Thursday 17 November 2011

Half Nelson

2006

Director Ryan Fleck

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It might be cynical, but stories that revel in their lack of answers and celebrate the sheer clueless despair that accompanies our dreary, shitty lives are often the best. From Thomas Hardy to Ken Loach, Shakespeare to Scorcese, geniuses of their art excel when highlighting the morose. In Ryan Fleck’s debut feature Half Nelson from 2006 we have another fine addition to this series of sublime grit.

David Dunn is a young high school teacher with a serious drug addiction working in the Bronx, New York. His secret is discovered by vulnerable student, Drey, with whom Dunn forms a strange and mutually enlightening relationship.

Half Nelson’s synopsis suggests two things: either we are in for a nauseating ‘spiritual’ journey, as Dunn is saved by this bright young thing, inspired to correct his wayward life, beat his habit, become reborn; or, said student is actually a bit older, a bit sexier, and fair game for a bit of flesh-on-flesh action with our hapless purveyor of education. However, Half Nelson does none of these things. Yes, Ryan Gosling’s David Dunn is a little (pardon the pun) too cool for school. Not only is he off his head on drugs, but he is handsome, charismatic, a bit unconventional, has casual sex, and wears sunglasses indoors, which, if Waterloo Road has taught me anything - and it hasn’t - is a guaranteed way into any young student’s heart. Or pants. But it would be unfair to label Gosling’s performance as such. This is no Dead Poet’s Society. He is no Robin Williams. The affinity which his students have for him is based more on his adult failings. They see a resemblance to their own adolescent angst, amplified in this 30-something man-child.

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Though there are grittier scenes, the outstanding moments of Half Nelson occur whenever Dunn interacts with his students. Be it the subtle chastisement of a cheeky chappy who decides to copy off his neighbours work, or his joviality with the girls’ basketball team he coaches, they are naturally charming displays of perfect reality. Because Dunn does love teaching. He does love these kids. His bond with Shareeka Epps’ brittle Drey produce some of the film’s finest scenes. Epps is equally engaging in her first cinematic role as a young girl in danger of following in her criminal brother’s footsteps. On one shoulder is the kindly yet sinister Frank, portrayed by Anthony Mackie, a local drug dealer for whom her brother is serving time; whilst on the other side is Dunn, a man who wants the best for her but realises he is no position to be giving advice.

The film is shot by cinematographer Andrij Parekh in perfect, Wire-like realism, providing every scene with a beautiful fly-on-the-wall tone. But it is the actual narrative that really hammers this point home. In reality we have no answers. We are all just as fucked up as each other. But so are David Dunn and Drey. Both the student and the teacher. The cycle of despair is complete.

**** ¼ / *****

In Time

2011

Director Andrew Niccol

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Science Fiction. It is the genre of ideas. Of staggering vision and originality. It has produced some of the most incredible works of fiction. But yet, all it takes is for one of these great ideas to fall into the wrong hands and we are thrust back faster that the speed of light to square fucking one.

In the future, genetic alteration allows humanity to stop aging 25 years after birth. Due to over-population concerns, time has replaced money. Will Salas is one of the unlucky ones, living day to day in the slums. After saving the wealthy Henry Hamilton from the sinister Minutemen, Will is given the gift of time, allowing him to experience life amidst the social elite, where he encounters the wealthy businessman Phillipe Weis and his alluring daughter Sylvia, all the while pursued by Timekeeper Leon.

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Phew. It is impossible to explain In Time’s premise quickly. It is such a fascinating concept. After a lawsuit, writer and director Andrew Niccol - best known for directing the ambitious Gattaca and co-penning the magnificent The Truman Show - now grudgingly acknowledges the classic Harlan Ellison short-story, “Repent, Harlequin!” Said the Ticktockman as its source material, but unlike that other film (ever heard of The Terminator?) that conveniently borrowed some of Ellison’s ideas, In Time is not in danger of becoming a classic of the genre.

The pacing is a mess. It starts out fine with Justin Timberlake’s Will forced to flee, but once he reaches the Utopian and ‘imaginatively’ titled New Greenwich, things start to lose cohesiveness. Long gone is the tight, succinct narrative form of works of art such as Logan’s Run or Minority Report. Sometimes it takes Will seemingly hours to get to New Greenwich, passing through an endless series of dangerous blockades, but when he flees, he is back in mere moments. What is such a fascinating idea is relegated to another ‘Run Around’, Bonnie and Clyde wannabe movie in which the characters sport fancy florescent green tattoos on their arms to remind us that this is a science fiction film.

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For once the plot has the perfect excuse to only cast sexy, nubile youngsters. It is an amusing introduction when Solas greets his 50-year-old mother, played by 27-year-old Olivia Wilde, and when Weis introduces us to his mother, wife, and daughter, all of whom look virtually identical in age. Timberlake isn’t too bad in the lead role. He isn’t too good either, but he’s tolerable. Why Cillian Murphy is here is confusing; wasted as the undeveloped, leather jacket-swirling Timekeeper. The wig wearing Amanda Seyfried’s face is just a pointless pair of tits, whilst Vincent Kartheiser has obviously just been cast because he knows how to wear a suit from his time spent in Mad Men. Oddly enough, the most interesting characters are the Minutemen, led by Alex Pettyfer’s Fortis. A group of boy band-looking gangsters, they have lasted this long by stealing other people’s time. Everyone else is a little too serious, but Pettyfer is clearly having a blast hamming it up, and it’s a shame he doesn’t feature more.

Despite referencing The Matrix in one rooftop chase sequence, for a dystopian vision, the bright cinematography used by Roger Deakins is wrong, hindering the overall tone. After the incredible recent run that cinematic science fiction has been on, with Duncan Jones’ Moon and Source Code, Christopher Nolan’s Inception, Neill Blomkamp’s District 9, Gareth Edwards’ Monsters, and George Nolfi’s The Adjustment Bureau bringing some intelligence back to the much-maligned genre, In Time is a painful reminder of disgraces such as Johnny Mnemonic, Equilibrium and Æon Flux, and the other dumb monstrosities that make you ashamed to call yourself a sci-fi fan.

** ¾ / *****

Milk

2008

Director Gus Van Sant

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Native Americans? Check. African-Americans? Check. Women? Checkedy check. Hollywood is quickly running out of groups to pretend they care about. They like to do their pandering in turn, ensuring each group receives the maximum amount of media attention. Or rather, ensuring that Hollywood’s professed ‘love’ for these poor, poor people is on full display for all to see; and hopefully we’ll just forget about the previous century of cinema in which these groups were generally treated like shit. But the well of patronization is running dry. Fuck it, let’s do the gays!

Gus Van Sant’s 2008 biopic Milk follows the eclectic life of the titular Harvey Milk, who became the first openly gay person elected to public office in California before his assassination in 1978 by fellow city supervisor Dan White.

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The opening sentiments of this review are incredibly unfair. Milk is both a well-constructed and beautifully well-acted film that is deserving of praise. But it does little else to alter the cynical atmosphere haunting every reel. Hollywood Goes Gay. That we’re supposed to be pleased that they have finally caught up with the sane world is really rather galling. It’s the same, lingering feeling after Kevin Costner courted Native Americans in Dances With Wolves or Michael Mann turned Muhammad Ali into a fucking superhero in Ali.

Milk is late to the party. Ang Lee’s magnificent Brokeback Mountain three years earlier is about so much more than simply championing homosexuals. Milk, well, isn’t. It is an admirable, moral piece of work, and its heart is completely in the right place, but it all just feels a little forced.

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Sean Penn underplays it perfectly as Milk, complimenting his portrayal with enough camp mannerisms but never veering into stereotype. Josh Brolin is predictably excellent as the bitter Dan White, a simmering kettle of a man; although the hints at White’s own confused sexuality feels somewhat contrived. Other sterling support comes from Emile Hirsch as the young gay militant Cleve Jones, and James Franco as Milk’s lover Scott Smith, the only character who reminds us that not all homosexual men are flamboyant or effeminate.

Van Sant - his own homosexuality is rendered oddly meaningless in this mediocre context - is a fairly eclectic director, famous for his riveting portrayals of persecuted humanity through such work as My Own Private Idaho, Good Will Hunting or Elephant - we’ll forget about Psycho, eh? Milk is a worthy continuation of this lineage, albeit in a forgettable, incidental, rather unimaginative way.

*** ½ / *****

We Need to Talk about Kevin

2011

Director Lynne Ramsay

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The Antichrist. Possessed by Satan. Twins. Kids are just plain creepy. Horrible. But they’re supposed to change. They’re not supposed to stay hideous forever. If they do, is it the fault of the parent, or were they simply born that way? Therein lies a philosophical, scientific, and perpetual conundrum, my friends: nature or nurture? And director Lynne Ramsay has made an entire film exploring this very question.

We Need to Talk about Kevin follows Eva Khatchadourian, as she recounts the events leading up to and following her son’s, Kevin, massacre of students and teachers at his high school.

Based on the 2003 novel by Lionel Schriver, We Need to Talk about Kevin is an examination of the tumultuous relationship between parent and child in the most horrifying of circumstances. The film mimics the same back-and-forth narrative of its source material, with Ramsay’s script leaping seamlessly between past and the present, gradually revealing this whole, disturbing tale. And taking no sides in the process. Though an investigation of the ‘nature vs. nurture’ debate at heart, We Need to Talk about Kevin keeps its backside firmly planted on the fence. In no way is Eva portrayed as blameless. In an absolutely spellbinding performance, Tilda Swinton creates a once career-driven woman completely overwhelmed by the demands of motherhood. She becomes disillusioned when this life doesn’t fit the Utopian archetype, at odds with John C. Reilly as her hapless, denial-ridden partner. But Kevin is a monster. From a soulless, glowering child right out of The Omen, to the malicious, cunning teenager embodied by Ezra Miller. A lot of villains are so rebelliously cool it is hard not to root for them. Kevin is about as detestable as can be. In this respect he is one of the more effective antagonists; an utterly, irredeemably loathsome human being. The ending does dilute his bile unfortunately, forcing some extremely pointless humanisation upon the beast.

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Ramsay bathes her film in blood. Or, rather, red. From the extremely art house dream sequences in which Eva finds herself symbolically carried by a blood-stained mob fresh off the set of The Passion of the Christ, to the red paint that taints her home; every inch of every frame is literally dripping in the red stuff. Because imagery is crucial to We Need to Talk about Kevin’s power. Each scene highlights Ramsay’s meticulous attention to detail; including costume and even Jonny Greenwood’s grating score.

It isn’t a comfortable experience, but We Need to Talk about Kevin is one of the most intelligent, well-crafted social dramas of the year, and features arguably the finest female performance too from the great Tilda Swinton. We really do need to talk about this film. A lot.

**** ½ / *****

Contagion

2011

Director Steven Soderbergh

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A maniac breaks into your house and bludgeons you to death with a toaster. Unlikely. Someone touches your face. Or coughs near you. Or breathes near you. Pretty damn likely. Contagion, from director Steven Soderbergh, is the most terrifying film of the year.

When Beth Emhoff returns home to Chicago following a trip to Hong Kong, what initially appears to be little more than a touch of flu, quickly escalates, leaving her dead within hours. This deadly yet mysterious virus spreads rapidly around the globe, as various organisations struggle to contain the potentially apocalyptic threat.

Steven Soderbergh is acutely aware of Contagion’s threat and knows how to amplify. His use of an ensemble cast enables frequent, global, documentary-style cuts. This is as close to documentary as standard narrative film-making gets, complete with locations and population size both included at the bottom of the screen for our terror. However, Contagion’s raw, visceral intensity would have been greater had it simply been done as a fictional documentary. Ultimately, it is the use of its glamorous cast that restrains the film.

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Matt Damon as the traumatized father, Laurence Fishburne as the chief scientist and Marion Cotillard as the world’s most ridiculously gorgeous member of the World Health Organization are just three of the A-Listers featured. It becomes like a Hollywood check list. To Contagion’s credit, several of its big names are snuffed out in a hurry, but many of them linger on, wasted beyond pointlessness. Cotillard disappears for about an hour, whilst Jude Law is completely irrelevant as a slimy blogger attempting to profit from tragedy. But Damon underplays it well as the man having to deal with the death of his wife, and Fishburne is sufficiently slick to make his rather wooden dialogue convincing.

Scott Z. Burns’ script does possess some needless drama, but nothing on the level of the 1995 disaster movie Outbreak, which – thematically – is Contagion’s closest relative; although the Wolfgang Petersen film doesn’t share the same sense of realism. Soderbergh’s documentary camerawork isn’t on the same level as Paul Greengrass’ in United 93, but it still manages to conjure an important atmosphere.

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Contagion is a bold and poignant effort from Soderbergh, and one with a potentially haunting future. It is flawed: incidental characters and lazy, meaningless insertions of ‘emotion’. But it is extremely unnerving, and scarier than most actual horror films. Just be prepared for the quietest cinematic experience of your life. Marvel as everyone in the audience holds their disease-ridden breath for 106 healthy minutes. Not due to the tension. You cough, you die. Now if only someone did a film about killer mobile phones maybe people would shut the fuck up...

*** ½ / *****

Tuesday 15 November 2011

Monsters

2010

Director Gareth Edwards

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Science Fiction is constantly at war. With itself. It is the genre that, when done right, is amazing. But when done poorly, is an easy target for dismissive mockery. For every La jetée, there’s a Flash Gordon. For every Blade Runner, a Battlefield Earth. Great science fiction will never be able to shake away its shitty offspring, which is why, when a great one comes along, such as Gareth Edwards’ feature film debut Monsters, it needs to be championed as loudly as possible.

After a NASA deep-space probe crashes in Mexico, alien life form begins to generate in the area surrounding the border with the U.S, and is quickly quarantined. Andrew Kaulder is a photographer given the task of escorting his wealthy employer’s daughter, Samantha, back home through the quarantined zone safely.

Let’s get the obvious thing out of the way. Monsters cost roughly $500,000 to make and looks better than most multi-million dollar blockbusters. A staggering achievement. Admittedly most of what Gareth Edwards is filming doesn’t require much, but even then he handles the cinematography with enough care to avoid sliding into televisual despair. When the money is on display, it is there to a penny. The creatures look magnificent. Edwards shrouds them in an anticipation that even the title strengthens. They are ever in the background, but in the foreground rarely. Getting the most bang out of your buck. Without the budget it is impossible for Edwards to conjure King Kong or Pirates of the Caribbean level creature effects, but he has learned from the masters. His methodical reveal of the aliens is akin to Spielberg’s finest work in Jaws or War of the Worlds, or even to fellow newcomer Matt Reeves in the recent Cloverfield. Perfect sleight of hand. The less you see, the more you want. Edwards shows incredible intelligence for one so young.

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He is blessed with a fine cast too, despite only consisting of two people. But Whitney Able and Scoot McNairy are gripping as Samantha and Andrew respectively, and they need to be, considering that they are both on screen for the entire 94 effortless minutes. The title suggests otherwise, but it is a human relationship at the heart of Monsters. McNairy creates a loveable geezer in Andrew, whilst Able manages to inject enough personality into the beautiful Sam.

Like Neill Blomkamp’s District 9, Monsters is another fresh look at a much maligned genre. When you have guys such as Blomkamp, Duncan Jones (Moon, Source Code), Matt Reeves, J. J. Abrams and now Gareth Edwards pulling up new seats at the dinner table, it makes the future look very bright indeed. Or not. It could be a dystopian future…

**** ½ / *****

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

2011

Director Tomas Alfredson

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There’s no middle ground in British cinema. We’re good with the AWfully posh. We’re even better with the working classes. But there are other people in this country who are apparently too dull to care a toss about. And why would you, when you have such swaggering tales as Tyrannosaur, The King’s Speech, and Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy? Swedish director Tomas Alfredson adds yet another triumph to the mountainous list of ‘Posh People Talking’ films, this time with a sprinkle of Cold War intrigue.

There is a double agent hidden inside the upper echelons of the British secret service, and it is up to the retired George Smiley to track them down.

Simple. The hunt for the mole had become standard espionage fodder in recent years thanks to the predictability of such television shows as Spooks and its high-octane American counterparts 24 and Alias. Even the recent outings of James Bond, Jason Bourne and Ethan Hunt latch onto this well-trodden narrative stump. But it has never been executed with as much skill, intrigue and downright class as in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.

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It could be a sign of one’s - hopeful - maturity, but when did people simply talking and smoking become more enthralling than explosions? It might have something to do with the people who are doing all of this talking. Gary Oldman is at his minimalist best as George Smiley. He must share honours with Ryan Gosling in Drive for this year’s most gripping performance delivered almost entirely through facial expressions. His dialogue is so scarce that it becomes irrelevant. Smiley’s introduction is stunning. He dominates every single scene for about ten minutes without uttering a single word. He is just … there. But like the Cigarette Smoking Man from The X-Files, you can’t take your eyes off him. Mesmerizing. There are simply too many other strong performances to mention, but the prominent nods go to Mark Strong (not playing a villain for once, yay!) as sour teacher trying to escape his previous life in the service, and Toby Jones as the vitriolic new Chief of the Circus. But Alfredson handles the lengthy 127 minute running time with such delicacy that none of these British stalwarts fade into cameo.

The young Swede came to prominence with the dazzling, vampiric Let the Right One In back in 2008, and he displays identical methodical mastery for the atmospheric despite the complete shift in genre. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy does not revert to the Harry Palmer films of old, such as The ICPRESS File, despite the 1970s setting. Alfredson delivers a contemporary, retrospective sheen, maintaining Let the Right One In’s unsung cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema, whose gorgeous camerawork creates an almost literal world of smoke and mirrors.

Fold your arms and furrow your brow. Alfredson has constructed a well-placed, methodical, intelligent yet ultimately thrilling piece of espionage cinema, held together by a plethora of spellbinding performances, most notably the superb and never, ever smiling Gary fucking Oldman.

**** ¼ / *****

Kill List

2011

Director Ben Wheatley

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A man walks down the street. He’s confused, disorientated; eyes wide, hands on his head. His breath is laboured. It is as though he has no idea where he is going or is unable to believe what he has just witnessed. But this isn’t Kill List. This is what this reviewer resembled following Ben Wheatley’s latest genre-molesting flick.

Jay and Gal are two unemployed soldiers with dark pasts, making some extra cash by performing a few contract killings for some rather unsavoury business types. Everything becomes far less simple when events lurch towards the occult and Jay’s fragile sanity begins to unravel.

Where to start with Kill List? This is only director Ben Wheatley’s second feature following the 2009 crime saga Down Terrace, but you would never know. It is an absolute joy to see an infantine filmmaker playing with genre and narrative as Wheatley does here. The narrative begins like a Mike Leigh kitchen-sink social drama, with acting of pitch-perfect improvised naturalism between Neil Maskell’s Jay and MyAnna Buring as his wife Shel. We then take a psychological and tonal lurch towards the masculine, as Jay and his old army chum, Michael Smiley’s Gal, go about their bloody work. It would be unfair to use the term ‘buddy’, but the relationship between these two characters is about as engrossing as anything cinema has had to offer recently.

But it is the final act of Kill List, which will leave you scratching your head raw and bloody.

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The nightmarish whisperings of unsettling British horror classics such as Witchfinder General and The Wicker Man are heard throughout the film in small doses via, for example, the unsettling, Third Ear Band-like score created by Jim Williams. But come the final act the whisperings stop, and the shouting begins. This descent from social-realism into horror is masterfully handled, avoiding the ridiculous, but maintaining enough ambiguity to regain that vital, visceral sensation of unease.

It is hard to call Kill List original due to the amount of cinema it conjures throughout its 92 minute running time, but these are merely incoherent flashes. As an overall piece, Ben Wheatley has created something for which it truly is hard to compare. Whether or not this is a positive or a negative ultimately is obviously debateable, but this reviewer almost walked into a lamppost after experiencing Kill List, and there’s nothing bad about that.

**** ¼ / *****

Captain America: The First Avenger

2011

Director Joe Johnston

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  Hey, fellas. Feeling inadequate? Well, look no further. Volunteer for your local army project. Let them inject you with whatever the fuck they like. Not steroids, we assure you. Voila! You’ll wake up with more muscles than a French seafood restaurant. And the ladies - oh yes - they will come.

  It’s 1940. Steve Rodgers is a short, skinny, patriotic loser. Given the chance to serve his country by the enigmatic Dr. Erskine, Rodgers is pumped with a special serum, transforming the runt into a genetically fuelled Übermensch to throw against the rampaging armies of Hitler, and, in particular, HYDRA.

Captain America: The First Avenger starts well. Everything is ticking along nicely. From the Raiders of the Lost Ark inspired opening, to the streets of Manhattan. But half an hour in, someone presses fast forward. Events rocket along. The already flimsy plot becomes irrelevant. The narrative descends into an incendiary montage. The emotional climax whimpers, and the previously well-teased collision between hero and villain is a bigger disappointment than Kill Bill Volume 2. It is as though director Joe Johnston simply ran out of time, an affliction similarly felt by another summer superhero sucker, X-Men: First Class. With some patience, we would have some decent flicks on our hands.

Because Captain America does show signs of class. Like 2004’s Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, the retro sheen of World War Two is a refreshing setting for the barrage of spandex, as the fantasy world of Asgard was in Thor or the 1960s proved in First Class. And wartime Manhattan looks the business. Sadly, though, barely thirty minutes is dedicated to Rodgers’ homeland, and we are soon thrust into the generically combustible landscapes of Europe, which is where things start to unravel.

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As the titular hero, Chris Evans has a thankless task. Steve Rodgers is a humourless bore, but Evans handles him with suitable class. Hugo Weaving doesn’t get anywhere near as much screen time as the devilish Red Skull. Who didn’t want to see a big red-masked Weaving chew the shit out of some scenery?

Is Captain America just an extended, extremely expensive trailer for The Avengers? No. Unlike in Thor, it’s barely referenced. But Johnston’s flick does feel rushed. Marvel has striven to ensure it has time to settle before Joss Whedon’s costumed ensemble crashes onto our screens. That’s not the way to introduce Cap to the party.

*** / *****

Monday 14 November 2011

The Inbetweeners Movie

2011

Director Ben Palmer

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Take thirty minutes of television. Scrap the adverts. Add, say, sixty minutes. Shake. Stir. Cool before serving. And you should be rewarded with a quick and instant, salty and delicious cinematic transition.

Right?

Wrong.

Obviously it isn’t that simple. One has only to glance at the recent monstrosities that are the Sex and the City adaptations for evidence of this recipe not coming out of the oven the way it looked in the cookbook. Okay, so the capitalist, materialist wet dream juggernauts might have made a ton of cash, but is that the sign of a great, or even good, film?

No. No, it isn’t. It’s a sign that we are idiots. Big, fat, stupid idiots. Shame on us. Shame on us all.

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But Sex and the City faced a similar dilemma to The Inbetweeners Movie, as did the makers of Kevin and Perry when they decided to Go Large with the Harry Enfield skit way back in 2000: adapting a comedy. When The X-Files brought their labyrinthine mystery to the big screen in 1998, it is arguable that their task was slightly less daunting. This is in no way a negative comment on Chris Carter’s masterful Science-Fiction series, but considering the longer running time of their episodes, extended, overarching story, and the very nature of a thriller-based narrative, the jump to cinema seemed only natural. For Sex and the City and Kevin & Perry it was about gags. Lots of gags. It sounds easy. “Well, you were able to write enough jokes to fill a half-hour story, so surely you just write more for a ninety minute run time?” But there’s a reason these shows are only thirty minutes. That’s the amount of time the writers can fill. And fill well. Thirty minutes of constant zingers is better than ninety minutes of occasional chuckles. Sex and the City couldn’t do it, and they knew they couldn’t do it, so they just fell back on their nice comfy cushion of capitalist whoring and watched the morons flock in. Very clever. Very sinister, but very clever. Like a Bond villain. Like a bunch of fashion-obsessed Bond villains. Kevin & Perry achieved moderate success. But, believe it or not, with The Inbetweeners Movie, director Ben Palmer and writers Damon Beesley and Iain Morris have nailed it.

We join our band of adolescent losers - Will, Simon, Jay and Neil - in the summer following their A-Levels. The gang want to let off some steam before going onto whatever new adventures await them. Lucky for them, Jay’s granddad has recently kicked the bucket, leaving his foulmouthed grandson with plenty of spare cash to waste. And what better place to do it then the chav capital of the world, Malia. Amidst the sun, sand, sex and, uh, shit, Simon hopes to get over the love of his life Carly, whilst the others just want to get a leg over. What could possibly go wrong?

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It’s such a simple set up. Okay, it’s an unoriginal set up. Let’s take the characters away from the television world everyone knows and stick them in a foreign country. Kevin & Perry did it. Sex and the City did it. So why not Will & co.? To be quite honest, how hopes could have been high for this film when this bog standard ‘fish out of water’ tale was announced is anyone’s guess. But what the makers of The Inbetweeners have shown here is that if you’ve got enough gags, if you’ve got a cast of genuinely funny and likeable characters, your plot can be about as original as Avatar and nobody will care. Comedy plots are, by their very nature, minimal. They are nothing but a joke vehicle that provides just enough meaning to not appear completely ridiculous. And there are jokes aplenty in The Inbetweeners Movie. How on earth they managed to fill ninety-seven minutes without the pace slowing is beyond even the best of us. But they do. And this is almost entirely thanks to the characters.

What makes this quartet so much more endearing than that other Channel Four show featuring youngsters - you know, the one where they are all super cool, taking loads of drugs and having loads of sex - is that they represent the majority. Nothing anyone under the age of twenty-one says can be taken seriously. They are all full of so much self-bravado that they might as well don cock and chicken suits and be done with it. But they are not like the twats in Skins. Well, some of them might be, but they’re so fucking cool they probably don’t even realise other human beings exist. No, most youngsters are either pompous pillocks like Simon Bird’s nerdy Will, self-involved losers like Joe Thomas’ Simon, horny douchebags like James Buckley’s Jay, or, well, just idiots like Blake Harrison’s Neil. Adults don’t like them. Their peers don’t like them. And girls most certainly do not like them. Now these are the kind of characters I can get behind.

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After two series, the young actors have grown into their roles perfectly, making it an absolute pleasure, rather than a chore, to spend an extra sixty-seven minutes in their company. Will and Simon are the real focal points of the narrative, just as they were in the television series, with Simon’s obsession with the horrible Carli (Emily Head) distracting him from the genuinely lovely Lucy (Tamla Kari), a girl who, strange as it might seem, actually likes him. Will, on the other hand, is busy pursuing Alison (Laura Haddock), a slightly supercilious babe who is so out of his league she might as well be overthrowing Gadhafi in Libya instead of partying in Crete.

Okay, so after all the time just spent talking about how realistic a portrayal of adolescent males The Inbetweeners presents, the last few sentences talk about these goofy, moronic losers somehow managing to bag the blatantly unattainable beauties. Doesn’t quite fit does it? One of the main complaints with the films of Judd Apatow is that to have these fat, unambitious slackers actually winning these goddesses is sending the wrong message. Fortunately, the central protagonists of The Inbetweeners - Will and Simon - are actually quite likeable, harmless buffoons. The plethora of jerks embodied by Seth Rogen and co. in the likes of Knocked Up and Funny People are so deeply warped, with disgusting, misogynistic smatterings, that it’s preferable that they get a bullet to the groin instead of the girl. The comedy of The Inbetweeners creates such a happy, positive atmosphere throughout the narrative that by the time the end finally comes anything other than the happiest of happy endings would feel like a darker version of Seven.

But don’t think for one second that due to the extremely strong script and performances of The Inbetweeners that it is nothing more than an extended television movie. Director Ben Palmer is having a hell of a time with the camera. From the opening, sweeping shots from space as we enter Jay’s bedroom, to the panoramic spectacle of the loathsome Malia, this film has earned its spot on the big screen.

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How refreshing it is to take a quick glance at the UK’s box office figures for 2011 and see that the three monsters currently devouring the American competition are The King’s Speech, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part Two, and, you guessed it, The Inbetweeners Movie. Add to that trio Tomas Alfredson’s excellent Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy which is currently throwing its weight around in the multiplexes, and we have a pretty damn good financial year for Old Blighty. And whilst it’s no surprise to see us excelling at historical pieces or everyone’s favourite bespectacled wizard wand-slapping mere muggles into submission, it is a rare treat to see a British comedy prove such a monetary triumph. Thank god it deserves it too. It would be depressing indeed if it was Hollyoaks The Movie riding the wave, much like it must have been for sane Americans when Sex and the City was leaving stiletto marks across the backs of the competition.

The Inbetweeners Movie is a hilarious, faithful and truly charming adaptation of a recent high of British television. There’s a lot of competition from heavyweights such as Harry Potter and Tinker Tailor, but Will, Simon, Jay and Neil may ultimately prove to be the finest cinematic ensemble of the year. Well done, you wankers.

*** ¾ / *****

The Lovely Bones

2009

Director Peter Jackson

Lovely

  Are there two more different pieces of work than Sean Penn’s debut feature, The Pledge, and the animated world of the Super Mario Bros video games series? The answer, of course, is yes. Obviously there are more blatant polar opposites, but for the sake of this oh so insightful review, The Pledge and Super Mario are the opposite ends of the fucking universe; which is the central problem running through The Lovely Bones, Peter Jackson’s 2009 adaptation of Alice Sebold’s much loved 2002 novel. The conflict between light and dark, fantasy and realism, is a common dilemma for a great deal of fiction, not only cinema. There are some works that execute this blend perfectly, such as Guillermo Del Toro’s powerful Pan’s Labyrinth, but there are also plenty of notable failures, with the more recent X-Men instalments standing out from the crowd. Unfortunately, The Lovely Bones is much closer to latter.

Susie Salmon is fourteen-years-old when she is murdered by her neighbour George Harvey. However, this isn’t the end for the youngster, who finds herself caught in the ‘In-Between’, the place one goes before heaven, where she can observe the lives of those she has left behind. This includes her tormented, grieving family, and also her killer, who has now turned his attention to Susie’s sister.

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Heavy stuff indeed. At the very least, starting your film with a child murder means the only way is up. Or is it? The tone of The Lovely Bones is so hard to identify because the pallet is constantly changing before your eyes. From the dark, grimy, murky world of Stanley Tucci’s monstrous killer George Harvey, to the eye-molesting CGI landscapes of the In-Between. It’s too much. Juxtaposed with the darkness of reality, this fantastical afterlife becomes comically ridiculous, which is probably not the response Peter Jackson was going for. Oversaturating effects can hinder films. It is possible to overlook this aspect in a piece such as X-Men Origins: Wolverine, because, well, the whole film is a stinking pile of adamantium shite. Peter Jackson’s 2005 remake of King Kong, though, is a flick that flirts with brilliance, but is held back by an overlong running time and, oh yes, so much CGI you will think that this is merely a ‘Cut Scene’, and that the actual game is about to begin at the end of the ninety-three hour (or somewhere close) slog.

The art of CGI use was arguably perfected by Jackson and company in The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, but his overreliance is now starting to grate. But how on earth do you depict the afterlife? The interpretation The Lovely Bones most resembles is the Robin Williams-starring What Dreams May Come. It’s bright, it’s colourful, it’s uplifting, and it’s an obvious attempt by the filmmakers to create a stark contrast. But it just doesn’t work. Locking my own beliefs away in the Atheist cupboard for the time being, who honestly believes this is what any form of afterlife resembles? You’re more likely to be attacked by angry mushrooms than encounter an angel. Good afterlifes are a challenge. Maybe Christopher Marlowe had the right idea when he wrote Dr Faustus: everything exists in the mind e.g. Hell is wherever God is not. That’s not that hard to depict surely? Then again ... he didn’t have Green Screen.

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But the In-Between is not the entire film. There is an entire other narrative taking place in the real world, as Susie’s family struggles to cope with her untimely demise, and her killer plans his next move. This is where The Pledge comes in. One of the most underrated thrillers of recent times, Sean Penn’s 2001 directorial debut deals with similar themes to The Lovely Bones, as Jack Nicholson’s retired cop struggles to forget the murder of a child on his last day on the job. It is a thoughtful, methodical, moving, and incredibly powerful piece of work, and it is praise indeed to say that the darker half of The Lovely Bones conjures up fond memories of this modern day classic. This may be down to the performances. Mark Wahlberg and Rachel Weisz are at their understated best as Susie’s traumatised parents. The portrayal of the grieving family unit is never hammy, even if the depiction of young love occasionally strays into this schmaltzy territory. The absolute standout from this world is undoubtedly Stanley Tucci, unrecognisable as the heinous serial killer George Harvey. It might be a bit of a backhanded compliment, but, boy, can he play a child murderer or what? The voice, the face, the mannerisms, Tucci really does fill the screen whenever he appears. Saoirse Ronan is another superb addition to the cast as the recently offed Susie, although her performance is sadly affected by the Microsoft Paint world surrounding it.

The Lovely Bones is the very definition of a film of two halves. The only thing is, the two halves are nothing to do with the running time, but there structure in the narrative. Whenever we are in the real world, with real people with real problems, everything is fine and dandy. But whenever things take a plunge into the fruit pastille wet dream of the afterlife, all of the hard work Jackson and his team have done is overshadowed by this farcical fantasy. How to portray the afterlife: I guess we’ll never know...

*** ½ / *****

Sunday 13 November 2011

Drive

2011

Director Nicolas Winding Refn

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   As the dramatic conclusion of this epic tale draws near, a man and woman enter an elevator, exchanging polite nods with their fellow rider. Within mere moments, said couple have engaged in a public kiss so passionate it would make even the most base Big Brother housemate blush, and the other rider is left prone, his skull a bloody, broken stew of scattered membrane. Welcome to Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive, a film with all of the pulsating ultra-violence of Saw, the brooding existentialism of A History of Violence, and the sweet-natured centre of Lost In Translation. The combination of these cinematic pools is polarizing to say the least, and it sounds almost impossible to execute; but Refn, writer Hossein Amini and their superlative crew have not only succeeded in adapting James Sallis’ 2004 novel, but have produced one of the most enthralling, engaging and downright entertaining films of recent years.

And what a story to do it with.

At the heart of Drive is the aptly titled ‘Driver’, a loner who spends his days putting pedal to the metal, risking life and limb so that beautiful Hollywood stars don’t have to, or sticking his head inside a car’s bonnet at a dirty garage. But at night - for the right price of course - Driver will give you five minutes of his time - and only five minutes - to provide a means of escape for LA’s numerous criminals. Things become complicated for our anonymous hero, however, after he encounters Irene and her son Benicio. After falling - in completely different ways, it must be stressed - for the vulnerable pair; he even begins to help their returning jailbird of a husband and father, the troubled Standard. Driver’s protective nature leads him into conflict with local crime bosses Bernie Rose and Nino, two men with nothing but bad intentions when it comes to out enigmatic hero’s new adopted family.

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Okay, so it sounds a bit like Shane. Okay, it sounds a LOT like Shane. But all that means is that Drive uses the same classic, Arthurian narrative that so many films and works of fiction have experimented with before. It’s thematically classic because it works. And works well. Extremely well. If the execution is there, what does it matter if the plot isn’t the most original piece of work ever? It does enough, and the execution is absolutely flawless. Refn has created the slickest, coolest flick of the year by a considerable distance. From the opening, pulse-jarring minutes, as we are shown what a true getaway is, to the perfectly shot, brilliantly framed, silhouetted final showdown with crime boss Bernie Rose, Refn and cinematographer Newton Thomas Sigel have created a Los Angeles so glossy that Michael Mann himself would nod in approval. It is nothing if not an enormous compliment to be compared to the work of Mann. Memories of the great director’s work are evoked throughout the course of Drive, from the dusty, blinding daytime of Heat and Public Enemies, to the sleek, noirish nights of Ali, Manhunter and, most obvious of all, Collateral. But this isn’t to say that Refn’s film is nothing but a collection of previous works. The fact that it visually resembles arguably the work of the finest ‘visual-realism’ director there has ever been is merely a testament to just how well Drive has been captured. Of course there are similarities with other films. The bleak nihilistic tone from Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver, featuring a man on the loose edge of sanity, dicing with heroism, and developing an enlightening, protective relationship with a vulnerable other. As strange as it might sound, American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman is the character most similar to Driver. Quiet, polite, but effortlessly cool, with a sudden change in expression that will inject fear into the heart of even the bravest soul.

It is here that we move onto the cast. Ryan Gosling - who seems to be going for a world record amount of films this year - is Driver. And he’s a revelation. Gosling has always been drifting closer and closer to the edgier side of cinema, from his Oscar nominated performance as a drug-tortured schoolteacher in Half Nelson to his visceral portrayal of a bitter, violent lover in Blue Valentine. He has what should be affectionately known as the ‘Christian Bale Look’. He’s a handsome man no doubt, but there is just something totally unsettling about that coy little smile. The way he can only lift the corners of his mouth. The way he looks at you. Alan Ladd never looked this dangerous in Shane. He is the full, fleshed-out version of what Tom Cruise’s Vincent from Collateral merely suggested. It simply doesn’t seem that unrealistic when he’s driving a shower pole through a man’s throat. In saying that, the scenes featuring Driver amidst the unfamiliar domesticity of Irene and her family are just as engaging as his scarlet-soaked head-stompings. Carey Mulligan doesn’t have a lot to do as the object of this psychopath’s affection other than look appealing, but it’s the warmth created by her, Kaden Leos’ Benicio, and Oscar Isaac as the incredibly likeable Standard that really create Drive’s emotional core. Because Driver alone is an empty vessel. The scenes of him in action are blisteringly cool, but it is this family unit that adds the extra layer to an already superb tale.

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And the villains. Ah, the villains. Often the downfall of many a piece. With such an incredible character performance as Gosling’s, it is not unimaginable that the nasty old antagonists might be forgotten and left as an afterthought, becoming nothing but two dimensional caricatures of crime cliché. But this simply isn’t the case. First of all, we have the ever reliable Ron Perlman as Nino. A guy like Perlman could half-ass anything and it would still be endlessly watchable, and in Drive, considering his limited screen time, he manages to create a suitably despicable gangster to root against. But Perlman is actually outdone. That’s right; Ron Perlman is actually outdone as a villain. By Albert fucking Brooks. You heard me. The loveable fool from Broadcast News, the flustered father from Finding Nemo, and the voice of an endless list of classic characters from The Simpsons. Brooks plays it straight as Bernie Ross, a seemingly calm businessman who wants no part in the unfortunate bloody nonsense of his profession, but is a sadistic surgeon of a killer when the need arises. It is unsurprising that Brooks has more lines than any other character, considering that most of Driver’s story is told through looks and actions, but the comedian really makes the most of them. It is rare you find a film with a hero and villain capable of matching one another on screen, but that is the wonderful case with Drive.

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Just everything about this film feels so meticulously selected to create this sheen of excellence. Despite not being overtly set in the 1980s, everything, from retro gloss to the excellent, synth-heavy soundtrack, would not have been out of place in one of the classic, sombre thrillers of that decade. Refn has invested into a study of the violent, lonely male psyche in much the same way as recent David Cronenberg masterpieces A History of Violence and Eastern Promises. Drive is an absolute cinematic marvel, and the product of a new craftsmen of the art. With the frequency of poorly written, carelessly planned, and lazily shot features popping up on our screens every week, it is such a reassuring delight to come across a film of very little hype that treats cinema with the tender, loving care it deserves and isn’t opposed to speaking to its audience like - hopefully - the intelligent adults some of them may actually be.

**** ¾ / *****

Thursday 6 October 2011

Gomorrah

2008


Director Matteo Garrone


There are several reasons why, in this humble reviewer’s opinion, Goodfellas is a better, more interesting film than The Godfather. But one reason stands out. Ultimately, the majority of Mafiosi are not living the pampered, privileged life of the Corleones; they are enduring the brutal, bloody, violent, ambitious dregs experienced by Henry Hill and his posse. There is a similar sense of barrel-scraping desperation to Matteo Garrone’s Gomorrah. This is highlighted beautifully in one particular scene in a morgue: after delivering the recently assassinated corpse of their young comrade, a group of equally junior gang members stand around aimlessly discussing what to do next. Do they retaliate? Should they kill someone? Who do they kill? Who are they allowed to kill? Who is giving the orders here? No one seems to know. This is what makes Garrone’s adaptation of Roberto Saviano’s book such an intriguing, fascinating piece of cinema. People are being stepped upon constantly … and we don’t even know who’s wearing the boot.

The narrative is separated into five stories involving people involved - some loosely, some willingly - with Casalesi clan, a crime syndicate within the Camorra, which is based in Naples and Caserta in the southern Italian region of Campania. There is Don Ciro, a nervous wreck of a man, who delivers money to the families of imprisoned clan members. Totò is thirteen-years-old and delivers groceries for his mother, yet yearns to become a member of the local crime organisation. Roberto is a recent graduate beginning work for Franco in the line of waste management, dumping toxic waste wherever cheapest with little cost spent on labour, regardless of the danger to their employees. Pasquale is a tailor forced to undercut Camorra-controlled firms by working secretively with a local Chinese branch in an effort to support his family. And lastly there is Marco and Ciro, two wayward and foolishly ambitious teens with such a love of Scarface that they dream of one day becoming great crime bosses themselves in the vein of the legendary Tony Montana, but in the mean time have to make do with petty theft, drawing the ire of the local gang.


Gomorrah barely feels like a fiction. Admittedly it is based on real organizations and locations, but only in the same way as The Godfather, Scarface or Donnie Brasco. But whilst those films still possess the Hollywood sheen of glamorised ‘movies’, Gomorrah, with it dirty sets, shaking camera, and sudden cuts, feels much closer to documentary form. And this surely isn’t an accident. Much like Fernando Meirelles’ 2002 Brazilian crime drama City of God paints over its grimy surface with occasional flashes of cinematic dazzle to avoid the documentary label, so too does Gomorrah. But for all the visual flair (the opening shot inside a tanning booth is particularly impressive) and attractive framing (as Roberto and Franco plan where their next dump will be) there is simply no getting away from the despair.

It is hard work. Everyone is in perpetual danger of assassination; with more surprise killings than an episode of 24, Gomorrah racks up an impressive, uncompromising body count, as women and even children are ruthlessly put to the sword. In that respect, it is reminiscent of the American television series The Wire, with the Sette pelazzi where Totò lives conjuring dark memories of the similarly impoverished, drug-addled projects from David Simon’s superb investigation into the inner-workings of Baltimore’s drug dilemma.
The acting is hard to gauge given the non-fictional aura, but needless to say the cast are universally excellent. From the timid mumblings of Gianfelice Imparato’s Don Ciro to the brash, cocky posturing Marco Macor and Ciro Petrone’s young, skinny Tony Montana wannabes.

Not only is the action taken away from the upper echelons of the organization, but it is taken away from the gangsters entirely, and placed in the hands of those in society who suffer the most as a result. It is then that Gomorrah ceases merely being interesting or entertaining, and becomes something much more socially stimulating.

It might not sizzle quite like City of God, or feel as crisp as Goodfellas, or even as outrageously exciting as Scarface, but Gomorrah is one of the most harrowing, visceral, intriguing, insightful investigations into the seedy underbelly of crime.

**** / *****


That lava lamp was starting to get on his nerves.



Primal

2010


Director Josh Reed




 A warning statement within the synopsis for Primal referred to ‘Strong sexual violence.’ Given the amount of blood, biting and other lovely things taking place as the seconds ticked by, it created a rather ominous trepidation as to just what this ‘sexual violence’ was going to be. And there it was. Was it strong? No, not really. Was it disturbing as hell? A bit? Was it actually … a bit funny? Oh yeah. That kind of encapsulates Josh Reed’s low-budget Australian horror; it suggests something far darker, far more intense than what is given; but in the end is just a tad silly.

The plot follows a group of students on a jolly nice sojourn in the outback studying a remote rock painting. Things take a turn for the worst though, when one of the group - the sexually promiscuous Mel - becomes ill following an ill-advised skinny dipping session in the local water. Soon the previously blonde beauty has become nothing but a savage, bloodthirsty creature with only one thing on her mind: their blood. That’s right, folks, she’s become PRIMAL!

There isn’t much in the way of originality about Primal. The set-up is about as familiar as an old jumper your Nan has knitted: a group of extremely attractive, extremely sexually active youngsters travel to an isolated place where, naturally, no one can find them, and carnage ensues. What does make a change, however, is the use of the Home & Away extras themselves as the monsters, rather than some naff bloke in a suit, or some very dodgy CGI. Instead of the group ‘slut’ being offed first, as the laws of horror would suggest, she instead becomes the killer; a combination of the infected from Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later and the vampires from David Slade’s 30 Days of Night. More disgusting than creepy, but strangely effective nonetheless.

The fact that this disease is passed on through the blood is rather obvious sexual metaphor given the age of these characters, and the fact that the main babe, Zoe Tuckwell-Smith’s Anja, is hinted at being a rape victim. In the end we all become savage killers. Duh. In the end we all become nothing but animals. Duh. In the end we start fucking each other whilst we’re eating. Wait, what? Yes, the sexual undertones of Primal are so blatant it’s as though George Romero wrote the script whilst standing on his head, consuming magic mushrooms like Revels.

Things degenerate to a farcical level towards the end, as Anja tries to escape through the mysterious cave, which seems to be the root of this monstrous infection. All that can really be said is that if you’re lucky enough to have seen Andrzej Zulawski’s Possession, featuring the infamous scene involving Isabelle Adjani doing the wild thing with a weird tentacle creature, you’ll have a pretty good idea what goes on in that rocky crevice.

It’s horribly clichéd in many aspects, but in terms of its characters and actual plot, Primal is actually rather unpredictable. Aside from our plucky, annoyingly prophetic, conveniently claustrophobic heroine, no one seems to die in the usual order of horror cinema, and it’s hard to imagine anyone guessing just what the hell that cave was all about before the end. I’m still having trouble now. So whilst Primal is on one level the standard cheap and nasty piece of gratuitous horror cinema we are used to seeing on television of an evening, it does at least try to do something interesting with itself. Plus, it has one of the funniest last lines in years.

** / *****


Put your feet down, love.

The Guard

2011


Director John Michael McDonagh




 If Arthur Mathews and Graham Lineham, co-creators of the eye-wateringly hilarious Father Ted, sat down with Kick-Ass scribe Matthew Vaughan to write a movie script, there is a good chance that it would end up looking something like this. The Guard is an unashamedly un-PC, blacker than the blackest black of comedies that hints at every one of its gasp-worthy lines with a sly, winking eye and coy, nodding head, and then goes ahead and says something far worse, but far, far funnier.

The action takes place in Connemara; where unconventional - to put it lightly - policeman Gerry Boyle joins forces with FBI agent Wendell Everett in pursuit of a trio of drug smugglers who have arrived on the scene with murderous results.

Nothing about The Guard sounds terribly attractive; an unorthodox policemen, a fish-out-of-water agent, drugs, guns … stop me if you think you’ve heard any of this before. But what you haven’t heard before is of any of those things in conjunction with a script written by John Michael McDonagh. If the name sounds familiar, then that probably means you’ve seen the fantastic In Bruges from 2008, penned and directed by Martin McDonagh. Yep, John’s little brother. And brothers with the same sense of humour. Hot Fuzz might be closest in actual story to The Guard, but it’s In Bruges which is nearest in tone. Both contain some truly entertaining action sequences, but there’s nothing that quite compares to two characters just talking. That was to be expected of Martin McDonagh considering his illustrious history in Irish theatre, but his brother is probably best known for scripting the uninspiring 2003 Heath Ledger and Orlando Bloom historical drama Ned Kelly. But the talent runs in the family it seems. John Michael McDonagh’s script is every bit as ridiculous, bombastic, dry, witty, dark, biting and snortingly funny as In Bruges, and, in certain places, even more so.

The film was always onto a winner with the casting of the unsung, underrated, but always superb Brendan Gleeson as Boyle. He’s known to most people for his thirty-second cameos as Mad-Eye Moody in the Harry Potter series, but Gleeson has made a habit of hijacking every film - even every scene - he’s in; whether it’s something worthy of his talents like Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later, something that could have used him better like Ridley Scott’s Kingdom of Heaven, or something camper than a row of tents such as Wolfgang Peterson’s Troy. And he shines again here. In Bruges saw he and Colin Farrell create one of the most memorable double-acts in recent cinematic history, and there’s another attempt in The Guard with Don Cheadle’s FBI agent. The relationship between the clean-cut, straight-laced American and the pudgy, unpredictable, and, oh yeah, quite blatantly racist Boyle is thoroughly entertaining, but that might suggest that when he is away from his verbal sparring partner, Boyle fizzles out. Not so. It doesn’t matter who he is with - if anyone - he is brilliant no matter the situation. A truly great creation.

But like most comedies of this ilk, it isn’t only Boyle who boggles the mind; everyone here is an idiot, with the exception, of course, of Cheadle’s Everett, who becomes our wide-eyes, our raised eyebrows and our open, gaping mouths, as Sergeant Boyle asks quite openly in one scene, “I thought only black fellas were drug dealers?” There Boyle’s young partner, played by Rory Keenan, who succeeds in doing a wonderful impression of Father Ted’s Father Dougal in one interrogation scene in particular.

On the downside, the film’s three antagonists are rather hit-and-miss. Liam Cunningham, David Wilmot and Mark Strong (playing yet another bloody villain!) fill these wicked shoes with the kind of fast-talking, wise-cracking banter common in cinematic goons, and most of the time it’s just fine, but occasionally with Strong’s hoodlum it becomes apparent that writing for Cockneys - as In Bruges suffered from with brother Martin’s efforts with Ralph Fiennes - might not be the McDonagh’s strong suit.

But if that’s the only gripe, and an extremely minor one at that, it’s rather telling of just how good a film The Guard is. Don’t think that this is simply a play-cum-film either due to the praise given to the dialogue. This is a film in every sense of the word. McDonagh knows exactly what he’s doing with the camera, whether framing shots of a lonely Boyle in a bar, or setting up for the final, Wild West-style shootout, everything is tremendously engaging.

Undoubtedly one of the funniest and most consistently entertaining films of the year, The Guard is a real triumph for someone so new to the world of directing, and we can only hope that the brothers McDonagh continue in this rich vein of form. Of maybe they have a sister…

**** ½ / *****



So THAT'S how Girl's Aloud get ahead...

Super 8

2011


Director J. J. Abrams




 Where have all these likeable children come from? Before recent flicks such as True Grit, Cowboys & Aliens, The Guard and J.J. Abrams latest offering, Super 8, the role of children in contemporary cinema seemed largely to be to bring out our most murderous tendencies. Long gone were the days of Steven Spielberg, when the enchanted little sprogs he paraded before us were simply representations of our own awe and wonder and occasional terror at what was taking place. But Abrams lives up to his moniker of “the new Spielberg” not only in presenting a young leading cast who you don’t mind spending two hours of your life with, but in the general sense of wonderment and spectacle he has conjured.

Super 8 takes place in the ordinary little town of Lillian, Ohio way back in 1979, as a group of friends set about filming a scene from their zombie movie at a local train station. Things take an unexpected turn when a train is derailed right before them, releasing a dangerous presence into their town.

The child actors in Abrams Science-Fiction adventure are superb. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but there really can be no denying it. The presence of Spielberg looms large within the central youngster, Joe Lamb (an excellent Joel Courtney), a boy who displays all the giddy enthusiasm of Joseph Mazzello’s Tim from Jurassic Park, as well as the unusual quiet estrangement of Elliot from E.T. He is very easy to root for. His chums all shine too, though in more limited, comical roles admittedly. Elle Fanning is suitably mysterious as the object of Joe’s affection, Alice, sometimes sweet, sometimes prickly, because, hey, guess what? The Spielberg influences don’t stop there. Alice has father issues. Joe has father issues too. It really does feel as though we have gone back in time.

But the similarities don’t stop with E.T. They may be the most obvious comparisons to make, given the presence of a group of children, sinister soldiers, and, of course, and extraterrestrial; but there are other, non-Spielberg films that deserve a nod also. Rob Reiner’s Stand By Me is a similar ‘coming-of-age’ tale featuring four young, male protagonists; whilst the Abrams produced Cloverfield from 2008 had the same kind of mystery and aura, not to mention the similarity - apart from the size obviously - between their monsters.

But the alien in Super 8 isn’t important. By the time we meet the creature properly in the green flesh towards the end, so invested in these characters we have become that their issues are the primary focus. Abrams’ script does sometimes stray into areas whiffing of cheese, with predictable character arcs and resolutions, and the ‘daddy issues’ can be a little overbearing, but, call it nostalgia if you want, this is the kind of cinema a now adult generation grew up worshipping. Spielberg has the ability to turn us all into children again, to make us watch what is unfolding before our eyes in a hushed awe. Jaws, E.T., Jurassic Park, and even his more recent effort with War of the Worlds, are prime examples of this cinematic mastery.

And J.J. Abrams has it too. He got off to a creaky start with Mission Impossible III, but since then he has been on a roll, bringing some semblance of credibility back to Science-Fiction Fantasy, whether by directing (Star Trek) or producing (Cloverfield). In a time when Michael Bay is hollowing out the Science-Fiction genre with a great truck-sized wedge and waving bikinis in our faces, Super 8 is like ice cold rain on a sweaty, blisteringly hot day. The “new Spielberg”, you say? I’ll drink to that.

**** / *****

This lot don't stand a chance on The X-Factor.

Rise of the Planet of the Apes

2011


Director Rupert Wyatt




 Let’s be honest, The Simpsons ruined this. The magnificent episode entitled A Fish Called Selma has made it physically impossible to watch any film from the simian series without expecting the characters to burst into a rendition of “Dr. Zaius” at any moment. So Rupert Wyatt and company really faced an uphill struggle from the beginning to bring some semblance of seriousness to this tale of death, destruction and tree-swingin’ revolution. And you know what? Well done, chaps. Well done indeed.

The plot of the awkwardly titled Rise of the Planet of the Apes (now that is a banana-sized mouthful) revolves around James Franco’s earnest scientist Will in his desperate search for a cure to his father’s ravishing Alzheimer’s. His quest leads him to Caesar, the offspring of a recently deceased chimpanzee who had been given a trial product of Will’s serum. Caesar displays intelligence and abilities far beyond his species, and when he is torn away from Will and subjected to the darker side of humanity, Caesar’s skills take a more sinister turn.

The aspect of the Apes saga that has always produced the most scepticism has been, to put it bluntly, the talking monkeys. It’s not hard to buy that drugs could make apes smarter, and we know that if they put their minds to it, those cute, loveable chimps could make mincemeat out of us. So director Rupert Wyatt, along with writer’s Rick Jaff and Amanda Silver, deserves a significant amount of credit for eliminating that aspect of absurdity. Thus the powerful moment towards the end when Andy Serkis’ Caesar does utter a few syllables are powerful, rather than amusing.

Because this isn’t a comedy. This is a film about human illness, animal experimentation, death, torture, and other sweet, merry delights. We shouldn’t be laughing; even when a gorilla is flying off the Golden Gate Bridge towards a helicopter. Okay, maybe then. Franco and especially the unsung hero of Hollywood Andy Serkis deserve a large amount of credit for maintaining this respectability. Oscar nominee Franco may be playing a fairly atypical, well-natured, ultimately tragic good guy, who is essentially responsible for our doom, but he doesn’t look embarrassed or as though this kind of film is beneath him, which is why casting someone who made his name in the Spiderman series was such a wise move.

Serkis is tremendous. He obviously has plenty of experience monkeying around thanks to his portrayal of King Kong, and it’s evident, with Caesar a charming, warm and delightful character one minute, and a violent, intimidating ape the next. We know the end result will ultimately be the downfall of mankind, but you just can’t help but cheer Caesar and his cohorts on as the get revenge on Tom Felton’s thuggish animal sanctuary guard or David Oyelowo’s slimy suit. It might be a personal thing, but whenever a human was killed or in danger, it was nothing, and yet, whenever a rampaging ape was in trouble or came to a grisly end, it was a Pixar movie all over again.

Weta Digital’s effects for the apes are tremendous, obliterating the rather comical costumes made infamous by the original franchise, whilst the climactic set-piece upon Golden Gate Bridge is a superb piece of action cinema that doesn’t overdo the Green Screen.

Yes, there are things in it that are unnecessary or lazy; Slumdog Millionaire’s Freida Pinto’s casting as Will’s glamorous vet girlfriend is blatantly only to provide a bit of eye skirt for us cock-shaking homosapiens, whilst Tom Felton’s Draco Malfoy-turned-zookeeper is about as clichéd as they come. But this is Serkis’ film. Any time Caesar is on screen, things improve vastly, transforming Rise of the Planet of the Apes into a worthy reboot, and making not only Tim Burton’s abomination of a remake from 2001, but also the sound of Troy McClure voice bellowing out "From chimpan-A to chimpan-Z", nothing but a hilarious (for very different reasons) and distant memory.

*** ½ / *****

BLOODY TRAFFIC! 

Cowboys & Aliens

2011


Director Jon Favreau
 

It’s not too grand a statement to suggest that had we been told in the past that Harrison Ford and Daniel Craig would be collaborating on screen for the first time ever, perhaps the last thing to enter our thoughts would be Cowboys & Aliens. It’s the kind of daft, cheesy, and - excuse the pun - rather alienating title that Ford made his career on back in the 1980s, but Craig looks about as out of place in as an Ewok in Deadwood. Therein lies the central dilemma of Jon Favreau’s Science-Fiction-Western hybrid: with its absurd premise, it should be more fun. But how fun can a film be with two of the grumpiest people on the face of the planet (I’ve never met them, but they give that impression) as its leads?

The plot is based on the graphic novel of the same name created by Scott Mitchell Rosenberg, and follows Craig’s amnesiac, who awakens in the desert with a strange metal bracelet attached to his wrist. No sooner does he make it to town does he find himself at odds with Ford’s brutal local cattleman, Colonel Dolarhyde, but both men are forced to put their differences aside when strange flying crafts attack the town, kidnapping many of its inhabitants. The enemies must join forces in an effort to save the townsfolk.

Cowboys & Aliens isn’t as much of a riot as it needs to be. It is sporadically enjoyable, but nowhere near enough. Things pick up considerably whenever Ford is on screen. As the grizzled, bitter old Dolarhyde, he is back to his unsmiling, unfriendly best. As he’s aged, Ford’s characters have become less the wise-cracking smartarses like Han Solo or even Indy, and he has channelled his inner-grump to great comic effect. In these ridiculous surroundings, his incredibly serious, unbelievably bad tempered demeanour works as a perfect foil, something which he obviously learned from working with the great Sean Connery in Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade. However, although he excels, Ford’s role in Cowboys & Aliens is actually rather limited. This is the Daniel Craig show. There’s nothing wrong with making the younger man your protagonist; obviously it follows standard narrative structure. And Craig’s Jake Lonergan is an intriguing little rogue, thanks mainly to his Jason Bourne-like problems and similar bad-assery. The only problem is, Cowboys & Aliens, as the title suggests, is about as serious as a bath of custard, and Craig’s comic timing is somewhat lacking. What is required here is painfully obvious because the master craftsmen of Star Wars and Indiana Jones fame is standing just a few feet away: that blend of cocky, self-assured brashness flecked with ridiculousness, and an ability to take a darn good kicking. Craig can take a beating, we’ve seen that in Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace, but he is still playing the same hard case, thus making him a rather tedious hero.

The rest of the cast are actually surprisingly entertaining. Olivia Wilde is the perfect choice to play the alien friend of our motley crew. With her eyes so far apart, I nicknamed them Land’s End and John o’Groats. Well, that’s a bit harsh, but her sexiness is a very weird kind of sexiness, kind of the same way Angelina Jolie starts to resemble a cat if you look at her long enough. Noah Ringer continues the recent trend of True Grit and Super 8, of child actors who are tolerable. However, for such a captivating actor, Sam Rockwell is rather wasted as bartender Doc; perhaps Favreau persuaded him to sign on whilst they were filming Iron Man 2.

The interesting blend of Sci-Fi and Western genre conventions works well. We can all look back on Will Smith’s disastrous attempt at doing something similar in Barry Sonnenfield’s Wild Wild West back in 1999 and shudder, but there are no such problems here. Whilst the dizzying heights of Joss Whedon’s sensational Serenity are never in danger, Favreau has taken everything cliché from these genres and spliced them together; the result of which isn’t all that clunky considering the overall plot requires no real originality from either end. Matthew Libatique’s cinematography looks fine and dandy for the wide open shots of the Arizona Territory, but it’s when the film veers towards Horror that it really comes to life. In the standout scene, young Emmett searches for his dog in the bowels of a strange, land-locked ship, amidst darkness, thunder, lightning and rain. It is gorgeously atmospheric and suitably creepy given that it’s the first time we actually encounter one of the aliens in the flesh. It is reminiscent of the chilling tension Favreau was able to create in Zathura, which was even more child-friendly then this, but, in the great tradition of Doctor Who, that just makes it more fun to scare the bleeders shitless. Blood isn’t scary, folks; tension is.

An idiot would describe Cowboys & Aliens as hit-and-miss, so I will too. It leaves a satisfactory taste in your mouth because, well let’s face it, how much were you actually expecting? Jon Favreau is a director of fun; there can be no doubt about that. His movies lack pretensions above their station and appeal to a variety of demographics, which is pleasant to see. But Cowboys & Aliens could have been much better. I’m not a Daniel Craig hater by any means, but I don’t think he was the wisest choice of lead here. We’ve seen James Bond in space one already, and we all know how Moonraker turned out, don’t we?

*** ¼ / *****

Waking up after a night out in Glasgow can be a strange experience.