Wednesday, October 25, 2006

A Report From The London Film Festival

Please note that my thoughts on Red Road contain significant plot spoilers. I really hate doing this, but it's impossible to convey my judgement on the film without discussing the plausibility of its conclusion.

The opening weekend of the London Film Festival saw premieres of two significant works, one lovingly restored, the other brand new. Terence Davies' Distant Voices, Still Lives, originally released in 1988, has been a regular in numerous critics' polls of great British films yet it has, until now, been virtually impossible to see. The original print had apparently suffered severe degradation, to the point of being unintentionally sepia in colour, and no transfer to VHS or DVD has yet been attempted. I've been wanting to see this film for some time, particularly after watching Davies' extraordinary adaptation of Edith Wharton's The House Of Mirth, in which he elicited a moving and nuanced performance from Gillian Anderson, the kind of performance that her more famous work on The X Files gave no hint at whatsoever. I'm also an admirer of Davies' The Neon Bible, generally considered his least successful work, but which to me seems another great example of his ability to conjure a mysterious and sporadically terrifying mood.

On paper, Distant Voices... would seem like a deeply unappealing prospect. It's essentially another dour British film about working class family life, involving a brutal father and compassionate, downtrodden mother. However, Davies' method is so unique as to render all 85 minutes of this meticulously controlled work visually fascinating and conceptually haunting. It is one of the best films about the cumulative impact of memory that I have seen, and a prime example of how form can be made to impact on content, with real success. With its series of songs, it perhaps most closely resembles a Dennis Potter drama (Pennies From Heaven, perhaps?), but it is genuinely unlike anything else in modern British cinema. The brilliance of the approach lies in the way the songs trigger and enhance the various memories, which come in the form of a series of vignettes. As such, there's no plot, consistent narrative or even much in the way of dialogue - yet the dynamic performances and constantly inventive camerawork and photography (which imbues the film's main location, the family home, with a palpable and paradoxical sense of foreboding and warmth) not only sustain interest, but create a wonderfully compelling mood.

That this was also an autobiographical work adds to its poignancy. At the Q and A session afterwards, the colourful and theatrical Davies admits 'it wasn't like you saw in the film - it was infinitely worse'. Whilst it is undoubtedly harsh and occasionally miserable, it is leavened by passages of real warmth and humour, and to me it captured the innate wonder (and, as Davies himself would have it, the poetry) of everyday life with honesty and candour.

That Davies has only made four feature films in his career, and has failed to receive any funding for planned projects since the unfortunate commercial failure of The House Of Mirth, is an indictment of the disastrous approach to the Arts in modern Britain. It's fine for lightweight comedies such as Bend It Like Beckham, because they present a rose-tinted feelgood view of Britain which can easily be exported. Apparently, it's also fine for the dreadful likes of Sex Lives Of The Potato Men, a film so bad it didn't even register commercially. Against this backgrounds, one of the real masters of modern film making, who makes distinctive, unconventional but hardly offputting masterpieces, can no longer get a film made. What's going on, exactly?

Many will point to Andrea Arnold's highly acclaimed Red Road as a sign of a revival in original British cinema, yet the more I think about this film (and it certainly provides plenty to ponder), the less convinced I am. This is first because of its unusual background. The film exists not in isolation but as part of a wider project commissioned by Zentropa, the production company of that ludicrous charlatan Lars Von Trier, in which three different film makers must produce films centred on the same seven characters. They will be played by the same actors across the three films, but Arnold, being fortunate enough to 'go first', got to select her own cast. It's difficult to make a judgement on this until all three films have been shown, but my gut reaction is that it's probably another ultimately pointless formalistic experiment from the Von Trier staple. There are small mercies, however - at least Arnold didn't have to make it according to the Dogme rules. Still, my reservation here is that, in spite of Arnold's short film Oscar success, her first feature came only with the influence of a major European arthouse staple, so it's not entirely fair to credit our funding moguls with much initiative here.

To its credit, Red Road is technically superb. The central performances from Kate Dickey and Tony Curran are candid and intense, whilst the overall mood of the film is fraught with genuine tension. The integration of specially prepared CCTV footage and conventional filming is intelligent and intuitive and Arnold obviously has an instinctive feel for mood, as the film's party sequence demonstrates superbly. The whole work carries the claustrophobic atmosphere that seems appropriate to its themes of surveillance and revenge.

Unfortunately, perhaps, it's the latter theme that comes to dominate. From the minute we first find CCTV operator Jackie singling out a figure from her past, we wonder what her motives are. We learn that the man has been released early from prison, and clearly he is deeply entwined with Jackie's past. Clues are planted throughout the film until we finally realise why Jackie proceeds to follow Clyde around the harsh environment of the Red Road estate, leaving her comfortable safe haven to encroach on an entirely different, sometimes violent world. Eventually we learn that Clyde killed Jackie's family in a car accident whilst high on crack, and it is for this that he spent time behind bars.

This brings two problems. Is it really convincing that Clyde would completely fail to recognise Jackie, even to the extent of being sexually attracted to her? We are supposed to believe that he refused to look at her in court, which is conceivable, but would this not have been a major case receiving a fair amount of local media attention too? Even less plausible, but certainly intriguing, is the means of Jackie's revenge. Stalking Clyde around the estate, gatecrashing his party and becoming familiar with his friends, she contrives to have sex with him, subsequently retrieving the used condom and applying herself with his semen in order to accuse him of rape. Although this whole sequence is stylistically and dramatically superb - genuinely explicit but also, thoroughly unusually, wholly realistic (at least in its physical aspects), it just doesn't quite seem real. Could a mother who has lost her partner and child at the hands of a dangerous driver really force herself to have sex with the perpetrator of the crime? The film at least partially addresses the moral implications of her actions with a taut final confrontation between the two figures, but it stops short of a full analysis. In its outcome, it fails to venture far beyond the conventional confines of the revenge thriller.

Whilst the whole film is distinctive and thoroughly compelling, it never quite achieves emotional resonance. Who should we empathise with more - the criminal trying to 'go straight', whose privacy and intergrity have been so horribly violated, or the criminally distressed and bereaved mother? Perhaps it's better that the film leaves questions like this somewhat open and unresolved, but along with the fact that the film doesn't attempt to say much about Britain's surveillance culture (foreign audiences have struggled to believe that the CCTV operating centre depicted in the film is real, and not some sci-fi invention), I can't help feeling that it's simply too elusive. Does Jackie operate as a benevolent monitor of her community, hoping to protect others, because she can't cope with the loss of her own loved ones? Is Arnold's experience of CCTV as a benevolent, helpful tool really the case across the country, given the number of cases where CCTV has proved largely useless in preventing or deterring crime? Red Road is a provocative, challenging and brilliantly crafted film that shows tremendous creative promise - but its flaws linger in the mind as much as its undoubted achievements.

Friday, October 13, 2006

Climbing A Mountain Pt 2

Back to the great catch-up....

I want solo albums from the members of the Manic Street Preachers about as much as I want a pot of piss for Christmas, but I do have to concede that there's a ramshackle grandeur about James Dean Bradfield's 'The Great Western' that I rather admire. With its marriage of Phil Spector-sized arrangements to rather tacky drum programming, the album captures both the epic quality of 'Everything Must Go'-era Manics (bloody hell, can it really be ten years since that album was first released?) with the roughshod, DIY ethos of the solo side project. More importantly, the quality of songs on offer here demonstrates that Bradfield easily has a long term future outside the band. As ever his voice is tremendous - bold and bellowing, and many of the songs here benefit from really huge chorus melodies. The songs have the real emotional depth that characterised the best moments of 'Everything Must Go', and there is little of the clunky bluster that marred 'Know Your Enemy'. 'Run Romeo Run' and 'On Saturday Morning We Will Rule The World' are the real highlights - potted epics which sound almost soulful. Bradfield gives a creditable and appropriately melancholic rendition of Jacques Brel's 'To See A Friend In Tears', although he perhaps comes unstuck with 'An English Gentleman', a tribute to the Manics' sadly deceased manager which sounds uncomfortably jaunty. Still, this album is thoughtful and compassionate - and where recent Manics albums have seemed like considered reactions to their predecessors, this is a mature work occupying its own space.

One album I've been eagerly anticipating for some time is 'Nashville', a country record from the king of rock 'n' soul Solomon Burke, a record being heavily marketed as the third in a trilogy since he returned to secular music with 'Don't Give Up On Me'. Since these three records have all been released on different labels, and have benefited from the input of very different producers (Joe Henry, Don Was and Buddy Miller respectively), it's hard to see much of a link between them other than their consistent quality. 'Nashville' is a good deal less slick than last year's 'Make Do With What You Got', and Miller has captured a sensitive, dry and unfussy sound that serves these excellent performances well. There is, at least to these ears, the first evidence that Burke is finally suffering some form of vocal degradation (and it would be surprising if his age and relentless recent touring had not had some kind of impact), as the upper end of his range is beginnning to sound a little forced. His phrasing and dynamic control remain unrivalled though. As on the previous albums, he transforms relatively lightweight material ('Ain't Got You' could never be described as one of Springsteen's major works) into riveting performances.

This collection is another timely reminder of the close links between country and soul, emphasising that, far from being the conservative genre that it is frequently caricatured as, Nashville country music can be rich in emotion and full of genuine grit. This is certainly the case for most of this album, which comes with a fervent passion that not even several inevitable guest appearances can quash. In fact, a handful of the duets are genuinely superb. 'Valley Of Tears' places Burke alongside Gillian Welch and David Rawlings for a touching acoustic lament. Even better is the lovely 'Tomorrow Is Forever' with Dolly Parton, her tremulous lip quivering put to particularly effective use. Whilst sometimes these 'songbook' albums can seem a little scattershot, 'Nashville' flows effortlessly, always focussed on the sheer mastery of Burke's vocal presence.

'Dreamt For Light Years In The Belly Of A Mountain' is a truly ghastly title for the new Sparklehorse album. I wonder now if critics are beginning to over-indulge Mark Linkous a little. I've tried listening to this album several times, but as yet it has completely failed to engage me. The songs seem slippery, elusive and one-dimensional, and Linkous has not really expanded his sonic armoury since 'It's A Wonderful Life'. Sparklehorse albums used to have a somewhat scattershot charm, but this one seems to be resolutely stuck in the middle of the road. It is genuinely difficult to see exactly what innovations co-producer Dangermouse brought to the table, especially given the audaciousness of his own work with Gnarls Barkley. The songs lack immediacy or melodic hooks. This slipperiness might not be such a problem were the arrangements more varied or compelling - but Linkous settles time after time for wishy washy atmospherics in place of genuine tension. The most memorable songs are heavily indebted to The Beatles - and I for one have no desire to hear any more songs built on the template of 'Dear Prudence' or 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds'. There is more to musical history!

Hard to believe that the excellent Junior Boys have been supporting Hot Chip on tour in the UK this month - surely they should be headlining similar shows of their own by now? 'So This Is Goodbye' is one of those atypically warm electronic albums, characterised by feeling and sensitivity as much as bleeps and loops. It's first half is faultless, coming bolstered with one of the very best singles of 2006 in the form of 'In The Morning', with its almost pornographic sounding backing vocals and hummable vocal melody. It's perhaps a little disappointing that it's by far the most audacious moment here, although there is plenty more to savour. 'Double Shadow' and 'The Equaliser' actually recall some fairly unfashionable 80s synth influences - more OMD than New Order perhaps, and the understated vocal delivery melds effortlessly with the atmospheric music. It's mostly a very serious concoction though, and the album drifts somewhat aimlessly in its second half, becoming increasingly tiresome and challenging. So, whilst it's not a masterpiece, its first half is sublime, synth pop with emotional gravitas and the potential for longevity.

Covering Up

What with Bruce Springsteen delving into the Pete Seeger songbook and Joe Lovano revisiting Miles Davis' legendary Birth of The Cool music (more on this in a forthcoming post), there's been a fresh impetus recently for artists to delve right back to their source material. On her last album, Erin McKeown attracted some degree of criticism from UK critics (mistakenly, in my view) when she opted for slicker production values. With the outstanding 'Sing You Sinners', she has now veered in the opposite direction, emphasising naturalistic small ensemble performances on a range of songs from the standard repertoire (along with one deferential original composition). It will be interesting to see whether critics here see this is as a welcome move, or as a sign that she is running out of songwriting ideas, but as she appears to be criminally undervalued here, it may simply be that this album gets neglected altogether. This would be a great shame, as 'Sing You Sinners' is a quite exceptional record. With little formal jazz training, McKeown demonstrates an instinctive understanding of her chosen material - understanding that the key to its success lies in its wit and playfulness, and also in phrasing and delivery, two key aspects of vocal performance few singers these days can truly master.

Those familiar with McKeown's back catalogue will immediately see the link between these songs and her own work, particularly on the Judy Garland-inspired 'Grand' album. The range of material selected is impressively broad, from the almost-too-obvious (the opening 'Get Happy'), to simmering and subtle ballads ('They Say It's Spring'), to classic rhythm and blues ('Thanks For The Boogie Ride'). There's also a small helping of the weird and wonderful in 'If You A Viper' and the splendidly camp in 'Rhode Island Is Famous For You' ( a song McKeown has been performing at her live shows for some time now).

The playing throughout is superb, with Sam Kassirer proving understated and sensitive on piano and Alison Miller a really quite tremendous drummer, always concerned with bringing out the full range of sounds from her kit. She is an adventurous player, which helps this album to avoid any accusations of being merely mired in nostalgia. The clattering percussion on the versions of 'Paper Moon' and 'I Was A Little Too Lonely (You Were A Little Too Late)' provide an intriguing link to the more rhythmic work evident on 'We Will Become Like Birds'.

Most of these songs have a timeless quality to them, but McKeown manages to make every single one of them her own with the natural confidence of her delivery. Recorded quickly over one weekend, McKeown has admitted letting her band dictate the feel of these songs, and she has wisely resisted the urge to pile on overdubs (save for some very classicist horn arrangements), instead allowing the original performances themselves to thrill and captivate. The end product is a dynamic collection, alive to new possibilities whilst characterised by an obvious knowledge of and enthusiasm for the classic American songbook.

'Melody Mountain' from Norwegian duo Susanna and The Magical Orchestra is a rather different kind of covers album, often striving to be as unfaithful to its source material as possible. The selections veer from the strangely predictable (Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah', Joy Division's 'Love Will Tear Us Apart'), to the frankly baffling (AC/DC's 'It's A Long Way To The Top (If You Wanna Rock 'n' Roll', Kiss' 'Crazy, Crazy Nights'). Somehow they manage to impose the same process on all the songs - with Susanna's eerie , mysterious voice accompanied by exceedingly minimal, atmospheric backings from former Jaga Jazzist member Morten Qvenild on unusual instruments (church organ, autoharp, vibraphone etc). The Kiss and AC/DC covers are the most fascinating, as rather unsubtle, intentionally brash originals are completely transformed in sensitive and mournful interpretations. Susanna makes 'Crazy Crazy Nights' sound like a lament for lost youth, and as such it becomes profoundly affecting. 'It's A Long Way To The Top' gives a stern lesson in music industry realism, but in Susanna's hands it is delivered with what sounds like regret and sadness, rather than the sly glee of Bon Scott's delivery.

Even the less daring choices are handled with aplomb. There have been so many covers of 'Hallelujah' recently (and the song has become so closely associated with Jeff Buckley's astonishing rendition), that one wonders whether another can really be necessary or useful. Yet Susanna's reading is quietly superb, with her upward progression in pitch demonstrating her capable vocal range and creating a gradual heightening in intensity and drama. Bob Dylan's 'Don't Think Twice, it's Alright' also lends itself naturally to the reflective mood, and it's pleasing enough to hear a female voice other than Joan Baez tackling the song's nuances of tone and sentiment.

Although 'Melody Mountain' is not a lengthy album, the sublime mood and glacial pace is so cohesive that it becomes something of a challenge to listen to it from start to finish. Still, though, it's a powerful and intelligent work that, like Mark Kozelek's album of AC/DC covers from a few years ago, deftly avoids the potential novelty of some of its selections.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Proper Pop

It's been so long since the last update I'd almost forgotten my Blogger login details. Oops.

The highlights of the past week have been two very special gigs - The Hidden Cameras (with My Latest Novel and Piney Gir in support) at the Union Chapel, and The Lemonheads at The Forum.

It's great to see the Union Chapel back in business as it makes for a refreshing change from your regular London club or theatre venue. The sound is unsurprisingly full of natural reverb, and, as I remember from seeing Hot Chip support Smog there three years or so ago, particularly unforgiving on opening acts when many of the pews are still unoccupied. As a result, the otherwise excellent Piney Gir Country Roadshow suffered a little bit from this, with a good sound mix in terms of levels being rendered exceedingly muddy by the acoustics. Still, Piney transcended these problems with a characteristically amiable and entertaining performance, and I actually felt her singing was slightly superior to her performance at the Kings Head in Crouch End a few weeks ago. The band remain both supportive and full of vigour - and her songs capture the country idiom with instinctive humour and sensitivity.

My Latest Novel has setbacks galore, not least the lack of a functioning van and, therefore, any of their own equipment. So, it was an acoustic set on unfamiliar instruments, with persistent electrical problems with the bass guitar. This band, signed to Simon Raymonde's Bella Union label, have the elements of a great band - beautiful and carefully arranged harmonies, delicate but expressive melodies, and a wistful, mysterious sound. Yet somehow it initially didn't amount to much. The problem could not be explained simply by the absence of a bass, for when it worked, the lead singer/bassist didn't exactly play anything that added all that much. I think it's perhaps simply that they had a slightly dour demeanour - the female singer/violinist insisted on playing mostly with her back to the audience, and the singer mumbled all their introductions (there's nothing more annoying than a 'hello, we're 'something incomprehensible', and this is a song called 'something equally incomprehensibe'). Luckily, as the set went on it started to make more and more sense, and the elegiac, quietly touching music had some kind of cumulative impact. They are probably ones to watch - not yet fully formed, but with some grand ideas, and a lot of potential.

I've written enough about The Hidden Cameras for regular readers to know that I think they're great, but it's worth emphasising just how superb this set was. The whole performance seemed carefully plotted, beginning with 'the quiet songs', and gradually building to a deliriously entertaining climax. Wisely emphasising the new album, the brisker moments are delivered with real urgency (even to the extent of Joel Gibb breaking strings on both his guitars), whilst the tender songs at last display the subtlety and romantic candour that Gibb seems to have been striving for over the last few years. The opening 'Death Of A Tune' retains its melody and powerful string line, but it is radically transformed from a rollicking Buddy Holly meets Eddie Cochrane rumble into a mournful lament. It's stunningly beautiful, and immediately demonstrates just what a powerful instrument Joel Gibb's voice is in the live context. Elsewhere, there's plenty of fun and games involving, er, 'minimal' glockenspiel parts and unrepeatable punchlines. It's unusual that new songs strike such an immediate chord with audiences, but it's clear that the likes of 'Hump From Bending' and 'For Fun' are already established gems. The closing 'Ban Marriage' is a timely reminder of just what an excellent song it is. The only issues are the lack of an encore (enforced due to the stringent terms of the Union Chapel's license agreement) and the almost complete passing over of the 'Mississauga Goddamn' album. It's probably fair that this is the most inconsequential of their three albums proper, but there are a handful of songs here that would stand up with the best (the title track, 'Fear Is On' and perhaps 'Music Is My Boyfriend', although I prefer it in the less frenetic version on the CBC Sessions EP).

Could last Friday really have been the first time I've seen The Lemonheads, in any incarnation? I saw an amiable if largely unremarkable acoustic set from Evan Dando at one of the Fleadh Festivals, but I've never managed to see his band, a particular oversight given their undoubted importance during my formative years. This show at The Forum was much like going through adolescence all over again, only neatly compacted into the space of 90 minutes. I was slightly wary that we might get an obscurantist's set - the whole of the new album plus some pre-hits material or something like that. Hell, no! Ripping into 'Down About It', it's at least 20 minutes before we get anything at all from the new record, and all Evan Dando seems concerned with tonight is giving the crowd exactly what they want to hear. So the set encompasses a substantial portion of the classic 'It's A Shame About Ray' and 'Come On Feel The Lemonheads' albums, as well as a select few from the slightly overlooked 'Car Button Cloth'. The whole evening is a testament to just what a superb songwriter Dando is - far from the junkie layabout of popular mythology, he is warm and endearing, and a real master of melody.

This line-up of The Lemonheads is remarkably crisp, emphasising taut musicianship above the ragged glory of previous versions of the band. Bizarrely though, it's not the same line up that recorded the recent album, as it certainly wasn't Bill Stevenson on drums! Still, this latest period of the Lemonheads may be the first as notable for the quality of the playing as it is for the quality of the songs. The inevitable solo acoustic set is rapturously received, and notable not just for charming renditions of 'Being Around' and 'The Outdoor Type', but also a nimble medley of some of the more superior selections from the 'solo' album 'Baby I'm Bored'. The encore is slightly odd - just Dando acoustic again, and with no return from the rest of the band. After a few favourites provide a bit of a singalong, Dando asks for requests, before launching into an unpolished version of new song 'Steve's Boy'. He then appears to have had enough, and leaves the stage shambolically without any further word. Even without 'Big Gay Heart' or 'It's All True', he'd still managed to give us pretty much all we could have hoped for.