Saturday, 4 January 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of December 27-29, 2024):

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

(source: BFI)

My top five:
1. Spirited Away
3. Rocco and His Brothers [above]
5. Gremlins

 
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Love Actually (15) ***
2 (2) Elf (PG) **
3 (3) The Polar Express (U)
4 (4) Venom: The Last Dance (15)
5 (18) The Holdovers (15) ***
6 (5) Alien: Romulus (15) ***
8 (7) Arthur Christmas (U) **
9 (10) Dune: Part Two (12) **
10 (9) Smile 2 (18)


My top five: 
1. Speak No Evil

 
Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Fugitive (Sunday, Channel 5, 12.35pm)
2. Playground (Thursday, Channel 4, 2.45am)
3. Sleepless in Seattle (Sunday, Channel 4, 4.10pm)
4. 120 BPM (Saturday, Channel 4, 2.05am)
5. Nowhere Special (Monday, BBC2, 11.05pm)

In memoriam: Shyam Benegal (01/01/25)


The Indian filmmaker
Shyam Benegal, who has died aged 90, was a pillar of the Parallel Cinema, the informal grouping of independently minded and funded creatives whose work stood in stark, socially committed contrast to the song-and-dance escapism of Bollywood. Responding to real events and centred on marginalised protagonists (often women), Benegal’s breakthrough films of the 1970s rejected the cosmetic, crowdpleasing approach of the Hindi mainstream. Yet they found an appreciative audience both at home and abroad, helping to make household names of such performers as Shabana Azmi, Om Puri and Naseeruddin Shah.

Benegal’s influences were wide-ranging. His worldview and technique were shaped as much by Soviet trailblazers Eisenstein and Pudovkin as by domestic great Satyajit Ray, whom Benegal interviewed for a 1984 documentary. But they were also heavily informed by Benegal’s decade-long apprenticeship making industrial and public information films, fashioned on such diverse topics as steel production, epilepsy, raga music and the artificial insemination of cattle. These shorts gave Benegal a sense of the issues affecting the India beyond Bombay; as he later told one reporter, “I film to report on changes in the world around us.”

His feature debut Ankur/The Seedling (1974) formed a statement of intent. Made after the dire failure of the 1971/72 harvests, and privately funded by the advertising company Blaze, it used the framework of a caste-blighted romance to paint a sorry picture of an India that was still some measure from modernisation. If the rural setting wasn’t especially new – Ray, after all, had been there – the stinging social critique was. “I have always felt that the Indian countryside was never really represented properly on the Indian screen,” Benegal later reflected. “But if you really wanted to understand the Indian psyche, you needed to look at rural India.”

Absorbing yet rigorous, the film hit a nerve, turning a healthy profit upon its initial run and being selected to compete at the Berlin film festival. Benegal followed it with two further films that – together with Ankur – became known as his Uprising trilogy, united by their agrarian settings and unsparing gaze. Nishant/Night’s End (1975), a taut crime drama about a woman’s abduction at the behest of a landowner, played in competition at Cannes the following year; Manthan/The Churning (1976) dramatised the White Revolution led by Verghese Kurien, an engineer who oversaw the formation of dairy farmers’ co-operatives in remote communities.

When the Parallel Cinema came under threat from TV in the late 1970s, Benegal shifted closer to the movie centre. Bhumika/The Role (1977) was a spiky, unromanticised riff on the life of Hansa Wadkar, a star of the 1940s, but smartly constructed vehicles for producer-star Shashi Kapoor – period drama Junoon (1979) and thriller Kalyug (1981) – flopped commercially. (Kapoor had been told Benegal was “to be admired, not hired”.) “When you make a film that contests a whole value system, obviously you shouldn’t expect that to be exceedingly popular,” Benegal told the BBC in 2006. “These are some of the things you keep grappling with.”

Shyam Sunder Benegal was born in 1934 to a Hyderabad family with strong visual connections: his father Sridhar was a stills photographer, while the writer-director Guru Dutt was a second cousin. He made his first amateur film aged twelve and founded the Hyderabad Film Club while studying economics at Osmania University. Upon graduating, he moved to Bombay, where he was hired as a copywriter at the Lintas ad agency; on his way to becoming creative head, he made some 900 adverts and eleven corporate films. His first professional credit came with the short Gher Betha Ganga/Ganges on the Doorstep (1962).

After his initial breakthrough, Benegal served as a director of the National Film Development Corporation, even as he pivoted into TV with Yatra (1986) and the staggeringly ambitious Nehru adaptation Bharat Ek Khoj/The Discovery of India (1988-89), compressing 5,000 years of history into 53 episodes. In the wake of the 1992-93 riots, however, Benegal returned to the cinema, initiating a trilogy of films with the screenwriter Khalid Mohamed – Mammo (1994), Sardari Begum (1996) and Zubeidaa (2001) – which centred on the lives of Muslim women. In 2005, Benegal received the Dadasaheb Phalke award, India’s highest film honour.

In later life, Benegal moved into politics, serving in the Rajya Sabha between 2006 and 2012. His creative endeavours took a parallel turn towards the statesmanlike: to a 1984 documentary on Nehru, a longstanding personal hero, Benegal added the biopic Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose: The Forgotten Hero (2005) and the TV miniseries Samvidhaan: The Making of the Constitution of India (2014), featuring appearances from Gandhi, Jinnah and B.R. Ambedkar among others. His final credit, Mujib: The Making of a Nation (2023), paid dogged tribute to Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, founding father of Bangladesh.

Though several of his key films fell subject to the vagaries of Indian film preservation, Benegal lived long enough to witness Manthan screen in Cannes’ Classics sidebar in 2024. By then, India was facing a new wave of struggles, about which Benegal remained characteristically sanguine: “I consider myself a realist, neither optimistic nor pessimistic, because there is society and individuals, and society and individuals are not always the same thing… The ideal of men has always been to cancel out this imbalance. [But] it is not only about changing society, it is also about changing man. These two things are sometimes incompatible.”

He is survived by a spouse, Nira Mukerji Benegal, and a daughter, the costume designer Pia Benegal.

Shyam Benegal, filmmaker, born December 14 1934; died December 23 2024.

Pick 'n' mix: "We Live in Time"


They still sometimes try and make 'em like they used to, just not with the same rigorous level of script editing. We Live in Time is an old-school romantic drama and terminal illness-based weepie - a latter-day Love Story - but also a vehicle for two of the British film industry's brightest stars; it's a prospective date movie, but also a movie movie, with an only tangential relation to real life in several places. The playwright Nick Payne - who broke through with 2015's Constellations before turning a somewhat erratic hand to screenwriting (The Sense of an Ending, The Last Letter from Your Lover) - has been paired with the generally reliable director John Crowley (Intermission, Boy A, Brooklyn) to unpick a relationship we see being played out in multiple tenses at once. Their film opens with a fixed point: thirtysomething couple Tobias (Andrew Garfield) and Almut (Florence Pugh) sitting in a doctor's office, where the latter is informed her ovarian cancer has returned. A decision is taken: rather than submit to further, punishing rounds of chemo (with no guarantee of a positive outcome), Almut chooses to live to the best of her abilities for as long as she still has available. At this juncture, We Live in Time fragments: the story of how this couple got here - complete with ultra-contrived meet cute - is set, sometimes arbitrarily, alongside the story of how this extra time plays out, a process that sees these kids venture into childrearing and, in the Michelin-starred Almut's case, into high-level competitive cheffing. Watching on from the cheap seats, we soon realise the whole film is a varyingly finessed contrivance, designed to bring two very likable performers closer together - and close enough for the rest of us to feel something by proxy.


It's not just at a structural level that We Live in Time presents as a grab bag. What we're watching is 70% movie hogwash, 20% nice human moments and 10% hogwash that makes for nice movie moments; that ratio even persists at a cellular level, within individual scenes. It might be enough to justify a night out in this first, broadly unpromising week of the New Year - we do, after all, live in very real, very specific time - but to take the longer view for a moment, I was never wholly persuaded what atomising this story, blowing it up and asking us to reassemble its pieces mentally, really achieves, beyond perhaps keeping bland Working Title-like chronology at bay. Certainly, any cause-and-effect goes up in smoke, gets vaporous: first Almut refuses chemo, then she's on it, and the couple's child proves even more incidental to the action than the kid in Challengers. (The point may be that life is arbitrary and random, but it's also hard not to think that certain screenwriters just aren't interested in the dramatic possibilities of parenting.) A second later, though, something sputters or flickers into near-life; it's a sporadically working title. Credit Crowley with getting the best out of his actors once more. His leads here keep this perilously whitebread couple interesting and sympathetic, and at least try to the keep the action real, although I must confess a lot of the film's credibility vanished for me the instant Almut was revealed as not just a lauded chef but a former international ice skater. (And some people claim the movies are still in touch with reality.) Crowley's previous films never shied away from melodrama, but it was generally a means of accessing material that felt emotionally vivid and true. Here he's visibly encouraging viewer indulgence. Garfield polishes off Jaffa Cakes in the bath; a pregnant Pugh expresses a craving for Tunnock's tea cakes; at a low point, a doctor passes round the Celebrations. The film itself proves as artificial as peanut brittle; even this viewer, proud owner of Britain's sweetest tooth, emerged far from fully sated, but maybe that's what results when creatives hand you a bag of promising ingredients and invite you to assemble the full meal yourself. (You start snacking on whatever's to hand.) We Live in Time is almost commendably bold in this abdication of editorial responsibility; the trouble is it's no more moving or stirring than the first five minutes of any Ready, Steady, Cook.

We Live in Time is now playing in cinemas nationwide.

Thursday, 2 January 2025

In his shoes: "Nickel Boys"


RaMell Ross's first film, 2018's lyrical documentary 
Hale County This Morning, This Evening, found a new way of looking at American life; at once dreamy yet sharp-eyed, it was that rare example of non-fiction where the camera, liberated from stubborn objectivity, felt like an observer with its own distinct personality. In Ross's first stab at literary adaptation - the already much-praised Nickel Boys, drawn from Colson Whitehead's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel - that gaze persists, for better and worse. The new film represents a revival of the first-person camera perspective, which is to say that almost everything we see is observed from the viewpoint of Whitehead's protagonist Elwood Curtis. Occasionally, we catch Elwood himself (played first by Ethan Cole Sharp, then by Ethan Herisse) reflected in a window or mirror. Mostly we're looking through the eyes of a young Black lad growing up in the America of the early 1960s. We look up at the family Christmas tree and the adults crowded around the poker table; we look at a TV showing a Martin Luther King speech; we look towards adoring grandmother Hattie (Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor), noting the love in her eyes; and we look on at the cruelties of the reform school system Elwood is forced to negotiate. What's impressive is how quickly this approach takes and sticks. Partly it's our familiarity with this perspective, gained if not from such first-person oddities as 1946's Lady in the Lake, then from the kill scenes in slasher movies and, more recently, the comic business of TV's Peep Show. Partly it's because Nickel Boys affords us time to get used to it. Crucially, it never seems a forced perspective, because Ross shoots a lot of casual, everyday, even bitty-seeming material, the kind of spots and vignettes that made up his previous film: a school brochure sliding down a fridge door, pencils stuck in a classroom ceiling, a thread being wrapped tightly around a thumb. The film's opening stretch is basically collaging formative memories, but it also goes to our recognition of Elwood as a restless, curious, distractible soul. Having Robbie Williams played by a CG chimp is a gimmick (or at best a USP), because it doesn't finally tell us anything new. (Not least as nobody in Better Man ever mentions the fact.) The camera perspective here is a tool, because it opens something up.

For starters: an idea of physical and emotional growth, and the threats to same. Yes, it helps that this camera is initially knee-high to a grasshopper and literally rises scene by scene. But it also allows us, from time to time, to look Elwood's white oppressors squarely in the eye, and to observe in close-up someone who denies your existence or truly, plainly hates you. It's not just that Nickel Boys teaches us how to watch it, it's that it teaches us how to read individual images and clusters of images and figure out - as Elwood himself comes to figure out - exactly what they mean. The aim is to bring the viewer (and, I suspect, the non-Black viewer in particular) closer to the experience of what it is to be Black in a systematically racist America, and the film's most effective sequences compress the distance between camera, character and viewer to such an extent that these three elements become one. Formally, then, Nickel Boys is nothing if not ambitious. For some while, though, what we're actually looking at (never mind the perspective, for a minute) is visually pretty conventional: a handsomely appointed, awards-ready period coming-of-age saga that also doubles as a parable of Black endurance and survival. That opening stretch is quietly radical rather than fervently revolutionary, mindful of an assumed awards-season audience it doesn't want to alienate or throw off. Having got us comfortable in Elwood's shoes, however, Ross begins to take bolder, lengthier strides: interruptions to the timeline (flashforwards that envision a future of some kind for these characters), deviations from the established POV (other bodies, other shoes, other positions in space). The movie grows as Elwood grows, in other words, assuming greater formal complexity, but its perspective fragments. Suddenly, we see Elwood Now set alongside an Elwood of the future (Daveed Diggs), burdened with a sense of Elwood Then, and Ross's boundless empathy - and editorial skill - ensures the film does right by all these iterations.

Again, much about Nickel Boys is impressive indeed. If I held onto one lingering reservation, though - and only more tightly through the second half, which means I can't quite frame Ross's film as the readymade masterpiece some have - it's the failure or unwillingness to articulate a clear and precise understanding of the horrors of the Nickel Academy, and of the wider society that enables it. I can but whisper this, in the face of some of the season's most rapturous reviews, but Nickel Boys does seem an insistently tasteful adaptation of Whitehead's book - doubly so, if you were to set it against the memory of Barry Jenkins' overlooked Prime Video adaptation of the same author's The Underground Railroad, with its searing, unforgettable images, or Peter Mullan's fierce, often unrestrained The Magdalene Sisters, on comparable subject matter. Those works had fire in their bellies, which was sporadically allowed to rage across the screen and illuminate, but Nickel Boys proves an altogether slower, more controlled burn; you sense Ross never wants to scald the viewer (or reopen old scars), which is honourable, if something of an artistic limitation. Those rave reviews are clearly responding to that delicacy, to Ross's thoughtful, careful handling, and these are inarguably among the film's qualities, but this retelling supposes on some fundamental existential level that the worst brutalities of an oppressive society forever exist just out of sight or within PG-13 guidelines, which demonstrably isn't the case. (We might do well to trust the evidence of our own eyes on this one, but even Steve McQueen's 12A-rated Blitz, which the same critics sniffed at en masse, snuck so much more context into each frame.) Ross's dreaminess clouds and softens Elwood's gaze: from these images, I got that the kid's classmates were dying off, but never really how or why. The consolation, and this has clearly been enough for most early responders, is that this camera sees so much else besides: at the very least, Nickel Boys demonstrates how one tweak or rethink of the directorial line of approach can imbue what might otherwise have been another museum piece with bruising, moving, galvanising lived experience. Even if it doesn't see everything, it still sees more than most.

Nickel Boys opens in selected cinemas from tomorrow.