Lots to write about at the moment – especially as posts have become infrequent due to photoshoots, rehearsing and housewarming parties amongst other things.
I’ll start with two absolutely splendid gigs. I thought I’d written about the Broken Family Band so many times that a review for their Green Man warm up show at The King’s Head in Crouch End would be entirely superfluous. Not entirely – as this proved to be pretty much the best BFB gig I’ve seen outside Cambridge’s Strawberry Fair festival, where they always earn their rapturous reception. They were on home turf of sorts here too, as singer Steve Adams now lives ‘just round the corner’ from the North London venue, more well-known as a comedy club but increasingly home to some fine music-themed evenings. Adams was on top form throughout the gig, his trademark dry, borderline-misanthropic humour almost being overworked.
The augmentation of the band to a six-piece really made the evening special. BFB gigs always come deliriously alive when Timothy Victor joins them to play banjo, perhaps somewhat oddly, as he is probably the least animated member of the band onstage. He does however seem to galvanise them into reaching a higher level of energy and enthusiasm, and tonight saw the band channel their ragged, carefree abandon into something highly entertaining. Also joining the band was a girl accordion player (sadly I’ve completely forgotten her name), who added richness and depth to the sound. Also in evidence was a carefully selected setlist, incorporating more songs from the excellent ‘Jesus Songs’ mini-LP, which is too frequently given short thrift. After a visceral reading of ‘Mother O’Jesus’, Steve Adams admitted that they don’t often play the song, perhaps because of the potentially alienating harsh falsetto shriek of the chorus melody. It was a pleasing surprise for me. Some older songs were brought out of retirement too, including the more reflective ‘Song For Robots’ and ‘Gone Dark’ which provided effective balance for the more raucous and unrestrained quality of the newer songs (‘The Booze and The Drugs’ and ‘You’re Like A Woman’ already seem to be live favourites). They also reprised their madcap cover version of Leonard Cohen’s ‘Diamonds In The Mine’, a song they truly make their own. Wonderful stuff.
From a tiny pub basement to what some people have (unfairly in my view) described as a ‘Victorian monstrosity’ and a ‘shed’, Alexandra Palace. Why do people have such a problem with this venue? For large shows, it’s a much more satisfying location than Wembley Arena (hardly less isolated after all) or the hideous Earl’s Court. Whilst the notoriously muffled sound isn’t ideal, to my ears it’s really no worse than the problematic Brixton Academy. Certainly a venue of this nature requires a performer to command the stage and involve the crowd, which is exactly what Nick Cave did last Thursday night. Some rather pious longstanding followers of The Bad Seeds have declared it the worst Nick Cave gig ever on his messageboard, some of them denying those (such as myself) for whom this was a first viewing of Nick Cave any right to have an opinion on the event. I’ve been meaning to see The Bad Seeds for years, but time, money and circumstances have always conspired against me.
For my money, this was an excellent show. Cave is perhaps less ponderous and detached a songwriter than he once was, even embracing self-effacing humour on the recent double set ‘Abattoir Blues’ and ‘The Lyre Of Orpheus’, excellent albums which unsurprisingly provided the bulk of the material for this one-off show. He’s also a magnetic and compelling performer, with limbs flailing everywhere and a now powerful voice that frequently veers (mostly effectively) away from the well-trodden path of conventional melody. Behind him, the band (featuring two of more or less everything, including drummers) cook up a storm. The absence of recently departed Blixa Bargeld is felt much less keenly than one might expect. The combination of the two reaches its zenith with the frighteningly apocalyptic gospel of ‘Hiding All Way’ and ‘There She Goes My Beautiful World’, where the gospel backing vocalists add a touch of soul to the proceedings. The former ends with a violent pronouncement – ‘There is a WAR coming!’ which sounds both chilling and thrilling at the same time. Another clear highlight was the strangely infectious and gripping ‘Come Into My Sleep’, which worked very well indeed.
Most of the gripes seem to have been with the setlist, which certainly favoured the most familiar material from the back catalogue. This wasn’t an intimate club show though and in front of the broadest audience he has yet managed to attract, Cave wisely opted to perform his most enduringly popular songs. What made them powerful were the subtle changes in arrangement, often to incorporate the gospel choir. The melody for the moving ‘Ship Song’ was subtly recrafted (‘a song about ships-n-history-n-shit’ according to Cave), whilst Warren Ellis’ wildly inventive violin playing re-animated ‘The Weeping Song’. ‘Red Right Hand’ was dispensed with surprisingly early in the set, but seemingly with undiminished enthusiasm and commitment.
It would have been great had the set been slightly longer (just over 90 minutes always seems like a bit of a scrimp from an artist with such a substantial catalogue to chose from). This might have allowed for some selections from ‘The Boatman’s Call’ or ‘Nocturama’, two of the many Cave albums left entirely ignored tonight. I also found my attention momentarily wandering around the time Mick Harvey strapped on an acoustic guitar, with a particularly slow ‘O Children’ and a slightly lightweight ‘Breathless’ not quite able to compete with the frenzy and fervour of the more relentless songs. Clearly the intention was to provide balance – again this might have been more effectively achieved with songs like ‘He Wants You’ (from ‘Nocturama’) or ‘Brompton Oratory’ (‘The Boatman’s Call’). Order was restored with a blisteringly intense version of ‘The Mercy Seat’.
These minor concerns seemed like quibbles after a wonderful encore, which managed to effortlessly combine new material (‘The Lyre Of Orpheus’ with amusing audience participation) with older classics (‘Do You Love Me’) and surprise selections (‘Darker With The Day’) ending with a brutal, excoriating version of ‘Stagger Lee’, with Cave shrieking and kicking his legs like a demented banshee, leaving everyone in stunned awe. If the end is nigh, it’s better to end on a high.
There are also a handful of new albums that I’ve yet to cover, starting with the outstanding ‘Leaders Of The Free World’ from Elbow. Just three albums into their career, Elbow’s great skill so far has been in crafting significant variations and developments in their sound whilst retaining a distinctive and recognisable character. Much of that character comes directly from the dour but dryly humorous vocals and lyrics of Guy Garvey – and his development continues apace here. Musically, ‘Leaders…’ is substantially less abrasive and rhythmically chaotic than ‘Cast Of Thousands’, instead opting to emphasise the band’s talent for layered arrangements, melancholy atmospherics and flowing, effortless melodies. There is a preference for acoustic instruments here, whether it be the delicate guitar lines of ‘The Everthere’, the restrained strum of ‘An Imagined Affair’ or the more unusual plucked strings of the marvellously titled ‘Picky Bugger’.
These are consistently high quality, emotionally captivating, slow-burning songs of the kind that Chris Martin simply cannot write. Garvey is completely engaged with sense experience, emotional feelings and, particularly on the title track, with global politics as well. Here, he combines feelings of personal frustration with anger at ‘the commander-in-chief’. Garvey claims that ‘The leaders of the free world are just little boys throwing stones/and it’s easy to ignore until they’re knocking on the doors of your homes’. The song goes beyond critique and into the realms of palpable menace, particularly with its chilling closing lines (‘passing the gun from father to feckless son/We’re climbing a landslide where only the good die young’). It has an epic quality and tremendous power.
Elsewhere there’s a lingering melancholy perfectly captured in quietly affecting opener ‘Station Approach’ with its delicately chiming chords. Better still is the brilliant first single ‘Forget Myself’, which has a massive chorus for which even the overused adjective ‘soaring’ might actually be appropriate. It’s songs this striking that should catapult them into the mainstream. Memories of the hauntingly beautiful ‘Switching Off’ (one of the highlights of ‘Casts Of Thousands’) are conjured by the gradual swell of ‘The Stops’ and ‘Great Expectations’ is wonderfully evocative, relating an unwitting exchanging of vows on the 135 bus to Bury.
It’s mostly restrained and controlled, but its brilliantly consistent and frequently touching. Only on the twitchy ‘Mexican Standoff’ do they really attempt to recreate the unpredictable stuttering rhythms that characterised parts of ‘Cast Of Thousands’. Liberally ‘borrowing’ the riff from Radiohead’s ‘National Anthem’, it marries Morrissey-esque murderous self-deprecation (‘Your sweet reassurances don’t change the fact that he’s better looking than me/Yet he’d look ideal ‘neath the wheels of a car’) with a relentless, turbulent energy. It serves as reverse respite from the mournful balladry that characterises much of the rest of the album.
‘Leaders of The Free World’ continues and expands the band’s talent for atmospherics and arrangements. Somehow, even when they resort to a plodding chug they manage to imbue it with real depth and vision. They may not have a chance of deposing the leaders of the free world, but Doves and even Radiohead might do well to check their mirrors – Elbow have made a strong bid for the epic rock crown.
I must confess that I’m having a little trouble appreciating ‘Love Kraft’, the latest from the dependable Super Furry Animals, despite some well-intentioned perseverance on my part. There is a clear consensus that the Super Furries have ‘matured’ since the neo-psychedelic excess of ‘Rings Around The World’. On their last album, 2004’s ‘Phantom Power’, this meant for an album of breezier, less riotous pop songs. That album rewarded patience to some extent, but there’s something of a paradoxical oppressiveness in the consistently relaxed, hazy vibe that pervades ‘Love Kraft’. The tempos are consistently slow (and frequently plodding), and there is perhaps an over-dependance on ‘Surf’s Up’-era Beach Boys influences, with lush arrangements and mellifluous harmonies predominating. Given that ‘Love Kraft’ is the band’s most democratic effort to date, with Gruff Rhys frequently deferring on lead vocal duties, it’s odd that it’s also probably their most one-dimensional record too.
This is not to say that ‘Love Kraft’ is without its fair share of impressive moments. ‘Lazer Beam’ is loose and funky, a close relation to both ‘Juxtaposed With U’ and ‘Ice Hockey Hair’. The opening ‘Zoom!’ is spectacular, offering more than 8 minutes of choirs, strange electronics and slippery melodies. If ‘Atomik Lust’ were the only slow song on the album, it would stand out as a highlight by virtue of its bizarre switches from infectious pastoral whimsy to freaky distorted chug. It demonstrates once again that SFA can frequently throw more ideas into one song than most bands have in their entire careers. The lyrical sentiment also seems to echo the new ‘maturity’ of their sound in its desire to abandon the confusion of hedonism for something more stable and comforting. This theme is deftly encapsulated in the seemingly throwaway line about wanting to see the end of Citizen Kane. Of the latter tracks ‘Psyclone!’ stands out, perhaps because it has a slightly playful quality.
Recorded in Catalonia, ‘Love Kraft’ maintains a lazy summery haze throughout (‘Ohio Heat’ may be its defining track). It’s musically impressive, with Sean O’ Hagan’s string arrangements underpinning the thickly textured arrangements, many of which repay close attention (if the soporific mood hasn’t already taken effect). Nevertheless, there’s also the lingering sense that it’s all a bit laboured, and much less instinctive than the esoteric sensibility that fuelled their earlier material. Much of ‘Love Kraft’ is very pleasant, particularly when digested in smaller doses, but will SFA ever record something as exuberant and thrilling as ‘Ice Hockey Hair’ again?
By way of contrast, ‘Twin Cinema’, the third album from Canadian supergroup The New Pornographers sees the band expanding their reach beyond a straightforward power-pop brief into something more angular and consistently rewarding. Despite the presence of Destroyer’s Dan Bejar and the beguiling Neko Case, this once again seems to be Carl Newman’s project. Any fears that he used up all his best songs for last year’s solo album ‘The Slow Wonder’ are very quickly assuaged. ‘Twin Cinema’ is simply a superb collection of turbulent, unpredictable pop songs.
The ramshackle, highly energetic opener quickly sets the tone, its puchy call-and-response vocals adding to its sense of urgency. Elsewhere, Newman’s penchant for infectiously melodic, relentlessly upbeat songs is indulged with the crisp ‘Use It’, ‘Star Bodies’ and the utterly outstanding ‘Sing Me Spanish Techno’, as composed and inventive a song as he has yet written. Neko Case shares vocal duties with two other female vocalists and isn’t provided with anything quite as rollicking as ‘Mass Romantic’, instead opting for the more measured delivery evident on ‘These Are The Fables’.
What makes ‘Twin Cinema’ so distinctive is the more angular, edgy quality to many of the songs. ‘Three Or Four’ is jerky, whilst ‘The Jessica Numbers’ seems to veer in several different directions at once. Dan Bejar’s songs are usually more wilfully obscure, but ‘Jackie, Dressed In Cobras’ has vibrant energy as well as structural complexity. On listening to ‘Twin Cinema’ for the first time, I felt that Dave Fridmann surely must have had a production credit somewhere along the line, such were the colossal, clattering nature of the drums. The sound is raw, but also somehow considered. The chaotic sound of Kurt Dahle’s drumming really works against Newman and Bejar’s quirky melodies. File with Low’s ‘The Great Destroyer’ and Sleater Kinney’s ‘The Woods’ in the small pool of 2005 exhibiting indie groups with established sounds branching out from their self-imposed restrictions.
Remarkably, this weekend also left time to watch a couple of new DVDs – two of the most challenging and unconventional films of the year so far, Jonathan Caouette’s Tarnation and Fatih Akin’s Head-On. Both movies seem to be made to a very specific aesthetic. The former was supposedly edited entirely on Apple’s iMovie software and essentially one man’s entire life and family history exposed on film, the latter a corrosive and extreme portrait of doomed love among the Turkish community in Germany. Both make for severely uncomfortable yet grimly compelling viewing.
‘Tarnation’ has won Best Documentary awards but the term ‘documentary’ doesn’t really apply here. It would not be exaggerating to stress the originality of Tarnation’s composition – it is like a cinematic autobiography comprising cleverly manipulated still images, home video footage, student film clips and, most importantly, samples of the films and music that most influenced the life and work of its director. The latter is particularly well deployed, from the childhood memories soundtracked by Dolly Parton and Glen Campbell to the haunting elegies of Mimi Parker and Low, via his relationship with boyfriend David, soundtracked with the appropriately giddy Magnetic Fields song ‘Strange Powers’. The resulting collage of sound and image is powerful, occasionally even gut-wrenching.
If the film is to be taken at face value, then Caouette has clearly had a pretty hellish existence – his mother fell and injured herself at a young age and subsequently suffered depression. Her parents followed flawed advice to send her for electric shock therapy, which seems to have left her devoid of any sense of self or sanity. Caouette claims to have been physically and emotionally abused in a serious of foster homes, before returning to his grandparents, with whom he clearly has an ambivalent relationship. The footage of Caouette interrogating his mother and grandparents makes for the most unsetting moments of the film – simply because his subjects do not appear to give their consent to his filming them. At what point did amateur home video become part of this wider project? Is it morally justifiable to expose the suffering of an entire family in this way? The fact that Caouette clearly cares deeply for his mother, despite everything, perhaps serves as his own justification.
Mercifully, ‘Tarnation’ isn’t only about familial dysfunction – it also encompasses Caouette’s fascination with underground and outsider art, his precocious homosexuality (established at a young age – Caouette claims to have disguised himself as a woman to attend New York gay clubs from the age of thirteen). It demonstrates his development as an artist, from hilarious footage of him hamming it up for the camera as a child, via student zombie movies towards a final finished product. ‘Tarnation’ is interesting as much for its insider commentary on artistic development as it is for the harrowing story it has to tell.
I’m not sure that I’d like this film to act as any kind of precedent. Whilst its remarkable and exciting that it has last demonstrated that DIY initiative can result in success (at least if you manage to secure Gus Van Sant as your Executive Producer), it would be easy for the independent market to become saturated with candid, real-life memoirs such as this. For the moment, though, Caouette’s film is worth cherishing for its searing honesty, as well as for its deceptively simple, highly effective cinematic vision.
‘Head-On’ is violently intense film-making that would make for an intriguing double bill with ‘Tarnation’. It’s a fictional story, but it doesn’t seem any less frighteningly real. It begins with a car crash and ends in quiet tragedy and in between there is a whole wealth of doom and gloom. There are sudden and shocking scenes of self harm, rape and assault sequences, as well as a devastating act of jealous rage.
Where ‘Head-On’ succeeds is in its entirely plausible depiction of its central relationship. After both attempting suicide, Cahit and Sibel, both Turkish and living in Hamburg, meet at a psychiatric clinic. Sibel is desperate to escape the restrictive clutches of her family, who prevent her from having free relationships but will accept a marriage to a Turk, no matter who he is. She asks Cahit to marry her, on the basis that she will act merely as a room-mate. She will be free to have sex with anyone she choses, as will he. All he must do is agree to meet her parents on a regular basis and pretend that their marriage is going well.
A lesser film may have given us a conventional narrative in which the two realise they love each other after all and it all ends happily. The realisation of love is actually merely glanced over in the film, with Akin preferring to concentrate on the trauma that follows. Following a jealous act of violence, Cahit ends up in jail and Sibel ends up in Istanbul, where she rejects a safe life in favour of torrid hedonism. The scene where she is assaulted and stabbed is made all the more shocking because, having realised she is under threat, Sibel seems to provoke the inevitable by picking a fight herself. It is extravagantly cruel. Cahit suffers similar cruelty at the film’s conclusion, although chance plays its role here and the suffering is emotional rather than physical. The central performances throughout are naturalistic and convincing, resisting the obvious temptation to over-perform.
‘Head-On’ is not without its flaws. Sometimes it feels too much like it is an attempt to recapture the punk aesthetic of the mid-seventies, as its kinetic camerawork and boomingly loud soundtrack attest. Some of the characters are poorly drawn – we actually learn very little about Sibel’s family other than that they live by judgemental and restrictive conventions. Still, the film has a raw power and gritty reality that make it impossible to ignore, although it offers very little in the way of hope.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Note To Self
Readers of this blog might be interested in the tracking list I've just set up at Rate Your Music for the best albums of the year so far. It's more or less in alphabetical order (no doubt there's a schoolboy error in there somewhere). I'll try and update it when I get the chance - but right now it goes as far as I've heard - namely the new albums from Mew and Elbow, the latter of which is a serious contender for album of the year. Full review coming very soon!
http://rateyourmusic.com/lists/list_view/list_id_is_27682
http://rateyourmusic.com/lists/list_view/list_id_is_27682
Thursday, August 18, 2005
For Every Highway There's A Cul-De-Sac
Two artists who have kept on doing their thing to little or no fanfare release new albums this month – Manchester’s Alfie and former Longpigs and Pulp guitarist Richard Hawley. Oddly, the lesser of the two releases seems to have suddenly captured critics’ attention. Whereas the Alfie record sees the band expanding their reach with more ambitious song structures and a serious attempt to break out of the indie ghetto, Hawley’s ‘Coles Corner’ merely adds extra strings and reverb to an already familiar formula.
Alfie have travelled a long way since their Twisted Nerve beginnings, even if their slim commercial pickings might disguise this. They have now moved beyond the fey pluckings of ‘A Word In Your Ear’ into something still bucolic, but much less comfortable. With ‘Crying At Teatime’, they have not shied away from the big arrangements. What is most impressive is that these arrangements feel entirely integral to the more ambitious songwriting on display. ‘Crying At Teatime’ finds room both for comfortingly familiar whimsy and for a more expansive approach.
The first half of the album is particularly successful, with the phased guitars and seventies west coast elements of first single ‘Your Little Religion’ sitting surprisingly well alongside the early Pink Floyd-esque psychedelic trappings of the song’s melody. ‘Look At You Now’ is similarly ambitious, striving to avoid the restrictions of conventional song structures, whilst the title track injects a welcome burst of pace.
‘Crying At Teatime’ suffers a little in its second half, with the pace and tone becoming a little uniform, with the songs arguably less distinctive, and the more stereotypically dour tones of Lee Gorton’s vocals coming increasingly to the foreground. This is a small criticism though. Whilst it’s not a great record, ‘Crying At Teatime’ is clearly the work of a promising band continuing to try out new ideas and sounds.
I wonder whether Alfie have failed to reap commercial rewards precisely because of their increasing ambition. These are songs with unpredictable twists and turns and wispy, elusive melodies. The sound of the album is decidedly cohesive and the tracks might well meld into one on first listen. The subtle charms of ‘Crying At Teatime’ are really only revealed with repeated listens.
With his debut mini album and ‘Late Night Final’ album, Hawley seemed like an intriguing prospect brimming with potential. This was certainly old fashioned, barroom music, but the songs carried a glow of genuinely warm nostalgia and considerable charm. With much of ‘Coles Corner’, not only is there the sense that Hawley is delivering diminishing returns, but also that the timeless, old-time atmosphere is starting to feel more affected and less convincing with each passing release.
In places, ‘Coles Corner’ proves that it’s a very thin line between a reverent recreation of the past and schmaltz. Hawley presumably intended the sugar rush of strings on the title track and grandiose first single ‘The Ocean’ to expand his reach, but the result is something sickly and lachrymose. If there is a new element on ‘Coles Corner’, it is an attempt to capture some of the polished warmth of the classic Bacharach/David hits. However, the dreamy, romantic feel of these tracks feel like an assumed persona rather than something actually experienced. This sensation is brought into stark relief by the more delicate ‘(Wading Through) The Waters Of My Time’, where Hawley imitates Johnny Cash in both tone and phrasing. Where once the dour Sheffield reality meeting the Nashville fantasy was quietly compelling, it now feels like a formula that has been repeated ad nauseum.
‘Coles Corner’ does however have a number of highlights, mainly when it is at its most underplayed and restrained. ‘I Sleep Alone’ is mournful and stately, whilst ‘Born Under A Bad Sign’ manages to transcend its reverent title by conjuring an endearingly reflective mood. It is the closest track here to the debut mini album, in its sound, pacing and even the shape of its melody. The wonderfully titled ‘Who’s Gonna Shoe Your Tiny Little Feet’ perhaps doesn’t quite live up to its moniker, as its melody is underwritten and obtuse, but its refreshing just to hear something a little further from Hawley’s well-beaten track.
Alfie have travelled a long way since their Twisted Nerve beginnings, even if their slim commercial pickings might disguise this. They have now moved beyond the fey pluckings of ‘A Word In Your Ear’ into something still bucolic, but much less comfortable. With ‘Crying At Teatime’, they have not shied away from the big arrangements. What is most impressive is that these arrangements feel entirely integral to the more ambitious songwriting on display. ‘Crying At Teatime’ finds room both for comfortingly familiar whimsy and for a more expansive approach.
The first half of the album is particularly successful, with the phased guitars and seventies west coast elements of first single ‘Your Little Religion’ sitting surprisingly well alongside the early Pink Floyd-esque psychedelic trappings of the song’s melody. ‘Look At You Now’ is similarly ambitious, striving to avoid the restrictions of conventional song structures, whilst the title track injects a welcome burst of pace.
‘Crying At Teatime’ suffers a little in its second half, with the pace and tone becoming a little uniform, with the songs arguably less distinctive, and the more stereotypically dour tones of Lee Gorton’s vocals coming increasingly to the foreground. This is a small criticism though. Whilst it’s not a great record, ‘Crying At Teatime’ is clearly the work of a promising band continuing to try out new ideas and sounds.
I wonder whether Alfie have failed to reap commercial rewards precisely because of their increasing ambition. These are songs with unpredictable twists and turns and wispy, elusive melodies. The sound of the album is decidedly cohesive and the tracks might well meld into one on first listen. The subtle charms of ‘Crying At Teatime’ are really only revealed with repeated listens.
With his debut mini album and ‘Late Night Final’ album, Hawley seemed like an intriguing prospect brimming with potential. This was certainly old fashioned, barroom music, but the songs carried a glow of genuinely warm nostalgia and considerable charm. With much of ‘Coles Corner’, not only is there the sense that Hawley is delivering diminishing returns, but also that the timeless, old-time atmosphere is starting to feel more affected and less convincing with each passing release.
In places, ‘Coles Corner’ proves that it’s a very thin line between a reverent recreation of the past and schmaltz. Hawley presumably intended the sugar rush of strings on the title track and grandiose first single ‘The Ocean’ to expand his reach, but the result is something sickly and lachrymose. If there is a new element on ‘Coles Corner’, it is an attempt to capture some of the polished warmth of the classic Bacharach/David hits. However, the dreamy, romantic feel of these tracks feel like an assumed persona rather than something actually experienced. This sensation is brought into stark relief by the more delicate ‘(Wading Through) The Waters Of My Time’, where Hawley imitates Johnny Cash in both tone and phrasing. Where once the dour Sheffield reality meeting the Nashville fantasy was quietly compelling, it now feels like a formula that has been repeated ad nauseum.
‘Coles Corner’ does however have a number of highlights, mainly when it is at its most underplayed and restrained. ‘I Sleep Alone’ is mournful and stately, whilst ‘Born Under A Bad Sign’ manages to transcend its reverent title by conjuring an endearingly reflective mood. It is the closest track here to the debut mini album, in its sound, pacing and even the shape of its melody. The wonderfully titled ‘Who’s Gonna Shoe Your Tiny Little Feet’ perhaps doesn’t quite live up to its moniker, as its melody is underwritten and obtuse, but its refreshing just to hear something a little further from Hawley’s well-beaten track.
‘Coles Corner’ is mostly difficult to object to – it sounds lovingly crafted and is often nuanced and detailed. If it were to serve as an introduction to Hawley’s oeuvre, it would justifiably be warmly received. It’s not the emotive classic Hawley still promises though. For that, he will have to drift further from the admiring recreation of a classic sound. Next time, a little more Sheffield and a little less Nashville might just do the trick.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Taking Stock
There's a plethora of potentially superb releases still to come this year:
August
New Pornographers - Twin Cinema
Laura Veirs - Year Of Meteors
Super Furry Animals - Love Kraft
Alfie - Crying At Teatime
Richard Hawley - Coles Corner
Death Cab For Cutie - Plans
September
Elbow - Leaders Of The Free World
Sigur Ros - Takk
Jackson - Smash
Oceansize - Everyone Into Position
Broadcast - Tender Buttons
Mew - Mew and The Glass Handed Kites
October
Broken Social Scene - Broken Social Scene (previously known as Windsurfing Nation)
Grandaddy - Excerpts From The Diary Of Todd Zilla (mini album)
John Cale - Black Acetate
Franz Ferdinand - You Could Have It So Much Better With Franz Ferdinand
Animal Collective - Feels
Boards Of Canada - The Campfire Headphase
Depeche Mode - Playing The Angel
Gravenhurst - Fires In Distant Buildings
Albums with unconfirmed release dates - Kate Bush, Hot Chip, Liars, System Of A Down
August
New Pornographers - Twin Cinema
Laura Veirs - Year Of Meteors
Super Furry Animals - Love Kraft
Alfie - Crying At Teatime
Richard Hawley - Coles Corner
Death Cab For Cutie - Plans
September
Elbow - Leaders Of The Free World
Sigur Ros - Takk
Jackson - Smash
Oceansize - Everyone Into Position
Broadcast - Tender Buttons
Mew - Mew and The Glass Handed Kites
October
Broken Social Scene - Broken Social Scene (previously known as Windsurfing Nation)
Grandaddy - Excerpts From The Diary Of Todd Zilla (mini album)
John Cale - Black Acetate
Franz Ferdinand - You Could Have It So Much Better With Franz Ferdinand
Animal Collective - Feels
Boards Of Canada - The Campfire Headphase
Depeche Mode - Playing The Angel
Gravenhurst - Fires In Distant Buildings
Albums with unconfirmed release dates - Kate Bush, Hot Chip, Liars, System Of A Down
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Three Months In The Life Of A Cinephile
It’s been absolutely ages since I’ve written anything about cinema – but don’t think that’s because I’ve stopped attending films. So far in 2005, there have been some impressive movies but few, if any, stand out classics.
That situation may now finally have changed with Kim Ki-Duk’s imaginative, evocative and distinctive 3-Iron. I would recommend that any tedious golden ageist still insisting that world cinema is in terminal decline should run rather than walk to see this fine film. It is deeply mysterious, opaque and occasionally confounding, but its languid pace and meticulous control of tone and atmosphere mark it out as a notable and original cinematic achievement.
Kim has been labelled the ‘bad guy’ of New Korean Cinema, largely because of uncomfortably brutal films such as ‘The Isle’. Critics began to hail a change of style with his serene and ponderous take on monastic Buddhism in ‘Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring’ (remarkable chiefly because of its extraordinary location and staging). That film still contained brief moments of unhinged violence, and the glacial pace of 3-Iron is similarly punctuated with moments of savagery, some systematic acts of vengeance, others seemingly more random and unpredictable. All are rendered compelling and grimly amusing by the novel use of the sport of golf – hence the film’s title.
The film tells the story of Tae-Suk, a young deliverer of fliers for a Pizza takeaway business who breaks into unoccupied houses while the owners are away. Somewhat unconventionally, he doesn’t steal anything. Instead, he merely house-sits, dutifully hand-washing the laundry and even repairing faulty electrical appliances.
During one of his spontaneous invasions, he is shocked to find the house occupied, as he meets the mysterious, long suffering Sun-hwa, victim of a cruelly loveless marriage to an insensitive, controlling and violent husband. In languorous, entirely wordless scenes, they gradually fall in love. After the husband is casually dispatched with some carefully aimed golf drives, the two head off together in search of more houses to occupy.
Kim evokes the love between Tae-Suk and Sun-Hwa with considerably skill and control. 3-Iron assumes a somewhat elegiac quality during its middle section, and the use of some spectacularly cheesy recurrent pop music creates a surprisingly convincing sense of intimacy and discovery. The film seems to exist entirely within its own moral universe – some actions seem to occur with no recrimination whatsoever, whilst others are swiftly punished.
Some critics have criticised the more otherworldly and fantastic elements of the film’s final third. After breaking into a house and finding its occupant dead, Tae-Suk and Sun-Hwa perform a ritual burial which lands Tae-Suk in jail. In some brilliantly staged and highly comic scenes, Tae-Suk trains himself to disappear in jail, eventually mastering even his own shadow. The film’s conclusion allows Sun-Hwa to continue the illusion of her marriage, whilst Tae-Suk returns to be a constant presence in an extraordinary ménage-a-trois, always unseen and unnoticed.
It’s a brilliant conceit, but one that perhaps doesn’t make much sense when approached from a purely realist perspective. However, 3-Iron is decidedly not a realist film. It is primarily a ghost story, whereby Sun-Hwa is initially rescued from her life as a living ghost in a cruel marriage to embark on different haunts elsewhere. Tae-Suk’s self-disciplining enables him to become a ghost – the presence that is always there, but only visible to Sun-Hwa. The result is a curious and occasionally unsettling film, but also a film of considerable beauty and boldness.
Prior to 3-Iron, the only other really outstanding film of 2005 so far has been Ousmane Sembene’s Moolade. Sembene is often cited as the father of African cinema and his latest film has won plaudits across the world. A film about the unpleasant problem of ritual female genital mutilation in Africa might not exactly be considered a ‘date movie’, but rest assured that Sembene has crafted as entertaining a film as could possibly be made about such an uncompromising and provocative subject. Sembene’s film is critical of the barbaric tradition, but without being judgemental or unsubtle. It is an even-handed treatment, careful to recognise the considerable hold of tradition over African village society. It is this emphasis that clears this remarkable film of any charges of didacticism. Indeed, the film’s resisting protagonist, Colle, characterised with powerful sympathy by Sembene, herself resorts to another form of tradition, the protection or moolade that provides the film with its title.
Sembene realises that omnipotent dichotomy between tradition and impending modernity with elegance and understatement. All the women of the village are empowered by their transistor radios, which bring them news of the wider world. Particularly relevant is the fact that even their own government has condemned the practice of excision, yet the all-male village council, insists on its continuation, as no man will accept an uncut woman for a bride. When the village council burns these radios in an attempt to force the rebellious women into submission Elsewhere, there are intriguing characters, including the wonderful Mercenaire, who brings goods back to the village from his travels, and succeeds in profiting from them considerably. His scenes are mostly characterised by light humour, although he eventually becomes a key player in the village dispute, meeting an unpleasant end in the process.
The dispute begins when Colle, who has already refused to have her own daughter cut, provides a place of protection and refuge for four young girls who have run away from an excision ceremony. Interestingly, the confrontation appears to take place entirely between women – the mothers of the daughters who want their children returned and to complete the ceremony (along with the terrifyingly witch-like exciseurs themselves) and Colle and her family. It is only later that men become involved, not least when the dispute reaches the level of the village council. Colle’s husband is shocked by her actions, but only forced to intervene when he is convinced that her intransigence has publicly humiliated him. Despite a barrage of physical abuse, Colle stands firm, and the intercutting of her violent and public punishment with It is at this point that the film broadens its scope – the women are no longer simply protesting about the brutality and danger of excision but are rebelling against the Patriarchal structures of their society and the right for control over their own bodies.
The film is brilliantly executed and staged with precise economy. The location is limited purely to the small village, but its layout is convincingly engineered with real attention to detail. There is a palpable sense of community here, built on self-reliance and subsistence, but with a brace of unresolved tensions. Unlike 3-Iron, Moolade is determinedly realistic, but without the relentless dourness of British equivalents such as Ken Loach or Mike Leigh. Despite the grimness of its subject matter, Moolade manages to sustain an upbeat, frequently comic tone right up to its avowedly uplifting conclusion.
This might be considered a step too far with the wishful thinking of the film’s conclusion. Yet, how could it have ended with anything other than victory for the women? It might provide a note of feel good sentiment that might be somewhat divorced from reality, but the alternative is simply far too grim. It ought also to be noted that the victory does not come without a tinge of sadness, although to reveal any more detail here would be to greatly diminish the harrowing impact of one of the film’s key later scenes. In addition to this, Sembene’s assertion that tradition can be remoulded for positive, progressive action renders the other side of the debate redundant. It becomes a matter of independence against slavery. The victory of the former leaves a lingering impression of dignity and triumph, long after the credits have rolled. Brilliant.
I am still unconvinced by the new hero of American independent cinema David Gordon Green, whose unmistakeable debt to Terrence Malick takes on a new twist with Undertow, to which Malick lends his name (and presumably also his wallet – he’ll need some return on his investment as he is not to be rushed on making movies of his own) as Executive Producer. Green’s acclaimed debut George Washington was massively overpraised, simplistic and slightly dull as it was. Its follow-up, All The Real Girls, in spite of its hideously awful title, was by contrast underrated. Here Green and cinematographer Tim Orr combined their evocative sense for environment and natural beauty with a convincing depiction of a complex emotional relationship. The film captured the relationship’s intimacy, claustrophobia and subsequent confusion powerfully, without resorting to conventional narrative or finding reductive explanations for the actions of its protagonists.
Undertow is a much more conventional film, dependent on a somewhat contrived plot arc and clearly indebted to Night Of The Hunter, Charles Laughton’s sole film as director. Britain’s Jamie Bell, still most famous for stepping into a pair of ballet shoes as Billy Elliot, does a noble job in gritty southern mode as the young lead – it’s a real shame that he wasn’t given more ambitious material to work with.
To its credit, Undertow starts promisingly, with Bell’s Chris chased from his girlfriend’s house by her father who, suspecting him as a tearaway and troublemaker, fires shots at him. Chris impales his foot on a rusty nail in a wooden board, and the audience has to laugh and wince simultaneously as he continues to run with the board attached to his foot. It’s a bravura opening sequence, and one that at least hints that Green and Orr can do kinetic thrills as well as understated moods.
There is then a lengthy period of scene-setting, in which we become familiar with the family’s isolated farm home, whereby the days consist of hard physical work and little social engagement. Chris has a sickly younger brother Tim, played with charm by Devon Allan, who induces unpleasant bouts of vomiting through eating mud, paint and all manner of other inedible substances. Their father favours the younger child, preferring a ‘tough love’ approach with Chris. This isolated, rather backwards atmosphere is established carefully by Green, although it is never clear exactly when this film is set. Is this meant to be modern America? If so, I was constantly reminded of the key line of Warren Zevon’s song ‘Play It All Night Long’ - ‘There ain’t much to country living- sweat, piss, jizz and blood!’
The atmosphere is pierced brutally by the arrival of Deel, the boys’ Uncle, freshly released from prison and harbouring some lingering grudges. Rather predictably, he is a spurned lover, having staked his claim to their mother first, before their father fell in love with her too. Haven’t we seen this kind of slow building confrontation before? When the inevitable violence ensues, it is appropriately savage, but the descent of the rest of the film into mundance chase movie seems thoroughly disappointing and uninspired.
Deel wants the set of valuable coins the boys and their father have stored, and which Chris hurriedly retrieves as he escapes the scene. In between chase sequences, there are moments of breezy charm and insight – such as the black couple who allow the two boys to work, stay for food and earn some money (a neat reversal of the usual southern black/white relationship which is handled sensitively). Yet, every time Green and Orr allow their talent for developing dreamy moods to predominate, Deel turns up again and off they run through the woods.
Had Undertow simply been about Chris and Tim’s escape from a restrictive lifestyle and quick assumption of independence, it might well have been convincing and compelling. The relationship between the two brothers, with Chris emerging as guardian and protector, is touching and believable. The erosion of Chris’ trust in humanity, combined with his natural tendency towards forgiveness, also makes for the construction of some intriguing scenes later in the film. Sadly, the imposition of a rather unimaginative and derivative storyline proves frustrating, and the film feels like an unsuccessful conflation of two separate identities. For an evocative and distinctive mood piece, you’d be better off with Gus Van Sant’s remarkable Elephant. For a simple, plot-driven film, then there are many more substantial options than this.
These might well include Carlos Sorin’s charming Bombon El Perro, a straightforward and endearing film that it is very difficult to dislike. Set amidst the dusty flat landscape of Patagonia (its long, straight roads are marvellously captured here), this tells the story of how one man’s life is suddenly transformed after he is given a giant dog, a prime example of a rare breed.
After losing his job at a gas filling station, mechanic Juan Villegas (played by a non-professional also called Juan Villegas) is reduced to travelling the isolated, thinly populated area and trying to sell hand-crafted knives. He attempts to retain a cheerful, positive demeanour in the face of adversity, as he struggles (at a relatively advanced age) to find gainful employment. Villegas has an extraordinary face – and whilst he only really delivers one expression during the entire picture, that expression can be deadpan, good natured, confused and nonplussed all at the same time.
The acquisition of Bombon (frequently called Lechien during the film – simply The Dog) delivers some overnight results. Juan can now get work in the field of security (although not even the dog can stop him from being something of a generous pushover) and can jump the queue at the bank because the manager is friends with a dog trainer and is immediately taken with this particular specimen.
The scenes in which Bombon rides across the plains in the front seat of Juan’s car are exceedingly funny, both man and dog sharing the same steadfast facial expression. If there’s an In League With Paton award for performance of the year – it might have to go to this dog! The dog show scenes also have a sweetly humourous feel – it’s easy to feel bemused at how seriously the owners take these competitions. Even more inspired is Bombon’s utter failure as a stud for hire – he seems completely uninterested in providing these kind of services, much to his trainer’s frustration.
The film is light, breezy and sedate – but it may just be deceptively simple. It does not gloss over the social and economic problems of the new Argentina, particularly in its early scenes, and the key theme appears to be the newfound status granted to Juan by his new companion. It quietly reveals some significant truths about how we treat each other in the world of ‘human resources’ and whilst it’s by no means as serious (or as overwhelmingly sad), it reminded me a little of Laurent Cantet’s masterpiece L’emploi du Temps.
The more I ruminate on Paulo Sorrentino’s The Consequences Of Love, the closer I get to the conclusion that it is really quite a remarkable film. I imagine it’s a film that will benefit greatly from repeated viewings as its droll humour, underlying sadness and incredibly slow pace have to be yielded to in order to appreciate the full impact.
It is a stylish and mysterious film about an enigmatic and opaque character, the chain-smoking ‘business consultant’ Titta di Girolamo (played with deadpan irony and seemingly emotionless sophistication by the wonderful Toni Servillo). It is emphatically not, as many have bafflingly suggested, a thriller. Perhaps these critics have been blinded by what transpires to be a mafia theme (this would be a considerable plot spoiler were it not already given away in virtually every review the film has received). Girolamo has spent the last eight years living in an anonymous hotel room, entirely isolated and foregoing all social interaction (even with the hotel staff). The glacial pacing of the film reflects the extraordinary regularity and monotony of his routine. Each Wednesday morning he injects himself with heroin, an action he performs to emphasise the enforced routine of his existence, without ever becoming physically dependant on the drug. Once a week, he is given a suitcase of cash to deliver to a possibly criminal bank account.
Sorrentino’s film is one of the most technically masterful films of recent years, with memorably accomplished camera work, and a disorientating synaesthesia of hallucinatory auditory and visual effects, achieved through rigorous and intelligent editing. The sound is particularly impressive, strongly reminiscent of the amplified ambient effects used to considerable effect in Gus Van Sant’s ‘Elephant’. If this display of virtuosic technique might risk emphasising style over substance, it’s worth noting how these effects serve to emphasise the gradual unravelling of Girolamo’s carefully constructed exterior. We observe how his defences are gradually undermined by his burgeoning feelings for the beautiful, flirtatious hotel barmaid, and the film ends with a series of devastating revelations.
The lingering sense at the end of this film is one of profound sadness – of a life controlled and ultimately wasted, of a life denied real friendship or love. Estranged from his family and basically held captive, Girolomo is a genuinely tragic figure. The film’s conclusion is both shocking and devastating. It raises complicated moral questions and more than rewards the necessary patience that the rest of the film demands.
If only to avoid being branded a high-minded film snob (come off it, Ghostbusters is still one of my top five favourite films!), I occasionally give in to the temptation to watch a high grossing blockbuster. I’ve thankfully avoided the third (please let it be the last) film in the bloated Star Wars prequel trilogy, so it may as well be yet another film in the never-ending Batman franchise, with Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins taking us right back to the origins of the story. Nolan is a director of considerable talent (‘Following’ and ‘Memento’ are two of the most impressive and structurally audacious films of recent times) and given that superhero movies are one of my guilty pleasures, I anticipated this film with considerable relish, even if I might ponder whether it is really what Nolan wants to do, or simply where the hard cash is.
After the lightweight and insubstantial diversions of the Joel Schumacher films, Nolan’s film promises a return to the dark, serious vision of the Tim Burton era Batman. On this count, it certainly delivers, providing a backstory for the character which reveals his motivations for selecting the Bat character (Bruce Wayne is confronting his fears) and his research into the nature of evil following the cruel slaying of both his parents. All of this was hinted at in the earlier films, but Nolan has made it the centrepiece of his version of events.
I’m surprised that more critics haven’t picked up on the numerous post-9/11 ‘war on terror’ references that pepper the film. Rescued from torture in prison by Liam Neeson’s League Of Shadows, a group with motivations and methods seemingly very similar to those of Al Qa’eda, Bruce Wayne ends up at an isolated mountain training camp where he learns swordfighting and close combat skills. When challenged to kill another man in cold blood, he cannot do it, thus revealing the crucial difference between the crime fighting vigilante and his terrorising enemies – he (Batman) has respect for human lives. The final confrontation is also brought into sharper relief in light of the recent London bombings as it essentially involves a terrorist act involving chemical weapons that threatens the very infrastructure of Gotham City.
I’ve always admired Batman most among the superheroes because he appears to be a superhero without any specific superpowers. Instead, he has to rely on science, technology, determination and sheer practical ingenuity. Nolan’s film demonstrates these elements of the Batman character with vivid detail, as we see the preparation of the costume and the development of secret weapons through the assistance of Morgan Freeman’s scientist, rebelling against the nakedly corporate mindset that dominates the once philanthropic Wayne Corp, controlled as it now is by a callous megalomaniac played with righteous glee by Rutger Hauer (might there also be deliberate parallels between the charitable gestures of Bruce Wayne and those of Bill Gates? Both the fictional character and the real entrepreneur show a similar mix of ruthlessness and generosity).
The success of Batman Begins lies in its absorption of many of the elements of fear and trembling that dominate the current international climate, and the extension of them into the realms of fantasy and the absurd. A superhero film hardly needs to be constrained by the concerns of plausibility after all – and Batman Begins, whilst serious in its devotion to superhero fandom, doesn’t forget to provide some thrills along the way.
Central to this is the inspired casting of Cillian Murphy as The Scarecrow. With his extraordinary features, he is enticingly handsome, but also very sinister looking. He represents the seductive face of evil, and he relishes the potential for revelling in over-acting. He makes the entire film his stage. Christian Bale does a creditable job as Batman/Bruce Wayne but doesn’t really bring any new elements to the table, despite being gifted with Nolan’s elaborate backstory. Katie Holmes is simply too good to be true as the liberal lawyer potential love interest.
Batman Begins has all the elements of a great blockbusting superhero movie – the evocation of Gotham City is particularly spectacular, as well it should be as much of the film was apparently shot on location in Chicago rather than bound to a studio set. Nolan demonstrates his talent for capturing harsh futuristic landscapes as well as his knack for developing a range of ideas. The question now is where he goes next. Has he gone too far down the road to Hollywood blockbusterdom to produce anything as original and distinctive as ‘Memento’ again?
That situation may now finally have changed with Kim Ki-Duk’s imaginative, evocative and distinctive 3-Iron. I would recommend that any tedious golden ageist still insisting that world cinema is in terminal decline should run rather than walk to see this fine film. It is deeply mysterious, opaque and occasionally confounding, but its languid pace and meticulous control of tone and atmosphere mark it out as a notable and original cinematic achievement.
Kim has been labelled the ‘bad guy’ of New Korean Cinema, largely because of uncomfortably brutal films such as ‘The Isle’. Critics began to hail a change of style with his serene and ponderous take on monastic Buddhism in ‘Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring’ (remarkable chiefly because of its extraordinary location and staging). That film still contained brief moments of unhinged violence, and the glacial pace of 3-Iron is similarly punctuated with moments of savagery, some systematic acts of vengeance, others seemingly more random and unpredictable. All are rendered compelling and grimly amusing by the novel use of the sport of golf – hence the film’s title.
The film tells the story of Tae-Suk, a young deliverer of fliers for a Pizza takeaway business who breaks into unoccupied houses while the owners are away. Somewhat unconventionally, he doesn’t steal anything. Instead, he merely house-sits, dutifully hand-washing the laundry and even repairing faulty electrical appliances.
During one of his spontaneous invasions, he is shocked to find the house occupied, as he meets the mysterious, long suffering Sun-hwa, victim of a cruelly loveless marriage to an insensitive, controlling and violent husband. In languorous, entirely wordless scenes, they gradually fall in love. After the husband is casually dispatched with some carefully aimed golf drives, the two head off together in search of more houses to occupy.
Kim evokes the love between Tae-Suk and Sun-Hwa with considerably skill and control. 3-Iron assumes a somewhat elegiac quality during its middle section, and the use of some spectacularly cheesy recurrent pop music creates a surprisingly convincing sense of intimacy and discovery. The film seems to exist entirely within its own moral universe – some actions seem to occur with no recrimination whatsoever, whilst others are swiftly punished.
Some critics have criticised the more otherworldly and fantastic elements of the film’s final third. After breaking into a house and finding its occupant dead, Tae-Suk and Sun-Hwa perform a ritual burial which lands Tae-Suk in jail. In some brilliantly staged and highly comic scenes, Tae-Suk trains himself to disappear in jail, eventually mastering even his own shadow. The film’s conclusion allows Sun-Hwa to continue the illusion of her marriage, whilst Tae-Suk returns to be a constant presence in an extraordinary ménage-a-trois, always unseen and unnoticed.
It’s a brilliant conceit, but one that perhaps doesn’t make much sense when approached from a purely realist perspective. However, 3-Iron is decidedly not a realist film. It is primarily a ghost story, whereby Sun-Hwa is initially rescued from her life as a living ghost in a cruel marriage to embark on different haunts elsewhere. Tae-Suk’s self-disciplining enables him to become a ghost – the presence that is always there, but only visible to Sun-Hwa. The result is a curious and occasionally unsettling film, but also a film of considerable beauty and boldness.
Prior to 3-Iron, the only other really outstanding film of 2005 so far has been Ousmane Sembene’s Moolade. Sembene is often cited as the father of African cinema and his latest film has won plaudits across the world. A film about the unpleasant problem of ritual female genital mutilation in Africa might not exactly be considered a ‘date movie’, but rest assured that Sembene has crafted as entertaining a film as could possibly be made about such an uncompromising and provocative subject. Sembene’s film is critical of the barbaric tradition, but without being judgemental or unsubtle. It is an even-handed treatment, careful to recognise the considerable hold of tradition over African village society. It is this emphasis that clears this remarkable film of any charges of didacticism. Indeed, the film’s resisting protagonist, Colle, characterised with powerful sympathy by Sembene, herself resorts to another form of tradition, the protection or moolade that provides the film with its title.
Sembene realises that omnipotent dichotomy between tradition and impending modernity with elegance and understatement. All the women of the village are empowered by their transistor radios, which bring them news of the wider world. Particularly relevant is the fact that even their own government has condemned the practice of excision, yet the all-male village council, insists on its continuation, as no man will accept an uncut woman for a bride. When the village council burns these radios in an attempt to force the rebellious women into submission Elsewhere, there are intriguing characters, including the wonderful Mercenaire, who brings goods back to the village from his travels, and succeeds in profiting from them considerably. His scenes are mostly characterised by light humour, although he eventually becomes a key player in the village dispute, meeting an unpleasant end in the process.
The dispute begins when Colle, who has already refused to have her own daughter cut, provides a place of protection and refuge for four young girls who have run away from an excision ceremony. Interestingly, the confrontation appears to take place entirely between women – the mothers of the daughters who want their children returned and to complete the ceremony (along with the terrifyingly witch-like exciseurs themselves) and Colle and her family. It is only later that men become involved, not least when the dispute reaches the level of the village council. Colle’s husband is shocked by her actions, but only forced to intervene when he is convinced that her intransigence has publicly humiliated him. Despite a barrage of physical abuse, Colle stands firm, and the intercutting of her violent and public punishment with It is at this point that the film broadens its scope – the women are no longer simply protesting about the brutality and danger of excision but are rebelling against the Patriarchal structures of their society and the right for control over their own bodies.
The film is brilliantly executed and staged with precise economy. The location is limited purely to the small village, but its layout is convincingly engineered with real attention to detail. There is a palpable sense of community here, built on self-reliance and subsistence, but with a brace of unresolved tensions. Unlike 3-Iron, Moolade is determinedly realistic, but without the relentless dourness of British equivalents such as Ken Loach or Mike Leigh. Despite the grimness of its subject matter, Moolade manages to sustain an upbeat, frequently comic tone right up to its avowedly uplifting conclusion.
This might be considered a step too far with the wishful thinking of the film’s conclusion. Yet, how could it have ended with anything other than victory for the women? It might provide a note of feel good sentiment that might be somewhat divorced from reality, but the alternative is simply far too grim. It ought also to be noted that the victory does not come without a tinge of sadness, although to reveal any more detail here would be to greatly diminish the harrowing impact of one of the film’s key later scenes. In addition to this, Sembene’s assertion that tradition can be remoulded for positive, progressive action renders the other side of the debate redundant. It becomes a matter of independence against slavery. The victory of the former leaves a lingering impression of dignity and triumph, long after the credits have rolled. Brilliant.
I am still unconvinced by the new hero of American independent cinema David Gordon Green, whose unmistakeable debt to Terrence Malick takes on a new twist with Undertow, to which Malick lends his name (and presumably also his wallet – he’ll need some return on his investment as he is not to be rushed on making movies of his own) as Executive Producer. Green’s acclaimed debut George Washington was massively overpraised, simplistic and slightly dull as it was. Its follow-up, All The Real Girls, in spite of its hideously awful title, was by contrast underrated. Here Green and cinematographer Tim Orr combined their evocative sense for environment and natural beauty with a convincing depiction of a complex emotional relationship. The film captured the relationship’s intimacy, claustrophobia and subsequent confusion powerfully, without resorting to conventional narrative or finding reductive explanations for the actions of its protagonists.
Undertow is a much more conventional film, dependent on a somewhat contrived plot arc and clearly indebted to Night Of The Hunter, Charles Laughton’s sole film as director. Britain’s Jamie Bell, still most famous for stepping into a pair of ballet shoes as Billy Elliot, does a noble job in gritty southern mode as the young lead – it’s a real shame that he wasn’t given more ambitious material to work with.
To its credit, Undertow starts promisingly, with Bell’s Chris chased from his girlfriend’s house by her father who, suspecting him as a tearaway and troublemaker, fires shots at him. Chris impales his foot on a rusty nail in a wooden board, and the audience has to laugh and wince simultaneously as he continues to run with the board attached to his foot. It’s a bravura opening sequence, and one that at least hints that Green and Orr can do kinetic thrills as well as understated moods.
There is then a lengthy period of scene-setting, in which we become familiar with the family’s isolated farm home, whereby the days consist of hard physical work and little social engagement. Chris has a sickly younger brother Tim, played with charm by Devon Allan, who induces unpleasant bouts of vomiting through eating mud, paint and all manner of other inedible substances. Their father favours the younger child, preferring a ‘tough love’ approach with Chris. This isolated, rather backwards atmosphere is established carefully by Green, although it is never clear exactly when this film is set. Is this meant to be modern America? If so, I was constantly reminded of the key line of Warren Zevon’s song ‘Play It All Night Long’ - ‘There ain’t much to country living- sweat, piss, jizz and blood!’
The atmosphere is pierced brutally by the arrival of Deel, the boys’ Uncle, freshly released from prison and harbouring some lingering grudges. Rather predictably, he is a spurned lover, having staked his claim to their mother first, before their father fell in love with her too. Haven’t we seen this kind of slow building confrontation before? When the inevitable violence ensues, it is appropriately savage, but the descent of the rest of the film into mundance chase movie seems thoroughly disappointing and uninspired.
Deel wants the set of valuable coins the boys and their father have stored, and which Chris hurriedly retrieves as he escapes the scene. In between chase sequences, there are moments of breezy charm and insight – such as the black couple who allow the two boys to work, stay for food and earn some money (a neat reversal of the usual southern black/white relationship which is handled sensitively). Yet, every time Green and Orr allow their talent for developing dreamy moods to predominate, Deel turns up again and off they run through the woods.
Had Undertow simply been about Chris and Tim’s escape from a restrictive lifestyle and quick assumption of independence, it might well have been convincing and compelling. The relationship between the two brothers, with Chris emerging as guardian and protector, is touching and believable. The erosion of Chris’ trust in humanity, combined with his natural tendency towards forgiveness, also makes for the construction of some intriguing scenes later in the film. Sadly, the imposition of a rather unimaginative and derivative storyline proves frustrating, and the film feels like an unsuccessful conflation of two separate identities. For an evocative and distinctive mood piece, you’d be better off with Gus Van Sant’s remarkable Elephant. For a simple, plot-driven film, then there are many more substantial options than this.
These might well include Carlos Sorin’s charming Bombon El Perro, a straightforward and endearing film that it is very difficult to dislike. Set amidst the dusty flat landscape of Patagonia (its long, straight roads are marvellously captured here), this tells the story of how one man’s life is suddenly transformed after he is given a giant dog, a prime example of a rare breed.
After losing his job at a gas filling station, mechanic Juan Villegas (played by a non-professional also called Juan Villegas) is reduced to travelling the isolated, thinly populated area and trying to sell hand-crafted knives. He attempts to retain a cheerful, positive demeanour in the face of adversity, as he struggles (at a relatively advanced age) to find gainful employment. Villegas has an extraordinary face – and whilst he only really delivers one expression during the entire picture, that expression can be deadpan, good natured, confused and nonplussed all at the same time.
The acquisition of Bombon (frequently called Lechien during the film – simply The Dog) delivers some overnight results. Juan can now get work in the field of security (although not even the dog can stop him from being something of a generous pushover) and can jump the queue at the bank because the manager is friends with a dog trainer and is immediately taken with this particular specimen.
The scenes in which Bombon rides across the plains in the front seat of Juan’s car are exceedingly funny, both man and dog sharing the same steadfast facial expression. If there’s an In League With Paton award for performance of the year – it might have to go to this dog! The dog show scenes also have a sweetly humourous feel – it’s easy to feel bemused at how seriously the owners take these competitions. Even more inspired is Bombon’s utter failure as a stud for hire – he seems completely uninterested in providing these kind of services, much to his trainer’s frustration.
The film is light, breezy and sedate – but it may just be deceptively simple. It does not gloss over the social and economic problems of the new Argentina, particularly in its early scenes, and the key theme appears to be the newfound status granted to Juan by his new companion. It quietly reveals some significant truths about how we treat each other in the world of ‘human resources’ and whilst it’s by no means as serious (or as overwhelmingly sad), it reminded me a little of Laurent Cantet’s masterpiece L’emploi du Temps.
The more I ruminate on Paulo Sorrentino’s The Consequences Of Love, the closer I get to the conclusion that it is really quite a remarkable film. I imagine it’s a film that will benefit greatly from repeated viewings as its droll humour, underlying sadness and incredibly slow pace have to be yielded to in order to appreciate the full impact.
It is a stylish and mysterious film about an enigmatic and opaque character, the chain-smoking ‘business consultant’ Titta di Girolamo (played with deadpan irony and seemingly emotionless sophistication by the wonderful Toni Servillo). It is emphatically not, as many have bafflingly suggested, a thriller. Perhaps these critics have been blinded by what transpires to be a mafia theme (this would be a considerable plot spoiler were it not already given away in virtually every review the film has received). Girolamo has spent the last eight years living in an anonymous hotel room, entirely isolated and foregoing all social interaction (even with the hotel staff). The glacial pacing of the film reflects the extraordinary regularity and monotony of his routine. Each Wednesday morning he injects himself with heroin, an action he performs to emphasise the enforced routine of his existence, without ever becoming physically dependant on the drug. Once a week, he is given a suitcase of cash to deliver to a possibly criminal bank account.
Sorrentino’s film is one of the most technically masterful films of recent years, with memorably accomplished camera work, and a disorientating synaesthesia of hallucinatory auditory and visual effects, achieved through rigorous and intelligent editing. The sound is particularly impressive, strongly reminiscent of the amplified ambient effects used to considerable effect in Gus Van Sant’s ‘Elephant’. If this display of virtuosic technique might risk emphasising style over substance, it’s worth noting how these effects serve to emphasise the gradual unravelling of Girolamo’s carefully constructed exterior. We observe how his defences are gradually undermined by his burgeoning feelings for the beautiful, flirtatious hotel barmaid, and the film ends with a series of devastating revelations.
The lingering sense at the end of this film is one of profound sadness – of a life controlled and ultimately wasted, of a life denied real friendship or love. Estranged from his family and basically held captive, Girolomo is a genuinely tragic figure. The film’s conclusion is both shocking and devastating. It raises complicated moral questions and more than rewards the necessary patience that the rest of the film demands.
If only to avoid being branded a high-minded film snob (come off it, Ghostbusters is still one of my top five favourite films!), I occasionally give in to the temptation to watch a high grossing blockbuster. I’ve thankfully avoided the third (please let it be the last) film in the bloated Star Wars prequel trilogy, so it may as well be yet another film in the never-ending Batman franchise, with Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins taking us right back to the origins of the story. Nolan is a director of considerable talent (‘Following’ and ‘Memento’ are two of the most impressive and structurally audacious films of recent times) and given that superhero movies are one of my guilty pleasures, I anticipated this film with considerable relish, even if I might ponder whether it is really what Nolan wants to do, or simply where the hard cash is.
After the lightweight and insubstantial diversions of the Joel Schumacher films, Nolan’s film promises a return to the dark, serious vision of the Tim Burton era Batman. On this count, it certainly delivers, providing a backstory for the character which reveals his motivations for selecting the Bat character (Bruce Wayne is confronting his fears) and his research into the nature of evil following the cruel slaying of both his parents. All of this was hinted at in the earlier films, but Nolan has made it the centrepiece of his version of events.
I’m surprised that more critics haven’t picked up on the numerous post-9/11 ‘war on terror’ references that pepper the film. Rescued from torture in prison by Liam Neeson’s League Of Shadows, a group with motivations and methods seemingly very similar to those of Al Qa’eda, Bruce Wayne ends up at an isolated mountain training camp where he learns swordfighting and close combat skills. When challenged to kill another man in cold blood, he cannot do it, thus revealing the crucial difference between the crime fighting vigilante and his terrorising enemies – he (Batman) has respect for human lives. The final confrontation is also brought into sharper relief in light of the recent London bombings as it essentially involves a terrorist act involving chemical weapons that threatens the very infrastructure of Gotham City.
I’ve always admired Batman most among the superheroes because he appears to be a superhero without any specific superpowers. Instead, he has to rely on science, technology, determination and sheer practical ingenuity. Nolan’s film demonstrates these elements of the Batman character with vivid detail, as we see the preparation of the costume and the development of secret weapons through the assistance of Morgan Freeman’s scientist, rebelling against the nakedly corporate mindset that dominates the once philanthropic Wayne Corp, controlled as it now is by a callous megalomaniac played with righteous glee by Rutger Hauer (might there also be deliberate parallels between the charitable gestures of Bruce Wayne and those of Bill Gates? Both the fictional character and the real entrepreneur show a similar mix of ruthlessness and generosity).
The success of Batman Begins lies in its absorption of many of the elements of fear and trembling that dominate the current international climate, and the extension of them into the realms of fantasy and the absurd. A superhero film hardly needs to be constrained by the concerns of plausibility after all – and Batman Begins, whilst serious in its devotion to superhero fandom, doesn’t forget to provide some thrills along the way.
Central to this is the inspired casting of Cillian Murphy as The Scarecrow. With his extraordinary features, he is enticingly handsome, but also very sinister looking. He represents the seductive face of evil, and he relishes the potential for revelling in over-acting. He makes the entire film his stage. Christian Bale does a creditable job as Batman/Bruce Wayne but doesn’t really bring any new elements to the table, despite being gifted with Nolan’s elaborate backstory. Katie Holmes is simply too good to be true as the liberal lawyer potential love interest.
Batman Begins has all the elements of a great blockbusting superhero movie – the evocation of Gotham City is particularly spectacular, as well it should be as much of the film was apparently shot on location in Chicago rather than bound to a studio set. Nolan demonstrates his talent for capturing harsh futuristic landscapes as well as his knack for developing a range of ideas. The question now is where he goes next. Has he gone too far down the road to Hollywood blockbusterdom to produce anything as original and distinctive as ‘Memento’ again?
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