Thursday, 14 April 2011

Backtracking: "Source Code"

And you thought you had a lousy commute. In Source Code, Jake Gyllenhaal wakes up on a train bound for Chicago with no idea of how he got here or who his fellow passengers might be, save that they're variously tetchy or klutzy, abusing railway employees and spilling coffee on our hero's loafers without deigning to offer so much as a single word in apology. Retreating to the bathroom in order to compose his fevered thoughts, he finds the face of a complete stranger looking back at him from the mirror; and just as the pretty girl he's travelling with utters the supposedly reassuring words "everything is going to be all right", a bomb tears through the carriage, killing everyone on board. What's more, Gyllenhaal will relive this experience a further six or seven times in the course of the movie, expiring each time. It's better than going by First Capital Connect, but perhaps not by much.

Director Duncan Jones' 2008 debut Moon was a two-man show, a showcase for both a newbie filmmaker and his leading man Sam Rockwell. This follow-up is equally contained - for two-thirds of Source Code's duration, we're stuck on the train alongside Gyllenhaal - yet somehow more expansive. It could certainly be described as a post-Matrix (or post-Avatar) movie, in that the hero is caught in a kind of limbo for much of it, present only as a series of thought impulses: Jake's Captain Colter Stevens is, in fact, wired up inside a hub as part of a military program that allows combatants to be beamed into the bodies of the deceased in an attempt to to prevent certain atrocities. He has exactly eight minutes (a technological limitation) to figure out who planted the bomb on the train.

On his first pass, he has no idea what's about to happen; on the second, he locates the explosive device, but can't disarm it; on the third, which plays like a romantic interlude of sorts, he tries to get the pretty girl (Michelle Monaghan) off the train, only to himself end up back on the tracks. At once, Source Code appears to be channeling Groundhog Day, Quantum Leap (Jones recognises as much, by casting that show's leading man Scott Bakula on the other end of a telephone as the hero's father) and Before Sunrise. It is, also, an opportunity for an upwardly mobile director to refine their craft. Each eight-minute sequence becomes, in effect, a separate take; like his hero, Jones has to work out how to get the best from the limited time available to him. As with Bill Murray's weatherman in Groundhog Day (or the players of any console game), the process of rebirth gives Stevens the chance to learn from his mistakes - and it's sort of telling the Captain should have been beamed into the body of an American history teacher: the bombs in Source Code arguably wouldn't have the impact they do outside of our present climate of fear.

Yet, for all this, the film isn't quite as satisfying as its admitted sources. The narrative is meant to excuse the degree of repetition that sets in, but the casting doesn't really help Jones's cause. Not one supporting character is as vividly etched as Groundhog Day's Ned Ryerson, or even Alan Ruck's worrywort from Speed, still the pre-eminent high-velocity, high-concept transportation thriller of this kind. Gyllenhaal, granted, improves upon his Prince of Persia action man by a) putting a shirt on and b) tapping into a vein of goofy humour that gets us past the schlockier developments in Ben Ripley's script, but it's a pity his nemesis should be a lone milquetoast with not much motive and nothing to do with the real world. Vera Farmiga holds up her end as the Captain's commanding officer, but Jeffrey Wright is pretty ropey as the source code's originator and twitchy, limping red herring badass, and Monaghan seems, as so often, a second- or third-choice romantic lead; Liv Tyler's return to acting can't come soon enough, as far as this viewer is concerned.

After his largely interior debut, Jones busts out with helicopter shots of Chicago's intersecting streets and railroads, corresponding as they do to a line of inquiry in Ripley's writing about the forks in paths we arrive at in life. It's a committed bid for the Hollywood action big leagues presently topped by fellow Brit Christopher Nolan after Inception, and Jones does well by the widescreen stuff while retaining the sharp eye for detail Moon relied upon: as it was there, Chesney Hawkes' one-hit wonder "The One and Only" becomes a shorthand signifier of how truly hard it is to retain your individuality in the postmodern worlds these films describe. Source Code's middle ground, though, is just OK - indifferently directed filler, scarcely indistinguishable from a half-dozen other action movies - where Nolan, at his best, has managed some distance better than that. Confident, efficient Saturday-night entertainment, then, but - for all Ripley's believe-it-or-not references to parabolic calculus - not greatly more profound, mysterious or affecting than Tony Scott's Unstoppable.

Source Code is on nationwide release.

Friday, 8 April 2011

For what it's worth...

Top Ten Films at the UK Box Office
for the weekend of April 1-3, 2011:

1 (new) Hop (U) [above]
2 (new) Source Code (12A)
3 (1) Limitless (15) ***
4 (new) Sucker Punch (12A)
5 (3) The Eagle (12A) **
6 (2) A Turtle's Tale: Sammy's Adventures (U) **
7 (4) Rango (PG)
8 (5) Unknown (12A) **
9 (7) Anuvahood (15)
10 (9) The Lincoln Lawyer (15)

(source: UK Film Council)

My top five:
1. Les Diaboliques
2. Cave of Forgotten Dreams
3. Submarine
4. Your Highness
5. Source Code


Top Ten DVD rentals
:

1 (1) The Social Network (12) ****
2 (new) Due Date (15)
3 (new) Made in Dagenham (15) ***
4 (3) RED (12) **
5 (2) The Town (15) ****
6 (new) Tamara Drewe (15) **
7 (5) Inception (15) ***
8 (9) Grown Ups (12) *
9 (new) Megamind (PG) ***
10 (8) Knight and Day (12) **

(source: lovefilm.com)

My top five:
1. Monsters
2. Of Gods and Men
3. Two in the Wave
4. Somewhere
5. Megamind


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Untouchables (Saturday, C4, 12midnight)
2. Scream (Wednesday, BBC1, 11.15pm)
3. Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Wednesday, C4, 12.35pm)
4. Hellboy (Sunday, five, 7.40pm)
5. The Day The Earth Stood Still (Monday, C4, 12.20pm)

Apologies for patchy service this week; still operating on Caribbean time. Will do my best to catch up over the next seven days.

Thursday, 7 April 2011

On DVD: "The American"

Anton Corbijn's follow-up to his much-admired 2007 biopic of Ian Curtis is a studio star vehicle that concerns itself with an altogether different form of control. The American opens with a scene most Hollywood hitman movies leave until the beginning of Act Three, by way of a comic twist: someone discovering, amid the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire, that their beloved really does have a pistol in his pocket after all. Here, however, the revelation takes place against a snowy, desolate Scandinavian backdrop, and matters go badly wrong in a way that only serves to underline how isolated the protagonist, George Clooney's gunmaker-for-hire Edward, truly is.

Dispatched to a picturesque Italian village by his superiors - the idea being that a little sun might do this mope good - Edward goes a low-key kind of rogue, befriending the local priest (Paolo Bonacelli) and working out in that show-offy fashion common to films where the star is an executive producer. (Clooney reveals a weedy butterfly tattoo on his lower back, a symbol that will rematerialise as kitsch come the finale.) Our man is clearly in search of something - or maybe he's just trying to put his past behind him, to work something out in another way. It falls to a pair of women to coax this numbed figure back to life: first, his in-every-sense contact Mathilde (Thekla Reuten), whose opening gambit is to engage Edward in cold, hard shoptalk with an undertow of erotic possibility: "I want something large, a .556 preferably."

When the hero wonders whether this female assassin has been followed to their first meeting, Mathilde is insistent: "I'm alone". These are words that get to the crux of the matter, for what concerns The American more than anything is how far it might be possible for one man to remain truly alone, especially when he happens to look like George Clooney. Which is to say what we're dealing with here is photogenic existentialism, and thus poised on the very brink of absurdity throughout: given that Reuten sets out for a session of target practice in the countryside as though modelling the M&S spring collection, we might wonder when did the hired killers of Central Europe get so ravishing? (Perhaps, in the movies, it was ever thus.)

The brothel Edward frequents to ease the burden of solitude is improbably stocked with extras from a Fellini movie circa 1972, although Violante Placido as the hooker who opens up a secondary avenue for our hero's redemption - warning: it involves symbolic cunnilingus, in what might be a contender for any movie equivalent of the Bad Sex Prize - has at least been able to cultivate the curves-and-pubic-hair combo that seems beyond the remit of her Californian contemporaries.

Corbijn, at least, works the film's silences, its downtime, in a thoughtful, considered manner. "I'm no good with machines," Edward claims at an early stage, yet the evidence presented would suggest he's actually far better with tools than he is around people. The American's most compelling stretches find Clooney tinkering with his equipment: putting the pieces of his life back together again, trying to make something fit, or work, or go. The actor is often shot in profile, mulling things over, looking into the void; the film's climate may seem superficially sunnier than the grey and grimy monochrome of Control, yet its bleak worldview is not entirely dissimilar. That's, ultimately, part of the problem: the attempt to mix Hollywood glam with something tougher, sparer, more European doesn't wholly take, and what we're left with often looks like a Arena photoshoot modelled on Le Samourai.

If there's one element that keeps The American on just this side of terminal silliness, however, it's the star. Clooney has increasingly come to distance himself from the insistent clubbiness of the Ocean's movies to play a series of skilful variations on the man-in-exile theme. For The Sexiest Man on Earth™, he appears uncomfortable indeed in his love scenes with Placido, almost embarrassed - as he never was by Vera Farmiga in last year's Up in the Air - to have been confronted by the beauty of a woman almost twenty years his junior; such awkwardness perhaps goes towards a character both trying to reconnect and afraid to let his guard down again, but Clooney is more immediately persuasive in those scenes that find Edward alone, hunched over the workbench or haunting cafes, and particularly in the moment where, on his first legit date with the hooker, he finds himself stranded on the other side of the dinnertable, wondering if he can allow the pair of them to get it together.

The actor appears physically slimmer than in recent films, as though Edward were gnawing away at himself with guilt and doubt, and as if Clooney were intent on demonstrating he's now capable of playing not only Cary Grant (debonair lead), Frank Sinatra (Rat Pack rogue) and Barack Obama (liberal lynchpin), but Alain Delon (neurotic outsider) to boot. The American's best hope may be as an entry point into the more leftfield sections of the star's filmography for those fans who adored the sudsy romanticism of e.r., but couldn't honestly bring themselves to rent the remake of Solaris: it's too pretty on a basic level to convince as the pared-down noir Corbijn appears to be proposing, and it's telling the grisliest demise involves a gun designed to explode in the user's face. Everything here comes back to the eye, not the soul.

The American is currently available on DVD.

Friday, 25 March 2011

Goin' south...














Hoping it's altogether more a) than b).

Just a heads-up - I'm now off to the Caribbean for my first proper holiday in nine years, which means there won't be any updates here for the next two weeks. Bear with me, and something like a normal service should be resumed by the weekend of April 9-10th. Unless I've decided to stay on the beach for good...

For what it's worth...

Top Ten Films at the UK Box Office
for the weekend of March 18-20, 2011:

1 (2) Rango (PG)
2 (1) Battle Los Angeles (12A) **
3 (3) Unknown (12A) **
4 (new) Chalet Girl (12A) ***
5 (new) The Lincoln Lawyer (15)
6 (5) Hall Pass (15) **
7 (new) Anuvahood (15)
8 (4) The Adjustment Bureau (12A) ***
9 (6) The King's Speech (12A) ****
10 (8) Gnomeo and Juliet (U) **

(source: UK Film Council)

My top five:
1. Les Diaboliques
2. Cave of Forgotten Dreams
3. Limitless
4. Benda Bilili!
5. Ballast


Top Ten DVD rentals
:

1 (1) The Social Network (12) ****
2 (2) The Town (15) ****
3 (3) RED (12) **
4 (new) Let Me In (15) **
5 (4) Inception (15) ***
6 (new) Jackass 3 (18) **
7 (8) Eat Pray Love (12) **
8 (7) Knight and Day (12) **
9 (9) Grown Ups (12) *
10 (10) Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps (12) **

(source: lovefilm.com)

My top five:
1. Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives
2. The Arbor
3. Dream Home
4. Made in Dagenham
5. Unstoppable


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Rope (Monday, C4, 12.30pm) [above]
2. Anatomy of a Murder (Saturday, BBC2, 1pm)
3. Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (Sunday, BBC2, 5.15pm)
4. While You Were Sleeping (Saturday, five, 12noon)
5. Halloween: H20 (Friday, BBC1, 11.50pm)

Early works: "Cave of Forgotten Dreams" and "The Eagle" (ST 27/03/11)

Cave of Forgotten Dreams (U) 90 mins ****
The Eagle (12A) 114 mins **


Roll up, roll up. Cave of Forgotten Dreams, Werner Herzog’s latest documentary-exploration, qualifies as both a journey to the centre of the earth and a voyage back to the dawn of mankind – in digital 3D, no less. Its subject, the Chauvet Cave in Southern France, was discovered in 1994, having been sealed for aeons by a rockfall that preserved the treasures lying within: evidence of several long-extinct species, and Man’s earliest recorded cave paintings. An understandably snooty gallery, the Cave operates certain restrictions. You or I probably wouldn’t get in; those that do are confined to an hour’s tour along a steel walkway, so as not to disturb the immediate environment. There doesn’t appear to be a gift shop.

The paintings are a remarkable spectacle in themselves, notable not just for being the first of their kind, but for their relative sophistication. Much of the fascination stems from the relation they bear to their surrounds, with their trompe l’oeil effects suggesting movement: that of individual frames of celluloid, or – with equines especially prominent – Muybridge’s experiments in recording motion. “Proto-cinema,” Herzog describes it, and the paintings display an evident fluidity of form. The female body is spliced with that of the wide-hipped bison, a link to such Stone Age carvings as the Venus of Hohle Fels – herself an obvious inspiration for the dancing chickens in Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer” video.

As ever, Werner strays as much as he wanders. The second half ventures in search of varyingly engaging eccentrics (mock Inuits, albino crocodiles, a master perfumer perpetually sniffing at holes), while ear-splitting choral music occasionally inhibits the images from speaking for themselves. Yet what Cave loses in focus, it gains in dimensionality. Herzog’s cinema – the upriver sequences in Aguirre, Wrath of God, Fitzcarraldo’s boat-vs.-mountain business – has long strived for a strong, atmospheric you-are-here sensation. 3D allows him to better define the contours and cascades of the rockface under scrutiny – to allow us a heightened feel for the canvas involved.

For this director, 3D specs aren’t blinkers fostering an escape from the world, but goggles, eyepieces – vital kit with which to peer in the direction of our dim and distant ancestors, and contemplate the mysteries that loom out at us. Within the cave, an eight-year-old’s footprints are found next to those of a wolf. Was the latter a tribal pet, or tailing the child as prey? In framing such questions, Herzog invites us to visualise what our planet was like 28,000 years ago, to hang flesh and detail on the bare bones and markings of the Chauvet floor and walls. The result may be the most overtly philosophical application of 3D yet – which is to say, you just don’t get this with Gnomeo and Juliet.


Kevin Macdonald’s The Eagle adapts Rosemary Sutcliff’s revered novel The Eagle of the Ninth with the same dour whiff of Sealed Knottiness that sank Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood. It’s fine if you need to know what Romans ate for supper or the approximate consistency of mud in second-century Scotland, but as an action piece, it doesn’t move so much as retreat to a dusty library corner with a scholar in Celtic tongues.

As Marcus Aquila, the young centurion trying to restore the honour taken from his family when his pa disappeared – along with the titular standard – behind Hadrian’s Wall, Channing Tatum boasts impressively Roman physiognomy countered by Victor Mature-like thespian limitations. Poor Jamie Bell, as sidekick Esca, has only to huddle morosely around a series of campfires before a limp homoerotic squabble over his co-star’s sword that constitutes the film’s one shot at the camp of TV’s Spartacus.

Indeed, The Eagle is all men, no women, and one longs for a lissom dancing girl or conniving empress to break up the visual monotony of earnestly furrowed brows and overly scissored battle scenes. One advantage even the dreariest old Roman epic had over Macdonald’s film is that nobody gets to die properly in the movies any more: instead of the lingering throes of a Caesar, the warriors so drably memorialised here have their limbs severed and throats slit with indiscriminate stabs at edit-suite buttons.

Cave of Forgotten Dreams opens in selected cinemas from today; The Eagle opens nationwide.

"Faster" (Metro 25/03/11)

Faster (15) 98 mins **

A peculiar vehicle for ex-wrestler Dwayne Johnson – reduced to taking what look suspiciously like Jason Statham’s leftovers – this revenge thriller sports a few workable, albeit second-hand, ideas that might have sustained a taut, grungy B-movie, but end up rattling around inside a medium-budget studio production aimed at the Saturday night crowd. The opening, at least, has punch: Johnson’s jailbird Driver emerging from prison gates like a rodeo steer and jogging full-pelt into the nearest town to blow a gaping hole in a telemarketeer’s forehead. Thereafter, it’s the theoretically fun, actually rather yawnsome business of The Rock charging into stripclub toilets and operating theatres to do away with the men who offed his brother. On his tail: Billy Bob Thornton’s drug-addled detective.

Much of it has been half-inched from superior, decade-old cult films: Oliver Jackson-Cohen’s assassin-with-issues cribs directly from Grosse Pointe Blank, the knowing use of Kenny Rogers’ “Just Dropped In” from The Big Lebowski. Its own ideas are laughable – a supporting character named Hovis Nixon, anyone? – and plain disorganised: over-qualified performers drift in for a scene or two, while preening Hollyoaks graduate Jackson-Cohen, the Londis Jake Gyllenhaal, eats up vast swathes of screen time. The finale’s just preachy, as Driver arrives at a revivalist’s tent down by the river, and everybody lays their demons to rest. With fewer zeroes on the budget, it might have served as a worthwhile straight-to-DVD discovery. As it is, it’s empty and oddly pretentious: not Crank, just cranky.


Faster opens nationwide today.