Grey Days

It’s here. If all the headlines and news-talk didn’t hit home ‘til now, this is it. “Welcome to the recession.”

This is running through my mind as I stand just inside the door at Woolworths. The combination of dishevelled, half-stocked shelves and shuffling crowds plugs uncannily into the zombie-movie scenes that’re so in vogue online. I catch my hands sub-consciously wielding a pump-action shotgun. My nostrils flare and catch a whiff of pure desperation.

I haven’t been in a Woolworths for at least a year, and even then I was dragged in. I haven’t wanted to enter in a decade. That would be when I was buying Stereophonics singles on cassette (ah, that that could be the most embarrassing crime against taste I committed in that grand old store). Even then, all tacky books and oversized chocolate, it was well on the way to becoming a failing pound shop. Woolworth’s demise is hardly my fault. But it’s too much watching others pick over its stiffening corpse, let alone joining in the plunder myself. I move on.

Despair is thick in the air all around the town, on the final Saturday of financial life. Already the morning news reports declared “sell or bust”. Fairy lights in the windows of even the least festive stores are meant to drag in precious customers who seek to make every coin count. Isn’t desperation the currency of every Christmastime? Seasonal slogans in inappropriate places, the impossibility of reading our loved ones’ minds, a determination to make one day a delight for all concerned, all add up to a heady mix.

This year is different. I visit the only independent record store in town, even if it rarely has anything I’m looking for. I spend an hour in my favourite bookstore, just reading the back of novels, even if Waterstones has a better selection. In a way my interest in Christmas shopping has been rekindled now it’s a rescue mission. The sensation of economic decline is reinforced by the languid grey sky hanging heavily overhead.

The shoppers who laugh (for there are a few) are not happy. They are demented. They are in denial. They are drugged worshippers of a death cult, merrily embracing their end. I'm torn between scorn and pity.

There are vultures outside the town, eyeing up the carcasses, ready to strip our failing high street bare of all cashflow. Their prices are unmatchable, their efficiency undeniable and their appetite insatiable. Tescos have added another floor in order to sell more clothes. Week-to-week you needn’t go anywhere else, for anything.

If there’s one lesson I’d love us all to absorb, it would be to shop in places we like, re-learn the link between payment and prestige, and really consider what we value. ‘Bang for your buck’ pales into insignificance against the human cost of forsaking our independent shops in favour of sterile megastores. There must be a rebirth after the fall, and it is still within our power to determine quite what sort of phoenix will rise.

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.

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.