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Film for the Soul

  • The Year 2001: Black Hawk Down (Ridley Scott)

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    Based on Mark Bowden's account, and subsequent book, of the UN forces attempt to capture a Somali warlord (the battle of Mogadishu), resulting in 'the most intensive close combat Americans had engaged in since the Vietnam war', Black Hawk Down, directed by Ridley Scott, still on a high from the success of Gladiator a year before, neatly divided audiences in two on release, with those that loved it for it's intense depiction of war against those that derided it for, what they believed, to be 'staged racism'. Kevin Olson, of the awesome Hugo Stiglitz Makes Movies, (check out his 'revisiting 1999' posts; a brilliant account of cinema at the end of the last decade), takes on this 'expertly crafted action film' and wishes more people thought of it 'when they speak of Scott’s triumphs as a director.'

    Ridley Scott’s Black Hawk Down is one of the most meticulous and masterful renditions of the classic war film formula. After about 30 minutes of exposition Scott drops the viewer in the middle of a war zone swirling with dirt, mud, and blood. It’s an intense experience that had many critics in 2001 crying foul. They claimed that Scott and producer Jerry Bruckheimer turned the Somali soldiers into faceless killers – blurs of black across the screen carrying automatic rifles. I think that’s unfair, though, as the film was pretty much dead on arrival as any war-themed film released post September 11th (Black Hawk Down came out a mere three months after the attacks) was going to be scrutinized unfairly; viewed through a super-serious lens. Somewhere along the way war films got the stigma of having to be message movies – I don’t think Scott or Bruckheimer are going for any big grandiose message, here; however, what they do accomplish is a damn fine action film filled with brilliantly staged action scenes.

    Scott wastes no time with exposition as text on the screen informs the viewer of the situation and the time and date. As for the soldiers – we’re introduced to the primary characters thought the usual war film clichés. Perhaps this is where some of the critics take issue with the film: using such a serious subject as a backdrop for what essentially is The Rock or any other number of gung-ho Bruckheimer action films. You have your nerdy tech guy who gets thrown into combat (Ewen McGregor), you have your new recruit who’s eager to see action (Orlando Bloom), the wacky wise-cracking soldier (Jeremy Piven) , the calm superior officer (Tom Sizemore), and the disillusioned realist (Eric Bana). All of these soldiers are led into battle by the man in charge of it all, Garrison (the always grizzled Sam Shepard) who looks upon the battle from a war room full of televisions and telephones like he’s the coach of a football team, watching film, ready to call the next play. Their plan is to drop into Somalia and capture two top lieutenants of a renegade warlord.


    Needless to say things don’t go so well with the operation, and on one hellish afternoon a Black Hawk helicopter goes down and the hundred plus soldiers are stranded in the middle of no man’s land. This is where it is upon the viewer, and which lens they choose to don, that decides whether or not this is an unsympathetic look at that horrible 24+ hours in Somalia, or whether or not it’s a finely tuned, and expertly crafted action film. I tend to side with the latter group.


    Had Black Hawk Down been released prior to September 11th than I don’t think half of the critics are as harsh on the film as they were. Visually this is a stunning film – as is the case with most of Scott’s work – drenched in the blues that Scott loves to paint with. There’s also that kind of hyper-kinetic warfare footage that seemed fresh at the time. What makes it age well is the meticulous way Scott and his production designer Arthur Max have recreated the logistics of the gun battles. Every action sequence feels legitimate; an authentic way of being “in the moment”, instead of making the viewer sick with the usual herky-jerky camera tricks.


    I can see where the detractors come from, though, as the Somali’s are relegated to nothing more than the 'faceless enemy'. However, the American soldiers are made unidentifiable, too, and I think that’s on purpose by Scott. Much like the recent HBO series "Generation Kill", these soldiers are known by last names, but really, when they are draped in camouflage and spout the same clichés they’ve heard from war films, they all become the same person. Perhaps this is what it’s like in a war?


    What the film succeeds at is something that Scott has always had a handle on: visual poetry. Scott’s films have always been light on dialogue as a means for conveying emotions and heavy on the visual poetry; Black Hawk Down is no different. In fact, it’s the film that, at the time, I wish he would have been recognized for instead of the so-so and ultimately drab and boring 2000 Gladiator. Black Hawk Down is a more tightly wrought exercise of the action genre and trumps anything that Scott was praised for in Gladiator. It’s just a shame that not many people think of this film when they speak of Scott’s triumphs as a director.


    Sure this isn’t the thrilling action film and morally challenging genre piece that David O. Russell’s Three Kings was, but then again not many war films are that good. Ken Nolan, working from the source material of Mark Bowden’s book, inevitably omitted some of the back story of the Somalia troops found in the book. There just isn’t the same space on screen that there is on the printed page to explain things away and fill in the blanks – Scott and Bruckheimer wanted to make an action film, so they axed some of the stuff that made the book so popular, but they created an intense war film that remains one of the truly great crafted action films of the 2000’s.


    As a pure action, gung-ho-filmmaking-style type of war film Black Hawk Down is unparalleled: it has the patience, attention to detail, and the nuances -- in addition to the exhilarating and intense action sequences -- rarely found in this particular subgenre. I don’t think Scott or Bruckheimer were trying to win any sociological points, here, but what they do (big action) they do extremely well. It’s not a great film, but it’s an entertaining war film, expertly crafted; and that’s not something that should be looked down upon. I look forward to the day when we can stop thinking of war films as super-serious exercises, and filmmakers can feel comfortable making unapologetic, gung-ho war films like The Dirty Dozen or The Delta Force (this summer’s Inglorious Basterds is going to be in that vein, I have a feeling) without worrying about critics taking it down a peg for not being a politically correct social statement.

    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Saturday, May 02, 2009 7:05 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • Burn After Reading - Review

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    Burn After Reading  (2008)

    Joel/Ethan Coen (2007)

    As promised, as expected and as always, the Coen's once again follow up a critically acclaimed, serious film, in the case of 'No Country For Old Men' (2007) an Academy Award winning one, with one of their more slapstick and playful films; just as 'Big Lebowski' (1998) followed 'Fargo' (1996) and 'Intolerable Cruelty' (2003) followed 'The Man Who Wasn't There' (2001). Burn After Reading, completes their monikered 'idiot trilogy', (with O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000) and Intolerable Cruelty parts one and two), again starring George Clooney in full gurning glory, supported by a plethora of regular actors from the Coen cannon; Frances MacDormand, J.K Simmons and Richard Jenkins amongst others. Joining them this time around, for their first Coen feature, are John Malkovitch, Tilda Swinton and, in a glorious comical role, one Mr. Brad Pitt.

    Filmed without the aid of their long time collaborator, cinematographer Roger Deakins, Burn After Reading finds the Coen's treading similar themes (the inept criminal) and motifs (misunderstandings, buffoonery), dotted with their panache for dialogue and framed in their particular Coenesque universe. In a plot too complicated, that's not to say daft to the very max, to do justice within a one paragraph synopsis, let's just say, to suffice, that every single character plays the idiot to aplomb, generally screw up and comes a cropper. Clueless, hapless and feckless, our ensemble cast not only constantly get the wrong end of the stick, they pick it up, pocket it and then run with it.


    Believe it or not, this is the Coen's first original screenplay since 2001, The Man Who Wasn't There, and harks back to some of their more savage black comedies, with a, sometimes, shocking taste for comical violence and an overwhelming sense of derision towards it's main players. Burn After Reading seems to revel in its character's ignorance, stupidity and eventual, demise, gleefully setting up each of them to look as worthless as possible, whilst the plot falls neatly into the background amongst a barrage of false leads and dead ends. It's a trick the Coen's have been playing on us for years, the shaggy dog story aspect that guides its audience in to their mad, defined little world whilst simultaneously blinding us with the red-herrings, 'Mcguffins' galore and dizzying dialogue spoken at scatter gun speed.

    In this particular instance the shaggy dog story starts with Chad (Brad Pitt); a bounding, excited, puppy dog of a man, forever trapped in the mind of a 14 year old boy, a performance so hilarious and delightful that it's probably the films major highlight, and his discovery of disk that appears, to Chad anyway, to contain 'top secret shit'. Working alongside Linda (Frances MacDormond), with another refined and sturdy performance from one of Hollywood's best known secrets, at the Hard Bodies gym, who, in attempting, to overcome her loneliness, wishes to hold back the years with a, seemingly, perverse cosmetic surgery schedule that will hopefully snare her the man she's desperately craves, takes the opportunity to bribe the owner of said disk, one Osbourne Cox, an ex-CIA analyst, played with delusional bitterness, basking in an alcoholic stupor, by John Malkovitch, in order to complete her costly procedure.


    Osbourne, at the centre of a personal crisis; having just lost his job, his wife (Tilda Swinton) is ready to dump him for her lover Harry Pfarrer (George Clooney), who is himself married and a serial philanderer; secretly dating Linda alongside countless other lonely, desperate women, fights the two, would be black-mailers, with his last whisky soaked breath, desperately trying to hold on this his solitary piece of dignity. Our main players, the CIA and even the Russian embassy are drawn in to a conspiring circle of nothingness, each trying out manoeuvre their adversary without the slightest idea why they're doing so. From here the film is in free-fall, it's anyone's guess as to what's really going on, as J.K Simmons perplexed CIA head-honcho says to his subordinate 'report back to me when it makes sense'.

    It's a compact film, as you would expect from the Coen's, the little touches are exquisite; the picture of Putin of the Russian Embassy wall, Brad Pitt's imbecile, Carter Burnwell's brilliant, paranoid, score, even down to the movie poster above advertising this film, are perfectly aligned and expertly delivered. Yet, despite the finesse Burn After Reading will leave you underwhelmed, deflated even, and if there is one over-riding criticism levelled at the film it's the distinct lack of warmth and empathy. Apart from Chad, you feel nothing for these characters and it's this nihilistic thread, which creeps in to the Coen's work from time to time, that leaves you so disengaged with the film. Ultimately, this feels more like a cold-hearted clinical piece of work rather than a labour of love, churned out by a 'brand' on a high, which appears more cynical with each fevered atrocity attributed to it's protagonists.

    Trailer - Burn After Reading


    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Saturday, February 21, 2009 6:01 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • The Counterfeiters - Review

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    The Counterfeiters  (2008)

    (Stefan Ruzowitzky, 2007)

    Winner of the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar at the Academy Awards in 2008, The Counterfeiters fictionalises a top secret clandestine Nazi operation, codename Bernhard, during the second world war. In bringing together a band of skilled concentration camp inmates, including the films focus, master forger Sally Sorowitsch (Karl Markovics), the Nazi's attempted the biggest counterfeit operation in history. Adapted from the memoirs of Adolph Burger; a former Jewish book printer who was put to work on the actual Operation Bernhard and whose fictionalised character appears in the film, The Counterfeiters attempts to ask questions of collusion and survival and the moral implications of propping up an enemy's war effort in a bid to save ones neck, without ever answering them.

    It's of no surprise to this reviewer that The Counterfeiters should be the winner of the Oscar; not to mention that a modern masterpiece, such as 4 months, 3 weeks & 2 days, wasn't even nominated, seeing how it's constructed and deliberately designed to court these sort of awards. In vogue of that trend we see almost too often, the euro-light flick, the one with arthouse pretensions but with mainstream goals, smoothed around the edges but not entirely sand papered down; the perfect alignment between mass appeal and artistic integrity, The Counterfeiters is the sort of film that ticks all the right boxes for the Academy.



    We open with our hero or, in line with the trend, the anti-hero, sitting, alone on a beach, a scrunched newspaper lays next to him declaring 'The War is Over'; it's as subtle as this film will ever get, before an extended flashback takes up to pre-war Berlin in 1936. Here we see the origins of Sally Sorowitsch, a Russian Jew, laying claim to being the best forger, possibly, in the world, dripping in self satisfaction and drinking expensive champagne, in what appears to be the Kit-Kat Klub, hoisted from Cabaret, within hours his world will come crashing down as he's arrested by the German fraud squad, headed by Police Commander Herzog (Devid Striesow), an initial meeting in what becomes the film's central pairing, a battle of wits and a collusion of spirits, mentality and will.

    Until the end of the war Sally remains imprisoned, first in Mauthausen, where he learns that extreme flattery earns extra perks, his sketches of his jailers brings rewards of extra food, and then at Sachsenshausen, where he's given a comfy bed, food and privileges with other inmates, all skilled and ready to be exploited by their Nazi jailers. Hand-picked, the inmates set about constructing the largest counterfeit operation ever in existence, forging British currency, and later an attempt at the US dollar, in an effort to flood and destabilise their enemies economic structure.


    Basking in a world of false hope, shame and guilt the inmates set about their task with a heavy heart and with an innate will to survive. Sally, grounded in the world of the 'criminal', adapts to this environment better than his fellow counterfeiters, his ability to duck and dive, as well as his natural counterfeiter skills, mark him out as a natural leader. Karl Markovics' portrayal of Sally is one of the films major highlights, it's a caricature for sure but with Markovics at the helm, his stature and ability gives the role extra depth and panache to a character that could easily have been a one-dimensional display of a 'crim with a heart'.

    My overwhelming problem with The Counterfeiters is how calculated it all feels, how convenient the characters fall in to specific roles of morality and ethics; the role of Berger (August Diehl) especially feels too lofty and moulded, guided by a writer's pen. As this is a story based on some pretty horrific true events this just leaves a bitter taste in my mouth; as if this is beyond the pale in some respect but to be honest I've not questioned the moral implications of this issue, it just seems, on the surface anyway, untoward and somehow, ultimately, lacking respect.



    So when the director, Stefan Ruzowitzky, asks us to judge Sally, or at least to ask questions of collusion, it all seems rather false; believing, for instance, that these people actually had a say in the matter seems preposterous. The lack of any narrative tension to hook this flimsy basis on makes it all the more difficult to care; it's left to the actual weight of history itself to move the audience. So for all it's tough questioning, ethical dilemmas and barraging, it never really goes anywhere, there's a hollowness at the core of The Counterfeiters that doesn't go any deeper than the images on the screen.

    So overall, it's left me with a feeling of, well, nothing.
    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Saturday, January 10, 2009 6:01 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • The Dark Knight - Review

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    The Dark Knight  (2008)

    (Christopher Nolan, 2008)

    Following on for the international success that was Batman Begins, British director Christopher Nolan continues his revision of the caped vigilante Batman with The Dark Knight. Unlike the microcosm of Nolan's first foray, which worked basically as an origins story, filling in the background as to why and how Bruce Wayne, Batman's alter ego, choose a life of fighting crime from the shadows', The Dark Knight casts its net wider to implicate the ramifications of a society in decay.

    Long gone are the campy musings of Joel Schumacher, or the cartoonesque romanticism of Tim Burton, no room for nipple accommodated bat-suits or Prince soundtracks here. Batman now reflects the dark, brooding presence often associated in the graphic novel adaptations of Jeph Loeb, Frank Miller and Alan Moore, amongst others. Ambitious and epic, The Dar    k Knight is something of an opus, the 'Godfather' of superhero adaptations, a musing of the darker side of human nature, of how close a man must skirt the boundary of good and evil for the 'greater good', of duality, of what constitutes a good man.


    Large themes indeed in what should be, by summer season standards, an open invitation for popcorn fodder, the brainless blockbuster and the family film, all of which The Dark Knight was (over) marketed at but doesn't neatly fall into any one of these cosy demographics. Large themes call for a large palette and The Dark Knight has that in spades, Gotham for instance, our heroes home and, without doubt, as luminary and significant as Batman himself, has never looked this grandiose, the city's landscape, filmed on IMAX technology, filling the screen with chrome, glass and smog.

    Set     some time after the events of the previous film, we join The Dark Knight at a crossroads , having helped clear Gotham city of it's criminal element with the remaining mobsters being forced underground, Batman (Christian Bale) continues in the vain hope that he's making a difference but in reality the city needs more than a masked vigilante; something the opening scene does well to address with it's array of copy-cat crusaders.


    On opposing forces, two new bucks stride into town, one a white knight of hope and change, Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart), a young, clean cut council man running for town mayor, the other, a sociopath, amoral and demonic, a man with no background or agenda, other than 'to watch the world burn', called 'The Joker' (Heath Ledger); both of whom want to challenge and shake up the status quo, one for the good of the city, for the good of the people, the other, just to cause as much mayhem and madness as he possibly can.

    Nolan, along with his brother Jonathan Nolan, once again take up the writing reins and have delievered a dark and complex film, successfully transporting the theatrical comical elements in to a real world template. It's this 'realism' that really sets The Dark Knight, and Batman Begins, apart from it's contemporary 'comic book adaptations' that seem to litter the cinema screens these days. By setting Batman in a world we, almost, recognise it becomes all the more threatening and disturbing, The Joker, despite his OTT attire, outlandish, fiendish plans and make-up, becomes an everyday evil that we, unfortunately, relate to.


    How depressing it is then to relate to a film that paints our society with broad nihilistic brush strokes, full of casual violence, polluted by an apathetic, fearful society ready to put one over the next guy. It's a damning portrait of society today but The Dark Knight does have it's bright side, apart from Batman's constant stab at vigilante justice, Harvey Dent is attempting to put the entire mob behind bars whilst cleaning up the city, Lt. Jim Gordon (Gary Oldham) is his man on the front line, a fine upstanding family man trying to do the right thing and Rachael Dawes (Maggie Gyllenhaal) a bombastic, feisty young district attorney, torn between her love for Wayne and Dent, attempts to fight the mob in court.

    It's against this backdrop, that 'The Joker', a criminal mastermind, makes his move, willing to take out these forces of good, for a price and for the sheer pleasure it will bring him. For 'The Joker' is an agent of chaos, willfully destroying and testing those around him, forcing all involved to make moral decisions, pushing their resolve and their limits of empathy. The Joker acts as a barometer, a measure,a symbol, to what depths society would reduce itself to in order to serve their own selfish needs, wants and desires, if chaos was allowed to rule. It's a repeated motif throughout The Dark Knight and one that serves the main narrative, tough decisions and morally questionable actions are constantly having to be made, giving the audience tough, unrelenting answers in the process.


    So dark then? And some. However, the relentless regurgitation of these underlying themes, the senseless, endless, brooding (Christian Bale has mastered the pout) and pontificating, felt extremely heavy-handed, as if I was being repeatedly bashed over the head by it all. At two and a half hours this can begin to feel rather laboured, I shifted uncomfortably in my seat actually willing for the ending, not because I was no longer enjoying it but rather that I had seen enough, someone should have been strong enough to omit several unnecessary drawn out scenes and given it a tighter edit.

    Overall, not your average run of the mill, normal summer blockbuster, although it still delivers the obligatory thrills and spills with some nice set pieces; you can't help feeling that action scenes aren't exactly Nolan's forte, but still an extravaganza all the same. Doom ladened, nihilistic and morose; Heath Ledgers untimely death helps to lend the film a sinister and fateful air, The Dark Knight, despite the flaws, is something of a success. It's by no means the masterpiece that fan boys, across the globe, will have you believe, but it's still a very welcome addition to a season generally bristling with mediocrity and pap. Although, I feel I should question one of it's tag lines in asking 'Why so serious?'



    Note: I've attempted to stay clear of highlighting Heath Ledger's 'The Joker' but I just can't leave without acknowledging just what an wonderful, raw and untainted performance it really was. So let's revel in one of his finest moments with the clip above.

    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Wednesday, October 29, 2008 10:01 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • El Topo - Watching the 1000 Greatest Films

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    El Topo  (1970)

    As voted by the Film for the Soul community.

    No. 18     - El Topo (Alejandro Jodorowsky, 1970)
    Ranked #688

    I'm not God, I'm a man - El Topo

    Dressed head to toe in black leather, accompanied by a naked seven year old boy (Brontis Jodorowsky), El Topo (Alejandro Jodorowsky) rides into shot on a horse. Shielded by an umbrella, protecting himself from the searing heat of the desert sun, he instructs the child to bury a portrait of his mother and his favourite toy because 'now, you are a man'. It's an unnerving and surreal opening to what proves to be a visual assaulting, ultra-violent acid-western, dripping with religious allegories, pretentious, sardonic dialogue, adorned with freaks and body transgression. Labeled the first 'midnight movie', El Topo became a cult favourite with the hipster, bohemian crowd of its day, gaining a word of mouth reputation, it somehow captured the spirit, an ideal, a certain moment in time and played it out in a bizarre, but totally bewitching, style.

    The film doesn't lend itself to easy translation, playing, as it does, on shocking visuals, symbolism, mysticism, mind-bending sound effects, cartoonish, often disturbing violence, spoof and homage. El Topo can really be separated into two chapters, the first finds El Topo, accompanied by his son, seeking vengeance for a village, where the inhabitants have been mercilessly slaughtered. A blood strewn street lined with the remains of people and animals, lie scattered, some with the guts hanging out, walls are stained the colours of crimson and claret, whilst a red river, the blood of the innocents, trickles through the village. This alarming scene, with it's uber-violent mise-en-scene, is at the heart of what makes El Topo such a contradictory experience; the feeling of revulsion goes hand in hand with admiration, nausea, disbelief and amazement, it's a true battle of the senses as to what feeling you should go with first.


    El Topo tracks town the murderers, a stereotypical bunch of bandits, who we witness, randomly shooting people, taking refuge in a monastery and harassing their Franciscan monk hostages; lewd sexual gratuity and religious symbolism run tandem throughout Jodorowsky's pseudo-philosophical tome. El Topo castrates the leader of the group, a generalissimo figure, full of pomposity and pout, then rescues the now dead leader's woman, Mara before leaving his son with the monks and taking up his spiritual quest to kill the 'four masters of the gun'. Despite the surreal nature of these events within this imaginary realm, Jodorowsky plays it for real and through an array of accomplished camera work, editing, visual and audio techniques, is able to add a viable touch of 'realism', to this otherworldly environment.

    The second half witnesses a re-birth, a resurrection if you will, of our protagonist, after his near death at the end of the first chapter. Saved by a bunch of social outcasts disfigured by rampant incest, now cave dwellers, El Topo reawakens, wearing robes resembling the garb of Buddhist monks, sitting in the lotus position, white bearded and humbled. It's just one of a plethora of religious allegories, assembled and taken from a number of religions, myths and fables, that are thrown together into a melding pot and, although aesthetically arresting, do nothing for any sort of semblance or coherence for the casual viewer. Yet this was the intension, El Topo is akin to a spiritual journey, for both the audience and lead protagonist, which through the violent actions and recriminations of the first half, he awakens enlightened and ready to change the world for the better through his rebirth.


    It's this sense of spiritual identity, an awakening, that seems to be a preoccupation for Jodorowsky, bombarding the viewer with an endless stream of symbolism, aphorisms and mysticism. El Topo literally means 'the mole' and the film opens with a voice over stating that "the mole     spends its live digging tunnels, trying to find its way to the sun, but when it finally emerges from the darkness, the sunlight blinds the poor creature". The opening summation spells out our protagonists attempted spiritual quest; his journey to find enlightenment through fighting, and killing, the four masters of the gun, his messiah like death and re-birth, the task he sets himself to help the disfigured and the deformed only to find the world corrupted and beyond approach before his own self-sacrifice.

    El Topo is by far a subtle piece of work, heavy handed, with it's tongue firmly set in cheek, some of the set-pieces and symbolism are bombastic to say the least. The 'eye set in the pyramid' banners that adorn the vastly wealthy and chubby peopled town during the film's second half, are obviously taken from the American dollar in an attempt to lampoon the United States, which depicts a society ravished by opulence and arrogance. A church claiming miracles in a rigged game of Russian roulette, is blatantly shouting down at organised religion and depictions of rape and bawdy sexual innuendo (phallus shaped rocks, vaginal shaped fruit) are cumbersome to say the very least.


    The sheer number of ideas and images on display can be slightly overwhelming and in the effort to impress and inspire, it sometimes fails to translate to the screen. If I'm honest I really don't know where I stand with it, sometimes I found it pretentious and preachy, whilst at other times it was lyrical and exciting. What we're supposed to make of it all, only Jodorowsky knows, or does he? Jodorowsky is something of a personality, infamous for the odd pretentious quote and for self-aggrandising, maybe he summed it up best when he claimed "most directors make films with their eyes; I make films with my testicles". Which neatly sums up my experience of watching El Topo better than any conclusion could claim to do, so, with that, I shall take my leave.


    El Topo Trailer

    Previous 'Watching the 1000 Greatest Films' posts - No. 17 - Distant Voices, Still Lives
    No. 16 - Bridge on the River Kwai
    No. 15 - Pat Garret and Billy the Kid


    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Thursday, October 16, 2008 8:02 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • There Will Be Blood - Review

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    There Will Be Blood  (2007)

    Paul Thomas Anderson, 2007

    There Will Be Blood opens with an, almost wordless, scene in which Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day Lewis), the all encompassing, all consuming, monster of a man, that we will come to intently dislike over the next 2 hours, scrabbles around in a dark cave, deep underground in a makeshift mine. There's this noise, a doom ladened tune, wonderfully scored by Johnny Greenwood, playing over the images, foretelling this epic of greed, of envy, of the dark undertone of the American success story. Plainview, initially mining for silver, finds oil in the cave and so begins Anderson's opus, loosely based on the Upton Sinclair novel of 1927, 'Oil!', chronicling Plainview's rise to riches, the oil boom of the early 20th century and the price paid for a life seeking only money.

    For followers of Anderson's work, There Will Be Blood, seems something of a departure, as it follows a more classical narrative strand, as opposed to his vast ensemble epics Boogie Nights (1997) and Magnolia (1999). His newest film feels more in line with the great tomes of Hollywood classics than say his last film, Punch-Drunk Love (2002), which thrived on the outskirts of mainstream cinema. Here we see Anderson, although strictly on his terms, embrace the 'American Dream' picture, it's the ultimate canvas to display the visual flair, originality and style that has deservedly gained acclaim from audiences and critics alike. Winner of two Oscars, Best Actor for Daniel Day Lewis and Best Cinematography for Robert Elswitt, There Will Be Blood witnesses Anderson's rise from the shadows to the main players table.

    H.W(.) and Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day Lewis)

    After that mind altering opening gambit, we settle with Plainview's good fortune, his budding company starts to thrive and the oil starts to gush. He builds his reputation by branding himself 'a family man', often with his young, adopted son, H.W (Dillon Freasier), by his side; the young boy came into his care by chance, his father dying in the very oil his son appears to be born in, H.W is even faux-anointed by the black gold, with the oil daubed on his forehead when cradled by his father as a baby. H.W becomes Plainview's only link to the human world, so obsessed by the oil, the money, that he divorces himself from people, often finding nothing good about them, admitting that 'when I look at people, I see nothing to like'.

    The years pass by and before the wealth and the oil engulf him, Plainview is approached by Paul Sunday (Paul Dano), a young farm hand, offering him a rich find of oil, on his family's land in Little Boston, California, for a price. Under the pretense that they're 'quail hunting', Plainview and H.W set out to scan the claim, they come across the Sunday family ranch, situated in the middle of barren, desert land, enshrouded in poverty and destitution, taking the family up on their offer of food, they pitch a tent and take up the search for oil. It's here we meet Eli Sunday (Paul Dano, again) and, like Plainview and H.W, we wonder if we've been hoaxed; Paul Sunday never reappears and this quandary is never resolved, claiming to be Paul's brother and a practicing local preacher, Eli acts as Plainview's mirror image, his nemesis, as the two lock horns from the start.

    Eli Sunday (Paul Dano)

    In obtaining the land, Eli manages to coax more money from Plainview under the banner that it's 'for his church', Plainview goes about setting up oil rigs and camps, telling the people of the town that he intends to help the community with roads, schools and water. Eli begins to fight Plainview for the hearts and minds of the people; the big business man and the preacher, one through the power of commerce and the other through the power of religion. Anderson plays one of against the other, both objecting to the others methods and intension, Plainview believes Eli to be a fraud, whilst Eli believes Plainview to be corrupt and the devil incarnate. It's classic territory, wealth and faith, and Anderson finds nothing good to say in either; both are equally abhorrent as the other, both are to blame for the state of society, neither offer anything tangible or real and both will succumb to their false beliefs.

    Up until a certain point, Plainview's churlish and forthright attitude is something akin to charming, his love for H.W keeps him grounded and, even, likable. The scene in which the layers of the onion start to peel can be seen in the awesome oil rig burning sequence, where H.W, getting to close too the action, has his eardrums destroyed by an erupting geyser. Anderson has always been something of a master when it comes to sound and here he demonstrates a masterful execution, of not only the lack of sound, but the revelation of character. With H.W now deaf, Plainview can't keep the smile of his face as he witnesses the scene before him, the oil rigs burning bright orange in the dark black sky, his love is not for the child but for the wealth. Soon he tires of the boy's needs, he has no time for him now he's deaf and dispenses with him when the opportunity beckons.


    Daniel Day Lewis, who incidentally is creepily brilliant here, as Plainview is nothing if not a meat slab of rage and hate, of money and wealth, of great love and great pain, a searing, apocalyptic mess, of contradiction and hurt. You could easily feel sorry for him, those eyes are that of a 8 year old boy; possibly why his strongest relationship is with his adopted son, they appear moist, ready to bawl, yet look closer and you can see flames burning in them. Disquieting, abstract but all too real, Plainview is the American success story incorporated, a none to subtle but frightening harbinger of things to come, a messenger made from blood stained money. In him you see Charles Foster Kane, without doubt a reference not far from Anderson's conception, a man who has neither the capacity or will for human weakness, in the end he'll lose everything, obvious from the first notes of Greenwood's score.

    A film of scale; landscapes that engulf the screen, oil rigs that burn as bright as the sun, the looming and over-powering performances of Lewis and Dano; who the latter, on holding his own against a formidable lead role, shows real promise for this fine young actor, There Will Be Blood displays a real signifier of intent from Anderson. This is a film of biblical proportions, playing with the great American cinematic themes of money, greed, religion, wealth and society; reminiscent of those auteur films of 70's and along side those films, Anderson's film can be read as an allegory for the current climate, intentional or otherwise. A film that needs to be seen more than once, I can only highly recommend this film but don't imagine for a second that everyone will like it; to be honest I wasn't sure for a good day or two, but those themes, images (startling) and words play on you, over and over, until you find yourself muttering to yourself - 'I drink your milkshake' - and then, it all makes sense.


    There Will Be Blood - Trailer

    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Thursday, October 09, 2008 8:01 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • Celebrating the Best of British - Withnail and I

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    Withnail & I  (1987)

    Continuing my quest to bring you the best of British cinema.

    Withnail and I (Bruce Robinson, 1987)


    Withnail and I is Bruce Robinson's semi-autobiographical tale of living a hand to mouth existence, fueled by drugs and alcohol, as trained actors waiting for the big time, living a life of destitution and squalor in a dilapidated house in Camden, London. Robinson just found the source material too overwhelming to ignore, the whole idea of 'struggling actors in crisis' seemed to him both hilarious and absurd yet richly tragic which resonated with the changing times. Withnail and I takes place in 1969, with the 70's looming, and the air of change and missed opportunities radiate the film, the line 'the greatest decade in the history of mankind is over and we have failed to paint it black', spoken by the seller of narcotics Danny (Ralph Brown), speaks volumes about the failures of this generation and their inability to leave their mark.


    'I'm a trained actor reduced to the status of a bum'


    It's this air of 'times are a changing' that also fuels our protagonists, the erstwhile forever drunk Withnail, played with gleeful menace by Richard E. Grant; who as a life long tee-total had never been drunk in his life and I (marked in the script as Marwood but the name is never given on screen), his humble and 'perfumed pounce' house mate played by an effeminate looking Paul McGann, and their desire to get out of the city for a while, 'to get away from all this hideousness'. This course of action leads them to the wonderful Uncle Monty, a 'rampant homosexual', obese and barking mad, played with relish by Richard Griffiths, who, as Withnail's uncle, is able to give them keys to his house in the countryside, which leads to a clichéd, but genuinely crafted, clash of cultures as our thespians (in waiting) bump heads with country folk.'

    Richard E. Grant's super charged drinking machine is actually based on Robinson's real life friend, Vivien MacKerrell, a talented, intelligent young actor who succumb to the world of easy vice and virtue. Despite Withnail being a first class coward, waif and in some cases, a total and utter shit, the viewer can't help but love him, those deep eyes shine with affection and loss; especially in the films wonderful ending, just watch that look Withnail gives I' as they say goodbye, knowing it'll be the last time (without actually saying it), it'll break your heart. The 'I' figure is loosely based on Robinson himself, who acts as the narrator with a soft voice-over reading excerpts from his diary, and the story is of their time together, a period of some five years, condensed into a two week plot line; Robinson often wonders how he made it out of this time alive.


    'Once again that beastly oaf has ruined my day!'


    Financed by George Harrison's influential, but now sadly defunct, production company, Handmade Films, the same company behind such classics as Time Bandits, The Long Good Friday and those hilarious Monty Python films, infamous for its carte-blanche attitude to giving directors full control, Withnail and I was given a relatively healthy budget of 1.1 million pounds, not bad going for a first time director. Originally conceived as a novel, Robinson was paid to adapt the budding tale into a script, which in turn led to Handmade Films nvolvement. Despite reservations that the film looked too dark, lacked humour and received terrible test screenings, Withnail and I has grown in stature over the years, often cited as one of Britain's greatest films of the past 20 years.


    'Don't threaten me with a dead fish'

    Amongst the vast copious amounts of alcohol, the most quotable lines of dialogue this side of The Big Lebowski and general hilarity, Withnail and I is full of pathos, remorse and longing. The relationship between our two protagonists for example are some of the finest foray's in to friendship ever put to film, the necessity and madness of people struggling with life; both blinking and shimmering into the light of adult responsibilities and leaving their youth behind. Then there's Uncle Monty, eccentric and lecherous he may well appear but beneath the veneer lies a deeply battered man, bruised by homophobia and nursing a massive broken heart. His attempts to bed the positively frightened 'I' are both hilarious and utterly tragic, his face when told (lied to) that I and Withnail are lovers is just down right sad.

    Pretty deep stuff for what is essentially a story, a light hearted romp, about two actors, drunk and jobless, taking a break in the countryside, or as Withnail hysterically puts it, 'we've gone on holiday by mistake'. Thankfully, Robinson handles the deft change in tone and atmosphere with verve, carefully judging the pace and timing of each joke and moment of tragi-comedy. It's this tone and visual style that gives Withnail and I flair and grace, its fixed point of identity feels authentic yet exaggerated, real yet otherworldly. The use of music, a wonderful scene of a Camden being slowly demolished to the Hendrix's mighty 'All Along the Watchtower' for example, adds to the overall feel of a surreal, changing Britain.


    I feel like a pig shat in my head


    There's also a distinct Edwardian fare in the characteristics of Englishness, exposed in the caricatures of rural English life; the pissed ex-army colonel, now Landlord of a run down pub, the quaint old ladies littering tea-shops and the passive-aggressive poacher, who himself believes Withnail to be an affront to all that’s good and proper about Britain, that are wonderfully imagined, exaggerated, but like all good satire, are fixed in the real world. Just as Danny, the resident drug-dealer with the monotone voice and frazzled mind (armed with camberwell carrot), is wildly histrionic and fevered, the portrayal is something akin to a specific time and space, a recognisable, and all too understandable, entity that you know existed in Robinson's life.

    Withnail and I falls into that bracket, of a small percentage of films, that you either love or hate , either your at one from the very start, laughing like a person possessed, or you'll stare in wonder, disbelief and astonishment that anyone could ever find this funny. For me, this is a quintessential British film, one so fixed in the cultural landscape that it's impossible to vision this film being made anywhere else. Like a good bottle of wine, Withnail and I matures as it ages, still as funny as when it first hit the screen and finally getting the kudos it deserves, not only as a great comedy but as a great film, it's fast outgrowing it's cult status label and weaving itself into the fabric of British cinema.



    What f****r said that?

    Previous post in this series - Get Carter

    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Sunday, October 05, 2008 8:01 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • Distant Voices, Still Lives - Watching the 1000 Greatest Films

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    Distant Voices, Still Lives  (1988)

    No.17 Distant Voices, Still Lives - Terrence Davies, 1988
    Ranked #420

    He was a bastard and I bleedin' hated him. - Maisie

    Filmed two years apart, using two different crews, 'Distant Voices' and 'Still Lives' are expertly melded together with deft craft and care by one of Britain's best living directors, Terrence Davies. In what eventually became his breakthrough film, winning several international awards on the festival circuit and universally applauded by critics alike, Distant Voices, Still Lives is the autobiographical tale of the directors upbringing, in a working class family, set in Liverpool during the late 40's and early 50's. Weaving a tapestry of music, smoke, slow pans and still frames, Davies builds a tableau of memory and community, of violence and recriminations, of love and regret, so rich and deep it evokes years of incident and history from one seamless reel to the other.

    Distant Voices, Still Lives plays out in the same fashion that memories are triggered by sights, sounds and smells; certain things, locations and noises that transport you back to a certain place and time in your life, which is then easily married into another memory of a differing time yet still sweep into one another with ease. In using this technique Davies' moving account dispels with some of the more traditional narrative devices, yet through the skill of threading images and music, the suture of themes, colours and characters, there remains a cohesion, a story and a beautiful rendition of life in working class Liverpool.


    Two years passed between the films being made and it's this passage of time which really gives Distant Voices, Still Lives a massive dose of authenticity. Despite the changing crews there isn't so much to distinguish between the films other than that of tone, whereas Distant Voices feels more threatening, mostly from the looming presence of Tommy (Pete Postlethwaithe) as the violent, wife-beating father, Still Lives opens itself up to more serene imagery, happiness and the chance of a better tomorrow. Abandoning a linear narrative structure, the two parts of the film work in tandem as a whole, recycling memories, playing against and, at once, with each other to form a picture dysfunctional, normal, everyday lives.

    Visually, Davies fills the screen with sombre colours, dull greys and browns dominate the frame, sepia tinged, almost appearing frayed at the edges, each shot feels like a photograph, dusty and well thumbed that now sits in the attic. Shots linger, things go unsaid and characters remain still, adding to the illusion and attaining to the title 'still lives'. Perfectly composed, most shots are painstakingly free of thrills and gimmicks; tracking shots are kept to a minimum and move with grace when they do, gently hovering over it's subject with care and precision. It's this graceful movement, unhurried and clutter free, that manages to marry those images so effortlessly as if they were random thoughts and memories.


    We witness our main characters, the father, Tommy, his wife (Freda Dowie) and mother to, Eileen (Angela Walsh), Maisie (Lorraine Ashbourne) and Tony (Dean Williams), through an array of eclectic set pieces and moments, pieced together with deliberate care, as if the curator would map out the walls of an exhibit, as they age, marry, reminisce; as well as recreate the past, and eventually, for some of them, die. Major events, celebrations and the everyday are mixed together, weaving in and out of time, playing off each other and triggering new paths to follow. Holding together these vastly eclectic and mirroring images is the ever presence of music, in all it's glories; popular and classical, from the pub sing-song to the hit of the time.

    Music is not only important as a way of marrying images, it acts as signifier to our protagonists cultural identity, tinged with raw emotion and some rose tinted nostalgia. In Distant Voices, Still Lives, communities are brought together by collective singing, mostly gathered around a table in a pub, it can also act as a conduit to letting out some bottled up, and frustrated, feelings; note for instance Eileen's choice of song when ordered around by her husband. The use of music is at it's most powerful when Davies uses the same piece over widely contrasting moments; those hard to watch scenes that, for example, can move from an innocent child fretting about their mother washing the upstairs window to domestic violence, all edited together in a three minute shot, marked by the same beautiful, jovial song.


    Music, the rise of popular culture, such as the local dance or the cinema, and the communal act of singing are strong escapists themes throughout Distant Voices, Still Lives and solely acted on by the whim of women. Men on the other hand feel displaced and threatened, often lashing out, either physically or mentally, trying to control their women. Despite his death, Tommy's spirit looms large, an omnipotent presence, the 'Distant Voice', that keeps his family, his women, in check. Tony, the only boy, never feels like part of this equation and maybe this is the Davies figure, a young man alone, unloved and foreign to the culture around him, never really finding his place to fit in.

    Realistic, poetic and deeply affective, Distant Voices, Still Lives could have easily sunk in to a well of self-indulgence and lofty pretentiousness, nothing could be further from the truth. With understated grandeur, Davies has produced a British classic, one that despite it's fixed identity of place will resonate with people all over. You can't help but wince though when you realise that this sort of film would never be financed today, not in the current British Film industry climate. Such an auteur film could not be tolerated, where's the market in that? Depressing. However none of this can take away from, what is surely, a masterpiece, not only in Britain, but the world over.



    I'm can't finish this piece without acknowledging, and sharing, the breathtaking scene above. Davies, as a young man, like the women in his film, found solace and peace through the popular arts and nowhere was this more resonant than the cinema. From the umbrellas in the rain, to the smoke lofting through the air to the pure, undiluted, joy and tears on the young women's faces - everything about it sums up my love of cinema. Enjoy.
    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Wednesday, September 24, 2008 8:01 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • Now, That's How You Open a Movie #7

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    Apocalypse Now  (1979)

    Apocalypse Now (Francis Ford Coppola, 1979)

    Talk about setting a tone.


    With Apocalypse Now, Coppola came out blazing.

    A whooshing noise, heard but offscreen, is placed when a helicopter drifts into view, almost dreamlike in it's approach, heading towards a lush green jungle. The first chimes of 'The Doors' haunting and atmospheric 'The End' starts to chime, primary coloured smoke starts to fill the screen and that beautiful jungle explodes, a raging inferno engulfing the landscape.

    Welcome to hell on earth. The madness and the poetic, the perverse and the divine, such an arresting display of visual and audio effects has hardly been bettered than this opening gambit. The face of Martin Sheen, Captain Willard, starts to fade into view, the sound of the helicopters rotor blades transform in to the sound of a ceiling fan and we find ourselves in a hotel room in Saigon.

    The stories behind the film, the demise of Coppola and the craziness that engulfed the cast and crew can wait for another day, for now let's just soak up this brilliant scene. Enjoy.


    'Shit, I'm still only in Saigon'

    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Monday, September 15, 2008 8:01 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • The Orphanage - Review

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    The Orphanage  (2007)

    Juan Antonio Bayona, 2007

    After a career directing award winning pop videos and shorts, Bayona's first foray into the world of feature length film couldn't really have a higher accolade than being associated with Guillermo Del Toro, who is credited here as producer. However such an association is not without it's pitfalls, expectations are invariably raised and what if you fall flat on your face and fail to deliver? Fortunately, for all involved, Bayona passes the test, with the odd wobble here and there, with resounding flourish and style. A success both at home; where it won 7 Goyas (the Spanish equivalent to the Oscars) and overseas, Bayona has created an old fashioned style chiller, teeming with gothic pretensions, finger nail chewing mise-en-scene and ghostly children, set in a old orphanage in modern day Spain.

    The Orphanage delights for several reasons, for example it has a tendency to hold back on the cheap thrills and scares that litter tedious Hollywood fare, instead it focuses on the slow build-up with relative craft. Secondly, the naivety of children is put to good use by making the audience generally fear their presence and their, in our adult minds, total lack of regard for things that could hurt them make them all the more fearful. Children have always made for scary propositions in chiller/horror films, most recently I'm led to Alejandro Amenabar's chiller The Others, which The Orphanage draws strong comparisons to, which saw children as conduits to other dimensions. The Orphanage plays on similar territory here, children are otherworldly and, though not dangerous, certainly menacing - add a sack cloth, as a mask, to the equation and you've got a genuinely frightening spectre.

    Honestly. If he was at your door, would you let him in?

    Happily married, joined by their adopted son Simon (Roger Princep), Laura (Belen Rueda) and Carlos (Fernanado Cayo), buy an old orphanage, where Laura grew up some 30 years ago, in the hope of refurbishing and making it a home for foster children. Laura's past plays a big part in her motivations, it becomes evident that she has persuaded Carlos to buy the orphanage and perhaps it's her experience as an orphan that has led her to in wanting to help other children. Slowly, and to the film's defining credit, things start to unravel, not is all as it seems in the old ramshackled house, there seems to be more to Simon's new imaginary friend, Tomas, than just childish whimsy and who's the old lady, mooching around the grounds of the old orphanage, claiming to be a social worker?

    It's the craft behind The Orphanage that gives the film the edge over contemporary fare, there's a real heralding to classic horrors such as The Haunting and The Innocents, with a real 'less is more' approach to scaring the audience. This classic approach is even evoked in a the lovingly assembled opening credits that pay homage to those wonderful Saul Bass/Alfred Hitchcock sequences, here tiny hands scramble for pieces of wallpaper, greedily tearing back great lumps of wall space to reveal more credits underneath. It's with methodical ease and crafted suspense that The Orphanage is able to deliver real chills and nerve jangling suspense.

    Belen Rueda, as the doting mother Laura

    The reasons behind the ghostly apparitions, the creaking noises, the sombre looking trinkets found in unusual places, start to unravel as soon as Simon disappears. The disappearance of the young child throws the audience in to a quandary, what are we actually witnessing here? Is this a haunted house complete with the ghosts of the children of the old orphanage or are they the imagination of Laura, driven mad by the disappearance of her son? In classical style we are driven into arguments of the rational vs superstition, the corporeal vs the supernatural and of reality vs fantasy, classic staples of these ghost and haunted house tales.

    A medium is called in, Aurora, played by Geraldine Chaplin, at the insistence of Laura, much to the chagrin of Carlos, his very job as a doctor, a man of science, balancing the argument with his cold reason and rational thinking. Laura is convinced that Simon has been taken by the ghosts of the orphanage and sets about finding the truth, no matter what the cost. Laura's love for her son drives the plot and again helps to separate The Orphanage from it's contemporaries; where characters usually seem to be a plot devise to deliver more unsavoury blood letting. This unconditional love gives the film it's emotionally charged edge, adding poignancy to a tear inducing finale; one where you're truly wishing everything turns out for the best.

    Don't go down there!

    The Orphanage creates an atmosphere where hiding behind a cushion is compulsory, as lingering shots, creepy composition and startling sound effects coax even the most ardent and desensitised horror viewer into missing a heart beat now and then. Thankfully short of gore, albeit for one moment of true body horror that's all the more shocking for it's brief cameo, The Orphanage keeps a tight rein on the splatter and just lets the suspense build and slowly terrify the audience. The use of the gothic orphanage and a battered old lighthouse are put to good use, building up an Edgar Allen Poe quality to the scenery, as places you really don't want to be in on your own, or at night.

    So, despite all this, why is it that I felt a little short changed when I left the theatre? Can a film suffer from too much strategy and composure? There's a feeling that Bayona's film is too well measured and mannered, as if he's frightened to let go and lose a little control, he seems to be tightly regulated to the conservative conventions of the genre. These may well be small quibbles, considering what an astute picture The Orphanage actually is; it's beautifully shot, technically faultless and well paced yet you can't help feeling a little underwhelmed by the time it's finished. So this is not a dismissal, far from it, I enjoyed my time watching The Orphanage, it does exactly what it says on the tin - which, I suppose, is my problem with the film.


    God, this trailer is awful

    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Thursday, September 11, 2008 8:01 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • Couscous (La Graine et le mulet) - Review

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful. [What do you think?]
    Under discussion:

    The Secret of the Grain  (2007)

    Abdellatif Kechiche, 2007

    Couscous (aka The Secret of the Grain), Abdellatif Kechiche's third feature has once again earned the Tunis born French director critical acclaim and awards a plenty. After winning the 'Lion of the Future' award at the Venice Film Festival in 2001 with his debut, 'La Faute a Voltaire' and following on the success with more awards for his second feature in 2003, L'esquive (Games of Love and Chance), Couscous finds the talented director in fine form. Composing a ensemble piece about the daily struggles of an immigrant family living in the French port town of Sete, Kechiche's latest film covers similar ground to his previous work and establishes his growing reputation as one of the primary voices of immigrant life in Europe.

    Focusing on ship worker Slimane (Habib Boufares), a 60 year old immigrant from North Africa, the film follows his attempts to open a couscous restaurant after learning of his dismissal by a management downsizing and paying no regard to his 30 year service record. Slimane, a taciturn and humble man, quiet because his years have taught him that losing his head serves no purpose, decides upon the venture almost as if on a whim, as if building a restaurant; using his ex-wife's cooking, will keep his vast families together. Estranged from his family, living in his lover's hotel; a small run down room overlooking the harbour, the restaurant venture seems like Slimane's last throw of the dice for a life, he believes, that has achieved nothing.


    Whilst the building of the restaurant provides the film with a narrative backbone, it's Slimane's vast army of women in his life; the estranged wife, Souad (Bouraouia Marzok), the lover, Latifa (Hatika Karaoui), his daughter, Karima (Farida Benkhetache), the daughter-in-law, Julia (Alice Houri) and his lover's daughter, Rym (in an award winning performance from Hafsia Herzi) that bare the brunt of the film. This relationship, between Slimane and the women in his life, is explored within the films opening moments with Slimane delivering fresh fish to each of them in turn. His silent and weary demeanor contrasts starkly to their energetic, dynamic vigour; whereas they are full of vim, Slimane remains placid and quiet, worn down by life.

    Food, the joy's of the cooking, eating and the spiritual kinship it can offer forms two of the film's most inspired set-pieces; both centering on big banquets. Both scenes fizzle in off the hip camera work, the dialogue is partly ab-libbed and the energy is frenetic and hypnotic. The first of these scenes takes place in Souad's home, the other takes place on the restaurants opening night, with her extended family sat around the massive dinner table, minus Slimane. The scene sparkles as everyone speaks, laughs and shouts at once, plates of salivating couscous, fish and meat fill the table, each being passed along so they all get their fair share. In extended long takes, extreme close-ups and rapid camera work, the scene paints a beautiful picture of how families function; the in-jokes, the teasing, the unconditional love, all lovingly composed in classicist and humanist style.


    It's this slice of life, an almost novelistic style approach to the film that makes Couscous all the more unbearable when the tone switches from the bittersweet to the tragicomic; as if it's all too recognisable and inevitably laden to go wrong. Slimane walks around the whole film like a man condemned, in fact when he does at last offer the flicker of a smile, it's a sure sign that things are about to go wrong. When the proverbial hits the fan it's, once again, up to the women to tackle the problem; most the men depicted in Couscous are either selfish, down on their luck or have simply been beaten into submission by life, as in the case with Slimane. Women on the other hand, carry on regardless; strong, forthright and able to deal with any given crisis, smiling graciously, toiling yet letting the men take all the credit.

    Couscous occupies itself with the rhythm of everyday life, the cacophony of people talking at once with words going unheard and the way in which family forgive and forget. The tone of Couscous is neither miserabilist or triumphant; it meanders in the every day pursuit of happiness, family tensions and trying to get by as best you can; a tone which for the majority of the film, except for it's out of keeping finale, that feels very much in the real world. You end up caring deeply for the fate of several characters and thanks largely to the films two set pieces, you become intoxicated with the sights and smells of all that delicious food. It should come to no surprise then that by the films end I hunted high and low for the nearest couscous restaurant.


    Despite it's achievements, Couscous sometimes feels rather laboured, there's an argument that Kechiche could have cut away some of the more needless vignettes of everyday life; at 151 minutes long it sometimes struggles to hold the viewers attention. There's also a case of some rather dull caricatures of white, affluent bourgeois, with their idle chit-chat and casual racism which sometimes bordered on the tedium. However Couscous is a triumph, one that's reverberated in France and on the international circuit, taking the festival circuit by storm and fawned over by critics everywhere. Despite it's few flaws, I also have issues with it's surreal and abrupt ending, I'm not about to disagree with the consensus. Couscous is a great film, one that will have you reeling for weeks after you've watched it; the film has played on me for days now, and will keep you thinking about it's themes and ideas long into the night.


    Couscous trailer

    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Wednesday, August 20, 2008 9:02 AM by Ibetolis | with 1 comments  

  • The Bridge on the River Kwai - Watching the 1000 Greatest Films

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    The Bridge on the River Kwai  (1957)

    As voted by the Film for the Soul community. This post can also be found at The Carnival of Cinema over at Good News Film Reviews.

    No. 16 - The Bridge on the River Kwai (David Lean, 1957) Ranked #204

     "What have I done?" - Colonel Nicholson

    Based on the novel of the same name, published in 1954, by Pierre Boulle, The Bridge on the River Kwai was the first of David Lean's spectacular multi-million pound epic's, followed by Lawrence of Arabia (1962) and Doctor Zhivago (1965), that brought international acclaim and Oscars galore to the already renowned director of smaller, more intimate films such as Brief Encounter (1945) and Oliver Twist (1948). Shot in extremely difficult conditions on location in Ceylon, Sri Lanka and produced by Sam Spiegel, The Bridge on the River Kwai cemented Lean's reputation as a director as well as foreshadowing the domination he was to have over the box-office for years to come.

    The film opens up with a lingering shot of a hawk, hovering high in the sky, before cutting to a birds eye view of a jungle, as we take in the density the camera catches a glimpse of a spattering of crudely dug graves adorned with crosses sitting idly by a railway line. Focusing on the graves we are introduced to two raggedy clothed men, one of whom is Major Sears (William Holden), an American prisoner of war, digging the graves of his fallen comrades; fellow prisoners who have fallen due to hard labour, disease or starvation. The realities of the camp are laid bare within this opening scene, the following dialogue is littered with the gallows humour of men that have become far too accustomed to death.

    Colonel Nicholson and his men

    Set in 1943 in a, Japanese run, prisoner of war camp, deep in the balmy Burmese jungle, Bridge on the River Kwai is loosely based on true events surrounding the building of a railway line, by prisoners of war under orders by their Japanese jailers, attempting to connect Bangkok, Thailand to Rangoon, Burma; the infamous 'death railway'. After Sears has buried one lot of prisoners we witness the arrival of a new British battalion, led by Colonel Nicholson (Alec Guinness), walking steadfast and proud, the entire group whistling 'The Colonel Bogey March' - a theme now synonymous with the film. In a wonderful tracking shot we watch the group slowly come in to frame through the trees, the camera seamlessly moving through the dead forest into the prisoners shack, capturing the troops and framing them in the windows.

    It's an ironic moment in a film full of irony and madness, here is a British unit (told by their commanding officers to wave the white flag and surrender) full of zip and pomposity, still adhering to the chain of command. It's this theme of madness that fuels Bridge on the River Kwai; most of the film's central characters are susceptible to it's deadly grasp - Nicholson's obsession with building a better bridge than the Japanese, even if it means aiding their war effort; Sears returning to the camp he just about escaped from with his life; Saito (Sessue Hayakawa), Japanese Colonel, being driven slowly mad by an obstinate Colonel who eventually builds a better bridge than his Japanese army could ever do. Madness and insanity are abound in Bridge on the River Kwai, it hangs around like a bad odour, it all seems so futile but inevitable all the same.


    Classic tracking shot introducing Colonel Nicholson

    No better example of this theme is displayed than the initial meeting between Saito and Nicholson, both highly decorated Colonel's, uncanny in their similarities. On being told that all soldiers, including the British officers, must do manual work on the Burma railway line Nicholson refuses point blank to give up command of his troop, citing the Geneva convention, article 27, which stipulates that no officer shall do manual work in POW camps; in an inspired moment he even produces a copy of the document he had folded up in his top pocket. In a stand off, of pride and ego, Saito slaps Nicholson and smacks the book out of his hand, "Don't speak to me of rules. This is war! This is not a game of cricket!".

    Blood trickling down his chin, Nicholson merely composes himself and retains the document now sitting in the dust and so begins the merry dance of the battling wills. The scenes between Saito and Nicholson are the heartbeat of the film, the resolute and pride before a fall Colonels taking each other on in a battle neither will eventually win. Despite beating and throwing Nicholson in the 'oven'; a small tin shack that sits alone, unimpressive in the middle of the glaring sun, Saito admits defeat, realising he needs Nicholson more than Nicholson needs him. Without the help of Nicholson, Saito will miss his deadline and will be obliged to commit hari-kari, in an omission to the British Colonel, Saito says

    "Do you know what will happen to me if the bridge is not built on time?'
    "I haven't the foggiest"
    I'll have to kill myself. What would you do if you were me?"
    "I suppose if I were you....I'd have to kill myself."


    This scene, conducted over a bottle of Scotch and a plate of corn beef, is one of the films more poignant moments. There's something about Nicholson admission to being home only for 10 months in his 28 year service and Saito's acknowledgment that he's not a military careerist and that he learned to speak English at University in London, that strikes at the core of the films underlying focus on character, on humanity, rather than exploiting binary good and evil. It's to the films credit that the Japanese aren't demonised, or that the British come off as the good guys, in Lean's eyes all of them are as mad as each other.

    Playing in the backdrop to Saito and Nicholson, Sears has meanwhile attempted and just about succeeds in escaping from the camp, a feat which will ultimately destroy him. The character of Sears comes into his own in the second half of the film; an extra weight to the first half that helps to explain the function of the camp but doesn't develop the character beyond a caricature. Sear's doesn't subscribe to the same moral code as Nicholson or Saito and is only interested in looking out for number one. On learning that he's been lying about his rank Major Warden, played by Jack Hawkins), excellent here as the Oxford Don turned commando, gives him a catch-22 ultimatum; return to America in disgrace or take the suicide mission in returning to the camp to blow up the bridge.

    Nicholson and his beloved bridge

    The construction of the bridge becomes an obsession for Nicholson, a self-gratifying egotistical driven project which he hides behind notions of raising the troops morale. Dr. Major Clipton (James Donald) isn't convinced and becomes the voice of the spectator, "The fact is, what we're doing could be construed as - forgive me sir - collaboration with the enemy. Perhaps even as treasonable activity. Must we work so well?" Again this is refuted by Nicholson, yet you can see the madness bubbling away, under the surface. In the capable hands of Alec Guinness, Colonel Nicholson's madness is free of facial ticks and bouts of frenzy, he plays him stoic, dignified and controlled, the madness slowly erupting towards the end of the film with slow and twisted logic before his final epiphany and one final act of sanity.

    First and foremost The Bridge on the River Kwai is a fantastic yarn, brilliantly acted and carefully paced. Lean's epic is filmed on a grand scale yet totally able to concentrate on the nuances of character and narrative, never losing touch with the essentials of the story and giving us a film full of visual flair and grandeur. It seems a shame that this sort of film making is now lost, contemporary films of this scale aren't made with half the intelligence, or ideas, of Lean's anti-war epic. Playing against the war genre, a tagged on action/adventure story during the second half of the film involving Shears and Warden feels more genre orientated, Lean occupies himself with the futility and insanity of war, the death throes of imperialistic empires and how the madness spreads to all involved.


    The film's final moments are legendary; the steady drip feed of madness finally explodes on the screen in a bout of insanity so destructive it's hard to watch. As the commando outfit rig up the bridge with explosives, the British troops enjoy a put together show; Nicholson walks upon his creation, a placard now decorates the structure declaring the builders responsible are the British army, this is the proudest moment of his career. His madness peaks the next day, moments before the arrival of the first train, when he discovers one of the explosive wires connected to his love, now exposed in the river bed that has, unexpectedly, receded from the night before.

    In what proves to be a fatal decision, Nicholson alerts Saito to his discovery as both men follow the wire to it's source. The interplay between the main characters in this one last scene of utter insanity is short and very bittersweet, as the bodies start to fall around him; Sears at his feet having decided to join the war effort after all, dying, looks up and shouts at him "I should have killed you when I had the chance". We know how he feels. Slowly you see it dawn on the once great military man - "What have I done?" - madness has swept him up and moral judgment has flown out the window. Watching the whole event is Dr Major Clipton, once again he voices the audiences reaction, with a startled look on his face, unable to say anything else he simply says:

    'Madness!....Madness!'.
    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Wednesday, August 20, 2008 9:02 AM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • Eastern Promises - Review

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    Eastern Promises  (2007)

    David Cronenberg, 2007

    Still reveling in body horror, the excess of human behaviour, the perverse and the profane, Cronenberg has rightly earned his international reputation as an astute director and auteur. Learning his trade with a string of low-budget horror films, in which intelligent and genuinely shocking images awed audiences time after time, Cronenberg has escaped being pigeon-holed by working in other genres with relative ease; mostly with successful results. Following on for the widespread success of A History of Violence; his 2005 film about a one man's attempt to hide from his violent past, Eastern Promises again establishes his versatility and touches on the themes he's explored for the past 35 years.

    Set in a murky underworld of London, focusing on a Russian contingent dealing in the sex-slave trade, Eastern Promises paints a dark and disturbing world of cheap lives and organised crime. London is covered in a permanent film of gloom, penetrated rarely with the odd glimpse of sun, with rain-strewn streets, looming shadows and confined, low shot interiors and exteriors, giving the feel of a city trapped in its own squalidness. London has rarely looked this miserable. In the midst of this hopelessness and misery enters Anna (Naomi Watts), a pediatric nurse, working at a London hospital, who happens to help save a premature baby but unfortunately not the young, badly beaten, 14 year old mother, who had previously staggered into the building, hemorrhaging heavily before passing out.

    Anna, having suffered a miscarriage some months before, strikes up a bond with the child, and on finding a diary written by the mother, something she was clutching before she died, Anna decides to track down the nearest relative to the young girl before the child becomes lost in the social care system. In the process of getting the diary translated, from it's original Russian, Anna finds a business card of a restaurant amongst the pages, hoping someone can help her trace the girls family she decides to give the place a visit. The address leads Anna to meet restaurateur Semyon (Armin-Mueller-Stahl), an elderly Russian whose warm welcome masks the horrific part he plays in the poor girls life. In being introduced to Seymon we enter the world of the Vory V Zakone (Russian Mafia); who adorn their bodies with a series of tattoos; symbols that represent their standing in the organisation.

    A mystical, almost intense, reference surrounds the adorning of these tattoos for the Vory V Zakone; a series of fierce, colourless symbols, placed in symbolic parts of the body by rank and accomplishment; much like an army officer with a chest full of medals. This is vintage Cronenberg territory; transgression and body transmogrification in full swing. We witness an almost erotic scene in which Nikolai (Viggo Mortensen), in the midst of being tattooed, half naked, lying back, casually smoking a cigarette, is perfectly at one with the needle, the ink almost caressing his body.

    Nikolai receiving the totemic tattoos

    Despite a first-rate screenwriter, Steven Knight, who also delved into similar territory about the plight of the migrant underclass with a previous script for Dirty Pretty Things (2002), plus the huge talent of Cronenberg, all too often the film feels clunky, cluttered and bereft of drama. The casting for instance is something of a puzzler, casting an Australian as a Brit and using a Frenchman and an American as Russian gangsters, whose accents from time to time wander into stereotype land, something that began to grate towards the end of the film; the biggest sinner being Vincent Cassel playing Seymon's son Kirill, often too big and too bombastic, his character soon becomes archetypal and clichéd. Mortensen on the other hand plays Nikolia with powerful, understated menace, a peruser of carnage who could, from the look of him, either hug you or rip off your head.

    Surprisingly, for Cronenberg, Eastern Promises feels muted, understated, lacking in depth and missing his bold brush strokes. Scenes of greatness flicker sporadically and moments of sheer horror; a scene in which Nikolia clips the fingers off a corpse or that first opening murder, are few and far between. So it's with annoyance, rather than celebration, that we witness one of Cronenberg's finest moments; Nikolia's naked fight, with two fully dressed assassins in a public bath-house. This amazing scene, honest in his brutality and fierceness, feels like it sprung out of a different film, such stark and brave film-making feels so out of place in this otherwise turgid, plodding tale.

    Nikolai with Anna (Naomi Watts)

    It's unfortunate that Eastern Promises fails to deliver, as there are times when you feel it's going to spark into life but all in all it just comes down to fleeting moments and ideas; often it feels and plays out like a TV movie. There's a real lack of substance to this film and added to the poor narrative is a plot-twist, as unnecessary as it is insulting, that adds nothing to the story and seems like a cop-out. Eastern Promises proves to be one of those films that despite all the elements being right; stellar cast, talented script writer, influential maverick director and a story, peppered and ready for the taking, fails to hit the target on nearly all fronts.

    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Sunday, August 17, 2008 6:01 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid - Watching the 1000 Greatest Films

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    Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid  (1973)

    This post is part of Graham's 'Film Ignorance' over on his great blog Movies et al. Please check it out for yourself and follow his own brand of film ignorance, which is nearly as bad as mine.

    No. 15 - Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (Sam Peckinpah, 1973)

    "This country's getting old and I aim to get old with it". - Pat Garrett
    Ranked - #525

    Seen by Peckinpah as the ideal film in which to stamp his authority and vision of the western frontier, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid has the air of a film that should have been a masterpiece; seeing as Peckinpah had begun his revision of the Western with Ride the High Country and taken it to it's bloody conclusion with The Wild Bunch, the mythology surrounding the friends turned enemies was almost too good to be true. Pat Garrett was going to be his crowning glory, the apex to where he'd been going all his directing life. Yet, from the very beginning the film was riddled with problems with budgetary issues, time restraints and technical faults leading to expensive re-shoots and haemorrhaging money. Finally, studio bosses stepped in and producer James Aubery took control of editing, taking a hefty 18 minutes out of Peckinpah's version.

    In effect the released theatrical version was rejected and disowned by cast and crew, Peckinpah kept his original version and only showed it to friends and family for the next 10 years, finally getting a release in 1988. In this revised release, the bookend sequence of Pat's death is reinstated; one can only imagine what a mess studio executives made of this film, leaving out these vital scenes takes away any form of pathos and removes a vital narrative element. However despite the reinstated scenes, Pat Garrett is still less than satisfying, never really finding it's place amongst the sprawling array of characters, vignettes of violence and muted, hushed dialogue.

    Kris Kritofferson (Billy the Kid) and James Coburn (Pat Garrett)

    The film's opening sequence, the one reinstated in Peckinpah's cut and the version for which I base this review, starts some 27 years after the events, those surrounding the death of Billy the Kid (Kris Kristofferson). Garret (James Colburn) is mowed down by the same men that once hired him to kill his old friend, each shot is delivered in clinical Peckinpah slow-motion whilst the action cuts back and forth to a scene of chickens buried up to their necks being used as target practice. The shooters show themselves to be Billy and his gang, the action flashbacks to 1881 and Pat rides into town, orders up a whiskey and tells the boys that things are changing.

    The original script by Rudy Wurlitzer called for the friends to only meet once at the end of the film, Peckinpah's inspired change to this was to start with the recriminations; Garrett meeting his maker at the hands of the same people that hired him to kill Billy. Its to Peckinpah's strength as a story-teller that insisted Garrett and Billy meet at the beginning of the film, knowing that the audience needs to see that unique friendship for themselves. Garrett warns Billy that he has 5 days to leave the territory and lying beneath this slightly strained meeting is a nettled and furtive friendship, one that is eating Garrett up inside as he spends the rest of the film trying as he might in avoiding the inevitable finale.


    Despite this promising beginning Pat Garrett doesn't really leave the starting blocks, choosing to keep us at a distance for the majority of the film by not developing the story, it's as if the film burnt itself out with that staggering, awe inspiring opening gambit. Alongside Kristofferson and Colburn, a whole plethora of genre stalwarts and old Peckinpah regulars fill out some of the film with worthy cameo's, if only for the majority of them to be shot down, including; Jason Robards, Slim Pickens, R.G. Armstrong, Chill Wills, Jack Elam, Richard Jaeckel, and Dub Taylor. There's poignancy in these old-timers deaths (especially Slim Pickens looking across the river, eyes widening as he awaits his death), all the while Coburn marches through the county, armed with a shotgun and dressed in black, an angel of death, lamenting and snarling, bringing down the end of a genre.

    We're fixed to Garrett throughout, Kristofferson's Billy never seems anything more than a ghostly figure, self-involved and prone to posing, we don't feel anything for him; whereas Colburn's Garrett is a fully rounded figure, dignified yet hollow, compromised and beaten. He trundles on regardless, fully aware that in killing Billy he's signing his own death warrant. He realises that the West is changing and rather than being swept up by it all he becomes part of the establishment never fully immersing himself in the 'New World'; in selling out to the man, he loses his soul. There are echoes of Peckinpah's life being played out here by Garrett, the feeling of compromise (with the studio), the crushing of the individual and rise of the organised, conglomerate new order. Maybe a Peckinpah of old would have been Billy; refusing to sell out, reckless with the world at his feet but now there was only Garrett, taking everything down with him as puts an end to it all.



    The films stand out scene; it gets me every time.

    A lot is made of Bob Dylan's score and the use of 'Knockin' on Heaven's Door' aside; used sparingly and beautifully as Sheriff Colin Baker (Slim Pickens) prepares to meet his maker, it doesn't on the whole, work with this film. It jars with the images we see on the screen, as if the entire enterprise was made for an entirely different film; fractious working sessions with Jerry Fielding, an experienced film scorer, probably didn't help, seeing as Fielding held little regard for Dylan's music. Dylan also took a starring role as the figure 'Alias', a role which apparently shortened by the week until he was nothing but a footnote in the entire film, starting off with a strong introduction; where he dispatches of man using a knife to almost a nothing role for the rest of film; reduced to reading a menu out loud.

    Peckinpah depicts a west falling apart at the seams, a lawless territory slowly becoming domesticated with politicians, money men and big business, which in turn leads to one Peckinpah's key themes; that of the expression of violence of man in these conflicted and compromised new societies. For all the film's problems, Peckinpah still gives us a stunning looking film on the screen, proving once again that his style and staging are second to none. The west has never looked so forlorn, desolate and hell-bound, with nothing but angry displaced men, disposable women and a decaying old guard slowly ebbing away, dotted around the barren wasteland waiting to die.


    In the final sequence, Garrett tracks Billy down to Fort Sumner, approaching the house in the middle of the night, Garrett takes his chance and shots Billy dead, falling to the floor in another of Peckinpah's patented slow-motion shots. After his death Garrett turns to a mirror and shoots his reflection; shooting the man he has become proves futile and death will eventually catch up with him nearly 30 years later. Once Garrett has killed Billy a little crowd emerges and one man accosts him, calling him a "chicken-shit" and asks rhetorically "when are you going to learn you can't trust anybody, not even yourself Garret?" That man was Peckinpah, quite literally in a cameo as an undertaker, harassing and shouting down his mirrored self; berating himself in the public arena for selling-out to the man.
    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Sunday, August 17, 2008 6:01 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

  • Gone With The Wind - Watching The 1000 Greatest Films

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    Gone With the Wind  (1939)

    No. 14 - Gone With The Wind (Victor Fleming, 1939)
    Ranked #62

    'Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn' - Rhett Butler

    Years in the wilderness, endless casting auditions for the role of Scarlett, directors replaced, several sackings all over, the largest price paid for a debut novel, reluctant lead actor and one massive headache for everyone involved, Gone With The Wind had a lot to live up too and boy did it ever deliver. Since the day that producer David O. Selznick paid $50,000 for Margeret Mitchell's debut novel, 'Gone With the Wind', a frenzied circus has surrounded the epic saga ever since.

    Published in 1936, ten years after Margeret Mitchell first started the massive tome, Gone With the Wind became an instant best seller, winning the Pulitzer Prize in 1937. Plans for the film adaptation were already underway and the huge task of finding a actress that was able to fulfill the role of southern belle Scarlett O'Hara were already proving difficult. Gone With the Wind is as infamous for it's final product as it is for it's audition reels, an endless stream of talented actresses were linked or auditioned for the part, including Lana Turner, Susan Hayward and Joan Bennett before relatively unknown, at the time, English actress Vivian Leigh snagged the part in 1938.


    Fast forward to 8:20 to see the audition reels for Scarlett O'Hara

    We begin in 1861 on a Georgian plantation, the O'Hara estate, Tara, Scarlett is devastated to hear that her on/off beau Ashley Wilkes (Leslie Howard) is to be married, to the gentle and demure Melanie (Olivia De Havilland), this hopeless, obsessional, love fuels the film. It's obvious from the off why the casting of Scarlett was so vital for she is the film; the hypocrisy, the beauty, the war, the passion, the destruction, the brutality, all of it runs parallel with this spoiled little rich girl.

    Scarlett decides she will confess her love to Ashley at a barbecue party being held at his family plantation, in admitting her feelings; in typical Scarlett style, Ashley admits to having feelings for her but, quite wisely, states that Melanie makes a better wife. Witnessing this exchange is the irrepressible Rhett Butler (Clark Cable), smart mouthed, cynical and more than a match for Scarlett, he slowly, much to his better judgment, falls in love with her; obviously spotting similar qualities in her that he possesses. Their first meeting is as heated as it will continue to be throughout, snapping at each other with this delicious trade off:

    Scarlett "You, Sir, are no gentleman,"
    Rhett "And you, miss, are no lady."

    Scarlett with Mammy (Hattie McDaniel)

    Scarlett's obsession leads her to marry Melanie's brother, Charles, in order to make Ashley jealous and becomes her best friend in the process. Charles dies shortly after and Scarlett seems more concerned, not with the trifling matter of losing a husband, but by having to wear black; it's totally in keeping with her selfish nature that fashion should be at the foremost of her preoccupations. Along with Rhett, these main characters become interlocked in a kind of quadrangle relationship against the backdrop of the civil war, the bombardment of Atlanta, the repercussions and the rebuilding of a shattered old world.

    Gone With The Wind is a film of two halves, quite literally having an intermission separating the epic. The first of which is often captivating and thrilling covering the time period of the Civil War and Sherman's march through Atlanta that lives up to the films epic reputation. The scenes covering the siege of Atlanta whilst Melanie gives birth are nerve wrangling and deftly executed. In escaping, with the aid of Rhett, from the ravished city we are treated to the films finest set pieces; the shot of the burning house in the background as the flee for their lives displaying love and loss on a grand scale and that haunting shot of 'the field of the dead', which will long live in the memory, carefully depicts a hopeless cause in face of the inevitable.

    Scarlett walking through the field of the dead

    The second half, by comparison, feels flabby and over melodramatic; pretty much how I preconceived the whole film to be, suffering from a lack of fine tuning and a clear idea of where the film is going. Scarlett has now become hardened and bitter, promising never to let anyone take anything from her ever again, becoming more Machiavellian in her actions. Despite the second half trailing behind the first, the first scene of act two, set on the derelict land of the now destroyed Tara, features one of the films most devastating moments; Scarlett killing a rouge Yankee solider in cold blood.

    This is the Golden Age of Hollywood in epic and grand style, often regarded as the jewel in the crown of the era, Gone With The Wind was lavished with the best that money could buy, from acting talent to technology with a rumoured budget of $3.7 million. Everything is pumped up the max; the sets are bigger, the music louder and the acting is larger, there are quite literally hundreds of costume changes throughout and the amount of extras for the scenes in Atlanta are off the scale.

    As god as my witness, I'll never go hungry again

    A romanticised, sentimental version of historical events about the 'good ole' south, with slavery, and all references to 'negroes' and the Ku Klux Klan omitted from the script, Gone With The Wind paints a picture of plantation life that could only have been made possible by the exploitation of this excluded race. Mitchell's original novel was sanitised for the big screen in order not to upset mainstream audiences, as well as some high ranking officials still affiliated with white supremacist groups. The nominal black characters such as Mammy and Prissy (Butterfly McQueen) are shown to be happy with their lot in life and probably better off in this mythical world.

    However, what else was I supposed to expect? Given the original text, the era of which this was made and the amount of money behind it, Gone With The Wind was never going to be anything other than mythic tales of a world long gone. It's this vivid romantic style that sweeps the viewer off their feet from the very beginning and in parts this film is simply astonishing and quite ahead of its time. The cinematography, at times, is breath-taking and Leigh and Gable simply fizzle whenever they're on the screen together, sexual chemistry oozing from every possible pore. Same can't be said however of co-star Leslie Howard as the wet, insipid Ashely who feels as if he's strolling through the film and other characters such as Melanie, Mammy and Prissy are nothing more than fodder to keep the story moving.

    Can you guess the line?

    As the second half of the film comes to a close, Scarlett realises that she has loved Rhett all along but it's all too late as Rhett delivers the immortal line and walks out off her life, seemingly for good. It's a fitting end to the epic yarn, that at bum numbing 222 minutes manages to keep you glued to your seat. Fleetingly brilliant, all together entertaining yet ever so slightly over-rated, it's easy to see why this film has lasted the test of time and is adhered as the pinnacle of a golden age of film making in Hollywood. It's more of an event than a film, as the number of websites set up worshiping its mere existence will testify to, I certainly recommend all film fans to watch it with a large pinch of salt.

    Originally posted on:Film for the Soul
    Posted Friday, August 15, 2008 6:04 PM by Ibetolis | with 0 comments  

 

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