Films reviewed below, in reverse order of being seen, are:- Bundy, Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, The Dancer Upstairs, The Quiet American, 8 Femmes, Donnie Darko, Sweet Sixteen, Bowling for Columbine, Rabbit-Proof Fence, Morvern Callar, 28 Days Later, High Crimes, My Little Eye, All or Nothing, Ma Femme est une Actrice, One Hour Photo, Signs, Frailty, Insomnia, Lantana, Reign of Fire, Hable con Ella, Men in Black II, Heaven, Tape, Eight Legged Freaks, Wilbur Wants to Kill Himself, Minority Report, Murder by Numbers, Birthday Girl, Kissing Jessica Stein, Lucia y el Sexo, Spider-man, Monster's Ball, The Time Machine, Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones, The Scorpion King, The One, The Panic Room, Y tu Mamÿ También, Invincible, Das Experiment, Monsters Inc., Gosford Park, From Hell and Mulholland Drive.
When a new biopic appears, covering an already well known story, one has to ask, what are those involved trying to achieve with this? What do they feel they have to say which has not been said before? In the case of Ted Bundy's story, it would be all too easy to write off the film as sensationalist, cashing in on real-life horrors with an audience always interested in serial killers, blood and gore, screaming women and scares. This film, however, is something different, and takes a bold, cold look at the man at the centre of it all.
This perspective is not a comfortable one, and the script does it best to make the audience uncomfortable - embarrassed, disgusted, socially repulsed - long before anything as sensational as murder occurs. Bundy's kleptomania is illustrated in a series of vignettes which it is hard to watch without feeling nervous on his behalf, though he seems to feel no concern at all, which very quickly demonstrates the difference in his psychology. As the story develops, it becomes apparent that the very audacity of his crimes was what enabled him to get away with so many, whilst this same quality ensured that, sooner or later, he would be caught. A intelligent and educated man, he was clearly aware of this, struggling to reconcile it with the compulsive behaviour which he herein continually tries to justify to himself as a simple exercise of power, one memorable scene being that in which he yells at a captive that he is in control. While this may sound corny, it actually works very well, because it's so up close and personal, and Michael Reilly Burke, playing Ted, gives a remarkable performance.
Pursuing so closely the perspective of the killer does not here minimise the horror of his crimes. There is a strong sense of period enhanced by a vibrant soundtrack and a rich supply of cinematic references, with a chase through the woods reminiscent of Russ Meyer's more playful work, before it gives way to something chilling. The women whom Bundy kills, and a great many more whom he considers, are photographed in an intensely sensual way, but without seeming deliberately sexual, as if their youthful innocence is part of their appeal. This emphasises the ease with which Bundy could carry out his attacks, and it is contrasted with the paranoia and sexual uncertainty of his girlfriend Leigh. Throughout the film, assorted men and women argue or complain about one another, illustrating the seam of resentment and mistrust from which Bundy's urges might have developed, and once again contrasting his abnormal behaviour with that of all the people who resist it. There are many more questions here than answers, but still plenty of interest. A refreshing look at a subject which rarely receives justice.
Less direct and coherent than its predecessor, but wider in scope, Jackson/Tolkein's difficult second movie just about manages to get away with it all, and there are times when it provides a rollicking good adventure. I would recommend that the parents of young children go to see it themselves before escorting their offspring, as it is extremely violent and gruesome in places, echoing the director's earlier work, and there are moments which are genuinely scary (a rare thing in fantasy cinema). The darker story is somehow more satisfying, however, as we're now dealing with characters who begin to understand what they're about, instead of being frustratingly, albeit charmingly, delusional; so we can tackle the issues of war and conquest head on. Here are the battles only hinted at in the first film. Here is action where before there was only angst. Here is Peter Jackson in his element, vigorous and inventive, grabbing one's attention and holding onto it through long, complex scenes of conflict. There are brilliantly visualised war machines, intriguing tacticval manouvers, blood and gore, Flynn-style fighting from the ballet-trained Orlando Bloom (as Legolas), and properly disgusting, bloodthirsty uruk-hai.
Despite all this, much of the tweeness of the first story still lingers, most notably in the tale of Merry and Pippin, whose forest adventures do drag, slowing everything down, though this may satisfy those who insist that the greatest virtue such a movie might have is faithfulness to its source. Clever photography provides cinematic references to the work of HG Wells, both in the recurring comparison of the uruk-hai to morlocks (who are not treated altogether without sympathy), and in the demonstration of evil industry destroyed by natural forces. This latter part is a bit heavy-handed, a legacy of a cruder political age, when the First World War on which so much of Tolkein's fable is based helped to give birth to the New Age movement, but Jackson deftly steers away from the absolute condemnation of technological progress which has become a staple of modern fantasy. The real frustration at this point is simply that Christopher Lee (as Saurman) really doesn't get enough to do.
The stand-out performances in this film come (once again) from Elijah Wood as the increasingly troubled Frodo, and from the computer-animated Gollum, whose pathetic split-personality soliloquies manage to be at once ridiculous, pitiful, and sinister. The interplay of these two characters presents an unusually astute study of the mechanics of addiction, and has the sort of real-world relevance which all really good fantasy strives to accomplish. Although Frodo and Gollum (and Sam, travelling with them) don't actually do very much, they remain fascinating to watch.
Perhaps the greatest weakness of this story is that, aside from those final battles, nobody really does very much, at least not in comparison to the amount of soul-searching, strategic meandering and general arsing about. It's hard to care about a king as useless as Theoden, despite effective borrowings from Lear. Wormtongue comes across as altogether too crude and obvious to be disturbing. Eowyn's fight to be allowed to fight as she is able is affecting, but sidelined; and Aragorn's angst about his love for Arwen (with Liv Tyler still more wooden than the ents) gets tediously drippy, despite some beautiful gothic photography. The New Zealand landscape is still stunning, but less exciting this time. Sauron somehow doesn't seem as mighty as he should.
If I go to see this film a second time, I shall take a (different) book, because there are passages within it which really are dull; but there are also parts which I rather think I might enjoy watching hundreds of times. The bittiness of the whole can be forgiven on account of their brilliance. The wargs are well realised and really scary, it's exciting to see Gandalf reveal how capable he really is, and the growing rapport between Gimli and Legolas makes it easier to care about these disparate characters. The set piece involving the flood is one of the most impressive uses of special effects I've ever seen, a really hard thing to get right, and it sweeps one away. The nazghul remain intensely creepy. Frodo's fall is heartbreaking. And, of course, Gollum gets the last word. This film is not altogether satisfying, but you'd be an idiot to miss it.
Scripted by Nicholas Shakespeare, based on his own remarkable novel, The Dancer Upstairs recollects, albeit obliquely, the ten year long search for the Shining Path terrorists in Peru. It does so by following the endeavours of military police detective Senor Rejas, played by the ever-reliable Javier Bardem. This was evidently a highly ambitious project to take on, and it is with great skill that director John Malkovich retains audience attention throughout his complex, winding tale. That said, however, The Dancer Upstairs ought to have been better still. It is difficult to admire it without feeling sorry for what was lost.
This film's failings are not due to divergence from the book, nor to an insufficient understanding of the politics, philosophies and social experiences of those involved. They are, ultimately, down to distributors' constraints on running time. At least half an hour of footage had to be slashed before release. Due to the manner in which the plot develops, with vital information often hidden in small incidents, this must have been incredibly difficult to do; what has gone, inevitably, is the personal aspect of the film: the love story between Rejas and his daughter's dance teacher, and also his relationships with family and friends. Though still noted, these don't carry anything like the emotional impact which they should, and that, in turn, undermines audience understanding of Rejas motives and priorities. Vital to a philosophical understanding of the film is an awareness of the difference between Rejas' approach to life and that of the terrorists, which hinges on his devotion to the people in his life, as compared with their willingness to sacrifice everything for a cause. The one point where this does come through strongly is in his relationship with his daughter, with the young actress turning in a superb performance despite having hardly any lines. It is a pity that Rejas' internal conflicts between his feelings for his family and for the dance teacher are never explored.
Where the film really scores is with its brave exploration of the phenomenon of terrorism, how terrorism can take root in a society and earn its support, and how its supporters might justify it - all this without ever losing sight of the hideousness of its effects. It is a daring thing to do, in the current political climate, to demonstrate the ease with which such acts might be carried out, and the fact that absolutely anyone, even small children, might be willing to perpetrate them. After one notable montage of atrocities, a hand is shown leaving a can on a bench; no explosion is seen to follow, which only serves to emphasise that one never can tell at all which ordinary actions might in fact be dangerous. The only thing we can do to combat this, the story suggests, is to invest in our society and in one another, so that the motive to behave violently is overridden by other concerns; yet how easy can this be, in a thoroughly corrupt society?
Although it never quite makes the impact it should, The Dancer Upstairs is an intelligent and provocative film deserving of a wider audience than it is likely to get.
Right from the opening scenes of harbour lights on the water in Saigon, the quality of this production is clear. Philip Noyce has always been a promising director, and here he shows what he can do with a real budget and real stars. Working with a superb crew, he brings to life all of the lush and alien character of 1950s Vietnam, introducing it as a central player in Graham Greene's poetic tale of a journalist gradually forced to abandon the neutrality of his observer's role in life. Michael Caine is perfect as the cynical Englishman Tom Fowler, a link between the colonial world and its masters, gradually becoming obsolete. There is a parallel to the international situation in his relationship with a much younger local woman, Phuong (Do Thi Hai Yen), though it is clear early on that there are personal feelings between them which run much deeper. As so often in Greene's stories, there is a refusal to let the course of human emotion be steered by anything so crude as destiny; this is the kind of role which Caine has deserved for years, playing someone his own age, someone not hidden behind cheery Cockney bullshit, a vulnerable but sharply intelligent man trying to approach the world on his own terms.
But war is coming to Vietnam (a war predicted in Green's book some years before the actual intervention of US troops), and conflict comes also to Fowler's marriage with the arrival of Brendan Fraser's quiet but insistent American. Fraser is a generally underrated actor whose clean cut Hollywood appearance has often limited him to mediocre parts, but here it all works in his favour; physically, he does a very good job of representing America as perceived in Vietnam at that time, being at once glamorous, gentle and friendly, but also a subtle sort of bully, whose very size ultimately makes him seem more vulnerable. While in places it might be said that he underplays his character too much, he works well opposite Caine, and the two form a believable friendship despite the American falling for Phuong. But there is more to this quiet man than meets the eye, and ultimately Fowler must choose whether to keep his distance and watch as the values he holds dear are discarded, or whether to take action, and risk becoming what he hates. The result is a powerful and affecting piece of cinema, intelligent and altogether worthy of its literary origins.
Imagine yourself in an expensive restaurant, no luxury spared, yet every colour startlingly lurid, borrowed from a 1950s US sitcom. Imagine sitting down there and eating a desert so incredibly sticky and sweet that you want to throw up, yet recognising also that it is the best made, most subtly delicious dessert you have tasted for years, something which only the French would be able to create. This is 8 Femmes, and you will love it or loathe it or, unaccountably, both. Critically dismissed as a trivial indulgence, it's actually a remarkably clever piece of cinema, and one of the best translations of stage musical to screen for a long time. Of course the camera never moves beyond the perspectives of the central protagonists, of course it never reveals more of their world - most of the time, you'd think it was trapped in the drawing room, which is precisely the desired effect. The story makes reference to many outside events, but is innately claustrophobic, thus mirroring the experiences of its unseen central protagonist (the man whose death his eight female relatives are trying to come to terms with, whose murder they are trying to solve) whilst simultaneously making an affectionate comment on the nature of French cinema.
Many people will find this film's high camp approach intimidating, as with some of the musical numbers (of which there are few, the latter ones traditional seductive chansons with deliberately inappropriate lyrics); this, and the very audacity of presenting farce in modern cinema, dare the audience to flee, but to do so would be to miss a real gem. 8 Femmes brings together some of the classiest actresses in the world, and they are all superb; despite the melodrama, they manage to bring real emotion to the story, making it moving when one might least expect it. There is a strong undercurrent of tragedy in this frantic comedy, strengthened by (though not dependent on) references to some of the stars' previous films. Some critics have protested that the whole thing comes across as deeply misogynist - that it is inappropriate (in the current political climate?) to depict these women as so fixated on money, power, and one-upmanship. I cannot help but feel that they have missed the point by several miles. This is a film about love: several of the women have heartbreaking stories to tell, and their nature as survivors is what ultimately makes them care for one another. There is surely more respect for women shown in allowing them to be vicious, overbearing, weak, and lonely, than in putting them on soft-focus pedestals and pretending they're all perfectly dull. Instead, we have powerful chemistry between Fanny Ardent and Catherine Deneuve; and there's Emmanuelle Béart in very nice boots indeed. A very sensual movie, whose intrusiveness should be expected, whose warmth is something else.
The very fact that, after so many years, people would invest this amount of time, energy and money to tell a story based around an Echo and the Bunnymen joke and the lyrics of several obscure 'eighties goth songs somehow makes all of my own struggles worthwhile. Donnie Darko is a strange little movie, and unashamedly so, which ought to make it interesting to anyone who is sick of run-of-the-mill characters and predictable scripts. It features some of this year's most intelligent writing, though the script is never showy, its triumph being in the subtle way that it manipulates the audience's thoughts and ideas. This is particularly important because of the nature of the tale, which sees schizophrenic Donnie trying to make sense of the world after a close brush with death - or something like that. The real story is open to debate, with hints of dreams, time travel, and astral projection. This ties in strongly to Donnie's illness, the unpredictable effects of increasing his medication, and the tragedy which this represents to a loving family trying hard to understand. That Donnie encounters an apparently hallucinatory giant rabbit, who becomes his advisor in an almost religious story strand whereby he could be a saviour or an agent of destruction, is hardly the most remarkable thing about his experiences, despite the dreadful and misleading impression created by the trailers.
In some ways, the basic plot of this film, dubious though it may be, is a familiar one. It might be considered a sort of reverse version of It's a Wonderful Life. What makes Donnie Darko stand out is that it never shies away from its hero's illness; it presents very plainly and boldly his vulnerable fantasies and his awkwardness in interacting with other people. This enables it to offer a strong critique of the society in which he lives. As the audience becomes familiar with Donnie's perspectives, the insanity of everyone else's behaviour (from racism and vandalism to self-help and pre-teen-pageants) becomes increasingly apparent. This hinges on a brave and imaginative central performance, whereby one can observe Donnie's sharp intelligence and his concern for those around him despite realistic dialogue which, in a lesser film, would make him come across as slow, stupid and remote. Highly recommended.
A naturalistic, gently developing fable about a wee ned growing up in a small Scottish town embroiled in drug culture, Sweet Sixteen deserves every bit of the critical praise which it has won, especially for its young star, who is lively and engaging even at his most unpleasant. His character's ambition to reunite his family and help his sometime junkie mother start a new life is something anyone could sympathise with, and for this reason it's very easy to get caught up in the story as he does, scarcely aware of the increasing seriousness of events as they unfold. The very ordinariness of the background, characters and dialogue is what makes this so hard hitting. It illustrates the desperate circumstances in which many Scots live without ever coming across as directly political or patronising; it is vibrant and full of humour. It's refreshing to see such an accurate and amoral study of drug culture and organised crime, where the damage done speaks for itself. Against this background, the story develops as a tragedy in the classic Greek style, with a young man striving in vain to change his destiny. Ken Loach has made something really special here. Don't miss it.
I find Michael Moore's style a bit hit and miss, so wasn't quite sure to expect from this feature length documentary on gun culture in the USA, and in retrospect I'm glad I didn't see the trailer until later, as I think that would've put me off. Several early scenes seemed unduly patronising to subjects whose sole crime was to have been raised in a different culture, without Moore's own Liberal influences. This evened out during the course of the film, however, and I was impressed by the comparisons with Canada which demonstrated than gun culture cannot in isolation explain the USA's problems; this was a subtler approach to the subject than I am used to seeing. There was a lot of stock footage of atrocities committed by US troops and/or arranged by US politicians, which I expect was shocking to some viewers, and which seemed sobering even to those more familiar with it; this was intelligently balanced alongside the humour to be found in situations such as banks giving their customers guns. Most impressive was the interview with Charlton Heston, where Moore really did succeed in catching him off guard, a strange scene with a generally intelligent man saying some disturbing things which he apparently didn't want to say, then failing to recover the situation. This alone is worth the price of admission.
Centring on the true story of three girls who ran away from a resettlement camp in 1930s Australia, where 'half-caste' Aboriginal children were placed with white families, Rabbit-Proof Fence seemed a risky proposition - it had achieved some critical acclaim, but how much of this was riding on its moral worthiness rather than on its qualities as a film? In fact, it is a surprisingly substantial film, and amply deserving of the praise it has received. The film's moral concerns come across strongly without the need for any preaching or belabouring of the point. Despite the disturbing nature of its subject matter, it succeeds in putting across several different perspectives on the matter, with Kenneth Branagh managing to make even the Protector of Aborigines responsible for the girls' pursuit a sympathetic figure. The three girls on whose performances the whole film turns are extremely impressive, especially considering that they are all new to acting. It is really their work which gives the film such a powerful mood, subtly evoking a seemingly irresolvable clash of cultures.
On seeing the trailer for this film, I had been unnerved by the proclamation 'new music by Peter Gabriel' (I can't think of any film which I would go to see just for its soundtrack; this seems belittling to all those others involved), but thankfully the music was not intrusive. I was further impressed by the pacing of the film and the structure of the narrative - in a sense, it's a road movie, yet it still manages to break with expectations on several occasions. As a result, it is gripping throughout. The full horror of the situation, however, does not come home until the footnotes at the end.
Highly distinctive, intense and personal, Morvern Callar really is the sort of film which the UK industry ought to be concentrating on if it wants to get itself noticed. A daringly blunt tale about the surreal effects of death upon the living, it sets itself apart by eschewing a predictable story arc, so despite its peculiarity it comes across as something real. This is aided by a tremendous performance from Samantha Morton, who, between this and Minority Report, has surely established herself as one of the most capable young actresses working today. Her portrayal of grief and distance is so subtle as to be heartbreaking even while her character enjoys worldly success. The supporting cast are also very impressive. Lynne Ramsey's direction is remarkable, contributing strongly to the surreal atmosphere, so that the viewer shares something of the experience of characters constantly consuming drink and drugs. It's not a perfect film, being awkwardly paced in places and occasionally losing its confidence, but it really is a very impressive effort all round, and extremely moving.
Unsurprisingly, this latest slice of British survivalist science fiction doesn't live up to the hype, its power to astound being based in the fact that it's offering mainstream audiences something they haven't seen before (but which everybody else has). It's well made, however, and solidly acted, and overall well worth going to see. It is the second of this year's blockbuster stealth zombie movies, but its zombies are fast and agile, making them scarier than the traditional type. They stand in for the plants in what is otherwise a fairly straightforward adaptation of Day of the Triffids, at least in terms of its central characters, its plot, and its political context. Danny Boyle has stamped his personal mark all over it, with some beautiful cinematography, a loud soundtrack which is in turns stirring and incongruous, and an intensely realistic, unglamorous approach to appearances and dialogue. This makes his blatant thieving from Night of the Comet more acceptable, as he adds a refreshing edge to proceedings.
Focusing on the experiences of survivors after a hideous plague which drove people, well, rabid (there are several nods to Cronenburg here), 28 Days Later is essentially a parable centred on the notion that people have always been killing one another and probably always will, diseased or not. This format always presents problems with pacing and with lapses into cliche, most of which Boyle handles well, being unafraid to run with them when he has no other choice. At times his dramatic use of lighting goes too far, so that action sequences become inappropriately confused. Several interesting tangents (for instance, the heroine's chance to contemplate for herself what she'd be prepared to put up with in exchange for safety) are cut off rather abruptly. The very end of the film is odd, and seems tacked-on, though clearly there was something there before it; this makes me curious, since I didn't find the film nearly so bleak as test audiences had persuaded me to expect. An interesting thing, but it might have been more so.
More people walked out of this movie than any other I've been to this year, and if you look at the list here, you'll see that's quite surprising. From their comments, they did so not because they were shocked (there are less surprises here than in a Democrat sex scandal), nor because they were offended (it's one of those fluffily middle class liberal tales which does its best to cosy up to everyone), but rather because they were bored. This is just a jumped up TV movie with absolutely nothing to recommend it besides its star cast. Ashley Judd risks facial tetany, she's working so hard to save the script by emoting, poor thing; Morgan Freeman is capable as ever, but pretty much sleepwalks through the whole thing. The supporting cast look like they've walked off the set of an Australian soap, and the dreadful editing does little to divest one of that notion. The plot is full of odd jumps where necessary scenes had obviously been ghosted, but nobody knew how to write them. The ending is even worse: trite, overacted and completely inappropriate in relation to previous character development. The only reason to go and see this film is to increase the size of Freeman's paycheck and thus his chances of successfully making Rendezvous with Rama within the next few years. If you don't care about that, find somewhere more comfortable to sleep.
Since it had one of the very worst trailers this year (beaten, perhaps, by those for Signs and Lighthouse), I would never have gone to see My Little Eye had I not had personal recommendations. It's a shame if other people find themselves so deterred because, though far from perfect, this is a fairly good wee film, in places actually scary, and altogether quite different from what it says on the box. It's based around the reality TV show fad, and shot entirely from the point of view of cameras arranged for use in such a project, which is distracting at first, somewhat overdone, but which works pretty well in the later, longer sequences. The five principal actors are all comfortable in their roles, though it would've been nice to see more evenly balanced character development, and to an extent the form of the story, its particular neatness and spare-nothing approach, leads to too much being obvious too early. The script is consistently strong throughout. Though the story drags for the first third, it moves fluidly and dramatically thereafter. There are numerous unfortunate lapses into cliche, some of the necessary, some of them cowardly, especially at the end, when something less neat might have been far more bleak, and we see this low-budget, potentially imaginative team relent to satisfy a mainstream audience. Still, there are affecting character studies here, and an underlying genuinely creepy scenario; and it's much more intelligent than most of what passes across the silver screen.
Most people either love or hate Mike Leigh films. Half the audience of this one walked out muttering and bitching about it, resenting the fact that they'd gone to the cinema to be depressed, while others chattered right through it. Critically, it is generating a great deal of favourable attention. I find myself, however, divided between these camps. All or Nothing is in many ways a fine piece of work. There's good acting from the whole ensemble cast, and it's nice to see Timothy Spall in particular getting something more than a cartoonish role, showing what he can do. The script is generally impressive and compliments the actors' skills. However, the whole thing is short on plot and ideas, which may suit a point Leigh is trying to make about the miserably humdrum nature of lower class life, but it doesn't result in a strong enough story to support over two hours of film.It's all very well to plead realism, but the fact remains that this is insubstantial, that it feels hollow where it ought to carry weight. The weight of misery is not sufficient compensation. It feels like rather a cheap trick, piling on misfortunes to try and impress an audience as if Leigh has lost the knack of drawing out more subtle emotion. In particular, the way in which it develops its subplot regarding illness comes across as patronising and contrived. There's a great deal here worth watching, but no film deserves to be accorded simply for being worthy; Leigh's characters deserve more dignity than that.
Slight on plot and not exactly innovative, Ma Femme est une Actrice is a film which relies on its handling of minutiae, on finely judged performances, clever direction and a sharp script; fortunate, then, that it excels in all these latter departments. Yvan Attal is solid and sympathetic in the central role of a man tempted by jealousy to destroy what he cares about most; perhaps still more impressive is Charlotte Gainsbourg, finally provided with a role which she can get her teeth into, something which acknowledges her femininity without rendering her flimsy. Terence Stamp perhaps hams it up a bit too much, and the film's greatest weakness is its handling of the English characters, which at times verges on pantomime, so that we are relieved when the action returns to Paris. The editing is superb, with scene after scene cut in just the right place before it becomes sentimental or too broadly comedic. This is a delightfully warm film, telling its tale of damaged people with an affection which enables us to understand what they all see in one another in the first place. The humour is light and, for the most part, integrates well into the story. Also, unusually, Ma Femme est une Actrice has an inspired soundtrack which really adds to and alters the mood.
Rather unfortunately coming out in the same week (in the UK) as the Hollywood butchering of Thomas Harris' Red Dragon, One Hour Photo is a remarkably adept little movie which covers one aspect of that story with a subtle sympathetic creepiness of which Anthony Hopkins could only dream. Although much of the movie is as glossy as the pictures which drive its plot, this would seem to be deliberate, one of many strategies employed to remind the viewer that the story is being told from the perspective of a disturbed mind, and not everything which is seen can be believed. Its shiny happy superficial imagery is counterpointed by the lonely, drab existance of a man who really has nothing at all in his life except his job. This job is intricately portrayed, with a loving eye for detail which enables us to appreciate a person who cares so much about providing for others, even while he is clearly in the grip of a dangerous obsession. Robin Williams gives a career best performance, seeming at last to care more about the character than whether or not he is liked. The cleverest thing about this film is that, without ever diverging from that character's perspective, it manages to demonstrate that he knows nothing at all about the people with whom he has become obsessed; he cannot possibly span the gulf between their ways of thinking. This is a film with some strong things to say about the way we judge others and decide that their lives are our business. Uncomfortable to watch, it's still well worth it. An unexpected gem.
The release of Signs was preceeded by a truly awful trailer which might have put anyone off, and which ought at least to have made them wonder what the Hell anybody was doing releasing a crop circle movie in the twenty first century. We need scarcely fear the wrath of any alien species so stuck in the 'eighties; one match, and we could incinerate them in a cloud of their own hairspray. It is unfortunate that the only glimpses we get of the aliens themselves reveal them to be men in rubber suits more obvious than any Dr. Who creation. M Night Schyamalan's films, however, always harbour secrets, and Signs' secret is that it isn't really a crop circle movie at all - it's a zombie movie. Aside from not actually featuring reanimated human corpses, it fits every genre cliche. It has the zombie movie's usual flaws - feeble attempts at humour, trite plotting (especially the part involving a little boy dependent on medication), a clunky script (created, it would seem, by highly intelligent people with no writing experience whatsoever), and the habit of resorting to cheap parlour tricks - loud bangs and sudden movements - in an attempt to keep audience attention. Beyond that, however, it's really quite an interesting piece. What Schyamalan has done is to take a standard zombie-siege plot and then question how it would effect real human beings, as opposed to shrieking teenagers and macho men. Mel Gibson is an adequate lead, let down occasionally by the script. Joaquim Phoenix gives sterling support, illustrating still further that he is a real actor capable of considerable shifts between roles, and a man not afraid to express imperfection. The wee boy is best of all - Shyamalan and Gibson both have a history of eliciting good performances from children, and it really shows here, so that the boy comes across as a fully fledged character and not merely a dependent cypher for the plot. As for the girl who plays his sister, she occasionally sounds like she's reciting, but does very well for her age, and her silent acting is perfectly believable. Neither grates the way that children in such films usually do, which is vital, because the family's relationship is central to what makes Signs work.
The truly remarkable thing about this otherwise fairly run of the mill scary movie is Shyamalan's direction. This is most striking in the quieter, more ordinary scenes than during the action sequences. He does some really innovative stuff with framing, allowing characters to move in and out of focus, expressing their importance to the unit, at different times, through their positions on the screen. Signs is yet another indication that we can expect great things from him in the future.
One of those self important little Hollywoodesque projects which confuses darkness of story with darkness of screen until one can no longer be sure what's going on with either, Frailty no doubt thinks itself very clever; one can indeed see the bones here of a much more powerful story than the one which actually emerges. A classic gothic tale about a man who apparently goes mad and starts killing people in God's name because he thinks they're demons, developing to encompass the effect which this has on his sons, it's one of those pieces which relies on the horror of predictability, but in this case that predictability is extended to the point where the plot's special twists are transparent from the start and the only real mystery hinges on underdeveloped subplots where scenes would appear to have been hacked away by uncomprehending editors. This is not to say that there os nothing worth watching here. The two young boys involved give impressive, solid performances. Perhaps they have less difficulty finding faith in the script than do their adult counterparts. The easiest way to identify the director (since he's clearly learned nothing from the capable folk with whom he's worked in the past) is to observe that, in this case, his cahracter suffers and dies far less horribly than is the case in most of his movies. Meanwhile, the ubiquitous Matthew McConnaughy turns in a performance so centered and dry that it's hard to feel any sympathy for him at all, a crucial mistake. In this way, the story becomes far too one sided. Moral jusdgements are handed out willy-nilly, but no-one ever examines the vital question what if the 'madman' is right, and these really are terrible people - does that justify what he does? It's a naive attempt at manipulating ethical issues which the scriptwriters just don't seem to have understood. Which is a shame, because there's so much fascinating potential here. A run of the mill overblown horror movie which ought to have been modest, neat, and genuinely terrifying.
I expected to hate this film, and went only on the basis of recommendations from friends; I must say, I was pleasantly surprised. See, I adored the Norwegian original (which it distresses me to see most of the critics in ignorance of) and was dreading the standard hack Hollywood remake. Al Pacino, though, has never been one to turn in a lacklustre performance in a role like this. Although the script doesn't allow him quite the freedom he needs to express his character's transformation through guilt (his exhaustion is convincing, but not what it represents), he produces a complex, often unpleasant but ultimately sympathetic 'hero'. Hilary Swank is very good in the supporting role of the astute young police officer whose team he assists in investigating the murder of a teenaged girl in small town Alaska; subtle yet never too fragile, she provides that essential warmth at the heart of the story, that spark of human strength which might still augur redemption. Robin Williams is not so impressive as the prime suspect, yet for most of the time he suffices, only occasionally verging on ham. He's more bacon, really - and this is the sort of film which my Erith would describe as a 'bacon sandwich' - reasonably tasty, capable of temporarily quieting the ache in one's stomach, but not to be confused with a high quality proper meal. Its real weakness is that the only apparent motive for its existence is financial - the translation into English, the Hollywood stars, obviously a smart move - leaving it with nothing new to offer artistically. It is a good film, but it's mimicry, and it can never be quite as good as the original. Its stunning landscapes and essential unrelenting brightness do relent, and loosen their grip, just slightly too often. Its emotional darkness gives way just short of packing a full punch. There are some impressive flashes of work from the director, as he conveys Pacino's mental disintegration due to lack of sleep, in a manner somewhat reminiscent of the work of David Lynch, but it's not enough. Watch it, enjoy it, just mind that you'd get more out of the real thing.
One of those quirky little character studies which only seems to work for the French and the Australians (in this case the latter), Lantana also has pretensions toward being a murder mystery, but never quite gets that together, which is more interesting, as the effects of the crime (and of violence and deceit in general) move to the centre of the story. Sometimes it echoes Woody Allen's Crimes and Misdemeanours, as some characters feel compelled to talk about everything while others try to cope with remaining silent and hiding their emotions. There are a host of good performances on display here, though, surprisingly, it is the usually superb Geoffrey Rush, necessarily blank in a pivotal role, who never quite manages to establish himself strongly enough. This is unfortunate because the audience needs to be aware of the magnitude of his loss; in a sense, it is his sacrifice which clarifies and redeems the others. A study of middle age, of failing marriages and the desperate acts inspired by loneliness, Lantana has moments of surprising warmth and humour, and is certainly worth watching.
This wasn't the film it was supposed to be. I'd followed it all through the production process, and had high hopes for the original story. It was, however, ultimately quite good at being itself, on the basis of which a multitude of sins might be forgiven. A good bit of traditional grim British science fantasy survivalism in the tradition of Wyndham and Christopher, this is the story of the last few isolated humans holding out against dragons on a ravaged Earth, their few remaining modern weapons offering little hope against the sheer numbers of the enemy. Into this situation comes Matthew McConnaughey's bullish American general, a man with a plan who is determined to alter the odds; in a role which might have been written for Brian Blessed, he smoulders and shouts against the stubbornness of the English chief, before, of course, they become allies and set out together to save the world. It's a combination which has real chemistry, and works surprisingly well, let down only by the utter absence of charisma in the third (female) lead. The dragons are well realised and genuinely frightening, their ungainliness so well observed that it's easy to suspend disbelief over their disregard for the laws of physics; these are clearly not law abiding creatures. That suspension of disbelief is important in several other unnecessary and slightly jarring bits of the film - tomatoes growing outdoors in Northumberland; an English kid who was three when the apocalypse came recognising spoken French; a helicopter finding sufficient fuel in a wilderness of rock and ash; etc. But by and large, it's worth it.
A real return to form for Pedro Almodóvar, Hable con Ella is let down by the English translation of its title - 'talk to her' - because this story is all about the difference between 'to' and 'with'. It centres on the relationship between two men who meet in the hospital where each is hoping a beloved woman will recover from a coma, and examines the way that people communicate or believe themselves to communicate within relationships. Bullfighting and ballet each make the usual appearance, lending a startling visual beauty important to understanding the intensity of emotions expressed in the clinical environment of the hospital. There's a little of the director's trademark crude humour, but every character is treated with affection, and, overall, this is an extraordinarily subtle work. Almodóvar once again demonstrates his ability to enable audiences to sympathise with anybody, no matter how damaged or extreme. Although the story, differently told, might seem horrific and alien, here it is simply a tragedy of misunderstanding. Highly recommended.
Not as bad as I'd expected, this movie is basically just a rehash of its predecessor, getting worst right at the end when it copies action sequences almost shot by shot, yet often redeemed by its humour. It lacks the consistent wit of the original, but there's still some nice design work on display and it does have Tommy Lee Jones. Will Smith is cheesy but tolerable. Lara Flynn Boyle works in her role, and is less irritating than usual. The show is stolen by an incidental character, wayward cthonian Geoffrey (cue tube train jokes, doubtless missed by most of the audience) who chews his way through New York's subways. A reasonably entertaining ride while it lasts, but I won't need a flashy thing to make me forget it.
Another of this year's crop of really good films which are intensely depressing to watch, Heaven is a romantic tale in both the modern and traditional senses, alternating between the verite and the visionary. Cate Blanchett gives a stunning performance as the widowed schoolteacher Philippa who attempts to assassinate a drug dealer and then has to deal with the emotional consequences of learning she's killed innocent people instead. Giovanni Ribisi is also very impressive as the vulnerable young carabinieri who falls in love with her, feeling compelled to try and help her escape. With an atmosphere of intense immediacy, this is a film which concentrates on the flow of events and reactions, showing its protagonists in a state where their emotions are forced raw to the surface, yet neglecting to examine the more complex aspects of their relationship and behaviour. Philippa's wounded self-centeredness and apparently unconsidered exploitation of her naif admirer are displayed without comment. The result is an intriguing snapshot which leaves one both enraptured and remote.
Tape is a stage play which works reasonably well as a small independent film, with good strong performances, but which never really does anything with its new medium. When everything is larger and louder than life on the big screen, what might come across as intimate and gripping on stage is just too in-your-face. The first half hour thus comes across mostly as pointless shouting. Things improve as the plot develops; simple though it is, an old idea which hasn't had anything much new done with it, it's certainly relevant in today's overheated moral climate. The denoument is somewhat trite, but there's a lot which makes this worth watching, notably three interesting actors who rarely get the chance to display their talents so well.
A B-movie in the Tremors vein, and just as engaging, Eight Legged Freaks is elegantly constructed, gliding between the necessary monster menace cliches so smoothly that it rarely feels unnatural. Yet when bespectacled ten year old Mike rides his bicycle past a sign for Josh's Exotic Spider Farm, just moments after we've seen a barrel of toxic waste knocked into a river, there's little doubting what's in store. Sometimes the dialogue is just a little too knowing and ironic for its own good, but this is alleviated by well judged performances from the ensemble cast; the teenagers managing to make their predictable characters seem like genuine screwed-up human beings are particularly impressive. There's little bullshit about social niceties, with the townsfolk in beleaguered Prosperity pulling together remarkably quickly. The SFX are impressive. There's a lot more actual monster action than in most such movies, and a consequently high body count. Several species of mutated giant spider are on display. Here, science knows when to take a back seat, so we don't have to listen to anyone try and convince the audience that an arachnoid exoskeleton could withstand the pressure of attaining that size, nor how the damn things would be able to breathe - we just get to watch them jump about chasing motorbikes, wrapping up semi-naked girls in silk, punching through metal doors, ripping people apart and munching their human and animal prey in a variety of enthusiastically disgusting ways. There is no depth to this film whatsoever, but it's intelligently made, high-spirited, and lots of fun. It does pretty much exactly what it says on the tin.
Note: I saw this film at a test screening, so it may have differed slightly from what makes the final cut. It's also possible that the title will yet change. I think the present one strikes the right balance, but I don't think it'll sell the film to the appropriate audience.
Wilbur Wants to Kill Himself is an odd little film which appears to have been made in accordance with the principles of the Dogme school, and which has been filmed in and around Glasgow. Glasgow in the autumn and winter is very different from continental Europe in the summer, so this is gloomy is appearance as well as in mood, and in places it might benefit from sharper camerawork to compensate for the lighting problems. There are also some problems with the sound quality, but by and large it's easy to overlook these technical problems and find oneself enmeshed in the story.
Centering on the relationship between two brothers who have inherited their father's second hand bookshop, the story develops as a series of vignettes before developing into a more directed narrative. Incidental characters and incidental issues are raised throughout, so that the central characters come to represent something greater than themselves. The film contrasts the experiences of people who want to stay alive against the odds with those of people who want to die despite apparent opportunity and support. Its understanding of issues relating to serious illness is impressive, with plenty of sharply perceptive humour and a refreshing lack of sentimentality. This approach also applies to its treatment of relationships. The viewer is permitted to sit back and watch without being told how to react, but strong performances ensure that this doesn't result in a lack of connection to the characters. Besides the two brothers, we meet Alice, the woman who comes to share their lives; and her daughter Mary, one of several impressive child performers in a film with an irreverent approach to adult-child interaction. Some of the incidental characters are disappointingly two-dimensional, and the neat way in which they are provided with happy endings is somewhat trite, but these flaws are noticeable only because of the high standard of the script and direction as a whole. On the one hand, Wilbur Wants to Kill Himself might rival Monster's Ball for most depressing film of the year; on the other, it is full of dark yet affectionate humour, and maintains a sense of fun in a cold climate.
Brilliantly realised, complex and humane, Minority Report is easily on a par with Blade Runner as one of the best adaptations of Philip K Dick's work ever made. There hasn't been a science fiction film this good for twenty years. Forget shiny buildings and action-packed chases - Minority Report has both, but it has so much more, elevating it far above the status of popular pulp. Spielberg has taken Dick's short story and spun it out into a powerful plot which retains the labyrinthine twists of the original and adds a few more, comfortably filling two and a half hours. Here we see a world as detailed and paranoid as the original, yet warmer, more human, and very close to home; this only serves to make events as they unfold more chilling. It's certainly timely, but the things which it has to say will probably always be relevant. This isn't science fiction as escapism; it's science fiction as a political tool, as a means of making statements about the human condition. It's science fiction film-making at its very best.
This isn't to say that Minority Report is a perfect movie; like any work on such a grand scale, it has its flaws. Sometimes Spielberg's habitual sentimentality creeps in just a little too far; yet this serves well as a counterpoint to the more vicious angles of the plot. Visually it is stunning, often reminiscent of Kubrick. Flashy future technology and architecture has been cleverly interwoven with the familiar, even the old-fashioned, to create a world which we can believe is not too far away from our own; a world which has changed, but not unrecognisably. This is a world where, in the District of Columbia, murder has been done away with thanks to the use of precognitive individuals who can spot crimes before they happen, giving the authorities a chance to intervene. All sorts of questions are raised hereby, to do with free will and whether or not one can be guilty of a crime one never actually committed, but Spielberg has the sense not to linger on them for long, since there are other matters of equal importance to be explored. Perhaps his greatest triumph is that he draws strong performances from all of his actors. A superb script enables several formidable, rounded characters to emerge, by contrast with Dick's own spare characterisation. Tom Cruise is perfect in the central role, eschewing the glamour which many feared might ruin his performance; this is perhaps the best work of his career to date, rivalling Eyes Wide Shut. The supporting cast are all excellent, which is vital to the process of misleading the audience as to just whom one can or can't actually trust.
Some of the audience with whom I saw this movie evidently came away disappointed; they'd been expecting trademark Cruise glamour, Spielberg cutesiness and a pulp action plot. What they had been forced to endure instead was something which demanded that they use their brains. Minority Report is not a film for the lazy, nor for those who want to go away afterwards with the cheerful feeling that everything is alright. It is dark and challenging, and very good at getting under one's skin. Like all great art, it will offend. But give it a chance, and it'll give you a great deal in return. It may be many more long years before we see its like again.
Encountering yet another film based on the famous Leopold and Loeb case, and being quite a fan of Hitchcock's Rope, I wasn't expecting to like this one much, but I was pleasantly surprised. In terms of plot, it's film-making by numbers, packed full of detective story cliches, with twists happening when twists can be expected to happen and a predictable bit of running about and shooting at the end. This type of story, however, is heavily dependent on acting, and everyone present here does a good job. Having a strong female character to play against the central male relationship, with its unexamined homosexual undertones, works surprisingly well. It's really good to see Sandra Bullock back in a role which makes use of her considerable acting abilities, which have been almost completely ignored since she became a star. The press seems to think it's scandalous that her character is so sexually assertive, but Bullock herself wisely sees her as quite ordinary, and plays her with a solidity and conviction which makes her far more than the usual Hollywood heroine. Ben Chaplin provides able support, so that there is a believable working relationship between the two agents on the case, not one compromised by silly romance. The two younger actors who play the killers both manage to create interesting characters rather than standard 'chilling' cyphers. Murder by Numbers itself is a passable thriller, but it promises greater things to come from all involved.
A modest little romantic comedy thriller about an English bank clerk and his Russian mail order bride, Birthday Girl stands out from its kin thanks to strong performances and a stoic wit. Nicole Kidman is particularly impressive in the title role, establishing a sympathetic character with hidden depths despite having no English lines. Her Russian is fluent and convincing. In several places the film doesn't bother with subtitles, leaving comprehension dependent on the talents of its supporting cast, which I am told works very well; for those who do understand their words, there are numerous amusing obscenities, yet the scriptwriters do us the favour of refraining from giving away the plot. Mostly well-written, the story staggers in a few places. Witty vignettes and character commentary often fail to be witty or to offer much interesting comment. What remains is a surprisingly naturalistic film with genuine heart. It's also refreshing to see a film which contains so much violence, on a very ordinary level, without either glamourising it or trying to make judgements about its characters thereby; and also a film which acknowledges non-vanilla sexuality without making a big deal out of it. Remarkably humane.
Kissing Jessica Stein was just about what I'd expected it to be; well-written, sharply observed and often very funny, but sometimes unbearably shrill, and going overboard on the stereotypical Jewish neurosis thing in scenes which really would have benefited from a fiercer editor. That said, it was a romantic comedy which remained surprisingly watchable. It handled the essential cliches well, and, for the most part, managed to avoid excess sentiment. Part of its power came from its astute use of distance; even when their relationship was at its most intense, the leads rarely kissed, and Jessica's secondary love interest kissed her only once. It was left to the actors to convey feelings only subtly evoked by the script, and every one of them did a commendable job.
As with all romantic comedies, this film relied heavily on the likeability of its leads. Jessica, though passably pretty, could be intensely annoying, and the film only got away with this because her girlfriend Helen, though mercifully more down-to-Earth, was clearly capable of being annoying in the same way, and of enjoying it. They were, in a word, girly, which left me feeling quite distanced from the central relationship, at least until circumstances forced them to slow down and start dealing with real issues. This shifting focus at the centre of the film was a good thing in general, as it set aside the frantic skittishness of early scenes and made way for some more solid acting, at a pace which the director seemed more capable of handling.
As regards the queer content of the film, I was again impressed by the way in which familiar issues were handled with a sense of realism based on the actual personalities of the characters. The film was never preachy, and it didn't try to be all things to all people. It seemed aware that it had to sell itself on more than the novelty (to the mainstream) of lesbianism. Biphobia was addressed and set aside without the pretense that every bi-curious straight woman will ultimately prove capable of enjoying a healthy lesbian relationship. Some mileage was made out of distinctly queer relationship problems such as the business of introducing partners to parents, but it would've been silly to try and avoid that, especially in a Jewish film, and it was sensibly handled, without excess hysteria.
Overall, I would recommend Kissing Jessica Stein to all those who ordinarily enjoy romantic comedies; for others, it's certainly a passable evening's entertainment, and pleasantly intelligent, but not without its flaws.
I'd heard good things about Lucia y el Sexo, which, in itself, might have been a bad thing, because I have to admit that I wasn't as impressed by this film as I'd expected to be. It was very well acted, and did some interesting things with lighting, but I felt (controversially, it seems) that the pacing was poor, and that it came across as a somewhat diluted and overly extended version of a popular and previously better developed surrealist plot. There's certainly a lot of sex in it, for those interested in that sort of thing, which is mostly well handled, with balanced doses of humour and angst which enable the viewer to gain a better understanding of the central characters. Its initial sombre mood, filtered through impressive underwater images and the repeated theme of a lowering moon, worked very well, but became oppressive to the point where it distracted from the story. I felt that it lost some of its tension due to stretching itself too far. A curiosity worth checking out, but only if you're willing to be patient with it.
What a fine crop of movies we've had so far in 2002! And they just keep on coming, with Spider-man standing head and shoulders above its fellow superhero adaptations; close to the comics, clever where it varies, and an excellent piece of entertainment in its own right. It's hard to find anything bad to say about this one. Some of the hastily shot second-unit footage which replaced scenes originally set at the World Trade Centre jars, and one suspects the original was superior. Willem Dafoe is hammy as ever, but it kind of suits his character, especially in the context of Raimi's deliciously dark references to Summer of Sam. His split-personality Green Goblin is surprisingly believable, which is where this film really scores. It is beautifully researched, carefully detailed, and, despite its fantastic themes, it centres on characters who are absolutely human.
Sam Raimi's hard-fought choice of Tobey Maguire for the title role has been well rewarded. This has to be the most astute and affectionate portrayal of geekdom which I have ever seen on the big screen. Maguire's Peter Parker is socially hopeless, yet is never made the butt of jokes for the audience to laugh at, as is the case in so many other US films purporting to sympathise with the underdog. His portrayal of teenage angst and awkwardness is spot on, and very easy to like; as he mutates into something superhuman, one can sympathise with the boy struggling into adulthood. Playing opposite this, Kirsten Dunst brings something remarkable to the damsel-in-distress girlfriend role of Mary Jane, giving her a presence and charisma which makes her much more than a bit of eye-candy and useful plot cipher. It is greatly to Raimi's credit that he has composed a film in which his characters' domestic lives are just as enjoyable to watch as the action sequences; there is a charming gentleness about their interactions, yet the pace never slackens as a result. When the action starts, it is fast and furious, most of it extremely well choreographed. The nervousness and obvious physical vulnerability of the hero make fights and leaps between tall buildings into genuinely riveting experiences. This is a film bursting with humour and intelligence; one which deserves to be watched again and again.
Surely one of the most depressing films this year, yet strangely uplifting at the same time, Monster's Ball opens with a sequence of tragedies so compounded as to verge on the unbelievable, yet moves through and beyond them with a confidence that raises it way above its contemporaries. Centering on the way in which a black man's execution in a bigoted district of the USA affects the lives of those involved, it has the kind of slender yet sensational plot which might easily have been adapted into a TV movie, but superb acting and a good, solid script make this film one to remember. It's emotionally distressing, yet it is essentially a story about hope and about the strength of character which enables people to carry on.
It's easy to see here why Halle Berry got her Best Actress Oscar (despite her excruciating, sub-Paltrow performance on the night itself), though personally I was still more impressed by Billy Bob Thornton in the more difficult, subtle, understated role. Both of them play damaged and sometimes deeply unpleasant people who are nevertheless sympathetic, gradually stepping back from brutal lives to find a sort of peace with one another. They are ably supported by a well selected cast. The film's great strength is that it manages to be raw and ugly and honest without preaching or lapsing into sentimentality. The execution scene is difficult to watch, but actually less dramatic, and rather shorter, than most real executions; it makes its point without bullying the audience. This is one of the most impressive films I've seen this year, and I highly recommend it.
Although this is by no means a brilliant movie, it functions surprisingly well as a piece of entertainment, and it didn't annoy me as I had expected it to. Thankfully, its divergence from the book is clear and functional; one never gets the impression that it's trying to change the original story, nor that it is pretentious enough to think it can improve upon it; rather, it is a different story using some of the same ideas and events. The tragedy, perhaps, of an alternate Einstein.
The choice of Simon Wells, the author's grandson, to direct, at first seemed simply gimmicky, and therefore worrying, but he actually does a reasonable job. While many of the shots are derivative, copied each from a hundred predecessors without much imagination, Wells comes into his own with the morlocks, especially where there is rushing about to be done; he also handles the speeded-up time scenes impressively for a first-timer; and one is left with the impression that he might have done a better job overall had he been given more time to storyboard. He coaxes a good performance from the film's only child star,m and the actress who plays the time traveller's doomed fiancee is also impressive within the limits of her role. Jeremy Irons really hams it up as the chief morlock, but doesn't seem to have been given much option by the clunky script. Guy Pearce is a puzzling lead, at times desperately out of his depth, mostly getting away with it due to his skill at looking lost and miserable as he mumbles his lines and does a bizarre impression of Nick Cave.
The weakest part of this film is its tendency to have characters speak the plot, outlining the very simplest points over and over to be sure that the stupidest audience members might grasp them; but at least some attempt is made to demonstrate the perspective of the morlocks, who always get short shrift in these adaptations. The Eloi are a less whimsical, in some ways more believable people, who seem to have developed from Polynesian islanders in what must surely be a nod to Sheckley (the whole film is littered with literary science fiction references). Special effects here work better than usual; the morlocks move impressively, making some chase scenes genuinely scary, though nothing has quite the visual impact of Wells Jr.'s broken moon. So forgive it the cheesy music and historically dodgy short-cuts; it all works well enough, in its way.
Perhaps the biggest surprise in cinema this year: Star Wars, Episode II is actually quite good. And where it's not good, it is at least fun. George Lucas may be a thief, but he steals from the best (Ridley Scott, Akira Kurosawa, Frank Herbert, etc.), and with the stupidly titled Attack of the Clones he has succeeded in recapturing that sense of adventure which made the original trilogy so exciting to watch. This is, in fact, better than Return of the Jedi, and it has left me looking forward to the third installment.
Those things which I expected would be wrong with this film most assuredly are. Lucas is really a third-rate director incapable of handling a project of this size; many of his shots are poorly executed, his timing is off and he fails to inspire his less assured actors. The script isn't quite as awful as it sounded in the trailers (why did they make such awful trailers for such an entertaining film?), but in places it really does grate, with far too many catchphrases adding to the stilted effect of the dialogue. Jar Jar Binks is still intensely irritating, though thankfully he's not in it very much. And Ewan McGregor, oddly, turns in a career worst performance, reciting his lines in such a bored manner as to suggest he lost all faith in the project after the disaster which was The Phantom Menace. At least he sounds more like Alec Guinness and less like David Bowie this time. His woodenness clearly screws up the less experienced actors playing opposite him, and everyone struggles to make the script work, especially in the first half of the film. Also problematic are one or two badly conceived aliens - there's one scene with Obi-Wan talking to an alien in a bar which is almost reminiscent of a David Lynch vignette in its absurdity and failure to fit in with the rest of the film. Oh, and there's also a bizarre reappraisal of the laws of physics as regards falling objects, whereby if one lands of anything except the ground, one doesn't get hurt.
None of this matters.
I originally went to see this film for two reasons: Temeura Morrison and Christopher Lee. In neither case was I disappointed. These heavyweight, confident actors brought real presence to the roles, respectively, of Jango Fett and Count Dooku. The kid who played young Boba Fett was also really good, with the relationship between the two Mandalorians, conveyed mostly with glances and with very little dialogue, providing the strongest emotional element in the film. This is vital to the larger story, and, along with the treatment of the ever-popular droids, contributes to one of the more interesting themes in Star Wars, the way in which ordinary people are cast aside carelessly, their lives torn asunder, as soldiers and politicians engage in grand egotistical conflicts. Christopher Lee is better here than he was in The Fellowship of the Ring, perfectly cast and giving a calm, assured performance.
Central to this film, of course, is the psychological development of young Anakin Skywalker. This is ably handled by newcomer Hayden Christensen. I dearly hope that he doesn't get ripped apart by the critics for playing a naif, often obnoxious teenager, because that's exactly what he has to play in order for the story to make sense, and he handles all those shifts of emotion superbly (emerging, despite it all, as much less irritating than Luke). Despite the crass dialogue involved in his courtship of Queen Amidala, he is surprisingly sympathetic. Natalie Portman handles the Amidala role quite adequately, at times impressively, managing to force a personality across despite the fact that George Lucas can clearly only write one female part (there is also a female alien, but she's actually treated as a person, so the usual problems are avoided). It is partly through the development of the Anakin/Amidala relationship that the film really starts to grow dark; but the Jedi, led by the oddly charisma-free Mace Windu (was Samuel L Jackson asleep at the time?), are clearly screwed from the start, having been politically and militarily outmanouvered. Palpatine sometimes seems too overtly slimey for this to be believable, but then one recalls the political success of Tony Blair. It'll be interesting to see how the anti-war, think-before-you-go-on-a-killing-spree message of this film goes down in the current international political climate; and there's another surprise - a Star Wars movie with something to say.
Awkward in the first half, as if still finding its feet, Attack of the Clones really picks up during its final hour, which offers non-stop action, excitement and drama. There are cool fights (much better choreographed than in its predecessor), genuinely thrilling chases, and properly scary, impressive-looking monsters. There's also a conveyor belt scene which will make anyone who's seen Galaxy Quest double up in hysterics, but who really cares? This film is packed with story and with the promise of exciting things to come. It is very easy to like, and its flaws are surprisingly easy to forgive. It is rousing in the way that a Star Wars movie ought to be, and it should not be missed.
The Scorpion King is a Conan movie. All the way. A big, ridiculously overmuscled hero, not so dim as everyone expects, with a murdered brother to avenge, an evil warlord to defeat, superb fighting skills and a foolish weakness for women. A cowardly comedy sidekick who tags along to share in the spoils of his adventures. A loyal steed. A beautiful sorceress who starts out distrusting everybody but gradually comes to like the hero so much that she risks her life to heal him from his injuries in the desert. Desperate tribes of people in need of a leader. Swordfights. Chases. Ancient citadels. Even that old matinee favourite, the hero running along taking shelter behind a rolling gong. We've seen it all before, but the remarkable thing is that The Scorpion King does it well, and does it with such good humour that it is almost impossible to dislike.
In the central role, The Rock (or Dwayne Johnson, as he now prefers to be known - perhaps the first time since Aliens that anybody has wanted to be called 'Dwayne') gives a surprisingly confident and convincing performance - he's not required to stretch his acting talents, but he's not just another wooden Beastmaster. The film's main weakness is its villain, who simply doesn't have the charisma to achieve a balance, nor to convince as a man who has led thousands into war. The film's strength is in its technical crew. Whilst the direction is formulaic, it's always spot-on; the pacing is superb; and the choreography, especially where multiple fights are going on at once, is exceptional. Those scenes are further enhanced by clever use of lighting, something which made this film's predecessor, The Mummy, stand out from the crowd. This is not a deep film by any means, nor is it particularly memorable, but it's great popcorn entertainment. Robert E Howard would have been proud.
With a fantastic opening sequence harking back to the gleeful plagiarism of 1960s pulp science fiction TV, The One is a movie which really knows what it's about; but which, sadly, is about all of it within the first ten minutes, at least as far as the plot is concerned. It is, essentially, a remake of Highlander, without the flashbacks and without quite such a silly premise. If you're looking for story and ideas, don't bother. However, if you're looking for lots of stylish running about and fighting, this could be the one for you.
The premise of this movie is that we live in a multiverse where every individual has a hundred and twenty four counterparts, each living out their lives in parallel universes. When a cop responsible for patrolling the interstices of these universes accidentally kills another version of himself, he discovers that the energy from the dead man has been distributed between his other selves. Consequently, he sets out to kill himself over and over again, so that he can become a god. As you do. In a universe which may just possible be our own (though there are hints that it isn't), he encounters his final remaining other self, the good natured, naif and fluffy but similarly martial arts trained Gabe; and thus audiences get to spend an hour or so observing the traditional genre staple of a superpowered hero fighting himself.
The real strength of this film is its star, Jet Li, who can not only fight, but also act, sufficiently well that his two developed characters are quite distinct and can be told apart even when fighting at a distance. His natural charisma, together with the film's easy-going, cheesy humour and delight in its own melodrama, make what might have been yet another God-awful Hollywood rip-off (cf: The Matrix) into an entertaining popcorn movie which neither pretends nor needs to be anything more than shiny and fast and dumb.
Having very much enjoyed David Fincher's previous work (especially Se7en and Fight Club), I went into this movie full of anticipation, despite the presence of Jodie Foster, who impressed me with her Hotel New Hampshire era performances but whom I have found altogether too saccharine over the last decade, with sentimental schlock like Nell and Little Man Tate. As it turned out, Foster handled her part impressively, and it was Fincher who disappointed, though I got the impression that his style had been heavily compromised as a result of studio pressure. His usual energy was distinctly dampened; his comic instincts had been restrained, and those sort of jokes, when played without confidence, fall painfully flat; and the stock tacked on ending only served to enhance the feeling that I was watching a jumped-up TV movie. However, that said, The Panic Room certainly has its moments, and I've a feeling that there was a top class film in there once.
Perhaps the most noteworthy thing about this movie was its opening credit sequence, which combined unusual perspective with sombre music to impressive effect, setting the tone for what was to follow. Also impressive was the child actress playing Foster's daughter, and it was refreshing to see that type of part handled without recourse to cuteness. The kid was, in fact, the only character in the film who never did panic. Trapped in the eponymous chamber after their house was invaded, our heroines showed a decent amount of intelligence and resourcefulness in protecting themselves and trying to get help (though it was, in some ways, all the more frustrating that apparently smart characters failed to employ what seemed to me and my viewing companions like obvious solutions). Sadly, the personalities of the robbers were underdeveloped, and they failed to convince as suitably dangerous antagonists. Forrest Whittaker was good as always, but he was playing a part which he's played many times before, and his character was too limited to permit any real build-up of tension. This was, essentially, a Hitchcockian concept, and it needed characters as strong and capable as Hitchcock's in order to properly impress. It thankfully managed to avoid most of the claustrophobia, chase and hostage drama cliches which one might expect in association with such a premise, at least up until the final running around and fighting scene, which was incoherent and altogether substandard. Impressive in places, worth watching for Foster and for the concept, but don't panic if you miss it.
After a bizarre first twenty minutes in which the UGC's projector displayed scenes in slices, with black bars through the middle, and alternately without subtitles and without sound, I was relieved that I eventually got to see this peculiar little Mexican movie in its intact form. Following the adventures of two teenaged boys who travel across country with one of them's cousin's wife, searching for a fictional beach, this is like American Pie might have been if helmed by Ingmar Bergman. Its characters are loud and vivacious, possessed of seemingly limitless energy and a limitless capacity to embarrass themselves. Their humour is crass, inane, yet wholly innocent. Teenage stupidity is portrayed quite starkly, yet every character is treated with great affection. As the story develops, it transpires that none of this is enough to save them from an utterly bleak fate.
The real strength of Y tu Mamÿ También is in its ability to tell the story straight, never backing off from emotionally awkward moments, and never letting itself be diverted by surrounding circumstances (because, of course, the boys themselves pay little real heed to what is going on around them, or even to their own feelings). The omnipresent voice-over, which is surprisingly easy to accept, subtly reveals disturbing details of the country's political situation, yet this remains in the background. As time goes on, these asides develop to take in local history and to report on later developments in the lives of incidental characters, including animals, often to sobering effect. The confidence of the narrative is such that the audience seemed completely willing to accept the bizarre minor incidents which come to dictate the characters' actions, which builds towards saying something about the bizarre nature of life itself. An odd tale, but well worth catching.
Werner Herzog's first film for ten years, and surely the only example of his work which could be thus awarded a 12 certificate, tells the (roughly) true story of a Jewish strongman from Poland hired to work in a Berlin cabaret on the eve of Hitler's rise to power. Were it not shot in Herzog's usual rich colour, taking close account of the lighting styles fashionable in the period, it might almost pass for a 'thirties movie, an early talkie, as it is so charmingly presented in naive style, never once slipping out of character. Herzog's excursions into surrealism, in which the scurrying populace of Berlin, most especially the Nazi soldiers, are compared with crabs scurrying over rocks, dutifully evoke Bunuel. Much of the dialogue is so blunt as to be quite unrealistic, and the story itself is similarly told, yet this can only add to its character and, perversely, to its authenticity.
Herzog has always been interested in examining obsessive individuals pushed into conflict by extreme situations, and that theme is continued here, though this time the violence is never fully expressed, only hinting more horribly at the nature of the regime to come. Our hero, played by a real strongman rather than a trained actor, is good natured, calm, and somewhat blank, but this is all that is required of him in order for his story to be told; he is a still centrepoint around which insane events unfold. After a string of vulgar performances in awful films, Tim Roth here makes a stunning return to form as the cabaret owner and hypnotist, courageously portraying an ambitious and frightened man whose life is dominated by the secrets he keeps. This is one of those characters who is at once repellant and sympathetic, the sort of creature which most directors would have no idea how to handle. To further demonstrate his ability, Herzog conjures remarkable performances from the child actors in the film, with the strongman's nine year old brother most impressive of all. All this in a story whose gentle pace demonstrates the decadence into which all of its different communities had sunk, so that the growth of Nazi power seemed inevitable, a dynamic, fierce thing which all the patient strength in the world could not hold back.
Once upon a time, in California, twenty college students were chosen for a psychological experiment in which they role played prisoners and guards. After just four days, the behaviour of those involved had become so extreme that the scientists, fearing someone would be killed, brought it to a halt. This German film examines what might have happened if they hadn't.
Writing a film like this is a difficult task. How does one demonstrate, in just under two hours, the kind of slow psychological shifts which take place in a pressured environment over several days in which the test subjects have nothing else to think about? How does one make believable what few people were prepared to accept even when it happened for real? Das Experiment is remarkably bold and plain in its storytelling, never shirking from the details of its characters' suffering, so that it carries the viewer along despite its strangeness. Early on, various narrative devices are used, such as cuts to the interviews which the subjects underwent on application, and a surreal sequence in which the central protagonist, Tarek Fahd (otherwise known as Nummer sieb-und-siebzig), a journalist secretly infiltrating the experiment in search of a story, meets a woman at such a critical juncture in her life that a strong relationship is forged overnight. As the story develops, however, the telling of it becomes more and more straightforward, building up tension which doesn't let go. It becomes very easy to accept what those involved will do to one another out of fear of humiliation or direct physical suffering. Everything is carried through to its logical conclusion. Power corrupts, and proves, for the corrupted, impossible to surrender.
Das Experiment is bleak in the extreme, but also emotionally gripping and, at times, intensely erotic. A fine ensemble cast provide strong, authentic performances which never compete for attention nor detract from one another, and the chemistry between them is impressive. Various devices are cleverly introduced and then allowed merely to exist, without anything hinging on them, where lesser writers would have tried to make a drama out of everything. This film finds all the drama it needs just by telling it straight. None of its characters are flawless nor supremely heroic. These are ordinary people pushed to extremes, with the result at once horrifying and fascinating. One of the best films of the year.
With impressive but not mind-blowing animation, this film certainly had its moments, managing to be entertaining and witty on occasion despite the (voice) presence of Billy Crystal, but ultimately it was a big pile of sugary goop which left me feeling slightly queasy. Following the usual Disney plot, it dragged in the same predictable places, stretching out the sentimentality and pushing a good chase idea to the point where it became boring. The kid was okay, and the kids in the audience seemed to enjoy themselves. It just needed a decent editor. When I'd first seen the trailers, I had got the impression that somebody was trying to be Tim Burton without really understanding his sense of humour; on seeing the film, I felt that had been too generous an assessment. It's nice to see a mainstream studio trying for something a little darker and more complex (because, after all, children are fierce little creatures themselves, often liking nothing better than to see a man hit over the head and falling over), but this was all precociousness without the necessary confidence. The Pixar animation which preceeded it in UK cinemas, For the Birds, was, on the other hand, a classic Disney mini-fable, simple but elegantly plotted and choreographed, and surprisingly good fun.
Due to his particular directorial technique, and the extent to which he relies in improvisation, Robert Altman films tend to fall into two distinct categories - the rather good, and the unforgiveably awful. Gosford Park, fortunately, is one of the former. With a stellar cast which makes superb use of a wide range of different acting skills and styles, it focuses on character and circumstance rather than on its essential plot, the murder of a wealthy man during a party at his eponymous estate, and it is none the weaker for this. Maggie Smith, at once both subtle and extravagant, is wonderful as always, though, contrary to the reports of Film Review's critic, she does not "literally bring the house down with each line"; a mercy, since they only had one house in which to shoot, and it appeared to be a rather expensive one at that. Other shooting is done outside the house, with unfortunate consequences for assorted game birds, but the primary focus is on conversation: small talk, gossip and intrigue, turning surprisingly bitter surprisingly fast, long before the central crime has been committed.
Stephen Fry, sadly, is atrociously miscast as the bumbling inspector brought in to try and identify the murderer; he seems to think he's appearing in an entirely different film. The use of American outsiders as a means of introducing the audience to the complexities of the 1930s English class system is nicely handled, but is never really tied up at the end, leaving several intriguing personal stories just hanging. Despite its length and the vaguaries of its plot, the film is not overlong, but not all of its component parts proceed at the same pace, so that some seem rushed in conclusion and others are simply abandoned. Nevertheless, this is a roundly enjoyable piece: witty, emotive, and slyly perceptive.
In the first instance, I resolved to see this film because I was so very much amused by the trailers; I figured that, even if it was shite, I could easily spend two hours being entertained by Johnny Depp's comedy Cockerney accent. Also, though I haven't read From Hell itself, I like some of graphic novel writer Alan Moore's other work, so I was curious as to how the adaptation had been managed. I'm really glad I went, because I was surprised by just how good a film it actually was.
I haven't seen the Hughes brothers' previous work, but I was extremely impressed by the way that they handled From Hell, and I think it signals the presence of a strong developing talent. The inter-scene splicing popular in Moore's work was translated into brilliant montages of colour and image which slipped across large quantities of information in easily digested slices. Precise, energetic camerawork enabled sudden alterations of pace and mood. Many fans had been concerned that the nature of the film medium would make it impossible for Jack the Ripper to maintain his place as a central character in the story, but this was deftly handled, as much through astute use of shadowplay as through the carefully arranged, half-seen scenes in the Ripper's abode, and fragments of conversation.
Once one had succeeded in suspending disbelief with regard to his accent, Johnny Depp's performance in the role of Abberline was just about perfect, subtler than usual and delicately judged. I was pleased by the way in which the directors emphasised his slightness and his physical vulnerability; not qualities usually accepted in a Hollywood hero, but essential to that particular character. Robbie Coltrane was also impressive (and had a carefully altered accent so good that I doubt anyone noticed it), showing what he's capable of when he's not being paid to play to type.
I knew that I was going to like this film as soon as the camera settled on Heather Graham and observed her walking across the street to look for business. It was the confident way in which she walked, and the unsweetened roughness of it, which convinced me this was not going to be another film about poor helpless prostitutes, glamourising their trade or dwelling mawkishly on the helplessness of women. The Hughes brothers have said that they think of it as a ghetto story, about the way in which people contend with poverty and social abuse, and that was very much the spirit in which it came across. With a remarkable cast of talented character actresses, each of the prostitutes who became the Ripper's victims was identified as a human being, an individual with a distinct reaction to those desperate circumstances. Though by no means the strongest performer, Heather Graham was ideal for the part of Mary Kelly, providing vital warmth and emotional intensity at the heart of the film, a pivotal humanity crucial to Abberline's fate.
This is not simply a film about Jack the Ripper, and it doesn't concern itself with examining the stronger Ripper theories. It is an impressive study of poverty and class in a particular time and place, and thus in all places. Its brutality is balanced by its passionate if tragic love story. Powerfully atmospheric, it delivered more of a punch than most in the audience seemed ready for. Recommended.
Having been underimpressed by the convolutions of Lost Highway, and accounting for the diversion of The Straight Story, I really wasn't sure what to expect from this latest work by one of my favourite directors. But this is David Lynch back on top form, displaying all the qualities I loved about Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me in a work which somehow manages to be darker than both. I was astounded by just how depressing this film is. I think it's actually the most miserable thing that David Lynch has ever done. I loved it.
The plot, of course, is non-linear, and peculiar enough in its development to have rapidly scared away the fourteen year olds who sneaked in just to try and see some lesbian sex. This time, though, Lynch seems to know what he's doing with this complicated form. It all draws together with a sense of inevitability which is at once agonising and beautiful. Centering on the relationship between two actresses trying to make it big in Hollywood, with sub-plots involving a cuckolded director and a gangster organisation which may or may not represent something otherworldly, it treats its subjects with great affection, yet never flinches from their cruelty and fragility and the terrible consequences of love distorted by ambition. It is remarkable to see any film with such strong female leads, especially in a story which hinges on jealousy and betrayal, a film noir about moral disintegration under terrible pressure; and both actresses are absolutely up to the job. This is a very human story, despite its biting satire on the film industry and its assorted comic vignettes. It builds up emotion through incident and accident like Spike Lee at his best. I don't expect it will be greatly successful. It has more impact and more power than most people want from a film.
Mulholland Drive is thrillingly intelligent film-making; if 2002 brings more movies like this, I shall be very happy indeed.
Being as I've been at the cinema so much this year, I've scarcely seen any of these...
Stir of Echoes is a film which doesn't seem to know what it wants to be - supernatural thriller, murder mystery, conspiracy tale, or suburban life TV movie. It contains some rather charming random vignettes and a few striking scenes which are actually part of the main story, but in other places is excruciatingly awful.
Shaolin Soccer is a comic book style, geek martial arts movie, played very much to formula but seemingly an absolute delight for its intended audience. Personally, I thought it was like a feature length version of Viz classic Billy the Fish, but with added powergaming and without such a sophisticated plot.
Last updated 26th February, 2006