The most breathtakingly bad film I have seen in years, this idiotic agglomeration of CGI cataclysms began with laughable pseudo-science and mystical Mayan hokum before blithely skipping through laughable set-piece after set-piece. There wasn't a moment where the Lucky Family That Survives wasn't a few feet away from seething magma, tumbling tube trains or colliding skyscrapers. While films of the worst sort are sometimes made bearable by the very idiocy of their plots, this piece of flavourless chewing gum just kept giving back the same cardboard taste, with plot and script fitted into the tiny cracks between the action scenes. An apocalypse of sorts, this film has convinced me to never see another film by Emmerich and also to avoid anything generated on a computer that wasn't made by Pixar. Sad, sad, sad.
Reviews
19 Reviews
Vicky Cristina Barcelona
(2008)
Europeans are crazy and unhappy, but at least they're not dead
15 March 2010
Warning: Spoilers
Vicky Christina Barcelona fits well into the "Woody abroad" genre that comprises pretty much any Woody Allen film not made in New York (correction: not made in Manhattan). Spain is a series of attractive tourist views, Spanish people are either having sex, looking steamy or gustating in a sexy way, so watch out any bland, parboiled American ingenues that happen to fall into this fragrant and meaty broth.
The film starts with the arrival of the eponymous heroines in the same city, all of which is told to us by a flat, sardonic narration that continues through the film, giving an air of Lars von Trier's Dogville to the piece: whatever happens on-screen is provided with a stark, dismissive description, the effect of which is to distance the action (which is schematic at best) even further from the viewer.
What does happen is an absurd intertwining of lusts, doubts and desires, which tease tall moody Vicky and blonde sexpot Christina into a frenzy around the irredeemably macho presence of Javier Bardem. As such it's not a bad effort: the girls loosen up under the Spanish sun, and Bardem hams it up as the unshaven, bacchanalian stereotype of masculinity. But the whole operation is so diagrammatic and so undercut by the cruel narration that you have to start wondering what Woody really thinks that he is doing.
That only really becomes apparent when Penelope Cruz hits the screen and saves the film. My god, I am really turning into a big Cruz fan. She seems to be capable of doing anything, saving anything, and here, as Bardem's ex-wife she breaks through the film's study of types with a performance that is as ridiculous as it is riveting. Somehow, despite her unbelievably exaggerated manner, she seems to be the only real person on the screen, while the others are just playing their parts.
So the film keeps going, people do stuff and the narrator's deadpan, snarky manner reminds us that it's all ridiculous, all pretty pointless really. When the film does finish, the statement it makes appears to be pretty bleak too. Vicky returns to America, to live with the husband that she does not love, Christina goes back too, still searching, having been unable to find satisfaction, even in a pre-lapsarian menage a trois.
I might be completely wrong, but it seems that the wider point that Woody is making is pretty unfavourable about his fellow Americans: Barcelona offers both girls a glimpse of how life can be, and both of them are too scared to seize it. The Spanish people in the film (who are of course cartoon Spaniards) by contrast carry on with their crazed, passion-filled existences. They might not be very happy, but they are very much alive.
I have to declare that I'm a very big Woody Allen fan and would be prepared to watch anything that he makes. Sometimes that leads to great pleasure (as in the classics of the late seventies and early eighties), and sometimes to confusion and boredom (as in the execrable Match Point, which I really hated). Vicky Christina Barcelona is neither a high water mark nor a low tide on that scale, but it is a work apart. It seems to be that it's a much darker work than most of Woody's output, a deeply alienated analysis of what is wrong with America, albeit through the means of desultory comedy. Without Penelope Cruz it would have been a lot darker still.
The film starts with the arrival of the eponymous heroines in the same city, all of which is told to us by a flat, sardonic narration that continues through the film, giving an air of Lars von Trier's Dogville to the piece: whatever happens on-screen is provided with a stark, dismissive description, the effect of which is to distance the action (which is schematic at best) even further from the viewer.
What does happen is an absurd intertwining of lusts, doubts and desires, which tease tall moody Vicky and blonde sexpot Christina into a frenzy around the irredeemably macho presence of Javier Bardem. As such it's not a bad effort: the girls loosen up under the Spanish sun, and Bardem hams it up as the unshaven, bacchanalian stereotype of masculinity. But the whole operation is so diagrammatic and so undercut by the cruel narration that you have to start wondering what Woody really thinks that he is doing.
That only really becomes apparent when Penelope Cruz hits the screen and saves the film. My god, I am really turning into a big Cruz fan. She seems to be capable of doing anything, saving anything, and here, as Bardem's ex-wife she breaks through the film's study of types with a performance that is as ridiculous as it is riveting. Somehow, despite her unbelievably exaggerated manner, she seems to be the only real person on the screen, while the others are just playing their parts.
So the film keeps going, people do stuff and the narrator's deadpan, snarky manner reminds us that it's all ridiculous, all pretty pointless really. When the film does finish, the statement it makes appears to be pretty bleak too. Vicky returns to America, to live with the husband that she does not love, Christina goes back too, still searching, having been unable to find satisfaction, even in a pre-lapsarian menage a trois.
I might be completely wrong, but it seems that the wider point that Woody is making is pretty unfavourable about his fellow Americans: Barcelona offers both girls a glimpse of how life can be, and both of them are too scared to seize it. The Spanish people in the film (who are of course cartoon Spaniards) by contrast carry on with their crazed, passion-filled existences. They might not be very happy, but they are very much alive.
I have to declare that I'm a very big Woody Allen fan and would be prepared to watch anything that he makes. Sometimes that leads to great pleasure (as in the classics of the late seventies and early eighties), and sometimes to confusion and boredom (as in the execrable Match Point, which I really hated). Vicky Christina Barcelona is neither a high water mark nor a low tide on that scale, but it is a work apart. It seems to be that it's a much darker work than most of Woody's output, a deeply alienated analysis of what is wrong with America, albeit through the means of desultory comedy. Without Penelope Cruz it would have been a lot darker still.
Soul Kitchen
(2009)
Nicely balanced, generous film from Germany"s most interesting director
9 February 2010
With films like Against the Wall, Crossing the Bridge and The Edge of Heaven, Faith Akin has set a high aesthetic bar at which his newest work inevitably stumbles. Which is not to say that the film is a failure by any means, simply that it must be judged as a minor work in this impressive directors oeuvre.
Set in Hamburg's seedy demi-monde, the film relates the fortunes of the Soul Kitchen restaurant and its unhappy-go-lucky proprietor, with a protein-rich narrative arc from wretched normality through multiple adversities to a slightly more hopeful normality. And while the restaurant moves up-scale gastronomically the story remains comfort food throughout, providing plenty of opportunities for comic set pieces and tragi-comic misunderstandings.
What we end up with is a patchwork of scenes, connected by a narrative strand that connects property speculation, prostitution, drugs and music. None of it quite makes sense, but this is a film ruled by the heart and not the head. What it lacks in precision it makes up for in warmth.
In general the performances are impressive, and the unavoidable Moritz Bleibtreu (who seems to be compulsory casting in any German film worth its salt) is particularly engaging as the protagonist's jailbird brother, constantly swinging his prayer beads as hustles.
The film's lightness of touch is perhaps its saving grace: the music complements the story without dominating; food and cookery play a subordinate, if enjoyable role, but never do we get too bogged down in the niceties of nouvelle cuisine. And this must be the first major film in which Skype plays such a major role. Product placement perhaps but very realistically done.
Another enjoyable aspect is the way in which the interplay of cultures - Greek, Turkish, German, whatever - is handled in a no-nonsense workmanlike way. Perhaps it takes a German of Turkish extraction to do this. My feeling is that other German directors would be more sheepish in their handling of these issues.
In conclusion I'd say that the film is good, not great, and shows that Faith Akin can also make a gentle, feel-good comedy without compromising his higher aesthetic achievements.
Set in Hamburg's seedy demi-monde, the film relates the fortunes of the Soul Kitchen restaurant and its unhappy-go-lucky proprietor, with a protein-rich narrative arc from wretched normality through multiple adversities to a slightly more hopeful normality. And while the restaurant moves up-scale gastronomically the story remains comfort food throughout, providing plenty of opportunities for comic set pieces and tragi-comic misunderstandings.
What we end up with is a patchwork of scenes, connected by a narrative strand that connects property speculation, prostitution, drugs and music. None of it quite makes sense, but this is a film ruled by the heart and not the head. What it lacks in precision it makes up for in warmth.
In general the performances are impressive, and the unavoidable Moritz Bleibtreu (who seems to be compulsory casting in any German film worth its salt) is particularly engaging as the protagonist's jailbird brother, constantly swinging his prayer beads as hustles.
The film's lightness of touch is perhaps its saving grace: the music complements the story without dominating; food and cookery play a subordinate, if enjoyable role, but never do we get too bogged down in the niceties of nouvelle cuisine. And this must be the first major film in which Skype plays such a major role. Product placement perhaps but very realistically done.
Another enjoyable aspect is the way in which the interplay of cultures - Greek, Turkish, German, whatever - is handled in a no-nonsense workmanlike way. Perhaps it takes a German of Turkish extraction to do this. My feeling is that other German directors would be more sheepish in their handling of these issues.
In conclusion I'd say that the film is good, not great, and shows that Faith Akin can also make a gentle, feel-good comedy without compromising his higher aesthetic achievements.
Green Street Hooligans
(2005)
The worst film ever made? Probably...
3 July 2009
Warning: Spoilers
There is no nil on the IMDb rating system. Which is a pity. Because that's what this dismal pile of sentimental offal deserves. A big round nil.
The accents: It would be alright to pick one actor incapable of speaking with a proper east London accent, perhaps. But to pick all of the actors on the basis of their inability to talk in a convincing dialect seems a little perverse. I expect that Elijah Wood's American accent is wrong, too, but I can't tell.
The plot: I couldn't care less whether plots are realistic or not, but they need to obey at least an inner logic, and this one fails on that score. Thrown out of Harvard because his roomie was dealing blow, Mr Wood lands among a bunch of "thugs" as soon as he hits London. I really believe that one, just like the idea that an ex-hooligan is now a big wheel in the city or something generically successful, like Mr Wood's brother-in-law is meant to be.
The message: The most repugnant thing about this film is its message. Essentially it's telling us that hooligans are all good fellows really, that the feeling brotherhood that they offer to the waifs and strays at the edges of society is a good thing. The film ends with the lamentable Mr Wood singing "I'm forever blowing bubbles" triumphantly, having stitched up his blow-dealing roomie, with the message being that he has grown and matured from his contact with the London yobs. Soryy, but it's not that diofferent from doing a Waffen SS buddy movie. Any plans for something like that in the pipeline? Because these people are viciously racist anti-semites who maim, injure and intimidate with impunity. Which makes the film not only dreadful but completely amoral in the worst possible way. Waffen SS here we come. Oh, and if you want to see a good film about English youth, watch the wonderful This is England.
The accents: It would be alright to pick one actor incapable of speaking with a proper east London accent, perhaps. But to pick all of the actors on the basis of their inability to talk in a convincing dialect seems a little perverse. I expect that Elijah Wood's American accent is wrong, too, but I can't tell.
The plot: I couldn't care less whether plots are realistic or not, but they need to obey at least an inner logic, and this one fails on that score. Thrown out of Harvard because his roomie was dealing blow, Mr Wood lands among a bunch of "thugs" as soon as he hits London. I really believe that one, just like the idea that an ex-hooligan is now a big wheel in the city or something generically successful, like Mr Wood's brother-in-law is meant to be.
The message: The most repugnant thing about this film is its message. Essentially it's telling us that hooligans are all good fellows really, that the feeling brotherhood that they offer to the waifs and strays at the edges of society is a good thing. The film ends with the lamentable Mr Wood singing "I'm forever blowing bubbles" triumphantly, having stitched up his blow-dealing roomie, with the message being that he has grown and matured from his contact with the London yobs. Soryy, but it's not that diofferent from doing a Waffen SS buddy movie. Any plans for something like that in the pipeline? Because these people are viciously racist anti-semites who maim, injure and intimidate with impunity. Which makes the film not only dreadful but completely amoral in the worst possible way. Waffen SS here we come. Oh, and if you want to see a good film about English youth, watch the wonderful This is England.
No Country for Old Men
(2007)
Respect, yes; love, no.
16 May 2009
Warning: Spoilers
The Coens' scattershot approach to film making means that you never know what's coming next: good comedy, bad comedy, torpid thrillers, electrifying, genre-busting thrillers or perfect, ice-cold artworks like No Country for Old Men.
In many ways it's a work that reminds me of Cronenburg's A History of Violence in its subject matter, its emphasis on the arbitrary, inexplicable nature of existence and its deliberate withholding of information from the viewer.
And it's this last point, the withholding of information, that truly reveals the Coens' greatness. In his recent book How Fiction Works, James Wood states that this is exactly the strategy that Shakespeare uses to raise his plays above the level of other revenge tragedies. Essentially it is because we don't know why Lear and Othello and the rest do it that they remain compelling figures.
In No Country, we are also faced with characters who seem to have the word "INSCRUTABLE" written on their foreheads. And not only that, these characters are then put into situations that are deliberately withheld from us - the shootout that precedes the film, the shootout at the El Paso motel, the conclusion of Xavier Badem's visit to Kelly MacDonald at the film's end.
Lesser artists would have wanted to tie up the loose ends and resolved all the open questions, but the Coens, while perhaps not of Shakespearean vintage, honour the tradition of serious film-making in which the ending staying open, the threads hang, and we hang too, wondering when we will finally fall.
Which doesn't necessarily make for a feel-good movie. And the film's most sympathetic characters are not treated kindly: Llewelyn Moss is shot off-screen and found dead, Sheriff Ed Tom Bell fizzles out of his police role, broken by what he has seen, and what happens to Carla Jean Moss remains unclear.
There has always been an icy streak in the Coens' films, from Blood Simple to Fargo, to the Man Who Wasn't There. You could say that they're like boys pulling wings off flies just to see what will happen. And then they pull off another one and another one...
Despite these doubts there's no denying the brilliance of the work. You may not like it particularly, but you've got to respect it.
However, if you're looking for a film that packs as visceral punch while also speaking to the heart, go and see Let There Be Blood.
In many ways it's a work that reminds me of Cronenburg's A History of Violence in its subject matter, its emphasis on the arbitrary, inexplicable nature of existence and its deliberate withholding of information from the viewer.
And it's this last point, the withholding of information, that truly reveals the Coens' greatness. In his recent book How Fiction Works, James Wood states that this is exactly the strategy that Shakespeare uses to raise his plays above the level of other revenge tragedies. Essentially it is because we don't know why Lear and Othello and the rest do it that they remain compelling figures.
In No Country, we are also faced with characters who seem to have the word "INSCRUTABLE" written on their foreheads. And not only that, these characters are then put into situations that are deliberately withheld from us - the shootout that precedes the film, the shootout at the El Paso motel, the conclusion of Xavier Badem's visit to Kelly MacDonald at the film's end.
Lesser artists would have wanted to tie up the loose ends and resolved all the open questions, but the Coens, while perhaps not of Shakespearean vintage, honour the tradition of serious film-making in which the ending staying open, the threads hang, and we hang too, wondering when we will finally fall.
Which doesn't necessarily make for a feel-good movie. And the film's most sympathetic characters are not treated kindly: Llewelyn Moss is shot off-screen and found dead, Sheriff Ed Tom Bell fizzles out of his police role, broken by what he has seen, and what happens to Carla Jean Moss remains unclear.
There has always been an icy streak in the Coens' films, from Blood Simple to Fargo, to the Man Who Wasn't There. You could say that they're like boys pulling wings off flies just to see what will happen. And then they pull off another one and another one...
Despite these doubts there's no denying the brilliance of the work. You may not like it particularly, but you've got to respect it.
However, if you're looking for a film that packs as visceral punch while also speaking to the heart, go and see Let There Be Blood.
I Am Dina
(2002)
A silly, confused waste of wonderful scenery and out-of-place actors
7 April 2009
Warning: Spoilers
Faced with the prospect of a Norwegian film in English with a plethora of international actors, I should have seen the warning signs. For one, people speaking accented English to convey the sense of a foreign language has always annoyed me ("Zose are ze fekts, mein fuhrer!").
This film isn't perhaps quite that awful, but the plot appears to have been written by the committee for Silly Twists together with the Fjord Tourist Board.
Equally, the style of the film is all over the place: a smörgåsbord of genre-dipping ranging from horror and ghost-tale to melodrama, costume drama, sub-Ibsenesque family saga, Bergman-lite and god knows what else.
Together these result in an utterly confusing accretion of episodes that usually end in death, or haunting, or both, but no clear directorial stance on how see either.
What I'm missing is any kind of moral, aesthetic or conceptual centre. We must remember that the woman upon whom the film centres is responsible for several deaths, at least one of the premeditated. But is she mad? Is she hallucinating? Is she simply dreaming? Which brings us to the central character. Personally I'm all in favour of strong female roles but the one that this film serves up is a completely anachronistic projection of modern modes of behaviour onto a time where a woman would not have been able to do what Dina does without getting shut up in a nunnery or a madhouse at the very least.
Shouldn't a film that shows a woman overcome adversity and male prejudice at least show some pretty effective adversity and male prejudice? For most of this film Dina rides roughshod over men and women alike (or unshod, depending upon the stable boy in question). It's as if her initial trauma is so overwhelming that the world simply makes way for her for the rest of her life. Fat chance.
Therefore I'd have to recommend any discerning viewer to give this portentous, confused example of the international co-production a miss.
This film isn't perhaps quite that awful, but the plot appears to have been written by the committee for Silly Twists together with the Fjord Tourist Board.
Equally, the style of the film is all over the place: a smörgåsbord of genre-dipping ranging from horror and ghost-tale to melodrama, costume drama, sub-Ibsenesque family saga, Bergman-lite and god knows what else.
Together these result in an utterly confusing accretion of episodes that usually end in death, or haunting, or both, but no clear directorial stance on how see either.
What I'm missing is any kind of moral, aesthetic or conceptual centre. We must remember that the woman upon whom the film centres is responsible for several deaths, at least one of the premeditated. But is she mad? Is she hallucinating? Is she simply dreaming? Which brings us to the central character. Personally I'm all in favour of strong female roles but the one that this film serves up is a completely anachronistic projection of modern modes of behaviour onto a time where a woman would not have been able to do what Dina does without getting shut up in a nunnery or a madhouse at the very least.
Shouldn't a film that shows a woman overcome adversity and male prejudice at least show some pretty effective adversity and male prejudice? For most of this film Dina rides roughshod over men and women alike (or unshod, depending upon the stable boy in question). It's as if her initial trauma is so overwhelming that the world simply makes way for her for the rest of her life. Fat chance.
Therefore I'd have to recommend any discerning viewer to give this portentous, confused example of the international co-production a miss.
Slumdog Millionaire
(2008)
this film is all in capital letters and it makes me like e.e. cummings more than i used to
30 March 2009
Warning: Spoilers
I went into this film with high expectations based on friends' ratings, but came out feeling slightly knocked about and empty, as if I too had suffered at the hands of the Mumbai constabulary. I'd like to emphasise though that my problem with the film was not its fable-like narrative - the sketchy, inconsistent and unexplained nature of events and the refusal to explain was rather a strength for me. Rather, it was the overall style and the compulsion to take the symmetries of plot and circumstance (which are a standard part of almost any narrative) and supercharge these to the extent that they become big signs screaming LOOK AT ME! I'M AN ECHO OF A PREVIOUS/PARALLEL SCENE!!!
Due to this overworked mechanism, the film lost me at its "climax", the point at which one brother wins 20 million rupees and the other brother is simultaneously gunned to death in a bathtub full of banknotes. Up to that point I had been quite happy to coast along on the Lonely Planet aesthetic of penury and picaresque, but after that it was a lost cause. It didn't even matter that the music was by a Singalese girl from West London (M.I.A.), or that Danny Boyle's aggressive jump-cut style turned every conflagration into a wheeze and a romp. But the bathful of money was the point where I pulled out the plug and started to wonder: does this film say anything useful about India? Or even about "Who wants to be a Millionaire"? Has it got anything to say at all other than slums are bad, crooks are bad, and "true love conquers all?"
A good film should reflect its age and say something about its main subject at least. But this one simply throws its boundless energy at a topic that begs for some sinuousness, intelligence and subtlety. For god's sake, it doesn't have to be La Dolce Vita, but a palette that includes something other than VERY BRIGHT and VERY DARK would have been welcome.
Overall not a bad film, but not a particularly good one either.
Due to this overworked mechanism, the film lost me at its "climax", the point at which one brother wins 20 million rupees and the other brother is simultaneously gunned to death in a bathtub full of banknotes. Up to that point I had been quite happy to coast along on the Lonely Planet aesthetic of penury and picaresque, but after that it was a lost cause. It didn't even matter that the music was by a Singalese girl from West London (M.I.A.), or that Danny Boyle's aggressive jump-cut style turned every conflagration into a wheeze and a romp. But the bathful of money was the point where I pulled out the plug and started to wonder: does this film say anything useful about India? Or even about "Who wants to be a Millionaire"? Has it got anything to say at all other than slums are bad, crooks are bad, and "true love conquers all?"
A good film should reflect its age and say something about its main subject at least. But this one simply throws its boundless energy at a topic that begs for some sinuousness, intelligence and subtlety. For god's sake, it doesn't have to be La Dolce Vita, but a palette that includes something other than VERY BRIGHT and VERY DARK would have been welcome.
Overall not a bad film, but not a particularly good one either.
Memoirs of a Geisha
(2005)
A dreadful waste of time, talent and money
23 February 2009
I've rarely been so bored or annoyed by a film. As visually ravishing as it is, it seems to pander to ridiculous Western notions of the East (Edward Said, where are you?), while completely failing to offer any kind of insight into the brutality and sheer nastiness of wartime Imperial Japan. I think it's indicative of the film's problems that so few Japanese were involved in its production: while the lead actresses are all very fine, they don't stand a chance in this thin, stereotypical piece of genre piffle. And if the Japanese kept away, who can be surprised? One look at the screenplay would discourage anything but the hardiest Thespians. Lawrence Olivier himself couldn't have saved a bad script, and even Gong Li, who I idolise, isn't able to do so here. What makes it even worse of course is the fact that the language is a free for all of poorly spoken English, in the genre of Nazi officers saying "Ve vill kill ze English schweinehund venn ze sun rises!" On the production side it's the same story: Americans all the way. No wonder that the Japan we are presented with looks more like Disneyland that the land of the rising sun. There's simply nothing to redeem this sorry tale. If ever there was an opposite to the sinewy elegance and sparse power of real Japanese film-making, this is it.
This Is England
(2006)
If patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel...
22 February 2009
Warning: Spoilers
...then This is England puts its finger on the factors that foster malignant nationalism and other social problems.
A great film. Vibrant and beautifully made, This is England is a stark reminder of the ragged England of the early 80's, a time which seemed to combine all the worst aspects of capitalism - laissez-faire, militaristic, socially fractured and often just plain ugly. This film throws us in at the deep end of this untempting era, tracing the life of Shaun, a young boy in a northern English town who has to come to terms with his father's death in the Falklands war, his own problems at school, and his mother's benignly neglectful attitude (under a scary 80's perm, she prefers to watch Blockbusters rather than deal with her son's emotional problems).
In this grim context, Shaun happens upon and is adopted by a group of skinheads who offer him friendship and self-esteem. While the skins are a slightly rough lot, they are not at this point racists. In fact one of their number, Milky, is black. But as the film progresses, we see how far-right "England first" elements come to dominate the scene. And here we reach what is the film's main theme: the insidious slide into racism that marked the skinhead subculture's path through the eighties. As such it's an interesting story, but too much of a cultural footnote to support a whole feature film. But director Shane Meadows manages to take this subject matter and imbue it with a significance beyond its historical context. What is the nature of individual and national identity? How do we constitute our self images, and to what extent is the individual consciousness a product of social, economic and political forces, rather than the precious flame of liberty that some liberals would like to believe in?
All these questions are raised, displayed and rotated before us in a compelling and ambivalent way. Anyone who moans about today's obsession with labels and brands should take a look at this film as a reminder that this kind of thing was already happening back then. The film's look is rough and ready, an unsentimental representation in a rawly realistic mode. The one thing the had me a little confused was the geography. The characters all talk in Northern accents, but where we are is somehow indeterminate as West Yorkshire, Scouse and east coast accents mingle. Not a big criticism, but the only one I could find in this otherwise remarkable film.
A great film. Vibrant and beautifully made, This is England is a stark reminder of the ragged England of the early 80's, a time which seemed to combine all the worst aspects of capitalism - laissez-faire, militaristic, socially fractured and often just plain ugly. This film throws us in at the deep end of this untempting era, tracing the life of Shaun, a young boy in a northern English town who has to come to terms with his father's death in the Falklands war, his own problems at school, and his mother's benignly neglectful attitude (under a scary 80's perm, she prefers to watch Blockbusters rather than deal with her son's emotional problems).
In this grim context, Shaun happens upon and is adopted by a group of skinheads who offer him friendship and self-esteem. While the skins are a slightly rough lot, they are not at this point racists. In fact one of their number, Milky, is black. But as the film progresses, we see how far-right "England first" elements come to dominate the scene. And here we reach what is the film's main theme: the insidious slide into racism that marked the skinhead subculture's path through the eighties. As such it's an interesting story, but too much of a cultural footnote to support a whole feature film. But director Shane Meadows manages to take this subject matter and imbue it with a significance beyond its historical context. What is the nature of individual and national identity? How do we constitute our self images, and to what extent is the individual consciousness a product of social, economic and political forces, rather than the precious flame of liberty that some liberals would like to believe in?
All these questions are raised, displayed and rotated before us in a compelling and ambivalent way. Anyone who moans about today's obsession with labels and brands should take a look at this film as a reminder that this kind of thing was already happening back then. The film's look is rough and ready, an unsentimental representation in a rawly realistic mode. The one thing the had me a little confused was the geography. The characters all talk in Northern accents, but where we are is somehow indeterminate as West Yorkshire, Scouse and east coast accents mingle. Not a big criticism, but the only one I could find in this otherwise remarkable film.
Runaway Horse
(2007)
Deeply disappointing version of a stark and powerful novel
29 September 2008
Warning: Spoilers
I approached this film full of hope as I had read and seen quite good reviews, but even from the opening sequence it was clear that I was going to be disappointed. Whereas the novel starts with Helmut, the querulous protagonist, being forced to take a table at a café by his wife when he would rather go home to read Kierkegaard ( typically awkward piece of coercion), the film presents far too easy-going a picture, with him sitting with his feet dangling in the water, his trousers rolled up, watching the girls go by.
I know that this is just a detail, but in order to achieve the power of the book, the film should have stuck to its systematic presentation of extremes: on the one hand Helmut, the melancholic, heavy, reserved, steady-drinking pessimist; on the other hand Klaus, the mercurial, tee-total, Apollonian demi-urge. In the book, a great deal is made of the fact that Klaus and Hel don't drink, don't smoke and prefer to act rather than ponder, in contrast to the well-lubricated introspection which Helmut practices. The film twists this antithesis into something more banal and seedy: the comic encroachment of a drinking, pot-smoking philanderer on the territory of a moody, somewhat bookish he-badger.
I have to ask at this point why it was almost inevitable that a German film maker would transform a novel as elemental and transcendent into such an ephemeral piece of sub-John Updike trivia. Perhaps because the only director in Germany who would be up to the job is Fateh Akin? Perhaps because the actual story here is simply too horrible for the bland bourgeois world of the "Monday evening movie"?
This hits home particularly in the last phase of the film, where it strays even further from the book than it does at earlier points: after Klaus's apparent death in the storm on Lake Constance (Bodensee), his distraught lover, Hel, stays with Helmut and his wife Sabine. In the book she completely lets go, admits her relief at Klaus's death, tells them that living with him was simply unbearable, that his hunger for life was in itself nothing more than a headlong hurtling away from life, onto the edge where being is obliterated in pure animal experience, living as the abnegation of life. In the film, however, she comes over, cries into Sabine's breast and says "oh, I miss him so much". Diddums.
In a way it's a pity, because the actors, especially Ulrich Noethen, are pretty good. They're simply suffering from poor direction and cinematography that casts a gloopy, monotonous sheen over events, smoothing out each wave, attenuating even the "liberating" dash on the stallion that gives the piece its name. If you want to see a good German film, watch Fateh Akin's "The Edge of Heaven" or Volker Schlöndorff's "The legend of Rita". If you want to enjoy the fine novel "A runaway horse", I hope that it's available in translation. But this film is not really worth the bother, unless you've really got nothing to do of a Monday evening.
I know that this is just a detail, but in order to achieve the power of the book, the film should have stuck to its systematic presentation of extremes: on the one hand Helmut, the melancholic, heavy, reserved, steady-drinking pessimist; on the other hand Klaus, the mercurial, tee-total, Apollonian demi-urge. In the book, a great deal is made of the fact that Klaus and Hel don't drink, don't smoke and prefer to act rather than ponder, in contrast to the well-lubricated introspection which Helmut practices. The film twists this antithesis into something more banal and seedy: the comic encroachment of a drinking, pot-smoking philanderer on the territory of a moody, somewhat bookish he-badger.
I have to ask at this point why it was almost inevitable that a German film maker would transform a novel as elemental and transcendent into such an ephemeral piece of sub-John Updike trivia. Perhaps because the only director in Germany who would be up to the job is Fateh Akin? Perhaps because the actual story here is simply too horrible for the bland bourgeois world of the "Monday evening movie"?
This hits home particularly in the last phase of the film, where it strays even further from the book than it does at earlier points: after Klaus's apparent death in the storm on Lake Constance (Bodensee), his distraught lover, Hel, stays with Helmut and his wife Sabine. In the book she completely lets go, admits her relief at Klaus's death, tells them that living with him was simply unbearable, that his hunger for life was in itself nothing more than a headlong hurtling away from life, onto the edge where being is obliterated in pure animal experience, living as the abnegation of life. In the film, however, she comes over, cries into Sabine's breast and says "oh, I miss him so much". Diddums.
In a way it's a pity, because the actors, especially Ulrich Noethen, are pretty good. They're simply suffering from poor direction and cinematography that casts a gloopy, monotonous sheen over events, smoothing out each wave, attenuating even the "liberating" dash on the stallion that gives the piece its name. If you want to see a good German film, watch Fateh Akin's "The Edge of Heaven" or Volker Schlöndorff's "The legend of Rita". If you want to enjoy the fine novel "A runaway horse", I hope that it's available in translation. But this film is not really worth the bother, unless you've really got nothing to do of a Monday evening.
The Edge of Heaven
(2007)
Taking sides
14 October 2007
Warning: Spoilers
"Auf der anderen Seite" means "on the other side", or "on the other hand", and in Faith Akin's latest film we see two parallel narratives develop, overlap and intertwine until they very much become one.
While some other viewers seem to have found the film's reliance on coincidence enervating, I found that it was a classical poetic device. As in all great art, the question is not whether the events are convincing, but whether the people stuck in these events are convincing, and in Akim's film they are.
What can you say about a film with a cast as strong as this? Hanna Schygulla, especially, offers a stunning performance, but the rest of the ensemble is also very impressive.
Finally the film is a meditation on what divides cultures and what divides the generations. A Turkish son finds it in his heart to forgive his father, a German mother decides to forgive and help her daughter's Turkish lover.
In order to make it to the other side, beyond anger and towards understanding and forgiveness, you need to overcome yourself and be open to what the world can give even when it has taken so much away. Faith Akin knows how to tell this story in a way that is both heartbreaking and uplifting. A great film and an important film.
While some other viewers seem to have found the film's reliance on coincidence enervating, I found that it was a classical poetic device. As in all great art, the question is not whether the events are convincing, but whether the people stuck in these events are convincing, and in Akim's film they are.
What can you say about a film with a cast as strong as this? Hanna Schygulla, especially, offers a stunning performance, but the rest of the ensemble is also very impressive.
Finally the film is a meditation on what divides cultures and what divides the generations. A Turkish son finds it in his heart to forgive his father, a German mother decides to forgive and help her daughter's Turkish lover.
In order to make it to the other side, beyond anger and towards understanding and forgiveness, you need to overcome yourself and be open to what the world can give even when it has taken so much away. Faith Akin knows how to tell this story in a way that is both heartbreaking and uplifting. A great film and an important film.
The Seventh Seal
(1957)
Breathtaking art with a message of hope
18 March 2007
Warning: Spoilers
While I can only echo the fulsome praise that this film has received and clearly deserves, I'd like propose that what makes it so great a work is its perfect balance between on the one hand the knight's grim, existential battle with death and on the other hand the prelapsarian idyll represented by the travelling players.
This kind of double narrative is found across art-forms and time of course, with Tolstoy's Anna Karenina being perhaps the most perfect example in literature. In that novel, Anna and Vronsky's journey to hell accompanied by Levin and Kitty's journey in the opposite direction. For all its grimness, with the Black Death and Death himself, The Seventh Seal is a celebration of the life, love and humour which fill the scenes with Jof, Mia and their little child.
It's not that death can be cheated or overcome, rather that in life and among people we can find a respite from the cold cruel necessity of a meaningless universe. Whether we do so or not is very much up to us, and not the province of religion, state or other authority figures.
This kind of double narrative is found across art-forms and time of course, with Tolstoy's Anna Karenina being perhaps the most perfect example in literature. In that novel, Anna and Vronsky's journey to hell accompanied by Levin and Kitty's journey in the opposite direction. For all its grimness, with the Black Death and Death himself, The Seventh Seal is a celebration of the life, love and humour which fill the scenes with Jof, Mia and their little child.
It's not that death can be cheated or overcome, rather that in life and among people we can find a respite from the cold cruel necessity of a meaningless universe. Whether we do so or not is very much up to us, and not the province of religion, state or other authority figures.
Notes on a Scandal
(2006)
Strong performances, weak editing and a feeble score make "Notes" something of a Parson's Egg
16 March 2007
While the central performances by Blanchett and Dench are undoubtedly impressive, the film suffers from a lack of tight editing. Although it's not a long piece, it would be a lot stronger if it lost 20 minutes. At the same time please jettison the soundtrack, a horrible gushing ooze of strings of which Philip Glass is apparently guilty. Rarely has a soundtrack been so completely distracting, irrelevant and annoying.
Despite these reservations the film has its strong points: the performances have already been mentioned, but it also refuses to resolve many of the questions that it raises, leaving everything open and hanging in the air. It all just suddenly finishes and the cycle starts again without anyone learning anything. Depressing perhaps, but it's a lot like life - to quote Depeche Mode. Definitely worth seeing, if you can handle the soupy strings.
Despite these reservations the film has its strong points: the performances have already been mentioned, but it also refuses to resolve many of the questions that it raises, leaving everything open and hanging in the air. It all just suddenly finishes and the cycle starts again without anyone learning anything. Depressing perhaps, but it's a lot like life - to quote Depeche Mode. Definitely worth seeing, if you can handle the soupy strings.
Thank You for Smoking
(2005)
Great, intellectually exuberant, morally ambivalent film
3 September 2006
Warning: Spoilers
This film was so enjoyable, so quick and clever in terms of dialogue, casting, god, even locations, that the subject matter somehow gets lost along the way in the Mephistophlean "yipee, what the hell" of it all.
They say that the devil has the best tunes, and this movie proves that he also has all the best one-liners. And suits. And arguments. Because essentially, the message is that "the right thing" (for example, doing something about the millions that smoking kills globally each year) is something for stuffy squares, health-bores and crypto-fascists. The latter category is typified by William H. Macy's character, a Senator from Vermont who leads the campaign against big tobacco, and at the end of the film is seen explaining why it's necessary to digitally rework cinema classics to remove the cigarettes from the hands of stars like Bogart, Dietrich and Bergman. He rationalises the action by saying that this is a way of "improving the past". By contrast the movie's hero, Nick Naylor, comes back from being down on the ropes to vindicate himself before a Senate Committee, and goes on to front his own successful consultancy.
I can't fault this film as a piece of cinema, and I enjoyed it immensely, from the stunning title sequence to the very end. I'd also agree that satire is a legitimate rhetorical framework for examine serious topics (see Lord of War for more here).
But whereas "Lord of War " offers a global vision of the arms business (and its horrendous consequences), "Thank you for Smoking" only skims the surface of the suffering, with the jokey "cancer boy" and the wacko Marlboro man. Make no mistake - I'm not expecting any kind of moral insight on the part of the protagonist (in "Lord of War", Nicolas Cage also completely fails to understand why his actions are wrong) but I think this would have been a stronger work if the joyful world of Washington spin had been accompanied by a deeper exploration of what smoking does to people every day.
They say that the devil has the best tunes, and this movie proves that he also has all the best one-liners. And suits. And arguments. Because essentially, the message is that "the right thing" (for example, doing something about the millions that smoking kills globally each year) is something for stuffy squares, health-bores and crypto-fascists. The latter category is typified by William H. Macy's character, a Senator from Vermont who leads the campaign against big tobacco, and at the end of the film is seen explaining why it's necessary to digitally rework cinema classics to remove the cigarettes from the hands of stars like Bogart, Dietrich and Bergman. He rationalises the action by saying that this is a way of "improving the past". By contrast the movie's hero, Nick Naylor, comes back from being down on the ropes to vindicate himself before a Senate Committee, and goes on to front his own successful consultancy.
I can't fault this film as a piece of cinema, and I enjoyed it immensely, from the stunning title sequence to the very end. I'd also agree that satire is a legitimate rhetorical framework for examine serious topics (see Lord of War for more here).
But whereas "Lord of War " offers a global vision of the arms business (and its horrendous consequences), "Thank you for Smoking" only skims the surface of the suffering, with the jokey "cancer boy" and the wacko Marlboro man. Make no mistake - I'm not expecting any kind of moral insight on the part of the protagonist (in "Lord of War", Nicolas Cage also completely fails to understand why his actions are wrong) but I think this would have been a stronger work if the joyful world of Washington spin had been accompanied by a deeper exploration of what smoking does to people every day.
Syriana
(2005)
Turgid, ponderous, self-important tripe - don't believe the hype!
14 August 2006
Warning: Spoilers
This film's premise is so simple and obvious that only a Texas millionaire high on oil fumes and whiskey would have a problem understanding it if someone shouted it across the proverbial parking lot. In summary: the oil business is in cahoots with The Government (or Gummint if you prefer), the Gummint is in cahoots with Middle Eastern despots, and the CIA is a singular festering pool of double dealing sons-of-(insert word) willing to toe any line that comes their way. The only people that get done over are the good ones, like Mr Clooney ("Bob"). Oh, and terrorism is a result of the poverty which globalization creates when wicked multinationals stalk the world looking for a tasty takeover or three . That really fits to the profiles of the well-heeled 9/11 perpetrators.
In Syriana this facile tissue of political half-truths and Hollywood holograms is stirred up in a repugnant vermicelli of story strands that twist, turn and whirl through the gloopy circumlocutions of their own insignificance until the poor viewer is left alone with the conclusion that:
1. the "director" (good joke) should never be let near a camera again
2. people like Clooney and Hurt might know how to act, but they sure don't know how to pick a script
3. if you want to see a film that deals with corruption in big business and the state, go and see Claude Chabrol's "L'ivresse du pouvoir", which is insightful, funny and brilliantly acted.
Empty, doom-laden sententious piffle spun out to evening-ruining length.
In Syriana this facile tissue of political half-truths and Hollywood holograms is stirred up in a repugnant vermicelli of story strands that twist, turn and whirl through the gloopy circumlocutions of their own insignificance until the poor viewer is left alone with the conclusion that:
1. the "director" (good joke) should never be let near a camera again
2. people like Clooney and Hurt might know how to act, but they sure don't know how to pick a script
3. if you want to see a film that deals with corruption in big business and the state, go and see Claude Chabrol's "L'ivresse du pouvoir", which is insightful, funny and brilliantly acted.
Empty, doom-laden sententious piffle spun out to evening-ruining length.
The French Connection
(1971)
"True grime" edge fails to save incoherent, visually impressive, and unlikeable film
6 April 2006
Warning: Spoilers
Apparently William Friedkin was convinced that "The French Connection" was headed for disaster all the way through filming. But while conceding that the final result isn't entirely a rout, I would be cautious about the hyperbole that surrounds it.
The best thing about the film is its raw, ravaged look. Everything is eroded, decayed, overused - the cities, the people and - perhaps a point of conjecture - the language that they use. One could go even farther surmise that the formulaic exchanges and clichéd situations that the film portrays are a critique of a worn-out, bankrupt society, but I'm not willing to let Friedkin completely off the hook.
Because as others have pointed out, many of the elements so lauded in "The French Connection" were done earlier - and better - elsewhere. "Bullitt" in particular springs to mind as the model for the slowing-moving, moody European-style of police thriller that concerns itself with more than just the cops-and-robbers merry-go-round (another example would be Jean-Pierre Melville's "Le Samurai"). But whereas Bullitt's silences and long, atmospheric takes bespeak classical poise and existential angst, TFC's leave me wondering whether it's deliberately scrappy or simply badly edited. In any case, for those who think that the name "The French connection" hints at homage to the nouvelle vague, prepare to be mildly disappointed.
In terms of the acting I must admit that I found Gene Hackman competent and workmanlike: he really knows how to play unpleasant, loudmouthed, belligerent, hard-drinking (insert additional epithets as required) types. But the eulogies heaped on the role seem bizarre considering that you never really get beyond the fact that "Popeye" is a nasty, bigoted gun-happy cop. As for the other "characters" it's difficult to say much; the figures are ciphers and I for one didn't make too much of an emotional investment in what happened to them.
It's probably worth seeing this film for the great footage of New York and the gritty camera-work, but beneath the surface the scaffolding is very bare in terms of plot and characterisation. Incoherent, visually impressive, and unlikeable.
The best thing about the film is its raw, ravaged look. Everything is eroded, decayed, overused - the cities, the people and - perhaps a point of conjecture - the language that they use. One could go even farther surmise that the formulaic exchanges and clichéd situations that the film portrays are a critique of a worn-out, bankrupt society, but I'm not willing to let Friedkin completely off the hook.
Because as others have pointed out, many of the elements so lauded in "The French Connection" were done earlier - and better - elsewhere. "Bullitt" in particular springs to mind as the model for the slowing-moving, moody European-style of police thriller that concerns itself with more than just the cops-and-robbers merry-go-round (another example would be Jean-Pierre Melville's "Le Samurai"). But whereas Bullitt's silences and long, atmospheric takes bespeak classical poise and existential angst, TFC's leave me wondering whether it's deliberately scrappy or simply badly edited. In any case, for those who think that the name "The French connection" hints at homage to the nouvelle vague, prepare to be mildly disappointed.
In terms of the acting I must admit that I found Gene Hackman competent and workmanlike: he really knows how to play unpleasant, loudmouthed, belligerent, hard-drinking (insert additional epithets as required) types. But the eulogies heaped on the role seem bizarre considering that you never really get beyond the fact that "Popeye" is a nasty, bigoted gun-happy cop. As for the other "characters" it's difficult to say much; the figures are ciphers and I for one didn't make too much of an emotional investment in what happened to them.
It's probably worth seeing this film for the great footage of New York and the gritty camera-work, but beneath the surface the scaffolding is very bare in terms of plot and characterisation. Incoherent, visually impressive, and unlikeable.
Ray
(I) (2004)
Thank you for the music - but what about the rest?
27 August 2005
If making biopics is a tricky business, then making biopics about artists is just about the pinnacle of that difficult process. This is primarily because of a phenomenon that could be called "media interference", whereby the works of the artist portrayed tend to dominate the film to the extent that the rest of the story appears leached of the thrills and insight that great cinema should offer.
While "Ray" takes a stab at balancing the remarkable and heart-rending music of its subject with the remarkable and heart-rending life that he lived, the latter inevitably comes out second best. And undoubtedly Ray Charles himself would have been happy to see how completely his art (i.e. the musician's) managed to transcend this attempt to present his life in cinematic form.
The music in "Ray" is marvelous, as is Jamie Foxx's portrayal of the man himself. But his drug addiction is treated in an unconvincing manner, as are his extra-marital affairs and his involvement in the civil rights movement. A comparison with Michael Mann's biopic on Mohammed Ali (2001) is perhaps instructive here. Because whereas "Ray" tries to run through the whole shebang (admittedly cutting short in the mid-sixties), the Ali film focuses on a few years. Due to this focus it also packs a bigger punch, going deeply into Ali's politics and family relationships. But in "Ray", political awareness takes the form of the singer changing his mind about playing a gig to a segregated audience at the last moment, while drug addiction is something that he picks up in a highway restroom. The problem is these things don't seem to connect to the rest of his life or his art, they're just pieces of the man. It is only in the music that he comes together, but elsewhere in the movie there's no convincing explanation for how this nervous chattering blind guy with a funny voice (at least when he talked) turned out to be one of the greatest artists of the American Century.
So, if you want to hear some great music, go and buy a few Ray Charles records. If you want to see a great biopic, try "Ali" or "The Aviator". Ray will entertain, but the satisfaction it offers is musical, not cinematic.
While "Ray" takes a stab at balancing the remarkable and heart-rending music of its subject with the remarkable and heart-rending life that he lived, the latter inevitably comes out second best. And undoubtedly Ray Charles himself would have been happy to see how completely his art (i.e. the musician's) managed to transcend this attempt to present his life in cinematic form.
The music in "Ray" is marvelous, as is Jamie Foxx's portrayal of the man himself. But his drug addiction is treated in an unconvincing manner, as are his extra-marital affairs and his involvement in the civil rights movement. A comparison with Michael Mann's biopic on Mohammed Ali (2001) is perhaps instructive here. Because whereas "Ray" tries to run through the whole shebang (admittedly cutting short in the mid-sixties), the Ali film focuses on a few years. Due to this focus it also packs a bigger punch, going deeply into Ali's politics and family relationships. But in "Ray", political awareness takes the form of the singer changing his mind about playing a gig to a segregated audience at the last moment, while drug addiction is something that he picks up in a highway restroom. The problem is these things don't seem to connect to the rest of his life or his art, they're just pieces of the man. It is only in the music that he comes together, but elsewhere in the movie there's no convincing explanation for how this nervous chattering blind guy with a funny voice (at least when he talked) turned out to be one of the greatest artists of the American Century.
So, if you want to hear some great music, go and buy a few Ray Charles records. If you want to see a great biopic, try "Ali" or "The Aviator". Ray will entertain, but the satisfaction it offers is musical, not cinematic.
The Aviator
(2004)
Psychogram of American society fails to offer the correct diagnosis
5 March 2005
The Aviator is an impressive piece of cinema, and shows Scorcese pulling out all the stops in terms of cinematic technique. The film is lush, glossy, glamorous, but beneath this shiny carapace lies a completely different inner reality. Scorcese's earlier work anatomised the darker side of the American metropolis through the broken lives the individuals obliged to live in the belly of the beast. In The Aviator, he takes the life of Howard Hughes in all its technicolour pain and glamour, and offers it up as an iconic portrait of those twin-born wraiths, the American dream and the American nightmare.
Hughes suffered from an extreme form of OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder), a condition which expressed itself in various forms, such as repeatedly washing his hands, being terrified of dirt, and being haunted by horrific thoughts which would occupy his mind for days and weeks at a time. Equally, he was a man of incredible energy, who got what he wanted, and succeeded where better-adjusted individuals would have failed to make headway. It seems to me that the film therefore suggests that the boundless drive to succeed and to win are themselves akin to other forms of mental illness. What surprised me was that the nature of Hughes' illness was not mentioned in the credits. I am sure that there will have been people in the audience who also suffer from OCD, whether they know it or not; explaining that the condition is now better understood and treatable would have been a thoughtful gesture on the part of the director.
Despite this reservation I would say that the film is a fine one, in large part thanks to the excellent performances by Cate Blanchett and Alec Baldwin, though Leo di C. also turns in a respectable effort.
Hughes suffered from an extreme form of OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder), a condition which expressed itself in various forms, such as repeatedly washing his hands, being terrified of dirt, and being haunted by horrific thoughts which would occupy his mind for days and weeks at a time. Equally, he was a man of incredible energy, who got what he wanted, and succeeded where better-adjusted individuals would have failed to make headway. It seems to me that the film therefore suggests that the boundless drive to succeed and to win are themselves akin to other forms of mental illness. What surprised me was that the nature of Hughes' illness was not mentioned in the credits. I am sure that there will have been people in the audience who also suffer from OCD, whether they know it or not; explaining that the condition is now better understood and treatable would have been a thoughtful gesture on the part of the director.
Despite this reservation I would say that the film is a fine one, in large part thanks to the excellent performances by Cate Blanchett and Alec Baldwin, though Leo di C. also turns in a respectable effort.
Chocolat
(2000)
A bad taste in the mouth
26 March 2001
If this is the future of European cinema, then we might as well wrap up the cameras and go back to making trinkets for the tourists. This film was a travesty on many levels: slipshod screenplay, ham acting, miscasting and promotional material that makes you believe there's something else in the package. The contents were advertised as sweet and seductive: in fact they're hollow and saccharine, Europe's visual 'E' numbers. Judy Dench is the 'grande dame' of the piece perhaps, but the rest of the sorry crew, whose accents ranged from the absurd faux-Irish of Monsieur Deppe to off-course mid-Atlanticese (witness Binoche), were palpably at sea. One of the things that countries experienced in dubbing films understand (Germany, France) is the importance of consistency. But 'ere we 'ad ze Fransh payzan 'oo talks to ze Hinglishman - and we're meant to believe that the little pipsqueak who seems to have stumbled in from some dreadful Britfilm is his priest. It was truly a case of the improbable in pursuit of the unpalatable, a horror scenario of 'European integration' (Sweden, France, England, and erm, America). There may be some sick-minded marketing types holed up in Soho, or somewhere off the Avenue Foche, who think that this is the way that Europe can conquer America, by stooping to the level of its so-called 'cultural' production. Unfortunately this goes even lower than anything our friends across the Pond can offer. Put up the borders and scrap the Schengen treaty, if only for the cinema's sake.
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