Friday 10 May 2024

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of May 3-5, 2024):

1 (new) The Fall Guy (12A) **
3 (1) Challengers (15) **
4 (2Back to Black (15)
5 (3) Kung Fu Panda 4 (PG)
6 (new) Tarot (15)
7 (4Civil War (15) ***
8 (new) Love Lies Bleeding (15) ***
9 (5Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire (12A)
10 (new) Macbeth (12A)

(source: BFI)

My top five:


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Dune: Part Two (12) **
2 (new) Kung Fu Panda 4 (PG)
3 (4) Migration (U)
4 (2) Bob Marley: One Love (12)
5 (9) The Equalizer 3 (15)
6 (11) Anyone But You (12)
7 (10) Wonka (PG) ***
8 (new) The Iron Claw (15) ***
9 (7) Oppenheimer (15) ****
10 (8) Late Night with the Devil (15) ***


My top five: 
1. Fallen Leaves

 
Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Animal Farm [above] (Thursday, Channel 4, 2.40am)
2. The Lavender Hill Mob (Saturday, BBC2, 1pm)
3. Clemency (Sunday, BBC2, 12 midnight)
4. 3:10 to Yuma (Saturday, Channel 4, 11.10pm)
5. Calamity Jane (Sunday, BBC2, 4pm)

Thursday 9 May 2024

Dig!: "Shallow Grave"


Thirty years ago, after a noteworthy TV career (including
the rave episode of Inspector Morse), Manchester's own Danny Boyle burst onto cinema screens. Shallow Grave's opening movement - a bumper-level, Leftfield-scored whizz over the Edinburgh cobblestones, restlessly craning to see what's up above or around the next corner - would help define the giddy, wide-eyed, eternally optimistic Boyle gaze in the years that followed. Yet this remains the director's most contained film, mostly unfolding on a single set, painted like Godard's mid-Sixties movies and big enough for Ewan McGregor to ride a bike around at one point. A workably tight John Hodge script charts the breakdown in relations between three insufferably cliquely flatmates (we've all known them) - journo Alex (McGregor), nurse Juliet (Kerry Fox) and chartered surveyor David (Christopher Eccleston) - after the discovery of a million pounds in tax-free used banknotes and a naked, dead Keith Allen in the flat's fourth bedroom. (Some might say Boyle was already on the right track in killing Allen off early, given the actor's track record in early Nineties British thrillers.) It's The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, essentially, brought indoors to counter a far cooler and rainier climate.

The scale of that set was the tipoff: here were creatives thinking big (key lines in Eccleston's opening narration: "this could be any city; they're all the same") and prepared to warp and razz the realism that had been Brit cinema's stock-in-trade for the better part of three decades. It was still identifiably British, as demonstrated by an odd little time-capsule moment: McGregor's wastrel telly addict chuckling at Lose a Million, the Chris Tarrant-hosted game show subsequently overwritten by Who Wants to be a Millionaire?. (A later clip from The Wicker Man now seems to announce the Boyle who masterminded the London 2012 opening ceremony.) Yet its dynamics were something else: the film was slick, irreverent, mischievous in a way the American movies we'd grown up watching were. That confidence was helpful, because it ushered us past Hodge's shakier plotting: I'm still not sure how our trio of anti-heroes get so many dead bodies downstairs without the neighbours noticing, nor why Alex and Juliet stay put after David starts waving a drill around. Thankfully, Boyle's feel for casting and personality is vastly more secure: we know the leads are in mortal danger once Peter Mullan is revealed as one of the goons closing in on them, and individual scenes gain considerably from the interplay between Fox's abrasive matter-of-factness, Eccleston's quiet intensity and McGregor's shit-eating grin. Next stop: Trainspotting. These were careers that hit the ground running, and then some.

Shallow Grave returns to selected cinemas from tomorrow.

Starfuckers, Inc.: "The Idea of You"


The A-list romcom returns, albeit with only a tentative theatrical release and a prime spot on streaming. (You'd think the powers-that-be might be a bit more confident about these things in the wake of
Anyone but You's runaway success, but this version of Hollywood is determined not to learn from its own good news.) Adapted from Robinne Lee's 2017 bestseller, The Idea of You has Anne Hathaway, with her happy-making face and honorable intention of building a career outside the usual franchise channels, as Solene, an LA gallerist and single mother of a certain age; while accompanying her daughter to Coachella - and in the most porous VIP area in corporate music festival history - she crosses paths with British boybander Hayes Campbell (Nicholas Galitzine), or "Hayes Campbell from August Moon!", as the supporting cast excitedly refers to him. Sixteen years Solene's junior, Hayes confirms the pair's connection while our gal is holding up the backstage meet-and-greet line something rotten. (In the real world, there'd be an insurrection on a par with January 6th.) Issues follow once the characters throw off their lanyards and wristbands and proceed into something approximating everyday life, where Solene finds herself being accused of cradlesnatching - or at least snatching away the figure onto whom the so-called "Mooners", young and not so young, have been so aggressively projecting all these years. How dare she try and turn a fantasy into a reality of sorts?

As the combined Internet appears to have realised over the past few days, the movie's one and only selling point is Hathaway, here shrewdly alighting on material that could only ever further her stardom. The entire second act, post-Coachella, is Solene pouring out her brokenhearted lifestory to her boyish suitor (a posh dolt, with a head like an electric toothbrush, but not uncharming in dispatches, and a good listener besides) in comfy locales; thus unburdened, she can start working through the romcom equivalent of a seven-step program. (Initially bemused by the lad's attentions, she's soon flattered, even giddy, and passing through denial and damp-eyed grief on her way to acceptance and happiness.) It's another notable example of a star almost physically elevating their material - Hathaway even makes funny the credulity-stretching bit wherein a woman with the face and form of Anne Hathaway looks in the mirror and appears not to like what she sees - while communicating what some part of the mass paperback audience connected with in Lee's original tome. Solene is a woman who, after a major romantic failure, no longer understands what makes her beautiful - and, evidently, there are middle-aged women who long to hear proofs of self-worth much as some teenage girls do. The trouble with The Idea of You is that it could only ever work for that select demographic; it offers the rest of us nobody to identify with.

For starters, the kid's never much more than a plot device, and in places barely more than a tape recorder, taking on Solene's words and then playing back what she wants and needs to hear. The supporting characterisation is ungenerous at best. Veep's Reid Scott, bringing some of his now-patented New Clooney swagger to proceedings, is repeatedly frozen out as The Guy Who Did Solene Dirty; his new girl, who wants so badly to be friends with her man's ex, is swatted away like a bug; and the other men in Solene's life are pathetic losers, hung up on their exes or dogs. It's a romcom that contrives to be unrealistic in both its plotting and its expectations: perhaps this is faithful to what folks loved about the book, but what's been brought to the screen, finally, is the perspective of an adult woman who really has got all her hopes pinned on fucking Harry Styles as a means of turning her life around. Actor-turned-director Michael Showalter has ways of dressing up such latent sociopathy: sunny exteriors, aspirational interiors, montages, some unexpected Wang Chung revivalism, plus lots of August Moon songs to show off the fact they shot this at actual festivals before real crowds. Yet where the director's 2017 hit The Big Sick had human frailty to keep things interesting, The Idea of You is so geared towards affirmation from the off that its dramatic stakes are practically zero. The lovers are on and off arbitrarily, at a moment's notice; and the rom-to-com ratio is lopsided throughout. (I had the same thought while fidgeting through The Fall Guy: where have all the gagwriters gone? Surely they can't all have migrated towards animated sitcoms?) You watch it in what's become a recognisable streaming mode - even as it goes in one eye, you can feel the film leaking out your ear, never to be thought of again - and with a newfound appreciation for what Richard Curtis and Roger Michell pulled off in Notting Hill, before the latter passed and the former went off the boil completely.

The Idea of You is showing in selected cinemas, and streaming via Prime Video.

Wednesday 8 May 2024

Flesh and bone: "Love Lies Bleeding"


I was less enthused about Rose Glass's debut feature Saint Maud than many, but even I could detect within it a transgressive promise - that its maker wasn't thinking about her material in the flatly literal way most first-timers moving into the horror genre do. At the invitation of indie faves A24, Glass has now been tempted across the Atlantic to shoot super-widescreen under big American skies, to let her hair down and her instincts run wild. Every frame of Love Lies Bleeding speaks to a freedom Glass just didn't have in the British film industry - up to and including the freedom to set foot outside the box and go well over the usual multiplex-thriller lines. She limbers up with small transgressions: an overhead shot of a toilet backed up with shit, sex in a car, used condoms tossed to the kerb. Yet as the movie settles into its primary locations of gym and shooting range - leading us to anticipate some form of gun show - it's apparent that Glass and co-writer Weronika Tofilska (currently wowing as a director on Netflix hit Baby Reindeer: another transgressor in the making) have absorbed a full forty years of theses on the body: its strengths and limits, what we put into it and what comes out. That thinking emerges here in a thousand and one vivid details: gym manager Lou (Kristen Stewart), trying to kick the cigs, masturbating on a couch next to the remains of a TV dinner; a briefly glimpsed clip of Gulliver's Travels on a TV, foreshadowing events to come; bodybuilding wild card Jackie (Katy O'Brian), whom Lou hooks up with (and hooks up with steroids), applying foot powder in longshot, an observation that lends an extra spice to a later instance of toesucking. At all points, Glass's fascination with these bodies is palpable, but it's neither purely academic nor merely superficial. Beneath the sensation and spectacle her crime plot generates, there's a taut narrative exoskeleton and a pulsing, often pulsating tissue of human feeling. Plentiful skin, yes, but also something more substantial to hang it all on.


After all, these bodies are people, too: their constituent flesh and bone a further rebuke to the adolescent thinness of Challengers, with its wipe-clean characters composed of pin-up posters and Twitter polls. By way of complete visual contrast, Glass's film is authentically gross and grabby; it has bad hair, worse teeth and terribly sticky fingers. (The styling throughout is a whole other level of perverse.) After the provincial setting of her debut, Glass has made what appears a very American film: in its mullets and stoplights, its pancakes, milkshakes and bullets in the head, its voracious sense of appetite. (It's a Glass-full, all right.) The good news is that those influences that sat undigested close to Saint Maud's surface have here been fully metabolised. There's a generous dollop of Lynch (some stroboscopic white-line fever as Lou and Jackie go on the lam), but it comes at exactly the point a Lynchian fugue is merited and most effective. Love Lies Bleeding works well as a thriller: after the initial, careful scene-setting, you feel it almost physically accelerating as events start to get away from these characters. Viewers of a certain vintage will be reminded of that golden run of 1990s neo-noirs that began with One False MoveRed Rock West and Bound and became a studio interest with Sam Raimi's A Simple Plan. Yet Glass is pursuing more explosive, transmogrifying effects that the makers of the above films (with the exception of Raimi) probably wouldn't have thought to go for: she's been raised on Jim Thompson and David Cronenberg, which gives her new and surprising places to go. Only in a rushed-seeming climax does she seem to lose her way a little: this is maybe the one film on general release that could do with being ten-to-fifteen minutes longer, the better to set up or contextualise its wildest swing. (That should come with confidence: more time is a virtue for which even American filmmakers have to hold out.)

For all its transgressive verve, Love Lies Bleeding's strongest stretches bear out the old-fashioned strengths of script, actor and director, unified in a common cause. The transformation Glass worked on the mousy Morfydd Clark for Saint Maud is here even more striking for being worked on performers with North American levels of self-assurance; those actors visibly became allies, willing to back their leader to the hilt, and pursue the R-rated extremes she wanted them to pursue. O'Brian has the showiest role, physically shapeshifting in what presents as a long-overdue distaff variant on Robert De Niro's work in Raging Bull. (Told you this was a quintessentially American endeavour in its appetites - although if you close one eye and squint with the other, the plot starts to look something like Frankenstein or Digby, the Biggest Dog in the World.) Next to her, Stewart gives a masterclass in stealth acting, working expressive wonders with kicky, single-word ejaculations: a sarcastic "yay" as Lou finally unblocks that toilet, a very funny, self-chiding "no" as she spots the pack of smokes protruding from a corpse's pocket, a stunned "huh?" as she's double-crossed by someone close to her, a decisive "yup" as she fights back. (An arc in three-letter words, gifted to a character called Lou: crossword compilers stand and applaud.) Seeing Jena Malone - the Stewart before her time, the Stewart 1.0 - cast as Lou's sister is like seeing the indie stars align; and Dave Franco and an apparently mummified Ed Harris do a sterling job of embodying the worst attitudes known to blue-collar man. After several weeks of notionally major, much-trumpeted American movies that have seemed more like ideas for movies - free-floating, vaporous, so sketchy you could poke a finger through them - it's fun to see a movie with ideas. If Love Lies Bleeding can't finally trap them all between its mitts, it sure serves body, and it does have heft. This one grips and bruises - and if you're not expecting it, it may also give you a slap or two upside the head.

Love Lies Bleeding is now playing in selected cinemas.

Tuesday 7 May 2024

In memoriam: Laurent Cantet (Telegraph 07/05/24)


Laurent Cantet, who has died of cancer aged 63, was a French writer-director who brought a subtly probing, non-judgemental gaze to a run of films that doubled as parables of contemporary life, most notably the Palme d’Or-winning The Class (2008). “I’m always interested in showing the complexity of our world,” Cantet said. “What’s always difficult is making a film that deals with reality without being too didactic.”

Consequence was central not just to Cantet’s narratives, but also within the wider filmography, each project seemingly containing the seeds of future work. Where Human Resources (1999) stalked a business-school graduate sent to oversee layoffs at the factory employing his aging father, Time Out (2001) followed a man so ashamed at losing his job that he drives around during office hours, pretending to be gainfully employed. “This movie,” wrote The New Yorker’s David Denby, “makes one grateful that a serious European art cinema still exists.”

Time Out paired Cantet with screenwriter Robin Campillo, himself later a director of note. The pair reteamed for Heading South (2005), an adaptation of Dany Laferrière’s short stories about white women visiting Haiti in the 1980s. Despite a typically steely Charlotte Rampling performance, the film yielded scattered critical responses, yet Cantet and Campillo rebounded with The Class, at once a modern classic, strikingly different from the sentimental school dramas of yore.

For starters, its source was a memoir by the essayist François Bégaudeau about the disillusion he felt while teaching. Cantet asked the boyish Bégaudeau to play a version of himself opposite real-life pupils in a dramatisation of the incidents that pushed him to quit. In his Time review, Richard Schickel noted this hard-won authenticity: “It is hard to think of another film more tightly autobiographical than this one. It’s even harder to think of other films that build so gripping a narrative out of a string of comparatively minor and disparate incidents.”

Cantet sensed he was onto something when teachers at the Parisian school he was filming at complained pupils were more motivated about attending his fictional lessons than their own real ones; a last-minute entry at Cannes, the film eventually scooped the festival’s top prize, becoming the first French winner for 21 years.

Although beaten to the Foreign Film Oscar by the Japanese drama Departures (2008), The Class proved a notable arthouse success, a film that asked big questions about education without losing sight of what makes a compelling story. “Fiction is really important in my films, even if it deals with something very real and very social,” Cantet told one interviewer. “I think that putting political and social issues first would make people afraid to come and watch the film.”

This particular fiction reflected the director’s roots. Laurent Cantet was the son of two teachers, born April 11, 1961 in the commune of Melle in western France. He studied photography at university in Marseille before attending the national film school IDHEC.

Initially Cantet ventured into non-fiction, assisting the veteran documentarist Marcel Ophuls on Veillées d'armes (1994), on the siege of Sarajevo. Yet he broke through with striking short and medium-length fictions: Jeux de plage (1995), a coastal blueprint for Human Resources that won the Prix Jean Vigo for Best Short Film, and the made-for-TV Les sanguinaires (1999), about a man retreating to an island off Ajaccio to avoid the mania of Y2K.

Following his Cannes triumph, Cantet was tempted westwards. In Canada, he filmed Foxfire: Confessions of a Girl Gang (2012), an appreciably textured and detailed adaptation of Joyce Carol Oates’s novel. He then headed south to Cuba for the portmanteau 7 Days in Havana (2012) and Return to Ithaca (2014), a characteristically intelligent if somewhat underpowered drama about old friends reuniting on a rooftop terrace to discuss their place in revolutionary history. 

Thereafter Cantet came home, reteaming with Campillo for the Marseille-set The Workshop (2017), which updated the cross-generational debate that so elevated and electrified The Class with the added dramatic charge of online nationalism. That aspect of Web-enabled chaos was central to Cantet’s final film, Arthur Rambo (2021, unreleased here), in which an emergent media personality has his upward mobility checked by the discovery of hateful Tweets posted by his younger self.

His social commitment extended offscreen: he was affiliated with the Collectif des Cinéastes Pour les Sans-Papiers, who provide support to undocumented migrant workers, and he served as the president of Passeurs d’Images, an association which campaigns for greater film literacy in schools.

Promoting The Workshop, Cantet spoke of the need for society to engage the young: “I was very happy at the end of shooting, [as] one of the guys [in the non-professional cast] thanked me for the wonderful experience he had. He told me, “You know, it’s the first time I’m speaking that much. Not just joking with friends — I know how to do that — but with the film, for a few months, we had to think precisely [about] what we are living today, and it was a great experience.” I think that’s what we should do with young people: give them space to think together.”

Laurent Cantet, born April 11, 1961, died April 25, 2024.

Monday 6 May 2024

Save it for later: "The Fall Guy"


The Fall Guy
 sees Hollywood going postmodern again, much as it did with 1995's The Brady Bunch Movie, 2012's 21 Jump Street and - yes - last year's wildly successful Barbie. It takes the core premise of Glen A. Larson's early Eighties teatime telly favourite (genial stuntman gets into scrapes), then tarts it up with latter-day faces, non-stop winks to the audience that they're watching a silly little (big) movie based on a thin sliver of a show, and endless stunts that somehow looked far more exciting in the trailers we've spent the best part of the last six months sitting through. Nothing else matters, as signalled by the way David Leitch's film shrugs blithely and artlessly past a career-threatening injury its hero suffers inside the opening ten minutes: "no big deal" seems to have been everybody's watchwords here. Drew Pearce's script shambles towards a plot reversal of sorts - Ryan Gosling's Cole Seavers steps off set and into a real-world intrigue involving missing movie star Aaron Taylor-Johnson - then chops back-and-forth between plots A (Hollywood cover-up) and B (Seavers' courtship of director Emily Blunt) with no particular elegance, rhythm or reason. Look, the film pleads with its audience from a very early stage, it's a film based on a show you've most likely forgotten about, so cut us some slack, OK? You'll get to hang out with Ryan Gosling and Emily Blunt for a couple of hours, so that's something, right? What more do you want from a project like this: rigour, thought and wit? Narrative coherence and character continuity? Basic directorial competence?

Let's give The Fall Guy this: it's amiable, which is no small commodity in the modern blockbuster space. It's even sort of striking to see a $130m summer event movie that looks so conspicuously slung together in the minutes before the cameras started rolling. Yet the mutterings you've heard this long weekend as the film limped to #1 at the box office - that it's not quite funny enough, be that not as funny as it should have been, not as funny as Barbie, or not as funny as it would have been had it been made five years either side of the millennium - aren't in any way inaccurate. Leitch, who's spun a co-director credit on the first John Wick into a licence to make meh (Atomic Blonde, Deadpool 2, Hobbs & Shaw, Bullet Train), is primarily on board for the stunts, and appears to have left his performers to work through the dialogue scenes themselves. That may explain why Blunt (as the blondest movie character ever to bear the surname Moreno) sounds decidedly under-miked for her first few scenes, and why she pulls on a latex monster mitt in a bid to enliven a midfilm telephone call (something to do, innit); it also allows Teresa Palmer to grab an early laugh by hurling the distinctively Aussie epithet "povvo" at Gosling, before her character disappears in the edit. Indeed, The Fall Guy is so loose for so much of its running time I wondered whether some critical connecting tissue had been yanked from it, perhaps to convert a punchier, adult-leaning thriller into family-friendly knockabout. With its meandering plotting and apparently randomised cutting strategy, it will likely finish as the least directed-seeming studio movie of summer 2024; Leitch believes his role entails no more than emptying vast binbags full of stuff out onto the screen. Taylor Swift songs! A Miami Vice jacket! Lee Majors! Doggos! The Ted Lasso lady! A surprise cameo from an actor who's been in so many indifferent movies and ad campaigns it really counts as no coup whatsoever! This may be all our bigger movies are nowadays: a waiflike barrow boy's increasingly optimistic call of "Stuff! Come and get your stuff!"

They've kept the stunts, at least, although the Leitch idea of stunts is heavily pixellated, punches fixed in post, and he has an unfortunate habit of cutting away from analogue activity just at the point where it starts to get interesting - as a car approaches the end of a ramp, say - so as to patch in visibly reshot material. Much of this Fall Guy has the look of a missed or botched opportunity, if truth be told. You could well imagine a Fall Guy that shot its protagonist out of a cannon from one set to another, and riffed on different kinds of movies and stunts, much as Barbie riffed on differing ideas of femininity. Yet the romance subplot means the one we've ended up with must return doggedly to the one set, where Blunt's Jody is shooting a duff-looking, Rebel Moon-style sand-and-sci-fi actioner. The idea of the movies Pearce is sending up doesn't really need spoofing, and the action that follows from it gets no more dynamic for sticking The Darkness over the top. There are jokes about Thelma & Louise and autocorrect that are so old I think my dad might have workshopped them; and even the mocked-up movie posters on the walls of Cole's trailer (for the likes of "Bad Cop Good Dog" and "The Puncher 2") look secondhand, as if they'd been used before in an episode of 30 Rock or Arrested Development. Well - hey, look - no big deal, as the film grins and shrugs in its very Goslingesque way. Yet after a trend-bucking 2023, Hollywood would appear to be going backwards again so far in 2024, the dream factory becoming a meme machine that demonstrates no real need for anything so antiquated as scripts or directors. You could watch The Fall Guy on a long-haul flight and not feel unduly huffy or ripped off - but absolutely nothing here is forceful or inspired enough to push back against the online commonplace that insists Gosling (and the rest of us) would do better lobbying for a Nice Guys sequel instead.

The Fall Guy is now playing in cinemas nationwide.

On demand: "Damnation"


Six years before
Sátántangó, and just before the lifting of the Iron Curtain, the Hungarian director Béla Tarr and novelist-turned-screenwriter László Krasznahorkai collaborated on 1988's magnificently doomy Damnation, effectively a Postman Always Rings Twice for the Mitteleuropan flatlands. It begins with the end of an affair. With the woman, billed only as The Singer (Vali Kerekes), calling time on this extramarital fling, her spurned lover Karrer (Miklós Székely B.) hops from bar to bar (one ominously called the Titanik), and inveigles himself in criminal activity - setting up his beloved's husband - as a means of filling the spare time he has on his hands. This slow creep into the shadows is shot in what would later be identified and labelled as the Tarr style: the camera seemingly on casters, proceeding at the pace of a funeral procession past a cast of beat-up or otherwise worndown sadsacks counting the flies in their lukewarm beer. (An early musical number, if that's not too energetic a phrase for it, features the singer lamenting "It's over/All over" like a Dietrich who's never known happiness in her life.) Damnation, exhaustion and frustration are hereby inscribed as fundamental to the human condition - or, at least, simply more central to the human condition than the exhilaration and elevation the American movies of the same period were trading in. In short: we are well and truly down among the dead men.

On the surface - if you caught five minutes on TV in the early hours - Damnation would appear pure arthouse self-parody: black and white and bleak as fuck, moving like molasses, full of glum-faced people pronouncing lines like "I like the rain" while staring numbly into the middle distance. Yet Tarr gives this aesthetic a new vigour. His roving peeping-Tom of a camera drills into the very depths of these scenes and relationships; his players are so drained they go round the back of lifelessness and become as compelling as zombies again. They're doomed, of course - you don't call a film that if your lovers are going to skip arm-in-arm into the sunset - but this is a universe where perdition comes in a thousand and one forms, re-introducing an element of narrative uncertainty. Will one of these wraiths summon up the passion to commit a crime of passion? Drink themselves to death? Drown in the relentless downpours? Be ripped to shreds by the stray dogs roaming these streets? Drop dead from inertia, lethargy, anomie? Or will they merely be brained by a lump of coal loosed from one of the mining carts passing overhead? Being archly modernist creations, Krasznahorkai's damned bang on about being characters in a story, but they're equally suckers and patsies in a conspiracy the movie invites us to participate in. That camera circles these bombsite locales as if sensing this is what will be left behind, like a jilted lover, once these people finally disappear from sight, as is their fate: rarely can a film's signs of life (the distant sounds of pick on rock, a concluding piss-up) have registered more like signs of death foretold. In a way, it's no more than brilliant pastiche: a postmortem of the movies its makers watched through jaundiced eyes on flickering monochrome sets. (There's noir here, yes, but also a lot of Antonioni, who I hadn't previously thought of as a Tarr influence.) This team's masterpieces were still ahead of them, and would be entirely their own thing - but Damnation retains a potent kick and hold, like watching the water drain out of the filthiest bathtub you ever did see.

Damnation is currently available to rent via Curzon Home Cinema and YouTube.

In memoriam: Margaret Lee (Telegraph 03/05/24)


M
argaret Lee, who has died aged 80, was a West Midlands-born actress who won fame overseas as a knowing, Monroe-like blonde in a series of European genre movies cranked out in the late 1960s and early 1970s. In the UK, however, Lee remained largely uncelebrated – although her story could have played out very differently had a pivotal early-career audition gone in her favour.

Aged barely twenty, a fresh-faced graduate of the Italia Conti theatre school, Lee found herself in the running to play Tatiana Romanova, the KGB agent who seduces (and subsequently falls for) James Bond in From Russia with Love (1963). She lost out to the Italian newcomer Daniela Bianchi – which made it only more ironic when Lee eclipsed Bianchi to become one of Italy’s biggest female stars, chiefly by playing the love interest in 007 knockoffs and parodies.

In a series of popular comedies featuring the Italian duo Franco Franchi and Ciccio Ingrassia – including Two Jokers at the Moulin Rouge (1964) and General Custer’s Two Sergeants (1965) – Lee served as Dorothy Lamour had done in Bob Hope and Bing Crosby’s Road movies, cutting through the boys’ bluff badinage with flashes of leg and wit. “It was not the career in theatre I had dreamed of,” Lee told one interviewer. “But it was acting.” 

She became a major Italian cover girl thanks to the rash of slapdash spy pastiches occasioned by the opportunistic producer Harry Alan Towers, positioning himself as a cut-price Cubby Broccoli. Our Man in Marrakesh (1966) paired Lee with Tony Randall, Herbert Lom and Wilfrid Hyde-White; in Five Golden Dragons (1967), which spliced espionage capers with the newly voguish kung fu, Lee gave a breathy rendition of the John Barry-aping theme song.

She had a dancer’s pep, appearing in twelve films in 1965 alone: “I adored it. I felt so at home on the movie set that I often would stay behind to watch filming even when I had finished for the day. We often worked very long hours but it seemed to actually give me energy rather than tire me.” Even so, she later confessed to a measure of Marilynesque regret as to how those energies had been applied: “I imagined myself in more dramatic roles, but I guess that is not how others saw me.”

Lee was born Margaret Gwendolyn Box on August 4, 1943 to a mother who’d been relocated to Wolverhampton during the Blitz. At the end of the war the family returned to London, where the young Margaret studied at Greenwich’s Roan School for Girls. (According to one contemporary, the pair spent their teenage years chasing a pre-fame Mick Jagger around the South London rail network.)

After graduating from Italia Conte, Lee successfully answered an advert in The Stage seeking dancers for the Moulin Rouge; once installed on the continent, she won a role opposite Elizabeth Taylor in the Cinecitta-shot Cleopatra (1963), but her scenes were cut from the finished film. Instead, she made her screen debut in lowlier circumstances, appearing alongside 1957’s Mr. Universe Reg Lewis in Fire Monsters Against the Son of Hercules (1962), a routine sword-and-sandals programmer.

Her sensuality was a gift for a newly permissive cinema: in Casanova 70 (1965), she was manhandled by Marcello Mastroianni, whom she described as “sweet”. Yet – like many – she endured a fraught working relationship with Klaus Kinski, the emergent wild man of European cinema, with whom Lee made a total of eleven increasingly lurid thrillers between 1966 and 1971.

Lee felt obliged to correct the record of Kinski’s characteristically unreliable, self-glorifying 1975 memoir All I Need is Love, in which the actor claimed he enjoyed threesomes with his co-star and fellow actress Maria Rohm: “This is totally untrue, and I am sorry he abased himself this way. Klaus and I were chums and he was a close friend of my husband Gino, too; there was never any sexual side to our friendship… ever. I was angry for a while, but now I forgive him.”

Returning home upon the birth of her second child in 1973, Lee booked one episode of the Gerry Anderson-produced ITV caper The Protectors (1972-74), but saw her visibility dwindle due to industry indifference: “I guess because I was known in Italy and to some extent France, but not in England. I did not think seriously of trying to work there.” Her final screen credit, at the age of forty, came with the crime comedy Neapolitan Sting (1983) opposite Treat Williams.

Lee moved decisively to Northern California in the mid-1980s, studying Stanislavski in San Francisco and working thereafter in local theatre: “I mostly thought of myself as an Italian movie actress and had never aspired to be known internationally… In retrospect, this might have been a limitation and a mistake.”

She married three times, to the producer Gino Malerba, Patrick Anderson and Walter Creighton. She is survived by two sons: the production manager Damian Anderson and Roberto Malerba, a producer on the Bond film SPECTRE (2015).

Margaret Lee, born August 4, 1943, died April 24, 2024.

Sunday 5 May 2024

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of April 26-28, 2024):

1 (new) Challengers (15) **
2 (1) Back to Black (15)
3 (3) Kung Fu Panda 4 (PG)
4 (2) Civil War (15) ***
5 (4Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire (12A)
6 (5) Abigail (18) ****
7 (6) Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire (12A)
8 (new) Spy x Family Code: White (12A)
9 (7Dune: Part Two (12A) **
10 (8) Monkey Man (18) ****

(source: BFI)

My top five:


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Dune: Part Two (12) **
2 (new) Bob Marley: One Love (12)
3 (new) Aliens (15) [above] *****
4 (18) Migration (U)
5 (7) The Holdovers (15) ***
6 (2) Dune: Part One (12) **
7 (3) Oppenheimer (15) ****
8 (new) Late Night with the Devil (15) ***
9 (14) The Equalizer 3 (15)
10 (6) Wonka (PG) ***


My top five: 
1. Fallen Leaves

 
Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Silence of the Lambs (Thursday, ITV1, 10.45pm)
2. Name Me Lawand (Holiday Monday, Channel 4, 1.10am)
3. Ferris Bueller's Day Off (Friday, Channel 4, 12.10am)
4. Senna (Sunday, Channel 4, 11.20pm)
5. By the Grace of God (Saturday, BBC2, 1.45am)

A late comeback: "Blackbird Blackbird Blackberry"


Like life, it's almost all over before it's even begun. The heroine of Georgian director Elene Naveriani's Cannes favourite
Blackbird Blackbird Blackberry, 48-year-old beauty store manager Etero (Eka Chavleishvili), is introduced tumbling over the edge of a ravine and only just succeeding to cling onto this mortal coil. As a pictorialisation of what it is to hit middle age, it's uncannily accurate: a rapid descent, leaving our gal to grab whatever comes to hand in the hope of maintaining some distance between herself and a premature grave. This will prove a real kick-bollock-scramble. Once Etero returns to level ground, she throws herself around the neck and torso of the vaguely baffled Murman (Temiko Chichinadze), a married delivery driver. Only in the aftermath of the pair's first sexual encounter, on a stockroom floor, do we learn Etero has finally put paid to her virginity, her erstwhile chastity a consequence of having to raise an abusive brother and tend to an aging father in the wake of her mother's demise. Soon, we appear to be back in Poor Things territory, looking on as this latter-day maiden aunt flings herself at the outside world, armed with a renewed appetite and appreciation for life, before the Reaper can return to make a more definitive claim. On a literal, basic level, that oddball title is a list of what Etero sees atop the ravine before she tumbles backwards into a new life: either a nondescript life flashing before a woman's eyes, or nonsensical last words. (A fourth word is missing: blackness.) But it also anticipates the way Etero changes her life up, and refuses to give into expected routine. Stretching ahead of her (and us) over these two hours: a late-life discovery of sexting, Viagra and afternoon delight in a moderately priced hotel room.

This quest for greater self-determination proceeds with an organic oddness, as opposed to all that forced oddness chez Lanthimos. No fish-eye lenses are required, just Naveriani's in-all-senses curious observation of frames prone to sudden, unusual, unexpected interruption. At the end of that first sequence, just after Etero has inched her way back up to the top of the ravine, a car roars past with some sort of flamingo lilo on the roof, as if to underline the fact that most people hereabouts are having vastly more fun than our heroine. Equally, I don't quite know what to make of the gigantic filo pastries Etero becomes fond of consuming. (Asked in a restaurant whether she wants to take one or two of the slices she's ordered home with her, she raises a firm hand: why wait?) No need for expensive CGI or production design, either; here is the absurd life we would find all around us were we to take a moment to appreciate it. The idiosyncrasy extends to the casting. Tossing all traces of vanity to the wind - presumably because she too has realised life's too short - Chavleishvili would appear to have physically more in common with the rumpled Michael Stuhlbarg or the hulking Michael Shannon than the svelte, yoga-toned Diane Lane types who typically get to have midlife awakenings in our romantic cinema. Yet in her unsmiling, uningratiating, predominantly black-clad way, she remains an extremely funny, incongruous screen presence - almost exactly the last person a movie such as this would normally focus on. The risk would be Ulrich Seidl-like misanthropy, yet Naveriani remains fiercely on her protagonist's side, never more so than when juxtaposing her with the more forbidding members of this community. Why shouldn't the Eteros of this world enjoy an arc of their own, a few scattered moments of late-in-the-day triumph? It's just that the film is never sappy or sentimental about showing it. As Etero smiles at a text she receives from Murman, Naveriani occasions a priceless cut to a village elder scowling at her from the other side of the bus; that rarest thing, a genuine surprise ending, unfolds against the backdrop of a Tbilisi downpour. Here, as elsewhere in Blackbird Blackbird Blackberry, life goes on - but there's absolutely nothing routine about it.

Blackbird Blackbird Blackberry is now screening in selected cinemas.

Thursday 2 May 2024

On demand: "Is That Black Enough for You?!?"


Subtitled
How One Decade Forever Changed the Movies (and Me), Is That Black Enough for You?!? is the eminent US film critic Elvis Mitchell's cine-memoir of growing up in parallel with the blaxsploitation movies of the 1970s. The films under observation were cheap, trashy, often nasty - they weren't always there to make nice, and some even divided Black audiences - but as Mitchell drily observes, they were also energised, far more in touch with wider social trends and shifts than much of the era's studio product, a liberation of some haphazard kind from what had come before. An early montage deals briskly with that backstory: decades of flatly racist stereotypes, white writer-director-producer-stars (of whom Olivier and Orson Welles were merely the most prominent) who thought it perfectly natural to don blackface, Black careers that went mishandled, obscured, obliterated. In its place, Mitchell offers a vibrant parade of Black faces and bodies, seen in everything from glitzy, hyper-expensive mainstream musicals to obscure, quasi-experimental, YouTube-sourced curios. To bolster his thesis, he adds interviews with contemporary Black talent - from the overlooked Charles Burnett to the never more visible Zendaya - who benefitted from these sudden eruptions or redirections of creative energy; these esteemed and illustrious talking heads chattily and candidly address what they themselves have been looking for on screen all these years, and some explain why they haven't quite found it yet. The title, which comes from the theme song to 1970's prime blaxsploitationer Cotton Comes to Harlem, becomes the mantra Mitchell applies to the hundred or so titles that fall under his gaze and ours, another way of asking "does it do us justice?" (In a way the old studio takes on Black life more often than not didn't.)

The editorial approach isn't dissimilar to Mark Cousins' recent compendium films: first person, close-to-the-mic narration, with idiosyncratic turns of phrase that reveal the author's own interests and biases. (My impression was that Mitchell is more of a Sweet Sweetback than a Shaft guy, possibly as the former demands careful critical handling - but he also sees how both films were instrumental in the repositioning and reshaping of the Black screen protagonist.) The clips, which speak to a lifetime of wide-ranging viewing, run the gamut and should in themselves be enough to pull any cinephile in: 1940s zombie movies, where the role of the Black comic support was to roll their eyes and run screaming offscreen; recently rediscovered countercultural artefacts (1968's Uptight and Symbiopsychotaxiplasm: Take One); even Robert Downey Jr.'s ironised blackface in 2008's Tropic Thunder. It is, granted, somewhat ironic in itself to be watching Mitchell's film on Netflix, whose library of pre-2000 titles is patchy at best. Wouldn't it be great to double-bill Is That Black Enough for You?!? with 1973's Cleopatra Jones, or 1974's Uptown Saturday Night? Still, the arguments being made hold: the leads in 1964's Nothing But a Man should have enjoyed longer and vastly more successful careers, and something was very definitely going on in the Black cinema of the 1970s, even if it had to creep into view from the movies' indier fringes (1968's Night of the Living Dead) and got sent back there once Rocky Balboa replaced Muhammad Ali as America's favourite fighter and the Bee Gees repurposed the essentially Black sound of disco. After the Seventies, American movies got whiter again, and it took several more decades to course-correct.

Formally, Mitchell's film is rather foursquare, almost exactly how you'd convert a textbook or reference guide into images: it proceeds year by year, almost month by month, highlighting notable titles with a few minutes of commentary from either the director or his guest stars. If it's sometimes a little clipped in itself, that's surely because its maker was hustling to get in as much as he possibly could, but generally there's a nice, jazzy flow to these 135 minutes, and those films that did make the final cut are grabby, diverting and largely unfamiliar because undercirculated: the legacy problems of 1974 are also those of 2024. The aim appears no greater and no lesser than assembling a canon, but it's a far more extensive canon than you might have guessed from the handful of scratchy Super Fly knock-offs, and Mitchell addends those useful sidebars and footnotes that are the mark of the best critical endeavours. (Call them areas for further research.) I had no idea that The Wire's Glynn Turman, a graduate of blaxsploitation (via 1975's Cooley High) showed up in a Bergman movie around the same time (1977's The Serpent's Egg), and whatever your shade, it's hard not to be stirred by the sight of Harry Belafonte, in one of his final screen appearances before his death last year, recalling his defiant response to one of the corporate film business's drearier ultimatums: "Fuck it, I'm going to Paris." That's the spirit.

Is That Black Enough for You?!? is currently streaming on Netflix.

Wednesday 1 May 2024

Mollywood nights: "Varshangalkku Shesham"


The Malayalam cinema has been enjoying substantial success
not just this year but this past month, so perhaps we should permit it some measure of self-congratulation. Vineeth Sreenivasan's Varshangalkku Shesham has been composed as a would-be rousing hymn to the industry's creativity and durability, its ability to work cinematic miracles with often only limited resources; the drumbeats of its rich, keening songs become indistinguishable at times from the resounding thump of a hearty slap on the back. At the film's centre are two lifelong friends who first meet in the backwaters of late 20th century Keralan theatre and are then reunited, in something close to the present day, as showbusiness survivors, older and wiser, but also greyer, sadder and wearier. Murali (Pranav Mohanlal) is a prodigal musician and songwriter who succumbs to solitude and drink; Venu (Dhyan Sreenivasan, the director's brother) a runner turned writer-director who enjoys a decade of solid hits before losing his way. While shifting us between past and present - the title, translated into English as "Years Later", also serves as an onscreen graphic - writer-director Sreenivasan begins to riff on the way careers are made and destroyed, reputations gained and lost, and how lives switch track, sometimes gathering momentum, sometimes tailing off. Doubtless inspired by several decades' worth of real-world industry legends, it's an innately literary construction - a sort of South Indian Last Orders, with movie love swapped in for military service - announced by early scenes of courtship conducted via notes in the fly pages of college set texts. It helps that the younger versions of these characters are still of an age to dream and woo, but the first hour or so forms the strongest stretch of Malayalam filmmaking I've seen so far this year: proof you can make popular cinema without jettisoning any and every trace of poetry. In movies as in life, however, the problems come later - foremost among them how to keep it up.

For once our heroes pass into the Madras film business - versatile Venu seeing his enthusiasms embraced, Murali watching as his are subsumed and turned against themselves - VS gets both broader and more familiar. On a scene-by-scene basis: Sreenivasan has modest fun recreating the kind of movies that were made in a certain place at a particular time, as per everything from Singin' in the Rain to last year's Hindi TV standout Jubilee. In terms of characterisation, where Murali has been drawn along time-honoured, rather careworn lines as the self-loathing virtuoso who duly pisses his talent away. And in terms of overall shape, too: we pass through break-up, reunion and eventual comeback, each encountered more or less where you'd expect them to be in a film of this type. Sreenivasan pulls off individual coups here and there, such as the creation of a signature song (the movie's equivalent of "Shallow" or "That Thing You Do!") which flows through the drama, becoming the making of one creative and the undoing of another. There's still poetry present, in other words, but its lines and cadences become far less distinct, the script struggling to distinguish its behind-the-scenes war stories from the many others we've seen and heard. Late on, that poetry is replaced by Reels: local favourite Nivin Pauly injects some welcome energy as "Nivin Molly", the social media-addicted megastar headlining Murali and Venu's belated comeback vehicle. Even here, though, VS presents as inflexibly male: it could badly do with a Debbie Reynolds to set alongside its Kelly and O'Connor, the better to stop it hammering insistently away at the same nostalgic notes. For while the film remains genial in its backslapping, it's also two hours and forty-five minutes of men paying tribute to themselves, their genius, their hurt and resilience; while that's no doubt true to the structure and composition of the Malayalam film industry as it was at the millennium, in 2024 it also comes with a real air of locker-room fustiness. The great South Indian films of the past few years have demonstrated a heightened, bustling sense of community, both before and behind the camera. Sreenivasan gets some of that collective magic up on screen, but he's rather keener than you might like to frame it within the context of what is almost exclusively a boys' club.

Varshangalkku Shesham is now playing in selected cinemas.

Tuesday 30 April 2024

On demand: "Drift"


Anthony Chen's contribution to the huddled masses of 21st century cinema's migrant movies 
is a smaller, more intimate affair than most of its predecessors. Drift's heroine, Liberian girl Jacqueline (Cynthia Erivo), has already got where she's going: a sunkissed Greek isle where others travel for leisure and pleasure, while she beds down in a cave, a shaven-headed citizen of nowhere, with only the clothes on her back and scraps of official documentation to show for herself. The issue facing Jacqueline is what's next; it's a migrant movie that dramatises a different kind of transitional period, more psychological than geographical. Chen joins her as she begins to address and process the tumult she's already endured: helpful flashbacks describe her life in Liberia and London, where Erivo sports longer locks, a Stockwell accent, and signs of prior privilege. Back in the present, there's a relationship of some kind with an American tour guide, who represents an easy-breezy freedom and is embodied by Alia Shawkat at her most relaxed. (Practically her first onscreen act is to offer Jacqueline a stick of chewing gum, a gesture that assumes a greater poignancy once we realise it's the closest the latter has received to a free meal for some while.) Amid the rubble and ruins of various fallen civilisations - first ancient bathhouses, then what's been left of an abandoned apartment complex - Drift begins to show us gradual and often haphazard rebuilding, first of a life, then of a trust in our fellow man.

For a while, I wondered whether the film was in fact being too easy-breezy to do full justice to its protagonist's experiences. With good reason, we are suckered by the idyllic scenery - but then you wouldn't have to look too far along the horizon, most immediately to the Lampedusa to which the migrants clung in 2016's documentary Fire at Sea, to see such narratives playing out on golden shores such as this. Within the context of this film, it allows Chen to play with notions of tension and release. The flashbacks capture a slow creep into bloody civil war, the walls closing in on Jacqueline's well-to-do, once-untouchable family, where the present-day action permits the camera (like the heroine, like us) to pause, breathe, relax, take stock. Drift is at its most effective in these quieter, more reflective moments: scenes involving Jacqueline's English contacts (including Honor Swinton Byrne as an upwardly mobile pal who won't for a moment have to worry about armed men invading her back garden) land somewhere between sketchy and soapy - Chen hasn't the budget to fully flesh these characters out - while the dialogue that washes in like the tide in the second half is a touch plain and utilitarian, a means of closing any remaining gaps. Yet the film remains persuasive - and quietly moving - so long as it stays close to two performers you'd probably follow to the ends of the earth, and simply lets them be. With her Tim Roth-like internality, Erivo is particularly adept at suggesting degrees of hurt and pain without saying a word; yet handed a restaurant's complementary bread basket, she turns visibly childlike, and her rare smiles feel like hard-earned rewards. Shawkat, meanwhile, infuses a slightly underwritten part with a spirit - a liberated, adventurous warmth - you might well want to find waiting for you at the end of a long, winding and dangerous road. Drift's essential modesty appears to have counted against it - it lands on streaming off the back of a surprisingly cursory theatrical release - but in the company of its two fine leads, it nudges towards an understanding of what and who we need to heal and move on, and how, in even the clearest of conditions, that progress isn't always as easy as it might first look.

Drift is currently available to rent via the BFI Player.

Monday 29 April 2024

On demand: "Laapataa Ladies"


Given the ideological violence, codified or otherwise, which has set audiences running from the cinema in their droves over recent months, it's a relief to be confronted with a Hindi film that still feels capable of gentility, that isn't merely thumping us around the head with a recruiting manual for the better part of three hours. Kiran Rao's
Laapataa Ladies is a deft and endearing fable, set in a 2001 that seems like tangible ancient history, and founded on an amusingly simple muddle involving nervy newlyweds who've barely tied the knot when they unknowingly stumble towards partner-swapping. Bumfluffed groom Deepak (Sparsh Shrivastava) gets the shock of his young life when the bride he's dragged off the midnight train to meet his parents lifts her veil to reveal a face he's never seen before; the mix-up, it transpires, was the result of a surfeit of veiled brides travelling on the same cross-country service, and some decidedly suboptimal seating arrangements. Such a breach of nuptial decorum would probably in itself be enough to sustain a feature-length comedy-drama, but screenwriter Sneha Desai, working from a story by Biplab Goswani, also explores complications involving the other corners of this accidental love quadrangle. The other woman, the progressively minded Jaya (Pratibha Ranta, who presents with something of Sonam Kapoor's poise), realises this snafu might actually work in her favour, swiftly torching the SIM card connecting her to her betrothed as if she were Jason Bourne; it's thus no real shock when we discover said betrothed, the brooding Pradeep (Bhaskar Jha), is a possessive drunk who's been accused of burning his first wife. And then there is the hardly small matter of Deepak's abandoned beloved, the spooked, unworldly, doe-like Phool (Nitanshi Goel), who descends from the fateful train in an unfamiliar part of the countryside, and finds herself at the mercy of complete strangers.

The opening hour suggests farce slowed down to the pace of an Ealing comedy, the better for us to savour this script's generous story and character beats, and the jokes that bubble up organically from its premise. Phool sees her name inscribed in an exasperated stationmaster's lost-property ledger, alongside the umbrellas and spectacles; an openly corrupt police chief (the terrific Ravi Kishan), who accepts bribes in the form of banknotes or songs, commends Deepak on managing to throw off his other half mere days into wedlock ("I've been trying for years"). In the span of attitudes and personalities it describes, Laapataa Ladies qualifies as a triumph of casting: even the walk-on roles are filled perfectly, and some cosmic matchmaking is evident between the leads. We're never allowed to believe Shrivastava's shy, sleepy Deepak stands a chance with Jaya - not when he's so felicitously paired with Goel's Phool. If the film eventually shades into seriousness - towards notably higher stakes - it's led there by the women. Not just the brides, forced to make their own ways in a society offering them scant encouragement, but those around them, like Manju Maai (Chhaya Kadam), the lived-in chaiwalli who takes the hapless Phool under her wing, telling her the greatest con ever pulled on the fairer sex - limiting their potential in one fell rhetorical swoop - was the notion of "the honourable woman". In a better world, one so wise and so pragmatic with it would be running her own country; here, she's frying bread pakora and hoping things work out for the best. Rao and Desai wear their feminism lightly, setting out characters rather than statements, but those characters' interactions do serve as a rallying call for women to be more forceful about who they are and what they want to be, where they're going and what they say and do there. (The better not to be so interchangeable - or, worse still, dispensable.) The point gets underlined by the elegant, outgoing Ranta and the adorable, homely Goel, giving the most skilfully differentiated and affecting performances in the entire film. "Learn to keep your eyes down," Phool is instructed by her family early on, the kind of dyed-in-the-wool, long-in-the-tooth non-wisdom that proliferates in stagnating societies. Rao's eyes remain open, alert to change and forever forward-facing, which is why Laapataa Ladies works so well as entertainment, but also - particularly in its home stretch, which gifts us the gleeful, Shakespearian spectacle of justice being properly served - as a vision of how India might well better itself, far away from all the flags and guns.

Laapataa Ladies is now streaming on Netflix.