the_rock456 Reviews

Rockpolitik (2005– )

Unbearable

[15 December 2005]

If only I could, I would spend hours jotting away profane insults at Celentano, Rai (the Italian state broadcaster) and Rockpolitik. Unfortunately, I am of a far too indolent predisposition to do so. What follows is a mere sample of the gargantuan variety of disgraceful abuses cramming my already minute encephalon.

It all started some six months before the airdate of the show, with a surprisingly original teaser announcing, with the solemnity of the Archangel unleashing the Apocalypse upon the sinful people of the Earth, that some time in the distant future, Italian audiences would have the pleasure, nay the honour, of witnessing a four-episode Celentano extravaganza. 180 days, €10m and scores of undue trepidation and masterminded controversy later, the show airs loaded with its decidedly immodest ambition of enlightening the TV public of "il Bel Paese" with something so unimaginably different from the mind-numbing, spirit-crushing fare they have been accustomed to in the past decade or so.

Does it succeed? Most certainly not, as even the least deductive of you might have guessed. In a rare exercise blending hypocrisy and presumptuousness, Rockpolitik actually manages to scrape the lowest abyss of the Sea of Banality and the Profanic Ocean. The, some may say unwarranted, tirade is due precisely to the show's self-proclaimed grandiosity and uniqueness. In reality, it translates into an unapologetic repetition of contrived celebrity appearances, comic routines (the use of the word comic is nothing more than the result of the generous Christmas spirit currently prevailing) and lip-synched delights from the man himself, Celentano. The result is, therefore, just as mind-numbing and as spirit-crushing as the status quo it so pitifully attempts to denounce. After four interminable helpings of this rubbish, one cannot help but notice the inevitable plunge of Italian television, and culture in general, into the most desolate and squalid depths of ignorance.

Touching the Void (2003)

I can't be bothered to find a summary title. The film is pretty good though.

[8/10 · 5 October 2005]

I have an awfully peculiar habit when it comes to selecting films. I see a DVD enthusiastically sitting up in the video shop display hoping for an erring punter to pick it up, and I also see, printed on its cover, enthusing quotes by some impossibly obscure, and equally unimaginative critic, and I know, having previously read a bunch of reviews, that the film in question is, indeed and by all accounts, a modern masterpiece, a wondrous cinematic effort of which the Lumières brothers would be so exceptionally proud that they are still singing a cappella in their graves.

After this plethora of positive hints that would induce any borderline rational halfwit to rent the film, what do I do? I solemnly approach the counter with either some awful monstrosity of the likes of The Stepford Wives, which my girlfriend, in a rather dictatorial manner, forces me to watch or, with a Memento or Fight Club or Requiem for a Dream that I have already seen a quadrizillion times but still prefer to a new film that might turn out to be an excruciating disappointment.

As the wily foxes amongst you might have guessed, this was the case with Touching the Void. I "almost rented" it innumerable times, until I finally worked up the courage to remove the almost from the metaphorical sentence and actually did rent it – to the applause of the audience in the store. And, well, the unimaginative critic was unoriginally spot on. The film does deserve two-thumbs up, mostly because it manages to render potentially lacklustre material - with a degree of grip and excitement worthy of a Discovery Channel documentary – very gripping and, er, exciting indeed. To be frank, I'm not too sure how this astonishing feat was accomplished. In fact, the hybrid technique of fusing re-enactments with interviews is very common amongst those thriller-ride cable documentaries. Yet, the result in Touching the Void is infinitely more riveting and cinematic. This success should be partly attributed, and I may appear somewhat cuckoo here, to Simpson's voice. I genuinely believe that the tone of his voice manages to suit the mood of the story, and thus the film, like a tailor-made, er, suit. It goes without saying (or does it?) that credit is to be attributed to MacDonald for blending narration and re-enactments with such formidable dexterity so as to render a repetition of virtually identical shots infinitely more interesting than what it actually is: a repetition of virtually identical shots.

There are two other things I would like to ramble on about. One contributes to the technical value of the film and, in all probability, constitutes yet another sign of my mental infirmity: the sound of the snow. Well, to be somewhat more precise (and hopefully appear less insane) the sound that boots make as they plunge into snow or, the thud of the pickaxe being hammered into the ice walls. They all seemed to reinforce my enjoyment of the film. The other, and final object of my blathering has, praise the Lord, nothing to do with such inane and nonsensical matters and, surprisingly enough, does have timidly more profound connotations. How, I wonder, does someone find the will to keep ploughing on the way that Simpson chap did? If it were me – though it could never possibly be me since I can barely cough up the courage to take the car and go to the country for a pleasant rural stroll – I would have stared down the crevice, cried for about 25 days and picked my frosty nose for another 25, until I would have ultimately come to the conclusion that repeatedly banging my head against the ice wall would be, by far, the most convenient solution.

Romanzo Criminale (2005)

Implosive

[8/10 · 3 October 2005]

Apparently, or so we are told, this film is based on a true story. Well, to be somewhat more accurate, it is based on a book that's based on a true story. Sounds realistic enough to me. However, once the film begins to plough through a rather well crafted cocktail of betrayal, revenge, bravery and cowardice, I couldn't help but think that if it was truly representative of a criminal reality so common, or perhaps I should say ONCE so common, to il Bel Paese, then we have all been the willing victims of decades of an overblown media spectacle.

At this point it might be borderline reasonable to ask what exactly it is that triggered this inane comment. Well, the film follows the dawn, daylight and dusk of a notorious criminal gang operating in the Italian capital throughout the whole of the 70s. All sounds fairly ordinary, and the rather obvious subject of a film, especially an Italian film. Yet, what strikes a chord is the fact that, at the end of the picture, every single gang member is shot/blown up/chopped in pieces and so forth. But, and here is the trick, not at the hand of the police or some up-and-coming criminal posse, oh no, that would be far too banal and thus, far to cinematic. They all end up shooting/blowing up/chopping EACH OTHER (in little pieces) in an enjoyably sadistic spectacle. If only this implosive, self-destructive phenomenon were a common trait of all crime-associated gangs in Italy, then the authorities really shouldn't have bothered with their pitiable attempts at bringing them to justice. It would have been enough to buy some popcorns and watch them shoot each other to death.

This might have revealed the ending of the film, hence the conscious spoiler warning, but, rest assured, it certainly does not give away the picture itself. And what a picture this is. Until now, my opinion of Placido as a director was tainted by a ridiculously large stain of scepticism. I had only watched one of his directorial efforts "Un Lungo Viaggio Chiamato Amore" and found it miserably uninteresting and, rather ignorantly, I thought that Romanzo Criminale would be no different. Well, I'm glad to say that I couldn't have been more wrong. The film is rock-solid across the board, though particular commendation indubitably goes to the actors. True, most of them are the usual suspects of watchable modern Italian cinema, but they - Favino and Santamaria in particular - still manage to do an exemplary job in this picture. The direction is also, and rather surprisingly, competent: crude, direct and, dare I say, sophisticated – well, for Italian cinema anyway.

The only, rather minor, hiccup that I couldn't help but notice is the pacing of the film. Yes, despite the stellar acting, the competent directing and a gripping, albeit somewhat repetitive, story, the film felt overly long. Perhaps, and this is nothing more than a not-so-humble hypothesis, this is because it was, in effect, overly long, with a running time of well over two hours. All considered, this is a pitifully small price to pay for such a reinvigorating bout of fresh air in the otherwise unmercifully stiff atmosphere of Italian cinema.

Sacred Heart (2005)

Quite good after all

[6/10 · 1 October 2005]

For the most part, modern Italian cinema falls in a metaphorical crease somewhere between shite and ridiculouslyunwatchablegaginducing shite. Fortunately, the laws that regulate ordinary life miraculously do manage to permeate that thick veil that separates the silver screen from reality, and just like ordinary life is graced by the presence of exceptions, so is Italian cinema. The exceptions to the aforementioned sweeping observation are rare and, quite frankly, may not all be entirely deserving. However, if I may be so bold as to point out the obvious, it is precisely this elusiveness that casts an aura of light around these pictures, kindling a sort of applausive reaction that would otherwise be unwarranted.

The Consequences of Love is a prime example of my Nobel prize theory. It is, by all accounts, a remarkable achievement in elegance and sophistication. Yet, and here I may be momentarily possessed by Saint Cynicus, I feel inclined to partly attribute this positive reception to the widespread absence of quality in Italian cinema. Sorrentino's film was, therefore, a blissful simmer of light in a dark, slimy, murky ocean and, because of this, it was received like a Messiah.

Wide consensus indicates that Ozpetek's films also constitute a source of illumination in this lifeless world and, although I may not wait in a state of advanced excitement and trepidation for the release of his next picture, it is fair to say that, for once, I sheepishly agree with the crowd. Which brings me to the movie in question, Cuore Sacro. Part of me feels compelled to criticise the absurdity of this modern day Franciscan tale. Once again possessed by the spirit of Saint Cynicus, I can't help but remain baffled by the banality of an idea so religious as to verge on the profane. You may say that it is precisely this sort of seemingly soul inspiring parable that can lift us from the crude stiffness of our faithless times. I concede that, despite the awful predictability, there could be pinch of verity in this, but I still think that, however uplifting it may be, it still has the same consistency of a ripe Vacherin.

Schizophrenic nut that I am, the other side of me applauds Ozpetek for his directorial skills. He takes potentially lethal material that, at least at first glance, would appear appropriate for a TV film for the Church Channel, and, perhaps aided by the hand of the Almighty himself, miraculously manages to add a layer of basic, though effective, sophistication. The minimalist direction, the (perhaps forced) elegance of the dialogues and the acting dexterity of Barbora Babulova, all contribute to the overshadowing of the banality of the story and to the accomplishment of a final product that, after all, is not that trite, not that religious and thus, not that cinematically profane.

Revolver (2005)

(Un)surprisingly unwatchable

[4/10 · 28 September 2005]

I don't consider myself to be xenophobic, intolerant or racist. True, I may experience the sporadic, though irrepressible need to indulge in the mental regurgitation of cheaply foul insults at a particular exponent of a particular race, culture or country, but, on the whole, it wouldn't seem sinfully unrealistic to say that I'm a pretty open sort of chap.

Exculpatory preamble out of the way, I'm now inclined to blame those snail eating effeminate grenouilles across the pond for unleashing "Revolver" upon the good and honest people of Britain. It is a film of such frightfully pitiful quality that I witnessed an unusually large fellow, who had previously been rummaging his way through what I can only assume was a blurp of ketchup laid over a manure sausage (and who also happened to have the immense grace of sitting next to me), suddenly ram his hands into his ocular cavities and rip his eyes out only to go back to the calm consumption of his Ramseyan meal.

Once the film was blissfully over, I couldn't help but think that I should have followed the wise example set by my chubby friend and purposefully maimed myself. At least, I would have avoided the excruciatingly prolonged and repeated sight of Ray Liotta in speedos, the equally injury-inducing dialogues and a plot so profusely labyrinthine and overflowing with the urine of its own sense of (un)fulfilment that, after about 30 minutes (or seconds, I can't really be bothered to remember), I simply stopped caring whether the protagonist was who he said he was, or why he happened to be shot at, spoken to, lied to, and so forth. However, and without a pitifully minute shred of doubt, the most nauseating scene of this masterpiece was a five minute long monologue embarked upon by the split-personality-affected Statham (or is he? - who cares)in a lift right before the audience was, yet again, offered a spirit-engrossing glimpse of Liotta's crotch – as if the sight of a sweaty nutter holding a gun and wearing nothing but spandex and an (open) robe is supposed to trigger some sort of sophisticatedly humorous reaction in the audience.

The apple has indeed fallen far from the tree, the tree in question being, of course, Ritchie's earlier immensely more successful efforts Lock and Stock and Snatch. And yes, the blame for this spectacular capitulation is to be assigned to the French. Well, to be somewhat more specific, it is to be assigned to one Frenchman in particular: a certain Luc Besson. Everything (or, at the very least, almost everything) he touches with his omnipotent, producing hands turns into, erm, wholesome untainted crap. The pretentious cheapness of his films is palpable as soon as the pre-opening credit sequence begins and that swooping Europa logo appears so majestically, almost warning the audience that Armageddon is about to befall upon the human race. And, indeed, it is.

Layer Cake (2004)

First Timer

[8/10 · 9 October 2004]

Before I comment on the film I must first concede that, in the past decade, there have been several examples of stunning directorial debuts (Richard Kelly probably being the most recent). The quality of these films is such that it is indeed difficult to spot the indecision and partial incompetence of the first time director. Well, to put it plainly, Layer Cake does not belong to this category.

Matthew Vaughn put himself in a rather sticky position in that he embarked on a project that bore striking similarities to two previous films he produced but did not direct: Lock, Stock and Snatch. It goes without saying that the notable success achieved by those two pictures has been widely attributed to Guy Ritchie's creativity and visual exposition. Indeed it can be argued that Ritchie and his films have become the emblem of the modern British crime genre. It follows therefore that when Vaughn, a producer, decided to make a third film on his own eyebrows were raised. And they were raised for a good reason.

Imperfections can, in fact, be spotted throughout the entirety of the film: uncomfortable camera angles, unnecessary cuttings, lack of harmony in the flow of the story lines and, most important of all, some examples of very patchy acting.

That said, as a cinematic experience, Layer Cake verged on the brilliant in spite of all its imperfections. The opening sequence may not be faultless nor particularly original but it still provides a sound introduction to the film. Craig's performance, if a bit passive, is sound all throughout the picture. Sienna Miller's brief appearance may not be a tribute to the acting divinities, but it's a surely welcome addition. So is Micheal Gambon's, the cherry on the layer cake. And, despite Vaughn's palpable incompetence, there is one scene - the chase in the warehouse - deserving of at least some credit.

6.5/10

Unbreakable (2000)

Weak plot, Fine directing

[7/10 · 4 July 2002]

After having carefully watched the movie twice, the first time on the big screen of course and the second on DVD, I came to a conclusion that is perhaps shared with the majority of people who watched this motion picture: the plot, despite the more or less unpredictable ending whose surprise factor cannot even be compared with the Sixth Sense's, remains fairly weak and generally not interesting. Personally I believe that the entire idea of superheros and superpower has been adapted to screen countless number of times and has therefore lost its impact and interest on a modern audience. On the other hand, I must say that Shyamalan's directing is impeccable and is characterized, throughout the entire movie, by a considerable amount of style and class. Under a technical point of view everything seems to be perfect, from the photography to the continuous slow movements of the camera which match perfectly the captivating rythm of the film itself. Furthermore, the director's choice of depicting the characters from far, unusual points of view seems to compensate rather well for Bruce Willis's notorious lack of acting skills. In addition, James Newton Howard's score represents ,despite the criticism, the completion of Unbreakable's technical perfection. Hence, Shyamalan can undoubtedly be considered one of the most talented of the new generation directors along with David Fincher and a few others.