Der Baader Meinhof Komplex

Uli Edel's in-depth depiction of the rise and fall of the RAF (Red Army Faction) in West Germany is both gripping and ultimately wearing. One cannot expect a broadly sympathetic portrayal of a terrorist cell at its most dangerous to be easy-watching. Where Edel's film has its greatest strength is in encouraging the viewer to analyse the action in terms of the individual players alongside the greater socio-political upheaval both in Germany and in the wider world.

We are first introduced to Ulrike Meinhof (Martina Gedeck), as she visits a nudist beach with her husband and two children. She's a journalist writing broadly left-wing pieces encouraging the political engagement of all. Meanwhile, Andreas Baader (Moritz Bleibtreu) and his girlfriend Gudrun Ensslin (Johanna Wokalek), radicalised students, pursue simplistic terrorist activities against department stores. Things come to head when the Shah of Iran visits West Germany, and peaceful anti-Iranian protests are met with violence by pro-regency Iranians in Germany and violent police forces. Meinhof is challenged to stop merely writing about the need for a change in the state, but to act upon her words; an interview with Ensslin finally pushes her over the edge, from commentator to participant.

We watch as the RAF develops from a small group of students into a highly organised, highly active terrorist cell. The core members travel to Jordan and attend a training camp (with mixed results), and return to wage war upon Germany. Their attacks escalate to bombing of American military bases in protest towards American imperialism in Vietnam and the rise of pro-right, fascist groups in Germany. They state, through their mouthpiece Meinhof, how they all have a duty after the Second World War to fight against imperialist tendencies in their country. From there, capture, trial, and suicide, while second- and third-generation cells of the RAF continue their attacks with increasing violence and recklessness.

Perhaps that is a simplified timeline, but the film itself does not shirk from offering the drama in detail. The relationships that develop between the core members, both before and during captivity, are performed with such verve that it is entirely engaging action. It's hard to explain how awkward one feels in sympathising with people whose motives may be laudable but whose actions are not. Perhaps most tellingly is the change we see wrought in both Baader and Meinhof. Baader is bombastic, passionate and aggressive through the first two thirds of the film, and it is only in captivity that we see his spirit tempered by a more measured, considered approach. If before he was terrifying, now he becomes a totally sympathetic presence. Meinhof, meanwhile, the person who sacrificed the most to the cause (her daughters are seized from hiding by an anonymous informant), begins to discover the futility of her words, and imprisonment merely highlights for her that any message she wishes to express will become warped and abused, even by other members of the RAF.

The film raises questions as to suicide; Brigitte (Nadja Uhl), leader of the free RAF members after only seven months in prison, has to silence her comrades who claim that Baader, Meinhof and Ensslin have died from police brutality. To her, their deaths show their ultimate control over their own actions and serve as an example to others; to the younger RAF members, they can only see those actions in terms of the oppression of the state.

One of the greatest strengths of this piece is that characters on both sides come across sympathetically. Certainly the anonymous police presence is intimidating, but the man charged with eliminating the RAF states time and again that without political change, radicalised students will turn again and again to violence. Part of the success of the film is how we are encouraged to see that many different people from different spheres were all pushing towards the same goal, even if the methods differed so broadly. This is brought about by the patience with which the story is told, each episode adding further information towards this picture of a state in turmoil beneath the surface, and the actions of a few affecting the many.

It wasn't the easiest film to watch, but perhaps that was because the pace, so deliberately focused and intense, left for tiring viewing. But the result was worth it; that strange sense of being so strong moved the plight of those many years ago, in a world far different than my own.

~~~~~

2008

Martina Gedeck, Moritz Bleibtreu, Johanna Wokalek, Nadja Uhl, Stipe Erceg, Vinzenz Kiefer

dir. Uli Edel

Birdeatsbaby LIVE

I kept telling myself I'd see these guys. I mean, come on, I know the rocker front-lady and pianist/vocalist Mishkin Mullaly from way back and always said "Sure, sure, I'll be there." So when I heard that they were planning in London-town, in Islington no less, I bought my ticket and jumped at the opportunity.

Upstairs at the Garage is a smallish venue, with room for perhaps 100 or so, but that may be generous. Despite ants-in-the-pants of the next act's lead vocalist, Birdeatsbaby's performance was nothing shy of brilliant. The wanderer from Maleficent and some issues with levels didn't really detract at all from what was an energetic and vibrant show, in which the performers seemed to lose themselves (just a little) in their music.

Let's face it: I'd listened to some Birdeatsbaby tracks before I saw them. Not right before, but in the recent past. I'd enjoyed them, but it was dark cabaret (think punky/folky/rocky/gothy sorta thing...think piano-led dark gypsy stylings) and that might not be my musical cup of tea. But live, the sound was catapulted onto a different plane. The fact was that even with shonky levels and some bad behaviour from the next act, the music was engaging and lost little. It's truly a tribute to a band if one can enjoy listening to the bass line (Garry) or tight, exciting drumming (Philippa) even if that's not what you're meant to be hearing loudest. Three part-harmonies and involved cello and violin parts (Ella and Keely respectively) built a kind of musical tableau that I was happy to let wash over me. Over the top of that, the stylistic range from Mishkin's vocals provided a fitting icing to the rather enjoyable, if dark, cake. As a live show, I loved it; I was enthralled by how together this group were, how explosive their songs seemed and how even with technical glitches I wasn't really concerned or distracted. Definitely recommended!

For images and more info, how about here?

~~~

26 November 2009, with Maleficent & Belladonna, Upstairs at the Garage, Relentless Garage, Highbury & Islington

The Omega Man

I read I Am Legend a little late; it has been reckoned by some as the single most important vampire novel after Bram Stoker's Dracula. Richard Matheson's novella is chilling in its portrait of the conflict a lone man faces after the world is swept by a plague; not only do the blood-sucking humans now wish to kill him, but every day is a battle with his own conscience as he searches for a cure to the virus and tries to overcome the desire to end it all.

Francis Lawrence's I Am Legend (2007) drew upon that aspect of loneliness, of a single man alone against the world. But in my view some of the charm of the book was lost as he transferred the setting from the West Coast to urban New York and turned the vampires into little more than mindless creatures. Will Smith's performance as Robert Neville was admirable, but not remarkable.

The Omega Man is the attempt of a different decade to put I Am Legend on the screen. Charlton Heston stars as Robert Neville, but here Boris Sagal has stayed more closely to the plot of the novel, in some aspects; we get a glimpse of the organisation and intention of the vampires (even if bloodsucking is not really mentioned at all; perhaps that's for the best, avoiding the standard vampire tropes that seem to abound); Neville's isolation is similarly emphasised, and more than once we see his inability to relate to others after his long silence has left him talking to himself and playing games with himself. The drinking is there too and the empty rage at his impotence.

The plot does differ from the novella; in exactly the same way as the later film, the film-makers have decided a love interest is necessary. Certainly, there is an interest in the book; but that interest is central to the plot and continues a strong message about the risk of love. In both films, the love interest only serves to further the bravery of Neville but also tie him down. There's no risk involved to himself except by the sacrifices he chooses to make for a woman.

Cinematographically, The Omega Man is beautifully realised. The desolation and ruinous husks of buildings that surround Heston as he runs around hunting the vampires are striking and intensify that sense of loneliness. The score is also a highlight, as it sets the tone perfectly. A key shift as Neville enters a darkened building and the hairs stood up on the back of neck in anticipation for discovering one of the 'Family'. Heston's performance is strong as well.

But it's badly structured plot and poor performances from the rest of the cast that let the film down. The dialogue between Heston and the love interest Lisa (Rosalind Cash) is stilted and the children he finds are wooden at best. It's entirely frustrating because the dynamism and anticipation that has been built earlier in the film falls flat. There is no sense of a climax. In fact, because the plot has been transposed somewhat, what should be a final set-piece occurs half-way through the film, entirely robbing the ending of anything with as near as brutal as the original's final moments. It's not that this is a poor adaptation of a book; it's not. It's that in making an adaptation some choices and some performances let the side down too much for it to be entirely enjoyable.

***

1971

Charlton Heston, Rosalind Cash, Anthony Zerbe

dir. Boris Sagal

Scenes From Communal Living

Sketch improvised comedy. I think that's the best way of considering this hybrid. If you're not familiar with the concept, it works thusly: it's standard improvised comedy, drawing upon the audience to get a scene started with an idea for a location / happening / event / conflict / other thing. But the twist comes from the stage; every scene is supposed to be set in a flat share, so we are to witness, in actuality, a scene from communal living. Do you see what they did they?

It's a great breed of improvised comedy, setting up only two parameters (flatshare & idea from audience). The cast rotates, both between Sunday night gigs, and during the show between who comes in to do a scene. They even take turns compering between scenes, encouraging the audience to be inventive and challenge their scenes.

From the first scene (a call-centre worker telling her flatmate about her promotion - with a deliciously softly-spoken American artist played by Partridge) I realised the idea had subtle depth to it, beyond other standard improvised shows. Because the actors aren't exactly playing a game, they're not rushing to score points over each other, each scene was longer than what one might expect from an improv show, and given far more time to develop some sort of plot. That was where I marvelled at the technique of the night. Time after time, a scene might be slowing fading away, but a character could revitalise it in a moment with a sudden announcement, disagreement or even just a sigh and a shrug. Rather than a scene of one part, charging in at the start and building and rushing to some sort of final punch, instead I watched as a comic tapestry was weaved before my eyes, with ups and downs, a veritable pulse, that to me was even more enjoyable than the humour contained.

Partridge's artist was fantastic, but so was his World of Warcraft playing hardman; Parris dazzled, confidently moving between accents and seeming to do no wrong on stage. Meanwhile Broderick, Smallman and Fostekew (and I do so hope I've got the names right) all were on top form too. A Polish woman terrified of racism and a touching scene about growing little goats between Carly and Jess both stick in the memory. Parris and Broderick's final scene, the show closer, about discussing an unexpected event at a party the night before (this time, morris dancing, of all things), was both tender and hilarious. I suppose one could argue morris dancing is itself comedy gold. I'd be tempted to say it was the actors' technique that brought that about.

McCure's master plan is to make something branded, a show that can be packaged up and put on anywhere. He's already had a successful run in Sidney alongside the London run that closes on 20th December, but he aims next year to put together Melbourne and Toronto Scenes From Communal Living. It's a bold ambition, but when it works, as it did last Sunday, it's hilarious to watch.

***

22 November 2009, The Etcetera Theatre, Camden

performed byRachel Parris, Charlie Partridge, Rob Broderick, Carly Smallman, Jessica Fostekew

dir. & conceived by Stewart McCure

The Winter Queen (Fandorin 1)

Can a work in translation retain the charm and style of the original while also being accessible to the foreign reader? Boris Akunin's Fandorin series, or at least this first outing, proves conclusively it can. You may recall my reviews of his Pelagia books (1 and 2); there I suggested that while Akunin might be better known for his Fandorin tales, Pelagia still stood alone as a wonderful series in its own right.

But here I learnt why Erast Fandorin, young detective of the Third Bureau of the Moscow Criminal department, had won over the hearts of fans the world over. This novel, which follows Fandorin's first major case, at the tender age of 21, is thrilling from start to finish. The transformation our erstwhile hero undergoes as he is offered promotion and social betterment alongside danger and deception is marvellous to behold. The story ends with him as fresh-faced as it started, but he's learnt so much one can't help but feel the reader was also dragged along the maelstrom that picked up Erast and took him across Europe to Berlin, Vienna, Paris and London. He nearly loses his life countless times, only to be saved by luck or courage or desperation, or indeed a breathing technique he has been practising for the last few months.

That is part of the charm of the tale. Akunin has deliberately avoided imbuing his hero with a host of skills and abilities. Instead, he has this one breathing technique he works on, and then intuition and bravery, plus a mastery of English and German, and that's it. No super strength or cunning wit or airs or money or anything like that. Not even too much confidence, but a big dose of passion. It's what makes him a thoroughly human character and ultimately likeable. It's also what propels the entire story.

Plot-wise, having read some of the Sister Pelagia novels, I was well aware that Akunin was the master of a twisting tale. Here he excels as well; one can easily understand why this outing won him support and acclaim. In true form to a proper detective novel, the nemesis (or nemeses) hide in plain sight and the clues are available for all to see, should we so choose. There's a delightful discrepancy of awareness between characters internally, and between Fandorin and the reader that maintains suspense without becoming frustrating. That's part of the mastery here - a fresh, exciting plot that doesn't get revealed in plodding increments, but with a varying and engaging pace. Suddenly Fandorin will surge ahead with his realisations; at other times it is slower going as he searches for one clue that will suddenly illuminate a whole new area of investigation.

There's humour here too, and pathos. It got me thinking that I should recommence my Russian studies just to be able to read the rest of the series in the original. I'm also looking forward to the film of The State Counsellor, one of the later Fandorin titles. I chomped through this at such a rate that I know it must have been good, to not even notice turning the pages. Thoroughly recommended. Quick, light, fun and moving. All you want from a good detective novel.

***

1998

Boris Akunin, translated by Andrew Bromfield

Transamerica

If you're one of those people who gets unsolicited text messages from me at odd hours, you'll know I just watched this film. If you're not, and you're dying to know what the messages said, I believe they read something like "Is it weird I just cried twice at a transexual?". For those that don't know, Transamerica charts a cross-country journey undertaken by Bree (aka Stanley aka Felicity Huffman), a pre-male-to-female-op transsexual, who is asked by her therapist to reconnect with the son (Kevin Zegers) she never knew she fathered as a final test that he is indeed ready to be a she.

The film generated a great deal of awards buzz, including a nomination for Huffman for best actress at the Oscars. No doubt the hype surrounding the film was in part indirectly encouraged by the Christian Right in America's outrage that a film could not only depict a transsexual and a male prostitute in a positive light, but in fact almost glamorise them. So it was with a fair bit of apprehension that I approached the film, aware that it had polarised critics and wary of anything that is so inflated with hype.

My first, and lasting, impression remains one of surprise. Surprise at how deftly and movingly the topic is handled, surprise at how un-shocking much of the material is, and surprise that a film that in my view did not set out to pull the heart strings caught hold of them so convincingly and rendered me blubbing, not once, but twice.

It all belonged to Huffman. I knew of the transformation she had gone under to get into the mind first of Stanley, and then of Stanley dreaming to be Bree. Meticulous attention is paid to the surgeries that he has had up to the start of the film, including cheek bone movement, skin lightening, pigment removal and breast augmentation. I read that Huffman went so far as to wear a prosthetic penis so as to feel what Stanley/Bree must have felt, and loathed, every day. But the performance was softened and tweaked to perfection by the great display of conflicting emotions that surged through Bree on discovering, and finally coming to admire and love, her runaway son.

The dynamic between Toby and Bree was excellent throughout; mutual disgust and barely veiled disdain slowly give way to grudging trust and appreciation. Perhaps the Christian Right took offence most at the fact that Bree claims to be from a Christian outreach programme as a cover for why she is escorting Toby with her across the states to his home. Of course, it might also have been the neat role reversal offered by these two: Bree yearns to be a woman; Toby makes his money by prostitution, by offering himself in a way that disgusts Bree yet also suggests something more passive and feminine than her surgeries have hitherto allowed Bree to be. Is that where the outrage stems from? A boy homosexual and a man seeking womanhood? Perhaps.

It's a tricky one even to write about; he/she dynamics for Bree are handled well in the film. Her first meeting with her therapist, over the phone, has the therapist reminding Bree that she shouldn't talk about Stanley and her past life as something separate. Stanley remains a part of Bree, no matter how hard she wishes to flee it. The meeting late in the film with Bree's family, the mother that claims Stanley is dead and the father who gladly welcomes his newly discovered grandson, is perfectly stage managed to the level at which it happens so organically that I found myself marvelled at how one could take offence at this understated gem when all it made me do was grin and cry in turns.

Truly, that's the secret to why this is such an excellent film. Its very excellence remains elusive, difficult to describe and ultimately personal. It's the biopic of an extraordinary struggle, but never glamorised or glorified, but portrayed simply, movingly and completely endearingly. Heart-warming.

***

2005

Felicity Huffman, Kevin Zegers

Written and directed by Duncan Tucker

High Fidelity

Where did I get so confused? Wait...that's the codeine talking.

I don't think I was that thrown by High Fidelity. On the one hand, I could understand why a caring friend gave it to me on discovering I was newly single: it's a film about break-ups, and the way in which a change in relationship status might force one to re-evaluate all that's gone before. On the other, did I really want to weep over the spilt milk of a failed escapade when in fact I should be celebrating my new opportunities and shot at being happy? Is it worth dwelling on that which we can't change?

According to Rob Gordon (John Cusack), it is. The only way forward is to tear back through the past, throwing up questions and answers in equal measure about his suitable as a mate and inevitably hitting that age old stumbling block: "Will I always be alone?". The girl in question that's left him is Laura (Iben Hjejle), and while we don't get an immediate insight into what went wrong, in turns we do discover that in all probability, both of them have acted badly and pissed on their relationship in their own searches for happiness (whether that's through job satisfaction, other partners or just trashing what they know to be 'good').

Rob's erstwhile companions and poor comforters are Dick (Todd Louiso) and Barry (Jack Black), once part-time employees at his Championship Vinyl record store, now full-time loafers and music geeks extraordinaire. One wonders if their dialogue, at times self-mocking in its propensity for pedantry, was in fact the writers' own musical snobbery expressed in ironic terms. Then again, it could just have been marvellously well-observed.

The strength of the film lines both in these two secondary characters, the humour that they provide, and the fact that Rob's internal monologue (delivered throughout directly to the camera by Cusack), while at times pained, never really takes itself too seriously. That's the real clincher: actually to believe what Rob is saying is to accept that by twenty-six you really do need to be settling down. Of course that's not the case, and it struck me as a remarkably dated attitude. In addition, Rob's own lack of insight into his affairs suggested that we should not take everything our narrator says as gospel.

The only really irksome detail of the film was the ending. A reunion between Rob and Laura, while unwished for, was to be expected, but the circumstances surrounding it are decidedly morbid and pathetic. The suggestion was that they wouldn't find anyone better, so may as well settle for just 'ok'. But while in Brief Encounter that might be plausible, and indeed laudable, as settling for family is both a noble and loyal decision, here there is no nobility to their actions. In fact, it just seems that they are giving up; Rob's realisation that the other women he has eyes for are merely fantasies does not come across as something momentous. Rather, it appears to be a disappointment; the bubble has burst and he is accepting that life won't get better than Laura. Perhaps he's right; perhaps he has come to a conclusion that might be right for him; but it was not a decision he made that inspired any confidence in the viewer, especially having seen him moan and mope in the pouring Chicago rain.

A disappointing ending to an otherwise enjoyable film.

***

2000

John Cusack, Iben Hjejle, Todd Louiso, Jack Black

dir. Stephen Frears

based on the book by Nick Hornby

Kind Hearts and Coronets

There's always a certain risk in approaching a 'golden oldie' that it will prove to be dated beyond anything that my feeble, modern mind can connect with. As I settled down to watch this recommendation from a well-established film aficionado, reviewed by him as "Britain's second best film, after Brief Encounter", a quick glance at the trailer had me in stitches. Was it the ever-so-perfect RP? The contrived looks of 'shock' and 'horror' on the actors' faces? Or even the fact the trailer goes on a little too long?

I dove in, and the rewards were nearly instantaneous. A young man, estranged from his rich, landed family, decides to get his own back by earning the dukedom by any means possible. He sets out to bring about the deaths of the 8 heirs to assure his own place in the nobility.

The performances were scintillating. First, Louis (Dennis Price), with his delusions of grandeur and calm exterior masking his murderous intentions. Then Sibella (Joan Greenwood), all dripping with allure and... massive hats. Or Edith (Valerie Hobson), pristine and glamorous in what must surely have appeared to be fashionable, modern dress (and I wish I could find a better image - this outfit was just dazzlingly chic). And of course, on hats and attire, it's worth noting the sartorial excellence of this film. As Louis gets closer to his prize, we see his clothing develop and smarten up, as his income and style seem to increase incrementally with his malicious intent. It's subtly managed but marvellous to watch. Perhaps I have a weakness to fashion of the period. I'd like to think it's just good taste though.

But of course, the show stealer, the centre piece and foil to Louis, is, of course, Alec Guinness. It would be unfair to say he shines in his role, because he doesn't have one. Or at least, he has more than one. Eight, in fact, as he plays every one of the heirs ahead of Louis in line for the dukedom. And he pulls it off with such glee that it is just a marvel to watch. Some of the characters get very little screen time, but others require no little characterisation, but it's done in such a well-thought-out and enjoyable way that you really can't fault him.

Enjoyment really lies at the key to why this film is so rewarding. The characters seem to sparkle, the plot twists and turns with intrigue and counter-intrigue, and the story-telling devices perfectly complement the nature of the tale. Accents and fashion combine to produce a coherent picture of this noble, failing family, and the love triangle that forms provides a perfect foil to Louis' murderous ambition (or ambitious murders?). Where the film is slightly dated (Sibella's simpering, or Louis' look of perplexity at the destruction of young Henry's dark room), it only adds to the humour of the film.

Darkly comic, thoroughly enjoyable and commendable, and a certain must see. The kind of film that placed Ealing Studios firmly on the map....

***

1949

Dennis Price, Joan Greenwood, Valerie Hobson, Alec Guinness (x 8!)

dir. Robert Hamer

adapted from Roy Horniman's novel by Robert Hamer.

Vier Minuten (Four Minutes)

It's rare that one is given the opportunity to watch a film that combines the satisfaction of a happy ending with the sensitivity of handling fairly convoluted issues without skimming over or over-simplifying. Vier Minuten managed to merge those two things in a manner that was both wonderful to behold and intensely moving.

The film focuses on Traude (Monica Bleibtreu), an aged piano teacher who has come to teach at a prison. There she discovers one of the most disturbed and unreachable inmates, Jenny (Hannah Herzsprung), is in fact a piano virtuoso. To the dismay of one of the guards in particular, Mütze (Sven Pippig - also shown in the link above), Traude decides she must mentor Jenny and wants her to practice and compete despite resistance within the prison. So far, so simple. Is this just a film about the good in everyone, no matter what their past or failings?

Well, no. Not really at all. Because the plot thickens delightfully. Through a series of flashbacks we discover that the prison used to be a Nazi hospital, and a young Traude worked there during the second World War as a nurse; suddenly the halls and avenues are filled with loaded significance for us. Every time Traude is shown shuffling from her home through a set of gates, or resting on a bench, one can't help but feel as though she is really seeing another time, and living in another time entirely. So important to her are the incidents recounted in the flashbacks that a brilliant discrepancy of awareness develops. The viewer becomes a party, with creeping dread, to the awful trauma that Traude has experienced, while Jenny remains unaware and unsuspecting. We are even forced to re-evaluate Traude's relationship with Jenny in the light of her own past: can she really be drawn to someone so violent, so dangerously unhinged, and interact with her genuinely with affection? Was there always a darker motive behind her tuition of Jenny?

The musicality throughout the film is beautiful. What is most impressive and left the greatest impact was that although this is a film about classical piano, Jenny's own love of what Traude calls 'negro music', and the sounds from radios and popular shows, filters into the soundtrack. It is all the more affecting when we see Jenny play Schubert when we've just heard the grating of rock music from a warden's radio. It's carefully managed as well - silence is as important in a film about music as sound, and the moments of stillness as Traude shuffles past, or Jenny sits practising her finger movements on a fake piano she has made, are as loud as any section soundtracked.

I am wary of giving away too much plot; one of the thrills of this film is that it fails to follow a conventional path in setting out the narrative, even though it is easy to imagine a route this tale could take. By about half way through I genuinely did not know if Jenny would compete, or even could, as forces within and without the prison range against her, and her relationship with Traude becomes more and more strained. But that relationship between them is perhaps more important to the viewer than anything else, and in a way I did not mind how the film ended, just that I would see some sort of development of the bond between them. And as with watching any sociopath, the story was laced with the tension that comes with knowing that she might lash out at any moment. Traude knows that too, and yet she takes the chance to be near her. It is well worth the viewer taking that chance too.

A delight, dark, moving, wry and beautifully shot. Interwoven histories bring depth and engagement to wonderful imagined characters in a simple and involving plot.

***

2006

Monica Bleibtreu, Hannah Herzsprung, Sven Pippig

dir. and written by Chris Kraus

Annie Get Your Gun

A sad fact we all have to deal with: musical theatre has embraced Lloyd-Webber. But seeing Irving Berlin's Annie Get Your Gun restored my faith a measure in the 'musical' genre and reminded me that when music, dance, story, lighting and acting all come together successfully, you have sure-fire entertainment on your hands.

The musical traces the life of Annie Oakley (Jane Horrocks), a small-time crackshot who starts touring the States showing off her shooting, and becomes so successful she even tours Europe. But running parallel with her success are her attempts to win over Frank Butler (Julian Ovenden), a rival gunslinger who takes her under his wing but quickly comes to resent her natural ability and showmanship (showwomanship? showomanship?). As Annie becomes more and more of a hit, Frank withdraws his affections from her; the drama builds towards a final confrontation, where Annie must decide between her reputation as a sharpshooter and her love for Frank.

Horrocks and Ovenden were both on top form: Annie was dopey without being idiotic, and sarcastic without being cynical; Frank meanwhile lived up to his playboy reputation as he swaggered about the stage exuding charm and style. But there was also tenderness in both their performances, and They Say It's Wonderful stayed in my head for days after viewing. It was an onstage chemistry that drew in the audience and captivated.

Of course, something must be said for the staging. Once again, part of the charm of seeing this production was its setting, as the stage of the Young Vic was transformed into a saloon bar, with four pianos at the base of the stage. All the music was provided by these pianos, thrillingly played live. A couple of simple tricks and a sparse setting transformed the stage to a backstage set, a train, a boat and even a swish New York apartment. It was simplicity that further empowered the spirited performances from the ensemble. Annie's lullaby to Jessie, with hums and howls from the Native Americans, was especially touching.

And musically? Well, I mentioned the pianos, but really the clincher was the fact that this isn't Lloyd Webber. The songs have a depth and beauty that far exceeds more recent musicals, and it was truly a pleasure to be lifted by such melodies and transported far beyond my seat in the third row. It's the fact that the songs are not structured so conventionally as to be tedious. The refrains may repeat, but they are never repetitive. Indeed, the repeated structures just affirmed a level of care in Berlin's composition that was thrilling and complemented by the coherence of the production.

I wondered about Sitting Bull and Jessie's performances, the former for being too stilted, the latter for being clumsy, but I think it is too much to judge too fiercely. They hardly marred the performance as a whole for me.

A great afternoon's entertainment.

***

2009

Jane Horrocks, Julian Ovenden

by Irving Berlin

dir. Richard Jones

Choke

I've not read any Chuck Palahniuk before. In fact, I struggle to pronounce his surname. But I've seen Fight Club and I saw the trailer for Choke and when it fell into my lap, and I was failing to sleep, I thought "Ok, why not?". So perhaps I've come to this novel from completely the wrong angle, from the angle of a guy who doesn't really appreciate what Palahniuk's done before, and really just saw that there was choking and sex addiction in the film trailer and wanted to check it out.

There is choking. By that, I mean, Victor, our anti-hero, chokes himself in restaurants to make ordinary people into heroes, as he's discovered that just about anyone likes to be made to feel like a hero, and will, in addition, reward financially the person they've saved. He's doing this for a good reason though, and not because he's a low-down scumbag: his mother is dying of a degenerative brain disease at a local hospice, and just to keep her there costs $3,000 a month. That's the second strand, the mother-son relationship, as his visits start to become more and more strange, as more and more of the old women start to believe he is the one responsible for personal tragedies they each suffered many years before. And the third strand of the narrative? Sex addiction. Victor is a sex addict. He can't help himself. In fact, he goes to three different sex addiction self-help groups a week, just to get more sex.

Don't go kidding yourself, though. The sex is in no way beautiful or erotic or in any way enticing in this book; it's grimy, it's banal and worst of all, it's a bit horrible. There's something pukesome about the way Victor refers to his member as his 'dog', and the way in which he lists to himself the different things he can think about to prolong his orgasm: rotting meat; grandmothers; car crashes; suppurating pores. This isn't sex to be enjoyed, either for him or the reader, but to be put up with and struggled through until the eventual release. Perhaps Palahniuk is a genius, for rendering what should be scintillating as mundane and off-putting, uncomfortable and so starkly factual as to be terrifying.

There's a plot there too, as the three strands come to some kind of climax - can Victor kick the addiction, stay the course with his choking so as to save his mother? And just what is the secret behind his parentage that he so desperately seeks? A twist in the tale early on pushes the reader down a slightly different path, as we begin to re-evaluate his actions in a new light, but the eventual final twist left me a bit let-down. I suppose it might have been that I was reading too fast, on a flight to London, and didn't give the import of the finale the chance to hit home, but I couldn't help but feel that Palahniuk was chasing a similar shock-ending to Fight Club and had just missed it.

Still, it's eminently readable, and goes down a treat, if you can stomach some rather graphic, disgusting sexual discussion, and the fact that as Victor claims, he is a loser that you don't want to read about. His voice is certainly compelling, as he moves between the mundane, the graphic and his own personal obsession with medical terminology. The repeated phrases were at times impressive and amusing, but at other times grated a little too much. It felt too consciously crafted for my liking, and too obviously so. I think I need to read a little more Palahniuk before I pass further judgment.

***

2001

by Chuck Palahniuk

Pineapple Express

It's a straightforward challenge: can two chain-smoking dopeheads make good to save their own skins? Put another way, what happens when you force two perpetually high quasi-losers into situations where mary-jane is no longer helping and numbing and merely a hindrance?

That said, the question seems to suggest that Pineapple Express might be some kind of serious look at weed smoking. It's not. From the opening sequence (a delightful homage to mobster movies in grainy black-and-white), to the various set-pieces of the film (car-chase, household royal-rumble, final mega-showdown complete with Hollywood of the 90s huge fauxplosion), this film had me giggling. As my observant co-viewer suggested, perhaps it was really one to enjoy while high, because while the content was amusing and absurd in equal measure, it never really rose to the level that the two protagonists were supposedly at - almost blind in a drug heaven, in other words.

Those two protagonists, Dale (Seth Rogen) and Saul (James Franco) make a good go of it. There are some delightful exchanges of dialogue, particularly:

Dale: I'm sorry, that sounded really mean... just to hear that, it sounded mean.

Saul: No, I see. The monkey's out of the bottle now!

Dale: What? That's not even... a figure of speech.

Saul: Pandora can't go back in the box - he only comes out!

I found myself quietly touched by their love-hate relationship, as well. It managed to steer clear of becoming a pathetically homoerotic menage-a-deux, while also introducing an element of care and affection that, to my mind, heightened the comedy. I struggled to be amused by the more overtly man-on-man sexually themed moments, but there was tenderness that did prompt a smile. In a similarly vein, the film managed to steer clear of a happy-ever-after for Dale in the standard sense, which was pleasing. Eff Hollywood, and all that.

However, while Franco and Rogen performed well, Franco in particular, and even with some wonderfully wild additional characters (Danny McBride's Red, a Buddhist friends-first dealer who betrays just about everyone in the film, for instance), the film remains fairly episodic, and perhaps would have been better suited as a series of weed-ventures than one long film. As noted, some sequences were both hilarious and enjoyable, but there were also notable dips in the film when it almost seemed like the director was just killing time before the story moved on into another bit of fun. That, to me, combined with no cinematographic or musical highlights, left me wanting far more than what I received. I'd happily watch Franco and Rogen again, but either this is just an eminently quotable 'grower', or a three-star watch-n-discard.

***

2008

Seth Rogen, James Franco, Danny McBride

dir. David Gordon Green

Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk

The second of Boris Akunin's Sister Pelagia novels proved to be just as much, if not more, of a treat than the first, Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog. Beginning in medias res and immediately from where the first book left off, we are plunged into a tale that is structurally and suspensefully superior.

As Sister Pelagia and the Bishop Mitrofanii thought they had finally got to the bottom of the mysteries surrounding Mitrofanii's aunt and her bulldogs, they are confronted by a monk who has sped from New Ararat, a monastic community within Zavolzhie, Mitrofanii's province, to report that St Basilisk, the site's patron, is now haunting the region and warning monks of grave danger in the area. Pelagia of course wishes to investigate, but Mitrofanii feels that this is no matter for a woman, especially not a superstitious nun. Instead, he dispatches a series of other representatives. First, his protege of sorts, Andrei Lentochkin, whom Mitrofanii is keen to convert to Orthodoxy, makes his way to New Ararat, but his letters report failure, and eventual sectioning in the local mental institution. Second, the chief of police, Lagrange, a clear-headed man of courage and action, who meets with his death. Finally, Mitrofanii's trusted advisor, Matvei Bentsionovich Berdichevsky, the third member of Pelagia and Mitrofanii's inner counsel, sets out to get to the bottom of things. He too suffers a reversal of fortune.

All is left to Pelagia, and her ingenious use of disguise, to try to work her way to the bottom of the mystery. But time is against as Mitrofanii, after so many failures, succumbs to a debilitating heart disease and is laid low in his bedchamber. On arrival at New Ararat Pelagia quickly realises all is not as it seems, as the militaristic community veils many oddball characters and crazed individuals, and the lines between the madmen of the institution and the townsfolk are hardly drawn at all. Assumptions and false accusations lead her down a torturous path, where every new revelation throws up further questions and challenges to her, all building to an exciting crescendo - can she find out who has been masquerading as Basilisk, what his message really means, and save Berdichevsky and Lentochkin before it is too late?

A riveting read. I can't wait to get my hands on the third part, Sister Pelagia and the Red Rooster. In the meantime, I've ordered the Fandorin novels to keep me going!

***

by Boris Akunin

Assault on Precinct 13

Well, this will be a short one. I have some excellent novel reviews hanging over me that really need to be written, but thankfully, little needs to be said about this film because there is so little to say (unless exploding and pouring forth a stream of vitriol counts... that's barely good reviewing practice though).

The plot is mind-numbingly simple: cops (inc. Ethan Hawke) closing up a precinct on New Year's Eve find themselves required to contain a certified cop-killer (Fishburne), whom some dirty cops, led by Gabriel Byrne then come after. They're all bad, basically. As is the film. Perhaps it was the atrocious dialogue that killed this for me, as I struggled even to laugh out loud at the absurdity of some of the lines, especially the 'meaningful' exchanges between Hawke and Fishburne as they are forced to ally themselves together to survive the assault.

Plot twists seem glaringly obvious and the violence is needlessly brutal, without adding anything to the film at all. It's not stylised violence one might see elsewhere and it's certainly not tongue-in-cheek gore for entertainment's sake. I honestly can't see what it, or the wooden performances, were hoping to achieve.

I tired so much of this film by about halfway that finishing it was a labour in itself. Thanks for nothing, Richet.

***

2005

Ethan Hawke, Laurence Fishburne, Gabriel Byrne, Maria Bello

Dir. Jean-Francois Richet

Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog

First published in Russian by Boris Akunin, I picked up this translation of the first in a series of books that followed on from Akunin's success with his Erast Fandorin novels. Here his new protagonist and investigator was no longer a Sherlock Holmes hero of derring-do, but a nun, Sister Pelagia, who teaches literature and gymnastics at the local convent, and is relied upon heavily by the bishop, Mitrofanii. Rounding off the trio of core characters is the loveable Matvei Bentsionovich Berdichevsky, converted to Christianity, assistant district prosecutor and father of thirteen. These three form the heroes of the novel, champions for justice in their distant backwater province of Zavolzhsk.

The plot follow two strands: Mitrofanii's aunt asks him to find out who is killing off her beloved white bulldogs, bred for their pure white coats except for one brown ear, their squatness and above all, their slobberiness. It seems like a petty request from a mad canine sympathiser, but Mitrofanii sends Pelagia to investigate, just on the off-chance something is awry. At the same time, recently arrived from St Petersburg is a canonical inspector, sent to cause trouble and stir up discontent in the province, by hook and by crook.

Fans of the Fandorin series have suggested that the leisurely pace of the Pelagia novels is a disappointing change; however, I found myself fully engaged not only with the characters, but with Akunin's wit in relating provincial Russian of the 19th century so wonderfully. It was brought to life for me by the manner in which the lazy laidback nature of the province was mirrored in Akunin's own conversational and humorous style. Other reviews have described the Pelagia novels as workmanlike. I can think of no higher praise, and it certainly highlights Akunin's artistry in bringing together such a relaxed but involving story. I'm now onto book 2, Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk - so far it reads as intriguingly as it's predecessor.

One final point. At one time in the story a certain Mrs Polina Lisitsyna arrives on the scene. She is everything Pelagia is not - glamorous, demure, highly sought after and beautifully turned out. Pelagia groans when she hears that Polina is to be involved in the investigation. I won't reveal the twist, of course, but well worth the wait.

***

by Boris Akunin

District Nine

What happens when you're really into science fiction, you've just got out of film school, you're South African and thus involved with complex questions surrounding racism and then Peter Jackson offers to bankroll your project? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think you end up making a film a bit like District 9.

District 9 takes the premise that aliens do exist and in fact have made it to Earth. But, through interviews with journalists, sociologists and collected scientists, we discover that they didn't land over New York or Hollywood, but over Johannesburg. Rather than rush out, invading army style, they were found to be malnourished, disorganised and suffering severely. An aid camp is immediately set up to support them. Twenty years pass, and the camp becomes a slum; anti-alien sentiment rises in Jo'burg, and MNU (Multi-National United) is contracted to evict the aliens to a new camp, District 10, outside of the city.

Stylistically director Neill Blomkamp has plumped for quasi-documentary filmmaking. Snippets of interviews fill us in with information about the alien arrival very swiftly, and are interspersed with news broadcasts and what appears to be a film crew following the hapless MNU employee, Wikus Van De Merwe, who has been chosen nepotistically to organise the serving of eviction notices to the aliens. It is through Wikus' eyes, or at least, with our eyes on him, that we gain the greatest insight into alien-human relations. Wikus is blase and crass in dealing with the aliens, or 'prawns' as they are dubbed, and even though one knows something is going to go wrong, it is hard not to laugh at how incompetent Wikus proves himself to be.

When things do in fact go wrong, and Wikus finds himself without friends or support, and indeed being pursued by his own company, the film shifts a gear from edgy mockumentary, where the challenge of dealing with race sits side by side with Wikus' ongoing commentary, to nearly-action flick. I say nearly, because I felt that it never quite became full-blown. Or at least, it never leapt the gap into blockbuster territory, as the South African accents and range of camera styles kept that distance from the standard Hollywood action flick. I appreciated that.

What really struck me was just the range of emotions it elicited in me. Yes, there were some difficult questions being posed about racism, and since the film's release the director's handling of the Nigerians in the film, who are portrayed as soulless bandits out only for profit from the hapless aliens, so debased they even eat alien flesh in the hope of magically gaining alien strength, has come into question. But I was also laughing at the natural comedy of the goonish Van De Merwe, and touched as the twist in his life left him at times vomiting and at times in tears. As he squats on a rubbish dump and starts to push cat food into his mouth, only to cry, his face was wracked with the pain of knowing what he was becoming, and what he had lost. That, to me, was a touching moment. Although there was the suggestion of a happy ending, it was not spelt out for us. Perhaps to allow for a sequel, but perhaps because where the strength of the film lay was in the fact it may have had a Hollywood budget, but it wasn't governed by some of the 'laws of filmmaking' that govern many American films in recent years.

***

2009

Sharlto Copley

Dir. Neill Blomkamp

Tears Of The Sun

Another lovefilm gem I've finally got around to viewing. I feel as though even if I don't enjoy a film like Tears of the Sun it's at least my moral responsibility to subject myself to viewing third-hand the atrocities there are in this world. Like why people make films and write books about the Holocaust. No, there isn't a bleaker subject. No, it's never 'enjoyable' to read/see stuff about it. Yes, it is necessary to remember and we should be telling people about just how bad events can be. The same goes for Africa and the horror of tribal violence and ethnic cleansing.

An American task force is sent to a Christian mission in Nigeria just as the President is assassinated in a military coup. The new dictator, from the Muslim north of Nigeria, embarks upon religious and ethnic cleansing to 'free' his people. Bruce Willis, when arriving to rescue an American doctor, is compelled to help some Christian Nigerians to the border with Cameroon and safety.

I'm a fan of Bruce Willis and he gives a solid performance as the trooper who doesn't really know how to disobey orders. Having reached extraction point, and got his 'package' away, leaving the refugees to fend for themselves, he experiences a change of heart and heads back to help them. One of his men quietly confronts him, challenging him to explain what they are doing, and what changed in Bruce's head to cause this turnaround. Willis replies: "I'll let you know when I figure it out".

Monica Bellucci overeggs things as the American doctor, and in fact, the film is weakened firstly by how much emphasis they make on whether or not she is American (she married an American, so is entitled to american protection), and secondly by her rather tearful and extravagant performance. For all her stoic nature and strength in the face of adversity in the jungle, she seemed a little too swift, in my view, to weep. The other way in which I struggled with the film was their presentation of the atrocities. Yes, it is important that we see the brutality of tribal violence that we might be chastened, that a lesson may be learned. But at the same time, I didn't feel this presentation tug at my heart strings as it might have done. Am I becoming inured of it? Or did something fall short in the presentation?

The final explosion fight scene and the loss of some of the American soldiers is touching, and filmed fantastically well. The fact that this film does not rely on fight scenes throughout to engage the attention is to its credit, and there are some nice details: the troops have all learnt something of the local patua, so that they can get by; their military precision is at all times obvious; the shift between languages is well managed. We are not faced with bumbling idiots or a more typical Hollywood plot that relies of character mistakes to propel plot. But at the same time, it seemed to me to be a fairly linear plot, and I was not particularly surprised by a final revelation that I suppose should surprise some: it was far too obviously foreshadowed in the opening scenes.

A well put together, cohesive piece, but for my taste, not gung-ho enough to be really an action movie, nor wrestling firmly enough with sensitive materials really to provoke deep consideration or to summon raw emotional impact.

***

Bruce Willis, Monica Bellucci, Cole Hauser, Eamonn Walker

Dir. Antoine Fuqua