Salesman

1968

Directors The Maysles Brothers

Salesman, The Maysles Brother’s 1969 documentary insight into the life of four door-to-door Bible salesmen, is harrowing viewing. We follow Paul Brennan, Jamie Baker, Raymond Martos and Charles McDevitt across the New England and Florida territories, as they try to meet their yearly quota.

This bleak tone is most prevalent during the actual sales process, as each salesman tries to talk various low-income residents into purchasing these expensive Bibles. The Maysles Brother’s skill is evident in creating this uncomfortable atmosphere, using the narrative into almost willing these poor individuals to spend their hard-earned cash, just so our heroes can succeed. It is the naked humanity of these men, Paul in particular, which is responsible for this clash of emotion.

The sheer destituteness of Salesman is not evident to begin with, as each salesman is introduced rather comically: Paul is ‘The Badger’, Jamie is ‘The Rabbit’, Raymond is ‘The Bull’, and Charles is ‘The Gipper’. This male camaraderie has the feel of the opening of Reservoir Dogs, and subsequent scenes do support this. Much of Salesman is of these men sitting in dingy motel rooms, lamenting, boasting and smoking the night away. In contrast to the sales, these scenes provide warmth. One is shown these individuals stripped of all the bravado, the pizzazz, and all is left is four lonely men. In one scene, The Rabbit and The Bull go for a midnight swim; it appears initially as an unnecessary diversion from the central misery, but it is actually the most genuine moment. Unfortunately, the sound in these scenes is a problem, as their broad, regional accents blend together, making it hard to distinguish.

Salesman is harsh viewing. The American Dream is stripped bare The Maysles Brothers and exposed. But there are moments of such genuine warmth and humour from these men that the experience almost feels worth the struggle.

*** ½ / *****

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning

1960

Director Karel Reisz

Eee, this film were grand, duck. Albert Finney doesn’t quite master the Nottingham accent, keeping his own Salfordian one for Karel Reisz’s adaptation of Alan Sillitoe’s novel. It sounds strange to a Salfordian, as Finney’s Arthur is presented as a local. But just how much of a hindrance is it?

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning is part of a revolutionary stable of films, such as the earlier A Taste of Honey and later Alfie. They give a voice to the neglected working classes and their trials and tribulations. But Reisz’s film does this literally, from the opening moments inside the soul-crushing factory, where Arthur proudly and stubbornly narrates his innermost thoughts and feelings.

Arthur is a real man. He isn’t the pampered, stiff upper lip prudes we are used to seeing in middle-class English cinema. He likes his drink and he likes his women (usually in that order) and doesn’t care who knows it or who gets hurt. Married women? They are fair game as far as Arthur is concerned, as his relationship with Rachel Roberts’ Brenda proves. Despite this relationship, Arthur is also courting Shirley Anne Field’s absolutely stunning Doreen, growing increasingly frustrated by her ‘proper’ conduct.

Finney plays Arthur with sensational likeability for such a brutish rogue. It is so easy to empathise with him when you see his situation. He spends his week being ground down, nothing but a tool amongst tools in the nightmarish factory. His nefarious conduct is symptomatic of his situation. He is young and gets barely two days a week of enjoyment, so he understandably lashes out.

Finney’s portrayal is visceral and real. It doesn’t ask or want your sympathy. But this is a tragic figure, the product of oppression and neglect; a man, sadly, beyond redemption.

**** ¼ / *****

The Wind That Shakes the Barley

2006

Director Ken Loach

Mere minutes into The Wind That Shakes the Barley, a small village meeting somewhere in County Cork in disrupted by the ominous sound of tramping jackboots upon the ground. A heavily armed group of British Black and Tans disrupt this peaceful local gathering, violently accosting the men and screaming in their guttural Lancastrian tones that sporting games (in this case hurling) constitute a public meeting and are therefore forbidden. Within moments, for the terrible crime of refusing to say his name in English, a young Irishman is dragged off into a nearby chicken coup, beaten to death and strung up on a post as a message to any future dissenters. Shortly after this initial demonic display, a slightly smaller band of uniformed sadists make their presence felt on a train platform, where they beat and bloody a few more plucky Irishmen, all the while shouting and hooting in doggerel barks, as Cillian Murphy’s protagonist Damien O’Donovan looks on in horror.

There is simply no balance to The Wind That Shakes the Barley from director Ken Loach (Kes) and writer Paul Laverty (Sweet Sixteen). It is an account of the Irish War of Independence (1919-21) and the beginnings of the Irish Civil War (1922-23), as told through the eyes of brothers Damien and Teddy O’Donovan (Cillian Murphy and Pádraic Delaney respectively). It is not that Loach fails to create an impartial, nuanced, intelligent account of this conflict; he doesn’t even try.

Two binary opposites are created in the film’s lazily sketched characters. There is the peaceful, loveable Irish represented by Murphy and his criminally clichéd relationship with Orla Fitzgerald’s Sinéad. And there are the cackling, psychopathic, pompous British. By laying it on so thick, Loach’s romantic vision of Ireland detracts from the visual freshness of the film. Shot largely in the gorgeous green countryside of County Cork, which, situated in the South-West of Ireland is renowned for its rural beauty; from the rolling hills where Teddy and Damien train the would-be freedom fighters, to rustic country lanes that Sinéad cycles along like some mythical nymph. This is the kind of ridiculous stereotyping common to films depicting Nazis, where, until fairly recently with works such as Roman Polanski’s The Pianist or Oliver Hirschbiegel’s Downfall, it was acceptable to allow audiences to believe that every single German soldier who ever donned the uniform under Hitler’s reign was a murdering, anti-Semitic devil. To venture even further into cinema’s lazy storytelling past, this is the kind of one-dimensional, caricatured nonsense that plagued representations of Native Americans and Mexicans in the Westerns of old. They were either savages - mythical ‘others’ to be feared for their differences - or fools inserted into the narrative to provide some much needed comic relief to ease the pain of another wooden performance from John Wayne.

The Wind That Shakes the Barley is truly unique, as we have now come full circle. Had it been made in the 1950s, not only would it have been from the British perspective, but they would have been the heroes, and the Irish would have been cast in the role of the dangerous, unknowable ‘Hun’, the uncivilised foreigner who must be tamed by ‘our lads’. Gone too, it must be noted, would have been the title: ‘The Wind That Shakes the Barley’ being a classic Irish ballad written by Robert Dwyer Joyce and performed many times since, perhaps most notably by Dolores Keane. It would have been hard to explain the British as heroes with that mournful tune ringing in the ears of audiences. No, Loach’s film has come full circle. We have indeed resorted to the lazy, poorly written characterization of yesteryear; only this time it is not the Nazis, it is not the ‘Indians’, it is not the Mexicans, it is the British themselves who are stripped of all human flesh and transformed into rampaging, snorting, seething pigs right out of the flaming pits of Mordor.

Brits are well-used to their bastardization in Hollywood. Mel Gibson is largely to thank for that with his pantomime representations in both Braveheart and The Patriot. But the UK Film Council is not Hollywood, and Ken Loach is not Mel Gibson. A higher standard is expected.

One cannot ignore that Loach himself is not Irish. He is not even, like Gibson, someone from a completely different country altogether caught up in the lyrical mystique of the ‘evil English’. Loach was born in Nuneaton, went to Grammar school and attended Oxford University. It doesn’t get much more English than that. So what baggage was he bringing with him into a project such as The Wind That Shakes the Barley? Spike Lee once stated that he felt it was important for an African-American filmmaker to direct a Malcolm X biopic. The reason Lee thinks this is an obvious one, but is it always right? Does having a director from either side of the line result in an ultimately fair and satisfying final product? Loach brings with him the years upon years of English guilt, and Laverty a similar catalogue of Irish rage. The result is an uneven, unintelligent piece of work.

This guilt-ridden over-egging of the pudding is not without cause; the Black and Tans have since been dismissively labelled as ex-convicts and psychopaths, as various British governments have attempted to disguise its own part in the violent manipulation of the tens of thousands of ex-servicemen who enlisted in the UK’s Irish police force between 1920 and 1921. For many Britons, for many English, there is simply very little to brag about and plenty to be ashamed of. But the lack of subtlety to Loach’s film is simply unforgivable. He should know that people going to see a Ken Loach film are aware of the nightmarish Ireland of the early 1920s, and we would very much like to see a film depicting such a place. What we don’t want to see is an English director apologising for what his countrymen did almost one century ago. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. It probably doesn’t heal any wounds. But The Wind That Shakes the Barley is certainly no more successful at stopping the bleeding.

** ¾ / *****

Tears of the Black Tiger

2000

Director Wisit Sasanatieng

Acclaimed Thai auteur Wisit Sasanatieng’s latest offering establishes its unusual tone early. After an impressive display of marksmanship from protagonist Dum (Chartchai Ngamsan), the screen separating the audience from the action is breached, and a message appears, asking if we would like to see the shot again. Take Tears of the Black Tiger seriously at your own peril.

Sasanatieng’s western melodrama concentrates comically on the fractured relationship of two childhood sweethearts: Stella Malucchi’s privileged Rumpoey and the trigger-happy Dum, a lowly bandit in league with notorious outlaws Fai (Sombat Metanee) and the sadistic Mahesuan (Supakorn Kitsuwon). Rumpoey’s arranged marriage to Arawat Ruangvuth’s conservative Police Captain Kumjorn places the lovers on opposite sides of the law as the film spirals towards its climax.

Written and directed by Sasanatieng, Tears of the Black Tiger is as much homage to western cinema and Hong Kong action as it is a parody of Thailand’s own screenscapes. Despite cinematographer Nattawut Kittikhun’s outrageous yet gorgeous visuals - the opening shot of Rumpoey waiting in the gazebo for her lover, as the rain pours, is particularly striking -, it requires effort not to spend the film’s duration counting cinematic winks and nods. Showdowns between Dum and Mahesuan are complete with endless twitching retinas, a blatant tip of the hat to the Spaghetti Westerns of Sergio Leone. The explosive violence of Sam Peckinpah, the balletic gore of John Woo, and even iconic imagery from Sam Raimi’s The Evil Dead make similar, identifiable appearances. This in no way detracts from the narrative; it would be hard to make it any more inconsequential.

From the purposeful scenery consumption of characters such as the cackling Mahesuan, to the mawkish moping of the doomed lovers, this melodramatic parody overpowers the senses, creating an unsettlingly bizarre viewing experience.

** ¾ / *****

Grizzly Man

2005

Director Werner Herzog

If the tale of Timothy Treadwell was not so harrowing, one might be tempted to say that the perfect story had fallen right into Werner Herzog’s lap. This is, after all, a film director who has made a career out of exploring the dark, uncompromising relationship between man and nature in such unsettling features as Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972) and Cobra Verde (1987). Herzog would be the first to profess his love for all things natural, from the wind in the trees to the snake in the grass, and this tremulous affection is on full display in his 2005 documentary Grizzly Man.

In 2003, bear enthusiast Timothy Treadwell and girlfriend Amie Huguenard were killed and eaten by a grizzly bear in Alaska’s Katmai National Park and Preserve. Using Treadwell’s own footage, as well as interviews with those who knew him best, Herzog attempts to unravel the myth of the man whose passion became his doom.

Respect surrounds Herzog’s representation of the bears. The camera holding close on some particularly furry features, Herzog muses, “And what haunts me is that in all the faces of all the bears that Treadwell ever filmed, I discover no kinship, no understanding, no mercy. I see only the overwhelming indifference of nature.” Herzog makes basic, fundamental points throughout, referring to the invisible yet incumbent line between man and nature, and the harsh, remorseless animal world. Here Herzog echoes the beautiful, poetic monologue delivered by Jeff Goldblum’s doomed Dr. Martin Brundle in David Cronenberg’s The Fly (1986): “Insects don’t have politics. They’re very brutal. No compassion, no compromise. We can’t trust the insect.” Prior to Grizzly Man, this chilling, haunting speech was the perfect description of why we should respect the animal world. Not fear. Respect. To Herzog the difference is everything. This is about as judgmental as the veteran German filmmaker ever becomes. His deep admiration for Treadwell’s unwavering, unshakeable devotion to the bears and their way of life is clear, yet he cannot shake the obvious: Treadwell crossed a line that human beings should never pass, and it cost him not only his, but also Amie Huguenard’s, life.

It is when this mediatory, analytic mood is disrupted by a more elegiac one that the documentary’s most powerful moment occurs. Herzog speaks regularly to a former lover of Treadwell’s, the somewhat eccentric Jewell Palovak, a woman who has inherited much of her ex-boyfriend’s belongings, including the tape that recorded the sounds of the ill-fated attack. Previously convinced that such a recording belonged in his documentary, we are forced to watch, as Herzog himself dons the earphones. Only one side of his stoic visage is visible, as Palovak watches him intently. Within mere moments, Herzog asks her to turn it off. He is almost in tears. He tells her never to listen to it. To destroy it. The sight of a powerful, seemingly unflappable character such as Herzog so visibly shaken by what he just heard is the perfect embodiment of the power possessed by Grizzly Man.

**** ¼ / *****

Django

1966

Director Sergio Corbucci

Awkward dialogue. Wooden performances. A title role character that has since become a walking, talking cliché. Why is Sergio Corbucci’s Django such a triumph?

After saving a young woman from a group of bandits, Django arrives out of the horizon with a mysterious coffin in tow to a town that just happens to be the focal point in an ongoing violent conflict between Mexican outlaws and a group of religious fanatics.

The Western has become an iconic symbol of Hollywood, and the Spaghetti Western is its chiselled extension. Action heroes by the dozen (Han Solo, John McClane etc.) owe a weighty debt to the mythical gunslinger. Django is the archetypal Western, be it pasta-based or just plain ole’ American apple pie. Corbucci captures the miserable, arid beauty of the Old West within a decayed graveyard, the sight of Django’s final stand, a symbolic crumbling field of beauty. The depth of Ford’s The Searchers or True Grit may be gone, replaced by the sight of Major Jackson (Eduardo Fajardo) engaging in a spot of shooting practice over the gorgeously excessive score of Luis Enríquez Bacalov.

The explosions of violence in Django are another simple yet perfectly pitched technique blasted at us by Corbucci to add the bloody cherry to an icing thick with corpses lying prone upon a cake of dirt.

What Nero brings to his embodiment of the gunfighter is vulnerability. Sure, he drops men by the dozen, but this is a fighter who feels pain. When we first meet him, Django is an expressionless, monosyllabic enigma hidden behind a hat, a beard and a pair of sinister, oceanic blue eyes. But by the end, Nero reduces the myth to a handicapped mess of a man.

Django is a piece of work that remains as viscerally intense, thematically unpredictable, and musically magnificent as anything fired from the gun of cinema’s most iconic genre since.

**** ¼ / *****

Body and Soul

1947

Director Robert Rossen

A boxer dies from a brain haemorrhage. A simple fact is reinforced throughout the gritty Body and Soul: boxing is brutal; a sport that juxtaposes all of the competitive honour, pride and glory of single battle with the pointlessness of death, the corruption of wealth, and the evils of fame.

The story is fairly routine. Working class New Yorker, Charlie Davis is a skilled fighter who wants desperately to succeed. He falls for the beautiful and talented artist Peg, whom he wants to marry and support. Unfortunately for Charlie, the death of his father causes him a great deal of guilt, which he tries to exorcise by doing everything his dear old Ma asks of him. The problem is, she’s not the biggest boxing fan. It takes the bailiffs to drive Charlie back into the murky world of prize-fighting, where money grabbing sharks like Lloyd Gough’s Roberts and William Conrad’s Quinn steal him away from his loyal friend and manager, Joseph Pevney’s engrossing Shorty. Charlie is blinded by wealth and fame with predictably tragic consequences.

Robert Rossen is successful in representing the contrast of emotions in boxing in his 1947 drama. There are few scenes more tragic than the death of Canada Lee’s quietly engaging Ben Chaplin. Betrayed, abandoned, the only career and life he ever knew now lost, he is left swinging blindly in a training ring, desperate to recapture his glory days, refusing to give in to the preying vultures of organised crime, before finally falling down dead. Just before this heart-breaking moment, Ben speaks with such gusto and enthusiasm to Charlie on what tactics he (Charlie) should employ to defeat the young upstart Marlowe. The passion and love which Ben still holds for the sport of boxing is a magnificent example of everything that is good about the violent dance. But what follows shortly after quickly highlights the darker side of the squared circle.

It just so happens that this reviewer has a great love for the sport of boxing. The in-ring scenes towards the end when Charlie is quite literally fighting for his life against Marlowe almost feel like a punch in the gut themselves, as James Wong Howe’s cinematography takes you about as close as you can get without drawing blood. Boxing is the most visceral of sports and these scenes, though relatively few, are jaw-breakingly effective. It is not hard to believe that men die in the ring when you see Charlie staggering and swaying, his face the proverbial crimson mask, mere inches away from your own. Cinema is a visceral pastime itself, and Rossen’s ability to make this connection between the two worlds is a real achievement.

Like a prologue to Elia Kazan’s 1954 On The Waterfront, Body and Soul expertly captures the working class society which still surrounds the sport of boxing to this day. With Kazan’s piece, we have Terry Malloy. Both Terry and Charlie are poorly educated, good natured, honest, hard-working men who are unlucky enough to find themselves caught up in a time of great economic strife in America. It is their lack of education which makes them vulnerable to the predatory crooks of Capitalism, hoodlums with the money to seduce and corrupt these men who just want to provide for their families. Both On The Waterfront’s Marlon Brando and Body and Soul’s John Garfield excel in their performances as hardened, gritty men who only know how to do one thing good and that’s fight. But whilst Brando relied of his superb naturalism to make us believe he was a fighter, Garfield genuinely has taken quite a few lickings in his day, and his cauliflower ears and broken nose just bring the wonderful Charlie to life. His smile is one of the most heart-warming features of the film, peering out from behind the bruises and the confusion, drawing us in willingly to this loveable rogue with open arms.

It is not necessary to be a fan of boxing to enjoy Rossen’s drama. The themes running throughout are not the property of boxing pictures alone, or even the sports subgenre. Greed, ambition, betrayal, corruption: stop me if you think you have heard any of these before! As Christopher Marlowe will tell you, selling your soul to the Devil is not exactly a new story. Don’t dismiss this film based on its boxing content. If you are not a fan of this sport, not to worry; Rossen’s powerful piece just uses the sport of boxing as the vehicle for his narrative. Kazan tells almost the exact same tale without ever showing a fight. He deals with the aftermath of a fighter’s career, and it is ominous to think that such a life perhaps awaits the unfortunate Charlie.

You might be excused for overlooking Body and Soul on the list of great boxing movies. After all, in the same century we were privileged enough to experience the likes of Raging Bull and Rocky, both of which have achieved far more commercial and academy acclaim. But watching Rossen’s piece is special for that very reason; it feels as though you are watching the future. The hauntingly violent and beautiful choreography used by Rossen in the boxing scenes is evidently employed by Martin Scorsese some thirty years later. When Charlie is ducking and weaving, his eyes swollen and nose broken, images of Robert De Niro as Jake La Motta constantly flash before your eyes. When Charlie runs from the ring, tears streaming down his face in a mixture of glee and misery, I was half expecting him to break into a cry of “ADRIAN!”

These familiarities cannot be overlooked. What have just been mentioned are two of the greatest sports films of all time and Body and Soul has quite clearly played a huge role in their development. Simply add this to the superb cast and flawless presentation, Robert Rossen’s picture deserves as much recognition as possible as a pioneer of its genre that stands up admirably to the test of time.

**** / *****

Aguirre, the Wrath of God

1972

Director Werner Herzog

Werner Herzog has always professed both his admiration and fear of nature. Concurrently, he has repeatedly claimed similar feelings towards his closest - if an artist such as he could ever have such a thing - muse, the eccentric and magnetic Klaus Kinski. It is apt then that the two men’s very first collaboration, 1972’s Aguirre, the Wrath of God, should reflect this psychological dichotomy more successfully than any of the other four films the two men worked on together.

Filmed within the Peruvian rainforests along the Amazon, the first shot of Aguirre shows Gonzalo Pizzaro’s doomed army marching down the long, winding slopes of Machu Pichu. It is a gorgeous representation of man’s invasion of nature and its consequence on the human soul, the overriding theme of Herzog’s sixth feature. A famous quotation from the divisive director asserts, “I like to direct landscapes just as I like to direct actors and animals.” Not a single word of dialogue is uttered for close to five minutes, as Herzog’s camera feasts on the visual spectacle of the mountain, before gradually introducing the snaking, slithering presence of the Spanish convoy. It remains the only part of Aguirre where the landscape is completely dominant. Herzog, in the 2002 documentary My Best Fiend, claimed that Kinski was unhappy with this panoramic approach, desiring a greater emphasis placed upon his own stern features. What follows this opening five minutes is much more suited to the actor’s taste; Herzog’s camera grows closer and closer to the character of Don Lope de Aguirre, an astonishingly vile villain of truly Shakespearean proportion, echoing the scheming machinations of Othello’s Iago, the sadistic ambition of King Lear’s Edmund or, most blatant of all, the delusional paranoia of Macbeth. By the closing moments we are left with nothing but the man himself soliloquizing hypnotically as he stands upon a crumbling raft of corpses.

Though based loosely on recorded historical events, Herzog’s script abandons any effort to remain completely factual, so fascinated is it by the ferocious figure of Aguirre. Such surgical scrutiny on a single character is deeply reliant on the actor’s ability, and Kinski gives his greatest and most manic performance as the treacherous and delusional megalomaniac. He and Herzog, despite their occasional hostilities, were always successful in creating memorable roles for Kinski to inhabit. The films were not always necessarily of the same standard, but whether giving his own unique take on Count Dracula in Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979) or taking on the titular role of the tragic Woyzeck (1979), Kinski’s unique energy remains unmatched. His only other that comes close to surpassing that of Aguirre is his ambitious performance as Brian Fitzgerald in another Herzog feature depicting man’s conflict with nature, Fitzcarraldo (1982), a character who matches the delusional ambition of Aguirre, but without the sadistic hatred of God.

The negative side to Kinski’s performance, however, is also its greatest strength: it dominates. Don Fernando de Guzmán is portrayed by Peter Berling as a corpulent fool, perhaps the most visibly unsuited to his current hostile surroundings and false authority than any other character; even the pampered women accompanying the journey, Helena Rojo’s Doña Inéz and Cecilia Rivera as Aguirre’s own daughter seem more at ease than the self-proclaimed “Emperor in the New World”, but feature too scarcely to have any real impact. The only other character to rival Aguirre is, as Herzog would see it, the landscape itself. It is not the fault of the actors, as their characters are thinly drawn figures only there for nature to dispose of and for Kinski’s unpredictable rogue to toy with.

**** / *****

24 Hour Party People

 2002

Director Michael Winterbottom

Throughout director Michael Winterbottom’s romp through the drug-addled Mancunian music scene of the 1970s and 80s, there are several moments of calm hilarity. These come in the form of Tony Wilson’s special Granada reports. It is not necessary to have lived in the North-West to ‘get’ the joke, as it’s a common feature of regional news broadcasters in this country that they pack their programs with some of the most mundane, meaningless tripe on television. Wilson goes hand gliding on the moors and, later, watches as a farmer shows him how he has taught a duck to herd sheep. It’s baffling and witty viewing, but it also shows exactly what Wilson is trying to escape from in his ventures into the music business: “I’m a serious fucking journalist ... I went to Cambridge.” These scenes are shot in the most naturalistic documentary style, with no breaking of the fourth wall from Steve Coogan, who plays Wilson, and, poignantly, little to no music. It is a stark contrast to the loud, electrifying scenes of The Factory and The Haçienda.

But this is where the heart of Winterbottom’s film lies. It charts the rise of journalist Tony Wilson, as he tries to revolutionise the Manchester music scene with bands such as Joy Division, New Order and the Happy Mondays. So much of 24 Hour Party People takes place in dingy bars, pubs and clubs, smoke pervading the screen, lights flashing from every orifice of the room, the camera getting in as close as possible to performers and spectators alike, that it is easy to become caught up in the intoxicating punk atmosphere. Despite the high level of drug use and death, it was hard not to leave the cinema feeling invigorated and jazzed, bopping away to the brilliant soundtrack and quickly getting onto iTunes to remind yourself just why Ian Curtis was, as Tony Wilson constantly put it, “a fucking genius.”

This is not a serious film. It’s an odd thing to say, considering it depicts the suicide of the previously mentioned Curtis, as well as the demise of volatile, prickly producer Martin Hannett. Even without the drugs, there is sex, violence and (no, not rock ‘n’ roll, you squares!) language that would make Guy Ritchie choke on his beer-flavoured man crisps. But at no point does Winterbottom’s film ever feel like it is taking itself seriously. It is, as many synopses say, a ‘dramatization’ of real events, not a 100% accurate, factual account. This is a real credit to the director, who understands the medium of film and the power it holds, choosing to dazzle and entertain, rather than condescendingly ‘educate’ like other directors might have chosen to do. There are no anti-drug messages here.

Winterbottom’s approach to the topic is bursting with originality. It is hard to even use the term ‘documentary’, as the use of cinema’s fourth wall is so eccentrically erratic that you barely know what you are watching. Frequently, Wilson addresses the camera, and the viewers, directly. He is quite literally the narrator of the piece, but not in the way we are used to in standard cinematic fodder, where the voice of an unseen yet omniscient narrator warbles on for the duration. He is leading us on this journey through “Madchester”, not just giving us snippets of his ‘wisdom’.

The audience is truly involved in this story. The documentary camera work and editing, of Robby Müller and Trevor Waite respectively, ensure that that the film maintains this factual feel. We are involved in real events. It is a truly unique cinema experience. Of all the ways Winterbottom could have presented this film, he has shown real imagination and innovation in viewer manipulation.

The cast is superb. None of them really resemble the individuals they are portraying, with Coogan achieving the most success with his awful hair and dodgy rolled-up sleeves as the Mancunian motor mouth Wilson. But it doesn’t matter. Similar facial features are not important. Most of the actors, aside from Coogan, are supporting players. They jump in and out of the narrative, each adding vibrancy and life to the screen. These are foul-mouthed, rude, drug-snorting, alcohol-slurping, chain-smoking, loud Mancunian folk. And boy, are they entertaining. It is an acquired taste, the same way as the machine-gun Bronx vocals of Martin Scorsese's gangster flicks or Yorkshire brogue in Ken Loache’s Kes. The accent and diction has the potential to alienate viewers.

There are standouts in the supporting cast, with Andy Serkis’ Martin Hannett adding real fizz to the screen whenever his obese, shaggy-haired producer waddles onto the screen insulting anyone with a pulse. Paddy Considine is also a treat as Rob Gretton, Joy Division’s manager. When we first meet him in the club, Considine plays Gretton as an intoxicated Cheshire cat; a grinning, bespectacled businessman, who descends into an angry, paranoid individual constantly at odds with Wilson. He is far more affected by Ian Curtis’ death than any of the actual members of Joy Division, many of them showing little to no concern during their lead singer’s many epileptic seizures. As Curtis, Sean Harris does not feature all that prominently, but he manages to do an effective job with what little screen time he is given. It helps that he has a slightly unstable look, which is just perfect for the tortured Curtis.

But the film belongs to Coogan. There is barely a scene without him, and he injects them with his awkward presence and comic excellence. It could be argued that he is essentially playing Wilson as the legendary Alan Partridge, but considering the success of his television and radio personality, it’s difficult to see Coogan as any other character. He is wonderful. An invigorating presence impossible to take your eyes off. Tony Wilson obviously saw a lot of himself in Norwich’s most famous radio DJ.

What an achievement 24 Hour Party People is. It is a work of startling originality and punch, for which Michael Winterbottom deserves a great deal of recognition.

**** ¼ / *****

Xala

1975

Director Ousmane Sembène

Xala is legendary African director Oumane Sembène’s take on the 1960 Senegalese shift to independence. Thierno Leye plays Aboucader Beye - otherwise known as “El Hadji” - one of a select group of bespectacled, bureaucratic businessmen who run this emerging nation almost literally from inside their cash-filled briefcases. Using the money from this latest deal, El Hadji acquires a third wife, but finds himself unable to consummate the marriage due to a bout of impotency referred to with a great deal of dread in the community as the “xala.”

There is a central problem limiting the enjoyment of Xala: it is, after all, a comedy - and a lengthy one at that - but is rarely funny. A political comedy certainly, with serious issues of corruption (the country is run by the wealthy elite) and overbearing patriarchy (El Hadji’s polygamous marriages) at its heart, but it is still a comedy nonetheless. The cultural differences would be foolish to ignore. Humour is extremely personal. The so-called “funny” scenes of Seven Samurai (Akira Kurosawa) or societal ennui of Week End (Jean-Luc Godard) remain as alienating now as ever. Cultural crossover is artistically problematic and frequently unsuccessful. Sembène’s efforts to generate humour feel equally forced. Characters are loud, bombastic and eccentric in both appearance and behaviour; more unsettling than entertaining.

Striving to make his point as explicit as possible, Sembène has strayed into farcical waters. The metaphor of political impotence is outrageously blatant and lazy. An overreliance on the lowest form of humour is supposed to debase the presented political system, but this is no exercise in the Carnivalesque no matter how hard it tries.

There is clearly intelligence in Xala. Its ending will haunt you forever. This makes it all the more infuriating that such a skilled filmmaker as Sembène - famed for his revolutionary work on Borom Sarret (1963) and Mandabi (1968) - would resort to what is, ultimately, a rather tame narrative.

*** / *****