Swingin 'Til The Girls Come Home

I watched my first director's commentary. I don't know why it took me so long when I've always been curious. Something about uncertainty and the idea of 'dead time.' Something about re-watching a film, but not watching it fully, watching it only for possible added insight.

There was really only ever one candidate for this honour, if I'm honest:

This coming just after my chronological Spike marathon, so I was completely ready to get into the mind of Spike Lee. She Hate Me was a film I just totally didn't get in 2004/5, I wasn't convinced I hadn't dreamt it. It was the first film of his I saw, too. Now maybe it does make sense. Slightly. There are so many threads to this film, if only because it's so unraveled. I think I enjoy this film, I'm definitely fascinated by it.

Anyway, an interesting bit. She Hate Me is a real glorious mess, and I don't really like that this seized my attention. But equally, it's the (perceived?) confused and controversial sexual politics portrayed in the film that most of its fierce criticism is rooted in. So. Here, Lee starts off talking about the technical consultant who helped him run a 'lesbian boot-camp' for the female cast:

"...Now, by law I cannot ask anybody their sexual preference so therefore I had to assume that all the women that were auditioning for the film were heterosexual, so therefore I needed someone to inform these actresses and so, Tristan running the boot camp really immersed these actresses into the world of lesbianism, and had field trips and stuff like that so I was not even part of that. And one of the most important things that Tristan told me, early on was she says 'Spike, there's no way that you're going to be able to make a film that's going to appease all the lesbians in the world' and so that was a very, for me, a liberating thing for her to say, because right away I understood that [that] meant that lesbians, like african-americans or any other group, are not one monolithic group, so I was not going to be able to make a film that all lesbians were going to like, and I'm glad she said that.

Before the film came out we had various screenings, advance screenings for lesbians in different areas and different centres around the USA, and it was really split down the line, 50-50. There were lesbians that loved the film, there were lesbians that hated it. But it was interesting that the lesbians of colour liked the film more than the caucasian lesbians. Tristan and I were trying to figure out why this was. I just think that, for a lot of the caucasian lesbians, they couldn't get around the element of penis. I guess that was a stumbling block... There's that school of people that think that any lesbian that's caught within 1000 feet of an erect penis is not a lesbian. And there's this other school that says "Look, y'know, you can't be as hard-line as that." So really it was divided along the penis. The penis was the dividing stick. Amongst the lesbians, that's where it was divided upon. On the almighty penis!"

Departure

Watching films with others is... OK. The actual act itself is somewhere between acceptable and infuriating. The payoff is the walk home, where everything you thought in the past 90-180 minutes must be spewed back out again, in any order while still maintaining the pretence of dialogue. And sometimes listening - but film fans are snobbish, so this is entirely situational. There was a time when I went to see A Very Long Engagement, without having seen Amelie*, and in the company of afficionados - damn right I was listening. You never know what you might have to blag at some later date.

Silence is golden; well, it has little value in or of itself, but it does create more jabbering later on. Anything you thought about the flashing lights on the screen must echo and amplify inside your head, until you are convinced of its meaningfulness to nearly spiritual proportions. It has been odd lately, one of my major cinema-companions actually lived about 3 doors down from our local cinema, and there has been an element of surrogacy as we take the walk home to the living room (It helps that these are often blockbusters - there is little to discuss and we are not skilled at subtext).

A brief outline of the sequence of things: i) I first saw The Departed in the Savoy cinema, when it had been out in the UK for about a month, so about November 2006 (interestingly, this being my first year in Nottingham, it was maybe the first such visit with my filmgoing companions of that time, both heavy and naive with expectancy - these walks home can be the most intoxicating and tremulous, can be the most sour and quarrelsome). ii) January 2007 - I rented Infernal Affairs from "The Hollywood Movie Store" in Beeston, which had a good selection of foreign (and especially asian) film. iii) Early 2008 - a friend bought the Infernal Affairs DVD from a website somewhere and a group of us watch it. On completion, howls of appreciation and enthusiasm sound out around the room. iv) I watch The Departed for a second time with my father**, the date is the 3rd of July, 2009. Bang! we are in the present.

The Departed is a 2006 film by Martin Scorsese (who vowed it would be his last gangster flick) about a policeman (Leonardo DiCaprio) infiltrating a Boston gang leader's inner circle (Jack Nicholson) while a gangland mole (Matt Damon) ascends to the police unit investigating his boss. Intrigue, violence and multiple usages of the C word follow. The cast is strong and Nicholson appears to be having a lot of fun, as ever. On first viewing I was entertained and satisfied, but not impressed - so, similar to Gangs of New York, then. But I was shocked when it won both the Best Picture and Best Director Academy Awards***, it had seemed to be little more than a proficient thriller. And all this was before realising that The Departed had been copying someone else's notes.

I'm not sure what I knew, but I certainly did not fully realise that The Departed was a re-make until I followed the hype and rented Infernal Affairs, jointly directed by Alan Mak and Andy Lau, who also takes one of the starring roles alongside Tony Leung****, who has long been a favourite of mine. The story is essentially the same, taking place in Hong Kong. Infernal Affairs is a great film, a near-perfect exposition of the crime/intrigue motif and a totally exhilarating thriller. Excuse me while I gush. There is a genuine feeling of schizophrenia running through it, creating what is almost a split-screen effect in the mind of the viewer. Frame by frame, the compositions of shape and colour are stunning.

Contrast with The Departed, which I felt was good looking because it couldn't help it. Made by a major studio with great director and cinematographers, with the best equipment. The colour balance on screen was fine, totally professional. But sit the one down side-by-side with its predecessor, and it's clear. Infernal Affairs is flooded with vibrancy*****, kinetic energy, a vigour that is apparent throughout. Its Hollywood re-make is strong, but past its peak and ambling towards the retirement home. The law of diminishing returns holds firm, and this is even apparent if you see the mimic first.

Before I watched Scorsese's re-make a second time, I derided it as a scene-for-scene plagiarism, but that's not true. Scorsese does attempt to make the story his own. Mark Wahlberg's character is added, an unnecessarily foul-mouthed sergeant that yields the most watchable performance in the film, is also totally out of place. Wahlberg's appearance on screen signals something like an ad-break, ruining the flow of the story. Is this really where the film stands out from the original? 'Your mom' jokes? Anthony Wong's superintendent character gets split in half, supplying the amiable buffoon Alec Baldwin and pensively paternal Martin Sheen. The female character, who becomes unwittingly sandwiched between the two leads, is much more subtly involved in matters in Hong Kong, but in Boston her nuance is lost and a love triangle appears. And Scorsese's thematic centrepiece, the confusion and metamorphosis that the two moles' dissimulation causes, is actually much more apparent in the original, which doesn't make a big deal of it.

Finally, Scorsese's alterations to the plot facilitate a nice, neat wrapping-up of events, just as you'd expect from a

Ultimately, The Departed attempts to fine-tune its predecessor in some regards and break with it in others. On paper, the effect of the changes should be to make a more palatable movie for a western audience, but it ends up marooned; too much of a re-hash, it sags with the weight of nostalgia for its source, but no more than when it strays from the path. Scorsese simply couldn't win.

I used to charge these remakes with a cultural imperialism that I now think is a bit silly - this is a moneygrabbing maneuver first and foremost (although a scene involving some Chinese triads does offer an opportunity for Nicholson to spew a few epithets). I think this says less about the film-makers themselves than their audience, or possibly more about their level of respect for their audience. Maybe I just naively think first-is-best, which is a common enough delusion after all, not just in film. It may be that originality forms an overriding meta-aesthetic (metaesthetic? measthetic?) by which I judge film. This is, of course, the personal, situational approach to film that generates limitless perspective and confounds our attempt to evaluate absolutely. A superior remake would make for a more interesting study on this subject.

And so, the walk home, wrenching up from the sofa, creaking up the stairs, switching off lights. The end was neat, meaningless, perfectly OK. There is nothing to say about The Departed.

----

*Being English means never having to pronounce correctly or add foreign punctuation.
** Film-watching is an important shared activity for us, but he is overly fond of Steven Segal and does not care for subtitles, so consequently I leap at anything respectable. Furthermore, our loose alliance is the only thing banishing terrible US teen-rom-coms from the living room. It is a battle for resources.
***With hindsight, this was the point at which I should have stopped caring about the Oscars - much though Scorsese deserves a lifetime achievement award, much though The Departed did a credible impression of a top-notch film, it's astonishing really. Little Miss Sunshine was more enjoyable, Letters From Iwo Jima more consistent, Babel more 'worthy,' and United 93 undoubtedly more interesting to watch (and clearly better directed, provided you can put up with Greengrass' shaky-cam)
**** Or, Mak Siu-Fai, Lau Wai-Keung and Leung Chiu-Wai. I think I got those half-right. Yes, it is funny that someone would choose such vanilla names to make themselves more glamorous/saleable.
***** It is of course, obligatory for Western reviewers to use this word at least once when discussing foreign cinema. Indeed, for British people to use this to describe anything foreign (unless one wishes to demonstrate xenophobia; here the appropriate word is 'smelly').

You're Not Punk And I'm Tellin' Everyone

Before the beginning of Hated: GG Allin and The Murder Junkies, their "one week only" video feature, Pitchfork have put up a fairly stark warning:

KIDS LEAVE THE ROOM

The following film contains obscene violence, explicit sexual content, and ridiculous music. If you're not into watching guys push things into their anuses, people pissing on each other and smearing themselves in shit, or dudes dancing around with corpses, please consider reading some of our highly professional music reviews instead.

Thanks,
The Management.

Well, there certainly are bodily fluids. If there's one consistent thread that can be traced through this film, it's the presence of nudity, aggression, excretion and anal manipulation. I think we are meant to be offended, and I sometimes wonder if Allin and his fans are leering at the 'norms' viewing. I wasn't particularly offended, but I wouldn't say I enjoy watching these things*. "Kids leave the room" seems somewhat ironic though: as an attempt to shock these tactics may be extreme but they are also juvenile.

The film explores the world of GG Allin, then with his band The Murder Junkies, and incorporates footage from the late 80s through to a tour in the early 90s. Tours would typically end in the police station or the hospital; Allin, usually performing fully naked, would not hesitate to lash out at members of his audience, who were expecting it. Gigs ended in scrums or were broken up by the police, and Allin delighted at all times in pushing the proverbial envelope of punk rock to it's furthest extreme.

Fascinatingly, this 1994 documentary is directed by the same Todd Phillips whose more recent work has included Road Trip, Old School, the Starsky and Hutch remake and the current box office hit The Hangover. It's another small reminder that the 'mainstream' is not necessarily as far away as I like to think. It shouldn't really be a shock that a successful filmmaker started small, with a rock-doc about a punk act with an obscene stage show and little musical finesse to back it up.

Although Hated is full of footage from live shows, the one thing that is conspicuously absent in the film is any real mention of music. These performances are really just an opportunity to view GG in situ. Closer to performance art than music (as the spoken word performances hint), punk rock was simply the best stage for his abrasive, aggressive style. Arguably, he doesn't display any other talents beside his showmanship (which is remarkable). In one segment he plays a guitar and sings. It's a short song rendition and pleasant enough, with a rough, croaky aesthetic. Today, he'd add some distortion and call it lo-fi, and we might well love it, but beyond this, music is sidelined**. The Murder Junkies are not a particularly inspiring musical force.

His bandmates are adorable. Brother Merle Allin plays bass and boasts a spectacular moustache. A totally addled "Dino the naked drummer" runs through some of the technical details of playing naked, and sprays out some narcotic remarks about spirituality. An ex-bandmate delights in dissing his former buddy, whining impotently about how GG is nothing special. But Allin had a number of devoted fans who evidently thought he was. One clearly knew him quite well, and revels in telling the story of the time GG told him to get a woman, any woman, to urinate on his face. The occasion was Allin's birthday.

The film itself starts by placing a quote onscreen:

"GG Allin is an entertainer with a message to a sick society. He makes us look at it for what we really are. The human is just another animal who is able to speak freely, to express himself clearly. Make no mistake about it, behind what he does is a brain"

This is attributed a few seconds later, once we've had a chance to take it in: John Wayne Gacy, Death Row, Menard, IL. There are a few mentions of Gacy in the middle of the film, highlighting the acquaintance of Gacy and Allin, who visited him in prison, as did several of Allin's fans.

I can't agree with Gacy's statement. The presence of "freaks" is not a comment on society. Rather, it is that these "freakshows" find an audience who wish to view real destruction as entertainment. Maybe this does involve a sick society, but the grisly obsession with serial killers as people who have gone beyond regular boundaries again seems juvenile to me. I agree that a human being is "just another animal," but the reaction most would have to GG Allin must if anything emphasise our differentiation. I am not aware that Allin did express himself clearly - if anything, his actions are an undeveloped response to his existence, environment and his own makeup. They certainly give us a lot to think about, and he was certainly possessed of incredible charisma, but the assertions of his intelligence are, I think, excuses to enjoy this voyeurism for a while longer.

In the latter parts of the film Allin and others discuss his assertion that he will commit suicide on Halloween 1992, possibly on stage, possibly with zealous fans also killing themselves alongside him. It seems a logical progression in the manifesto of "no limits," and in one spoken word performance, Allin lashes out at a spectator who tells him to do it sooner. But Allin does not say he is unhappy - he makes overtures about wanting to have "a strong spirit," but I wonder how much this action would be his own choice, how much it would be the product of bravado, hype and his own mischosen words. GG Allin actually died accidentally of a heroin overdose in June 1993.

Is there something about GG Allin and his fandom that runs deeper than bodily functions and senseless violence? Something in the extreme personal libertarianism, the undoubted anger and reticence to relate to others, suggests this really was a case of a distressed man, possibly unwell, attracting an unpleasant freakshow of fellow sufferers and disenfranchised youth. It must have been quite a spectacle. Maybe my efforts to medicalise are precisely the mainstream sentiments that he and his fans would have derided. Maybe he was healthy, I'm sure he had some fun.

Would I recommend Hated? Because I'm not sure whether I was watching it as a voyeur myself. It's a decent documentary that some people might find hard to stomach. GG Allin was a fascinating character who was undoubtedly very talented at what he did, who could have formed his fans into a cult, if that had been what he wanted. As a subject matter, he was repulsive, honest, intimidating, purile, and often tiresome. But never dull.

At any rate, be quick, the film will be up on pitchfork for maybe a couple more days. Youtube would have your back, but there's a bit too much nudity and faeces in this one.

---

*"Nothing offends me" is basically a challenge, and besides, it's not true. There are things that offend me, in fact deeply and on a daily basis, but it helps not to get too wound up about them and proceed in a catatonic glazed-over fashion. On the other hand, things like disgusting photographs, clips of surgery, these don't offend me. Sometimes, what offends me is the apparent intention of the person who is putting these images in front of me. Offence is difficult to monitor and while I'm probably not "easily offended," a large element in the perception of this is the amount of things I simply have to let slide.

** In modern indie culture this should not really be surprising. Music is not necessarily the natural environment for the concepts we load it with, it is merely the next best place to store our desired aesthetic - it can be deregulated and decentralised, it needn't be expensive, it can form a fully interactive culture, it lends itself to film, writing, fashion, nights out, visual art, and it has a physical output, which can be produced cheaply, circulated wildly, and associated with as many additional concepts and ideal-images as we wish to give it. The Murder Junkies are not even a particularly great example.

Nothing Bad To Say

Little later than planned/promised but here goes with a trio of films that I utterly adored in the past couple of months:

Waltz With Bashir was as visually arresting as I could have wished for. This telling of a set of events in the 1982 Israeli campaign in Lebanon is presented as an animated documentary with a personal tilt, where director Ari Folman re-learns events that he was part of some 26 years previously. There was a sort of guilt that set in for me when I paid attention to the documentary, that I wasn't paying full attention to the animation, and vice versa.

The effect of the technique used is highly reminiscent of rotoscoping - during the interviews Folman conducts it would take a mammoth effort to avoid comparisons with A Waking Life - and complements the film perfectly. Folman is exploring his lost memory in a perfectly post-modern way, forming human bridges to his forgotten past and allowing enough reconstruction to take place that his one niggling dream-scene slots right in.

And for this, the presentation is perfect. Waltz With Bashir is one half dream to one half devastating reality. While some scenes allow Folman or his contemporaries to float dully off into reverie, remembering the changed towns they came home to and surreal things they saw, others heighten the terror of the truth: in this cartoon world bullets, bombs and child soldiers are more present than they could be if filmed.

This is to say nothing of the wonderful score set down by the great Max Richter or the macabre yet surprisingly gentle humour that runs throughout the film. Or the perfect compassion that fills every frame, every pore. Waltz With Bashir is a work that treats its character as human, that steers away from simple answers. And seems more real than real, right into its final reel. Then, it leaves the viewer with no doubts about what reality is.

---

Documentary also receives a make-over in The Class ("Entre Les Murs") where, confusingly, the author of the semi-autobiographical subject material of the same title plays the main protagonist, François, who is French teacher to a class of teenagers in inner-city Paris. The students (played by real students in a semi-improvised fashion) are a mixed bunch. Not only is talent and committment as varied as might be expected in any classroom, but François' charges include pupils of European, West Indian, Chinese and both North and West African descents, which on occasion leads to tension.

The vast majority of the film takes place in a single classroom. Multiple cameras are used to pick out the subjects in their classroom, one focussing on the teacher, another on the pupils as they respond, and one more has an eye for detail. The sensation when things go well is of a warm embrace, which can quickly turn sour and claustrophobic. Our omniscience extends only beyond these 4 walls on a handful of occasions, when events are discussed in the playground,headmaster's office, or among the traumatised occupants of the staff-room.

On the battleground, François' familiar teaching style is capable of engaging and delivering great results, but can also de-rail proceedings hugely. The 9 months we observe are certainly not without their highlights, but it's a warts-and-all depiction where a mis-step can send repercussions reverberating through the rest of the school. And with François' attitude, and that of his class, mis-steps are inevitable, making parent-teacher councils a microcosm of conservative-liberal debates in schools (and media) everywhere. The Class is a film that doesn't hesitate to deliver joyous moments alongside crushing ones, presenting a hero who can easily fall and villains we desperately want to pull through. More-real-than-real, it feels like we've taught a full school year in just over two hours.

---

Already reality is a theme here, as I come to my favourite film of recent times, The Wrestler. I don't want to qualify that because if I have a more perfect cinema experience anytime soon I doubt my heart will take the strain. I can't do this justice (although I shall try) because The Wrestler not only has to be seen, it must be lived! Darren Aronofsky's 4th feature film takes a less-than-trendy form of entertainment and makes it a universal tale of broken dreams and triumph.

Applying compassion liberally to the semi-pro wrestling ring seems like it should be a thankless task, but among the sweat, broken glass, staple guns and chest hair, Mickey Rourke makes it easy. It's hard to imagine a more outstanding acting performance than the one we get from Rourke (it was well documented he took training for the role seriously), a career role where his fading wrestling glory sits awkwardly alongside his difficult romance with stripper Cassidy (Marisa Tomei) and reconciliation with estranged daughter Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood).

Much though I admire Sean Penn, to say Rourke was passed over for the Oscar is a mammoth understatement. The Ram, hardly ever off the screen, displays all the scars of the past across his face and stands boldly, beautifully and self-destructively above his circumstances and (immaculately realised) surroundings. The elation pouring out from the screen when The Ram interacts with his fans, even during a memorable scene where he puts in a showstopping performance behind a deli counter, feels nothing but unutterably true.

Things don't go The Ram's way, precisely. But it's never lost on the viewer that this film is about performance. Every time we view Rourke, channeling Randy, from behind, taking in his gait, his shabby environs (that feel absolutely accurate), we feel how different this is to life in the ring, that everything outside that is a pale shadow. The joy when he does what he does best, the pride that radiates from the screeen during the ring scenes and the respect he automatically commands when he's in costume cast aside any feeling we might have that we're watching a lovable loser, and never more than in the final scene.

As Randy Robinson stands atop the ropes, trembling, whipping the crowd into a frenzy, ready to perform his signature move, we see him for who he would be, and at that moment is: The one man standing triumphant as the universal, doing the thing he's best at and proud of. In short, being the greatest.

That's also how I feel about this film. I'm 100% as slavishly enamoured with it as I sound. It's beautifully made in almost every regard, it's emotionally brutal, it feels more-real-than-real, it understands that both truths and happy endings are subjective, and it leaves us believing that things matter. It embraces all humanity through one character, and not just the pretty bits.

---

What makes these films special? I'm not certain, but I've been trying to trace several threads. Technicality is important, films have to be well-made for any theme, however powerful, to kick in. Novelty, gimmicks, distinctive styles are not to be sniffed at, provided there's some content behind them. A full world, populated by characters as complex as human beings always are, is a must. A sense of purpose, a meaningful story to tell, makes a film worthwhile. These films are of consequence, in the way they are written and made, not by being consciously weighty.

And I suspect the 'transcendence' I feel about these particular films comes from symbolism. Within each, the well-presented particular is able to represent more universal human and emotional forms. I feel particularly fortunate to have seen all these things coming together three times already this year.

Something Bad To Say

It's worrying when you find yourself liking a whole string of things in a row. If you're anything like me at least; you start worrying about whether you've lost your critical faculties, or about the extent by which you've been influenced by media hype. Film-wise, this early stretch of the year can be a mixed blessing - all the Oscar-worthy pieces are trotted out and the self-doubt begins to blossom.

These posts, another will follow shortly, really aim to say there are films, and there are films. On the one hand, films can be well made, roles well acted, stories diverting, scenes good-looking. Films can be good. But just now I can't help but feel that doesn't cut it. Here are 3 such:

Milk was good. Very good really. The case of Harvey Milk was always going to be one that deserved a very careful and meaningful treatment. And combined with Sean Penn, it was an unsurprising Oscar-role. Extremely watchable and with a great cast, Milk had the epic scale I'd hoped for, and yet a refreshing focus on the story - which is a good one.

A little self-consciously worthy, but it's very difficult to avoid that in a human rights film, during awards season, with such a long list of notable names in the cast and with Gus Van Sant at the helm. He's good, but he does veer a little towards the sentimental. In spite of that gripe, I was very pleased with it.

Frost/Nixon was fun. It looked good, and seemed well written - the to-and-fro between Martin Sheen, Frank Langella, Kevin Bacon, Oliver Platt, Sam Rockwell and Matthew MacFadyen filled a happy couple of hours. It did feel a bit like a film convinced of its tale's own significance but which never bothered to relay that element to the audience. I laughed - out loud even! - a few times, but still, on the walk home it left little to think about (other than Michael Sheen's ability as a mimic - The Damned United is also released soon). Ron Howard continues to bemuse.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was nearly 3 hours long. This bloated love-story-with-a-twist isn't without its good moments, but it's hard to see why anyone felt it deserved such epic treatment. To the credit of the filmmakers, the 'curious' situation the backwards-ageing Brad Pitt finds himself in is made to seem natural within the film, incidental to his romance with Cate Blanchett. But this new focal point isn't actually that interesting - Benjamin and Daisy don't seem that fated, or tortured, or even important.

I also found myself wondering why there was so little colour in the past. I appreciate that 'the world of the '50s wasn't awash with neon lighting. But this film seemed to exhibit a pathological fear of colour, or bright lighting. THE PAST IS BROWNY-GREY! Combined with its length, the overall impression was that I'd taken a 3 hour nap.

I thought of David Fincher as a maker of snappy, punchy films. Alien3, Se7en and The Game were pretty dynamic and fully enjoyable. Fight Club even more so, a really excellent modern film. Benjamin Button, combined with admirable drag Zodiac, really screams that he should stay the right side of the 140 minute mark.


Three films, many positive points between them. But something missing from each. It does occur to me that these are very similar story types. Well maybe - it is awards season, so the major releases are rarely irreverent and frequently pretty wordy, po-faced pieces. Sort of like old paintings left out in the sun. Later I'm going to tell you what I loved instead, and hopefully put a bit of effort into working out why.

Taking Refuge

So, a rough day is enough to precipitate a retreat. Such a wonderful retreat, however. One of the things I always appreciate about Nottingham (in comparison to Salisbury, which, lovely though it is, is a backwater) is that there are cinemas here that screen films I actually want to see. The other week I finally saw Waltz With Bashir, and it was worth the wait. Tonight I went to see The Wrestler (in fact, I immersed myself in it completely, and came up drenched in sweat and tears).

I'll note my thoughts on it tomorrow (clue: I liked it), when I can gather them. Suffice to say, combined with a stop-off at Lee Rosy's, it was a fairly perfect evening and I felt positively resurrected walking home, my day of dissertation-toil and application-frustration well behind me. But for now I just want to note that the feature was preceded by this trailer, the first time I've seen it in full:

Sure enough, Milk is next in my list of must-sees. I don't even care that it could be a bit of an Oscars love-in, or that it's one of those deliberately serious-accessible films. I care that this is almost as 'important' as a film could conceivably be dubbed, and it is as emphatically pro-equality with regard to sexuality as you could say Malcolm X or Remember The Titans were with regard to race (for some reason I don't award Brokeback Mountain this accolade, maybe unfairly, but in some way I don't feel it made the same point).

So within my (admittedly myopic and goldfish-like) experience, this is sort of a watershed event in cinema, possibly similarly to Milk's real-world impact. Gays are OK, in a slightly schmaltzy way. Maybe I'm just emotional tonight, but I can't wait.

-------------------------------

I know, I know, I'm so melodramatic. But here it is, and it's no big surprise; I'm tired of listening to partisan arguments for the time being, and more tired still of participating. It's a shame because I've often learnt valuable things in such discourse, both about myself and the subjects in hand. But the internet is an uncivil place. Maybe it's the anonymity, the testosterone, or the ease of finding allies in a global network. At any rate this over-abundant aggro taints everything, and it's boring.

While I thought I had a sense of humour, I'm clearly not terribly thick-skinned, and I wouldn't care to be either. It hurts me in some way to see so much hatred, both casual and calculated. I can't find the precise quote (I do need to watch Stalker again soon; I will correct this later) but when man is born he is sensitive to all things and drinks them in, and when he dies he is cold and hard as stone. Anyway, this is all a bit E/N but, like, whatever.

Jews: The Next Generation

The holocaust is a subject so horrific, and so incomprehensibly awful, that much as we do our best to remember, really we consign it to a locked room in the back our minds and bring it up only as the example of evil-doing. This is true for myself and, I am sure, others with no link at all to that terrible period in the history of the Jewish people.

So how do the repercussions of that time impact the lives of people who weren't there, but were affected? This is the subject of Vanessa Engle's excellent documentary, the second of three that BBC4 have entitled, simply, Jews.

Engle explores the feelings of the children of holocaust survivors, and finds that the wounds inflicted more than 60 years ago cut extremely deep. Those who fled and became parents in the UK reacted in different ways - commonly though, changing their identities, overprotecting their families, and trying (always failing) to forget.

One subject learnt only recently of her Jewish background (yet others did not realise while their parents were still alive). She claims that those terrible times, and her parents' efforts, shape her 'entire psychological hinterland.' Another explains that she shares her name with another child her mother had, who did not survive Auschwitz. She seems to embrace this mark of her family, but it surely cannot be a fully comfortable fact.

There is something more complex here than 'dealing with' the holocaust. Relationships between parents and children, usually complex anyway, are twisted and further complicated by incredibly sore emotional scars. In some cases the surviving parents themselves are present, but rarely are they able to engage with their children's questions or feelings.

There is a sense in which as these middle-aged offspring come to realise how great the shockwaves through their lives have been, they also realise that with time the answers and causes are continuously retreating. One lady gives up her life in the UK to learn just what happened to her mother's family in Vienna, just what tore at her mother for so many years. Coming at the end of the film, this segment is especially poignant.

Interesting to me is the effect that fleeing the Nazis had on the faith of the survivors and their offspring. Out of fear, few maintained their Jewish faith, or even their mother tongues, and it seems all integrated as fully as possible. This may have interesting implications for how we relate to beliefs and culture. Their children, however, approached what was frequently a newly-discovered heritage in a surprising variety of ways.

Part two of this excellent series is a huge change of pace. The gently comedic Samuel has been replaced with a horrifying, looming, past. Inconsistent it may be, but Jews continues to make involving and thought-provoking viewing.

My review of part one is here, and this episode is available on BBC's iPlayer for a few days yet...

Kith and Kin

I got back from a gig to flop in front of the rather wonderful documentary The Prisoner, part of the BBC Four series, Jews. Samuel Leibowitz has just finished a spell in prison for drug smuggling. On his release he has returned to his childhood community of ultra-orthodox hasidic jews in north London.

(Unfortunately a small failing of the film is it didn't really explain to me what a hasidic Jew is. There's always the danger we might conclude that all Jews live in this way, but I'm relatively sure they do not.)

The extraordinarily devoted and restricted lives of the ~20,000 members of this community are completely at odds with the lifestyle of most modern britons, most especially those Samuel has been meeting in a prison environment. Even the term 'kosher', which we will have at least heard of, proves very difficult to really explain. Over the course of the hour, Vanessa Engle explores these rules and conflictions, and attempts to find the nature of Samuel's rebellion.

It's a fascinating insight into an extremely insular community. The temptation is clearly there for Engle to reach conclusions about this society, especially about the role of women and the effect on adolescents, but her restraint is crucial; after all we can easily decide for ourselves.

The main question we must ask is whether Samuel reacts like very many people would, or is he simply as strange an individual as he seems, somehow dysfunctional? Are the extremities of his rebellion therefore the result of the overbearing culture in which he was brought up?

As enjoyable as the current trend of "religious freak" documentaries are, it's refreshing to see this film, although clearly not quite embracing the hasidic jewish lifestyle, at least engaging with a totally alien culture and teasing out a fair

Episode 1 of 'Jews' is available to stream on the BBC iPlayer service for at least 6 more days HERE. 2 more episodes will be aired in the next week.

Things I Learnt From Zizek In May

I watched The Pervert's Guide To Cinema yesterday, in which Slavoj Zizek applies psychoanalytical ideas to films as diverse as Alien: Resurrection, Vertigo, Persona, The Wizard of Oz and The Matrix. It's about 2 hours of concepts I really don't understand. Here is what I learnt:

*You can tell if someone is a father figure as they will "wear the phallus" as their insignia.

*Flowers should be forbidden for children as they are basically vaginas.

*The use of voice to suggest altered identity is particularly effective as it is "not an organic part of the body."

*If a scene or narrative device is effective, it's probably because you want to hump someone, and also probably you shouldn't.

*One's virtual, fantasised self may be more "real" than that which inhabits the physical world, as it is not impeded by outside influences. Hence our fantasies may be a better guide to who we really are.


It was a lot of fun to watch, albeit hard work at times. I'd seriously recommend it as a novel (to me) angle of film criticism. The entire thing is on Youtube, and not hard to find, but I'll be buying the DVD I'm pretty sure.

Humanity and Paper Balloons

Humanity and Paper Balloons (1937) is a touching period piece following the exploits of two men in 18th century feudal Japan. Unno is a masterless samurai, a ronin, who is desperate to find work and restore his name and honour. Shinza is a barber, and a cheeky rulebreaker and schemer, who seeks better and hasn't quite worked out how to get it.

Set in what's now Tokyo, most of the characters live in a slum, where the scene opens with the residents discussing an off-screen suicide, by a dishonoured samurai who had lived among them. We're gradually introduced to the residents, their pompous landlord, and the hierarchy beyond the ghetto, where a gang of local men hold immediate authority.

The owners and workers of a nearby pawn shop are better off, while master Mori, the leader of the samurai clan, is a respected figure, in charge of the well-being and wedding of a noble's daughter. It is he Unno must beg for a fresh shot at honour and employment, and observing his deferral in the face of such rejection is heartbreaking.

While Unno battles with the temptation to take refuge in drink, Shinza is causing trouble for himself, hosting gambling games and continually on the run from the local gangs. The audience naturally comes to like Shinza, a daring young man of good nature and sharp wit. Eventually, from about halfway through the film, he takes his daring further than before, kidnapping the bride-to-be, and conspiring with Unno to hold her, seeking the pride and honour that will come from role-reversal, should the governor come and beg him for a change.

Filmed in 1937 and released on the very day its director Sadao Yamanaka was drafted into military service, during which he died, less than a year later, Humanity and Paper Balloons is a tragicomedic film. Warmly humourous character observations are peppered through the film, with true good feeling piercing through the difficult conditions the poor tenants endure. The landlord brings a dose of bustling levity, as does the blind man whose senses are so sharp the other tenants swear he can really see.

Ultimately a sad, but not depressing, film, Humanity and Paper Balloons is shot beautifully. Sets look wonderful, scenes are composed as delicate tableaus, to give a tremendous sense of historic Japan. Yamanaka balances these works in light against the struggle of the everyday people, portraying a society where poverty isn't a disaster, but dishonour is. From the very opening scene we get the feeling that Unno's fate hangs over him very heavily indeed.

A tragedy, really, that only three of Yamanaka's films survive to this day. Even more awful to think, if he made 30 before his death at age 29, quite how much more beauty he may have had to contribute to the world.

Humanity and Paper Balloons offers little entertainment to a general modern, western audience. But if we can put aside the pace and characterisation, slow compared to that to which we are accustomed, and immerse ourselves in the beautiful compositions put before us and the tenderness of the tale, there's plenty of pleasure to be derived here, in a story that's passed off as small-time and incidental but tells us more about Japanese culture, past and present, than we might expect.

No Country For Old Men

I was conflicted while approaching this film. Is it the new piece by the Coen brothers, or is it the recent Best Picture oscar-winner? Is there even a significant distinction to be drawn between the two?

In a study in coincidence and injustice, the set-up is the cat-and-mouse chase between an innocent everyman who stumbles across a fortune (Josh Brolin), and a maniacal killer, Chigurh, who doesn't follow the expected Hollywood morality for maniacal killers (Javier Bardem).

Don't be drawn in. Neither of these are the lead role. In fact, many events are perceived through the eyes of a retiring sheriff (Tommy Lee Jones). It's through his eyes we assess the rough injustice of the Tex-Mex border region, and ask ourselves if this dark world is as devoid of God as it is seemingly devoid of morality.

These lead roles are truly crucial to the piece; a lesser actor in Jones' place might lead us to wonder whether the film had any meaning whatsoever, while Brolin balances hope, greed, and desperation on a fine knife-edge throughout.

Meanwhile, Bardem astounds. His role is the absolute centre of the work, which at its core is hugely violent. Two grotesque murders await us before any plot has even been divulged. They're so grotesque they conduct the thoughts of both the lead and the audience throughout. Each time Bardem enters a scene he infuses the entire film with a sense of dread.

Chigurh redoubles already unbearable tension with his belief in fate and attitude to justice, so alien to a western audience that he becomes a complete black box. He both enacts and holds to such a belief in fate that we too question whether anyone else can ultimately triumph.

The three main characters dance an intimate and delicate waltz throughout the film. Scene by scene, they never seal each other's fates as we'd expect, but instead, under the guidance of the Coens, weave a web of chance encounter and suspense, that holds us rapt throughout.

The Coens paint a bleak, harsh landscape, of a country that has no regard for our expectations of justice, decency, or even self-determination. Scene by scene they tease out a nervous humour and a thoroughly unconventional narrative, combining it with as masterful direction and cinematography as you'd come to expect from the duo, until regardless of how happy you feel about it, you can't doubt you're watching something truly remarkable.

Breakdown

This is so brilliant. These things are sometimes kind of dumb, but in this case it's hilarious and so well executed:

I could really go for watching American Psycho again sometime soon. And maybe a re-read as it's one of my favourite books.

(Found via Alex A on facebook!)

I'm calling to procure a hasty abortion...

As films go, Juno is an odd beast. For me at least. Because I approve of Jason Reitman, having laughed uproariously at Thank-You for Smoking. Meanwhile, J.K Simmons was almost the best thing in that film. Ellen Page is clearly a talent, and add the homeliness of having Arrested Development stars kicking around, there's not much to dislike, surely?

And I enjoyed parts of it, sure enough. I laughed a few times, if only inwardly. It's a well-made film, and very much in the vein of the Alexander Payne/Wes Anderson school, unconventional, but not unwelcoming. Cosy comedy that can get away with a bit of sentimentality.

But that's the whole problem for Juno; a film that casts itself as so desperately counter-culture can't survive buckets of lovey-dovey montage ("obvious" music usage was a major irritant throughout) and a complete mire of emotional clichés. Which, sure enough, is what we end up with.

I was turned off in the first twenty minutes by the fact that EVERYONE appears to quip. Hearing "honest to blog?" uttered is bad enough, but that's comparatively just a minor crime. Some lines led me to hair-tearing. The Oscar-winning script, and its writer, are surely enough receiving plenty of attention, and much of that is negative.

It's hard to say why Diablo Cody is receiving such criticism now. It's arguable that jealousy comes into it. After all, if her film hadn't grossed $150mil at the box office, we'd probably be OK with it, right? But while her supporters claim she's simply paying the price for sticking out from the crowd, I'd submit that while that may be the case, no film script should draw so much attention from the rest of the movie. Or make me retch so much, for that matter.

Cody's script was wonderfully parodied in Bob Mackey's SomethingAwful.com article, which is getting circulation. I'd have to confess that while I was far from sold on first viewing, seeing that truly drove a stake through the heart of Juno, for me.