the only real emotional depth in the film; in contrast the touched-on love story between Ann and Jack is paper-thin.
Still, the action sequences are astounding, though perhaps a tad drawn out (and there’s one sequence that I found uncomfortably—and a bit too voyeuristically—violent), with Jackson repeatedly raising the bar on the action until you find yourself laughing in delight. Most of King Kong is an amazing ride.
It’s a great film, but with more disciplined editing, and more time, it could have been a classic. But then again it already was a classic. What we all want to see now is Jackson turn his talents, and that of his team, to something completely original. There’s a Blade Runner in him yet. Come on Mr Jackson, we know you can do it.
Four casually discarded blondes out of five.
Really, really really bad.
Half a BFG out of five.
I just watched The Revenge of Frankenstein—Hammer Films, 1958, with the incomparable Peter Cushing as the good Baron. I did find it highly amusing however, that having escaped the guillotine at the start of the film, he proceeds to start a new practice in a good sized city as ‘Dr Stein’.
But wait, his twisted genius doesn’t end there. When he is almost killed by his patients and transplanted into the body of his latest creation at the end of the film, he then sets up shop in another city as ‘Dr Francken’.
Brilliant doctor—not so brilliant con-man.
It’s not every day you get to enjoy Joss Whedon’s work on the big screen, so we did this one in style by seeing it ‘La Premiere’. For those of you who aren’t local that means large lounge seats, alcohol in the cinema, a tray of Turkish dips, and all the gold you can eat—well, not that last one.
You all know the back story by now … Joss Whedon creates scifi slash western series Firefly only to have it rudely pulled by brainless Fox executives before a single season is out; DVD goes on to sell truckloads; Whedon gets to make film version with the same cast. For those of you who for some bizarre reason have yet to make it to the cinema, let me place your minds at rest; the result is a bloody entertaining scifi flick that plays like a big finale to the series and will leave Firefly fans satisfied and, of course, clambering for more.
In fact that smooth transition to the big screen from the small is probably responsible for the film’s few flaws which, in the interest of impartial reviewing, I feel I should report. Those movie-goers not conversant with the fifteen episode backstory may find some of the characters don’t get as much development as they’d like, but then there’s a lot to squeeze into 119 minutes. The series fans can of course fill in the gaps and sit back and enjoy the further adventures of some of the best characters ever developed for TV, characters that have very quickly become like close friends. Also, Whedon has had to do a lot with a relatively small budget, so some scenes feel smaller than what we’re used to on the big screen, some of the sets feel a bit cramped, and not every effects shot is faultless (though Zoic Studios do sterling work, as ever). The Reavers—space zombies, basically—don’t come across as threatening as they did on television, and perhaps could have been better realised.
Small quibbles though. Basically, if you’re a fan of Whedon’s snappy, witty writing, you’ll love this film. It amazes me that reviews persist in comparing it with the latest Star Wars, which is like comparing a gourmet dining experience with MacDonalds drive-through. If you never ‘got’ Buffy and Angel and still think it’s some kind of 90210-meets-Charmed, you probably won’t like it it. I immediately suggest you get thee to the video store and start from Buffy Season 1, Episode 1. You’ve got a lot of wonderful viewing ahead of you that culminates in this film.
So what’s next Joss? Surprise us, we can’t wait.
Four badly translated Chinese curses out of five.
I’ll no doubt be pilloried for this, but the original 1971 film version of Roald Dahl’s book, starring Gene Wilder, did very little for me as a child. I remember that every time it came on TV I’d start watching it, but end up disappointed by the end—even then it seemed a little cheap, like a poor man’s Wizard of Oz.
Of course the book, and the film, are beloved by millions, most of whom will probably love this ‘re-imagining’ (or whatever you call them these days) by Tim Burton. The reviews have been great. But I hate to say it just felt like a tricked up rework that will rapidly date, and personally I’d like to see Burton turn his talents to something a little more original.
There are some nice bits of course; Charlie’s crooked little family house is charming, and the opening moments with his family are quite emotional. Depp is a weirder Wonka than Wilder (say that three times fast), even if Michael Jackson does keep springing involuntarily to mind. The kids are well cast, especially Freddie Highmore as Charlie Bucket. Deep Roy, endlessly digitally doubled, brings more gravitas than you could think possible to the singing and dancing Oompa-Loompas.
But let’s face it, this is an effects-driven family fun-fest, and is fine as such. I just feel like I’ve seen it all before (the glass elevator scenes, for example, so similar to Slartibartfast’s cherry-picker whizzing about in the recent The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy). I came out feeling unsatisfied and I’d forgotten all about it in ten minutes. I guess you had to have loved the original.
Two Oompa-Loompas out of five.
Spielberg is such an assured director, it’s always frustrating to see him make decisions which ultimately spoil the impact of his films. Thankfully, he made one fundamentally correct decision when adapting H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds—to stick close to the original book. Unfortunately, he made a few bad decisions too, but on the whole the film proves to be one of his most disturbing and powerful works.
A few changes can certainly be forgiven: Spielberg sets his version in contemporary America, where Ray Ferrier (Tom Cruise), a dock worker and failed husband and father, finds himself fleeing with his daughter and son from the implacable alien invaders. I’ve always found Cruise a very average actor (and an annoying human being, but that’s by-the-by), but he does capable work here, and thankfully, apart from one ill-conceived moment, he is given no opportunity for grandstanding. Except perhaps to advertise himself as creative partner with Spielberg, but one suspects that like the rumoured Scientology tent on set, that’s a clause in the standard Cruise contract.
The best acting here is from ten year old Dakota Fanning as Rachel, who is utterly convincing as Ferrier’s daughter. Yes, not surprisingly, Spielberg has injected a family subplot—the father giving all to protect his children and discovering reserves of strength within himself to do so, a story thread that is far too neatly tied up in a bow.
But the real focus here, as it should be, is on the aliens. They are terrifying, huge, (almost) all-powerful and relentless. Humans are ants trying to escape an inevitable extermination. There are genuinely scary moments here, and Spielberg doesn’t sugar-coat the violence, our powerlessness, the loss of life, or what can happen to normal people when survival is at stake. Unfortunately, he does make the mistake of showing the aliens, which drastically reduces their impact. Once we are allowed to humanise the aliens, we are no longer quite so afraid of them, and the point of Wells’ novel, that this was an enemy for which there was no effective human response, is diminished. Certainly if I could have asked one thing of Spielberg it would have been to leave them in their towering machines.
But despite the errors of judgement—the casting of Cruise, showing the aliens, one Cruise hero moment, the neatly tied ‘family’ thread … and a slightly over-long sequence in a basement—the film has a powerful impact, and I came out of the cinema exhausted and drained. This time the changes ultimately do not spoil what is an eternally powerful science-fiction story, and this potent adaptation.
Four tripods out of five.
Waiting in the line for my ticket to Batman Begins, I heard a mother in front of me with four-year old in tow complaining that the film was rated M, and how ridiculous it was that a ‘comic book film’ was rated for Mature audiences. I couldn’t help myself. “It isn’t a film for kids” I said. She and her husband looked at me like I was an idiot.
When the lights came up and all the stupid—and borderline criminally negligent—parents ushered their terrified little children out of the cinema, I took solace in the fact they would be up all night trying to get their poor little kids to sleep. I do feel sorry for the kids though. Not only because they’d be having nightmares, but because they were cursed with such dumb, unimaginative people for parents, who couldn’t comprehend that anything in ‘comics’ could possibly explore adult themes.
Thankfully, Batman Begins turns away from such stupity (we were looking at you, Mr Schumacher) and gives Batman the treatment he deserves. Of all the films so far, this one comes closest to the Batman of the 70s I grew up with—the dark, haunted avenger of the crime- and drug-ridden streets of Gotham. It isn’t perfect by any means, but it’s the closest you’ll get. Of course if your idea of Batman is Adam West doing the batsusi and wrestling rubber sharks, you’re going to be very disappointed.
Director Christopher Nolan brings the shadowy, overcast realism of his previous films Memento and Insomnia to the Batman legend, and it’s just what the doctor ordered. The whole film is far more believable than previous efforts, despite the now de rigeur Gothic look of Gotham, and it is further grounded by a story that concentrates on Bruce Wayne more than his alter ego. Perhaps a bit too much, as the first half of the film is just a little too drawn out. At 141 minutes the film feels a bit long and a bit choppy—about three quarters of the way through I thought I was heading for the climax when in fact there was quite a way to go. However Nolan successfully manages to bring what is really two complex films, an origins story and a villainous plot, to the finish line together—albeit in a very noisy and chaotic way.
Thankfully in between the intense action sequences we get some good acting, and liberal dashes of dark humour too. There are a few histrionic lines, but on the whole an essential humanness remains, even in the face of Batman’s cape-wearing antics. Michael Caine sails beautifully through the role of Alfred, Morgan Freeman brings just the right note of good-humoured world-weariness to Lucius Fox, and even Katie Holmes is refreshing as the honest lawyer (hey, it is a fantasy after all) Rachel Dawes. Cillian Murphy at first seems too young for his role as Dr Jonathon Crane of Arkham Asylum, but he plays the part with such intensity and presence that he gets away with it. Also good to see back on the screen is Rutger Hauer. Liam Neeson, unfortunately, continues what seems to be a run of lazy performances as Ducard. But Batman himself? Despite being cursed with a far too distinctive mouth (“hey, you’re Bruce Wayne, I recognise you by your weird upper lip!”), Christian Bale makes a convincingly troubled Caped Crusader.
Just remember, Batman isn’t for kids. Thank goodness.
Four utility belts out of five.
To paraphrase a friend, what a complete load of Sith. George Lucas fails utterly to pull a rabbit out of his hat for this, the third and last interminable, overblown, badly acted and scripted—and the worst crime of all, boring—episode in the Star Wars merchandising franchise. If this is the future of cinema, God help us. Have a brief look at the fan sites and you’ll discover such hysterical comments as “the best movie I’ve ever seen!” I can only hope that particular kid gets out and sees a few more movies.
I’m waiting for someone to sit through the last three ‘prequels’ and count how many times there is a scene where several of the actors walk through some endless city corridor, or board a spacecraft, while regurgitating the same old dialogue about senates and republics and votes to set up the next video-game-like action sequence. There are so many bad decisions being made here, but let’s start at the place where Lucas should have started, and stayed for a lot longer—the script. Rumour has it Tom Stoppard was drafted in this time around to help with the leaden dialogue; but if so then Tom was having several off days in a row, for there is little improvement. Some scenes, such as when Skywalker goes over to the Dark Side, are frankly laughable; bad writing, wooden acting and even cheesy special effects blending into something that looks like a first year high school film project. Proven professionals—McGregor, Portman, Jackson—are here forced to chew on hackneyed dialogue and work in front of blue screens, and come out looking like friends drafted in as the actors (only Ian McDiarmid manages to inject some much needed ham into his role). I’m not exaggerating that much; the recent fan film Star Wars: Revelations is on par in acting and script quality.
I think one of Lucas’ mistakes is to assume that we like these characters because of their relation to those in the original films. Skywalker, (the young) Kenobi and Padme are cardboard cutouts going through the motions. Unlike the vivid characters of Han Solo, Luke and Leia, with their chemistry, their verbal sparring, their triumphs and tragedies, there is no one here we care about.
But the action, you say, what about the action? Well, there’s plenty of it—plenty of sound and fury, to paraphrase the Bard, signifying nothing. Lucas paints his screen canvas so thickly with frantic detail that the eye isn’t given a moment’s rest. There is no light and shade, no focus or subject, to what is happening on screen. Lucas is like an spoilt kid showing us all his expensive toys; but what happened to the role of a director? A director should expertly control our eye and our emotions. What we here is nothing but a multi-million dollar headache.
I’m giving Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith one star in recognition of all the hard work that so many people lavished on the film, but this last episode is ultimately doomed by its creator’s overweening hubris. Go watch the A New Hope or The Empire Strikes Back again; and dream of what could have been.
One faulty breathing apparatus out of five.
PS Give me the gritty, smartly written, well-acted sci-fi of the new Battlestar Galactica, or Firefly, anyday.
Gladiator Mark II. Ridley Scott on autopilot. Orlando Bloom commercial. Can you tell I was disappointed with Kingdom of Heaven? After a spectacular trailor I held high hopes for this film, but with the possible exception of some impressive battle scenes, Scott’s new by-the-numbers historical Mills & Boon is a disappointing cinema experience. Sure, as we’ve come to expect from Scott, it looks great. But the casting of wooden Bloom as front-and-centre hero is only one of many flaws.
Orlando Bloom (Balian of Ibelin), whom Peter Jackson had the sense to give very little screentime to in Lord of the Rings, seems to sleepwalk almost every scene in Kingdom of Heaven, like a good-looking extra accidently finding himself promoted to leading actor. Around him old hands like Jeremy Irons (Tiberias) and Liam Neeson (Godfrey of Ibelin) casually chew the scenery, but baby-faced Bloom stares impassively at everyone and everything. No doubt there’s a lot of drama playing out behind those big eyes, but virtually none of it is finding its way to his face. Watching him stirring the defenders of Jerusalem with a rousing speech is nothing short of cringeworthy—not that he is helped by such Shakespearian script nuggets as “Come on! Come on!” “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!” this ain’t.
From scene to scene we follow Bloom through virtually the same plotline as Gladiator, tossing aside historical accuracy left and right as he does so, miraculously transforming himself from village blacksmith to engineer, scholar and leader of men in a few months. Of course this isn’t meant to be a documentary, but the history of the Crusades is so full of drama on a personal and epic scale, why did this story have to be dumbed down to such an extent? I suppose we can only be thankful that Scott gives a reasonably accurate depiction of the largely thuggish behaviour of the Christian invaders, and the honourable Saracen leader Saladin (well, at least until he finally got so sick of the Christians continually invading that he was eventually forced to be as brutal as they were).
Kingdom of Heaven is far less than we should expect from a film-maker of Scott’s calibre. Let’s hope he turns off the autopilot next time around and doesn’t churn out Gladiator Mark III.
Two and a half seige towers out of five.
How do you make a comedy funny when everybody knows the jokes? I suppose this was just one of the many challenges faced by the makers of a film version of Douglas Adams’ classic The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. If Adams was still alive, I imagine the solution would be to write a lot of new material in the spirit of the original. There are a few new concepts in this film, but with the possible exception of the creatures that slap you in the face when you have an idea on the Vogon planet, they fall flat.
Adams spent many years trying to make a film version of his hugely popular story, a process he apparently likened to “trying to cook a steak by having a succession of people come into the room and breathe on it”. After seeing this very flat and lifeless film, the steak is still way underdone. The film has a lot of problems: amateurish and uninspired TV-style direction, hammy acting (Sam Rockwell as Zaphod Beeblebrox is especially annoying, and Zooey Deshanel’s Trillian is just—nothing), cheap sets and low production values. The biggest mistake was the desperate attempt to squeeze the original, wandering plotline of the book into a movie-like framework, complete with neat romance arc and ‘watch out for the sequel’ closing dialogue. Instead of plunging head-first into the chaotic madness of the book’s language, the English team try to do an ‘American-style’ film, with predictably tired results—surely past failures like the terrible Mr Bean should have warned them off this approach.
I wanted to like this film, I really did. But Hitchhiker’s is lacking in real inspiration, and ends up only a small cut above the low-budget TV series version. I suggest reading the books again.
One and a half bowls of petunias out of five.
I read the book by Ian McEwan some time ago and was impressed at its multi-layered, subtle portrayal of obsession. Director Roger Michell has travelled a long way from his best known work on Notting Hill and delivers a get-under-your-skin, though slightly pedestrian, telling of McEwan’s tale.
Anyone who has read the book will tell you how shocking the open scene is, and justice is done to it here with choppy editing and a complete lack of music. The latter is a blessing since the music throughout is one of the worst features of this film, going from a bland but good enough three note signature to a terrible ‘English drama on the telly’ theme that cheapens the whole production.
Anyway, Joe (an excellent Daniel Craig) and Claire (Samantha Morton) are lovers enjoying an idyllic picnic when Joe suddenly finds himself part of a terrible incident involving a hot air balloon and the age old question of ‘when to let go’. One of the other men involved in the incident is a lonely obsessive called Jed (Rhys Ifans finally getting to show his range as an actor), who becomes convinced that he and Joe are meant to be together. His habit of referring to Joe as ‘Joe Joe’ was particularly disturbing to my girlfriend as—phonetically—that’s the nickname I have for her.
Enduring Love would have a very hard time delivering the subtleties of the novel, and one has to wonder why Joe never calls the police at any point, but on the whole the film is creepy and engaging enough, with a touch of complexity in its meditations about the nature of love. English films featuring well-off upper middle class intellectuals getting their comeuppance seem to be a bit too common, and Joe’s sketchily developed career as a university lecturer going on and on about ‘what is love?’ doesn’t work, but the film’s gritty realism is mostly effective (Bill Nighy is especially sympathetic as Joe’s friend). Ifans plays Jed with frustrating intensity and absolute conviction. But it’s the two main protagonists, and their existence on two opposite ends of the concept of love that in a strange way almost brings them together, that makes this more than just another stalker story.
Three ripcords out of five.
Keanu Reeves isn’t much an actor. There I said it. I mean, someone has to say it, right? Surely the only way he has become so successful is due to some form of mass hypnosis?
He seems like a nice guy, and he does try in Constantine (“hmmm, I’m a chain-smoker, so I better make my voice extra gravelly this time”), but he just can’t carry it. It’s a shame, because a better actor could have brought far more gravitas to this role, and done better with the flashes of humour in the script that Reeves flattens. Ewan McGregor springs to mind. John Constantine is an interesting character with a lot of potential—a chain-smoking exorcist who ‘deports’ half-breed demons back to Hell. This film version is loosely based on a comic character that first appeared in Swamp Thing who looked like Sting and was of British working-class background (I told you it was loosely based).
First-time film director Francis Lawrence, whose previous experience has been in music videos, does a good job, refraining from hand-feeding us the story and bringing Constantine’s dark city streets to life. But the film is too long, dragging out the final denouement long past the point where we know what is going to happen. As a result I felt forced to sit and watch the last surprise-free, talky fifteen minutes play out, which overshadowed my enjoyment of the rest of the film. It’s a shame because most of the elements are there. The effects are excellent and not overplayed, there are some nice ideas and the world of the film feels consistent. Rachel Weiz does a good job as the woman trying to save her twin sister from eternal torment, but Tilda Swinton in particular shines with androgenous beauty and abrasive wit as the archangel Gabriel.
The film has been repeatedly compared with The Matrix because Keanu walks around in a black coat, but the real reason is that John Constantine seems like Thomas Anderson all over again—only with a more gravelly voice.
Three bugs out of five.
Looking back at my review of Hero, the last film by Zang Yimou, I see I gave it a rating of four … well, I may have to posthumously up that to four and a half, because House of Flying Daggers, while not quite as stunning as that film, is still certainly worthy of a four rating.
House of Flying Daggers is set in 859 AD, during the declining an corrupt Tang Dynasty. Local deputies Leo (Andy Lau) and Jin (Takeshi Kaneshiro) are ordered to capture the new leader of a mysterious group called the House of Flying Daggers who are stealing from the rich to give to the poor. Jin follows a lead to the local brothel and there encounters Mei (the beautiful and talented Ziyi Zhang), a blind dancer who is not all she at first seems. Ziyi Zhang spent two months living with a blind girl and observing her mannerisms, and the research pays off in her performance.
There a quite a few twists and turns in the ensuing story, and sometimes the melodrama typical of this genre threatens to overwhelm it, but if you enjoyed Hero all the same delights are here to be swept up into: the stunning balletic action sequences, the beautiful cinematography, the spectacular colour and movement. Because of their similarities it is difficult not to compare House of Flying Daggers with its predecessor, and it is perhaps not as perfectly stylised and the plot not as engaging as Hero despite the love story centre stage. Some of the tragic ‘will I or won’t I’ moments could have done with editing. I left the theatre a little unsatisfied as was hoping for everything to go up a notch from Zang Yimou’s last film, but perhaps that’s asking too much. House of Flying Daggers is still an incredible achievement from a master of the Wuxia (martial arts) genre.
Four giggling courtesans out of five.
With the spate of ‘re-imagining’ going on these days, it’s the luck of the draw whether your childhood memories are going to be skewered through the heart or not. They blew it with Lost in Space (though I hear there’s a new pilot, directed by John Woo and written by Doug Petrie of Buffy), but, while Battlestar Galactica never held as great a place in my sub-teen heart, this time they’re right on the money. The new four-hour pilot held me spellbound from start to finish.
Despite the public complaints of a few oldies like Richard Hatch (Captain Apollo from the original series—since mollified by a role in the new series), Battlestar Galactica goes back to the start of the ‘saga’ and turns a pretty wimpy premise into a hard-hitting, gritty, modern sci-fi drama. The characters are real, the script doesn’t hold your hand and treat you like an idiot, and there’s an excellent balance of human drama and gung-ho action. Executive Producer Ron Moore gives a few respectful nods to the original series and then takes it to a new level of sophistication.
Commander Adama is played with stoic, battered intensity by Edward James Olmos (of origami-folding Blade Runner detective fame). In one scene we see him fighting hand-to-hand, but no fancy martial arts moves here; the scene is shockingly effective in it’s violent realism as he desperately struggles to win. Far from squeaky clean ‘models in space’, the characters are fallible (an alcoholic second-in-command) and interesting (the newly appointed president dealing with responsibility and newly-diagnosed cancer), and scenes don’t always play out the way you expect. Changing Starbuck to a woman was a masterstroke, as was upping the level of intensity to make her abrasive and confrontational rather than just cheeky.
The effects by Zoic Studios are stunning. They pioneered this kind of ‘hand-held in space’ camera work on the sadly short-lived Firefly, and there’s no doubt they are doing the best and most original effects work out there right now. Unlike Firefly, there is sound in space this time, but cleverly the sound is ‘compressed’ for the space scenes, an effect like listening to loud noises through earplugs, which gives us an eerie, spacious counterpoise to the action.
I’m looking forward to the start of the mini-series in a week’s time—here’s hoping they can keep the quality at this high level.
Four rag-tag heroes out of five.
I read an article in the paper recently that there was no history of exploring male friendship in cinema, citing the storm and bluster of films such as Top Gun as examples of the kind of competitiveness that infuses male relationships on the screen. Maybe, but for an example of real male friendship, look no further than Sideways.
The latest film from the director of Election and About Schmidt, Alexander Payne, is about Milo (Paul Giamatti) and Jack (Thomas Hayden Church), on a week’s holiday in Californian wine country to celebrate Jack’s impending marriage. Milo, wine connoisseur currently on depression medication, is still grappling with his divorce of two years ago, and Jack, slightly has-been TV and commercial voice-over actor, is determined to get laid (as many times as possible) before he gets married. In between drinking a lot of wine, they meet Stephanie (Sandra Oh) and Maya (Virginia Madsen).
Beyond the clichés (men only talk about sports, men don’t express their feelings for each other etc) men have friendships every bit as emotionally complex as women. It’s just we don’t often see them explored on the screen in as real a way, and with such subtlety, as this. Milo and Jack are flawed, but very real people, and there are times during the film when we don’t really like them. Milo is depressed, drinks too much, and can’t move on emotionally from his wife; and Jack is like a middle-aged man with all the enthusiasm and emotional immaturity of a kid.
There are many moments here I recognised from my own life and friendships. Payne is making great films because these people and characters are so recognisable, and like life, the situations they get into and the choices they make aren’t neat and packaged and end happily every after. We recognise life as the struggle it often is, but then are reminded of our opportunities to see and appreciate the simple beauty in the everyday. With wine, you can swig it down or you can linger over every mouthful and examine every nuance—the trick is not to drink the same way all the time.
The acting in Sideways is effortless and the chemistry between these players a delight, especially between Giametti and Madsen, whose moment together out on Stephanie’s porch was so real it made me hold my breath. Like a fine wine, there are many layers of complexity to enjoy.
Four and a half pinot noirs out of five. And remember—don’t drink and dial, kids.
I saw The Incredibles over a week ago now, so I’m unforgivably late for my review!
Look, this one’s easy. It’s a Pixar film. They can do no wrong. And let me tell you why, it’s not a magic formula. They don’t do things the way the rest of Hollywood does. They work long and hard on an film until it’s perfect. They come up with one strong, original concept and build a story around it; a story they develop to perfection before everything else. They give that story layers of meaning so you can enjoy it whatever age you are. The animation is inspired and informed by the great animators of the past. They give each film time (four years in this case) so the team can work, polish, perfect and work some more until it’s the best it can be.
All processes that on the surface seem obvious, but are ignored everyday by disorganised, uninspired people in seach of the fast buck. An attitude by no means exclusive to the film industry …
Contrast this with the boring, uninspired cash-in that Shrek 2 was (I’m not even going to bother reviewing it here) and you can see what I mean.
Put the ingredients together with a dash (excuse the pun) of pure genius and you have The Incredibles. It’s fast-paced, touching, funny, exciting, stylish, clever and beautifully made. Everything you’ve come to expect from a Pixar film.
Four and a half flabby bellies out of five.
If you laugh just thinking about the funny puppet walk the Tracy family used to do on Thunderbirds, you’re in for a gut-bustingly hilarious treat. If you’re offended by obscene language and the complete destruction of the ridiculously pompous concept known as the ‘American Dream’ and think Top Gun was good cinema, go elsewhere (not that you’d be reading this blog anyway). As for me, as soon as those wobbly puppets came on the screen in the opening sequence of Team America: World Police, I started laughing my head off, and hardly got a breath in for the rest of the film.
All the things we’ve come to expect from the South Park team of Trey Parker and Matt Stone are here—the obscene language, the scattergun lampooning of anyone remotely famous, but you might be surprised at how much acting you can get out of a puppet, and how clearly this brings into focus the crap masquerading as entertainment we are served by Hollywood. In fact there’s even a few unexpected moments of pathos—who would have thought one could feel sorry for a bunch of drowned puppets (until the stiff drowned chickens float into view that is); and Kim Jong Il singing ‘I’m So Ronery’ almost brings a tear to the eye while you piss yourself laughing.
The songs and music are perfect and perfectly satirise showtunes, pop songs and even the over-the-top John Williamesque orchestration that comes standard with every blockbuster these days. I was chuckling to myself all the next day—much to my girlfriend’s frustration as she hadn’t seen it with me—as hilarious scenes kept popping back into my head. I won’t spoil the jokes; wobble as fast as you can to the nearest cinema and catch Team America. Required viewing.
Four and a half Susan Sarandons out of five.
So Zach told me to tell all my friends to go see his film Garden State. Sure Zach, it’s cool.
OK, so there was a cinema full of people, but it was the first screening in Australia and Zach Braff, 29-year-old writer, director and star of his movie, was there to answer questions after the film. Effortlessly confident and funny, like a better-looking Joss Whedon, he had the audience in the palm of his hand. Of course, it helped that we’d all just enjoyed his little gem of a film. (What’s it like to field questions from an audience on a press junket when your film is crap, I wonder?)
Garden State doesn’t set out to change the world, but it’s a beautiful film, simple, funny, well filmed and sensitively acted. Natalie Portman does one of her best acting turns as Sam, the girl who pops up like a bobbing cork in the life of Andrew Largeman, heavily-medicated actor returning to his home town in New Jersey for the funeral of his mother. Add some interesting characters, a brief bit of father-son reconciliation, a touch of tragedy, a great pop soundtrack, and sit back and enjoy the gentle journey. Braff loves a wide, still frame (often of his own face) but contrasts beautifully with sweeping emotive crane shots. Like Largeman’s medicated upbringing, there are very few rough edges here and things don’t always feel true to the real messiness that is life. But the film is no less enjoyable for that. We all want someone to appear in our lives and make it alright, and few of us are lucky enough to have that happen. Why not see it happen on the screen sometimes?
Four tears in a cup out of five.
Unlike Tarantino and so many of his generation I never spent days in Chinatown film theatres soaking up triple martial arts bills, so I can’t namedrop directors, scenes or moves from Chinese or Hong Kong classics. In fact I hate to say it but the wire-work still looks a little silly to me. Ignorance aside however, surely the greatest expression of the genre has come with Zhang Yimou’s Hero, so much so that it doesn’t seem necessary to go back through Jet Li’s catalogue.
Here he stars as ‘Nameless’, a mysterious martial arts genius who appears at the court of Qin claiming to have rid the King (Chen Daomin) of three peerless assassins, Sky (Donnie Yen), Broken Sword (Tony Leung Chiu Wai) and Snow (Maggie Cheung Man Yuk). The setting is China of the 3rd century BC, when the land is ravaged by the wars between seven kingdoms.
If nothing else, go and see the film for meticulously crafted visuals. Almost every shot is perfection, perfectly composed and vibrant with colour. Perhaps there are some plot and style issues which would benefit from a greater understanding of Chinese cultural norms; the final moral behind the story was one I found difficult to come to terms with, some have said the film is a ringing endorsement of the current oppressive Chinese regime, and a Chinese audience might have connected better with some of the more melodramatic moments. But this is an epic story, so melodrama can be forgiven.
But putting all that aside, the film is stunning, and some scenes left me open-mouthed with wonder and amazed at the technical and artistic achievements of the filmakers. I have never seen colour used with such boldness and beauty. The one advantage of it coming so late to Australian screens is that we won’t have to wait long for the director’s next, supposedly even more impressive film, ‘House of Flying Daggers.’
Four autumn leaves out of five.
It’s been many years since I enjoyed this 1959 classic from childhood Sunday afternoon television, so I was very excited to discover it again this weekend on DVD. This sci-fi gem is still as magical as I remember it, though it may make you a little nostalgic for that blissfully vivid imagination you had as a child that was free of cynicism and could easily fill in all the gaps.
A lot of the wonder of the film comes through the fully-committed performance of James Mason as Professor Oliver Lindenbrook, whose enthusiasm for treking towards the centre of the earth is catching. The film takes its time building up the excitement—we’re even treated to a bit of vocal serenading by then-hardthrob Pat Boone—so when finally the party gathers on the slopes of an extinct volcano and the dawn light shines onto the spot where they are to enter the Earth, you really want to don your hiking boots and join this bunch of loonies on their adventure.
Unlike the special-effects-heavy sci-fi of today, the film gives us memorable characters and relationships; you can’t help but enjoy the verbal sparring between Lindenbrook and the strong-willed Mrs. Carla Goetaborg (Arlene Dahl); or hate the slimy Count Saknussem (Thayer David) who you just know is going to meet a richly-deserved end; even Gertrude the Duck gets our sympathy (thanks to probably the best performance by a duck you’re ever likely to see).
The effects run the gamut from tacky (real lizards in slow motion with fins stuck on their backs are the giant dinosaurs) and the astounding (some beautiful classic-era matte painting, especially the views of the Underground Sea), and perhaps a little more real location work (some scenes were filmed in Carlsbad Caverns) rather than cardboard sets would have been better; but Journey still maintains it’s fascination throughout. A classic I’m very happy to have in my DVD collection.
Four and a half giant mushrooms out of five.
Having been chewed up and spat out by London twice in my life, there’s nothing I like more than having a good laugh at the London slacker stereotype who spends his days down the pub. And before everyone starts groaning and feasting on flesh, the scenes where Shaun (Simon Pegg) goes about his normal routine are some of the best in this very funny ‘romantic comedy, with zombies’.
In fact, apart from the flesh-eating, the film makes plain there’s very little difference between your average Londoner going to work and a flesh-eating zombie. Shaun spends his days in a crap job, on the couch playing video games or down the pub with his disgusting mate Ed (Nick Frost), and it’s only a plague of animated dead people that gets him up off the couch to save his Mum and his recently-ex girlfriend. They’re joined by the excellent Dylan Moran Of TV’s ‘Black Books’ playing an annoying yuppie and Lucy Davis of ‘The Office’ as his ‘failed actress’ girlfriend.
I’ve seen many a horror film in my time (especially in my early twenties when I was seeing a very innocent-looking blonde who in fact had a strange obsession with gory horror videos that I never questioned at the time), but there was one scene in particular where my stomach turned over, and if I was a kid I’m sure would haunt me for years. It seems strange how this film gets an MA rating, but a bit of sex tips a film into R territory—but that’s a whole other subject.
It’s good to see some well-made English comedy making it to the big screen and while the film is a bit of a one-joke affair, it’s so well made that as much as possible is squeezed out of that joke. Thanks to a tight script, imaginative direction and good acting, Shaun of the Dead even manages to wring out a little social comment, pathos and real horror as well.
Three and a half darts out of five.
I missed Tim Burton’s latest at the cinema but saw it the other night on DVD, and I can’t help but give it a good review since the tears were flowing at the end—and any film that gets the emotions churning that much must be doing something right. Sure, it has many flaws. It’s not as magical and other-worldly as Burton’s usual work (excepting the forgettable Planet of the Apes of course); Billy Crudup is a bit of a charismatic black hole, and to me Ewan McGregor is one of those actors who doesn’t become the character, but always just seems to be playing slight variations on himself.
But that said, I enjoyed the film and the comfortably sentimental journey it takes you on. I’m a sucker for the classic father-son redemption storyline, and the big themes of life and death, love and remembrance, and they are touched on lovingly. It’s a film full of storybook imagery and warmth and a welcome return to form.
Three and a half jumping spiders out of five.
I’m beginning to think I need two film review scales: one for ‘summer blockbusters’ and another for ‘real films’. Can one really compare a special effects blockbuster to an emotional character piece, for example? Not really; so keep in mind my ratings are a function of the genre. In any event I’m scaling them down a tad so I have more room to move for those films that are really memorable.
As the credits rolled on I, Robot I felt as if I’d been quite entertained; until the vaguely apologetic sentence ‘inspired by Asimov’s book’ came up on the screen and I suddenly recalled how many blockbuster movie cliches had wended their weary way across my eyes.
Of course, abandon all hope of being true to Asimov all ye who enter: we all knew that from the first trailer.
I, Robot isn’t a bad film, though one wonders how much Alex Proyas was forced to include or leave out by the beancounting suits at Fox. No director puts four or more screen-filling shots of the Audi logo in his or her film by choice, surely, and the references to Smith’s ‘retro 2004 shoes’ must have muscled out some nice screentime filled with, oh say useless things like character development. It’s just frustrating how many boxes have to be checked these days for the studio to guarantee their millions of dollars on a film. Check, the car chase; check, the troubled cop with a past; check, the sweet old grandmother (with pie); check, the sexy but frigid scientist who at the end of the film sports tousled hair and leather pants.
The film looks great, the action is slick, there are some nice camera moves, and Will Smith does his Will Smith thing perfectly. Alan Tudyk does a nice job as the robot (check out his great work as Wash in the fantastic Firefly). The plot is even a little more complex than at first glance. You’ll feel entertained. And then the credits roll, and that ‘inspired by Asimov’s book’ line comes up, and you think “There’s so much fantastic sci-fi literature out there, years and years of it, great stories; why can’t they just stick to the story?”
Two and a half NS-5s out of five.
Spiderman was one of my favourite superheros as a child, and not just because we both had the same first name (though that counted for a lot). Peter Parker was a real person struggling to deal with a normal life and a super-one, long before Frank Miller’s Batman: The Dark Knight Returns made super heroes synonymous with psychology.
So it’s a pleasure to see Sam Raimi giving us films as rich as the source material, along with a playful sense of humour, the visual flair that first blew us away in Evil Dead, and a bunch of actors proving you don’t have to ham it up just because you spend a lot of the movie running around in primary colors or with four mechanical tentacles attached to your back. In fact, though the action scenes are incredible, it’s the subtlety of Tobey Maguire’s performance that defines the movie.
With Spiderman 2 Raimi, freed from the need to tell his back story, throws himself with obvious pleasure into making a classic Spidey tale. The film is a joy to watch from start to finish, and it feels like they had as almost as much fun making it; take for example some classic horror B-movie homage shots, the hilarious elevator scene, and the delight taken hammering in the pathetic state of Peter Parker’s life. Amazingly, the laugh-out-loud scenes are perfectly balanced by beautifully acted and emotional ones, some of which revel in the rich symbolism possible in this genre.
Watching a superhero blockbuster done so well throws into sharp relief how badly done they usually are. Spiderman 2 is a rollercoaster ride with action, emotion, laughs and, surprisingly, depth.
4 and a half web-slingers out of 5.
You’ve probably heard by now that the new Harry Potter film is the best of the three so far, and you’ve heard right. Alfonso Cuarón was an unusual choice for a director but an inspired one—he brings to the films almost everything Chris Columbus didn’t. For me however (and I can see Potter fans drawing their wands and readying a painful spell as I prepare to write this), it still lacks that certain something that would turn it into classic fantasy.
The first pleasant surprise is how much better Azkaban looks than its predecessors. Chris Columbus has that annoyingly safe way of making his films look like the sets are lit with thousand blub lights so we don’t miss the work of his clever art directors and set designers. Cuarón instead swallows his world in shadow and desaturated colour that perfectly suits the menace of the wraithlike Dementors. It’s most obvious in the Quidditch game, a setpiece that formerly has looked like one of those virtual reality rides at Vegas, and this time is played in the middle of a thunderstorm and makes you feel just how precarious it would be to fly around at 10,000 feet clutching a broomstick. In fact the flying scenes are all excellent—when Harry rides a hippogriff above Hogwarts you share in his fear and exhilaration.
I suppose the films are successfully reflecting the deeper and darker themes of the books as the series continues. But although I did really enjoy this film, I caught myself wishing I was more emotionally involved even as I was watching. Perhaps I’m asking too much of a ‘summer blockbuster’, perhaps it’s due to the forgettable score by John Williams, perhaps the scene when Gandalf and the Rohan charged down the hill to Helm’s Deep has spoilt me forever, but Harry Potter just missed the mark. Here’s hoping the next film delves even deeper into the dark shadows of Harry’s world.
3 and a half marauder’s maps out of 5.
You know, I don’t get it. What drives people to risk their lives hanging off cliffs by nothing but an ice axe buried in powdery snow, while three thousand feet of empty space yawns under them? After watching Touching the Void from director Kevin MacDonald, I was no closer to an answer, but I was a lot closer to complete bodily exhaustion, and I hadn’t even left my seat for the late dash for a choc-top. This visceral, uncompromising docudrama puts you through the true-life struggles of two English climbers who tackled the west face of Siula Grande in the Peruvian Andes in 1985. The dramatic visuals—so well done it took me a little while to realise it wasn’t actual footage of the expedition—are strongly counterpointed by a matter-of-fact narration by the actual climbers.
I have a strange fascination with disaster stories—”I’m just going outside and I may be some time” is one of my favourite quotes—and this one doesn’t disappoint. You’ll marvel at the arrogance of two men barely in their twenties setting off up an unclimbed mountain face alpine-style (no back up and only one rope between them) with no one at base camp except a backpacker who didn’t even know their last names. But no one can deny or fail to wonder at the incredible endurance, courage and sheer bloody-mindedness that some human beings are capable of. Without doubt you’ll leave the cinema with that same old question uppermost in your minds: “what would I have done?”
4 back up plans out of 5.
Don’t expect any surprises and you’ll probably enjoy this film. The Day After Tomorrow delivers all the expected ingredients of its genre – the father searching for his son (and redemption as a father), the young love story, the child with leukemia, the divorced parents rediscovering their love, the faithful friends who stick with the star through thick and thin – you’ve seen em, you know ‘em. Add some pretty mind-boggling special effects and a dash of science, serve (very) cold and enjoy with popcorn. The only spice in the stew (OK, OK, enough with the recipe metaphor) is a surprisingly humble epilogue instead of the usual gung-ho American patriotic fervour. This, and the scene of Americans fleeing south of the border into Mexico, could possibly herald a reduction in the amount of flag-waving in American blockbusters. Until the next Arnie film anyway.
3 tidal waves out of 5.
I walked out of the cinema somewhat ambivalent toward this Hollywood ancient history epic—my girlfriend thought it was laughable, but I must admit I was expecting worse and there were some sequences, such as the one-on-one battle between Achilles (Brad Pitt) and Hector (Eric Bana), that I really enjoyed.
For once the computer effects don’t completely overwhelm the story, but Brad Pitt might be computer-generated for all the depth he brings to the role of Achilles. There’s never anything going on behind that confused expression and perpetually troubled pout, and his weakness is not helped by a director who can’t resist zooming in on his star at every opportunity. A great shame, as complexity could have been brought to the conflicted Achilles by a better actor. Seeing an old man like Peter O’Toole (King Priam) blow all the newbies away in every scene in which he appears makes you despair for the future of the film industry. Is this all we have to take up the mantle when the oldies have gone— Brad Pitt and Eric Bana? Ye gods!
The city of Troy is spectacularly realised—how many thousands of beautiful ancient cities have burnt to the ground or crumbled to ruins over the ages, I wonder— and the battle scenes visceral and real enough to make you go “oof” in your seat. And I thought they condensed a complex story to film length quite well. But a mix of lame script and beefcake acting drags the film down from the Olympian heights to which aspires.
2 and a half breastplates out of 5.
A wonderful, warm fable of a movie that was the perfect antidote to the sugar-coated derivative bloat of Van Helsing. From the moment Mark Isham’s score kicked in I knew I was in for a quality, old-fashioned movie. And what a change to have realistic, human sex scenes—with real bodies not models—in a movie.
4 and a half chips out of 5.
