Philadelphia

Why oh why, I tweeted, have I not heard about or thought about or considered Philadelphia before now? Surely this is one of the most moving and meaningful films about homosexuality, about aids, about justice and humanity of the 90s, if not ever? That's certainly a touch of what I thought as I brushed away my tears. Maybe I am just a sucker for a schmalzy flick, and maybe I was tired and touched by a clearly moving story, but I was just a little bit hit in the chest by this one (See also Transamerica, for instance).


Andrew Beckett (Tom Hanks) is a high flying lawyer until his position is unexpectedly terminated, nominally over a lost file, but in actuality because he is beginning to show signs of suffering from aids. He hires Joe Miller (Denzel Washington), a public prosecutor, to fight his case, and so the two lawyers go up against one of the most powerful companies in Philadelphia in the hope that they might win compensation for Beckett's unfair dismissal. Add into the mix that Miller is a closet homophobe, and Beckett's health is deteriorating at a shocking rate, and you have the right elements of drama to make a straight courtroom film a thrill to watch.


Beckett's physical transformation is startling. He goes from a full head of hair to shaven scalp, from slim to unhealthily skinny. His eyes begin to sink into his skull and his hair loses all its colour. During his time on the witness stand he nearly chokes and when asked to show the lesions on his chest, all one can do is bite one's knuckles in distress. So as victory in the case seems to march ever closer, the bittersweet taste becomes ever more evident. Miller's clinical legality shifts to personal involvement as he realises that his client cares for justice more than financial success. He moves from grudging respect to all-out concern for Beckett and his family. But all of this subtly, softly, in the smoothest of strokes, and accompanied by a beautiful score and soundtrack and great footage of Philly. 


Recommended so highly. This film speaks volumes about the suffering of aids victims, of injustice and the meaning of the word disability, while also being gripping and ever so moving.


~~~
1993
Tom Hanks, Denzel Washington, Jason Robbards, Antonio Banderas
dir. Jonathan Demme

A Single Man

A return to more reasonable, rewarding cinema, after the japery of the last few films. Tom Ford's A Single Man charts a long day in the life of George (Colin Firth), an English professor at a Californian university coping with the death of his partner of sixteen years, Jim (Matthew Goode). Over the course of that single day, we watch as George moves between the present and the past as the smallest of details cause him to reflect on the variety his life has seen.


Reviews have swooped upon Ford's experience as a fashion designer as instrumental in the style and colour of this film; certainly there is something to be said of the picturesque nature of the footage throughout. But that any frame could be used as a still is not in itself a valid criticism. Indeed, one of the precepts of French cinema throughout the twentieth century has been to consider each shot as a work of art in itself. Ford treats his material the same, to dazzling effect. His use of colour and angle is a marvel to behold, and how that ties to the central drama of the story, amplified by a delightful score, is rather special. But I couldn't help feeling like perhaps it was a touch too much, a touch too obvious. At times the colouration of scenes was so vivid as to be strangely unnerving and perhaps unwarranted.


For a story in which very little, and yet everything, happens, the outstanding remains in the performances of Colin Firth and Julianne Moore. Her Charley, George's one-time flame, was at all times beautiful, but touched by such a large splash of tragedy as to be a truly involving character. The most scintillating and amusing moments of the film rested in their interactions, where tender feeling would segue into horsey British laughter seamlessly. The film took off at these points. 


What of the homosexuality and the beauty in small things? Well, what of it? There was the suggestion that Ford might use Kenny (Nicholas Hoult) as a beautiful, youthful substitute for Jim. I feared that might be the central message of the piece: Don't fret, you can find a replacement for lost love. So the ending was all the more fitting and kept the film just clear of nauseating commentary on what really needs a far more nuanced touch. Perhaps that was the most enduring feeling for me throughout: while the performances sparkled, while there was so much manipulation in colour and tone, the emotional weight resting behind the film was negligible. A good ending saved the film from cliche, but it was perhaps a heavy hand that tried to disguise itself with beauty as a light touch...


Not a failure, and a joy to watch, and moving and wry. As a directorial debut, one might hope for even greater things from Ford in the future.


~~~
2010
Colin Firth, Julianne Moore, Matthew Goode, Nicholas Hoult
dir. Tom Ford
Based on the novel by Christopher Isherwood

Sherlock Holmes

One needs to be a touch careful with films that delay their release date by a few months. Certainly it's possible that things get delayed post-production or mid-production, and one can't always plan for every hazard Fate might throw up. But having the posters and trailers advertise a date in October, only to push the film back two months smacks of some kind of serious mess-up. It was with this apprehension in mind that I trundled off to see Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes on the big screen.


I must say I was quietly impressed. Holmes (Downie Jr) and Watson (Law) cut a fine pair, and the writers had clearly plugged into some of Dr. Watson's back story as evinced in so many of Conan Doyle's stories to ensure he wasn't another moustachioed bumbling sidekick. His powers of detection and deduction were nearly on a par with Sherlock's. Nearly. 


The deductive and observatory were in evidence throughout. From slow-motion cut-aways where Holmes explains to the audience his plan of attack in a given fight scene (and I can't resist dropping in a shot from one such fight here), to his pacing and deliberation, at every stage we are led to believe that Holmes' mind is ticking away non-stop. This is only heightened by the plot, in which it seems a devil-worshipping psycho really has the power of magic or spirits or some such on his side, and he's employing it to vicious effect across London. It's only in the final denouement that we get to hear Sherlock's alternative reasoning. Perfectly timed to crush any expectations we might have created throughout the film. 


Irene Adler (Rachel McAdams) makes an appearance too, as the only woman to hold Holmes' attention for any length of time. She's a sneak-thief, and matches Holmes' deduction and lust with deception and connivery. It's a great on-screen relationship, playful and thrilling, and McAdams does herself justice, and stumbles through her accent just about. 


This film just about ticked the right boxes. There was never a dull moment, and Holmes and Watson were a playful and engaging pair. The story ticked along at a rate of knots, and even the over-blown effects and tomfoolery didn't dent my enjoyment. All in all, fun. No great picture, no masterpiece. But no offence to Arthur Conan Doyle's greatest creation either.

~~~

2009

Robert Downie Jr, Jude Law, Rachel McAdams

dir. Guy Ritchie

Apocalypto

Praise be iPlayer; I caught up with Apocalypto a couple of days after what I believe was its terrestrial premiere in the UK. I'd been meaning to see it for a while. It's not every film that claims to use the original dialect of its characters. Here it's a form of Mayan spoken by all the characters. Perhaps this was last seen to any affect in The Passion of the Christ, where dialogue was conducting exclusively in Latin and Aramaic. Of course, both films were directed by Mel Gibson too.


The collapse of a Southern American civilisation is portended not only by exterior threat, but by disease and infighting tearing it apart from within. Jaguar Paw (Rudy Youngblood), a young hunter who lives a peaceful existence with family and friends in a remote village, is kidnapped and taken to a city to be sacrificed. A solar eclipse saves him sacrifice and then a lucky escape sees him flee back into the jungle. Yet his captors decide his escape is not permissable. He is hunted mercilessly until it becomes a battle between prey and predator to decide his fate. 


Youngblood's performance seem to me to be emblematic of the greater faults and successes of Apocalypto. While Jaguar Paw remains innocent and fearful, he was all wide-eyed and slow to comprehend his circumstances. The drama seemed to stretch out interminably ahead of me. Even the moments when I expected some cinematic relief, such as the cliffside drama of the captives or their arrival into the Mayan city, were strangely stripped down and limited. Where Gibson had the opportunity to do some panoramic shots of the city, for instance, we instead were left with all the footage entirely from the point of view of the captives. It was all close-ups and restricted views. We weren't given a chance to have a sense of the scale of the place, to feel the awe that we were meant to see mirrored in the captives' faces. 


Yet when Jaguar Paw finally began to take his circumstances into his own hands, doing away with fear as his father advised and fighting for his freedom and safety, the film itself seemed to pick up too. Where hunt scenes at the start of the film had been tedious and un-engaging, now Jaguar Paw caught my attention and the story seemed to jolt from first to fifth gear in a few mere moments. On the clock, where before I had worried I'd not make it through the second half, now were only a brief chunk of minutes left. The end was in sight!


The other disappointing detail was that Blunted (Jonathan Brewer), another villager regularly mocked by the rest, was in many ways a more interesting and entertaining character than the rather straight hero, Jaguar Paw. Blunted, despite being physically imposing, has trouble getting his wife pregnant. As such he is the laughing stock of the village. Yet his bravery and compassion are just as moving, if not more so, than Jaguar Paw. He represents a harder line than Jaguar Paw, more quick to judge the ills of others and more aware of the realism of a tough existence. It was a shame he was not afforded a larger role in the drama, as throughout I found his character to be more watchable.


It's also a shame that this film really just sits as standard historical blockbuster fare. So much more could have been done with scope and range, with a storyline that engaged more or characterisations that gave the viewer more to care about. But it rests as a rather insipid affair, all told. At least, it does not quite take off in the way that it could, despite great costuming and attention to detail, and, of course, the excellent choice of using native language to offer that extra chance for audience immersion.


~~~
2006
Rudy Youngblood, Jonathan Brewer
dir. Mel Gibson

X-Men Origins: Wolverine

Gosh. This'll be short and anything but sweet. It's making me grin just thinking about this train-wreck of a film, that I had even mentioned to a couple of people about how I only seemed to review things that I thought had some aspect that was absolutely excellent, and asked whether I should watch more dross to compensate, to get a bit of variety in my reviewing. And I have to repeat gosh because I probably have more to say about what I didn't like about this than anything else.


It just seemed so very wrong. So repeatedly wrong. Every attempt to make some kind of gesture to the fans, as with the inclusion of Remy LeBeau (Taylor Kitsch) or the young Cyclops, just seemed to falter. Storyline barely existed, while dialogue and performances were stilted at best. Wolverine himself (Hugh Jackman) looked at though he might have dosed up mightily on painkillers just to get through his own performance. Flat and dead behind the eyes is probably being a bit kind. I cared nothing for these folks. I didn't want to care. I just wanted them to go away.


I suppose the tragedy of all of this is that I am a long time X-Men fan. More than just a comic book fan, I also thought Bryan Singer's offerings were passable, if not fairly excellent, as attempts at the early stage of comic book adaptation for the 21st century. X-Men 3 was woefully bad, but still seems to hang together all right in my memory in comparison to this turgid piece of... can I call it cinema? Who would this film even appeal to? It was thoroughly lifeless.


~~~
2009
Hugh Jackman, Taylor Kitsch, Liev Schreiber, Danny Huston
dir. Gavin Hood

Role Models

'All the right ideas; all the wrong execution'. That's the feeling I was left with at the end of Role Models, a rather standard attempt at the American Comedy model that seems to have been so prevalent throughout 2008 and 2009. It's a shame because, after all, the ingredients seemed to be there: two fairly accomplished funny men (Rudd and Scott) take on two wild children (Mintz-Plasse and Thompson) as part of their community service, just as Danny (Paul Rudd) realises his life is falling apart and his girlfriend (the charmingly straight Elizabeth Banks) breaks up with him. So there's romantic potential there, but only as a bit of spice to the otherwise obvious comedy main serving. Paul Rudd even has a writing credit to his name. Surely the chap best known for his improvisation in making Anchorman will have comedy pouring out of his ears here.


But it falls flat. That's not to say it's not a funny film; it is. But it's funny at times when I didn't expect it to be funny. Similarly, at the times when the dialogue is at its quickest, it's not really funny at all. Quick banter can either thrill or chill, and sadly this was far more chilling than anything else. What should have been rapid fire amusement simply didn't work. Or was it well-written and badly delivered? I couldn't tell. I thought the idea was there; it just wasn't coming out. Some of the lines in themselves seemed like they could be funny if they just weren't so darn flat. But maybe Rudd and Scott were going for flat delivery, as they were meant to be hardened jokesters who no longer found themselves amusing. I don't know. The confusion didn't add to my enjoyment.


But there was humour in the strangest of places too. Augie's (Mintz-Plasse) final showdown was particularly memorable. The set-up for the final Kiss joke was also highly amusing. In that respect Role Models managed something nearly reminiscent of Hot Fuzz, that most excellent foreshadowing of a later comic twist. But regrettably even live action roleplay and plastic sword battles, all in Kiss gear, couldn't really redeem a film in which I'd ceased to care much about the characters, beyond wondering when they'd start to be truly funny and not just try at being so. A shame, all in all.


~~~
2008


Paul Rudd, Seann William Scott, Christopher Mintz-Plasse, Bobb'e J. Thompson


dir. David Wain

Yellow Blue Tibia

Adam Robert's Yellow Blue Tibia is the record of the attempted alien invasion of the Soviet Union in 1986, told by science fiction writer Konstantin Skvorecky as he pieces together the disparate elements that make up the story. It's a good enough device, to write as a writer who is prone to flights of imagination and prides himself on his command of language. It's also a good plan to set the novel in the USSR and play some games with language and translation. Fortuitously enough, our hero can speak English so communication with American scientologists provides no problems.


But unfortunately, despite the obvious attention paid to narrative devices and structure, the novel falls flat for two main reasons:

1. It struck me as rather pat, rather trite, how elements combined to bring about the hero's death, the failed invasion. What felt as though it was building to a massive climax ended instead in a feeling of disappointment. If that was the intention of the author, as I hope it might have been, sadly he failed to pull it off in any meaningful or rewarding way. Instead, I was left deflated, and not because I felt that was the intended response of a reader, but because the finale had missed the point.
2. The setting and characters are by and large Russian. But Robert's experience of Russia, if he has any, is not in evidence in the writing. That in itself is not essential; what is, however, is that we aren't provided with mere caricatures of what a Soviet man might be like in the 80s. Yet there is something horribly garish about the jesting with 'yellow blue tibia', an attempt at rendering in English ya lublyu tibya, the Russian for 'I love you'. There's something garish about the pastiche of omnipresent KGB officers, about how everyone is an alcoholic bar Skvorecky. There's even something a little disappointing that the book's jacket has to include that silly attempt at mock-Russian styling in using letters from Cyrillic as though they made sense in English. They don't. It just looks ill-considered.

The premise is good enough, and Roberts' clearly knows how to manipulate elements of a novel to great effect. But there needs to be some kind of passion behind such a manipulation. Otherwise, we are reading an exercise in novel writing, not a novel itself.

~~~

2009

Adam Roberts

Orion Books

The Last Man On Earth

I've gone about all this wrong, I thought, as I tuned in to watch the first adaptation of Richard Matheson's I Am Legend after both The Omega Man (reviewed here) and I Am Legend (with Will Smith). But, in actual fact, I think I might have gone about things the right way.


For starters, The Last Man On Earth stays faithful to a far greater degree to Matheson's novella than either of the later adaptations. Gone is the slick stylisation of The Omega Man or the transplantation to New York of Lawrence's 2007 hit. Instead, we have the same run-down home described in the book, and the same kind of man: a family man, with remembered friends and memories, with science as his gospel, and with a curious immunity to the virus that plagues the rest of the world. Here too we have some of the greatest accuracy to the book's plot: a new breed of 'vampire' that is organising society anew; spies sent to draw out Robert (who strangely is Morgan, not Neville, in The Last Man, a strange, unnecessary deviation in my view); Robert's own interest in science and introspection. The film even ends in the same way as the book.


So this was very much the climax of the trilogy for me, even though I came to it last, and should perhaps have reached it first. Price's Robert is brooding and pained at all turns (check out those eyebrows and the lines on his head), and very much aware of his own sickening isolation. This is brought about in part by his voice-overs, so succinct and curious, yet echoing in silence, and in part by a score that, like any good black and white film, mirrors the action on screen. It certainly seemed dated now, but worked very well with the material offered up. 


That was, to my eye, the one weakness of the film: for a paltry 86 minutes it felt a lot longer, and it struggled to keep my attention very effectively. But that surely says more about me as a film watcher than about the film, or at least a little about both of us. The adaptation was as close as I'd want it to be to the novel, and yet that wasn't enough for it to be truly engaging for me. 


Definitely worth a look in for any fans of I Am Legend or The Omega Man, but not quite the cinema gem it could be. I wish I could put my finger on why not...


~~~
1964


Vincent Price, Franca Bettoia, Emma Danieli


dir. Ubaldo Ragona & Sidney Salkow (depending on whether one watches the Italian prints)

Six Degrees of Separation

A chance pair of free matinee tickets saw me and a friend skipping our way to the Old Vic for front row seats to Six Degrees of Separation. John Guare's play charts the appearance of one Paul Poitier, a charming young black man who insinuates himself into the company of rich Upper East Siders in New York, pretending to know their children at Harvard. Winning over various families, he stays with them without actually stealing from them or behaving in any kind of dubious manner... unless one considers having gay sex in their homes dubious. 


On discovering this bad behaviour, one couple, Ouisa and Flan Kittredge, are outraged. What if Paul had stabbed them in the night? What if he had robbed them? How dare he trick them? But of course, by then he's fled. So we embark on the journey of the Kittredges to track down this imposter in their midst, who turns out not to be Sidney Poitier's son at all. All the while, Paul slowly begins to weave counter-factual stories about his place in their lives. Their friends and children and children's friends are brought into the equation. Has Paul actually really done anything wrong, in aspiring to share in the lives and successes of people he does not know? If the title holds true, and he is only separated from everyone else on earth by only six degrees, why shouldn't he attempt to better himself? 


A good script goes a long way; here was no exception, and the delivery was, to my ears, spot on. There was that polished confidence to the players that left me a half-second behind, in awe, enjoying every twist and turn of the dialogue. When Paul (Obi Abili) starts to monologue on his thesis, a piece on Catcher in the Rye, I couldn't help but feel a little bit, well, emotional. After all, Salinger only passed away less than a week before I saw the show, which made the speech even more poignant, but it's also concerning not just the text itself, but how that book was taken as a symbol for violent rebellion by so many dysfunctional young men. After we learn that Paul is not in fact what he's claimed to be, the parallel between Holden and his 'phonies' and Paul could not really be clearer. Is Paul what he pretends to be? Or is just another person playing at a role? He accuses Ouisa of not being truly happy, and we see how his thesis, his challenge, rings true for many of the characters in the drama. We cannot be sure to what extent we've been watching real lives and not just the poses that people strike for each other.


The Kittredges, so much the centre of the drama, were played by the ever-at-ease Anthony Head and Lesley Manville. They share an excellent chemistry on stage that was heightened both by their overlapping dialogue and by the later realisation provided as to how little they might in fact know each other. Despite that, they rely entirely on one another. Swift, fluid costume changes and a beautiful hemispherical set also enhanced their poise and style. The set worked particularly well as a means for intensifying the drama while also not distracting from the action on stage. As it peeled open, just as more and more characters joined the play, the action seemed to blossom. As the focus returned at the close to Paul, Flan and Ouisa, so too the set closed up. It was a simple, yet very intense, effect to employ, and one that worked in my view.


I suppose it wouldn't be a review without at least the shortest of mentions of the gay sex. After all, you get to see two fully naked men romping on a sofa. That in itself didn't bother me - it's theatre, isn't it? But just to add a bit of spice to the drama, the audience members directly behind me happened to express their shock in rather loud terms. When Paul says "That's enough for now", we heard loudly "Thank God" from over our shoulders. I couldn't help but grin. Perhaps the matinee crowd weren't quite ready for Guare. Let's hope they don't stumble upon some Kane any time soon. For their own sakes.


~~~
2010
Obi Abili, Anthony Head, Lesley Manville
by John Guare
dir. David Grindley, design Jonathan Fensom

Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios

Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios (Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown), Pedro Almodovar's 1989 offering, showcases a director enjoying his work intensely. Not only does the film clearly signpost a direction that many of his films were to take from then on (Not least Volver or Talk to her), but it stands alone as a fantastic piece of cinema.

One of the strengths of the piece, as so often remarked about other Almodovar's films, is the way in which he uses his camera work to give the audience a close-up of a life. It's regularly a woman, or a group of women, and there's a sensitivity to the portrayal that is a joy to watch. Here, it's Pepa (Carmen Maura; perhaps better known for her performance in Volver or Law of Desire), a voice-actress whose stormy relationship with Ivan (Fernando Guillen; he returns to Almodovar in '98 for All About My Mother, too) is finally coming to an end. He's a serial philanderer, it seems, and she clearly can do a lot better, but has let herself fall far too deeply in love with him. So she sets out both to attempt to win him back and also to get over him. A host of other people flit in and out of her life, and there's even a sort of step-son who makes an appearance (Banderas, no less). But really, it's Maura that rightly has pride of place in the film: she's beautiful to watch and her character just on the quirky side of charming and mad. The relationship between Maura and the camera is enchanting, and she's a witty character too, which makes it all the more pleasurable to watch.

The script is another strength here. I was watching with subtitles, but could make out enough of the spanish to follow that too: it's quick, light and with a plot that any writer would love to write. A good blend of pitfalls and developments that leave the audience grinning spice up what could potentially be a story that becomes bogged down in self-pity or man-hating. Instead, Pepa rushes about manically enough for it to be funny, but with awareness of her own madness enough for it to be touching and emotional. And, fortunately enough, the Hollywood-style schmaltzy ending is avoided here too. Instead, there's closure of sorts, alongside a splash of revenge, but there's also moving on, which must be worth more than that. 

I'll watch some more Almodovar and start writing proper reviews.

~~~
1989

Carmen Maura, Antonio Banderas, Fernando Guillen

Written and directed by Pedro Almodovar