Film for the Soul

The Year 2001: Black Hawk Down (Ridley Scott)

Ibetolis — Sat, 02 May 2009 23:05:16 GMT

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

Burn After Reading - Review

Ibetolis — Sat, 21 Feb 2009 23:01:50 GMT

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

The Counterfeiters - Review

Ibetolis — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 23:01:39 GMT

(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

The Dark Knight - Review

Ibetolis — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 02:01:41 GMT

(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 Dark 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

El Topo - Watching the 1000 Greatest Films

Ibetolis — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 00:02:04 GMT

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

There Will Be Blood - Review

Ibetolis — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 00:01:51 GMT

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

Celebrating the Best of British - Withnail and I

Ibetolis — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 00:01:58 GMT

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

Distant Voices, Still Lives - Watching the 1000 Greatest Films

Ibetolis — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 00:01:21 GMT

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

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

Ibetolis — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 00:01:44 GMT

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

The Orphanage - Review

Ibetolis — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 00:01:57 GMT

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