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

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  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 / *****