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Croupier (1998)
It Has Its Moments
I remember seeing director Mike Hodges' 1998 film when it came out and being rather nonplussed about it. Then I saw that it scored quite highly in critics ratings and thought it worth another go. Second time around I picked up on some more positives but still can't really understand why it seems to have assumed something of a cult status (of course, I realise 'cult films' often defy any 'normal' rationalisation). The main pluses include Clive Owen's performance as the mixed-up, but enigmatic, 'jobbing' Jack Manfred, combining his ambition of being a novelist with his (rather skilled) job as croupier at a London West End casino - the detail of the casino operation and rules is one of the film's more fascinating facets. The blurring of Jack's lived-in reality and the fiction of his novel (supposedly on the subject of football) is not exactly narratively original, but it adds an intriguing dimension and, at the same time, giving Croupier a sense of ambiguous morality. Equally, the film is undoubtedly rather stylish, its noir sensibility being there for all to see, and the seedy genre atmosphere being nicely complemented by the jazzy score by Simon Fisher-Turner.
At the more negative end of the spectrum, however, the plot around a 'double-crossing heist' is familiar and Hodges' cast (outside of Owen) is adequate at best. Gina McKee is rather wasted as Jack's girlfriend, whilst Alex Kingston and Kate Hardie are merely solid; there are, though, nice cameos from Nicholas Ball and Alexander Morton as, respectively, Jack's 'dodgy' father (whose reputation precedes him) and the dour casino manager, David Reynolds. For me, the film's greatest weakness it its shallow (often clichéd) characterisation - I just wasn't really interested in anyone outside of Hodges' main protagonist. Certainly, Croupier does not compare (quality-wise) with other similar (genre) British films from around the same time, such as Mona Lisa and Sexy Beast, let alone Hodges' exemplary 1971 effort, Get Carter.
Honey Boy (2019)
Bleak, But Powerfully Authentic
Shia LaBeouf's 'confession' - LaBeouf being the writer in this semi-autobiographical 2019 film - is a rather remarkable piece of work. Honey Boy - with its 'in your face' trauma not letting up for its full hour and a half running time - is about as antithetical to the Hollywood mainstream as you can get. First-time feature director Alma Har'el should also be lauded for the work, giving us a visceral watch, interspersed with some beautifully dreamy sequences (accompanied by Alex Somers' equally beautiful, mesmerising score). The core of Har'el's film finds (actor) LaBeouf's manic, volatile father (and ex 'rodeo clown'!), James Lort, inhabiting a run-down motel complex with his boy actor son, Noah Jupe's Otis, and cutting between the pair's dispiriting 1995 existence and 10 years later in which the now twentysomething, Otis (here played by Lucas Hedges) has, in order to avoid prison on a charge of being drunk and disorderly, been obliged to go into rehab to re-evaluate the state of his life. As you may have guessed, Har'el's film and, in effect, LaBeouf's own rehab tale, is far from being a bundle of laughs, but the film does have an underlying (even if quite deeply hidden) sense of humanity, love and respect for its dysfunctional and marginalised community, as well as boasting an outstanding cast.
Undoubtedly at the top of Har'el's superlative cast is LaBeouf himself. I had hardly seen the actor in anything before but the conviction in LaBeouf's turn here is palpable, even if the character being portrayed is likely to attract little in the way of audience sympathy. Equally, each of Jupe and Hedges impress as the two versions of Otis - Jupe, in particular, featuring in two of the film's more 'positive' sequences, first as Otis befriends the older Tom (from the real-life Big Brother programme for mentoring young people) and second as Otis is attracted to FKA twigs' Shy Girl - even if James' defensive anxiety around his son (and his own reputation) eventually puts the kibosh on these relationships. The film's hard-hitting, relentless approach to tackling its subject matter head-on does have something of a draining effect, but the periodic dream-like interludes and the characterisations eventually (largely) won me over. Comparator films are, I would say, hard to find in Hollywood, certainly in mainstream films, but the closest indie film I would cite, dealing with a comparable level of trauma, would be Sean Baker's 2017 film, The Florida Project.
Madres paralelas (2021)
Familiar Themes, Familiar Mastery
Spanish film-maker Pedro Almodovar has (in my book, at least!) a valid claim to be one of the world's finest (certainly over the past four decades) film-makers and this 2021 effort merely cements that place in film history. OK, the man's works have had their ups and downs and Almodovar's cinematic style has certainly changed (some might say, evolved) over this period, from his 80s/90s colourful (often comedic) extravaganzas, through his mid-period 'hybrids' (which include the 'cream', I would argue, of the film-maker's works, All About My Mother, Talk To Her and Volver) to his more 'mature' (read restrained) period. Parallel Mothers certainly belongs in this latter phase - the exquisite designs are still there, but with more muted colours - and, as with many of the man's later films, the core cast is outstanding. Almodovar is one of cinema's greatest (ever) directors of women and here we get Penelope Cruz as the 'mature' Janis Martinez and Milena Smit as the 'volatile youth', Ana Manso, both 'new' mothers, plus Aitana Sánchez-Gijón's mother to Ana, Teresa, who all turn in impressive turns. Parallel Mothers is, though, also notable in Almodovar's work for being his most explicit condemnation of the film-maker's home country's past (the Franco era) as Janis attempts to unearth the bodies ('disappeared') of her murdered family ancestors.
The film's themes of 'female emancipation' - Janis is from a long line of single mothers and her burgeoning relationship with Ana (and their ability to bring up 'their' young daughter) - and past atrocities often being 'swept under the carpet' are, of course, major (profound even). Such themes certainly add gravity to Almodovar's film, but I also found them to jar slightly against one another, the 'feminist-humanist' thread - which is by far the most substantive time-wise (representing around 90% of the film's running time) - being topped and tailed between Janis and Israel Elejalde's anthropologist, Arturo's, project to disinter deceased relatives. This jarring is, though, a relatively minor consideration in the mix of the film's level of ambition and other positives. As ever, the look and feel of Almodovar's creation is distinctively crafted - the artistic dimension reinforced by Janis' job as photographer (her photo shoots are visually immaculate) and Teresa's vocation as actress, whilst the chosen soundtrack features Miles Davis' version of Autumn Leaves and Janis Joplin's (linking to Cruz's chosen forename) heartfelt version of Gershwin's Summertime. The film's not inconsiderable emotional heft derives, of course, primarily from the tension around the true birth mothers of their respective daughters and Almodovar works this to moving effect. Switching babies at birth has, of course, been done plenty of times before on screen, including two outstanding examples in Hirokazu Koreeda's 2013 film Like Father, Like Son and Jaco Van Dormael's 1991 film, Toto the Hero.
Blindspotting (2018)
Gritty, Heartfelt, Original
By all accounts co-writers and lead actors, Daveed Diggs and Rafael Casal's 'project' - which focuses on the socio-racial backdrop of their shared San Francisco Bay Area home - was around a decade in its conception, and their 2018 film (directed by Carlos López Estrada) is clearly an authentically heartfelt affair. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, with Diggs and Casal both being local rappers, Esrada's film is driven by (and will likely last long in the memory because of) its pulsating rap-hip hop soundtrack, featuring a host of songs written by the pair of musician-actors, and it is this musical backdrop that dovetails with the film's fast-paced editing to brilliant effect. Thematically, the film is multi-layered, albeit being primarily structured around Diggs' Colin Hoskins counting down the three days left on his prison probation period for, in his job as a bar doorman, having assaulted a drunk white man. The underlying social backdrop to Diggs and Casal's film is Oakland's gradual gentrification and consequent (in the pair's eyes) loss of true identity - seen first-hand by Hoskins and Casal's Miles Turner in their jobs working for a house removals company. Elsewhere, despite the 'best buddy' basis for Hoskins and Turner's 'inter-racial' friendship, racial tensions are constantly simmering, Colin having witnessed a (white on black) police shooting, and the film also shines a light on the pair's masculinity - Hoskins, perhaps being tempered following his jailtime, in contrast to Turner's repeated bouts of violent hot-headedness.
In addition to this thematic sophistication, we shouldn't lose sight of the fact that Diggs and Casal's creation is frequently very funny, the film's admittedly very explicit (particularly racially) street vernacular, being peppered with plenty of razor-sharp quips. Miles, in particular, comes across as Oakland's 'Del Boy equivalent', selling off 'found items' to the highest bidder. The cast is also consistently strong, Diggs the standout as the man being a taught a tough life lesson, but the manic Casal also impressing, as does Janina Gavankar, in particular, in support as Colin's equivocating 'ex' girlfriend, Val. There are also frequent moments and passages of visual invention, such as the montage sequence retelling Colin's witnessing of the cop shooting, such interludes typically accompanied by the driving rap soundtrack.
In terms of comparators, with the film's dynamic editing, the black music soundtrack and the ever-present racial dimension, it was, unsurprisingly, Spike Lee's work that repeatedly came to mind. Having said that, Diggs and Casal's creation retains a distinctive mark of originality.
The Conversation (1974)
Somebody's Listening
Francis Ford Coppola's 1974 masterpiece remains one of the most perceptive films ever made on the subjects of obsession, social alienation, paranoia and guilt and its focus on surveillance (and its unintended consequences) as practised here by Gene Hackman's loner Harry Caul is, arguably, even more relevant today. Coppola's film is particularly haunting in its subtle understatement and oblique suggestion (with discernible hints of a 'more subtle Hitchcock') - characteristics brought alive by Coppola (and cinematographer Bill Butler's) stunning visual sense - but, in the end, it is difficult to look beyond Hackman's all-consuming central performance, arguably his career best, and one for which he was inexplicably passed over for an Oscar Nomination (to be fair, Jack Nicholson in Chinatown also missed out that year!).
Hackman had, of course, won the Oscar three years earlier (for The French Connection) and, here, his depiction of the uptight, geeky, reserved and increasingly paranoid surveillance man is the absolute antithesis of the brash, outspoken Popeye Doyle, merely serving to confirm his place as one of the most accomplished, versatile actors of his generation. Hackman, whose facial expressions here could almost tell his story sans dialogue, is equally adept as the aloof 'technical obsessive' and the regretful loner, whose social alienation has led to his rejection by Teri Garr's platonic(?) 'girlfriend', Amy Fredericks, and, in another fine cameo for Coppola, John Cazale's friend and colleague, Stan. Similarly, Harry's increasing pangs of (Catholic) guilt are skilfully evoked, as he realises that his bugging of two 'anonymous' subjects might have unintended (fatal) consequences. The faceless nature of Harry's employers is also skilfully depicted by Coppola via the shiny, sterile modernity of their workplace, and the aloof nature of Harrison Ford's 'middle man' and his boss Robert Duvall's 'director'. Acting-wise, the film's other particularly notable turn is that by Allen Garfield's smooth-talking 'rival' to Harry, 'Bernie' Moran, who features in a memorable scene, piercing Harry's defences.
The understated (at times, almost surreal) mood of Coppola's film is also complemented brilliantly by David Shire's melancholic piano score and the jazz pieces featured. Memorable visual sequences abound, of course - particular personal favourites include the opening 'crane surveillance' sequence in San Francisco's Union Square, the hotel bathroom scene (where dreams and reality become blurred) and the final 'apartment ransacking' sequence.
Comparator films would include the 'Pakula paranoia films', particularly The Parallax View and Klute, Antonioni's Blow-Up and Boorman's Point Blank, and, for the social alienation aspect, Taxi Driver. Suffice to say, though, Coppola's film is pretty much unique and is, arguably, the film-maker's most innovative piece of work.
Brian and Charles (2022)
A Breath Of Fresh Air!
Tired of the (seemingly) endless cycle of Fast And Furious 27½ or Avengers vs. The Diddymen or even the plethora of depressing (often British) social-realist dramas? Then director Jim Archer's low budget, mini-classic 2022 film might just be for you. Here, David Earl's eccentric, but always optimistic, 'inventor', Brian, socially alienated in remotest Wales is about as far as you could get from a trendy teen internet influencer but Archer's film is as perceptive a drama on alienation and the need for real-life companionship as I've seen in a while. OK, the premise here is a tad corny (formulaic, even), as the shy Brian, comes out of his (romantic) shell with Louise Brealy's (similarly reticent) neighbour, Hazel, before James Michie's 'local bully' (and dimwit), Eddie, seeks confrontation with Brian, but Archer and writers Earl and Chris Hayward have delivered a degree of spontaneity and poignancy (subtlety even) that masks the film's familiar narrative arc. Of course, the subject of Brian and Eddie's confrontation is the former's 'most successful' invention (in amongst his flying cuckoo clock, pine cone bag, trawler nets for shoes , egg belt, etc.), the robot Charles ('surname' Petrescu), played by writer Hayward, whose quirky self becomes an instantly memorable cinematic creation.
Archer's film takes the (at least, part) form of a docudrama, with Brian speaking periodically to camera, with nervous laughs à la Ricky Gervais (despite being the spitting image of Ricky Tomlinson!). Archer's creation also has plenty of reflective and cinematically memorable interludes, focusing predominantly on the local Welsh wildlife, Brian staring into space and accompanied by composer Daniel Pemberton's subtle and magical score. Equally, Archer has his finger on the comedic pulse of 'modern youth' - the sequence in which Charles reverts to (a Harry Enfield-like) petulant teen is quite hilarious. As the film builds to its 'inevitable' climax, with Brian trying to rescue the stolen Charles from the malevolent presence of Eddie, a number of comparator films (or, at least, situations) occurred to me, Clint Eastwood 'inventing' his famed heart protector in A Fistful of Dollars (equivalent, in showdown terms, to Brian's cabbage cannon and his decisive supershover!) and Edward Woodward's fate in another cult film, The Wicker Man. But, the closest comparator that I was repeatedly reminded of for its recurring theme of the 'outsider' being cruelly persecuted and exploited, is David Lynch's masterpiece, The Elephant Man. It's a grand claim, certainly, and don't despair as Archer (and writers) clearly recognise the 'fairy tale like' quality of their film, leaving us on a much more positive note.
Green for Danger (1946)
Another Minor Gem From The British Cinema Vaults
The British writer-director-producer pairing of Sidney Gilliat and Frank Launder may be best known as the writers of the 1938 Hitchcock classic The Lady Vanishes, but the pair had other strings to their bow, including this minor gem of a film from 1946. Gilliat directs and Launder co-produces here in what is a remarkably accomplished blending of cinematic genres - namely those of whodunit, horror and comedy (and set during WW2 UK). On the face of it, this seems (to me, at least) quite an unlikely combo, until you realise that the comedy element - and you won't find any much sharper - is provided by the great Alastair Sim - mixing elements of Agatha Christie and J B Priestley's classic - as Sim's Inspector Cockrill is called in to investigate a suspicious operating theatre death in a converted wartime hospital. Building on the basis of a relatively pedestrian soap opera-like opening of romantic affairs, jealousies, crushes and career power struggles, the film morphs into a tense and cleverly plotted whodunit, with moments of genuine 'horror', all presided over by Cockrill's darkly comic physical presence and voiceover narration.
Acting-wise, in addition to Sim, the film is peppered with familiar British faces from the era, perhaps most notably in the form of a typically upstanding Trevor Howard, ever defiant as Dr Barney Barnes, alongside Leo Genn's rival in love and career, Mr Eden, plus plenty of solid (and glamorous) supporting performances from the likes of Judy Campbell, Rosamund John and Sally Gray. The tension under which Barnes and co. Attempt to carry out their vocational war-time duties is nicely established via the repeated passage overhead of the deadly German V1 rockets - the ability to identify a car's engine noise being a potentially life-saving talent. Equally, the film-makers' choice of the apron and mask bedecked operating theatre is ideal for the concealment of potential suspicion and guilt following a mysterious death. The film's look and feel is impressive throughout - one highlight sequence showcasing Wilkie Cooper's black-and-white cinematography captures Campbell's sister, Marion Bates, running through the wind-swept night-time forest, calling to my mind the manic glamour of Kathleen Byron's Sister Ruth and Jack Cardiff's cinematography in Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger's masterpiece, Black Narcissus. The star of the show here, though, is undoubtedly Sim, whose series of sarcastic, pithy one-liners make this an unmissable watch for all fans of British cinema. The film-makers even store up one final delicious plot twist as a reveal on which to end.
They Came to a City (1944)
Intriguing And (Probably) Overambitious
British director Basil Dearden's 1944 film version of J B Priestley's play of the same name is a rather original 'philosophical tract' on post WW2 British reconstruction. As a group of (nine) strangers find themselves adrift, but coming together, in an artificial (almost A Matter of Life and Death-like) heavenly construction overseeing a 'city', Priestley (and co-writer Dearden) attempt to give us a representative microcosm of 1940s Britain (waitress, businessman, sailor, cleaner, bank manager, member of the aristocracy, etc.) split roughly, and particularly relevantly for the time, along class lines. We then get quite a wide-ranging discussion encompassing a range of issues, including mortality, marriage, fidelity, sexual politics, artifice, religion, catharsis, etc, but which, in line with Priestley's world view, essentially boils down to a debate on capitalism vs. Socialism in the context of Britain needing to 'rebuild' (and 'reform') itself post-war.
Such a premise may sound a little dry and, to an extent, it is! Nevertheless, some of the characters here, particularly Googie Withers' (typically for the actress) exuberant waitress, Norman Shelley's blustering narrow-minded businessman, Raymond Huntley's wavering bank manager and Ada Reeve's elderly and life-experienced cleaner, bring Priestley's drama to emotional (and political) life. Having visited the 'utopian city' Dearden's cast is left with the dilemma - who wants to stay and who to go? Of course, the leavers are, perhaps predictably, the more narrow-minded (i.e. Those with vested interests in the status quo) of the bunch. The film therefore suffers from a curious mix of overambition (in the scope of the philosophical discussion) and predictable outcome. That said, it is particularly the roles of (the great) Googie Withers (whose stolen just about every film I've seen her in) and Reeve's perhaps unexpectedly sage words of wisdom that cut though some of the more preachy content here. Dearden's film was criticised at the time for being 'uncinematic' which it largely is, but other play-based films, for example Twelve Angry Mean and His Girl Friday, disprove this as a definitive criticism and it is rather They Came To a City's dry and esoteric subject matter that is its principal limiting factor. And on this latter subject I would certainly opt for I'm All Right Jack as a more effective and, of course, funnier depiction of a similar political spectrum.
Censor (2021)
It Has Its Moments
Directing debutant, Welsh film-maker Prano Bailey-Bond's 2021 film mixes some more original elements with standard 'horror' genre fare resulting in a mostly intriguing watch. The 1980s 'video nasty' period setting and upcoming, highly promising Irish actress Niamh Algar's turn as 'prim and proper' and increasingly obsessive, film censor, Enid Baines (an ironic play on Blyton, anyone?), are, for me at least, Censor's big pluses. That Bailey-Bond only goes so deep into the potential issue (now perhaps 'old hat') of the extent to which on-screen horror and violence might influence human behaviour is (regardless of one's personal views) something of a shame, the writer-director instead focusing on the perhaps narrower, more 'manageable' plot line of Enid suspecting that she may have spotted her long disappeared sister featuring in one of her censor subject films. Indeed, the 'Mary Whitehouse issue' (of the direct influence of 'video nasties') is somewhat undermined here as, on one of 'Enid's films' seemingly prompting a copycat killing and the nervy censor then being in receipt of abusive, accusatory phone calls plus a hounding by the press, does call into question the likelihood of individual censor details finding their way into the public domain.
One of the more refreshing elements of Bailey-Bond's work here is that the film-maker is obviously not one to take her subject too seriously, Censor being peppered with nice moments of (often dark) humour. Enid's fellow reviewer likening their horror fare (à la Driller Killer or Cannibal Carnage) to Homer or Bunuel (Un Chien Andalou) or Clare Holman's role as Enid's concerned mother, June, quipping, 'Seen anything you'd recommend?' and, 'We definitely had some Jaffa Cakes', being good examples of the 'lighter' moments. Baily-Bond's cast is also consistently impressive, Algar giving a good, increasingly guilt-ridden account of her angst and her role as potential 'morality saviour', whilst there are nice cameos from Vincent Franklin, Felicity Montagu and, particularly, the always solid Michael Smiley, here as the suitably creepy, 'gore producer', Doug Smart. Indeed, as Enid gets closer to discovering a potential connection to her absent sister, Smiley features in the start of the film's more formulaic 'gore denouement' (perhaps wasting some of the actor's potential screen impact!). This denouement does, though, have a rather nice (and unexpected), Lynch-like, twist, which raises my rating of the film by one star. I didn't find Censor to be as impressive as (fellow female horror creator) Rose Glass' film Saint Maud (from two years earlier), but it is certainly a film worthy of interest.
Carnival of Souls (1962)
Atmospheric And Influential 'B' Movie Horror
Director Herk Harvey's 1962 film has all the hallmarks of a cult movie - low ($30k) budget, inexperienced cast, clunky 'special effects' (and dialogue) - but remarkably Carnival of Souls is one of those 'b' movies where absence of budget works in its favour! The (obviously) black-and-white cinematography - heavily ingrained with frequent 'blemishes' on the version I saw - plus Gene Moore's genuinely unnerving (and a little intrusive) pipe organ score are just two of the reasons why Carnival of Souls gets under your skin and makes it nigh on unforgettable. The narrative set-up here - as Candace Hilligoss's nervy, 'asexual' loner, Mary Henry, (miraculously) escapes a car crash before taking off for a job as church organist (with the parting missive 'put your soul into it') - is as offbeat as the rest of Harvey's cinematic concept, but it makes for some (maybe obvious) unsettling thematic content, not least of which is the potential subversion of the outwardly pious community in which Henry finds herself. Similarly unsettling (certainly for her!) is when Mary seemingly takes on a cloak of invisibility (as well as suffering repeated hallucinations) and we begin to think that the aftermath of Mary's accident may not have been all that it seemed. Undoubtedly, one of the film's masterstrokes is the setting for its titular goings-on - a bathhouse turned dancehall turned carnival pavilion (actually situated in Saltair, Utah) - which comes across as something straight out of Hitchcock in terms of its macabre potential.
Talking of Hitch, the master of suspense is just one comparator-influence that springs to mind whilst experiencing Harvey's creation - the blonde Mary driving solo in a state of anxiety, whilst cars sink beneath the water's surface is, of course, redolent of Psycho. Looking forward, Moore's distinctive organ score predates David Lynch's score in the equally bizarre Eraserhead (with Harvey's 'idyllic' small town USA setting also overlapping with typical Lynch), whilst the (eventual) sight of marauding black-and-white 'zombies' seems to be a clear pointer to George Romero's 1968 classic, Night of the Living Dead. To me, together (perhaps) with the more restrained ghostly apparitions comparison to the 1961 British film The Innocents, these are the more obvious comparators for Harvey's film (for an exhaustive and 'more obscure' list of comparators I would refer you to 'horror expert', Kim Newman's list in the short booklet that comes with the Network DVD of the film). As the only professional actor in Harvey's film, Hilligoss is certainly worth a particular mention as delivering one of the more proficient turns here - most of the actress' screen colleagues are 'one-offs', screen acting-wise, but Sidney Berger as Mary's potential seducer is also worth name-checking, with his suitably creepy and offbeat neighbour, John Linden. The other notable thing about the film is its denouement which, even though Mary's 'status' should have become obvious by this point, still packs quite a convincing punch.
As a final 'influence' deriving from Harvey's film, in amongst numerous, typically obscure, musical references, the great (and equally weird) indie band Pere Ubu cited the film as the inspiration for their excellent 2014 album of the same name.
The Farewell (2019)
A Brilliantly Observed Family Drama
Chinese-American writer-director Lulu Wang's semi-autobiographical 2019 film is a quite brilliantly observed, poignant and often darkly comic, drama. At the heart of Wang's film is, of course, the family plan to keep from Zhao Shu-zhen's ageing grandmother, Nai Nai, the fact that she has a terminal condition with just months to live, but The Farewell is much more than this, being a particularly sharply observed depiction of culture clash - in effect, China vs. The 'West', each of Nai Nai's two sons having emigrated, one to the US, one to Japan. As the grandmother's family travel to her Changchun, China family home on the (family-arranged) pretext that Nai Nai's grandson is to be married, we learn that it is common Chinese practice (something that would be 'illegal' in Western societies) to withhold, with the knowledge of the medical authorities, details of terminal diagnoses, something that Nai Nai's grand-daughter, Awkwafina's New York-based, aspiring musician, Billi, is reluctant to comply with. As Nai Nai's wider family mix at the ancestral home, director Wang brings out themes of culture clash, generational differences and the nature of identity with a deal of perception and subtlety, with her consistently strong cast delivering an outstanding dose of naturalism.
The emotional heart of Wang's film is the portrayal of Billi and the close and now conflicted relationship she has with her grandmother and Awkwafina impresses greatly in the role. Even better, though, is the veteran Chinese stage actress, Zhao, (making her big screen debut here - in her 70s!), capturing quite brilliantly the (obviously internationally applicable!) 'elderly characteristic' of expressing forthright opinions on all manner of subjects (giving us some hilarious moments of dark comedy), as well as her (overly) caring and maternal nature for her grandchildren, in particular. The sense of 'jeopardy' Wang develops here, as family members strive to keep the truth from Nai Nai, is palpable and brilliantly conveyed. As Wang's drama proceeds, various comparators occurred to me, including the absolute master (well, for me at least) of the 'eastern family drama', Japanese film-maker Hirokazu Koreeda, but also, given the increasing domestic tension on display, the UK's own Mike Leigh. The scene in Wang's film at the wedding banquet and the familial frictions generated - including cross-cultural jealousies and resentment - is for me redolent of a film like Leigh's Secrets and Lies, the film title being, of course, a direct read across from Wang's drama. And, of course, a citing of Koreeda and Leigh as comparator is just about the highest praise it would be possible to attribute!
Baby the Rain Must Fall (1965)
Doesn't Add Up To The Sum Of Its Parts
A promising set of ingredients - director-writer collaboration of Robert Mulligan and Horton Foote (whose 1962 screen version of Harper Lee's masterpiece, To Kill a Mockingbird, was more than respectable), lead actors Steve McQueen and Lee Remick, a score by the multi award-winning Elmer Bernstein and visuals by the established cinematographer, Ernest Laszlo. That Mulligan's 1965 film doesn't live up to expectations is still something of a mystery - I would put it down primarily to some (particularly early on) pedestrian writing in which McQueen's headstrong ex-con rebel (and aspiring 'Elvis'!), Henry Thomas, and his returning wife, Remick's (mostly) fawning, Georgette, are mere (two-dimensional, at best) shadows of 'real people' so that by the time we get to the film's final half-hour or so, the added impetus delivered here cannot really make up for what has gone before. Oh, and whose bright idea was it to have McQueen as an aspiring 'rockabilly' star? His 'singing' here (voiced by The Wrecking Crew's Billy Strange) is merely embarrassing - certainly, if the resulting expressions of his wife and six year-old daughter are anything to go by.
It's something of a shame since the film's southern USA (Texan) setting, with its open plains and atmospheric interiors, is nicely evoked in black-and-white by Laszlo (including the impressive opening dynamic credit sequence) and we get some solid character turns to boot. Particularly impressive is Estelle Hemsley's lived-in maid, Catherine, with the likes of Don Murray and Ruth White also good in supporting roles. The arguable heart of Mulligan's film, though, is Henry's relationship with his 'surrogate mother', the elusive Miss Kate, only seen during one memorable sequence, but otherwise 'imagined' (by Thomas) as a terrifying, domineering presence behind a bedroom door at the top of set of (very Hitchcockian) stairs. Such highpoints struggle, though, to outweigh the drifting nature of the film's first half, plus little annoyances, such as the parents repeatedly referring to their 6-year old daughter, Margaret Rose, as 'the baby', continuing to grate. Any thematic analysis here is limited to Georgette's seemingly irrational devotion to her ne'er-do-well spouse, plus an implication that Henry's descent into delinquency is the result (so Miss Kate seems to think) of his rock 'n' roll (Elvis) infatuation (which certainly was a 1950s US theory).
In the end, Mulligan's version of angst and agonising in a black-and-white Texan backwater does not compare with the similarly presented Hud or The Last Picture Show (mind, these films are masterpieces) or even the film-maker's own attempt at southern USA in Harper's Lee's pièce-de-résistance tale.
The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1988)
Kaufman's Intensely Cinematic Love Story
With his 1988 adaptation of Milan Kundera's lauded novel, director Philip Kaufman not only gives us an intensely passionate, highly cinematic three-way love story, but also marshals an impressively international team in doing so. France is represented by being the film's proxy location for Kundera's Prague 1968 setting (with some actual Prague footage edited in), as well as providing co-screenwriter (and regular Luis Bunuel collaborator) Jean-Claude Carrière and one of Kaufman's acting leads, a 23-year old Juliette Binoche as amateur photographer, Tereza, delivering a brilliantly moving turn in her first English-speaking screen role. Curiously, Sweden is also heavily represented via cinematographer (and regular Ingmar Bergman collaborator) Sven Nykvist, whose evocation here of 'Prague bohemia' is highly memorable, and actors Lena Olin, also delivering an impressively complex performance as artist, Sabina, plus Erland Josephson (another Bergman collaborator) and Stellan Skarsgard. Leading for the Brits is, of course, Daniel Day-Lewis again excellent as brain surgeon and womaniser, Tomas, whilst elsewhere in the cast we also get Dutch, Polish and (appropriately) Czech representation.
Kaufman's film is one of truly epic proportions, running to just short of three hours, switching 'location' between Prague and Geneva, and pulling off a successful cinematic 'marriage' of love story against the political backdrop of the Prague Spring (with Soviet tanks rolling in around mid-film). Indeed, the film's undercurrent of repressive political machinations and potential conspiracies adds another layer of uncertainty to the lives of Kaufman's central protagonists, as Tereza's shy innocent in love is pitched (optimistically) against the seemingly carefree hedonism of Tomas and Sabina, thus upping the ante on the trio's own existential crises. The aura of tension between the prevailing communist regime and burgeoning liberalism is never far away - there is a particularly memorable music concert/party scene in which That'll Be The Day is usurped by party apparatchiks - but (for me) it is the scenes involving Kaufman's central trio where the film really scores. Sexual symbolism is frequently to the fore, whether it be phallic cacti, Sabina's hat or the recurring use of mirrors, the latter also playing up the theme of transient identity and used to spice up Tomas and Sabina's couplings and to lend Sabina and Tereza's mutual photography shoot a touch of Welles' The Lady From Shanghai. Other particularly memorable sequences include that where Tomas' political humiliation is completed as we cut to him as window cleaner (with Prague's Church of Our Lady before Tyn enshrouded in scaffolding in the background) and, to reinforce Tereza's seeming despair in her search for 'spiritual' love, first she is confronted in a bar by a youth ordering 'cognac' (significantly recalling an earlier incident) and then where Tereza suffers a truly horrific coupling with Skarsgard's 'nice' engineer.
The film's ever-present cultural content (literature, music, photography) is reinforced by Kaufman's excellent use of music, principally by Leos Janacek, whose use in some of the more comedic sequences called to my mind Kubrick. The other cinematic comparator that occurred to me, partly given the communist content and presence of Binoche was that of Krzysztof Kieslowski, oddly though not Three Colours Blue (in which Binoche appeared), but more the innocence, against a political backdrop, of Irène Jacob in The Double Life of Véronique.
The Power of the Dog (2021)
It Has Its Moments
Writer-director Jane Campion's award-winning (or mostly nominated) 2021 film certainly has its moments, being a well-acted, atmospheric, moody, sometimes (typically for this film-maker) offbeat play on the western, but, for me at least, the film is only partially successful. The film's (and indeed Thomas Savage's book on which it is based) main theme of male emasculation in this 'most male' of film genres is still (even after Brokeback Mountain) relatively original, but is also at the root of my reservations. Campion's cast is certainly uniformly strong as 1920s Montana ranch-owning, 'chalk and cheese' brothers, Benedict Cumberbatch's brash, uncompromising Phil Burbank and Jesse Plemons' reserved and kindly, George, come across Kirsten Dunst's widow mother, Rose Gordon, and her 'effeminate', sensitive son, Kodi Smit-McPhee's Peter. The film's main weakness is its switch from Phil and Peter's (in particular) rather stereotypical characterisations to Phil's later attempts (even if based on the 'mentor-pupil' relationship Phil had previously with Bronco Henry) at befriending Peter. Given the extent to which 'machismo' is expected in Phil's traditional cowboy role (viz. The 'respect' of his workforce), such a switch does not ring true.
This is a shame because the performances here all impress, particularly the main three male roles. Probably the standout for me is Jesse Plemons, whose character's subtlety stands in contrast to that of Phil and Peter (good though both actors were in these roles). In particular, the scenes between the two brothers revealed the characters' complexity most effectively, with George, because of their mutual history, being able to get beneath the skin of Phil's showy, superficial machismo. The other standout sequence, in which Campion explores elements of class and which is a masterclass of psychological tension, is that of the dinner party with the governor, at which Rose (here Dunst is quite brilliant) is unable to perform on the piano. Elsewhere, the film strikes positive notes both for its overall looks - Ari Wegner's cinematography impressing with the Otago, NZ landscapes (standing in for the US) and the apparent nods (repeated shots through doors and windows) to Ford's The Searchers - plus its score written by Jonny Greenwood, whose sparse, haunting staccato notes add to the film's psychological impact (both Wegner and Greenwood were Oscar-nominated).
Onna ga kaidan wo agaru toki (1960)
Brilliantly Observed And Subtly Powerful
This 1960 film directed by Mikio Naruse and with a relatively sparse, but well-observed, screenplay by Ryuzo Kikushima (a regular Kurosawa writer), continues in the same stylistic vein (slow-pace, low-key camerawork, restrained drama, etc) as much of the film-maker's earlier work, in the process revisiting many of the man's oft-used themes - namely, a central (female) protagonist (and country?) struggling to come to terms with the modern (patriarchal) world, balancing spiritual vs. Material well-being in a society of (at best) confused morality.
As the central metaphor for the dilemma faced by Hideko Takamine's ageing and conflicted bar hostess, Keiko, Naruse (and Kikushima) have devised a simple ascent of the staircase into her workplace, where Keiko, whilst yearning for the simple life (and love) she experienced with her now deceased husband, enters into a 'dog-eat-dog' world of pretence and moral ambiguity. Takamine is outstanding here as the confused protagonist, torn between the materialist security offered by her job (which allows her to play the good Samaritan to her disadvantaged family) and the moral respectability she values and that might be delivered by a marriage to one of her many admiring potential patrons. Naruse's cast is consistently strong with, in addition to Takamine, Masayuki Mori particularly good as the businessman, Fujiskai, Tatsuya Nakadai impressing as the philosophical bar manager, Komatsu, and Reiko Dan also good as the young and flighty hostess, Junko.
Given Naruse's regular focus on the plight of (essentially) 'lower class' characters and the feel of a kind of 'social-realist light' drama, a superficial comparison might be made with the work of other directors working in a similar vein, such as Ken Loach or the Dardennes, but Naruse's subtle style is less overtly political, making his cinema more akin to that of his fellow countryman, Yasujiro Ozu. Oddly enough, the other film When A Woman... reminded me of (purely from a thematic, rather than stylistic, perspective) is Wong's In The Mood For Love.
À plein temps (2021)
Life On The Brink
If you can imagine a film by Ken Loach (say, Sorry We Missed You) or the Dardennes brothers (say, Two Days, One Night) and instead of these social realist film-makers' studied, sometimes subtle, but always uncompromisingly real, approaches to film-making being replaced by a nail-biting, fast moving drama with equally pacy (electronic) soundtrack, then you'll be in the vicinity of (near novice) French writer-director, Éric Gravel's 2021 film. Of course, as we follow Laure Calamy's remarkably intense turn as single mother, Julie Roy, and her groundhog day-like 'lifestyle' of battling with everything (rail-taxi strikes, replacement bus services, financial insecurity, demanding job at a luxury Parisian hotel, agitating children, etc.) that life can throw at her, we (perhaps) ask the question, 'do we really want to sit through a(n admittedly rather concise) version of the stressful lives many of us actually experience first-hand'? Short of rejecting Gravel's film out of hand on this basis, I would challenge anyone not to get tied up in Julie's life frustrations and to really feel for this increasingly desperate woman. The undeniable dramatic power of Gravel's tale is probably roughly 50/50 driven by the director's film-making skills (particularly, editing and music) - notable for someone with relatively little experience - and the stellar central performance by Calamy, whose ability to mix calm professionalism, latent frustration and tender mothering skills is outstanding.
Of course, Gravel's drama raises a host of real social-political issues - amongst them the topical debate of working from home (an option Julie and her hotel work colleagues fantasise about), industrial relations (us Brits' common, stereotypical view of Julie's fellow countrymen!), family breakdown (and the consequent demand for childcare), the end of the 9-to-5 working culture, etc. - and Gravel tackles all of them head-on and to totally convincing dramatic effect. Associated with the film's unnervingly realistic approach to all these issues is its one-track nature - can Julie's tale really go anywhere? There is little in the way of relief here, certainly, save for Julie's stolen, embarrassed kiss at one point, but Gravel manages this potentially one-dimensional dilemma very effectively and dramatically.
The other comparator film that occurred to me, dealing with the (female-focused) modern-day work environment and which is at the other end of the dramatic spectrum to Gravel's film, is Kitty Green's slower and altogether more subtle 2019 film, The Assistant.
The Big Man (1990)
A Very Respectable Effort
Based on a novel (of the same name) by the late, great William McIlvanney, directed by David Leland (he of Wish You Were here and TV's Made in Britain and Birth of a Nation fame), with a score by Ennio Morricone and a stunning cast, including (in approximate merit order) Ian Bannen, Maurice Roeves, Billy Connolly, Liam Neeson, Joanne Whalley-Kilmer, Peter Mullan ('young' and underused), Julie Graham, Hugh Grant and, in cameo roles, Douglas Henshall and Jack Shepherd, plus many great supporting character actors, Leland's 1990 film had 'classic' written all over it. Why then does it 'score' so moderately, critically? A recent rewatching (the first time since the film's release) had me concluding that the lukewarm reception is still somewhat inexplicable. OK, the premise of Neeson's (post-1980s strike) ex-miner and Scot, Danny Scoular, looking 'to make good', escape his (now) jobless, emasculating existence and provide for his wife (Whalley-Kilmer's Beth) and family by taking up the lucrative offer by Bannen's Mr Big, Matt Mason, of a bare knuckle fight, is not exactly an original idea, but Leland's uncompromising direction, Don MacPherson's sharp script and the level of acting talent on show make for a never less than intriguing watch.
As is invariably the case with the man, Connolly's presence on screen (big or little) tends towards a nailed-on positive and here, as Mason's wisecracking 'fixer', Frankie, the Big Yin is again given most of the best lines, some of which are delivered (in a highlight scene) to Danny's pet dog! Certainly, of course, (authentic) accents are not a problem for Connolly nor for each of ('natives') Bannen or Roeves (the latter as Mason's gang rival and counter-better, Cam Colvin). Whalley-Kilmer struggles the most in this respect, whilst Grant's 'posh Edinburgh' brogue as Beth's stand-in lover, Gordon, is rather assured. Thematically, as well as Danny's need to provide, Leland gives us a reasonably engaging political and community backdrop, Danny quipping that he has 'not a criminal record, a political record' whilst his local neighbourhood gather to give him a send-off against the backdrop of a disused coal mine. In terms of visual invention, Leland gives us an uncompromising, extended fight sequence (to Morricone's memorable staccato accompaniment), plus some unexpected (and repeated) cutting to a (Sexy Beast-like - could Jonathan Glazer have taken inspiration from Leland here?) Spanish, lilo sun-bathing portly ex-gangster (whose relevance latterly becomes apparent).
Given McIlvanney's outstanding (poetic and descriptive) qualities as a writer, Leland's film could, I guess, be criticised (as for many literary screen adaptations) for not quite capturing the magic of the author's prose and imagination. As a comparator, given the film's take on family angst set against a political backdrop, the most obvious comparator would be Mark Herman's 1996 film, Brassed Off. Leland's film may not quite match that, but it runs it mighty close.
Pájaros de verano (2018)
The Power Of Identity And Tradition
Columbian film-makers Cristina Gallego and Ciro Guerra's (married at the time of shooting before separating) 2018 film has (in some circles) been badged as an 'epic crime drama' and, whilst there are elements of read across from, say, The Godfather, I think the film's dominant thematic grounding is in the power of traditional values and customs, here of the (South American) Wayuu people. Birds of Passage's narrative trajectory, as, in the late 1960s, Jose Acosta's Rapayet marries Natalia Reyes' young woman of 'prestigious heritage', Zaida, before being tempted into a route of 'easy money' from marijuana trading, appears to be pointing towards evermore 'capitalist exploitation' and (as Rapayet's contacts are, initially, driven via the US Peace Corps) a likely translocation to the US of A to take advantage of the burgeoning drugs market there. That the film-makers' focus remains on the Wayuu community, its customs, traditions and uncompromising blood rivalries, allows for a much more original take on what otherwise might have developed into more pseudo-Hollywood fare.
The relatively novel slant adopted by the film-makers is reinforced by the film's level of cultural authenticity, a good proportion of the cast originating from the local Wayuu community, without prior acting experience. Equally, the evocation of the nature of this community is quite brilliantly done, partly via David Gallego's (brother of Cristina) expansive, often, landscape-wise, bleak cinematography and, in terms of the traditions and superstitions at play, via some of the symbolism chosen, including the spindly legs of a wandering bird and the inventive dream (hallucination) sequences. At a more tangible level, there is a nod towards societal (police) corruption, as well as an emphasis (via the involvement of Gallego) on the familial influence of women (particularly Carmina Martinez's mother to Zaida, Ursula). Indeed, as Rapayet's delving into practices that go against the grain of his tradition and community come back to bite him, perhaps the most telling element of authenticity here is the stark, uncompromising manner in which retribution is felt. This, coupled with the film's wrong-footing on its supposed genre, make for memorable viewing.
Sound of Metal (2019)
Riz Ahmed Excels Again
Director and co-writer Darius Marder's 2019 film is an original and visceral piece of film-making, featuring a stellar central performance from Riz Ahmed as the rock (metal) drummer who loses his hearing. It's a subject that was no doubt close to the heart of Marder - since he was close to his deaf grandmother - and the director made an astute choice to cast Ahmed as drummer, Ruben Stone, who turns in a deeply felt, passionate turn. Technically, the film is also memorable as its sound design - for which it won the Oscar - effectively puts us inside the head of Stone and his affliction, translating first-hand the man's hopes and frustrations in what is an emotional rollercoaster ride. Equally, as Stone takes refuge (as a form of psychological rehabilitation) in a centre for deaf recovering addicts, Marder's film represents an enlightening lesson in the experiences of the deaf community (non-actor members of which were cast for the film), shining a light on sign language teaching and the educational challenges of a marginalised group in society.
Marder's cast is consistently strong, if tightly focused on a core group of players. Noted 'veteran' French actor, Mathieu Almaric, and Olivia Cooke both impress as father and daughter (the latter Ruben's girlfriend), Richard and Lou Berger, in addition to Ahmed, who was Oscar-nominated for his role. The film also features another lauded turn by Paul Raci as, Joe, ex-alcoholic and the 'leader' of the new-found community in which Stone finds himself. Veteran (now mid-70s) character actor that Raci is, his portrayal of Joe is quite simply superb - a beautifully judged foil, thoughtful and mature, to Ruben's more animated and driven self. Indeed, it is Joe's role which highlights the film's other big theme, that of the illusory (and transitory) nature of fame - something that Stone clearly feels is critical to his very existence, not wanting to be simply a forgotten character in history - a concept that Joe attempts to educate Ruben on. And it is Joe's more contemplative approach to life that leads to what is a superb denouement scene for Marder's film.
Further plaudits should go to Ahmed for helping (as Executive Producer) to get the film made and to a performance which sits alongside other impressive turns by the actor in films like Shifty (an early outing alongside fellow newbie Daniel Mays), Trishna, The Reluctant Fundamentalist, Four Lions and Nightcrawler.
Le procès (1962)
Welles' Stunning Kafka Adaptation
Orson Welles' 1962 film seems to have passed under the radar, certainly my personal radar and perhaps more widely given that the film was not readily available on DVD until a couple of decades ago. Welles famously stated, immediately after completing the film, that it was 'the best film I have ever made' and, taking due regard of things film-makers are prone to saying about their personal creations, he may just have a point! I had not read Kafka's classic novel of the persecuted Josef K, on trial for he knows not what but subject to a seemingly endless 'legal' process, for a good three decades, but Welles' take, which sticks closely (with a bit of re-ordering) to Kafka's original, conjures up in my head precisely the impression (visual, verbal, psychological) I would have imagined. First and foremost, the film is a visual masterwork, in keeping with Welles achievements in films like Citizen Kane and Touch of Evil, with stunning black-and-white cinematography by Edmond Richard (even if the film's visual approach is no doubt rooted in Welles himself) and amazing set designs (in, amongst other places, the disused Gare d'Orsay in Paris), alternately conjuring up claustrophobia and the (illusory) grand design of the process engulfing K. The abiding impression is that every single shot in the film has been carefully crafted for a purpose. The film's music score is also worthy of mention, being composed and arranged by Jean Ledrut - a mix which includes jazzy moments and various arrangements of Albinoni's famous Adagio in G minor.
Only slightly less critical to the film's success than its visual qualities is the casting of Anthony Perkins as K. Recollecting Perkins' nervy, shifty-eyed depiction of the 'put-upon' Norman Bates in Hitchcock's Psycho from two years earlier, it is easy to see why Welles cast him here. I really can't imagine a better choice and Perkins delivers a career best performance here, surpassing his Bates turn if for no other reason than I would estimate his on-screen time here to be three or four times that in Hitchcock's masterwork. K's nervy vulnerability is further played up by Perkins' known sexual ambiguity, as K becomes subject to the attentions of Jeanne Moreau's 'promiscuous' night-club dancer, Miss Bürstner, Else Martinelli's wife to a court-room guard, Hilda, and, most memorably, Romy Schneider's highly seductive, Leni, assistant to Welles' (the actor) Advocate (supposedly acting on K's behalf). Welles' idiosyncratic cast is consistently good and (generally) just right for their parts, Akim Tamiroff being probably the standout performer as the feeble, dishevelled fellow 'defendant', Bloch.
In the end, it is difficult not to come back to the film's often disorientating visuals and, specifically, their transition from the film's claustrophobic opening sequence as two constantly questioning 'policemen' unsettle K in his apartment, through to the series of spectacular, vast ensemble scenes - first, in K's workplace, filled with hundreds of robotic typists (reminiscent of a more troubling version of that in Wilder's The Apartment), then as hundreds of frail, elderly prisoners(?) wander through the dystopian landscape, emblazoned with numbers as if in a mega-version of the totalitarian-inspired (communist, Nazi - take your pick) TV series, The Prisoner, and, finally, the stunning spectacle of the vast court-room in which K faces his 'accusers' (followed by the brilliant scene of K exiting through a vast, belittling doorway). Throughout, Welles and Richard give us plenty of memorable close-ups, including of menacing 'henchmen', intriguing camera angles and shots down corridors, through doorways, etc. Two other set-pieces also stand out particularly - that where K visits the court artist Titorelli (played with a degree of camp by William Chappell) theoretically in order to obtain insight to his advantage for his case, whilst girls bait the pair through wooden slats and, second, the scenes, seemingly in a cramped storage cupboard/room, where K witnesses the punishment of someone he has 'informed' on (a noir-like scene straight out of Touch of Evil).
Although Welles did stick quite closely to Kafka's original narrative, whilst also maintaining that his film was only 'inspired' by Kafka's original, the film-maker did incorporate changes - 'updated' to modern times to include a scene with massive computer which K's Uncle Max (an excellent Max Haufler) suggests K might interrogate to find out what he is accused of (Welles actually deleted a much longer scene with the computer on the basis that it didn't work). Welles also tops and tails his film by narrating Kafka's parable Before The Law to pinscreen scenes created by artist Alexandre Alexeieff and then narrates the cast list over the closing credits, finishing (as was the film-maker's wont) with 'I wrote and directed this film, my name is Orson Welles'. Even if Welles himself expressed surprise that he (or, indeed, anybody) was making a film of Kafka's novel, subject matter-wise - given its clinical, psychological nature and linking to grand themes - it doesn't surprise me at all that the man should elect to undertake the task. The other film-maker who I would have thought would have been equally attracted to a potential adaptation, given the nature of the beast, would have been Stanley Kubrick, though I am not aware Kubrick ever considered this (the fact that Welles had got there by 1962 would likely have put paid to any Kubrick ambitions, had they existed, in that direction).
Ah fei jing juen (1990)
The Start Of Something Big
This 1990 film effectively marked a breakthrough in the career of Hong Kong's adopted son Wong Kar-wai and whilst disappointing rather at the box office was lauded by the critics. On reflection, these two facts are probably not that surprising - whilst Wong's film featured a whole plethora of rising (and established) stars from Hong Kong cinema of the time, its innovative visual and narrative style (subsequently to become, in large part, the basis of Wong's cinematic appeal) was not such a dead cert with mainstream cinema audiences. For me, Days Of Being Wild is (like all Wong's films) a film that benefits from repeat viewings, principally to allow the film's mood and atmospheric visuals to work their effect, and is a film with clear pointers to his later masterworks such as Chungking Express and In The Mood For Love.
At the centre of Days Of Being Wild is Hong Kong megastar (actor and musician), Leslie Cheung's vibrant and convincing portrayal of Yuddy, a self-obsessed womaniser, emotionally distant, discarding women like confetti, but subconsciously troubled by the fact that his mother abandoned him as child, leaving him to be brought up by ex-prostitute Rebecca (Rebecca Pan). Yuddy's latest beau is the mercurially flirtatious, playful and violently jealous nightclub dancer, Mimi (brilliantly played by Carina Lau), but the lothario is also haunted by memories for his ex, the reserved and vulnerable country girl Su Li Zhen, played with beautiful tenderness by Maggie Cheung. In fact, for me the film's most endearing (but ultimately unfulfilled) relationship is that between Su Li and passing cop (a recurring Wong character) Tide, also brilliantly played by (yet another Hong Kong film star) Andy Lau.
Wong's film is shot by (now) regular cinematographer Christopher Doyle using his trademark lush colour palette, albeit with reduced use of hand-held cameras in this case, giving rise to Wong's now distinctive dark, claustrophobic tones (I'm sure at least 80% of the film's screen time is shot at night). Indeed, the latter part of the film during which Yuddy travels to the Philippines in search of his birth mother is visually quite jarring with its lighter, airier hues (albeit Doyle's overhead jungle shots are still impressive). The film's predominantly sleazy atmosphere is crowned by Wong's chosen soundtrack, which features the (frequently languid) Latin sounds of Xavier Cugat and the nascent noir feel is further hinted at by Wong's use of voiceover narrations by a number of his characters.
Although Days Of Being Wild certainly does not feature a conventionally strong narrative, Wong's vignette-like approach becomes increasingly infectious and engaging as the film progresses, and, together with the strength of the acting performances, is largely successful in depicting its major themes of memory and loss. Wong also includes a brilliantly enigmatic recapitulation of his main characters at the end of the film and, for good measure, throws in a sublime (and totally unexplained) cameo from (regular collaborator)Tony Leung as a 'smooth operator' readying himself for a night on the town (reportedly a scene Wong included as a teaser for a 'never to be realised' sequel).
As essential film for anyone interested in the work of this innovative film-maker.
Out of Rosenheim (1987)
Offbeat, Original And Touching
German director and co-writer Percy Adlon's 1987 creation certainly has all the hallmarks of a cult film - offbeat (and low budget) feel, episodic narrative, eccentric characters and quirky visuals (including editing). Such films, for me, are often very much hit-or-miss affairs but here Adlon displays a real sense of how to connect, in a human sense, with the viewer. Essentially, Bagdad Café, as it bizarrely pitches Marianne Sagebrecht's German tourist, Jasmin Munchgstettner, against CCH Pounder's feisty and uptight café owner, Brenda, in the middle of the Californian desert, gives us a curious culture clash (European vs. American) plus, to boot, a developing exercise in female bonding. I doubt that I am the only one to draw comparisons between Adlon's film and the work of another German film-maker fascinated with all things USA, Wim Wenders. An absolute highlight of Adlon's film is the sequence where Jasmin, bedecked in 'Bavarian traditional costume' and having just split with her husband, strolls, dragging her suitcase, across the barren, sandy landscape into Brenda's premises and asks the disbelieving host, 'Room?' prompting the response 'Here? Are you sure?'. It's a scene that (in my mind) borrows from Paris Texas and a wider cinematic set-up (we soon discover) that also harks back to Wenders' Kings of the Road. Of course, we need to suspend disbelief if we're to get the most (anything?) out of Adlon's idiosyncratic drama as we're invited to join the film-maker's weird and wonderful world.
What follows really defies any sort of narrative description, suffice to say that Brenda's initial suspicion of interloper Jasmin, fuelled by the former's own personal circumstances, is gradually assuaged by the latter's own human qualities. Along the way, Adlon gives us plenty of seemingly inexplicable events, observations and characters, including a fascination with a broken coffee machine, Darron Flagg's oblivious pianist, Salomo, repeatedly giving us slices of classical piano (eventually revealed, to cement the US-German link, as being the work of J S Bach), Jasmin demonstrating her (very popular) magician skills and Jack Palance's ex-Hollywood set painter (in resplendent red silk shirt), Rudi Cox, dispelling an initial creepy aura and demonstrating his artistic talent and liking for Jasmin. Throughout, Adlon's film is also visually highly intriguing. Bernd Heinl's cinematography captures the Mojave Desert location (Newbury Springs rather than the actual Bagdad, California) to unforgettable effect, providing a rich colour palette (viz. Palance's shirt!) with some quite amazing red sunlight effects. Also, famously the film features the beautifully soulful, Oscar-nominated song Calling You by Jevetta Steele, as well as a memorable harmonica score by the same composer, Bob Telson. It's a film that takes a bit of time to get going, but eventually draws you in and, by its conclusion, could almost be categorised as feelgood film!
Pig (2021)
Offbeat, Complex And Moving
Feature debut writer-director Michael Sarnoski has a number of themes going on with this 2021 work, including male bonding, dystopian philosophy, societal alienation, environmental (nature) concerns (the titular pig, as an example) and food(!). Attempting to navigate some sort of bigger picture from these various strands is a quite brilliantly understated turn by the mercurial Nicolas Cage. Of course, the man has in his time produced more than his fair share of duds, but here Cage is back on Birdy and Leaving Las Vegas form, engendering real empathy with his depiction of societal 'drop-out' and, yes, ex-celebrity chef(!) Robin Feld. This would already make Sarnoski's film relatively unusual, but the film's originality is further cemented by its main narrative, that of Feld's attempts to recover his stolen (and treasured) truffling pig. Given such a (some might say) preposterous premise, together with the film's meandering course, Sarnoski does a remarkable job in delivering such a subtle mood piece - an outcome largely determined by Cage's performance, but also added to courtesy of Alexis Grapsas and Philip Klein's beautifully restrained and melodic score.
Sarnoski certainly sets up Feld's backstory with much skill. We're in the dark as to the man's history for a good slice of the film, save to say he exists in his Oregon forest backwater, scouring the forest (pig in tow) for valuable truffles, seemingly isolated from all except Alex Wolff's streetwise 'buyer', Amir. As the pair make for the big city (Portland) in order for Feld to recover his porcine companion, Sarnoski peels back the layers for both his protagonists, Feld's former's faded reputation as erstwhile chef and the pair's respective troubled family histories. Sarnoski's narrative is a little up and down but does include a number of memorable set-pieces - from Feld's somewhat rambling dystopian diatribe to Amir, hinting at the former's reasons for dropping out, through to the highlight sequence of the pair's potentially disastrous (given Feld's ramshackle physical appearance) visit to an upmarket Portland restaurant. Here, Feld's confrontation with David Knell's head chef and ex-colleague of Feld, Derek Finway, is quite brilliantly done, with Cage's gaze unwavering as Rob delivers a lecture on personal integrity and pretence. As 'food-based' cinematic sequences go, I would rate this up with Jack Nicholson's 'hold the chicken' scene in Five Easy Pieces and Paul Giamatti's 'Merlot' sequence in Sideways. The film's other 'point' (if you like) is around 'power politics' and Amir's all-powerful father, Adam Arkin's arrogant Darius, but Sarnoski also deals with this element in a typically subtle way, giving us a nicely understated denouement.
Sarnoski's film is not perfect by any means, but represents a highly promising debut and, as a food-based film (if you like), rates with Gabriel Axel's Babette's Feast and Stanley Tucci's Big Night.
The Queen of Spades (1949)
A Masterpiece Of British Cinema
We had Martin Scorsese to thank for his promotion of the films of British film-makers Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger (OK, Pressburger is, strictly speaking, Hungarian!) and the same could be said for the American film-maker's plaudits for British film-maker Thorold Dickinson's 1949 supernatural masterpiece. Scorsese, who provides an introduction to The Queen Of Spades on the Studiocanal DVD, also purportedly mistook Dickinson's film for the work of The Archers following an early viewing, as the Dickinson film was so rich visually and thematically, and like The Archers was a film which defied the (mostly) unadventurous nature of British cinema of the period. Another potential reason for Scorsese's confusion might have been that 'Archers' regular' Anton Walbrook stars here as the 19th century army (engineer) captain, Herman Suvorin, delivering another superb performance (to match that in Dickinson's earlier Gaslight) as the manic soldier and gambler, losing his marbles, having been cast under the spell of Edith Evans' stubborn, fusty Countess Ranevskaya, and her card game-winning secret.
The consistent qualities (script, acting, set and costume design, editing, music, etc.) exhibited by Dickinson's film are all the more remarkable given that the film-maker was only assigned to the film with less than a week's notice! The set-recreation of 19th century St Petersburg (the setting for Alexander Pushkin's story on which the film is based) is beautiful, atmospheric and highly realistic (given the constraints) and is the work of designer, Oliver Messel, and art director, William Kellner (the latter another Archers' collaborator). Bringing Dickinson's visual concept to the screen is cinematographer Otto Heller, whose black-and-white images make great use of light, shadow and mirrors, all used to heighten the film's sense of dark, brooding mystery and drama - as does Georges Auric's evocatively varied score. This mood fits with Walbrook's characterisation as Suvorin, whose sense of class resentment (against the 'officer aristocracy') spurs him to exploit the Countess' ward, Yvonne Mitchell's 'innocent entrapped', Lizavetta Ivanova, in order to gain the knowledge from the Countess, allowing him to win his fortune. Walbrook is again in a dark place, as he was in Gaslight and The Archers' The Red Shoes - rather unsympathetic, increasingly single-minded and obsessive (megalomaniac even) and with a blurred sense of 'good' and 'evil', in effect willing 'to sell his soul' to achieve his objectives. Dickinson's cast, though, is consistently excellent - this film marked both Evans (remarkably) and Mitchell's screen debuts and both are superb - the countess' make-up (and, in particular, hair) is unforgettable! Similarly, Ronald Howard impresses as the more sympathetic (and aristocratic) Andrei - Herman's rival in 'love' for Lizavetta, but someone who retains understanding for Suvorin's troubled predicament.
In the end, though, one inevitably returns to the film's visual and mise-en-scène qualities, which give rise to a whole series of outstanding sequences, including the boisterous gypsy singing and dancing in the officers' mess; Lizavetta and Andrei's visit to a bird market; the suspenseful meeting between Lizavetta and Herman at the opera (Gluck's Orpheus and Eurydice); Lizavetta and Andrei at an extravagant evening ball; the pivotal confrontation between Herman and the Countess with the ticking clock and religious connotations; the funeral sequence with the Russian choir; Herman's ghostly encounter and the climactic card (Faro) game between Herman and Andrei. Dickinson's film is so packed full of visual and thematic delights that the viewer's attention is unlikely to wander for more than a few seconds. At the film's conclusion we are left with a series of potential explanations for Suvorin's 'fate' - including a sense of self-punishment and the supernatural influence of the Countess (potentially causing Herman to confuse his visions of the Countess with the titular card).
As far as comparator films go, aside from those by Powell and Pressburger (even if not quite reaching The Archers' level of sophistication), stylistically (mise-en-scène), in particular, The Queen Of Spades called to my mind the films of Max Ophuls and Jean Cocteau and perhaps even a pared down version of Les Enfants Du Paradis. Suffice to say, Dickinson (and team's) creation is particularly notable as an outstanding British film of the period.
A Child Is Waiting (1963)
Laudable And Always Interesting
This 1963 film directed by cinematic maverick John Cassavetes represents an oddity in the film-maker's oeuvre but, with its always laudable objective of shedding light on the plight of mentally disturbed children, A Child Is Waiting is something of a ground-breaking work. By all accounts, Cassavetes and producer Stanley Kramer were at odds as to how to deliver their shared goal of publicising what was largely a 'behind closed doors' social issue and certainly it appears that Kramer had the upper hand, delivering very much a 'Hollywood style' exposé (if you like), lacking the warts and all style and improvisational realism of later Cassavetes films, such as Faces and A Woman Under The Influence. Supporting the cause, Kramer managed to attract big names in Burt Lancaster as the 'mental home' bigwig, Dr Matthew Clark, and Judy Garland as the unqualified newbie, Jean Hansen, the latter developing an immediate attraction to (obsession for, even) Bruce Ritchey's 12-year old loner, Reuben Widdicombe, as well as having problems coming to terms with Clark's strict 'reform and educational' methods, as applied to the children (even if sharing the objective of promoting their well-being).
It would, of course, be highly ambitious, not to say unrealistic, for a 100-minute drama to provide any easy answers on such a controversial subject - one that is only now, six decades later, beginning to be given the dedicated attention it deserves. That said, the essential 'battle of wills' between Hansen's more 'mollycoddling' (loving) approach vs. Clark's more clinical pragmatism makes for frequently fascinating (and, at times, moving) viewing, resulting in a very respectable effort. At its worst, the emotional signposting (particularly early on) of Ernest Gold's sweeping score is wholly unnecessary (here, I would agree with the Michael Haneke maxim of minimal musical accompaniment), whilst the obsessional soft-focus filter used for just about every Garland shot is equally manipulative (and counterproductive, I would say)! On the other hand, Garland does do a solid acting job here, alongside the smaller parts for Gena Rowlands (Mrs Cassavetes, of course) as Reuben's absent mother, Sophie, and Paul Stewart as Clark's assistant, Goodman, but (for me, at least) it is Lancaster who steals the show with a very measured performance (apparently Kramer favoured the actor for the role as Lancaster himself had a disabled son). It's another fine turn from the man - not in the same league, of course, as his performances in films like Sweet Smell of Success, Ulzana's Raid and Atlantic City - but still showcasing in spades the actor's versatility.