Friday, 25 March 2011
for the weekend of March 18-20, 2011:
1 (2) Rango (PG)
2 (1) Battle Los Angeles (12A) **
3 (3) Unknown (12A) **
4 (new) Chalet Girl (12A) ***
5 (new) The Lincoln Lawyer (15)
6 (5) Hall Pass (15) **
7 (new) Anuvahood (15)
8 (4) The Adjustment Bureau (12A) ***
9 (6) The King's Speech (12A) ****
10 (8) Gnomeo and Juliet (U) **
(source: UK Film Council)
My top five:
1. Les Diaboliques
2. Cave of Forgotten Dreams
4. Benda Bilili!
Top Ten DVD rentals:
1 (1) The Social Network (12) ****
2 (2) The Town (15) ****
3 (3) RED (12) **
4 (new) Let Me In (15) **
5 (4) Inception (15) ***
6 (new) Jackass 3 (18) **
7 (8) Eat Pray Love (12) **
8 (7) Knight and Day (12) **
9 (9) Grown Ups (12) *
10 (10) Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps (12) **
My top five:
1. Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives
2. The Arbor
3. Dream Home
4. Made in Dagenham
Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Rope (Monday, C4, 12.30pm) [above]
2. Anatomy of a Murder (Saturday, BBC2, 1pm)
3. Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (Sunday, BBC2, 5.15pm)
4. While You Were Sleeping (Saturday, five, 12noon)
5. Halloween: H20 (Friday, BBC1, 11.50pm)
The Eagle (12A) 114 mins **
Roll up, roll up. Cave of Forgotten Dreams, Werner Herzog’s latest documentary-exploration, qualifies as both a journey to the centre of the earth and a voyage back to the dawn of mankind – in digital 3D, no less. Its subject, the Chauvet Cave in Southern France, was discovered in 1994, having been sealed for aeons by a rockfall that preserved the treasures lying within: evidence of several long-extinct species, and Man’s earliest recorded cave paintings. An understandably snooty gallery, the Cave operates certain restrictions. You or I probably wouldn’t get in; those that do are confined to an hour’s tour along a steel walkway, so as not to disturb the immediate environment. There doesn’t appear to be a gift shop.
The paintings are a remarkable spectacle in themselves, notable not just for being the first of their kind, but for their relative sophistication. Much of the fascination stems from the relation they bear to their surrounds, with their trompe l’oeil effects suggesting movement: that of individual frames of celluloid, or – with equines especially prominent – Muybridge’s experiments in recording motion. “Proto-cinema,” Herzog describes it, and the paintings display an evident fluidity of form. The female body is spliced with that of the wide-hipped bison, a link to such Stone Age carvings as the Venus of Hohle Fels – herself an obvious inspiration for the dancing chickens in Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer” video.
As ever, Werner strays as much as he wanders. The second half ventures in search of varyingly engaging eccentrics (mock Inuits, albino crocodiles, a master perfumer perpetually sniffing at holes), while ear-splitting choral music occasionally inhibits the images from speaking for themselves. Yet what Cave loses in focus, it gains in dimensionality. Herzog’s cinema – the upriver sequences in Aguirre, Wrath of God, Fitzcarraldo’s boat-vs.-mountain business – has long strived for a strong, atmospheric you-are-here sensation. 3D allows him to better define the contours and cascades of the rockface under scrutiny – to allow us a heightened feel for the canvas involved.
For this director, 3D specs aren’t blinkers fostering an escape from the world, but goggles, eyepieces – vital kit with which to peer in the direction of our dim and distant ancestors, and contemplate the mysteries that loom out at us. Within the cave, an eight-year-old’s footprints are found next to those of a wolf. Was the latter a tribal pet, or tailing the child as prey? In framing such questions, Herzog invites us to visualise what our planet was like 28,000 years ago, to hang flesh and detail on the bare bones and markings of the Chauvet floor and walls. The result may be the most overtly philosophical application of 3D yet – which is to say, you just don’t get this with Gnomeo and Juliet.
Kevin Macdonald’s The Eagle adapts Rosemary Sutcliff’s revered novel The Eagle of the Ninth with the same dour whiff of Sealed Knottiness that sank Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood. It’s fine if you need to know what Romans ate for supper or the approximate consistency of mud in second-century Scotland, but as an action piece, it doesn’t move so much as retreat to a dusty library corner with a scholar in Celtic tongues.
As Marcus Aquila, the young centurion trying to restore the honour taken from his family when his pa disappeared – along with the titular standard – behind Hadrian’s Wall, Channing Tatum boasts impressively Roman physiognomy countered by Victor Mature-like thespian limitations. Poor Jamie Bell, as sidekick Esca, has only to huddle morosely around a series of campfires before a limp homoerotic squabble over his co-star’s sword that constitutes the film’s one shot at the camp of TV’s Spartacus.
Indeed, The Eagle is all men, no women, and one longs for a lissom dancing girl or conniving empress to break up the visual monotony of earnestly furrowed brows and overly scissored battle scenes. One advantage even the dreariest old Roman epic had over Macdonald’s film is that nobody gets to die properly in the movies any more: instead of the lingering throes of a Caesar, the warriors so drably memorialised here have their limbs severed and throats slit with indiscriminate stabs at edit-suite buttons.Cave of Forgotten Dreams opens in selected cinemas from today; The Eagle opens nationwide.
Faster (15) 98 mins **
A peculiar vehicle for ex-wrestler Dwayne Johnson – reduced to taking what look suspiciously like Jason Statham’s leftovers – this revenge thriller sports a few workable, albeit second-hand, ideas that might have sustained a taut, grungy B-movie, but end up rattling around inside a medium-budget studio production aimed at the Saturday night crowd. The opening, at least, has punch: Johnson’s jailbird Driver emerging from prison gates like a rodeo steer and jogging full-pelt into the nearest town to blow a gaping hole in a telemarketeer’s forehead. Thereafter, it’s the theoretically fun, actually rather yawnsome business of The Rock charging into stripclub toilets and operating theatres to do away with the men who offed his brother. On his tail: Billy Bob Thornton’s drug-addled detective.
Much of it has been half-inched from superior, decade-old cult films: Oliver Jackson-Cohen’s assassin-with-issues cribs directly from Grosse Pointe Blank, the knowing use of Kenny Rogers’ “Just Dropped In” from The Big Lebowski. Its own ideas are laughable – a supporting character named Hovis Nixon, anyone? – and plain disorganised: over-qualified performers drift in for a scene or two, while preening Hollyoaks graduate Jackson-Cohen, the Londis Jake Gyllenhaal, eats up vast swathes of screen time. The finale’s just preachy, as Driver arrives at a revivalist’s tent down by the river, and everybody lays their demons to rest. With fewer zeroes on the budget, it might have served as a worthwhile straight-to-DVD discovery. As it is, it’s empty and oddly pretentious: not Crank, just cranky.
Faster opens nationwide today.
Thursday, 24 March 2011
What distinguished Crazy Heart - aside from Bridges' performance, which was presumably all the studio chiefs noticed going from awards bash to awards bash - was its acute sense of place, and of the sidelines in particular: the nondescript lay-bys and motel parking lots inhabited by a guy who's been on the road too long to no great end. Country Strong, by contrast, unfolds around a series of anonymous, well-lit Nashville venues, where there's always a screaming-swaying crowd on hand in attendance, and it instantly becomes much less interesting for making its lead a glossy-glamorous success story whose only real problem is that she has too much of everything: a hunky manager-husband (actual country star Tim McGraw, his glowering presence slightly undermined by the suspicion he's here - as he was in The Blind Side - to draw in a particular crowd), a hunky beau so hunky he's actually called Beau, enough money to have easy access to pharmaceuticals whenever life gets tough.
Paltrow's best moments come while playing the star: charming autograph hunters, giving one of those ad hoc speeches performers often make onstage when trying to reconnect with their audience in the wake of a PR disaster, communing with a sick kid as part of a Make-a-Wish engagement. The final half-hour, a record of Kelly's live act that features no less than sixteen potential climaxes, is shameless star-pandering, its eyes, claws and teeth set insistently on securing Best Actress nominations. Everybody does their own singing, which would feel more of a plus point if the songs were any more enduring than an own-brand whisky buzz. (As it is, one of the most prominent numbers, the Meester-Hedlund composition "Give In To Me", sounds very much like a plea entered by the filmmakers on behalf of their flimsy material.)
Or, indeed, if there seemed to be any credible progression going on within or around them. Beau goes from rehab nurse to pocket-sized Keith Urban within the space of two tracks. After drying up before a small bar crowd, Meester's Chiles is next observed filling a triumphant support slot in front of a good 10,000. (The flouncy, oh-my-Lawding Meester appears to be going for a young Vivien Leigh, when she might be better off settling for being the next Rachel Bilson; her stage presence, certainly, is less Dolly or Tammy than it is Miley Cyrus, with a touch of the Fearne Cottons.) When Kelly and Beau mark a day off touring by hoboing their way onto a speeding cargo train, there's no sense of how they'd have escaped their management (who'd presumably have insurance issues), how they got on there, or indeed how they'd get back from wherever the train is heading. Such tactics make for a pretty - and, to a strange extent, even pretty watchable - picture, but at two hours, there's a lot of it, and much of that far too slick and smooth to be true. There are records by the Swedish band Rednex that are more authentically country. My mum's line dancing class is more authentically country.
Country Strong opens nationwide tomorrow.
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Utterly reprehensible behaviour, in other words, perhaps mitigated against by the intermittent flashbacks that reveal the killer as a previously meek, put-upon girl working two jobs just to get by. She's never quite forgiven the Government for colluding with Triad gangsters to evict her childhood sweetheart so they could knock his building down and throw up a more expensive one in its place; her current line of attack is - as signalled by an opening title card pointing out how house prices have soared 27% in recent time, while average wages have merely crept up 1% - a reaction to being priced out of the market.
The film's roots lie firmly in exploitation cinema. Someone has his eyeball put out only for another character to stomp on it; a topless, semi-conscious woman has her head put through a lavatory bowl; there's an unspeakable climax to one sex scene. It is, at least, exploitation with a point, its gleeful, generally unchecked malice (that commonly displayed by Takashi Miike before he disappeared off the radar) tempered by a degree of compassion for those of us obliged to listen to reports of mega-companies posting record annual profits while we struggle to maintain a roof above our heads.
We should mention in passing the unexpectedly classy contribution of cinematographer Yu Lik Wai, regular collaborator with Jia Zhang-ke; if he might seem an unlikely choice for this sort of thing, his study of the former colony's remorselessly expanding horizons exerts a certain compulsion in itself. He's wasted whenever the film turns into an episode of Dislocation, Dislocation, Dislocation, and we don't entirely buy Ho's within-the-hour transformation from wallflower to ruthless avenger, although her slightly clumsy MO allows Ho-Cheung to ratch up a variety of novel ways to puncture his characters' flesh. Messy in most senses, it's nevertheless never backward in setting out its thesis: that for many of us these days, the only way to secure a place of your own is to, one way or another, make a killing.
Dream Home is available on DVD from Monday.
This skilfully assembled primer in British labour relations history – somewhat undervalued on its theatrical run – unfolds over the landmark summer of 1968. Having seen another request for a pay upgrade rejected, the female employees at Ford’s Dagenham plant – happy housewife Sally Hawkins, stressed Geraldine James, flirty novices Jaime Winstone and Andrea Riseborough – elect to walk out on strike. Coached by sympathetic shop steward Bob Hoskins, Hawkins’ Rita takes up the hammer as a crusader for equal rights. The men don’t know what’s hit ‘em.
From the outside, Made in Dagenham may resemble every other cheery Britflick that’s come along in the wake of its director Nigel Cole’s runaway 2003 hit Calendar Girls, yet the force and relevance of its true-life story emerge from this telling wholly undiminished. The film retains an underlying seriousness of purpose comparable to something like The Full Monty: you have to have a sneaking admiration for any populist work that smuggles a pointed discussion of Marxist ethics between its lively ensemble playing and reassuringly familiar period soundtrack.
Where the film might simply have lapsed into formula, screenwriter William Ivory (TV’s Common as Muck) comes up with a run of dramatically rich, rewardingly acted scenes, as Hawkins’ flinty likability is pitched against Rosamund Pike’s overlooked trophy wife, the wounded pride of her blue-collar husband (the ever-excellent Daniel Mays), and finally an entire trade union conference. The supporting cast is nothing less than A-grade, with Miranda Richardson and John Sessions playing out a funny Westminster double-act as Barbara Castle and Harold Wilson.
Asked whether our heroine’s a member of the Socialist Workers’ or Workers’ Revolutionary Party, Richard Schiff’s urbane Ford negotiator Tooley shrugs “We don’t think she’s with anyone… she just has a beef.” If the struggle has here been depoliticised slightly – the tag Rita and Barbara bond over isn’t “Socialist” or “Marxist” but C&A – it plays out no less accessibly and enjoyably for that: you could, at the very least, watch Made in Dagenham back-to-back with Tout va Bien for an instructive lesson in the genetic differences between British and French cinema.Made in Dagenham is available on DVD from Monday.