Wednesday, 2 April 2025

On demand: "Hôtel Terminus: The Life and Times of Klaus Barbie"


By the mid-1980s, the bigger picture of World War II had been almost comprehensively filled in, on a macro level by such documentary overviews as ITV's
The World at War, and on a micro level by Claude Lanzmann's Shoah, with its forensic, step-by-step examination of the nuts and bolts of the Nazi killing machine. Yet there were still loose ends around to be picked and connected up. The Oskar Schindler story, as retold first by Thomas Keneally and then Steven Spielberg; the uprising at one of the death camps, first by the US TV movie Escape from Sobibor, later by Lanzmann again; and, in the case of 1988's Hôtel Terminus, the fate of one of the most brutal Nazi war criminals, as examined by Marcel Ophuls in his extraordinary, Oscar-winning follow-up to 1969's The Sorrow and the Pity, that earlier documentary landmark on the twin impulses (collaboration and resistance) that governed wartime France. The tone of the new film - named for the Lyon hostelry the Gestapo occupied during WW2, and the first stop of Ophuls' four-and-a-half-hour tour of Barbie's various homes and shelters - is set by an early aside in which a former neighbour of the Barbie family makes a stark four-word comment on Barbie's developmentally disabled younger brother: "Best that he died." We are immediately brought close to the cruelty again - obliged to inhabit the same rooms as those who knew Barbie, those who worked and lived alongside him, those who suffered at his hands, those who fought against or sheltered him, and those who finally brought him to justice in the late 1980s. The fact the above sentiment is spoken on camera by someone other than the film's notorious subject is crucial to the point Ophuls lands: that the cruelty, in this instance, extended far beyond that of Klaus Barbie himself.

We are now almost as far from the film as the film was from WW2, which requires us to adapt to a very different model of documentary cinema than has since become the norm: no narrator-presenter to lead us around by the hand (although the balding, bespectacled Ophuls appears on camera sporadically), an obligation to discern for ourselves who exactly these interviewees are and which side they were on, a veritable barrage of testimony to be sifted, sorted and weighed. It's clear that, much like Lanzmann, Ophuls was driven to cast his net far and wide, to gather as much information as he could from those who could still remember, including contradictory evidence. Editorially, Hôtel Terminus gets some of its biggest effects by intercutting opinion A with opinion B, a form of cinematic cross-examination. Barbie did monstrous things, but he could also be cultured and charming, we learn, and he was particularly good with animals. It's significant that he was put on trial, but - and here Ophuls picks up where The Sorrow and the Pity left off - he didn't act alone, and it took many Frenchmen to empower this one German to do the things he did. The first half gestures towards another film entirely, cutting freely between former Resistance agents, now in their dotage, as they fight among themselves over who talked and who didn't. Ophuls is forever insistent this isn't just one isolated story but multiple, interconnected stories: featured supporting players include the actual Lucie Aubrac, the Resistance figurehead played by Carole Bouquet in Claude Berri's 1997 drama; Günter Grass, the author of The Tin Drum; René Hardy, inspiration for Nicholas Ray's Bitter Victory; the bosses of the Laughing Cow cheese company; and Jacques Vergès, lawyer subject of 2007's Terror's Advocate. Crucially, Ophuls asserts their stories will often be at odds with one another, which is not to say they're entirely untrue.

Every now and again, though, Ophuls' questioning gets something truly jolting out of his interviewees, often from those who don't or won't talk, or who claim to have nothing more to say on the subject: tracked down to his apartment building, one former Gestapo underling waves the filmmaker away with a blackly ironic "Whatever happened to human rights?" And we gain a clear understanding of the perimeters within which the Klaus Barbie story was permitted to unfold. On one axis, a Lyon resident who, as a child, saw her mother gunned down in front of her tells Ophuls "there are so many stories like this". On the other, a woman who shares a property with a former Nazi shooes Ophuls' crew away, maintaining "It's no concern of mine". Some choose to look the other way; as a consequence, others see and experience far too much. This story is further complicated by the established historical facts. Even as the death camps were being dismantled, Barbie and the amorality he embodied were considered assets by the Americans in the new Cold War fight against the Soviets. "He was a damn skilful, shrewd interrogator," says one erstwhile CIA operative of Barbie, and that isn't the last evidence here that suggests the Americans were only too willing to jump into bed with someone who we've previously heard dunked prisoners in vats of ammonia and boiling water. (Damningly, Ophuls films these functionaries of the State sunning themselves by the pool or nestled under the Christmas trees Barbie's victims wouldn't get to enjoy.) In the second half, Hôtel Terminus reveals its peculiar symmetry: the intelligence community appears at least as divided by the events of the post-War period as those Resistance mainstays were by events pre-1945. Possibly that's why Ophuls returns to the billiards table as a connecting visual motif: the winners of history stay on, and it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

For some time, you may wonder and worry whether the figure who caused these divisions and scars - Barbie himself - has been allowed to slip away again. For three of the film's four hours, we barely see him except in archive photographs; when he does appear in person, interviewed by French television in the early 1970s, it's to deny being Klaus Barbie and to suggest that his wife and children having the same names as Klaus Barbie's wife and children is but mere coincidence. Ophuls' own interviews, with those left reeling in his subject's wake, suggest it may already be too late: that the rat Barbie had already gone some way towards spreading anti-Semitic attitudes, fostering a wider moral indifference and, in the case of the Bolivian bureaucrats who welcomed Barbie-as-Altmann, even a perverse pride that they'd have performed a similar duty on behalf of their own country. Any residual hope in Hôtel Terminus resides in the power of hearing firsthand the stories of those who personally suffered through all this, who speak of their torture with a force it would be foolish and shameful to deny, and flinch or sob as if these events had happened as recently as yesterday. Set against the prevarication and self-justification of Klaus Barbie's enablers, that directness still cuts through, and sometimes cuts to the bone. It's a directness born of heightened directorial strategy, a willingness to play the longer game, relax one's interviewees, draw out both the best and worst of our shared humanity, and trust in the audience to find their way through this complex maze of information to arrive at the right conclusion; it's assisted - at the last - by one of the most remarkable interactions ever committed to film. (For all this story's complications, it is finally a simple matter of human behaviour, and the choices we make.) They took these tasks seriously in the 20th century, in a way we haven't quite in the 21st - and look where that's got us.

Hôtel Terminus: The Life and Times of Klaus Barbie is currently streaming on YouTube.

Tuesday, 1 April 2025

On demand: "Ariel"


Along with the subsequent Leningrad Cowboys Go America, 1988's Ariel was the film that wryly announced the Finnish writer-director Aki Kaurismäki as a distinctive new comic voice in world cinema. Narratively, it could almost be one of those smalltown dramas American filmmakers have been turning out since the year dot, staffed as it is by frustrated blue-collar souls trying to manufacture some kind of life for themselves while forever dreaming of a better life elsewhere. Kaurismäki's USP was to invest all of the above with a puckish drollery. Drifter hero Taisto (Turo Pajala, recalling Birthday Party-era Nick Cave) is warned to get out of this frozen mining town by an elder who promptly pulls a pistol from his parka and shoots himself in the gents. And though things soon begin to look up for our boy - he inherits a nice warm coat, albeit from a co-worker who's been run over by a forklift, and then woos a local divorcee - a brawl with a sometime associate sees Taisto hauled off behind bars. Life's hard, Kaurismäki observes, and then most typically you die. Still, Ariel remains persistently, nigglingly funny, in large part because of the discrepancy between this grinding, unglamorous existence and the carefree Americana its characters escape into: the cars, the tunes, the movies. There's an extent to which the big house is Taisto and the film's inevitable destination: if the Leningrad Cowboys were sketched along the lines of rockabilly revivalists The Stray Cats, the protagonist here can equally be seen as a stand-in for the Elvis of Jailhouse Rock or the Clint Eastwood of Escape from Alcatraz. (It's also the point at which Ariel transforms into a wonky sort of thriller, with cellmate Matti Pellonpää cast as the Bonnie to Pajala's Clyde.) Raija Talvio's clipped cutting - the most precise comic editing since the heyday of Hal Roach - refuses to let matters get too emotional, energised or depressive: not only does she keep the characters from falling into a beckoning rut, she blesses them with at least the illusion of mobility, nudging them and us alike along until the moment when all the film's ships come in. Kaurismäki would return to this milieu time and again, most recently with 2023's Fallen Leaves - but you can also see why his worldview caught on so quickly in late 1980s Britain: the weather's crap, the jobs are bleaker than the prospects, but this director's characters plough on regardless towards what's hoped will be a brighter tomorrow. Beneath the sangfroid, some warming solidarity.


Ariel is currently streaming via MUBI, and available to rent via Prime Video and YouTube.

Monday, 31 March 2025

On demand: "The Docks of New York"


Turns out it wasn't just Dietrich: the 1928 silent
The Docks of New York would seem to indicate Josef von Sternberg transformed just about everyone who passed before his camera into exotic, alluring creatures of the night. On paper, he had his work cut out for him here, in that his subjects were those roughnecks working the ships pulling in and out of Manhattan's harbours. The burly Bill Roberts (George Bancroft) rises out of the steam and fog with plans of using his shoreleave to carouse and - who knows? - maybe even pick another fight or two at nearby watering hole The Sandbar; those plans, however, are thrown into comprehensive disarray after he and his crewmates haul a suicidal dame (Betty Compson) out of the drink. Drawn from a John Monk Saunders story with the altogether marvellous title The Dock Walloper, it opens with impressionistic scenes of maritime life that may have laid down a template for On the Town (maybe even On the Waterfront), but gradually reveals its true interest as human turbulence: the way the right look from the right person at the right moment can turn humdrum routine, a life, a whole world upside down. The tall, Baldwinesque Bancroft shapes up as practically the archetype of the loner male, his needs confined to a pack of smokes and the occasional hot toddy; Compson gets a full Hollywood makeover (new dress, hairstylist, spot lighting) and scrubs up mighty well for someone who starts the film wanting to end it all. Jules Furthman composed the funny, salty titlecards ("I've sailed the seven seas, but I've never seen a craft as trim as you" remains one of the movies' greatest pick-up lines), but this is one of those silents that almost doesn't need words, and really does suggest we lost something the instant sound came in. It is, finally, all about that look, and the longing and desire that can propel us on a radically different course at a rapid rate of knots.

The Docks of New York is currently streaming via YouTube.

Saturday, 29 March 2025

On TV: "Letter to Brezhnev"


1985's
Letter to Brezhnev is one of those Film on Four titles that has rather fallen through the cracks in the years since its release, almost certainly because of the absence of an auteur name to tie it to; neither writer Frank Clarke nor director Chris Bernard matched its success again. If it has an organising principle, it's the city of Liverpool, seen first from an approaching cargo ship, then from the air, and then - finally, resolutely - at ground level. It's here we find latter-day Liver birds Margi Clarke and Alexandra Pigg - far pottier of mouth than Nerys Hughes and Polly James - striking out for a night on the town; a chance meeting with a pair of Soviet sailors (Peter Firth and Alfred Molina) allows them to dream of another life in another world. Some of the salt of its rough contemporary Rita, Sue and Bob Too blows in off the Mersey, but this is a sweeter film by nature: clock the sequence where Pigg and Firth first lock eyes across the dancefloor of a gaudy nightspot, a cherishably mundane meet-cute in less than promising surroundings. (It also seems crucial that when this foursome check into adjacent hotel rooms, the camera remains in the room where people are talking rather than fucking.) Yet it's not entirely fanciful. The context may have receded in the memory, but this is very much a Cold War movie, released only a year or so after the 'Pool's own Frankie Goes to Hollywood were warning of the threat of nuclear annihilation in "Two Tribes". It's rare to see a film from this period where the Russian characters aren't presented as a clear and present danger, and the quartet's conversations are clearly Clarke seeking to reassure Western audiences that living under Communism is no better or worse than living under Thatcherism. It's a story that could perhaps only have been told in a city with proud socialist roots.

That conversation is particularly good at revealing personality. The sailors are absolute sweethearts, the blue-eyed, dreamy Firth and silent, bear-like Molina seemingly happy to go along for the ride and cede the screen to their female co-stars. The film briefly made a localised star out of Margi Clarke, a platinum-blonde bombshell who represented a Northern extension of the Diana Dors/Babs Windsor tradition, armed with the withering sass to push back against any undue objectification; she's also very moving in the final airport sendoff, embodying an entire social class's unrealised hopes and dreams. Brookside graduate Pigg has a tendency towards underplaying, throwing her lines away in a manner that might have seemed like a limitation were it not so affecting. Her Elaine remains one of the few credible 'ordinary girls' in 1980s British cinema, which makes it a slight shame that she barely worked again after this. (Slight, because she did at least marry Firth in real-life in 2017, providing the film with the happy ending it couldn't quite find its way to at the time.) Bernard gives it an only perfunctory nocturnal style, but takes care to preserve Clarke's streak of island-nation yearning and melancholy, which you wouldn't get in an American one-wild-night movie: it's in the tacit understanding that a few fleeting hours of fun like these are all a lowly factory worker could hope for, and that even they're likely to become a distant memory by morning. Like a lot of Film on Four productions of this period, it's also an exceptionally vivid time capsule to reopen now. Students of the Liverpool bus network will be over the moon; there's a none-more-1985 soundtrack (The Redskins, A Certain Ratio, Bronski Beat's "Hit That Perfect Beat"); and - arguably most historical of all - the sight of a postman ex machina who arrives before anybody's got out of bed.

Letter to Brezhnev screens on BBC Two tomorrow night at 11.35pm.

Friday, 28 March 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of March 21-23, 2025):

1 (new) Disney's Snow White (PG)
2 (new) Ne Zha 2 [above] (12A)
4 (3) Black Bag (15) ****
5 (1) Mickey 17 (15) **
6 (new) Flow (U) ***
7 (new) The Alto Knights (15)
8 (4) Marching Powder (18)
9 (6) Dog Man (U)
10 (5Captain America: Brave New World (12A)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
3. Away 

 
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
2 (11) Venom: The Last Dance (15)
3 (7) Moana 2 (U) ***
4 (2) A Real Pain (15) ***
5 (3) Gladiator II (15) ***
6 (4Sonic the Hedgehog 3 (PG)
7 (5Paddington in Peru (PG)
8 (new) A Complete Unknown (15) **
9 (6) Dog Man (U)
10 (12) The Wild Robot (U) **


My top five: 
1. Dahomey


My top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Mitchells vs. the Machines (Saturday, ITV1, 7.30am)
2. Us (Friday, BBC One, 11.40pm)
3. Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris (Saturday, Channel 4, 9.15pm)
4. The Martian (Saturday, BBC One, 10.20pm)
5. Letter to Brezhnev (Sunday, BBC Two, 11.35pm)

"The Woman in the Yard" (Guardian 28/03/25)


The Woman in the Yard **

Dir: Jaume Collet-Serra. With: Danielle Deadwyler, Okwui Okpokwasili, Russell Hornsby, Peyton Jackson. 88 mins. Cert: 15

Sometimes a single image is enough to carry a film so far. This pared-down Blumhouse chiller opens with a brisk, detailed overview of the disarray a remote rural fixer-upper has fallen into after the death of a paterfamilias. No power, no food in the cupboards; a bereft, incapacitated mother (Danielle Deadwyler) leaving two children to fend for themselves; cracks in the plasterwork offering their own doleful commentary. The lingering spectre of absence is compounded one morning by an unignorable presence: a huddled figure in mourning garb (Okwui Okpokwasili) who appears on a chair in the backyard, and over a single day moves ever closer to the property. That’s the image – as unnerving for us as it is for the characters – and there’s your elevator pitch: Grandma’s Footsteps: The Movie.

Sam Stefanak’s script is at its strongest when leaning into the folkloric: that this house is unplugged from the wider world registers as both plot point and mission statement. Spanish genre specialist Jaume Collet-Serra precisely establishes where the woman sits in relation to the house, and Pawel Pogorzelski’s sunnier images approach an uncanny Andrew Wyeth beauty, although we’re mostly indoors, looking out; the woman proves less significant than the reactions she provokes. If the obvious reading is that this interloper represents unaddressed grief, Stefanak complicates matters by yanking at unravelling threads: the mother’s stitches and sanity, a dog’s chain. It’s not just the woman who’s shifting.

For an hour or so, that’s intriguing: we don’t know where we stand exactly, and there’s an awful lot in the air. It settles shruggingly, however, and some of what’s being juggled – Black Mirror-ish psychology, Us-like shadow selves – is revealed as decidedly secondhand. Collet-Serra paints over some of these third-act problems with style, but key elements go AWOL as we pass back-and-forth through the looking glass, not least basic legibility. Deadwyler remains credibly frazzled, pushed towards monstrousness in ways that will be familiar to anyone who homeschooled during Covid, and the bundled figure closing in on her is genuine nightmare fuel – yet the rest of this hotchpotch never matches it, and flails in trying to explain it away.

The Woman in the Yard opens in cinemas nationwide today.

Thursday, 27 March 2025

Walk on the wild side: "Misericordia"


They've been few and far between, but those films by the French writer-director Alain Guiraudie that have crossed the Channel have been worth going out of one's way to see: I retain fond memories of the 2003 reverie No Rest for the Brave, and the filmmaker enjoyed a notable arthouse hit with 2013's cruising ground murder-mystery Stranger by the Lake. An idea of beneficent deviation sits at the heart of this filmography: Guiraudie's latest Misericordia opens with a shot from the perspective of a car traversing a long and winding road through the countryside, carrying its driver to a reunion that flies off-track at a thoroughly disarming tangent. Jérémie (Félix Kysyl) comes this way from Toulouse for the funeral of his beloved late employer, a baker, and soon finds himself in the company of folks he doesn't really know all that well: the deceased's wife (Catherine Frot), their bullet-headed son (Jean-Baptiste Durand), who regards this interloper as some kind of threat, and former associates who barely seem to remember Jérémie being there. Such social occasions are, as we know all too well, a potential minefield, and Misericordia initially busies itself laying out the various routes our protagonist might choose to take from here. While Jérémie weighs up whether or not to stick around and reopen the bakery, his healthiest option is going out in the surrounding fields - gorgeously shot by Claire Mathon in vibrant autumnal shades - to pick porcini mushrooms, the perfect accompaniment for a sustaining omelette repast. The path he heads down, however, is one in which he sows psychosexual chaos among his hosts, gets shot at by an irate neighbour, and eventually winds up becoming a murderer. It is, as they say, a funny turn of events.

Again, though, you will likely be struck by the quiet mastery of Guiraudie's storytelling. In some respects, Misericordia is but an exercise in yarnspinning, taking a narrative line for an especially convoluted walk, but there aren't two scenes you'd conventionally put together, nothing appears premeditated, and nothing quite leads where we anticipate it to lead. The result is one of those films where we critics have to tread carefully, to give you a sense of the territory passed through without giving you a full itinerary: far better to watch the road open up before you. Know that you will take this tour alongside a tight knot of exceptionally well cast performers. Kysyl presents as boyish, but he's boyish in the same way Matt Damon's Ripley was boyish, riven by sexual confusion that comes to feel like another secret he feels he has to keep. (Those phallic mushrooms are both as arrows, and as the arrows that pierced St. Sebastian's flanks.) As if to further underline Guiraudie's overarching thesis about the unruly nature of desire, the initial object of Jérémie's misplaced affections isn't some chiselled hunk, but a bluff, gruff agricultural type (David Ayala) - hitherto straight, of course - who appears a stranger to the hairbrush and more commonly resembles a sack of potatoes. You feel the film openly flirt with danger if not disaster upon depicting Jérémie's growing intimacy with the town's veteran priest (Jacques Develay): here's the kind of digression that would once have sparked outrage from more devout quarters, but which Guiraudie approaches as entirely natural and born of sincere compassion, the heart forever being a more dependable guide than the dick.

It is, however, typical of the delight Guiraudie takes in fostering connections between characters that in no other context (and no other cinema) would connect so, and of how the usual rules no longer apply in an Alain Guiraudie film. Instead, Jérémie's long tamped-down, newly eruptive bisexuality threatens to render the entire movie unstable. A confession box scene is shot in such a consciously recto-verso way as to suggest the priest is the one making the confession. An idle fantasy serves as a watertight alibi, then becomes a reality. The police's inquiries into the murder victim's disappearance merges with the guilt-ridden Jérémie's night terrors, such that we might start to wonder how much of what we see is real, and how much simply passing through our hero's deeply troubled head. Without a single computer effect, and with an uncommon affection for the confused souls who pass before his gaze, Guiraudie has created his own world, one with no restrictions, no boundaries and no damning judgement. Stranger by the Lake, which did likewise, possibly crossed over in large part because it was working within a familiar genre template: it remained graspable as a whodunnit, even though we were a long way from the country house. Misericordia is more wilful and auteurist - it has something of Alain Resnais' Wild Grass in its DNA, if that title means anything to you - but it's no less pleasurable and unpredictable, and a real tonic for anyone who'd feared the cinema had long since lost the elements of mystery, grace and surprise. Sometimes it pays to wander off the beaten track.

Misericordia opens in selected cinemas from tomorrow.

On demand: "Lucifer"


You can see why the eccentric, cynical yet undeniably grabby Malayalam thriller Lucifer became the hit it did in early 2019: it plays like an attempt to synthesise the appeal of Game of Thrones with House of Cards, a dash of that earlier Spacey text The Usual Suspects, and odd remnants of that conspiratorial thinking now prevalent on the Internet's woolly fringes. Its viewpoint is that contemporary Indian politics is at best a snakepit, at worst a cesspit, awash with dirty money and corrupt players; this instantly distinguishes Lucifer from all those recent Indian films that have flown the flag and cried Jai Hind. Like Mani Ratnam's subsequent hit Ponniyin Selvan, it's about the race to fill a power vacuum - in this case, opened up by the death of a venerable Keralan MP - and like Ponniyin Selvan, it involves a sprawling cast of characters you may need a family tree or just a very large notebook to keep tabs on: the dead man's daughter (Manju Warrier), a rotten spin doctor (Vivek Oberoi, perfect casting with his smug air and slappable face), rival politicos vying for position, the journalists covering the story (who prove as biddable as anyone else on screen), and a vlogger whose running commentary over the opening scenes promises to arm us with the unvarnished truth. The movie's focal point, however - the figure everyone's keeping an eye on - is one Stephen Nedumpally (local superstar Mohanlal), introduced as the kind of unifying candidate that men might well follow, making big talk about draining the swamp. He would seem an admirable fellow, were it not for the nickname that gives the film its title, his tendency to speak in scripture, and the fact he drives around in a car with the registration plate 666. Could he be...? He surely isn't, is he?

For an hour or so, you could kid yourself that we're getting the insider's line: that this is how politics now is, and how meaningful societal change gets stymied by a combination of packshuffling, system rigging and rampant self-interest. I suspect if you watched Lucifer alongside a sitting Indian parliamentarian - of whatever stripe - they'd come away insisting the drama and action has been trumped up (Trumped up?) in the way movies do. What's interesting - particularly from a film directed by a prominent actor (Prithviraj Sukumaran, who also takes a secondary role as Stephen's on-the-ground enforcer) - is that Lucifer goes beyond the self-reflexivity common in mainstream Indian crowdpleasers to explicitly link the mass movie with populist politics: a senior advisor admits he only watches these potboilers, chiefly to see which sentiments a crowd will boo and cheer. In a Hindi masala movie of this type, the hero would likely be unimpeachable; here, some doubt is raised about who we're really rooting for, and the extent to which his heroism is merely performative - all a facade or act. Granted, this is still a largely flattering vehicle for a star approaching middle age, carving out episodes in which Mohanlal can appear supernaturally cool with a gun pointed to his head, take out a dozen or more goons in the course of a single scene, and then gloweringly plot revenge on those who would smear or betray him. However much Lucifer might want to exist on the level of hard-hitting political expose, it remains a fiction about a beardy, growly man exacting that very payback.

It's been robustly assembled, though, certainly in comparison with some of the star-driven event movies its vast box-office success inspired. (I'm thinking specifically here of Rajinikanth's futzing Vettaiyan.) Lucifer has obvious flaws: it's another South film that can't think of much for its women to do, save to serve as manhandled victims or item girls; the media strand is under-realised; its best image (a kidnap victim's cell made over into a perfect replica of his study, to further mess with his head) is never followed up; and I've no idea what the film is doing cutting to a nightclub number with less than half an hour to go, save tipping its hat to all things John Wick. But Murali Gopy's script sets so much in motion, across so many distinct fields, that there's always something to cut across to, and Sukumaran succeeds in keeping broadly coherent the different modes (speechifying, spectacle, song) these putative blockbusters are now obliged to operate in. He does something smartly ironic with an anti-colonial song, used here to recall a solidarity and progressive outlook that is next to non-existent in the present-day plotting, and goes distinctively against our visual expectations of the political conspiracy thriller, letting bright Keralan sunshine into these frames, presumably in the hope it'll disinfect or otherwise counteract some of his players' shadier behaviour. Mohanlal, for his part, benefits from being part of an ensemble and not having to do all that much beyond guard the mystery of who Stephen Nedumpally really is. We'll likely find out more in the sequel that lands this week - just as another administration is easing its cloven hooves under the table for a second time.

Lucifer is now streaming via Prime Video; a sequel, L2 - Empuraan, opens in cinemas nationwide today.

Sunday, 23 March 2025

A little Knight music: "Hans Zimmer & Friends: Diamond in the Desert"


Tempted as one might be to cite the Christopher Nolan effect, it turns out we have Johnny Marr to thank for the cinema's pre-eminent musical maximalist getting his own Beyoncé
 or Taylor Swift-style concert movie. Early on in Paul Dugdale's Hans Zimmer & Friends: Diamond in the Desert, we learn that it was Marr - who collaborated with Zimmer on the last Bond soundtrack, and whose son Nile plays guitar with the composer's live band - who first suggested Zimmer take a show on the road and thereby reconnect with his pop roots; the film's subject, in what isn't his only display of humility before these cameras, insists he'd have been quite happy staying at home writing music. Video killed the radio star, but the movies have made a touring act of him. What we've ended up with here is a two-and-a-half-hour record of that live show as performed at the Coca-Cola Arena in Dubai, where it was lapped up by a snap-happy crowd doubtless grateful to have something to do beyond idly blowing their personal fortunes in shopping malls and getting burnt up by the sun. 

The Zimmer who fronts this show is a jovial cove, bescarfed and beaming behind his synths, cornily courteous to his hosts ("the future is here"), generally self-effacing (of his Pirates of the Caribbean scores, he insists "I just bashed them out") while dutiful in singling out his collaborators for individual praise. Together with several of the most photogenic musicians in existence, he works through the hits - or most memorable cues - from the Dunes, the Batmen, Gladiator, Inception and the like; by way of additional VFM - this being one of those "event cinema" boondoggles for which you somehow have to pay extra - these crowd favourites are interspersed with filler sitdowns in which Zimmer chats with artistic collaborators (Pharrell, the Eilishes, Denis V, Sir Chris N), backers (Jerry Bruckheimer, a producer here) and those whose movements his music has scored (Zendaya, Timothée Chalamet). These are by far the documentary's weakest element, beset by the conversational equivalent of airkissing, too brief for anyone to go too deep, and clearly inserted out of an insecurity that Zimmer's name and presence alone won't be enough to get bums on seats. (The full houses for Zimmer's live tour - and the recent proliferation of unofficial "Hans Zimmer Experience" concerts in provincial arts venues nationwide - would suggest otherwise.) If you really wanted to find out what drives Zimmer to create these cathedrals of sound, you'd have to send in a seasoned musicologist, not Little Timmy Caramel; as it is, these editorial Hail Marys serve as readymade opportunities for toilet breaks.

Hasten back to your seat, though, because the main event serves as its own, reasonably compelling answer to the question of just how many people, and how much equipment, may be required to make a sound this vast. Zimmer's touring ensemble isn't some delicate, willowy string quartet, travelling from one mega-corporate arena to the next via charabanc, but a proper, robust troupe, roughly characterised as the Blue Man Group x Stomp, some of whom can be seen smashing the shit out of drumkits that resemble Nolanesque metropoli in themselves. We're bordering on prog territory here: a lot of onstage kit, a busy lightshow, elevated degrees of technical difficulty and virtuosity. (Also, and especially in the case of Zimmer's go-to guitarist Guthrie Govan, highly Rick Wakeman-ish hair.) It means Dugdale always has something to cut to whenever we assume the music can't layer up any more: a piccolo solo that might otherwise get lost amid a wall of thumping SOUND, a cellist in bondage gear and warpaint wielding the tool of her trade as if it were some rudimentary torture implement, flaxen-haired giantesses shrieking or speaking in tongues. (There's a nice moment in the spotlight for Lisa Gerrard, the mainstay of indie recluses Dead Can Dance, whose ululations helped make the Gladiator score soar so.) Even without a Nolan or Villeneuve calling action, it's a spectacle.

It may be that, much as prog had eventually to give way to the blunt-force immediacies of punk, film scoring will itself undergo some revolutionary Year Zero in the not too distant future: that our soundtracks will ditch the numbing parps, the casts of thousands, and revert to new wavers like Mica Levi and this year's Oscar winner Daniel Blumberg making odd, atonal noises on their own in small dark rooms, to movie music that is altogether quicker and quieter about setting a mood or creating a vibe, and that allows an audience to sit more readily with their own thoughts and silence. Yet Dugdale's film allows us to both see and hear why Zimmer's music continues to be as revered as it has been, and why its composer may well have a greater claim to auteur status than many of the filmmakers for whom he's worked: several pieces here (cues from 2019's almost instantly forgotten X-Men: Dark Phoenix, anyone?) actually benefit for being detached and isolated from the sluggish images to which they were once attached. This is music that goes hard, at a time when a lot else about the American popular cinema has lost its directionality and force.

Hans Zimmer & Friends: Diamond in the Desert has encore screenings in selected Cineworld, Odeon and Showcase cinemas throughout the week.

Saturday, 22 March 2025

In memoriam: Émilie Dequenne (Telegraph 21/03/25)


Émilie Dequenne
, who has died from a rare adrenal cancer aged 43, was an expressive Belgian performer who won the Cannes Best Actress prize at seventeen for her debut role: that of a disenfranchised teenager struggling to keep her head above the poverty line in brothers Luc and Jean-Pierre Dardenne’s Rosetta (1999).

With a rigorous realism, the film enshrined its waffle-making heroine’s resilience and resourcefulness, while also lamenting the tough choices forced upon her by circumstance. Her tomboyish features hardening like batter, Dequenne made a credible grafter, clinging tenaciously to Rosetta’s bedtime mantra (“I have a normal life, I won’t be left behind”) even as her fortunes took several turns for the worse. 

A tearful Dequenne dedicated her Cannes gong to the aunt who’d insisted she audition: “I wanted to respond to casting ads, but I was a little nervous about doing it because you don't really know who you’ll run into in Belgium.” The Dardennes, however, had been so struck by Dequenne’s inner force they’d cast her twenty minutes into said audition; here, as Luc observed, was “someone who had fire in her belly”. 

The performance that resulted was equally physical and intuitive; Dequenne told Cahiers du Cinéma “the role was so realistic, you couldn’t play it, only live it”. Yet that placed clear burdens on one so relatively inexperienced, leading the actress to develop what she called “my little ritual” after each day’s filming: “I took off my shoes, ran a bath, and phoned my mother and insisted we talk about anything else.” 

Émilie Dequenne was born on August 29, 1981 in Beloeil in the Wallonia region, the oldest of two daughters to carpenter Daniel Dequenne and his wife Brigitte. Though the formerly industrialised province of Hainaut, where the family lived, was no cosmopolitan hotspot (“you had to travel 25km to go see a film”), Dequenne grew up in very different circumstances to the put-upon Rosetta. “I was always dancing and singing on tables,” she told The Guardian in 2013. “I loved clowning about.”
 
She studied diction and elocution at the Académie de Musique in Baudour and attended the theatre workshop La Relève in Ladeuze, where she made her stage debut in a production Jean-Paul Alègre’s Comment le Grand Cirque Traviata se transforma en petit navire.

After Rosetta, fully two years passed until Dequenne reappeared, this time resplendent in lipstick amid the effects-driven fantasy-horror Brotherhood of the Wolf (2001). It was a rare genre excursion for an actress who thereafter specialised in French-language auteur cinema, several examples of which crossed the Channel.

Dequenne’s forte became knotty characterisations that defied her cherubic looks: Strindberg’s Miss Julie at the Théâtre Marigny, Paris while she was in her mid-twenties, the victim of an alleged anti-Semitic attack in André Téchiné’s based-on-true-events drama The Girl on the Train (La fille du RER, 2009). She excelled in Joachim Lafosse’s Our Children (À perdre la raison, 2012), as a vulnerable young mother driven to murderous extremes.

She turned up as a sympathetic copper in the first series of the French-set BBC1 hit The Missing (2014-16), then returned to the cinema, winning a César for her supporting role as a betrayed wife in Emmanuel Mouret’s Love Affair(s) (Les choses qu’on dit, les choses qu’on fait, 2020) and playing the grieving mother in Lukas Dhont’s arthouse success Close (2022).

After making her diagnosis public in August 2023, she continued to work, returning to Cannes last May to mark Rosetta’s 25th anniversary and promote the post-apocalyptic thriller Survive (Survivre, 2024), in which she battled killer crabs. Her final film was the Belgian bullying drama TKT (2024).

In December 2024, Dequenne gave her final interview to the TF1 show Sept à huit, where she reflected on the return of a cancer that had previously gone into remission, and her new, thirty-pills-a-day treatment: “Deep down, I know perfectly well that I will not live as long as expected… I am only 43 years old. I have always dreamed of living until at least eighty and then drifting off in my sleep. That is what I pray for.”

She is survived by her husband, the actor Michel Ferracci, and by a daughter, the actress and artist Milla Savarese, from an earlier relationship with the DJ Alexandre Savarese.

Émilie Dequenne, born August 29, 1981, died March 16, 2025. 

Friday, 21 March 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of March 14-16, 2025):

1 (1) Mickey 17 (15) **
3 (new) Black Bag (15) ****
4 (3) Marching Powder (18)
5 (4Captain America: Brave New World (12A)
6 (5Dog Man (U)
7 (new) Last Breath (15)
8 (9) Mufasa: The Lion King (PG)
9 (6The Monkey (15)
10 (new) Fidelio - Met Opera 2025 (12A)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
3. Away 
5. Flow

 
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (2) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
2 (new) A Real Pain (15) ***
3 (1) Gladiator II (15) ***
4 (3) Sonic the Hedgehog 3 (PG)
5 (4Paddington in Peru (PG)
6 (new) Dog Man (U)
7 (5) Moana 2 (U) ***
8 (6Mufasa: The Lion King (PG)
9 (7Conclave (12) ****
10 (15) Kraven the Hunter (15)


My top five: 
1. Dahomey


My top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Big Sleep [above] (Saturday, BBC Two, 2.40pm)
2. The Producers (Sunday, BBC Two, 10.45pm)
3. The Prestige (Sunday, BBC One, 10.30pm)
4. Get Out (Friday, BBC One, 11.40pm)
5. Selma (Tuesday, BBC Two, 11.05pm)

Thursday, 20 March 2025

On demand: "Dog Star Man"


The breakout success of the underground collective billed as Brakhage - husband-and-wife artists Stan and Jane Brakhage - 1964's Dog Star Man proves far less of an endurance test than the later, mortuary-based The Act of Seeing with One's Own Eyes, but may still remain something of a headscratcher: a flickerbook of half-glimpsed, half-digested imagery, composed much like diary entries in five parts shot over three years in the early 1960s, and presented in total silence. What are we looking at? The more pertinent question to ask may be what aren't we looking at, given that some of the answers would seem to include: canine POV footage, flares erupting on the surface of a distant planet, avalanches, landslides and lava flows, glimpses of unidentified cities and forests, surgical footage, cultures being raised in a petridish, the micro set alongside the macro and the metro. You can tell it's an underground film, because for some duration, all we have to latch onto as fully recognisable are hazy shots of human genitalia, smuggled into sight much as Tyler Durden did the rogue phallus in Fight Club. Yet clear areas of interest emerge. Where The Act of Seeing..., made by an artist entering middle age, lingered over death and destruction, Dog Star Man concerns itself with creation and the natural world. (Are those fuzzy blobs spores or nipples?) Were you searching for apt music to run alongside or counteract the film's forceful soundlessness, most commercial recordings of Stravinsky's "The Rite of Spring" and "The Firebird Suite" run almost exactly the same duration.

Amid the Brakhages' blitz of found and filmed footage, some evolutionary thinking gradually makes itself apparent. If the prelude is a rat-a-tat-tat barrage, at once stunning and somewhat discombobulating, later parts are composed in a more measured fashion, in line with the film's structuring narrative device: one bearded man's long, slow climb to the top of a mountain in wintry conditions. (With dog.) Patience is obviously required, but you can both see and feel the underlying vision deepening and maturing as the Brakhages press on with their project and approach the age of thirty: the initial attempt to look at everything in great haste, as a newborn would, is eventually replaced by an emphasis on the kind of imagery - some beautiful, some bloody, some plain bewildering - which sears itself onto the memory, that stays with us for the remainder of our days. That the film has endured - while passing out of the bowels of the Anthology Film Archives and into mainstream circulation via YouTube - is surely down to the fact it was left eternally open to interpretation and reinterpretation. At its most profound, Dog Star Man plays like a dazzling highlights reel for the cinema, and for life itself; at its most trivial, a ready lookbook for works to come. Terrence Malick built an entire career on it, and 95% of art-school graduates who directed music videos from the late 1980s onwards had to have seen it - rising to 97% for anyone working in the dance and shoegaze sectors.

Dog Star Man is now streaming via YouTube.

Wednesday, 19 March 2025

A river runs through it: "Flow"


The Latvian Gints Zilbalodis announced himself as a major new player in global animation with the surreal, wordless imagery of 2019's Away, to all intents and purposes a one-man job. His follow-up Flow reaches for greater scale and heft - familiar production bodies are listed in the opening credits, as is a director of animation who isn't Zilbalodis himself - and perhaps for a dash more mass appeal in its centring of a wide-eyed feline, living on what appears to be some sort of Cat Island and navigating rapidly rising water levels. So far, this expansion plan has proved a success: at both this year's Golden Globes and Oscars, Flow beat out Pixar's Inside Out 2, DreamWorks' The Wild Robot and the new Wallace & Gromit to win the Best Animated Feature prize. Even so, Zilbalodis continues to operate some way from the animated norm, rejecting the recognisably Disneyish for other influences (and, indeed, the otherworldly). More so than even the immersive Away, Flow owes some debt to many long hours of gaming; it's clearly been raised on folktales, in its preference for parables and suggestive metaphor over frenetic motion; and it often recalls Ghibli, not just in its backdrops and messaging, but in its frequent pauses for reflection. (As with the image Zilbalodis opens with and returns to time and again: that of our black tabby hero peering into a swelling mass of water.) It's open, in other words, to other approaches. Take, for example, the dogs our furry adventurer encounters on his travels, which initially strike the eye as ugly for avatars in a commercially released animation: blockily pixellated, bluntly unfinessed, they recall turn-of-the-millennium screensavers, or the dancing baby in Ally McBeal. They are also, demonstrably, a deliberate choice. In this landscape, cats are naturally more than a little nervous about the rising tides. These dogs, on the other hand, bound on blithely, running with the pack, confident it's only a drop of rain. You wouldn't have to take too great a leap to map these reactions onto humankind's responses to the climate crisis.


So there's a message - and we should, as ever, heed Sam Goldwyn's apocryphal zinger about messages in movies - but you could equally allow yourself just to be swept away by the strange, beguiling (yes) flow of the images that message is carried within. There's something both very striking and seductive about the way Zilbalodis's camera (or line of approach, if camera is too concrete a term for animation) floats; it changes not just our understanding of this environment, but our sense of how we move around it, and actually brings the viewer closer to how we dream (and sometimes - as when we see the tiny cat adrift in an ever more vast lake - to how we submit to nightmare). The dreaminess is heightened by the fact Flow plays out in as close to silence as our movies are now allowed to get, with only the odd evocative sound effect for echolocation. Somewhere in the Zilbalodis method is a rejection of the anchoring sureties of so much commercial animation: gone is the photorealistic design, the camera tethered to a human POV, the characters intended to look, sound and behave like us for the most part. He's not yet gone full Švankmajer, but Zilbalodis doesn't want to mollycoddle or pacify us; he's okay with the viewer being discombobulated, unsettled or stressed, not least because it fits with what he's saying. Even so, Flow drifts into more abstract territory than Away, which gave us a boy with human features to latch onto. Weirdly, the film shares with autumnal megahit The Wild Robot a near-total absence of bipedal life, but leans more heavily into the implication we may have long since gone under as a species. 84 minutes remains a long time for a film to have to sustain itself without obvious human interest; and if you're neither much of an animal person nor an animation nut, there are stretches here that will resemble a game on autoplay mode, very pretty but not as involving as they might be. As a vision of the future, Flow is also by definition grim. (Inside Out 2 retains the advantage when it comes to human behaviour. And gags.) Like his tabby protagonist, attempting to paw out what remains of his sodden kingdom, Zilbalodis is walking the boundaries of his artform, seeing how far he can go in any one direction while still taking an audience with him. Some have followed enthusiastically, others still have cheered; if I hung back and dragged my feet a little here, the animator's endeavour remains admirable all the same. There aren't many attempting something so conspicuously different in this most crowded of fields.

Flow opens in cinemas nationwide from Friday.

Tuesday, 18 March 2025

She's gotta have it: "Just Another Girl on the I.R.T."


Making a welcome return to UK screens this weekend, Leslie Harris's 1992 film
Just Another Girl on the I.R.T. was for some decades one of the lost texts of American independent and New Black Cinema: much acclaimed at Sundance (where it won the Special Jury Prize), briefly toured around the Western world (including Britain, where it was distributed by the late, lamented Metro Tartan), and thereafter confined to a dusty shelf in the Miramax vaults. Shot on a shoestring after the fashion of Spike Lee's early, breakthrough works, this is the fresh and freewheeling tale of Chantel (Ariyan A. Johnson), a whipsmart teenage New Yorker - the acronym of the title refers to a local rail network - who, between Ferris Bueller-like asides to camera, has to negotiate minimum-wage, convenience-store labour, babysitting her younger brothers, and the condescension of the men around her, from suitors with possessive tendencies to a headmaster who insists she "tone that mouth down". Harris, by pointed contrast, affords this character full voice. From an early stage, the film offers the joy of watching young performers who respond to one another as actual teenagers do - rudely, raucously, indifferent to how any grown-ups might tell them how to behave.

Issues will eventually encroach upon these frames - AIDS, the elevated deathrate among African-American men, and both pregnancy and abortion after Chantal succumbs to the dubious charms of some twit with a Jeep - but this remains first and foremost a film made about people and places, scenes and situations this director clearly knows; it wasn't trading in the lip service American movies have rather rotely come to pay, but real, vital representation. The tradeoff is with some occasionally rough-edged construction: the initial, winning sunniness gives way to still astonishing nihilism amid the kind of finale the Sundance Lab was set up to finesse. Still, rougher-edged independent films of this moment earned their (male) directors the keys to the castle - and there's an element of strategy in play that makes it even more surprising (and depressing) to discover Harris hasn't directed a feature since. Some of the limited resources here went towards a terrific early Nineties hiphop soundtrack that lends sequences a dynamism and energy whenever the performances wobble or the filmmaking syntax gets rudimentary. And the sparky Johnson, a sometime choreographer whose acting career looks to have petered out in the early Noughties, should really have become a postergirl the way Jada Pinkett and Angela Bassett did - but then Hollywood was subsequently more invested in providing us with three Chrises to choose between, and a Ryan for every occasion.

Just Another Girl on the I.R.T. returns to selected cinemas from Friday.

Monday, 17 March 2025

Neat neat neat: "Black Bag"


One of the pleasures of cinemagoing in the March-April period is the sensation we're entering Hollywood's research-and-development lab, to observe those projects deemed too chancy for an awards season berth, yet not turbocharged or otherwise commercialised enough for the summer months. Say what you like about Mickey 17 - and I did - it was a gamble, and it's been followed into the multiplexes by Black Bag, the second film in two months (after January's Presence) from the ever-industrious, ever-experimentally minded Steven Soderbergh. Penned by the seasoned David Koepp, the new film folds in intelligence gained from such recent TV hits as Apple's Slow Horses and Prime's Mr. & Mrs. Smith reboot. It's equal parts spy thriller and romantic drama, parsing how international ideological conflict might be heightened and complicated by developments on the domestic front, yet with a characteristic perversity Soderbergh casts the two coldest performers of their generation in the lead roles, and - unexpectedly, miraculously - gets these icy slivers to strike genuine sparks. As with Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, the action centres on an odd, bespectacled cove called George, played here by the slippery, quasi-reptilian Michael Fassbender as a British intelligence officer apparently fused into his own black polo necks. (You wonder where he served his apprenticeship: the Left Bank?) We join him as he's assigned the task of ferreting out the suspected mole in his unit, a challenge made trickier by the fact his wife and fellow agent Kathryn (Cate Blanchett) is herself on the list of five suspects. His initial plan involves inviting this quintet round for a sitdown meal of daal laced with truth serum, at which point we note Soderbergh has cast film and TV faces schooled in doubletalk, innuendo and backstabbing: bearded elder Tom Burke involved in a tempestuous but not necessarily dangerous liaison with tech wonk Marisa Abela, shrink Naomie Harris (a sometime Moneypenny, no less) surely too worldly for cocky gamer swain Regé-Jean Page. George and Kathryn are meant to be the old hands in this context, a couple who've weathered countless storms together - but is she now cheating on him, and/or betraying her country? Given that the couple are keen cinemagoers - watchers by trade - and that a discarded ticket stub gets introduced as potentially damning evidence, Black Bag also poses a further, more self-reflexive question: can we trust an American movie this far into the 21st century?

Strap me to a polygraph - as George does several of his colleagues heading into the last reel - and my answer would still be yes, though the film's wider success may depend on your having the ambivert-neatfreak sweet spot that Soderbergh and Koepp are targeting here. Set beside the agreeably scuzzy Slow Horses, this is certainly a gentrified vision of the spy game, its harder yards gained not on park benches but at dinner parties in well-furnished rooms. (The suspense hinges on the fears of loners invited to enter into group social activity.) Already, there has been much online lusting over Kathryn's wardrobe; I'll confess my own head was turned by the tea lights that pop off the screen when these couples first sit down to eat. Mid-period Soderbergh delights in setting himself limitations - one location in Kimi and Presence, extended sitdowns here - but he knows how to tart these spaces up, to stoke visual pleasure. Clock the film's especially diffuse idea of lighting, which threatens at points to white-or-black out the screen like the foggable glass MI5 uses to shield meeting rooms from prying eyes. (Not seeing is the enemy of seeing.) These nifty games of control only bolster Koepp's script, which forces its characters into two-person tête-à-têtes designed to eke something out or get someone to show their cards. Soderbergh appears to have spent much of the last two decades watching even more TV than he's directed, and thinking about both what works there and what merits being restored to the bigger screen: the scenes in the therapist's office ensure Black Bag owes as much to HBO's In Treatment as it does to, say, The Ipcress File. What he's pulled into shape here is a limber, double-jointed hybrid entertainment: a movie that feels as involved and detailed as any spinoff, or as if it could inspire a spinoff, but which crucially doesn't require you to have sat through ten hours of preamble, and - even more crucially - wraps itself up inside 93 minutes, giving us all time to get home and pay the babysitter. Like its characters, Black Bag is spectacularly self-contained. Yet it speaks to an intriguing moment in pop culture, when after a decade-and-a-half of megabudget multiverse splurges, shows like The Pitt and Adolescence are demonstrating there may well be some back-to-basics virtue in resisting the call of the tech bros; in arming good directors with good scripts and good actors, allowing actors' faces to be read rather than obscuring them in vast clouds of pixels, and ditching the exposition in favour of suggestive silences and the mysteries of the human heart. There may be no more radical proposition made inside a multiplex in 2025: what if we went back to doing things the way we once did, in the days when our movies used to work?

Black Bag is now playing in cinemas nationwide.