Thursday, 6 March 2025

On demand: "No Other Land"


So long as the world fails to secure peace in the Middle East, it may well be the case that every generation has its own Middle East documentaries. The last standout titles on this mournfully sorry front hailed from 2011:
The Gatekeepers, a structural overview of the Israeli policymaking process, and the more activist minded Five Broken Cameras, which operated at ground level, describing what it was to be fired at, day in day out, by Israeli troops. This year's Oscar winner, No Other Land, falls closer to the latter camp. Fashioned by a collective of concerned citizens - Israeli and Palestinian alike - it holes up in the hilltop village of Masafer Yatta, to the south of the West Bank, and aims to depict what it is for a small Palestinian community to watch as their homes and infrastructure are destroyed by bulldozers, their neighbours flee to live in nearby caves, and their former childhood playgrounds are appropriated by armed Israeli settlers for the purposes of military training. (Everything we witness predates October 2023.) At the film's centre is the friendship between the two nice young men you may have seen picking up the Oscar: Basel Adra, a Palestinian activist who was raised in these parts by a family now facing the imminent threat of eviction, and Yuval Abraham, an Israeli journalist and filmmaker. ("You must be one of those 'human rights' Israelis," notes one of Basel's relatives, with understandable scepticism.) This boyish pair would not have been long out of short trousers as that last wave of documentaries took hold, so in some ways the film they've assembled describes a youthful process of discovery: ingrained though this conflict is, these ever more frequent Israeli incursions are relatively new to them. They can't do much else, save hope they'll escape the tussles with their lives. So they film: the way this village was, the way it's now going, what's not shown and seen on the nightly news.

An earlier generation of filmmakers came up with 2004's Private, a droll but brilliantly pointed fiction in which the entire Middle East crisis was squeezed into a single property on the West Bank. No Other Land adheres to a similar, effective tactic, namely reducing this conflict to a few square metres we come to know like the backs of our own hands: one village, one extended family, one friendship. Anywhere else on the planet, that friendship would be the basis of a feelgood story: two kids from different backgrounds coming together for a common cause. Yet in the West Bank, as they themselves acknowledge and have to work around, that friendship is asymmetrical. As an Israeli, Yuval can travel anywhere, yet Basel, as a Palestinian, has nowhere else to go. His movements are checked by the roadblocks that determine who gets to enter and exit adjacent towns and cities; as a sometime law student, his prospects are limited by the fact the courts are Israeli-run. Masafer Yatta wouldn't be the worst place to make a home, were certain forces not compelled to make it a dead end or dead zone. A bus picks its scattered youngsters up for school, the weather's fine and good for farming, and the neighbours crack jokes in the wake of any raids. You feel its residents trying to get on, to make something work for them - but they're smacked down and flattened at just about every turn, their protests broken up, their pleas for justice ignored, their loved ones threatened and worse besides. As an artefact, the film holds to a video-diary scrappiness: no voiceover, not much context, endless footage of a still-running camera being scrambled away from some eruptive standoff. Its subjects come to seem as bemused, depressed and wearied by the relentless, arbitrary Israeli incursions as we are. Yet therein resides the authenticity: this was self-evidently a project shot under duress and then patched together on a laptop amid the rubble, one eye forever kept out for the IDF. As the situation in the Middle East deteriorates, it may well be a given that the formal quality of the filmmaking undertaken there suffers; with no respite and few opportunities to keep a cool head and even keel, these documents are destined to get more and more ragged. Yet the close-up intimacy fostered by this collective does stay with you: few works have done as much to broaden our understanding of Palestinians as people, rather than the statistics, collateral damage or abstract concept the mainstream media often seem to have settled upon.

No Other Land is now streaming via Channel 4, and available to rent via Prime Video, BFI Player and YouTube.

Tuesday, 4 March 2025

On demand: "Swallow"


A carefully composed fable on the grisly business of consumption, Carlo Mirabella-Davis's
Swallow casts Haley Bennett as Hunter, a young bride living what in theory appears the American dream: hunky, moneyed husband (Austin Stowell), modernist clifftop villa, hours and hours of leisure time, and a first child on the way. Yet the gnawing emptiness of this lifestyle eventually leads her to chow down on something other than the lamb-and-Cabernet combo the couple serve at their dinner parties, a deviation that begins with crunching ice cubes on a night out during which she's once more overlooked, and rapidly accelerates from there. Marbles, drawing pins, pages from a self-help book, batteries, safety pins, huge gulping handfuls of garden soil: it's quite the alternative menu, what even Heston Blumenthal would consider beyond the pale, setting us to wondering just how far our gal is prepared to go to fill this void, and when it's all going to come out, both figuratively and literally.

A scattering of Gallic names among the credits and the red-white-and-blue colour scheme Hunter picks out for the nursery only reinforce an idea this is the semi-respectable American mutation of that very French strain of body horror that began with Claire Denis' Trouble Every Day and Marina de Van's In My Skin and progressed through Julia Ducorneau's Raw to arrive at Coralie Fargeat's recent, much-laurelled The Substance. Mirabella-Davis stakes out the kind of chichi locations more commonly found in Pedro Almodóvar or Todd Haynes productions (cushioned parlours, fancy restaurants), then hones in on the aberrant behaviour that undercuts any notion of comfortable luxury; it's the swallowing, yes, but it's also the shitting that results in bloodstains on the thousand-dollar negligees. The psychology informing Hunter's condition gets left as an intriguingly open question, even as the protagonist submits to therapy. Is this flagrant self-sabotage? Or just something to do, an attempt to reintroduce some tension to an otherwise inert and frictionless existence?

The plot develops in interesting, messy ways. A Syrian nurse (played by Laith Nakli, Ramy's Uncle Naseem) points out that Hunter likely wouldn't have time to incur these first-world problems were she being shot at in a warzone; these unruly appetites assume a new shape with the introduction of the kind of character only Denis O'Hare, the actor's actor, could imagine playing with this level of commitment. It all has something to do with control, and more specifically control over a woman's body - it's recognisably a byproduct of the first Trump administration - and proves all the more impressive for landing at the quietly serious end of the spectrum. Mirabella-Davis rejects the shock tactics and overt sensationalism common in this subgenre, instead rooting everything in tangled character, and thereby arriving at a subtly disconcerting vision of an America in which everybody is stricken by compulsion of some sort. No-one is taking it more seriously than Bennett, who's presumably lost a lot of roles to Jennifer Lawrence over the past decade, but here lands one for the showreel: a next-gen Stepford Wife, allowing the actress to play longing, wilful perversity, pronounced gastrointestinal distress, and a mounting desire to get herself back in order, to settle this stomach once and for all. I couldn't recommend watching at mealtime - not unless eating through close-up footage of endoscopic procedures is your bag - but it might be an idea to keep snacks, of the conventional, high-fibre kind, close at hand.

Swallow is available to rent via Prime Video and YouTube.

Friday, 28 February 2025

For what it's worth...




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

2 (2) Captain America: Brave New World (12A)
3 (3) Dog Man (U)
4 (new) The Monkey (15)
5 (5) Mufasa: The Lion King (PG)
6 (new) I'm Still Here (15) ***
7 (7) Sonic the Hedgehog 3 (PG)
8 (new) The Importance of Being Earnest - NT Live 2025 (PG)
9 (6) A Complete Unknown (15) **
10 (8) Chhaava (15) **

(source: BFI)

My top five:
1. Padmaavat [above]
4. The Big Lebowski

 
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Paddington in Peru (PG)
2 (4) Conclave (12) ****
3 (new) Mufasa: The Lion King (PG)
4 (3) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
5 (2) Moana 2 (U) ***
6 (5Venom: The Last Dance (15)
7 (9) Bridget Jones's Baby (15) **
8 (7) Bridget Jones's Diary (15) *
9 (10) The Wild Robot (U) **
10 (15) The Super Mario Bros. Movie (U)


My top five: 
1. All We Imagine as Light


My top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Death of Stalin (Monday, BBC One, 11.55pm)
2. Lynn + Lucy (Sunday, BBC Two, 11.55pm)
3. Aisha (Friday, BBC Two, 11.05pm)
4. Training Day (Sunday, BBC Two, 10pm)
5. Coriolanus (Tuesday, BBC Two, 11.05pm)

In memoriam: Gene Hackman (Telegraph 27/02/25)


Gene Hackman
, who has died aged 95, was one of Hollywood’s most versatile film actors, at his most powerful playing character roles rather than conventional heroes, tempering toughness and sensitivity in edgy portrayals of troubled middle-age.

Although a towering 6ft 2in, muscular and fit, Hackman possessed a weatherbeaten countenance that made him an unlikely leading man: he never looked like a film star and wore, as the critic Peter Biskind noted, “an average mid-Western look”. Early in his career, Time magazine considered him “a sort of blue-collar actor, slightly embarrassed about art but avid about craft”.

Superstardom was thrust upon Hackman after The French Connection (1971), a visceral, fact-based thriller about a New York narcotics squad detective pitted against a murderous drug-smuggling ring. Hackman was the sixth actor to be offered the part and took it only after it was turned down by Steve McQueen, Jackie Gleason, James Caan, Peter Boyle and even the columnist Jimmy Breslin.

He was, however, wholly compelling as chippy cop Jimmy “Popeye” Doyle, whose maniacal obsession with destroying the ring’s big players leads to a hell-for-leather car chase beneath an elevated railway in Brooklyn in pursuit of a fugitive hitman aboard a runaway train. The breathtaking sequence, masterfully edited by Jerry Greenberg, was the stomach-churning centrepiece of a film that took the director William Friedkin five wintry weeks to shoot. Though the chase owed much to the skill of stunt driver Bill Hickman, Hackman did some of the driving himself.

Among the rave reviews was one by George Melly in The Observer, who found that “in his greasy hat and with a face showing about as much sensibility as a pig’s bottom, [Hackman] is extraordinarily convincing”. Hackman won the Oscar for Best Actor while the film, perhaps improbably, scooped Best Picture.

Such acclaim brought him a torrent of work in films like the prototypical 1970s disaster movie The Poseidon Adventure, in which he appeared as a zealous clergyman, Cisco Pike and Prime Cut (all 1972). He played a professional eavesdropper in Francis Coppola’s The Conversation and displayed considerable comic chops as the blind man in Mel Brooks’ horror spoof Young Frankenstein (both 1974).

After the inevitable French Connection II (1975), Hackman outlined another confused loner in existential private-eye drama Night Moves (1975). But he courted a younger cohort of fans by playing Lex Luthor, Superman’s archenemy in Superman (1978) and its sequels Superman II (1980) and Superman IV: The Quest for Peace (1987).

While Hackman puzzlingly turned down leading roles in such hits as One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest and Jaws (both 1975), Network (1976) and Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), he did accept a stupendous $1.25 million to star in the dismal flop Lucky Lady (1975).

The contract was negotiated by then-agent Sue Mengers, who believed it was a gamechanger that helped rewrite the mathematics of Hollywood. “The minute they paid that money,” she recalled, “Jack Nicholson said: ‘Wait a minute. If Gene Hackman gets that much money, I should get X’. And Warren Beatty says: ‘Well, if Nicholson gets that, I should get X.’ And it became crazed.”

For a while, Hackman’s career became jammed in reverse gear. “I got depressed after a couple of my pictures failed to make money,” he recalled, “and I thought: ‘Hell, I’ll do pictures that will definitely make money and then I’ll have plenty of dough.’”

But his 1983 film Under Fire proved a turning point, convincing him that workmanlike acting rather than money was key. He played a seasoned, cynical foreign correspondent in search of “a nice war, nice hotel, good shrimp”.

Further meaty parts followed in Vietnam adventure Bat*21 (1988); Split Decisions (1988), in which he played father to two boxers; and the film which earned him another Oscar nomination, Mississippi Burning (1988).

In this controversial film about the murder of three civil rights workers amid the uneasy atmosphere of the American Deep South in 1964, Hackman triumphed with his portrayal of the stubborn FBI agent pursuing the killers, a man wrestling with his own identity behind a homely smile.

Eugene Alden Hackman was born on January 30, 1931 in San Bernardino, California, but brought up in the small town of Danville, Illinois, where his father was a journalist on the Danville Commercial News.

Like many Depression-era contemporaries, the young Gene saw Hollywood as an escape route from a dysfunctional childhood. “Acting was something I wanted to do from the time I was ten and saw my first movie,” he later recalled. At 13, his father left home; some years later, his alcoholic mother died in a fire started by an unextinguished cigarette. He considered these early personal traumas to have contributed to his nervy screen persona.

He later explained how he took his rage and made it work for him in films. ‘‘Some of our best screen actors — De Niro, Pacino — look troubled and have that kind of fury. I suppose I do, too. Audiences realise there’s an attitude which says: ‘Don’t screw with me.’” At sixteen, Hackman lied about his age and, against his parents’ wishes, joined the US Marines and was posted to China. He soon regretted the move, proving unsuited to a military career, and left as soon as his three-year term was up.

Returning to civilian life, he supported himself by working as a lorry driver, restaurant doorman and shoe salesman while studying radio technique at the University of Illinois. He took odd jobs in television and learned acting at the Pasadena Playhouse. Never the most promising of students, he was voted the least likely to succeed, along with classmate Dustin Hoffman.

Undaunted, he hitchhiked to New York and talked his way into a summer job at the Gateway Playhouse at Bellport, Long Island. He played in Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge, eventually landing the role of the young suitor in the comedy Any Wednesday on Broadway in 1964.

He had made his film debut in Mad Dog Coll (1961) but impressed more in a two-minute appearance as a racist, unhappily married to the ex-girlfriend of the hero played by Warren Beatty, in Lilith (1964). But Hackman only began to take acting seriously after meeting Marlon Brando the following year. He told himself that if the schlubby-looking Brando could be a star, so could he.

Hackman and Beatty were reunited in one of the most successful films of the 1960s, Bonnie and Clyde (1967). Playing the part of Clyde Barrow’s brother Buck, Hackman won his first Oscar nomination. Appearances followed as a crooked cop in The Split (1968), an Olympic ski coach in Downhill Racer (1969) and the widowed son of a bullying octogenarian in I Never Sang For My Father (1970), which earned him another nomination before his career-changing role in The French Connection.

For what would prove to be his breakthrough role, Hackman spent several weeks shadowing Eddie Egan, the real-life detective model for “Popeye” Doyle, as he moved around Harlem.
Hackman’s later 1970s films included The Domino Principle, A Bridge Too Far and March or Die (all 1977). After his lucrative Superman payday, he spent a couple of years in semi-retirement before returning to the screen at Beatty’s behest in Reds (1981) and as a doomed prospector in Nic Roeg’s cult drama Eureka (1983).

Between 1985 and 1990 he was the busiest star in Hollywood, always grounding and fleshing out his characters. Critics compared him with Spencer Tracy for his ability to burrow into a sequence and find the human subtext: “He is not simply in a scene,” noted one reviewer, “He’s inside it.”
 
In 1990, an exhausted Hackman underwent heart surgery, but he returned, triumphantly, as the brutal sheriff in Clint Eastwood’s revisionist Western Unforgiven (1992), a role that won him the Best Supporting Actor Oscar and earned him several major assignments: he was Tom Cruise’s mentor in The Firm (1993), the rogue submarine commander in Crimson Tide (1995), a movie producer in Get Shorty (1995), a corrupt President in Eastwood’s so-so Absolute Power (1997).

He was never more in demand, attempting everything from voicing an ant in nifty digimation Antz (1997) to playing a criminal mastermind in David Mamet’s clever Heist (2001). Yet after humanising the stern patriarch in Wes Anderson’s The Royal Tenenbaums (2001), his interest seemed to wane. He clocked up his 100th screen credit with the flimsy comedy Welcome to Mooseport (2004), then passed into unofficial retirement.

He had long been uncomfortable with fame, insisting ‘‘I’m a private person… I like to be as average on the street as I can and not picked out.’’ Offscreen, Hackman was a gifted oil painter and a racing car enthusiast, and he spent his later years writing historical novels, claiming he would only return to acting “if I could do it in my own house, maybe, without them disturbing anything.”

Hackman was found dead at home alongside his second wife, the classical pianist Betsy Arakawa; he is survived by three children – son Christopher and daughters Leslie and Elizabeth – from an earlier marriage to Faye Maltese.

Gene Hackman, born January 30, 1931, died February 26, 2025.

Additional reporting by Alan Stanbrook and the Telegraph Obituaries team.

Wednesday, 26 February 2025

Coming around again: "Rockstar"


This week's Hindi reissue is 2011's
Rockstar: that swooniest of dreamers Imtiaz Ali calling the shots, A.R. Rahman excelling himself on song duties, baby Ranbir Kapoor in the title role. Where 2008's Rock On!! offered a study in group dynamics, Ali's field of interest lay in the perils and pitfalls of going solo, yielding what proved an altogether impressionistic portrait of the artist as a young man. Its parameters are established in the opening moments. Having introduced us to Kapoor's wild-maned axeman Jordan at the height of global success, brawling in the street just minutes before taking the stage for the Italian leg of his world tour, Ali flashes back to where it all began: with Jordan in his previous guise of Delhi college wimp Janardhan Jakhar (or "JJ" for short), clad in unflattering woollens, seizing upon Mr. Big's "To Be with You" as his (unsuccessful) audition piece, and generally bemoaning his status and lack of life experience. How's a fellow supposed to come up with worthwhile tunes, when he hasn't even had his heart broken? Enter stage left beautiful, well-bred Kashmiri dancer Heer (Nargis Fakhri) - yes, Heer from Kashmir, a rhyme irresistible in itself - to perform precisely that function. If Jordan is the film's power chord, the stadium-filling behemoth with passion in his heart, fire in his belly and the world at his feet, then JJ is its B minor, a lowly, self-pitying dork with bad hair and ill-fitting jeans. The narrative would be Rockstar's own chord progression, allowing Ali to riff on his chosen theme: how our creatives work their way from here to there on the fretboard of life.

The film's most measurable achievement is that it develops some way beyond its initial portrait of the artist as a young weirdo. Even as late as 2011, Bollywood was still giving young male cinemagoers the opportunity to identify with a protagonist who presents unambiguously as a stalker for some of Rockstar's duration; the one mitigating circumstance is that JJ is stalking the one other person on screen who's very nearly as weird as him. Heer is characterised as a slumming wildcat whose big suggestion, when she stops hissing at her pursuer and grants him a date, is that the pair check out the Delhi equivalent of a porno cinema. "You would have been raped if the lights had come on!," chortles JJ afterwards, a line that strikes the ear as unutterable in the post-#MeToo era. As you may already be gathering, all sorts of caveats have to be offered up when discussing Rockstar in 2025: this is a deeply male vision of the universe (Heer serves as a fickle, then a sickly muse), not unfantastical with that, and romantic to the point of seeming obsessive. It's also hamstrung to some degree by what to Western eyes is going to seem a limited idea of bohemia; as Heer and JJ pass in their twenties through several of Prague's most discreet and decorous stripjoints, you realise the film is also - unintentionally - a portrait of the artist working within tight censorship restrictions. (See also: the "FREE TIBET" banner blurred out in the background as JJ - now transformed into Jordan - plays a gig in support of free speech.) Yet don't be surprised if, even with all these reservations, you still find long stretches of Rockstar sweeping you up and carrying you along, if not necessarily away.

It helps that the film dates from a moment where Ranbir's big kid act retained some residual charm, and that - to his and Ali's credit - the role allows the star to grow up, quite spectacularly, before our eyes. (At one point, JJ appears to gain a stylist, which would seem vital to his and the film's success.) What keeps Rockstar distinctively Indian - and distinct from the Mark Wahlberg film with the similar title - is that on some level it's a drama of reincarnation. Janardhan, JJ and Jordan each have to be crushed in some way so as to be reborn as a new man - a homeless temple player, a musician for hire, an artist in his own right, a god lacking inner peace - with a darker, worldlier sound. (Unlike current release Chhaava, it's one of those films where Rahman's songs are essential to the overall effect.) In Ali's universe, it is the artist's prerogative to mess up - and then keep messing up - until he gets it right; each incarnation of the central character is a flesh-and-blood embodiment of the alternate studio takes we see JJ laying down. (He even has his own unkempt Buddha on standby in Kumud Mishra's canteen manager-turned-confidant Khatana.) Rockstar's own mistakes, wobbles and follies, then, invite reading as part of the process; they can be folded into the overall thesis, which is broadly that you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, well, you just might find you get what you need. (A few lines for a song; a concept for an enduring movie.) At every step, it feels personal, entirely idiosyncratic in its choices, which makes Rockstar a salutary reissue at a moment of generally depersonalised multiplex options, whether the military-industrial propaganda of 2020s Bollywood or something as rote as A Complete Unknown: it is, finally, a film about a rockstar overseen by an artist rather than a committee of producers. I suspect a lot of young Indian men trying to make it in the business may well have clung to it as a consoling post-rejection comfort watch, but Rockstar is also the film that explains why those recent Coldplay and Ed Sheeran gigs across India sold out quite as rapidly as they did: an entire generation has been raised on Ali's damp-eyed, wobbly-lipped, unimpeachably sincere idea of self-expression.

Rockstar is now showing in selected cinemas.

Tuesday, 25 February 2025

Tough guys don't dance: "Chhaava"


After what's been an epically long fallow period, Hindi cinema has another blockbuster on its hands. The question is why a regressive clodhopper like Laxman Utekar's
Chhaava should have succeeded where other recent exercises in nationalist rabble-rousing have sunk without trace. Maybe it's the scale of the thing. The legend of 17th century warrior Chhatrapati Sambhaji Maharaj (Vicky Kaushal) - the William Wallace of the Marathas, standing up for self-rule against the tyrannies of Mughal emperor Aurangzeb (Akshaye Khanna, lifeless under old-man latex) - has here been reimagined along the lines of those overstretched, over-populated roadshow releases by which Hollywood tried to tempt couch potatoes back into cinemas in the 1950s and 60s. Hundreds, if not thousands of extras flood the screen, in set-ups big enough that the uncritical viewer might be persuaded to overlook their essential vacuity. Maybe it's the names attached, and the volume they've been encouraged to work at. The honourable AR Rahman has contributed songs in much the same feverish key as Ponniyin Selvan's "Chola Chola", echoing action that forsakes strategy and intrigue for men hollering battle cries and charging full pelt at one another. Even before this past weekend's endorsement from PM Modi, Chhaava made itself unignorable at what's been a quiet time for Indian cinema - but to achieve that, Utekar had no need for finesse, subtlety or artistry. Where you sense Mani Ratnam and Sanjay Leela Bhansali keep a small legion of tailors, seamstresses and other craftspeople just off-camera to finetune and tighten up their historical visions, Chhaava has roughly two thousand crates of Monster energy drink. The film that results is pumped and psyched, ever-ready to rumble, but also empty calories, fatally lacking in even a shred of personality.

It's also not terribly well adapted. The source is Shivaji Sawant's novel of the same name; as with its producers Maddock Films' recent Sky Force, scenes are insistently datestamped to authenticate their basis in some idea of historical reality. Yet the five-man story team (including Utekar) haven't found the dramatic component that would make this action come alive; everything remains set in stone, predestined. Chhaava has two types of scenes - elaborately dressed meetings, and the thumping fights that got everybody out of bed in the morning - and it's a moot point as to which is the duller over the long haul. Once you've seen one set of angry, hairy men running pikes and swords through another, you have kind of seen them all; desperate to find some variation going into the film's third hour, Utekar turns the lights off during one battle, completing the film's retreat into the Dark Ages. The bigger creative failure here, though, is that of those hypercushioned sitdowns, which never adequately account for why everybody on screen is so huffy all of the time. These back-and-forths nail down the historical lingo, sure - absolutely nobody on screen talks like a regular human being - but without Bhansali's modernising instincts, his ability to spot something of today in the past, the default position of this screenplay is that this is just how people were in olden times. How else was man supposed to measure out his afternoons in the days before Wordle, if not by endlessly shouting in their fellow man's faces and trying to pop their heads off with a shield? As a consequence, Chhaava quickly begins to resemble some lumpen soap opera driven by factionalism and bloodlust. With nothing so elaborate as plot twists on offer, we're instead subjected to one atrocity after another: rivers of blood, a tree of hanged men, shadowplay rape, and a final descent into drawn-out Gibsonian torture, just to rub salt into everybody's wounds.

Kaushal has proven a subtle actor in the past, but here he's playing a hero the film demands we worship, so that subtlety becomes surplus to requirements. Instead, he too shouts a lot, partly so as to get this flat dialogue through a full beard, layers of ceremonial dress and the mud that cakes his features during his damper dust-ups. We know the drill: these are the bellows that are meant to ring through eternity, the Marathi equivalent of Braveheart's freedom cries. But he doesn't half come over as one of those men who shouts - constantly, aggressively - to try and conceal the fact he has nothing very much to say for himself. He may still come off better than Rashmika Mandanna as our hero's sweetheart Yesubai, who at one point murmurs something about wishing she could have our boy in her womb so that she can give birth to him as her own child. In any other context, such an admission might be looked on askance as deeply weird; here, it's just by-the-by, something we're asked to take at face value, the kind of potent emotion strongmen provoke in their womenfolk. With roughly half the remaining dialogue consisting of lusty chants of "Jai Bhavani!", one gets a sense that Chhaava owes its success to being a meathead alternative to the season's nuanced awards bait. Here is a multiplex option that promises no subtext, no ambiguity, no need to engage the brain whatsoever, that delivers nothing but WAR being waged by MEN OF WAR, the kind of basic-bitchery that can become diverting, even entertaining enough under the direction of folks with a sense of humour. But Chhaava betrays no sense of humour - indeed, were you inclined to interrogate it unduly, you'd conclude it regards humour as a weakness. That doesn't stop it from being deeply, Pythonesquely silly in places: the pomposity it lapses into is exactly that of an industry that doesn't have cautionary memories of a Life of Brian or Holy Grail burned into the back of its brain. Mostly, it's so concerned with putting on an imposing show of force that it forgets to be involving or interesting, and becomes deadening where it means to be stirring or affecting. Wise man say: a movie cannot endure on testosterone alone.

Chhaava is now playing in selected cinemas.

Monday, 24 February 2025

On demand: "Luther: Never Too Much"


What do we know about Luther Vandross going into Dawn Porter's career overview
Never Too Much? Not too much, really. That Vandross was one of the most notable American soul voices of the 1980s and 90s, either a streamlined Barry White or an Alexander O'Neal with more consistent songwriting instincts. Those who've read the liner notes will know of his involvement with the group Change, maybe even his 1970s work alongside David Bowie. Anyone with eyes in the MTV era could see that Vandross was an immaculately turned out, approachable sort. Beyond that, however: not too much at all. In its opening moments, Never Too Much gestures towards being a fun night out/in by intercutting different live versions of "Ain't No Stopping Us Now". What follows is in part a concert movie and a commemoration, but it's also been conceived as an education, retracing the steps of a somewhat elusive figure who died too soon; some large part of Porter's project here is to try and fill in the gaps. Vandross's songs initially appear less than helpful in this respect, being varyingly generic odes to love, loss and heartbreak, buffed to a rare sheen by the singer's voice. But the singer was widely interviewed (and apparently a regular on the Oprah show), which gets Porter some of the way in, and he was surrounded by a close-knit, fiercely protective circle of friends, colleagues and collaborators, now only too willing to go on the record about someone they revered - but also someone who was holding a lot back.

The most obvious takehome from Porter's film is that its subject was a quintessential craftsman. Raised on those old Aretha, Supremes and Temptations records, Vandross first broke through as a vocal arranger (even if, one travelling companion notes, "he outsung everybody") before being talentspotted by Bowie, always keeping one eye open for the new and interesting, during the recording of the Young Americans album. Thereafter, this Vandross appears as a faintly Zelig-like figure, found backing up Chic, Sister Sledge and Roberta Flack (opening up a rich seam of songs that sound even better pumped through a cinema sound system), then taking a very Reagan-era detour into adland, singing jingles for Juicy Fruit and Miller Lite. He had the perfect voice to sell anything: smooth, authoritative, aspirational. All he needed now was to sell himself. Vandross had a great product: he'd studied at the feet of masters for so long that the first track he laid down for his debut LP was the film's title song, an enduring, right-out-the-traps dancefloor classic. (The album's cover image - "who, me?" - was its own form of personal statement.) Yet somewhere on the way to somewhere close to the top, the salesman came detached from any stable sense of self. Porter lays it all out: the singer's tendency to eat his feelings, an almost cruelly sharp montage of Vandross describing the various diets he'd been on, the stark visual contrast between the performer at his lightest and heaviest. One reason it's tricky to pin down a mental image of Luther Vandross is that - unlike, say, Prince - he often seemed a physically different performer every time you saw him; the voice was the only constant.

The best music that voice gave rise to was, is and shall forever remain a pulse-racing pleasuregiver and general aphrodisiac: Jamie Foxx, interviewed here, recollects that whenever someone put Luther on, it was on, and I should imagine Jamie Foxx would know about these things. But Porter finds no evidence of offstage romance as Vandross makes his way up the Billboard chart, and in the live footage - even amid his band and often rapturous crowds - this Vandross cuts a faintly solitary, lonely figure. Did we know that Luther Vandross was gay? Was he even gay? His erstwhile backing singers profess they urged the singer to come out, but Vandross resisted making anything clear, possibly as he understood the business he was in, and the loverman image he'd created for himself. The industry had become more receptive of and sympathetic to queer performers - one thinks of Divine and Sylvester, grinding away at the fringes of the post-disco scene - but perhaps hetero listeners such as Jamie Foxx wouldn't have been so inspired to put music by an openly gay man on before galloping towards the bedroom. These were the 1980s, after all: different times. Never Too Much thus aligns with the various Whitney Houston documentaries of recent years, even before Clive Davis turns up, looking more than ever like Mike Reid playing EastEnders' Frank Butcher. Again, the subject is a musician ill-served by the record industry of the 1980s, which merely wanted a flat, shiny, uncomplicated image with which to sell CDs.

Porter's film doesn't have the Whitney story's multiple, crushing traumas - a car crash and a stroke are as bad as it gets - but it may in fact form a more typical study in Black marginalisation: what it suggests is that even someone who appeared perpetually on the charts, and who was on Top of the Pops every other week through most of this viewer's childhood, went finally overlooked, unable as he was to show us who he really was. (An unexpected ally here: Richard Marx, the singer-songwriter who served as Vandross's producer and friend in his final years, and who himself may at some point have been expected to deliver more million-selling "Right Here Waiting"s when what he really wanted to come up with was "Hazard"-like idiosyncrasy.) This isn't, then, one of those hero-worship legacy docs that plays the hits and confirms everything we knew and believed going in. The Luther that Porter leaves us with is a vastly more conflicted figure than we remember, to the extent the filmmaker can weaponise the music in interesting ways: 1988's "Any Love" reframed as a closeted cri de coeur, 1994's note-perfect/deeply dull "Endless Love" - a cover born of a label power-marriage with Mariah Carey - seized upon as the type of musical ventriloquism Vandross submitted to so as to keep his employers happy. Late on, we see Luther rebuffing another inquiry into his personal life: "What I owe you is my music, my talent, my best effort." All three of those are amply showcased, at least, and on one consoling front, the evidence Porter gathers is conclusive: Luther Vandross was really very good at this music lark - so good, in fact, that we may all have taken him for granted for far too long.

Luther: Never Too Much is now streaming via NOW TV.