jamesmartin1995 Reviews

Amour (2012)

Cinema at its most honest and emotionally intuitive.

[10/10 · 17 November 2012]

What introduction could this film possibly require? Any film enthusiast recognises the name of Haneke instantly, whatever their opinion of him. His latest film, Amour, finally arrives in the UK this week, having won the Palme D'Or at Cannes (Haneke's second in a row) and the appraisal of most of the cinematic world. Horrible feelings accompanied me into the Friday screening of Amour – would the film live up to the hype, could Haneke really better his recent works, Hidden and The White Ribbon?

I realized about a quarter of the way into Amour that this was the wrong way to think about it. Haneke is renowned for his chilly, detached style and merciless lack of sentimentality in exploring the darker sides of human nature. Although his ruthless devotion to all things challenging and unsentimental is still evident in Amour, we must at least recognise that this represents some kind of turning point in Haneke's oeuvre.

Georges and Anne have been married many years, and have grown old together. They are both piano teachers, now retired. When we first meet them, they are attending a concert of one of Anne's old students, now grown and making a name for himself. They applaud, congratulate him and then take the bus home, smiling and talking to one another in snippets as they come closer to their apartment. If it hadn't been for a masterful, disquieting opening sequence (which I will not describe here), we would not suspect anything was wrong.

Yet after this wonderful outing, which they have obviously been looking forward to for a long time, their spacious Parisian apartment will become their entire world; we shall never leave it. There is a brief moment, masterfully shot, where the couple's adult daughter (in a beautiful performance from Isabelle Huppert, who played the self-harming protagonist in Haneke's formidable film, 'The Piano Teacher') stands by the window, and through the translucent material of the curtain we see the street outside and the vehicles moving slowly along it; the outside world remains completely impervious to the painful ordeal which is taking place on the other side of that curtain.

The ordeal begins one morning over the couple's breakfast. The two are having a conversation. Georges tells Anne something, and she suddenly becomes unresponsive. She snaps out of it, and she insists she has no memory of it; yet we sense in Anne, as Georges tells her about this strange event, a fear of something starting within her, of doctors and hospitals; there is even, glimpsed on her face for the briefest of moments, suspicion directed at her husband. It is the first event in a downward spiral, and from the moment Anne returns from the hospital afterwards, and a farce of a funeral that George is forced to attend alone, both will be condemned to this apartment. Anne begs Georges never to take her back to the hospital; thus, it becomes a prison and mausoleum; the sense of oncoming death pervades the coldly lit rooms.

Georges and Anne are played magnificently by those acting gods of yesteryear, Jean-Louis Trintignant (star of Bertolucci's masterpiece, The Conformist) and Emmanuelle Riva (the female protagonist of Resnais' Hiroshima Mon Amour). Hand-picked by Haneke himself, these two bring a lifetime of experience to their roles; their performances are breathtaking. Riva in particular, whose character loses her independence and her own sense of dignity increasingly throughout the film, is magnificent, not afraid of baring all to the camera. Anne's condition is not the ersatz tragedy, infused with humour and considerable taste, that Hollywood would have us believe; it is ugly, painful, degrading.

The claustrophobia of their lives, increasingly shut off from the rest of the world, is intense. Characters (including the couple's own daughter, selfish on the surface but nursing deep hurts) will come in and penetrate temporarily the organic, defensive webbing that Georges and Anne are now forming for themselves, but both the guest and the host feel that the couple's lives are being intruded upon. Theirs is a holistic, private world that outsiders try to break into; there is a great piece of symbolism, early on in the film, after Georges and Anne return from the concert, where they discover that someone has tried to break into their apartment. This couple, in the face of oncoming tragedy, hide within themselves and within this space, their own, where they have spent so many years and built their lives together.

I believe this to be the best film Haneke has ever made. Yes, it is gruellingly unsentimental, but unlike all of his other films, there is warmth, tenderness and genuine humanity to be found here. We are greeted by two highly intelligent people, who have been and remain deeply in love, and we are challenged now – not to watch the beginning of this relationship, but its end. Georges and Anne are not perfect human beings; they become frustrated, even angry. The wounds that each can inflict on the other, knowing each other inside out, hit the audience like a punch to the gut. It is part of the searing authenticity of the film, and that makes the more tender moments even more special.

Amour is a film about the disappearance of a human being; of what one man does in the face of losing the woman he has loved his whole life, every day, little by little. It is a psychological drama, tinged with philosophy and moments of exquisite, heartbreaking poetry. But it is also a luminous love story – one that is genuine and recognisable, between two characters that we fully believe in and sympathise with. Georges and Anne have spent many long, happy years together, and now, slowly and sadly, their happiness is coming to an end

Samsara (I) (2011)

Best film released in 2012 - no question!

[10/10 · 7 October 2012]

This may very well be the worst thing I will ever write: a completely artless review with no sense of direction or control. It will not come anywhere near doing justice to the extraordinary film it is praising, and so any kind of forced rhetorical flourish here would be perfunctory and out-of-place. So I apologise in advance. I can only do my best.

'Samsara' (which, if IMDb is to be believed, is a Sanskrit word meaning 'cyclic existence') contains almost not a word of dialogue, and certainly not in any kind of 'narrative' sense. It belongs to a very small niche of films, often given the name of 'pure cinema'. The only films I can even compare 'Samsara' to, however, are a select few that our director, Ron Fricke, has previously worked on: those past masterpieces 'Koyaanisqatsi', 'Chronos' and 'Baraka'. All are utterly distinctive pieces of cinema in their own right, and this new release is no different.

How can I describe 'Samsara'? In cliché, as a profound visual experience? I may have to resort to that later, to even give an inkling of how powerful this film is. As a compilation of stunningly photographed images and sequences, set to a haunting, disconcertingly calculated soundtrack? I refuse to describe any of those images here; it would be a betrayal on my part. They must be witnessed for themselves. Maybe then as a philosophical work? Indeed, I cannot argue with the fact that the philosophical issues it raises are some of the most important facing mankind. I do not and will not pretend to understand everything shown in 'Samsara'; I firmly believe that a viewer cannot actually understand the entire film in any concrete way. That is not to say that, throughout much of the film, we are not intended to feel shame, or guilt, or awe, or reverence. Ron Fricke is not a man without an opinion, and this film is underpinned all the way through with the wealth of emotion that this person feels in considering the world we live in. But he does not preach. His choice of images is subjective, but he raises questions. He does not give answers.

'Samsara' is a film of vast ambition and deep humility. Its aim is no less than exploring the blunt fact of human existence on a wondrous Earth with a selective, but passionate and observant eye, and the societies we have created and separated into, the effect our existence has on the world around us. Yet even this description is reductive. The film's profundity lies in its interaction with the audience. It is a film from which you take away what you have put in. The richness of your experience when viewing 'Samsara' relies heavily on how willing you are to go along with it and recognise what Fricke is trying to show us. Your reaction to it is your own affair, but you will have a reaction. The accumulation of these emotional responses is what makes this film so utterly unforgettable; and indeed, perhaps this is the real reason that this kind of movie is considered to be 'pure cinema'. Because, after all, film (usually) succeeds when it successfully provokes a series of emotional reactions in an audience, and their accumulation. Rarely has a film so perfectly and forcefully played on that fact than 'Samsara'.

It has taken five years of painstaking work to make this film. The love and passion that has gone into its production pours from every image, every carefully composed shot and forcefully edited sequence. I have never sat in a cinema before to watch a new release and witnessed the reaction that 'Samsara' provoked among a cinema audience. The screen went black, the credits began to roll, and the room burst into applause. How could it not do? I sincerely doubt that such a disturbing and rapturous meditation on our planet has been produced before now (and here I consider Baraka, Chronos and Koyaanisqatsi as companion pieces to Samsara, even though they retain their own remarkable individuality).

I came out of the weekend screening of this film knowing three things. The first, that this is the reason I go to the cinema – to witness and experience emotions like that, to witness the reaction of an audience completely bowled over by what they have just seen, especially when we believe we have seen it all, that cinema has nothing new to offer. The second, that I would be paying to see it again on Tuesday. And the third? That 'Samsara', without a shadow of a doubt, is the best film of the year.

Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (2011)

Stunning and original.

[9/10 · 16 August 2012]

When we go to the movies, our usual expectations as viewers consist of being given an interesting plot, to be taken on a journey that (hopefully) enthrals us and provides us with good entertainment. In terms of crime drama, if the plot swings on a murder and a police investigation, we naturally expect to discover who the murderer was, the motive for the crime, how it took place (often revealed in clever twist endings) and how the problems it has created for the characters are resolved.

'Once Upon A Time In Anatolia' is not nearly so simple or conventional. It is, in the most basic of terms, a police procedural. Taking place over one night and the following day, we see the local police, together with a prosecutor who has been dragged from home on the promise that together, they will uncover the corpse of a murdered man, as his killers have confessed and are willing to lead them to the body.

Whereas most filmmakers would spend a great deal of time contriving dialogue and scenarios to explain to their viewers how this crime has occurred and what the reasons for it were, Nuri Bilge Ceylan is not interested in the slightest about this. What he is interested in is exploring how investigations really work: any hint of melodrama is stripped away, to leave only the arduous monotony of the job, the frustrating setbacks and errors, the tired, formal and impersonal language with which crimes have to be reported, and the emotionally draining effects that these combine to impose on the people left to pick up the pieces after a murder.

It is a long, difficult film, and yet for the whole of its running time, it is never anything less than fascinating. Ceylan's idea was an inspired one to begin with, but in other, less confident hands, this movie could easily have been a heavy-handed, soporific exploration of ennui and disillusionment. These two themes are central in the film, but what I wasn't expecting at all was the amount of satiric, deadpan humour – perfectly timed and strangely in keeping with the feel of the film – and the poetry in the visuals. I will not describe their brilliance here, but leave them for you to discover for yourselves.

On the surface, this film is painstakingly slow and strictly unsensational, but the genius of 'Once Upon A Time In Anatolia' lies in the details, and in how subtly and realistically it reveals the inner characters of its protagonists – their frustrations, personal tragedies and cynicism. Throughout the course of the movie, we see one man in particular make the sad progression into the masculine, passionless disillusionment that accompanies loss and age, and which many of his male companions have sunk into already.

Perhaps my favourite part of the film is a sequence in which the team, exhausted for the night, and in need of food and shelter, decide to rest at a nearby village, which is slowly but surely being forgotten by the world around it. There are three stunning scenes in this section: one involving a conversation over dinner between the mayor of the village and his guests, a poetic sequence about beauty and passion, and finally a private, tortured conversation between the prosecutor and a doctor, which will later lead to a painful revelation about the prosecutor's past. And this is what I understand the movie to really be about, once we have delved beyond the ennui and disillusionment: love, time and change.

'Once Upon A Time In Anatolia' is a strange, superb film – at once utterly distinctive, original, mystical, closely observed and quietly moving. You will need patience to sit through it, but believe me, that patience is rewarded in spades. In my humble opinion, this unassuming, eccentric piece of work is one of the best films of the year so far.

Trishna (2011)

Disappointing modern adaptation of a classic.

[4/10 · 16 August 2012]

Michael Winterbottom's contemporary update of 'Tess of the D'Urbervilles' was something that I had been looking forward to seeing for a long time. This is his third adaptation of a Thomas Hardy novel, and by far his most audacious: taking a story set in 19th century England and relocating it to modern day India, while retaining the essence and nuance of the original story, was no easy feat.

Unfortunately, it shows. I knew from the beginning that this was not a movie to judge as a literary adaptation, and I refuse to do so. This should be judged on its merits as a film in its own right – but even with this taken into consideration, there are major problems.

First, I would like to state that there are things to admire in this movie. Freida Pinto in the main role proves to the world (if there was any doubt after her performance in 'Slumdog Millionaire') what a talented actress she is. Combine with this with some truly beautiful cinematography and a story packed with emotional depth and powerful statements about modern Indian society, relationships and sexual politics – and we should be on for a winner, surely!

Yet, despite Pinto's wonderful lead performance, her talents do not extend to some of her co-stars - most notably Riz Ahmed, who in an inspired but flawed directorial decision plays a character in whom Alec and Angel from the novel are combined. The result, although more successful than I originally thought it would be, still isn't entirely believable, especially in the film's final third – by far the weakest section of the film.

There are other, more minor flaws: with the exception of some wonderful technical flourishes (including a brilliantly filmed murder scene at the end of the film, and some interesting decisions in the cinematography department in shooting a car crash nearer the start of the movie), the editing is sometimes very shoddy, which undercuts not only some of the most beautiful filmed scenes in the movie, but also creates frequent continuity errors.

However, by far the most disappointing thing about 'Trishna' is its script: it sounds all the way through like a first draft. The characters talk in tired clichés, and surprisingly, there are no interesting set pieces until very near the end of the movie, meaning that for most of its running time, the film is running on neutral, with very little passion or forward momentum driving the plot along. It stalls far too often, and although I don't know how many scenes were consigned to the cutting room floor before the film's release, I would argue whole-heartedly that there are still more that could be shed.

I'm sorry to say that 'Trishna', despite great potential, left me very disappointed. It is a flawed melodrama with no gusto or passion, which inevitably means that its overwrought ending feels horribly out of place. It isn't a complete disaster – as I have said, there are positives, and it is certainly a brave and interesting effort, which I am sure many film buffs and lovers of literature will be itching to see: indeed, I would encourage them to see it (albeit with their expectations lowered). However, for me, Roman Polanski's 1979 film 'Tess' remains the definitive adaptation of the Hardy novel.

The Woman in the Fifth (2011)

Quietly impressive

[16 August 2012]

To say that Tom is down on his luck is an understatement. He has lost his job as a university lecturer on literature and flown to Paris in search of his young daughter, Chloe, and his wife, who has had a restraining order issued against him. His bag is stolen on the bus; he has no money, and is forced to rent a grotty room in a down-and-out Parisian café, owned by a domineering, criminal character called Sezer.

Tom has also written a novel. He has no faith in it, but it clearly shows potential. His passion for literature seems to have been extinguished by the time we meet him; yet he hopes that writing a second novel will bring him some income. In the meantime, Sezer sets him up with a scary night shift in an underground bunker, where he must watch a screen for six hours each night and only allow people to enter if they know the correct 'password'.

It is at a literary gathering that Tom meets Margit. From the first moment she appears, we get goosebumps. The effect she has on Tom is electric – it might not be love at first sight, but there is something cool, mysterious and effortlessly sensual about Margit that immediately captivates him. From a simple glance through a doorway, he is compelled to follow her onto the balcony. The conversation they have there is tinged with sadness and sinister undertones; she recognises something in Tom and hands him her card, telling him to call 'any time after four', before slipping away. Who is this woman? Why does she unsettle us so much?

Ethan Hawke plays Tom. Critics have complained about his dodgy French accent, but try and put this into perspective. He is playing an outsider, a foreigner who is able to get by in conversation. Surely the American accent adds to the authenticity of the role, and emphasises his isolation. Give him a break – it's a fine performance.

Even more impressive, though, is Kristin Scott Thomas as the ethereal Margit. It is not the details of her life or the tragedy in her past that fascinates us – these are eventually revealed, but they won't be what you remember most. It is the constant performance – the cold, removed beauty of this character that startles us. Intelligent, demure and sinister, there is a potent dread and sorrow that pervades the scenes she is in, and permeates throughout the rest of the film in ripples that seem to emanate from her presence.

Consider the first time Tom visits her apartment. He is awkward, and tries to make small talk. He asks about her husband, a Hungarian writer. She indulges him for a short time, but they have no delusions. Both know very well why he is there. The shot that follows is perhaps the finest in the entire film; finally, we have found someone who understands how to film sex. It is sad to think that so many directors believe that the more you show, the more erotic the scene is. The tension in that apartment is almost unbearable, and sex does not diffuse it. Watch closely as Tom tries to kiss Margit, at what point she stops him and undoes his trousers. No detail is shown, and even the sounds of rustling material are muted. The camera focuses on their faces, in one steady, unmoving shot: Tom recoils in shock, closes his eyes, murmurs, almost disintegrating from the overwhelming emotion and physical pleasure of this act. Margit only watches, silently, smiling knowingly as if she were gazing at a small child trying to learn the alphabet. She is in complete control, and knows it.

I am not sure how to describe 'The Woman In The Fifth'; the word 'strange' doesn't even scratch the surface. It is a classy movie – the aesthetics and cinematography are top notch (notice the deep reds and blacks that cling to Margit, for example), and the influence of Polish cinema is patent. Paris is an alien world – behind a romantic façade lie the gray skies, the lonely train tracks, the tragic aura of mystery and always the looming sense of danger and death. This is a movie that defies rational judgement, as the plot swings from one bizarre event to the next. The twist about two thirds of the way through had many cynics in the audience scoffing – I have to admit, I wasn't completely convinced. But we are in the hands of a director who has complete confidence in his medium, and by the end, I had a deep respect for his efforts. This movie isn't perfect, but it is nevertheless beguiling and utterly compelling. It takes some skill to blend the genres seen here so effortlessly – from domestic drama to romance to crime thriller and finally entering the realms of the supernatural, this shouldn't really work. Yet the threads between these genres and the themes on display are as tangible as those woven by spiders and serving to capture insects in the brief interludes within the film, often showing snapshots of nature in its deformed, frightening beauty, focusing in particular on a faraway woodland. Where is it? What do these images mean?

It only really struck me as I left the cinema just how desperately sad this movie is. Whatever else 'The Woman In The Fifth' explores, it is primarily about suffering and loss, and our need for love and human companionship. It may not be a masterpiece – I would argue its flaws are quite substantial - but it is never pretentious. Pawel Pawlikowski is a director who has a story to tell, and does so with flair and imagination, without ever alienating his audience. Surprisingly deep, concisely expressed and including within its short running time glimpses of cinematic genius, 'The Woman In The Fifth' is an unassuming little gem. I highly recommend it.

Rampart (2011)

Criminally underrated - a dark, honest piece of cinema.

[9/10 · 16 August 2012]

LAPD veteran Dave Brown is a vile, disgusting man. He is a sexist, racist, womaniser, drunkard, dirty cop and patent homophobe. This, incidentally, is not my judgement of him, but that of his own daughter. It's pretty accurate. How much does that tell you?

Co-written by James Ellroy and starring Woody Harrelson in the main role, 'Rampart' serves both as compelling crime melodrama and scorching character study. When we first meet Brown (the Harrelson character), we take an immediate dislike to him. He stinks of corruption and arrogance; he is a control freak, whose selfishness and cynicism damage and infect all those around him. He has two daughters by two different women (both sisters, as chance would have it); despite the fact that his adultery is an almost nightly occurrence, he insists on living together with the two women and their respective children, to 'keep the family' intact. The pain and despair this has caused is devastating.

Yet this is a man quite capable of charisma, and perhaps in the crudest sense possible, charm. He can, after all, be seductive; in a brilliant early scene, we see him pick up a woman at his local bar; first conversation, then sex. His target is sensible, and perhaps looking for a good time, a friend, maybe even a relationship. Her questions are amicable and fair. The disappointment after that vacuous act later on is captured with incredible insight and realism by the filmmaker.

Dave's behaviour is often puerile and savage; the weight of the law begins to force itself upon him when he is caught on camera almost beating a man to death after the latter crashed his vehicle into Dave's police car. The extent of his obstinacy and self-delusion is mind blowing; an amazing piece of cinematography, in which the camera swings round in a circle, abruptly cutting between Dave and his superiors during a heated discussion on the subject of his brutality, emphasises the illogical but never-ending egoism and suppressed insecurity that drive him.

Sex, as in most works with Ellroy's name attached, plays a huge role. At first, we think Dave is just producing excess testosterone, or is simply a chauvinistic pig by nature. But we soon realise there is something desperate about his constant affairs, about his insatiable need to control and assert his authority. Perhaps to confirm his masculinity, or escape his problems. Certainly, the brief relationship he strikes up with a lawyer, as confused and desperate as he is in many ways, sheds much light on Dave's character.

I've seen it argued that Dave is completely immoral in other reviews. This isn't true. He may have ruined the lives of his family, and everyone he has come into contact with, but he does come to realise that. Too long he has spent running away from his responsibilities; at least on the job, he can fall back on the tired, formal jargon that has etched itself on his brain. But what about his children?

I think it would be unfair to give any more specifics on the plot. Technically, this movie is something special: intimately filmed, with heavy usage of artificial lighting (neon red, in particular, is used to great effect), and a handful of brilliant sequences – including but by no means limited to an excursion into an underground bar where easy sex pervades the air. This is where we begin to see Dave at his most desperate and

'Rampart' is a formidable movie about a man well past his sell-by-date, whose brutality, closed-mindedness, insecurity and immaturity have destroyed any chance of happiness he might ever have had, and may well have destroyed the same thing for those nearest to him. There is a heartbreaking sequence near the end where, for the first time, Dave tries to speak to his children honestly, in hope of salvaging his relationship with them. It is a film about despair, about a corrupt society that has moulded a man whose failures and flaws are killing him from the inside out, without mercy. His own childhood is left deliberately ambiguous, but his father, another corrupt cop, seems to have been his role model. Thus the corruption and destruction seems to be continuing through the generations in ripples and circles.

The possibility of redemption has certainly manifested itself by the end of the film. Hope has come, at least for Dave's family. As far as he is concerned, perhaps self-knowledge is the first step. The movie's final scene is a modification of the opening sequence, and we have to ask ourselves, can we see the change in Dave? There is no easy answer. There isn't meant to be.

A Dangerous Method (2011)

Something missing, but still good.

[7/10 · 16 August 2012]

When I heard that David Cronenberg was to make a film about Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung and psychoanalysis, I was very excited, but didn't have a clue what to expect. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't this.

To say this is a turn-around for Cronenberg (the infamous 'Baron of Blood') would be an understatement. It certainly is dialogue orientated, and if it weren't for the stunning cinematography and period detail, you could certainly be forgiven for thinking that this was just a word for word screen adaptation of Christopher Hampton's play 'The Talking Cure' (incidentally, though, the playwright also wrote the screen play).

What I found so strange is that the story Cronenberg has found is such an interesting and important one, and yet curiously, it is told with a bizarre lack of passion or dramatic intensity. Even the sex scenes are clinical and emotionally removed. I concede that this was undoubtedly an artistic decision made by Cronenberg, but I can't help feeling that it was something of an imprudent one. The result is alienating as opposed to compelling, which is what this movie should be.

However, even a curious approach to the material cannot sink the interest it provokes just by being told. It is a truly great story, and the film, although slightly bloodless, is certainly handsome (of a picture postcard aesthetic) and well acted by Michael Fassbender (as Jung) and Viggo Mortensen (as Freud). I would normally stick up for Keira Knightley, as in my opinion, she's an incredibly gifted actress who gets an unfair press. Yet parts of her performance here, particularly towards the beginning of the film, left me ambivalent as to their merit.

Can I recommend 'A Dangerous Method'? Certainly. It is a competent period drama with a fascinating subject (the best moments undoubtedly come from the scenes that Fassbender and Mortensen share), and it marks perhaps the biggest change in a director's film canon that we've seen for quite a while. Descriptions of dreams and the exploration of the relationship between Jung and Freud – two massive egos and incredible scientific minds – are the things to treasure here. On balance, this film is a little disappointing; but that only means that it is a good film instead of a great one!

Martha Marcy May Marlene (2011)

Truly scary.

[9/10 · 16 August 2012]

The vast majority of horror movies have got it wrong. Perhaps what scares us the most as human beings is indeed fear of the unknown, but by far the scariest thing that we face is what we ourselves are capable of.

Atmosphere is established before the film even begins. The music starts working on us as the opening titles, in menacing orange capitals, give way to the sound of a hammer hitting nails into wood, and images of what seems to be a farm house somewhere in the Catskill Mountains. There is a small community living there, men and women, seemingly happy and in peace. Those opening images are so subtle and unsettling: notice, for example, the fact that the men and women eat separately, the evening meal seeming like a ritual, taken in silence. Everything seems to be running smoothly, until one morning, quite unexpectedly, a young woman decides to run away through the forest into town.

This is Martha. She is a damaged, insecure young woman, and most of the film follows Martha as she contacts her sister, who she hasn't spoken to in two years, and who takes Martha in after her ordeal. But what was her ordeal? There is a moment towards the end when Lucy (the older sister) screams at Martha, begging her to disclose the details of what happened. But Martha, alone and confused, answers honestly when she says, on the verge of mental breakdown, 'I don't know.'

What makes this film so frightening is its realistic depiction of how easily and completely the human mind can be influenced and manipulated. It gradually becomes clear to us that Martha has escaped from a cult, headed by John Hawkes (of 'Winter's Bone' fame). They take in vulnerable, damaged youngsters and introduce them to their community. Martha was one such impressionable soul – coming from a broken family home (the details of which are not fully disclosed: a wise decision). These people are utterly convincing with their trite but seemingly earnest maxims of love and fraternity; even more disturbing is the fact that they actually believe them, and are mere pawns themselves. The only person that may be consciously manipulative is the Hawkes character, whose charm and charisma conceals something far more sinister underneath.

It would be unfair to disclose anything more about that. The film also works as a stunning character study. The relationship between Martha and Lucy is strained to say the least. Lucy feels a duty to help Martha, and feels guilt for something buried in their childhood, but she now has a husband and wants to start a family. It is made clear very early on that her husband Ted finds Martha a burden, and both Lucy and Ted find Martha's behaviour at turns bizarre and irritating. Martha is in need of help, and yet feels ever more abandoned as the movie continues.

This film showcases the talents of two fascinating discoveries in the film industry. One is Elizabeth Olsen, as Martha, whose stunning performance, encompassing perfectly her character's immaturity, vulnerability, confusion and growing paranoia, is a joy to watch. The second is the film's writer-director, Sean Durkin. With this indie thriller, he has certainly made a name for himself, and I await his future projects with great interest. Already, he has displayed a confidence and adroitness in his medium that is quite humbling as an outsider. The colours are muted and darkened, and the editing is masterful, often disorientating and confusing, plunging us headlong into Martha's world of perpetual fear.

The way in which Durkin builds suspense is admirable. There is a scene about two-thirds of the way through the film, in which Martha is being taught how to fire a gun, that is so frightening in its psychological intensity that the cut to the next scene is akin to the diffusing of a bomb in Kathryn Bigelow's 'The Hurt Locker'. So much of the film relies on atmosphere: from lighting and the position of shadows, to the menacing soundtrack, promising the distant but always present danger of violence, 'Martha Marcy May Marlene' could be used for analysis in a film studies course. For such a long time, the viewer can't actually pin down what is so wrong about this cult. It is simply a feeling that makes your flesh crawl, an intuitive instinct telling you that something about this community is badly wrong. When the mechanics of the cult are finally revealed, it is horrifying, but those opening fifty minutes are so important in understanding just how this group of people can convince others that what they do is perfectly natural. So impressive are their methods of gentle persuasion that the 'pupils' eventually become 'teachers', guiding newcomers in the same direction. The event that catalyses Martha's decision to escape is eventually revealed to us, but even after that, she is far from free, and further from understanding what is wrong with the world she left (even defending it indirectly to Ted one night in a blazing row). She only has her innate fear and convictions to go on.

'Martha Marcy May Marlene' is an excellent film. Its depths are frightening, and it will stay with you long after the final credits have rolled. Many will find the film's ending unsatisfying and flawed, but just think what the effect would have been if it had ended differently. The film, after all, relies on ambiguity for much of its effect. We are left abandoned to our own imaginations as the movie closes, with the cult's controlling, manipulative power being emphasised to haunting effect. Both technically and psychologically, 'Martha Marcy May Marlene' is quite an accomplishment, and I have to admit to having had a bit of trouble sleeping after having seen it. What can I say? This is my idea of a scary movie!

The Iron Lady (2011)

A very mixed bag.

[5/10 · 16 August 2012]

In the last hundred years of British history, I cannot think of a more controversial figure than ex prime minister Margaret Thatcher. Undoubtedly the marmite of the political world, her story, whatever your views on her are, is a fascinating one, and on hearing that a new film headed by Meryl Streep was being made on the subject, I was quite excited.

The first thing that I should say is that I want to leave my own political beliefs out of this review, as I think that one of the main things that can be said in the film's favour is that it attempts quite successfully to produce a balanced viewpoint on the lady herself – whether avid Conservative or ardent Socialist, the film doesn't alienate anyone in terms of giving a biased stance on the woman herself.

The other remarkable thing to note about this film is the strength of the performances, particularly from our leading lady. Despite seeming to be a somewhat odd choice to play Thatcher, the make-up department, hair stylists and costume designers have done wonders to transform Streep's appearance, and her accent is scarily authentic. She has her own role nailed, and receives great support from the ever reliable Jim Broadbent as her husband Denis and Olivia Colman as her daughter Carol.

I'm afraid that's where the positives end. The biggest problem that this film has is that it somehow managed to take one of the most fascinating, controversial political figureheads of our time and made a film about her that curiously isn't very compelling. Half of the film is devoted to an imagined sequence of scenes exploring the kind of person that Thatcher might now have become in the present day, and the sort of life she leads. On paper, that sounds like an interesting (if risky) idea, and it saddens me to say that the risk definitely hasn't paid off. Despite the wonderful acting, the script is clunky and clichéd, and these scenes are contrived, soapy, sentimental and trite.

The result of so much screen time being devoted to this flawed section in the present day inevitably means that the really meaty part of the film – its exploration of the life of Thatcher from being a young girl to resigning as prime minister in 1990 – is rushed and lacks any kind of depth. The pacing of these scenes is more akin to screenwriters simply ticking off items on a list rather than exploring them in any particularly dramatic way. Instead, we are given a series of brief, bordering on anecdotal accounts of the major events during Thatcher's political journey, and partly to make up for the lack of screen time available to explore them, the script here often consists of toe-curling monologues placed in the most inappropriate places and infantile, oversimplified dialogue.

Incidentally, it came as no surprise to me after seeing the film to learn that its director, Phyllida Lloyd, is most celebrated for her work in theatre. I feel that many of the narrative techniques employed in the present day scenes are more suited for a theatre production, where they might have been more successful. Employing them with very little adjustment for a piece of cinema simply lends these scenes a disconcerting superficiality which, unfortunately, is irritatingly hard to ignore.

Perhaps my expectations were too high. I thoroughly accept that depth will always have to sacrificed to some degree in a historical film, but the sacrifices here are damaging and even unnecessary, considering the material that Lloyd has devoted the rest of the film to in exchange for it. However, despite the fact that the movie is flawed and disappointing in terms of what it had the potential to be, the performances almost make up for it; I doubt that the Oscar win for Streep took anyone by surprise. For that reason, I can argue that the film is at least worth seeing.

Children of Paradise (1945)

One of the finest films ever made. Period.

[10/10 · 16 August 2012]

There is no doubt that French cinema includes many of the world's finest, most influential and iconic films. From fantasy to neo-realism, historical epic to kitchen sink drama, and with arguably the most important cinematic New Wave to add to its canon, French masterpieces can be found in almost every genre imaginable; indeed, in many cases, they have helped to distinguish between them.

'Les Enfants du Paradis' is considered the finest product of the partnership between director Marcel Carné and writer Jacques Prévert. At over three hours, and split into two parts, the film follows a handful of colourful characters through the 1820s and 30s in that fascinating, mystical city: Paris. The focus is on the Parisian theatre – a place of hypocrisy, deception, exaggerated emotion, corrosive artificiality, cheap tricks and crude laughs. With an astonishing attention to detail, and displaying a perfect mastery of his medium, Carné exposes with scorching wit the superficiality of society and the damaging effect it has had on his characters. There is a fine line between fantasy and reality, and the characters, sometimes without even knowing it, deceive themselves and the others around them. In a film with so many grand themes, its tragedy lies in its profound exploration of love, and what happens when genuine emotion attempts to shine through in a world of romantic, sentimental lies, cruel falsehoods, deluded pride and vicious crime.

Much of the brilliance of this film I cannot divulge in my review. I admit, that aside from its considerable critical acclaim, I knew nothing about it when I bought my ticket. That is the way it should be seen: let its delicious melodrama, breathtaking sets, classy cinematography, dry comedy and poignant tragedy wash over you. Long it may be, but the time flies by; very rarely have I been taken on as deep and enjoyable a ride as this one – and how refreshing that is, considering that those two adjectives seldom gel when talking about cinema. Even more impressive is that with so many characters, story lines and themes at play, the movie never once feels rushed or convoluted: its pacing is pitch perfect, and its artistic vision - impeccable; the denouement is abrupt and delivers a memorable emotional punch to the gut.

This is a timeless film for all tastes: those who like a great plot, a compelling love story, lavish costumes, profound thematic material, passion and grand emotion, an insight into a different culture or a different time and place – this has everything, encompassing all of life – from the most pitifully poor to the most disgustingly rich. I personally cannot wait to see it again, and the newly restored version released recently by the BFI is definitely the way to go if you have the intention of watching it – the print, much like the film, is a joy to behold, almost doing full justice to the amazing cinematography (courtesy of Marc Fossard and Roger Hubert) and the delightful technical and stylistic flourishes found within it.

I am not exaggerating when I say that this may well be one of the finest films ever made. It could be studied and analysed until the cows come home, but as is often the case for many truly great films, there is nothing quite like seeing it for the first time and just enjoying it for what it is, not feeling the need to try and analyse because you have complete confidence in the filmmaker and are utterly captivated by the story he is telling you. It was made over sixty years ago now, but it could have been released yesterday for the first time. It feels as fresh and exciting as ever - and that, for me, is the sign of a film to cherish!

Villain (2010)

Flawed - but worth the watch.

[6/10 · 21 April 2012]

God, I wanted to rave about this film. 'Villain', billed as a gritty thriller from Japan, tells us in its plot synopsis that this is about the murder of a young woman and the search for the killer. I disagree completely. Even the genre in which its advertisers have pigeon holed it is incorrect. This is not a thriller – please don't enter the cinema expecting nerve jangling suspense. What we have here is the potential for a great film – and for the most part, what we are shown is excellent.

So I'll start with the positives, for when 'Villain' is good, it's incredible! 'Villain' does not follow the search for the killer at all – it largely follows the killer himself. There are a lot of characters in this movie, and a myriad of sub plots (which, incidentally, isn't beneficial – but more of that later). It is, as I saw it, a very slow, patient, observant film, which instead of reaching for cheap thrills and jump moments, is actually brave enough to step back and do something which very few films of this kind ever take the time to do: it peers into the misery and loneliness of its central characters, and their disillusionment concerning the immorality of the people around them. There is much cruelty in this film, and sharp prickles of nervousness and fear – but it is not a nasty story.

Undoubtedly the most successful plot line running through the film is, luckily, the one given the most attention: this is the relationship that is formed between Yuichi, our young murderer, and Mitsuyo, a lonely woman who works long hours selling suits and lodges with her sister and her sister's boyfriend. Their first meeting is embarrassing and ends horrifically – Yuichi, still consumed by guilt and anger, makes assumptions about Mitsuyo which he will later regret. Mitsuyo is desperate and understanding, and as the film goes on, we begin to understand just how much these two need each other.

Intercut with this is the storyline following the family of the murdered girl. This also is incredibly successful in the way in which it shows the grief of her parents – how they must come to terms with who their daughter really was, how they fight and turn on each other, and finally come to sad realisations, not only about themselves and their child, but about the people around her and them, and the corrosive cynicism and immorality of a new generation. Fair enough, on paper, that might sound a little pretentious, but unlike the majority of trashy whodunits that Hollywood churn out on an almost weekly basis, this is a film with much to say. It is deeply sad, and in many scenes, you can almost feel the director's sorrow and anger.

Less successful are plots involving Yuichi's grandmother and how she is cruelly scammed by her 'doctor' (this seems like a touch too far on the 'oh look at what a terrible society we live in' front), and the ending, although well meaning, is miscalculated. The way in which the director chooses to bring the relationship between Yuichi and Mitsuyo to a close seems like a strange choice – it might have worked, but nothing we have seen has led us to expect it, and as it comes so out of the blue, it is hard to believe in. It is, quite frankly, a bit of a cheat – a wrong footing that casts a somewhat distorted light on all the searing emotional honesty we have seen previous to that.

The film, however good some of the individual parts that make it up may be, is ultimately flawed. Clocking in at 2 hours and 20 minutes, it's about half an hour too long, and although the cinematography generally is exceptional (there's an inspired shot in which a flashback begins as the camera zooms into the pupil of a fish eye that will take the breath away from any film buff), the editing can sometimes be a little choppy. If only they had stuck with the love story at the movie's centre and the storyline involving the family of the dead girl, keeping the scenes with her father and the immoral young man that his daughter was smitten with, this would undoubtedly be one of the best films of the year. As it stands, 'Villain' is a good film – and despite its flaws, it's definitely worth the watch. I, for one, liked it very much.

Midnight in Paris (2011)

Great fun from Woody Allen.

[7/10 · 21 April 2012]

Here is a wonderful guilty pleasure for you: Woody Allen's latest love letter to a beloved city. This time, it isn't Manhattan, but Paris, and although this isn't anywhere near the calibre of his earlier films (it is generally agreed that Allen is a director way past his heyday), it is still a lovely, warm, harmless piece of filmmaking.

For all the ways that we can find to shout Woody Allen down, one think he absolutely excels at (now as ever) is filming a city. Paris has never looked more gorgeous – to look at some of the shots that open the film is to swoon headlong, cementing the French capital in our minds as the city of love.

Owen Wilson's character, Gil, is a writer who, like many literary types before him, as fallen head over heels for the city. He is a hopeless romantic, and instantly adorable. He wants to take midnight strolls and walk in the rain – fascinated by the literary allure of Paris and the 1920s in particular. Unfortunately, his fiancée – Rachel McAdams – is slightly less impressed, and perfectly vexed when he starts to suggest moving there. Her parents – snotty, uptight individuals – hate his guts. Cue some mildly funny dinner exchanges.

Three things make this film special and memorable. One is the fantasy element – I won't divulge too much, but suffice it to say that some degree of cultural knowledge will help immensely. Being a bookworm and a film buff, I loved Allen's exploration of the literary figureheads of yesteryear. Discussions that Gil has with a man called Dali and a man called Bunuel (get the hint?) are incredibly amusing, as is a short, witty scene involving a private detective and the Palace of Versailles. The second is the stellar cast – showcasing British talent (Michael Sheen crops up as a pedantic wannabe scholar, friend of Gil's fiancée), American stars (Kathy Bates and Adrien Brody in cameos both make an impression) and the ever brilliant Marion Cotillard, Allen has created an immensely watchable ensemble piece.

The third, as previously hinted at, is the cinematography: 'Midnight In Paris' is simply gorgeous to look at, particularly as we are shown Paris in three different time periods. The film oozes style and opulence, and works well as a laid back fantasy rom-com. You have to hand it to Allen – he still has imagination.

This isn't a masterpiece. Some will inevitably find it mediocre, or even boring. I have to say that it is utterly predictable and saccharine sweet; however, it never strays into the realm of the melodramatic, and Allen's imaginative style is utterly captivating and somewhat endearing in its innocent reverence for his beloved city. For everything else we can say about it, 'Midnight In Paris' is a charming, light, frothy piece of entertainment. Of course, it's absolute nonsense – but that's not always such a bad thing!

Cría Cuervos (1976)

A criminally overlooked classic of Spanish cinema

[8/10 · 21 April 2012]

As yet unavailable on DVD in the UK, this brilliant Spanish classic is now back on the big screen in a beautifully restored print. Thirty five years after it was made, Cria Cuervos is (by and large) just as potent and relevant as it was when first released.

There is a scene, quite early on in the film, where a young girl called Ana, and her two sisters, walk into their aunt's bedroom and start playing with her makeup and wardrobe, rouging their cheeks and applying lipstick in copious amounts. I think, at that point, almost everyone in the screening, tried to hide a sardonic smile.

However, it is not for its ironies when seen in the present day that we remember this film most. We remember it because it offers us something we very rarely see in cinema: an honest, sincere evocation of childhood and the gradual, warped loss of innocence. That is the premise of dozens of films, I realise, but seldom is anything like this achieved; movies of this type are either cloying and sentimental, or else sensationalised and melodramatic. Neither obtains the poignant sense of disquiet that 'Cria Cuervos' generates.

The film begins with Ana losing her father. Her mother, we quickly learn, died a few years ago, and Ana is left an orphan. She and her two sisters are sent to live with their aunt – a fundamentally kind, but authoritarian guardian who Ana, yearning for her own mother, instinctively rebels against. We follow Ana's story from the time of her father's death to the end of the summer holidays, after which she will start school with her sisters.

This, I hasten to add, is a very simplified, desiccated overview of the plot. It is a film packed with nuance and subtlety. We learn that Ana's father was in fact a soldier under Franco's regime, and had at one time fought alongside the Nazis. In one of the most memorable scenes in the film, Ana finds her father's gun, still loaded, leading to a tense scene with her aunt and her aunt's lover.

Ana is a fascinating child. The eagle eyed film buff might remember the actress who plays her from 'The Spirit of the Beehive', another Spanish classic which deals with similar themes, albeit in a different way. Most striking are those large, brown eyes of hers; Ana is a quiet, observant child, disturbed by her brief glimpses into the adult world, gradually accumulating as she grows older. How much does she understand? Obviously, when Ana grows into an adult and narrates the story through flashback, hindsight will let her comprehend the things she has seen. But what of when she is younger? The answer is largely subjective. The film draws many comparisons between Ana's grandmother and the young Ana herself – the old woman is paralysed, in a wheelchair. She is capable of hearing and seeing – and understanding the things other people say. But she never says anything. Whether this is part of her affliction, or a conscious choice, is left deliberately ambiguous. What we can see is that Ana sympathises with her grandmother, and a gentle, compassionate relationship evolves between the two.

I could go on. Perhaps the most impressive thing about the film is the way it seamlessly blends fact, fiction and memory so beautifully and precisely, without ever losing sight of its ultimate goal; indeed, this very blending lends the film an incredible authenticity. Ana feels isolated and alone – her fantasies, from the shocking to the seemingly banal, are desperate and painful. The opening montage, as well, of a collection of family photographs, is extremely subtle and masterful in the way it has us beginning to formulate questions and suspicions – some of which are assuaged, some of which aren't.

What a treat this is for any film fan! Carlos Saura (the director), was of course one of the great opponents of the Franco regime, while also rated as one of the most important Spanish directors of the 1970s. This is probably his most well known and powerful film. Childhood can be a frightening, confusing, and sad time, and Saura, with what is arguably his masterpiece, has captured that beautifully. Don't miss!

Melancholia (2011)

Bizarre and maddening - but kind of brilliant.

[8/10 · 21 April 2012]

When watching a Von Trier film, we should be judging the movie, not the man. More so here than in any other film he has made, Lars Von Trier has cemented his reputation as one of the most visionary, original directors working today. He has calmed down since his last schlock horror 'Antichrist' – and here we have a film of breathtaking visual beauty, its plot mimicking that of a bizarre contemporary opera, portraying nothing less than the end of the world.

The film, I have to stress again, is one of the most visually impressive we will see all year. From the opening scene, Von Trier's defiantly arty tastes shine through in a montage of slow motion sequences, inspired straight from disquieting masterpieces in both the art world ('Ophelia' springs to mind) and in the realms of cinema as well (it feels uncanny that only a few weeks after seeing 'Last Year in Marienbad', such a direct reference is made to the movie – who can mistake that garden with the perfectly geometric trees?). There is a scene early on in which Justine – the main character – opens art books at certain pages and leaves them lying out so that we can see the works in the distance. At times, in that prologue, you can imagine that these works have sprung to life in an aptly mesmerizing fashion.

In Part Two of the film, as the inevitable apocalypse draws closer, and nature begins to turn on itself, we are left dumbfounded by some of the images he conjures up, building up in intensity until the very last scene, as the planet 'Meloncholia' finally collides with Earth (NB: this isn't a spoiler – as an audience, it is explained from five minutes in that this is going to happen). But what a gut wrenching, deliriously intense crescendo he pulls out of the bag. The cinematography and the accompanying soundtrack are masterful. After a delightfully mysterious, breathtakingly opulent prologue, we are greeted with Part One of Two – named 'Justine' – after Kirsten Dunst's character. Justine has just got married to Michael, and they are making their way up to a castle (belonging to Justine's sister Claire – played by Charlotte Gainsbourg) for the reception in a white limousine – a vehicle notoriously difficult to manoeuvre round sharp bends. This opening scene is disarming. There are comic touches. The couple are happy – aren't they? Well – see for yourself. Part One deals almost exclusively with the couple's wedding night, and the disastrous reception party. Von Trier makes the most of his location – whether it be the vast interior of the castle or the sprawling golf course outside, bathed in artificial yellow light. It becomes apparent through a series of strange, beautifully handled sequences that Justine is in fact depressed and mentally ill, scarred by her parents' failed marriage and their present behaviour (John Hurt and Charlotte Rampling have some of the best lines in the film).

Part Two – the longer of the two sections – belongs to Justine's sister Claire. Of course, much has been made of Kirsten Dunst's performance (for which she won the Best Actress Award at Cannes), but I would say that she is unquestionably outshone by Gainsbourg here – who, as ever, is incredible. Her character is the most sympathetic – not only does she have to juggle her mentally ill sister with a somewhat unsympathetic husband (played by Kiefer Sutherland – who would have thought he would ever star in a Von Trier picture?), but also with the increasing anxiety that the planet 'Melancholia' is going to collide with Earth in a matter of days. Justine comes to stay with her sister for those final days, leading up to the apocalypse, and what ensues is nothing short of fascinating. The planet itself is seen in shots that could be paused, and the stills put up in an art gallery – the disquietingly erotic scene in which Justine wanders to the river bank and lies naked, bathed in the light bouncing off the planet in the middle of the night – will be ingrained on your memory long after leaving the cinema.

Of course, there are flaws. His script, for me, is chief among these: at times, it feels horribly like a first draft. As ever with Von Trier, he raises a lot of points and incorporates many themes (the evil of human existence – as dealt with in his previous film 'Antichrist' – crops up here yet again) – but very few are explored to any significant depth. The most successful exploration of a theme here is Justine's depression – which is handled marvellously. However, watching the film with a pinch of salt certainly wouldn't hurt.

That said, I for one was blown away by the film's originality. It is a mad, maddening, bizarre melodrama, and perhaps it is indeed pretentious - but watching it is like gazing at an exquisite work of art in motion. Two films this year have explored the cosmos and it's relation to us as human beings ('The Tree of Life' is the other). In some respects, these two films shouldn't even be compared – The Tree of Life is the far better film of the two in any case, and definitely deserved the Palme D'Or. But it is interesting to see the variation on a theme – one film a devastatingly beautiful, honest, humble exploration of human existence and the other – a manipulative, shamelessly gaudy and depressing slice of operatic tragedy.

But 'Melancholia', in its own, unique way, is stunning; years from now, I have no doubt it will be considered a masterpiece. Until then, suffice it to say that this is the best film that Lars Von Trier has made in a long time. Let's hope this is the start of a trend!

Lola (I) (2009)

An interesting failure.

[4/10 · 21 April 2012]

And so we have the opening film of this year's 'Asia Triennial Film Festival' – one of nine films by Filipino director Brillante Mendoza. In the introduction to the showing, the audience were informed that Mendoza is one of a number of directors who make up a kind of 'New Wave' in the cinema of the Philippines – noticeable particularly in that these directors make exclusive use of the digital, hand-held camera. It is an artistic choice.

Unfortunately, however audacious and unique a decision it is, it's not a very pertinent one. I couldn't help feeling throughout the screening that a more classical approach to the photography wouldn't have gone amiss. Some of the scenes work well with Mendoza's approach – in particular, the boat rides across the flooded neighbourhoods of Manila - the only way the inhabitants can get around, are well done; but more often than not, his visual style is incredibly distracting and irritating, often alienating us as an audience from what is happening on screen (especially in the night time scenes or in the interior of houses, the darkness is such that it is quite hard to discern the faces of the characters).

It is worth noting that as the film progresses, the technical aspects of the film also improve. It is strange to have such a contrast in a single movie: there is a scene earlier on in 'Lola' involving a robbery that could be used in any film class to address the issue of inadequate film continuity – I defy anyone who has seen the film to explain in any significant detail exactly what happens in those two minutes. Editing also is painfully clumsy in places – cuts between scenes are often unsubtle and disturb the flow of the narrative.

Yet 'Lola' certainly isn't a bad film. Its merits are significant. Where Mendoza succeeds is in his sincere exploration of the Philippine legal system, and the lives of the two grandmothers in question (one's son is in jail for the murder of the other grandmother's son). Both live in Manila, in poverty, often bracing themselves against the gales and the rain storms, scraping together whatever money they can. For whatever else they are ignorant of in this world, they know all too well the importance of money. It is the reason one boy died, and the other might be given his freedom.

Particularly impressive are the performances by the two leading ladies – both old, ailing, stricken with arthritis, scared and confused by a world moving on without them. It is a shame, given the incredible attention that is given to these ladies by the director, that when the two finally bring themselves to speak to each other, the dialogue – striving to be natural and sincere – actually feels forced, and the scene itself seems rushed. Secondary characters don't have much depth at all – the cutting phrase 'one-dimensional' is frighteningly apt for some of them.

Even as I am writing this review, I can't believe what a shame the consequences of all this are. 'Lola' could have been a great film – all the ingredients are present, in theory. Mendoza is a patient, observant director, dismissing melodrama and striving for emotional honesty while offering a scathing social critique on his homeland, and exploring the poverty of Manila's inhabitants with an earnest compassion. For all my complaining, some of Mendoza's shots are actually quite beautiful – I won't deny it (even if they are few and far between). Those showing the litter and trash infesting the streets and circling wildly in the wind, the funeral procession for the dead boy, a drive through sunlit countryside – all of these spring readily to mind. But if we could potentially have risen above the irritation that the visuals provoke had the film been concisely handled – at nigh on two hours, the fact that the movie is overlong is exacerbated.

I don't want to be overly negative about 'Lola'. I admire Mendoza's efforts, and applaud his minor successes. This kind of film is hard to get right, and he has been brave enough to try and put his own unique stamp on it. The result is admirable in many ways, but as a whole, the movie doesn't quite gel. A somewhat disappointing start for the Asia Triennial Film Festival.

Under the Hawthorn Tree (2010)

A lovely new film from Chinese master Zhang Yimou. Why has it not been given a proper worldwide release?

[8/10 · 21 April 2012]

There is a scene, about two thirds of the way through, in which an older woman, mother to three children, sits down with her eldest daughter and the boy she has fallen in love with, and for about five minutes, they speak to each other. These are hard times – all three know it. At the beginning of the scene, the mother is sceptical. She treats the two as children, with their heads in the clouds. But the conversation develops, and gradually, we realise a change in the mother. She cannot back down – in practical, surviving terms, she is in the right. But she softens her approach, and by the end, even has a kind of basic respect for the two, behind her frosty exterior. For she has seen the love that these two have for each other, and recognised it. It was then that I knew I was watching a great movie…

If 'Lola' was a disappointment in the Asia Triennial Film Festival this year, Zhang Yimou's new film – a love story set during the Chinese Cultural Revolution – makes up for it tenfold. It's not very often I get the opportunity to rave about a film like this, as they are so rarely done well; cynicism, plot complication and saccharine cliché at turns are what often makes a love story such as this horrifically superficial and painful to watch. But Yimou knows what he is doing. Arguably the finest working Chinese director (with the masterpieces 'Raise The Red Lantern', 'Hero' and 'House of Flying Daggers' to his name), he has succeeded here in making a beautiful, heartfelt film, spilling over with the love and care that has gone into its production.

Zhang Jingqiu is a student sent to do research and write a report for her school on a small village in Yichang City. She stays with the head of the village and his family. While there, she meets Sun, a geology student. What follows is inevitable. But how delicately rendered it is: Jing is the most beautiful, innocent young woman Sun has ever seen, and Jing, emotional and vulnerable, is amazed by him. Love at first sight! But this isn't as whimsical as it sounds. Yimou hasn't completely forgotten his political ideals and ability for scathing criticism: with this latest endeavour, he explores just how stifled and suffocating Mao's regime was for everyone under his power, and the emotional deadlock that threaten to destroy his protagonists at every turn. Frolicking, even in the most innocent sense of the work, was risky; Sun and Jing are from different classes, exacerbating the issue. Were they to be found out, her life and ambitions to work as a teacher would be ruined.

I was unsure, during the first half of the film, what to think. Yimou makes some interesting structural choices as regarding his narrative – many of the scenes are divided by inter-titles, telling us of an event we are not allowed to see, and then moving on to its aftermath. Most directors would die before doing this – especially in a film requiring the emotional impact this needs – and, I admit, I doubted its benefits at first. But instead of hindering the drive of the plot, Yimou has used it in such a way – not to cut the film into a digestible running length, but simply to avoid over melodramatics, and focus (almost entirely) on the couple in question. Supplementary information is given to us by other means – the filmed scenes are belong exclusively to Yimou's exploration of our two protagonists' relationship. It works perfectly.

Of course, we all know the rules. Both lovers are alive at the beginning; the same cannot be said after the end credits begin to roll. What makes this movie so wonderful isn't its startling originality; it isn't going to revolutionise cinema as we know it, or spark off long lasting controversy. Rather, what we are offered is a little less prestigious, but by no means less special. What we find is emotional honesty – when we start to cry at the end, we don't feel cheated; instead, we revel in the director's success. More importantly, though, we have felt for his characters, having engaged with them completely, and have a kind of renewed respect for the kind of pure, unconditional love we have been shown. The film is yet another example of Yimou's mastery of the 'anti-melodrama' – much like his early work, this is incredibly restrained, beautifully measured and patiently observed, shot through with a warmth and tender humanity that shouldn't inspire anything but admiration. Cynics – stay away. But for all the romantics out there (of which I, admittedly, am one), I couldn't recommend this more highly. Simply put, it's exquisite.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)

Impressive adaptation of the famous spy novel.

[8/10 · 21 April 2012]

We do not meet George Smiley straight away. He wears a dispassionate, icily glazed expression upon his face. He is aging: his hair is turning silvery grey, and at first glance, whether it be his reticence, his stiff movements, his thin, tightly pressed lips, or his daily swim in a nearby lake amongst others his age, practising backstroke at a glacial pace while leaves, brown and decaying, blow onto the surface of the metallic water, we may conclude that he is tired and indifferent – not that interesting a character at all. That is our first mistake. For behind those observant, grey eyes of his, magnified a little by his darkly rimmed spectacles, burns a quiet, festering rage, born of unhappiness and the cruel realisation that the cause he may have believed he was fighting for in his youth is a worthless, corrupt, brutal sham.

Yet his cold determination and impersonal, terrifyingly brilliant logic betray him. He knows the rules of the game, has been disgusted by them, and yet keeps on playing. Where most fiction would take a protagonist like George Smiley and simply turn him into some kind of martyr, what we find here is something far more disquieting. For Smiley, in his undercover investigation of a possible mole in 'The Circus' (commonly known as MI6), finds a primitive satisfaction in his success; his own horrible realisation of the reality of his work is long in the past, buried deep somewhere behind those large, grey eyes, and this might be the only source of pride that he can feel as he begins to age. Perhaps he was emotional when he was younger – indeed, in one of the best scenes in the film (one of many, I hasten to add), Smiley tells us of his desperation to save the life of a Russian spy; this venture was perhaps the last straw for Smiley, and fully secured his disillusionment. The film ends with Smiley facing the camera, and we can almost see him smile, for the first time in the film. But this isn't a happy ending, and I didn't leave the cinema liking the protagonist at all; instead, he gave me shivers.

Of course, the source material - John Le Carre's brilliant novel of the same name - is over 400 pages long, and was long ago adapted into an award winning miniseries starring that cinematic giant of yesteryear, Alec Guinness. Gary Oldman now has the role of George Smiley, and safe to say, he excels. An Oscar nomination will doubtlessly come his way next year. It is an exquisite performance – all nuance, body language, gesture. Only once in the whole film does Smiley even raise his voice above his tired monotone; yet the performance is an incredible, unique, vividly memorable piece of art.

Of course, the notion of having Tomas Alfredson as director was always a stroke of genius. Still fresh from universal critical acclaim for his 2008 masterpiece 'Let The Right One In', here he demonstrates once more just how important a director he is, injecting his own unique brand of 'Swedish melancholia' into his brilliant new adaptation. The result is fascinating; Alfredson gives as much weight to files being transported from one floor to the next and stored away in a cupboard to a botched assassination across the seas. Here, the assassins, rather than just being dispassionate, unfeeling cogs in the clockwork of the plot, are terrifyingly human – their hands shake, and beads of sweat threaten to betray their real intent.

Alfredson transports us to a Seventies of grainy greys, browns, blacks, and heavily diluted, artificial greens and blues, executing his palette with such loving, meticulous precision that the oppressive atmosphere of corruption, sorrowful disenchantment and the danger of violence lurking just behind every corner, almost becomes a character in itself. This could well be the most unglamorous spy thriller ever made. Of course, as hinted at before, the plot centres around Smiley's investigation as regarding a mole at the top of MI6, a fact that Smiley's boss and friend, Control (a marvellous performance from John Hurt) was sure of; his determination to discover the culprit led to a disastrous mission in Budapest, from which he was left reeling shortly before his death. Now, the task is left to Smiley.

The bad guy is painfully easy to spot – it shouldn't come as any surprise when the 'twist' is revealed. But that is irrelevant – for where this film excels, and what makes it so outstanding, is in its exploration of the disappointment, cruel disillusionment and suffocating emotional claustrophobia that these characters have unwittingly signed up to: emotional ties are dangerous, and often unsustainable. Smiley knows all too well, and it is another stroke of genius that neither his wife, nor his 'nemesis' Karla are ever seen in plain view – they are obscured memories, slowly decaying in some part of his imagination as his anger and wounded pride continue to fester. Of course, Alfredson has done his homework. He has read his source material and managed to condense it into a single 2 hour film without it ever feeling unduly rushed – indeed, it is actually quite measured and stately. There are countless masterful scenes, including one involving Benedict Cumberbatch in the Government Archives, that is nerve shreddingly tense – Hitchcock would have been envious. The supporting cast is also a dream: a magnificent medley of British acting talent, including John Hurt, Colin Firth, Tom Hardy and Toby Jones, to name but a few.

'Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy' is an excellent piece of filmmaking – dark, uncompromising, perfectly measured and alarmingly detached, restrained and cruel. It is, even with its niggling little flaws (personally, I found the climax a little underdone and the outcome predictable; although the stunning final sequence more than makes up for it), one of the best films of 2011. That's saying something!

Jane Eyre (2011)

One of English literature's best-loved heroines is back on the big screen.

[7/10 · 21 April 2012]

Cary Fukunaga is an interesting new talent. 'Jane Eyre' is his second major work, seemingly a distinct contrast to his first: the impressive 'Sin Nombre'. Both, I suppose, are about outsiders, entering worlds they know nothing about, and trying desperately to keep their heads above water. But thematically, the similarities are so broad and vague that you would be forgiven for thinking that the two films are completely incompatible in any way: after all, one is about illegal immigration; the other, at its heart, is a love story!

And what a love story it is. Charlotte Bronte's novel has been adapted countless times for television and cinema; yet the most obvious thing about this version is that 'Jane Eyre' has never looked better on the silver screen. If there is one thing that we can pat ourselves on the back for, it is that we can produce the most gorgeous cinematography. This is not only in the context of a beautiful sunset, or radiant summer blossoms, but in shadows, and mist, and fog; the grey, murky winter light filtering through a window pane onto the wan, melancholy complexion of our heroine. Much of the film takes place in shadows and in darkness, where a flickering candle produces the only light, playing on the terrified gaze of the onlooker, as unseen spectres creep about the corridors; yet Thornfield Hall will metamorphose from an oppressive, disquieting castle (not unlike those of Gothic horror) to a place of joy and happiness during the film. But perhaps these are only illusionary qualities… Its final transformation may show it for what it always was.

All of this said, there are niggling problems with the editing and the cinematography. For example, in the novel (and every adaptation I've seen), Jane's first journey to Thornfield Hall is laced with menace and foreboding (add some wolves and a supernatural ring of fire and we have Bram Stoker's Dracula all over again). Yet Jane's arrival here is rushed and clumsy. Of course, the film was inevitably going to be a condensed version of the novel – not every scene that Bronte penned could possibly make it into a 2 hour film, but certainly during the first half hour, dealing with Jane's childhood and adolescence, it can seem a little rushed.

The plot is well known, so I won't bother with the details: if you are unaware of it, so much the better. Watch it without knowing the intricacies of the plot and the iconic twist. Fukunaga is clever in the way in which he holds a great reverence for his source material without falling into the trap of following it blindly. He can pick and choose, and put his own stamp on it. Atmosphere is everything, and his adaptation has it in spades. The film begins and ends differently from the novel: Fukunaga starts in the middle, observing a distraught Jane Eyre fleeing from Thornfield, and ends just a little before the novel does (the final scene is inspired). Some have complained about the film being restrained, the implication being that Fukunaga toes the line between his adaptation being shrewdly concentrated and coldly desiccated. I'm perfectly happy to say that if that's the case, Fukunaga stays firmly on the right side of that line.

Of course, I could go on about the lavish sets and production values, but it is, in the end, Mia Wasikowska that makes the film a success. What a vision she is as Jane Eyre, humble and vulnerable, but strong, determined and just – Bronte's perfect heroine, and one of the great leading ladies of feminist literature. Michael Fassbender makes an adequate Rochester, but it is Mia who is the discovery here; from Tim Burton's somewhat lacklustre adaptation of 'Alice in Wonderland', she has now, with 'Jane Eyre', cemented her status as one of the most exciting new actresses in contemporary cinema. The supporting cast is equally as impressive: Judi Dench (always reliable) plays Mrs. Fairfax, Jamie Bell is the preacher that Jane will meet a little later in the story (or, in this version, right at the beginning), and Sally Hawkins has a cameo as the young Jane's rotten guardian, Mrs. Reed.

All things considered, this is a strong, solid adaptation of Charlotte Bronte's Gothic romance. I, for one, can't wait for the new version of Emily's 'Wuthering Heights' to be released later this year!

The Skin I Live In (2011)

Twisted, depraved - and good.

[2 September 2011]

Almodovar, for me, is a talented director who makes hits and misses. 'Talk to Her', I believe, is his best film to date; there are a couple of contenders for his worst. But 'The Skin I Live In' definitely isn't one of them.

It is an art-house horror thriller, adapted from Thierry Jonquet's novel 'Tarantula' (unread by me). The obvious source of inspiration is the French film 'Les Yeux Sans Visage', another horror film involving a mad doctor and synthetic skin. But 'The Skin I Live In' is far more than that. I won't give any details of the plot anyway, but perhaps think about that title more carefully.

When I say it is an art-house horror film - it is definitely Almodovar's own brand of 'art'. He fills his screen with deep, rich, gaudy colours - reds, blues, yellows, browns, oranges - and the disquieting, rosy shade of cream that belongs to the synthetic skin of the title. It is a visual feast.

The plot is ridiculous and somewhat trashy, but it hangs tightly together, and Almodovar has cast aside horror conventions and clichés and made something quite original. Antonio Banderas impresses in the lead as the vengeful surgeon, and the film, becoming evermore twisted as Banderas' true motives for the experiment and its full extents become clearer, is very entertaining. People left the cinema as the end credits began to roll, laughing - not in derision, but in shock.

I wonder if this will have an American remake. I can see it happening, but I hope it doesn't. Almodovar has put his own unique stamp on this, incorporating at successive turns tongue in cheek humour, disturbing brutality, psychological torture and bizarre moments of poignancy. I suppose the best compliment that can be given to the film, with this in mind, is that it works.

It is no masterpiece. It is very well acted, very well made with an interesting and pleasing aesthetic, with sharp prickles of fear and a genuinely surprising twist. It is an entertaining guilty pleasure from Almodovar. I await his next film with interest.

Last Year at Marienbad (1961)

Another masterpiece by Resnais

[2 September 2011]

It starts with a series of tracking shots, the camera manoeuvring through the vast interior of a Baroque château, lingering over the beautiful, austere marble work, the polished, imposing mirrors, the elaborate, monstrous chandeliers that dangle from the ceiling. The music is ominous. The camera and the audience, much like the characters, will never leave this hotel. Sometimes, the illusion of outdoors can be toyed with: the hotel's garden is vast, complete with fountains, labyrinthine hedge mazes and pathways surrounded by pyramidal trees and classical statues – but we will never leave.

The narration, by a man known only as X, is fragmented, repetitive, as though we are only hearing its echoes bouncing off the walls, with some of it inevitably lost to the stone and marble, much like the conversation that fills the château. We see that there are a number of guests at this hotel, but we never learn why they are there: indeed, it becomes quite clear that not even they are sure.

Last Year In Marienbad is a difficult film. Its ambiguity and frustrating lack of any kind of plot has mystified many and angered more. It isn't a film that can be analysed in any definite sense, because the film is open to various interpretations. That is a good thing. One thing that can be said in all certainty is that wherever this hotel is, it does not exist on Earth. Perhaps some parallel universe, or the afterlife (the assumption that the characters are dead is a completely valid interpretation of the film, and the only interpretation that allows for the film to be understood in a literal sense).

Otherwise, the film is a metaphor from the opening titles to the final fade to black. Of what? You'll have to decide for yourself. Much like Resnais' previous film, Hiroshima Mon Amour, here emotional paralysis, guilt, memory and death are all integral themes. The château is more like a mausoleum than a getaway – its icily geometric perfection is at once awe inspiring and frightening, otherworldly (many critics have pondered over a master image in the hotel garden after A rushes out onto the balcony, followed by the camera, to be confronted by a tableau in which the couples cast long elongated shadows on the ground, but the trees do not). It is cold, impersonal – emotion is something that cannot be sustained there. The characters constantly talk in monotones, speaking about nothing (the weather seems to be a popular topic), settling into comfortable routines where banal trivialities are the highlights of the day. A man who may or may not be A's jealous husband is an expert at 'Nim' – a game of logic hasn't been so disquieting since Max Von Sydow donned a suit of armour and played chess with the Grim Reaper! It is an insipid existence, disrupted only by X's pursuit of A – a beautiful woman with whom X insists he had an affair with last year, and who he begs to run away with him. A rebukes him, refusing to remember him, and constantly dismisses him.

Memory is a painful thing, so the characters manipulate it – A has forced herself to forget her lover, and X, consumed by guilt over a possible molestation, invents memories to sustain his self denial. Sacha Vierny, the cinematographer, makes effective use of very short flashbacks, inter cut with a conversation, to demonstrate a sudden flash of memory. The film simmers over with sexual tension, but there is no passion to be seen here: the movie is ice cold. Beauty and pose are faculties that these characters retain, but emotion is something they have lost. In Resnais' first film, the couple are dead in the metaphorical sense, clinging to life by the fingernails by trying to sustain their love for one another, but doomed to fail. The same can be seen here – the man is desperate for an idealised romance with A, but A cannot accept.

Temporal and spatial relationships in the film are hard to distinguish, as is truth from fiction, disorientating and confusing us; rooms and open spaces seem to metamorphose and change at their own will. The camera often jump-cuts from one room to another, while the conversation runs fluidly as normal between X and A. They are lost in a world of meandering, decaying memories, of fabrications and frightening, painful truths, now ambiguous and obscured by metaphorical cobwebs. We see them only as they do: distorted.

When we see a film and do not understand it, we often become defensive and fall back on words like pretentious or self-indulgent to make up for our ignorance. If we cannot fully understand what is going on, perhaps we aren't meant to, in that sense. The visuals make up for it in any case – the film is like a glorious piece of artwork in motion from beginning to end, gorgeous but disturbing. It is a fascinating film – one that warrants more than a single viewing. Simply for its technical achievements in cinematography, its costume design (kudos to Coco Chanel) and the oppressive, sorrowful and disquieting, trance like atmosphere, it is iconic. It is, in short, a masterpiece meticulously restored and re-released by the BFI in the UK so it can be enjoyed once more on the big screen, where it belongs. A delight!

Still Walking (2008)

A subtle exploration of bereavement and family dysfunction.

[11 August 2011]

'Still Walking', the stunning new film from Japanese director Hirokazu Koreeda, begins with a premise so stale and overused that to read a plot synopsis of the movie is discouraging enough to prevent you from seeing it. A family reuniting for the anniversary of a loved one's death is nothing new in the world of cinema, and American TV movies have been churning out cloying, sickeningly saccharine variations on it for the past fifty years. Yet here is a film so refreshing and truthful that it restores your faith (almost completely) in the domestic drama.

The similarities to Ozu are obvious; had this been directed by him, it might stand quite comfortably alongside his masterpieces. The comparisons that have been made between the great Japanese director and Koreeda are fully deserved. Like Ozu, he makes extensive and inventive use of a stationary camera, always arranging his shots to perfection: often, after a moment of discussion or 'drama', we are taken away from the characters and the camera lingers, providing a seemingly superfluous shot. This was an Ozu trademark, and it is used with reverence here; at times the camera focuses on seemingly trivial things, such as broken bath tiles or a flower in a glass, pale in the twilight. It allows us to digest what we have seen. The detail in his shots is quietly breathtaking: Koreeda has an eye for family meals and rituals in particular, and these scenes are handled masterfully.

The film follows Ryota, his wife and his stepson as they return to his parents' home on the anniversary of his elder brother Junpei's death. It is gradually revealed that he was drowned while rescuing a young boy, now grown older. In Ozu's 'Tokyo Story', it was the parents who were the caring couple becoming victims of their children's' greed and selfishness in their old age; here, it is the parents who bicker, both with themselves and their children, making petty insinuations due to their outdated ideals and the tragedy they have suffered; it is their living children who suffer as a result. Yet there are no earth shattering arguments among smashed crockery, and very rarely a raised voice; by the time we meet these people, the arguments are past, only to be replaced by stifled politeness and bitter mutterings. They have settled into a routine; it is at once their refuge and their weapon, their greatest ailment but their only means of communication. If it weren't for the fact that it was Ryota's duty to return home each year on the anniversary of his brother's death, he might never return at all: his father quietly chastises him for never calling his mother, to which Ryota's reply is that she always complains when he does.

How wise this film is in comparison to so many of its counterparts, where oversimplified, long standing feuds are rectified in a single visit! This film is far too mature to fall into that trap. It contains layer upon layer of characterisation: we get the sense that what we are seeing is a real family, not a TV cardboard cut out. Their issues are buried deep in the past, and as Koreeda notices, it is almost always the tiny, minute details that a family argues about - often referenced briefly and indirectly. And what an abundance of these we see, some never explained; it is through these microscopic specifics that Koreeda, with delicate precision, provides insight into his characters and their lives: the fact that the old patriarch, a retired doctor, refuses to go shopping because he is too proud to be seen by his neighbours carrying a shopping bag; the fact that his wife would have preferred her son to marry a divorced woman rather that a widow. These are some of the more trivial. There are mounds to discover.

Perhaps the finest scene in the film is one in which Ryota and his mother Toshiko are talking in the kitchen together. It is nearly the end of the day and Ryota will be leaving in the morning. Earlier, in the afternoon, the boy that Junpei saved when he drowned visited to pay his respects. We learn that he does this every year, as Toshiko always invites him, and it is painful to notice the subtle ways in which Toshiko, with a sympathetic smile and polite tone, gently treats him with derision and belittles him. In the evening, Ryota and Toshika are making small talk about a sumo wrestler. The way in which that small talk gradually leads to Toshiko's painful admission of why she invites the boy every year is so subtle it is almost indiscernible; but what an honest, heart wrenching, cruel admission it is. There is no background music, and the camera, stationary, provides a close up of the side of Toshiko's face, downcast, as she speaks. It's an amazing scene.

And when the twenty four hour visit is over, very little is rectified. Meaningless promises are made, resentments still fester, they are still awkward with each other. These people are desperate, and as we begin to learn, they want desperately to reach out to each other. But it is too awkward, and the honesty it would require would be far too painful. They are distinctly human, ignoring the problems and running away. And then, of course, it's too late, and all that's left is the broken pieces and the disappointment.

What a sad, meditative film this is, handled with such astounding tenderness and compassion. But there are bittersweet moments, and even hope is to be found here! Far from being simple and cloying, this is an extraordinarily complex gem of a film, containing emotional truths and nuances that even the longest essay couldn't fully disclose. Words just can't be found to explain some things... and what a mess that fact makes of their lives!

The Conformist (1970)

One of the greatest films ever made

[10 August 2011]

'The Conformist' is an engrossing, if extraordinarily difficult film; I haven't met a person yet who has been able to comprehend all the nuances and unravel all of its layers on a first viewing. The narrative is non-linear, making vivid use of flashback inter cut with the unfolding of the film's climax, creating a dreamy, hypnotic atmosphere, laced with menace, oppression and tension.

Many of Bertolucci's films explore politics: 'The Conformist', on the surface, is an obvious indictment of Fascism, using imagery, metaphor, irony and gallows humour to mercilessly expose its flaws while always retaining a sincerity and honesty in exploring how Fascism managed to function and progress.

The film could have been heavy handed, juggling such a massive topic with other secondary themes; but Bertolucci's success lies in the fact that he never wanders from the character of Marcello Clerici (played wonderfully by Jean-Louis Trintignant)and his personal strive for 'normality' - an ideal that Bertolucci with great care and precision shows to be misguided in its very concept: for what is normality? By concentrating on one specific storyline - that of Clerici's mission to assassinate his old professor, who is in self-imposed exile in Paris and engaging in anti-Fascist activities, Bertolucci manages to examine Fascism in more depth and with more success than any 'epic' biography of Hitler or historical drama.

It has to be the sign of a great director, then, that this is achieved at the same time as making a masterpiece of cinematic technique - and accolades here must also be shared with Vittorio Storaro, the cinematographer. His palette - of vivid, artificial blues, blacks, harsh whites, yellows, browns, and in the opening scene alone, neon red, makes for a visual feast so sumptuous that in a restored print, 'The Conformist' is breathtaking to behold. But unlike other films that boast beautiful cinematography for its own sake, here, even these opulent colours are used as extensions of theme and character.

Much has been written about Marcello Clerici, but it is undoubtedly Anna Quadri, played to perfection by Dominique Sanda, that is the great enigma of 'The Conformist'. What are her intentions? Her motivations? Why does she do the things she does? At times, she seems perfectly sincere: a vehement anti-Fascist who loves her husband and is disgusted by the far-right. I believe these ideals to be sincere. But Anna Quadri is a complex, mysterious character. Marcello notices that she resembles a prostitute he met earlier when receiving new orders concerning his old professor, Anna's husband. We notice the resemblance too – and also realise that she appears similar to yet another prostitute earlier in the film, whom a Fascist government official was toying with on his desk. It is ridiculous to suggest that Anna Quadri could possibly be either of these two women, but the resemblance was obviously meant to be noticed. It throws us off guard the moment we meet Anna; she is impetuous, dangerous, sphinxlike.

That she is playing games with Marcello, we have no doubt. Anna admits that she knew from the get-go (along with her husband) that Clerici was a Fascist spy. She is trying to trap him, to entice him, and persuade him to forsake his mission. Her husband uses small tricks and political speeches; she uses sex and emotional blackmail. That she is a ballet teacher is quite apt - she is a master of pose, performance, and seduction, and she knows it.

Marcello, of course, is the conformist of the title. This is his story and his tragedy; his speeches revealing his motivations and his confessions could have been written by a 21st century Shakespeare, in that they have a surface lucidity concealing beneath them universes of anguish and desperation. What impact have his parents had on his character? His sexual trauma at thirteen years old? What about Quadri leaving for Paris while the young Marcello was writing his thesis - he seems quite angry about this? Every scene in 'The Conformist' is lovingly realised and brought to the screen - together, Bertolucci and Storaro fill the shot with an abundance of detail, paying particular attention to the cold, impersonal geometry of Fascist architecture, the apartments of the middle classes and the mansions of the upper classes. Bertolucci proves his love for film in his references and homages to his heroes, the directors of the French New Wave (particularly Truffaut, Godard and Resnais) among others: these can be seen especially in the camera work and editing - the odd angles (reminiscent of Reed's 'The Third Man') as Marcello walks to his mother's decaying mansion, a painting fading into the scene it depicts, an amazingly inventive and tense chase through wintry woodland using a hand-held camera, accentuating the sound of a gun shot in contrast to the muted sounds of knives in an assassination vividly reminiscent of Shakespeare's 'Julius Caesar'.

My favourite scenes include Professor Quadri giving a speech to Marcello, heavily making use of metaphor to explain the workings of Fascism, accompanied with some inspired symbolic imagery involving a shadow on the wall dissolving in sunlight, the party of the 'blind' - an obvious pun by Bertolucci to imply the blindness of Fascism itself, and an amazing sequence in a dance hall later on which emphasises Marcello's role as an outsider. It is ironic to think that the more he tries to conform, the more he distances himself from society and falls deeper into isolation. As the film ends, and he peers behind him into the darkness, Italy's future after the fall of Mussolini murky and uncertain, Marcello is left angry, guilty and scared; but more than that, because of his flawed, doomed plight for 'normality', he is left desperately, painfully alone.

How I Ended This Summer (2010)

Surprising and impressive

[8/10 · 5 June 2011]

It is a small travesty that more films like this from across the pond don't get a wider audience (I think the only reason this has managed to get a UK release was the fact that it won Best Film at the BFI London Film Festival). But this small gem has managed to escape obscurity and has now been given a cinema release so that everyone can enjoy this small gem.

First, may I state the following: this is not a thriller! Please do not start watching this film expecting Russia's interpretation of Hitchcock - you will be sorely disappointed! The film itself has relatively little in terms of plot - a fact that another reviewer has (unfairly) criticised it for. Instead, what we receive as viewers is a quietly poignant, at times almost meditative exploration of isolation and the tensions that arise between the two leading characters in the vast, sparse, beautiful terrain of the Arctic in which they work.

As the film develops, the suspense certainly mounts, and at one point, a tense cat and mouse chase does develop. Indeed, it is not only themselves, but their surroundings which they have to tread carefully around - sinister hints about a deserted house on a cliff top and the danger posed by polar bears play their role. But don't try and second guess the film, because above all, this is a truly understated, moving exploration of human fragility rather than an action flick. The ending made me smile in surprise, and I felt ashamed at how cynically I had felt that I knew where the film was going. You will never see an ending as mature as this coming from Hollywood.

I won't bother with a plot summary - the one provided by IMDb is more than sufficient. What I will say is that both the acting and the cinematography are superb. The two leads both do wonderful jobs in which the performances require far more than the confines of the dialogue - so much of this film takes place in silence, and both men tackle their parts with great success. Then there is the cinematography - it has been a while since I have seen such beautiful images come together to create such an atmosphere of isolation and buried tension. The vast, beautiful landscape, the pale blue skies, the gentle lull of the sea, the calm glassy lakes, the dark, imposing cliffs, and then the intermittent fog... postcards could be made using some of these images. The effect is perfect.

In short, this is definitely worth the watch, and it's one to look out for in 2011!

The Only Son (1936)

Ozu's first 'talkie'

[9/10 · 5 June 2011]

In which genre would you place an Ozu film? Most would say 'melodrama', simply for ease, but to put this director's body of work into a category cram packed with the saccharine misfires of Hollywood all the way to the recent, shamelessly OTT 'Black Swan' (which, bizarrely, has found its way into the IMDb Top 250) is surely either a sign of laziness, a misunderstanding of his work or a pure insult.

If the films of Ozu really can be classed as 'melodramas', then we must first state that they are in a league of their own, and revolutionary to the category, providing endless inspiration for artists of all kinds - filmmakers, authors, actors and theatre directors have all named him as an influence. While other directors were busy shamelessly masturbating the emotions of their audience with forced dialogue, contrived plots and unbelievable amounts of glamorous cheese, Ozu's films, by comparison, would be seen by many people as anticlimactic and boring. Yet never in his career did he make a poor film, and mediocrities are few and far between (most of which are lost in his silent work). Indeed, even though 'The Only Son' was Ozu's first sound picture, he had been working in film for many years before this production. What we see in this early film is the work of a director already confident with the medium in which he worked, and the result is an understated, dignified delight.

It seems wrong to give a plot summary, as the story itself is of little consequence. Ozu was one of the few directors who managed to master the art of transcending the confines of plot and escape to the much wider universe in which emotional honesty and character all come into their own.

Some may be wondering what I am talking about, considering that Ozu always seemed to focus on family relationships. There are many who would argue that in actual fact, he never really experimented at all, and limited himself to this one subject.

But what a fascinating subject it can be. Ozu, with graceful skill and extreme talent, managed to explore human existence more completely than any director before or since, all with a largely stationary camera disclosing to the viewer immaculately ordered shots, and often placed at the eye level of a person seated on a tatami mat.

In this film, a mother working at a silk mill in rural Japan decides to send her son to secondary school in the hope that he will be able to escape his poor heritage and make something of himself in Tokyo. Sounds underwhelming and clichéd enough, doesn't it? But forget about that. As always with Ozu, it is his humanity, the nuances of the performances and the beautiful dignity and sympathetic nature of his direction that makes the film worth watching. His films tap into emotional realms that others can only make pathetic, superficial attempts at penetrating, and for that and that alone, his films should be treasured. This is no exception, and it is the perfect starting point to first time viewers of Ozu's work.

PS - As it is no exception, mind you have some Kleenex at the ready. Tears tend to run freely down the cheeks of the most hardened critics during these excursions into Ozu's Japan.

And for Ozu fans, this also stars Chishu Ryu, Ozu's favourite actor, in a minor role as the young boy's primary school teacher.