LFF Review: Patagonia

UK

directed by Marc Evans; written by Laurence Coriat and Marc Evans; starring Matthew Rhys, Nia Roberts, Marta Lubos, Nahuel Perez Biscayart, Matthew Gravelle, Duffy

screened on September 21st, 22nd and 23rd

C-
A truck rolls by, a faded name on its side. ‘Patagonia’. Perhaps once a tourist spot, but the guide driving his rusting truck only has these two visitors to look after, so it seems business is as faded as the emblazoned word and the dusty desert plains they wander around. This could, quite easily, simply be Argentina, though perhaps that lack of distinction is the implication in the barely-there advertisement. But it’s unlikely, no, that a film would name itself after something so intriguing and then barely engage with it? For the soap-opera dynamics of the half of Patagonia that actually takes place in Patagonia don’t have any need to be there at all, although I doubt they’d be much more engaging in California or Siberia than they are here. Rhys’ (Matthew Gravelle) actual interest in the architecture of the churches he’s been assigned to photograph is part and parcel of why his girlfriend Gwen (Nia Roberts) engages far too deeply in her flirtation with their guide (Matthew Rhys, not very rugged at all). Gwen is never at home here, and, despite the mistakes she makes, the film never suggests a disagreement with this. Wales is, as for Gwen, where Cerys (Marta Lubos) feels she should be as her life nears its end – so Patagonia, then, is for all not somewhere they are truly happy.

Rather curiously sheathed in half, with two plots that are cleanly unrelated, the film swerves between Patagonia and Wales without much rhyme or reason. The more dominant – and naturally, less interesting – half is drawn rather tiredly in Babel-like colours, from the dusty golden glow of the cinematography to the august plucking of the score, and there isn’t much sense of Patagonia as a place distinct from any of the rest of South America, except that the characters – two of whom are visitors – speak in Welsh. Showing the disconnect that should likely be the point of the film, the characters in Wales speak in Spanish, though this plot is played much more heavily for the cultural tension. Though she provides the inevitably poignant climax, Cerys is mostly an excuse for the coming-of-age arc given to Alejandro (Nahuel Perez Biscayart), though his encounters with European tourists, loutish locals and a sweet Welsh student (Duffy) are hardly the most narratively sharp of experiences.

The film seems to be commenting on Patagonia’s status as more a beautiful artefact than a country in the way it interpolates the flashes and exposures of Rhys’ camera, and its emulation of his painterly shots. But as the soap-opera dynamics crowd the film and Wales is inevitably depicted as a rosy, pastoral landscape, any deeper angles that have been vaguely suggested are shunted aside. By reducing its characters to such familiar arcs, the film can’t give them any more than a superficial depth, and generally isn’t interested in engaging them with the histories of the foreign worlds they engage with. The brief hints of something more specific that we are given make the film’s overall disinterest even more maddening – there are stories here being ignored, snubbed for ones that have probably been written during a deep sleep. Often a failure is more catastrophic when the target aimed at was never high enough in the first place.

BAFTA Liveblogged

18:58: Welcome. Thank you for joining me for this evening. I'll be attempting to be your witty and debonair host for the evening. We're here for just over half an hour of red carpet first, then I'll be nipping out of the room for a few minutes to check that those entrees aren't burning. Then back at 8:00 for two hours of the ceremony itself, where both BAFTA and I will be ignoring that they've already released all the winners. And trying to put up with Jonathan Ross' inane but edited scriptural annoyance.

19:02: It's Claudia Winkleman. Hopefully since this is BBC3 she'll be allowed to go completely nuts on these stars' asses. (Lady GaGa here joins the pantheon of montage musicians. I bet we hear Duffy tonight.)

19:03: It's Bond and his woman. He's presenting Best Actress, aka Kate Winslet. Oh Christ Claudia's asking kids' questions. Bond doesn't have any pets. Good, he'd probably give them martinis.

19:04: Claudia's gone all soft and concerned for the first of the Best Film profiles (Milk). Time to wax lyrical. Emile Hirsch looks a bit rough in his interview section. Wash your hair, man, you're a film star. (Well, you will be.)

19:06: Claudia is chatting to Wossie. How much better is she than him? They're obsessing over the Cruz. Wossie tries hard to seem interested until the completely bonkers question makes him go childish and insane. He's informing us about an apparent Sheen / Frost double-act.

19:08: She's captured Jolie and Pitt. He looks remarkably old. Angelina laughs generously at Claudia's aggressive charm. Yes, Claudia, let's go for the old "rivalry" question. They won't have heard that before. Aww, Brad takes the chance to be sweet about Angelina. And Claudia takes the cue to introduce the Benjamin Button bit.

19:11: Dress montage. Nice to see Thandie Newton still gets to come to this thing. First Kate appearance of the night there, and Dev Patel is nice and reserved about his posh togs.

19:13: Claudia is striking a nice balance between professional and her trademark crazy. I love this woman. She's currently taking us around the "style suites", where we get a bitchy remark on Paris Hilton. Ha.

19:15: It's Goldie Hawn. She "loves it". At least these kids' questions are offbeat, although to be honest I could see Claudia coming up with them herself. The crowd love Goldie! She's wearing a very large silver necklace. I'm not precisely sure why she's here.

19:16: Ron Howard is hard to hate just because of Arrested Development. It's just not possible. And he seems like a nice guy. (Plus he has red hair. Although I hope I don't end up looking like him- i.e. bald.) He links to his film's bit.

19:20: Gemma Arterton has strapped her body firmly in a rather plain tight black necked dress. (Vintage Dior, apparently.) She's presenting Sound. Gemma is basically one of the crowd who's managed to cross over.

19:21: Kate! Claudia wants to lick her shoulder. Don't we all, Claudia, don't we all. Kate's still "really excited to be here". Ooh, Claudia's asking her to pick which role she wants to win for! Kate obviously evades that question. She hasn't written a speech. Panic stations, people.

19:25: Claudia's going to boss Mickey Rourke around. Not to be juvenile, but he is very cool. He looks coolly around as he chats. Claudia asks after the dogs, one of which is sick, apparently. Aww. Claudia agrees with me on the cool front. (We are totally soulmates.)

19:26: Holy crap, Penelope Cruz! She looks HOT. She gives the Kate spiel about being happy to be here, and then tries to run off! Claudia has to hustle her back. And then obviously brings back horrid childhood memories about being called "antelope".

19:27: Ugh, Danny Boyle. He may be fifty but he looks like a kid who's been given fifty Christmas presents. Yada yada yada. Don't waste my time, you'll have your moment later.

19:32: Claudia's got Dev Patel, who looks like he's about to explode. His eyes are alarmingly wide. Yada, more Slumdog love-in-ness. No, I'm not jealous that Dev is only eighteen and on the BAFTA red-carpet with a Best Actor nomination. How dare you suggest such a thing.

19:33: Cleverly, Claudia tells us what channels the actual show is on as the screen tells us otherwise. She is, however, the correct one. Well, folks, the red carpet is over already (well, it's been over for ages), so join me back here in twenty-five minutes for the ceremony itself.

19:59: We're back online. Get ready for Jonathan and NO CONTROVERSY.

20:01: Noel Clarke is officially an idiot. He wants Brad Pitt (for Benjamin Button!) and Slumdog to win. Well, you know what Noel, I hope you LOSE. Which you will. Is Michael Cera here?

20:02: I know they have to say that it's been "another amazing year" for film, but I'm beginning to discover just how untrue that is. Old news, I know, but there we go. And, yes, Christian Bale's rant has already come up.

20:04: Nice dig at Kate's double and their unfortunate effect on Wossie's speech impediment. It's hard to hate Ross since he's been edited. It's also hard to care. But we can all appreciate a Pierce Brosnan dig.

20:06: Aww. Ross has given all the winners free licence to do whatever they want... within 30 seconds. Kate takes the joke with an adorable chuckle. First appearance in the clipreel goes to... Heath Ledger. Shall we take bets on that now? I'll go for Christopher Nolan.

20:09: (Thanks to Lisa, my first commenter!) Oh Jesus, there was a clip of Jumper in that montage. I never thought I'd have to remember that film again. First award is for... Music. (If Mamma Mia! wins this we may as well kill ourselves now.)

20:10: Everyone's favourite Brit- er, Australian, Kylie is presenting. Nice coup. (Mamma Mia! gets an alarmingly loud round of applause.)
I predict: Slumdog Millionaire
Winner: Slumdog Millionaire

20:12: Indeed it is. A.R. Rahman seems quite shy. He keeps it short and sweet. Next up is Sound. Gemma Arterton's dress is more sparkly that it looked before.
I predict: Slumdog Millionaire
Winner: Slumdog Millionaire

20:14: Generous applause for the sound men. Everything's "fantastic" for the one two who gets to speak, and they thanks everyone in concise fashion. Next is Make-Up, Hair and Prod. Design.

20:16: I feel like I haven't seen Emily Mortimer for years. She's presenting with the "Darcy-licious" Matthew MacFayden. Production Design goes first.
I predict: The Dark Knight
Winner: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

20:18: Slumdog loses for the first time. Donald Graham Burt can't be there, but the other one (apologies!) gives most of the speech over to him anyway. Make-Up and Hair:
I predict: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Winner: ^ (Like Emily, they can't believe that someone made Brad look old. It's not hard. The BBC managed it earlier.)

20:22: The producer accepts for them and says thank about twelve times. And gets off sharpish. Next up is Cinematography, one of the most interesting categories that will sadly be won by the most uninteresting nominees.
I predict: Slumdog Millionaire
Winner: Slumdog Millionaire

20:24: Anthony Dod Mantle looks unkempt and slightly like Grayson Perry. He's very... handsy. Danny Boyle is held to rapt attention, as Dev looks upwards gaping like a lunatic.

20:26: Amy Adams is presenting Best Adapted Screenplay, looking lovely in blue and NOTHING LIKE A SQUIRREL. She reads with a tilted head. Fix your neck, love. Slumdog gets the usual whoops.
I predict: Simon Beaufoy, Slumdog Millionaire
Winner: ^

20:28: Will there come a point where a Slumdog win is greeted not by gasps and excitement but quiet acceptance? Doubtful. Except on this end. Beaufoy rabbits about how he had a fake BAFTA. Freida Pinto looks pretty and vacant. (Just like in the movie.)

20:30: The lengthily titled Carl Foreman Award For British Filmmaking (or something along those lines) is presented by Thandie Newton is a slinkie. Oh wait, that's her dress. She doesn't read from the screen but from an ickle card.

20:32: That may be the first time a clip from Of Time and the City is actually allowed to feature Terence Davies' plummy vocals.
I predict: Steve McQueen for Hunger
Winner: ^

20:33: Excellent. First win I can actually get behind. He's wearing a kilt! He keeps it short and sweet. Next up is Outstanding Contribution to British Filmmaking. Obviously this is slightly different from the previous award. Jason Isaacs looks debonair and explains that they're not honouring a person but two places: Pinewood Studios and Shepperton Studios.

20:38: The CEO, accepting this award, has evidently memorized a speech. Meryl Streep, for some reason cut to, looks bored. This guy is rather dry. I know these studios are wooden, but really. Get on with it. Emma Watson, ever-present, also looks like she's being slowly bored to death.

20:39: Next up is Original Screenplay, otherwise known as the Safe Haven Category. Michael Sheen and David Frost, your moment is here. Such a thing is hard to resist. I'd laugh if it weren't so ludicrously obvious and rehearsed. (Although hearing Frost say "Come on baby, do the fornication" might have made it worth it.)
I predict: Martin McDonagh, In Bruges
Winner: ^ (score!)

20:43: Brendan Gleeson accepts. He's such a lovely guy. He apologises on Martin's behalf to the people of Bruges, who I'm sure are all watching with rapt attention. Costume Design is next, and Ross takes the opportunity to make a salad joke. And, oh dear, here are the Slumdog kids. Are they still kids?
I predict: Michael O'Connor, The Duchess
Winner: ^ (I really based that prediction on the surprisingly enormous cheer that got. I'm a cheat.)

20:46: Some funny business as O'Connor kisses Freida twice. Although she seemed to be the one insisting. Since Keira is evidently absent, we cut to Dominic Cooper, which is a fair trade-off if you ask me. A wide shot does O'Connor no favours as we see Ross and the kids shuffling impatiently. Wrap it up, O'Connor. Next up: Film Not in the English Language. Try guessing this one.

20:48: Marisa! You're here! Excuse me while I enter The Rapture momentarily. She leans casually in her off-the-shoulder slinky slivery number. These awards now hold no meaning.
I predict: Persepolis (eh, why not?)
Winner: I've Loved You So Long

20:51: Really, BAFTA? Really? The guy doesn't speak good English, says he. And gets off quickly. Does this prefigure a KST win? She looks nice in the audience.

20:52: Sharon Stone is here to present Outstanding British Film- and, yes, Girls Aloud have entered the great pantheon of background music. Sigh. Anyway. Sharon's doing odd things with her neck as she talks. And doesn't blink. And can't read properly. Slumdog may be nominated here but since that's winning the big award I'd be absurd for it to win here. Now watch me regret not going for Hunger.
I predict: In Bruges
Winner: Man on Wire

20:55: Well, at least it wasn't Mamma Mia!. Actually, this is probably the best of the nominees, so hooray! A deserved win. They rush through the speeches because they haven't prepared one. Graciously, they thank Phillippe Petite (however that is spelt), and Ross announces that we're moving to BBC1. This won't hurt a bit...

21:02: The channel split means that we basically get the same opening montage of red carpet stuff we've already seen. And Ross does his own intro, and we are forced to endure a montage of the (mostly) rubbish films that this organization think qualify for the category of "Best". And I think I've now seen Sean Penn say "No. But god knows we keep trying!" so many times I'll be mouthing those words along with him tomorrow evening.

21:05: Supporting Actress is first. Since Viola is conspicuously absent, this category surely belongs to Marisa. No? (Penelope can have it, I can't judge yet.) But Tilda Swinton? Freida Pinto? Please. Even James McAvoy can't make these selections comprehensible.
I predict: Penelope Cruz, Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Winner: ^

21:08: Penny gives new bestie Kate Winslet a big smacker just before she steps on stage (Kate is right at the front, natch). Gracious, Kate looks like she's about to burst with pride. What a wonderful friendship to consider. Penny dedicates the award to the other nominees, all of whom smile without any apparent malice. I'm not sure that Amy Adams is capable of that emotion...

21:10: Oh, THAT's why Emma Watson is here. She's presenting Special Visual Effects. She appears to be wearing muscle shells on the top of her dress.
I predict: The Dark Knight
Winner: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

21:12: Excuse the language, but shit on a stick. I typed that first. First Guy's wife is already weeping. Give over. And I can't believe I only just noticed that Brad Pitt has a moustache.

21:14: Ross seems to think that the fact that Goldie Hawn gave us Kate Hudson is a good thing. Jonathan, I know you're an idiot, but... Anyway, Goldie's presenting Supporting Actor. She makes a smashing moment over her inability to read. "Oh my god, I can't read any more!" Maybe you had to be there.
I predict: Christopher Nolan
WinnerAcceptee: Who's this guy?

21:17: Goldie chokes as she reads out Heath's name. This is the inevitable downbeat moment of the night. Whoever is accepting is quick and gracious. And BAFTA takes this moment to continue the sadness and play the clipreel of people we've lost.

21:23: It's the Rising Star Award. Ross says "interesting", I say "predictable". I'd be surprised if Michael Cera doesn't pick this up (see: Shia LeBeouf, who's presenting), and I don't think he's even here. Why isn't Gemma Arterton nominated for this? She might've stood a chance. (Watch Michael Fassbender win now or something.) Not that I begrudge Michael Cera anything.

21:25: Noel Clarke? Oh frick. I did NOT say that stuff earlier. Erase it from your memories.
That done, what the fuck? Noel Clarke is annoying. Go away. And take off that stupid cravat or whatever it's called. And stop trying to be Barack Obama.

21:26: Next up is Best Director. Step forward Danny Boyle. It's Ian McKellan and Patrick Stewart! Amazing. They take the chance to plug 'Waiting for Godot'. You can't be mad at them. Their voices are too sonorous. Couldn't you listen to them talk all day? If I do bald I want to look like Patrick Stewart.
I predict: The Boyle, Slumdog Millionaire
Winner: ^

21:30: This is getting very boring. Keep it short, Boyle. Oh dear, he's rabbiting about David Lean and his father and electrics... Dangerous territory, going near the "young actors", Danny, haven't you been reading the news? His son, a twat, yells out "I love you dad!", but it's less charming and more yobbish.

21:32: Leading Actress now. This is Kate's unless a vote-split lets KST in, and since those two are the best in this category (in the absence of Anne and Melissa), I won't complain. And even if Meryl wins at least she gives good speech. (Bond is the presenter, by the way.)
I predict: Kate Winslet, The Reader
Winner: ^

21:35: You could barely hear which film she won for there. As if it matters. Daniel knows. Kate's already breathless. She's pawing at the award like it might escape her grasp. She shares it win Anthony Minghella and Sydney Pollack, which is a nice way to curtail any weeping... Is it just me or does her dress actually have a W built into it?

21:37: Marion Cotillard still exists! What a shame. She's presenting Lead Actor. She drags out her spiel in excruciating fashion. Brad Pitt recieves an uncomfortably warm round of applause, as does Dev Patel. Please say no.
I predict: Mickey Rourke, The Wrestler
Winner: ^

21:40: Excellent. Keane's "Spiralling" might be too dangerous a choice for this moment. Mickey admires the trophy, and Mickey is bleeped! Got to love the bleepage. Does this make Mickey the Oscar frontrunner now? Mickey is getting the best laughs of the night. And for an unknown reason he dedicates it to Richard Harris. Wait, what?

21:42: Ross makes an actual funny joke! He says that Mickey is now suspended for two months. Mick Jagger, for whatever reason, is going to give Slumdog it's final award of the night (Best Film). Is anyone keeping count? Mickey's opened the floodgates for swearing as Mick jumps on board. Mick makes some jokes about how various actors are engaged in an exchange programme with musicians- including the entire Pitt family doing The Sound of Music. The Pitts lap it up. Good thing someone funny has arrived to ease the pain.
I predict: Slumdog Millionaire
Winner: ^

21:46: Big applause for Slumdog. Producer Christian Coulson reaffirms Slumdog's "fairy-tale" status as the camera flits around the various people involved. Well, that was a fun evening, was it not? Personally, I forgot that there was only one film released last year. Wait, Slumdog was released this year? What?

21:48: To end the night, Jonathan Price- who is NOT one of our "best stage and screen actors", Ross- is giving the Fellowship award to Terry Gilliam. If only for Twelve Monkeys, I am perfectly okay with this award. Jeff Bridges gets a video slot and shows how fun and bonkers he is.

21:55: You want a great Brad Pitt performance, watch Twelve Monkeys. This is what this long clipreel tells me. Big applause- although not as big as for Slumdog- and I am almost ready to wrap this thing up. Finally.

21:58: Terry makes good speech and produces a hilariously long list of the "little people" who "never get thanked" that he doesn't actually read because then we'd be here all night. Vociferous applause as he leaves, as though the audience too can't wait for this to end. Come on, Ross, wrap it up already.

21:59: And we're done. Almost. Quick clips of the other awards that aren't important- Short Film, Short Animation (Wallace and Gromit!), Editing (wait, this isn't important? Slumdog won this one too), and Animated Film (Wall-E).

22:01: Now we're done. This was both boring and fun at once, but it was certainly an experience for me. Thanks to Lisa for commenting, and you for reading, and goodnight.

Plucked From The Air

I'm feeling quite scatterbrained tonight- my mind is all over the place. (Did you need me to define that? No? Oh well.) I won't bore you with the details but they are an explanation for the random collection of thoughts on the recent releases you can see in the sidebar that are completely off-the-cuff. Right here, right now.

My experience of Nick Broomfield is limited to the second of his documentaries on Aileen Wuornos (I do have the first waiting to be watched) and his first fiction feature, Ghosts, which was one of 2007's more underseen and underrated efforts. Battle for Haditha, which debuted on TV just a couple of weeks after an almost non-existent cinema release over here (and was also released in the US), is again fiction, and it's yet another film about the Iraq War (once you open the gates, you apparently can't close them). I suppose this one's inherently interesting because it looks at a tragic incident between American forces and Iraqi civilians but it's from a British filmmaker's perspective. Trouble is- and I can't state this any less bluntly- it's just bad. It really is. I'm sure it's supposed to carry over the documentary aesthetic (something Ghosts achieved so well), but it all feels horribly fake. It's badly written, the characters are horribly stereotyped, the acting is shallow and forced, and Broomfield engages in some techniques, particularly near the end, that are so overwrought and cliched it's hard to believe someone actually thought this was a good idea. I mean, it's just dreadful. Utterly. D

I liked The Wrestler. I really did. But I think it suffered from the unfortunate consequences of 'hype'. Built up to be amazing... ends up slightly disappointing. Which is not to say it was in any way bad. Mickey Rourke was fantastic, easily running away with the Best Actor kudos so far, and Marisa Tomei (who I'll be writing up for StinkyLulu's blog-a-thon; did I not mention...?) and Evan Rachel Wood (yes) were really great too. I think part of my enjoyment of the film was always going to be limited because wrestling doesn't appeal to me in any way whatsoever, and especially with all the stuff they showed us (which, yes, points up the character's masochistic nature, etc.) I just couldn't understand why anyone would want to either do or watch that stuff. But it was never boring and always involving and I really liked it anyway. Even if I would rather Darren Aronofsky made more beautiful bonkers films instead of generic (because it is generic, essentially) ones like this. (Although that doesn't prevent this from being his most successful film so far.) B+

I don't really have much to say about Summer Hours other than it's very peculiar that Olivier Assayas- who I have great love for after Clean and Irma Vep- even bothered with it. The Musee D'Orsay paid towards it and it shows: the film has no clean objective other than to somehow manoeuvre itself round to getting the museum itself into the film. There's some guff about what value possessions hold- sentimental or monetary, etc.- but after the mother (Edith Scob, who's rather good) snuffs it (um, spoiler?) you're left with her selfish whining adult children and give up giving a toss. The winding plot expresses no definitive interest in any one character and yet what else does it leave you with? C

Waltz with Bashir is a strange one. I think the first thing to say is that I just don't like this style of animation- I didn't like it when Richard Linklater did it (I know that was slightly different, yes) and I don't like it now. It's cold and smooth and unexpressive. There's no texture in it, no depth. Animation can be beautiful, but this style is not for me. I won't go into the politics of the film, because god help me I don't really understand, but I will say this: ending with actual, live-action archive footage of the mourning mothers devalues everything we've just seen, because you're suggesting that what you've ostensibly been pouring truth and feeling into is all worthless because it's not real. And if you don't believe in it, why should I? C+

Thoughts on Defiance will appear next week, hopefully in the form of a photograph because I will, assuming it's acceptable, finally have something printed in the university newspaper. It only took me two and a half years...

The Poetry of War

Contains spoilers.

Should a film try to approximate other arts? Watching The Edge of Love sent me momentarily back to 2005 and the poetry-on-film double-whammy of Sally Potter's Yes- which was literally told via poetry- and Terrence Malick's marvellous The New World, which I said at the time was the closest thing to visual poetry film had ever come. The question of poetry comes up in relation to The Edge of Love because it ostensibly centres around a poet, Dylan Thomas (here played by Matthew Rhys). Director John Maybury doesn't seem to be- unlike Malick and Potter- making this story into any kind of poem, and indeed, the use of Thomas' words is surprisingly sparing and generally aptly-placed. But in the way that poetry- at least in the vein of Thomas' work- uses words and imagery to mean something other, so does Maybury approach the story of Thomas' entwinement with two women: his wife Caitlin (Sienna Miller) and his childhood sweetheart Vera Phillips (Keira Knightley).

What I mean is that this is a story about images and the falsity they create and present. The Edge of Love has four central characters- our additional one being Vera's eventual husband William Killick (Cillian Murphy)- and it ultimately proves not to have a romanticized view of any of them. But their descent into disarray and unhappiness occurs because, in the midst of the panicked, suspended existence that WWII brought, these are four people that don't really know each other at all. The film's first half is full of laughter between bombings, suggestive trios on a bed and cigarettes passed between the women wearing gauzy bohemian clothing. But all this jollity is emblematic of people who are, by necessity of the situation surrounding them (the war), ignoring interpersonal problems. Thomas kind of gets sidelined here because the picture's true 'love story' is actually between the two women- the two characters who, perhaps naturally, understand each other the best, and indeed, it is the breakdown in their trust that spins the two couples away from each other in the end.

The question of who is centralized in this story is both fascinating and perhaps completely irrelevant. Miller and Knightley dominate both press coverage and the posters; but in terms of the thematizing of imagery and poetry, it is perhaps Dylan and Vera's picture. His poetry, when it appears, dominates the soundtrack by blocking out diegetic sound; but this is similar to the repeated occurrences of Vera's underground singing performances, where Maybury focuses his camera close up and square on her, the cinematography misty and gauzy like nowhere else, making her (rather vocally pedestrian) performance central to our understanding of Vera, where otherwise it would have been a momentary distraction. Vera is, if you want, our heroine, and her singing is the way she has forged an identity, which is then squashed by William's insistence on their rushed marriage, and the ultimate requirement of motherhood. The rather damp conclusion is staunchly melancholic- Vera says goodbye to Caitlin across the bonnet of a car, implicitly including Dylan in her goodbye because the Thomas's were her only way to retain her freedom.

All this is to say nothing of how well The Edge of Love achieves these impactful themes. At one point, the thought flashed through my mind that this was kind of like a poem, because the story seemed so loose and the images so translucent that it was not so much a linear narrative as a circulating, elliptical mystery. This is, perhaps, a fitting description for most of the first half, but the move to Wales loses both the visual beauty and the elusivity of the narrative, and becomes more drab and wearing as the characters slip into unhappiness. Knightley, too, gets lost in the second half, her mixture of Vera as pointed yet vulnerable falling into a glut of glum facial expressions and a ripe Welsh accent that basically shouts 'fake' at the top of its voice. Rhys, though, retains the charming arrogance that makes Thomas so hatefully fascinating, and best of all, Miller continues to justify my championing of her by making Caitlin's wilful, acidic personality become slowly eroded by confused, hypocritical misunderstanding. To say little of Maybury- whose direction becomes gradually more unfocused- is perhaps apt, because this is an actor's film that gives its performers the task of unlocking characters trapped behind romanticized or otherwise false images of each other, kept at the edge of love by lack of communication. B-

My Own Cinema For The Week

Since I intentionally yet inadvertantly (work that one out) hurt J.D.'s feelings, I thought I'd make it up to him by actually doing the meme he tagged me for (whether this is good enough as an apology, only he can judge...). By the by, each night's subtitles are inspired by the continually hilarious use of the word "fracking" in Battlestar Galactica (which is very very good, although I suppose that shouldn't surprise me), which, while a canny way of escaping television censorship, wouldn't get around my mother.

1) Choose 12 Films to be featured. They could be random selections or part of a greater theme. Whatever you want.

2) Explain why you chose the films.

3) Link back to Lazy Eye Theatre so I can have hundreds of links and I can take those links and spread them all out on the bed and then roll around in them.

4) The people selected then have to turn around and select 5 more people.

Night #1: Flicking FunThe More the Merrier (George Stevens, 1943)
Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! (Pedro Almodovar, 1990)

I went through a whole raft of Classic Hollywood 'screwball' comedies (possibly my favourite genre) before settling on the little-seen The More the Merrier... Jean Arthur and Joel McCrea are two of the wittiest and charismatic stars, and it's disheartening to see how they're so overlooked. The film is about house-sharing during the Second World War... naturally, such close proximity of strangers makes for hilariously awkward consequences. But romantic, too, and cleverly constructed... it's a gem. And then, for the second film of the night, I've picked Almodovar's screwball-inspired Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! (or simply Atame! in its original form), which is sick, twisted, and an overlooked (see a theme here?) stroke of genius. Victoria Abril is on cracking form, as a porn star kidnapped (and tied up) by ex-lover Antonio Banderas. You'll never forget it, I swear. And just imagine what the sex scenes look like on a big screen...

Night #2: Flick DownToy Story (Jon Lasseter, 1995)
Babe (Chris Noonan, 1995)

A night from my childhood- both are from 1995, when I turned 7, and both are absolute staples of my young film viewing. Toy Story is still Pixar's best (these Wall-E people are crazy), and I still remember the story about my younger sister (who would have been almost 4) sleeping through the entire thing. Babe, though, feels like it's always been there- I had the video, the toy, even the hot water-bottle cover, I read the Dick King Smith book it was based on. Whenever I watch it, it warms my heart. And hopefully, this double bill will do the same for its imaginary audience.

Night #3: Brit FlickThe Way to the Stars (Anthony Asquith, 1945)
A Fish Called Wanda (Charles Crichton, 1988)

Being a rare British voice in this circle of the blogosphere, I feel it my duty to have at least one night that offers up the best this country has to offer. The Way to the Stars is easily one of the best films produced both during and about the Second World War- genuine, funny, realistic, and beautifully performed by a stellar cast (particularly Rosamund Johns). And then, for some light relief, its John Cleese's classic A Fish Called Wanda (from 1988, the year of my birth), which is one of the funniest films ever made anywhere.

Night #4: Flick LoveBachelor Mother (Garson Kanin, 1939)
Paris, Texas (Wim Wenders, 1984)

When I go in for love (figuratively speaking), I don't really go for the traditional, straightforward romantic comedy (not that there's anything wrong with that, and I enjoy a great deal of them. But anyway.). No, I go for tragedy, perversity, oddball and single mothers (well, not really with the last one). And this is exemplified by this double bill. Bachelor Mother is terrific vehicle for the comedienne in Ginger Rogers, who here plays a store clerk who is mistakenly believed to be the mother of a foundling by boss' son David Niven (incidentally, boss is Charles Coburn, popping up again after being seen earlier this week in The More the Merrier). Hijinks and a predictable end ensue, but it's a fantastic watch. And Paris, Texas is Wim Wenders' masterpiece (sorry, Wings of Desire), the painful story of a man rediscovering his identity and the family he left behind. No happy endings here, just beautiful filmmaking.

Night #5: Inspect-a-FlicksLa double vie de Veronique (Krzysztof Kieslowski, 1991)
Vivre sa vie (Jean-Luc Godard, 1962)

It's pure chance that both of my more 'existential' picks are both foreign- and, indeed, both French. Krzysztof Kieslowski may be best known for his towering Three Colours trilogy but it's this precursor in his catalogue that I love most deeply- Irene Jacob is bewitching as both Veronique and Weronika, two women whose lives prove inscrutable mirrors of each other. And in Vivre sa vie, one of Jean-Luc Godard's earliest pictures, his wife Anna Karina is just as fascinating as Nana, whose life is told in twelve unconventional chapters. I think this penultimate night is a time to engage your brain fully before it revolts at the final night...

Night #6: Flick OffSpeed (Jan De Bont, 1994)
Bug (William Friedkin, 2006)

I get my movie thrills in different ways, and this final pairing shows just how differently I try and achieve this. Speed is pure adrenaline, one of the first 'adult' movies I remember seeing- I recently bought the DVD because my VHS had finally given out from me watching it so much. It is, perhaps, the only film I can take Keanu Reeves in, and is also to be credited/blamed with starting my love affair with Sandra Bullock (she's not giving me enough to work with anyone, dammit!). And for our final film, we have one of the finest films of recent times, the pyschological and physical freakout that is Bug. DVD isn't enough for this masterclass from William Friedkin- I need the massive cinema screen late at night that was my first viewing. Both films pack a walloping punch- I'll be shaking, whether it be from excitement or pure unadulterated fear.

I know I'm supposed to tag people, but I'm not exactly the most sociable of bloggers and I think most people I know will already have been tagged. But feel free to take the baton if no one else has passed it to you.

Reasons Why I Didn't Like In Bruges As Much As The Rest of the Theatre Did

1. A lot of its humour was roundly predictable. I think the moment that most exemplifies this is when Ralph Fiennes, in his first scene about half way (or perhaps even further in than that) through, angrily calls his wife an "inanimate object". But then, of course, the foul-mouthed hard-ass gangster lord (I assume) is going to softly apologise in the baldest terms possible. It just falls flat, and it does it too often- jokes like the American tourists rev up but suddenly conk out.

2. It went all weepy and emotional in so strong a way I'm surprised it didn't turn around and start calling itself gay, as seemed to be the prediliction of the film's central characters.

3. The well-built tension in the developing relationship between Ray (Colin Farrell) and Chloë (Clémence Poésy) came to a complete halt and she just became the crying girlfriend. The pregnant hotel owner was better characterized (and, let's be honest, more fun).

4. The dwarf (Peter Dinklage) cliche being upturned was done in such an obvious and boringly predictable way- particularly the way he was 'defeated'. Not good enough. Same goes for that debacle in the park with the guns.

5. The theatre was packed. Now, this wasn't in any way In Bruges fault, because, god knows, I'd never have thought so many elderly people would want to see a movie about Irish gangsters who swear incessantly going on a trip to Belgium. But being squeezed and forced to watch with about a fifth of the screen impaired greatly reducing my viewing pleasure, and if the film hadn't been so damned attractive to so many people- who were all where, exactly, when I went to see Dark Horse, or Away From Her?- then it wouldn't have happened and I'd have been able to watch in comfort. Which would, possibly, have helped me enjoy it more.

That said, I did like the narrative point on which the ending turned (no spoilers, people), and Farrell and especially Brendan Gleeson were very good. And the pregnant hotel owner was superb. C+

The Televisual Phenomenon

I love television almost as much- or maybe just as much- as I love the movies. And when you've a lot of work and are having some kind of pre-twenties life crisis like I am, watching television is just so much more convenient that watching films, because it's just there, and it's just shorter.

But that's not what this post is about. The tv-movie is a derided being, generally dismissed as a movie-gone-bad, a film demoted to the smaller screen. But, at least in Britain, cultural seems to be engendered an environment where quality film-length productions are made with the primary intent of seeing them on tv, whether they be relaxing costume dramas or difficult dramas about social issues.

We aren't very far into the filmic year yet, especially in this blog's delayed world of US release dates, but still, it seems that much of the quality I've found so far this year has been in the realm of the smaller screen. Within the past month or so, I've come across four television pieces, three of which can already count themselves as some of the best things 2008 has had to offer.

Poppy Shakespeare is the odd-one-out here, the one that comes puffing in last behind all the other long-legged, super-fit competitors, but there's still some superb stuff to value in it, not least the performances of two of Britain's brightest young actresses. Anna Maxwell Martin, she of the BBC's superb mini-series adaptation of Bleak House, in simply "N", so named for the chair she occupies in the circular meeting room of the ground floor of a mental hospital- the only floor where the patients can come and go. She's been there all her life, and is insistent on staying, so comfortable is she. Poppy, meanwhile- played by Naomie Harris- wants nothing more than to get out, violently insistent that there's no reason for her to be there. Poppy Shakespeare is a bit too obvious in its see-sawing trajectory, and a bit too blunt to really put any kind of cut into the country's health systems, but the power it does accumulate is thanks entirely to the two leads, especially Harris, whose vibrant, caustic desperation gives crumbling way to a horrifyingly fragile woman. (But those purple credits aren't helping anyone.)

The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency is a beast of a different colour, now famous mainly for the fact that it is, tragically, the final film of its director, Anthony Minghella (RIP). It's also notable for being the first production to be filmed in Botswana; and for starring American singer Jill Scott. And for being the pilot for a planned tv series. And for being the long-awaited adaptation of Alexander McCall Smith's acclaimed novel series. Now that's a lot of reasons for seeing one movie. The whole thing could possibly be a little bit lightweight, even as it skirts dark social issues like child murder, but its charmingly so, and presents a blissfully different picture of an African country than you're used to seeing from all those adverts. Scott is indeed fantastic- warm, knowing and sharp- but so too is Dreamgirls' Anika Noni Rose as her prim, uptight, socially-shy assistant. Minghella bounces around various cases at once, crossing lines and showing how Mma Ramotswe (Scott) takes a unique approach to solving other peoples' problems. This is never going to be a masterpiece, but its charm, wit and general goodwill make it a delightful experience.

Another supreme female performance comes in the form of Olivia Williams' Jane Austen in the achingly beautiful (yes, I've gone into rhapsodic territory...) Miss Austen Regrets, which uses hand-helm camera and willowly cinematography to superb effect, reflecting the ever-present wilfulness of Austen, even at the prim old-age of forty (good god!). Jane's past it, see, and now the celebrated novelist is giving advice to her niece Fanny (28 Weeks Later's Imogen Poots, looking a damn sight older and performing a damn sight better)- but the everlasting irony is, natch, that while Jane might write all these insightful books about love, she's never really experienced it herself! But, really, Miss Austen Regrets captures that self-evident irony with painful precision, taking Jane around between her unmarried sister (Greta Scacchi) and disappointed mother (Phyllida Law) at one house to encounters with a former prospect (Hugh Bonneville). This is, really, the flip-side of Becoming Jane, dismissing the love story of that film with a flippant aside and showing us the social sacrifices Jane made for artistic immortality.

And now, finally, we reach the pinnacle. I had missed Boy A on its first (and second, apparently) showings- you do, really, need to be in the right frame of mind for a drama about a reformed child murderer (that's child on both sides)- but after actor Andrew Garfield won the television BAFTA for Best Actor a few weeks ago, I couldn't pass-up the inevitable third showing. Little did I know how good it truly was. Challenging but never preachy, Boy A weaves flashbacks of the central character's doomed friendship with another troubled young boy in with "Jack Burridge"'s return to society after fourteen years in prison. Only twenty-four, we follow Jack through all the normal happenings of a person that age- work, drinking, romance- but all are laced with danger, the horrible knowledge that the world could crack around his feet, and the pain of having to lie to the new friends he meets. There are no easy answers, just superb film-making and acting- scenes like Jack's drug-infused dancing, a rooftop confrontation and his hobbling along a train-line are indelibly etched, and its all bound impeccably, painfully together by Garfield's superb, poignant, disconcertingly familiar performance.

And now, my leg hurts. Good night.

For U.S. readers interested in seeing any of these:
The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency should be showing on HBO early next year, introducing the full series to follow directly after.
Miss Austen Regrets showed on Masterpiece Theatre earlier this year, and is now available on DVD with the mini-series Sense and Sensibility (also a good watch).
Boy A is, according to IMDb, currently scheduled for a limited theatrical release on July 23rd.

Brit-Flick Day: Happy-Go-Lucky and Son of Rambow

Last Friday here in old Britannia saw the release of one of the few things that actually qualifies as an 'event' in British cinema: a new Mike Leigh film. Listening to Andrew Collins fill in for Mark Kermode on his 5Live podcast (highly recommended, by the way), a couple of emailers were surprisingly vociferous on how they certainly weren't going to see Leigh's latest. Other reviews I've seen seem to have the common theme of the opinion that Leigh is a middle class director who thinks of himself as working class and makes films on that class that aren't realistic. As someone who's probably firmly (and obviously cluelessly) in the middle class, I can't really claim to know, and so my opinion of Happy-Go-Lucky isn't based on any judgments of its reflection of working-class life, although to an extent I recognized in the film much of the life of the people I know, so maybe it ultimately isn't working class centered at all- is Leigh simply studying the minutia of Britain in general, or even commenting on how divisions between working and middle classes seem to have blurred?

I can't even pretend to know. But Happy-Go-Lucky finally proves itself a real charmer, emerging from distinctly irksome beginnings (although I don't necessarily see these as problematic, but hold that thought) to provide an enjoyable, witty, insightful example of British life, with all its cross-cultural influences and dark aspects intact. Poppy (Sally Hawkins) is, as the title suggests, the eternal optimist, an almost ludicrously joyous person who laughs off the theft of her bike at the film's beginning- thus leading her to take up driving lessons with the bigoted, angry Scott (a superb Eddie Marsan), the sections concerning which are the film's highlight and perhaps center. It's with Poppy that every viewer's opinion of the film will rest: either her relentlessly chirpy demeanour will grate, or you'll find her a companion worthy of the two-hour sit. Or, just maybe, you'll have my own reaction: an instant wariness of the character, seeing in her everything that you dislike about some people you've met in your life; but then a thawing, a Leigh-induced realization that maybe Poppy's way of looking at the world is the only way to live within it happily, and maybe that if you take just a bit of her way of seeing things your life will light up a bit too. Poppy never entirely escapes being annoying but it's to Hawkins' credit that I came to like as much as I did: there's always an underlying warmth to her performance, but most crucially the hint that Poppy, despite appearances, isn't stupid or naive- Hawkins shades Poppy so that, without ever any kind of statement being given, its clear she knows exactly what a bad state the world around her is in, sees and works at its problems, but never lets them get her down, at least not to the people around her. Leigh, known for collaborating closely with his actors, is probably as much to credit for this but he does let the side down in the film's most glaring misstep: an extended encounter with a tramp (Stanley Townsend) comes out of nowhere and is dismissed just as quickly, and seems a rather odd attempt by Leigh to throw Poppy into a truly dangerous situation that she'd never have realistically gotten herself into. Happy-Go-Lucky didn't need it. There was enough underlying darkness already. B+

Before that, though, I took in another ballyhoo'ed Brit-flick, one that's soon to appear over on American shores, Son of Rambow. Highly positive reviews have pointed to the fact that this a big improvement over director Garth Jennings' previous effort, the turgid, slapstick The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and while that's certainly true, Son of Rambow, charming though it may be, has it's share of problems too. Bill Milner is utterly adorable as Will, a member of a sheltered religious family in the 1980s, whose life changes entirely when he meets the rebellious Lee Carter (Will Poulter) and Lee tricks Will into owing him a debt, leading to Will being the 'stuntman' on Lee's home movie of the recently-released Rambo. You don't need to have seen Rambo (I haven't) to enjoy this charming if minor film, touted as the feel-good film of the year and purchased by Paramount at Sundance for a massive $8 million, and, even if the film capitulates to a ridiculous subplot involving French exchange students, the central friendship is strong enough to retain the interest- and Milner is a real one to watch, superb both emotionally and in his comic readings and movements. B-

Following Nolan Backwards

If Christopher Nolan takes his inspiration from his own life, he must surely live an extremely confusing life, for it takes no genius to see that the now-famous director greatly favours a fragmented narrative- though of course, now forced into the studio system with remake Insomnia and then blockbuster Batman Begins and its follow-up The Dark Knight, he's had to abandon his baffling, looping structures. But with Following, his little known debut feature, he uses the bitty narrative lines he perfected so well for his superb Memento- but the difference with Following is that the style seems to provide no discernible reason for being (if you saw Memento, you'll know it conversely did). Instead, Following's flashy script seems to deflect from the inherent weaknesses in the story- a familiar narrative jazzed up by a narrative that jumps forward, doubles back, and frames itself with the oft-used device of recounting to an authority figure (in this case the police).

In fact, Following's unwieldy narrative style is perhaps the only thing in the film that maintains much interest through the unusually short running time- 69 minutes- not only because, as I said, is the narrative distressingly simple- a naive man drawn into a criminal set-up by betraying acquaintances, not to mention the sigh-inducing "surprise" ending- but because the film is so distancingly cold. Filmed in monochromatic black-and-white, Nolan- who shot, wrote and directed the film- uses the deadening of sound to divide each scene like he's brought a guillotine down between them- despite the recurrance of moments, first a mystery then explained in context, the film seems to have no connective tissue, no interior centre. And, most crucially, the characters themselves are cold, unlikeable figures- and, while unlikeable can be fine, surely a main character has to be, in his unlikeability, an enigmatic force? But Bill, played by the distinctly weasellish actor Jeremy Theobald, is a cowardly, baffling figure, seemingly both naive and clever at once, contradicting himself too often, a pale hollow at Following's centre. Even the supposedly interesting character of Cobb (Alex Haw)- it is following him that leads Bill into the dark story- is undermined by Nolan's weak, overworked script. It is perhaps not surprising that Nolan shows a better talent with the camera- strong camerawork is apparent, and explains why, when paired with his writer brother Jonathan for Memento, a much (much) stronger film emerged. Grade: C-

Not A Day Too Soon

Well, I did say I'd do this yesterday, but hey, who gives a crap? Not I. But the fact that I haven't really written reviews in any shape or form for a while gives me an extra little push to spill the bile I've been holding back on the two nasties I saw on the weekend. Let her rip.

[Spoilers!] I'll tell ya, straight up: I saw Straightheads simply because it stars Gillian Anderson. I know, it's shocking that cockney geezer Danny Dyer or the cliched revenge plot weren't the factors that pulled me in. Anywho, since falling for the lovely Gillian when she starred in the BBC's magnificent adaptation of Bleak House, I think I'd watch her in anything (I should really check out The X-Files, I suppose), and her continued committance to the British film industry is fantastic. That said, I do wish she'd committed herself to something with any semblance of respect or quality. Miss Anderson's uneven but powerful turn is the sole reason that the horrendous Straightheads doesn't get a straight-up F. Basic story is: Gillian goes to party with the guy who installed her alarm system (Dyer), and on the way back they piss off some gruesome men by overtaking them and are subsequently subject to a beating which leaves Dyer half blind, and a rape that makes Gillian look like her guts have been yanked out and waved in front of her face. When convolutions lead to Gillian encountering one of the attackers again, she and a rather reluctant Dyer go on a revenge mission.

Now, it's not the gruesome violence that made me so distressed by Straightheads, though seeing a rather large gun being rammed up someone's ass is hardly appetising. Straightheads is a dishearteningly useless film, an exploitative mess: there is no pyschological insight here, just schematic deliberations, and a bizarrely sexist mangling of events so that, even though she's the one that insigated events, Gillian's character comes out looking the hero while Dyer goes over the edge. So, what's the message here? Women have a point of morality but men are just horrific creatures? As soon as the credits rolled on Straightheads I leaped out of my seat, and I wasn't the only one. Straightheads is a hollow, cretinous piece of work that I'd advise everyone to keep well away from- especially Gillian Anderson. Grade: D-

All together a different creature is the glossy Hollywood 'thriller' Fracture, which certainly lives up to its name. I'm notably not a fan of Anthony Hopkins, and to my mind Hannibal Lecter is one of his absolute worst creations, and so you'll understand my distress when I saw that his character here is virtually Hannibal without the desire to devour flesh. Which is just as well, because the main flesh on offer here is Ryan Gosling, whose turn as a cocky young lawyer is perhaps the best thing on offer here, if you discount the rather elliptical opening titles (oh, the promise!). Hopkins shoots his wife (a wasted Embeth Davidtz) and then somehow weasels out of being slammed for it, for whatever reason focusing on Gosling as an opponent and driving the youngster to the brink. But Fracture has no surprises, no chilling moments, no sense of unease or danger, and subplots including Rosamund Pike's new boss appropriately stick through the film like pieces of glass. It all looks very appealing, though. Grade: C-

Starter for Ten and Borat

[Starter for Ten (Tom Vaughan, 2006/7): I read a critique of Starter for Ten almost immediatly having watched it which advised "Great for Americans; avoid if you're a Brit though" and continued to savage the film for not being the next Trainspotting or A Clockwork Orange. This interesting perspective has one good idea and one bad: perhaps Dudley Nicholls' story paints England as a bit too picturesque, a bit too unchallenging- nothing serious ever invades the lives of these supposedly realistic characters, but then, nothing was ever meant to. To go onto the bad idea of this argument: Starter for Ten was never intending to be a serious look at British life, it was simply content to be a slightly Americanized, predictable cross between a coming-of-age story and a romantic triangle. And on these bases, it's hard to deny that Starter for Ten is successful. James McAvoy, that young Scottish star who seems to have appeared from nowhere to take the world by storm, is effortlessly charming as Brian Jackson, a young man who braves Bristol University in 1985, young in experience but eager to learn. An afectionado of British tv quiz University Challenge, he immediatly seizes the opportunity to get on the team, and there meets the beautiful Alice (Alice Eve), a girl who he immediatly falls for and who may or may not feel the same. Into the frame, however, comes Rebecca (Rebecca Hall), a headtrong political student who sagely comments on Brian's life whenever she sees him, but who is not above being charmed by his unconventional approach. Starter for Ten unfolds in a straight, easy-to-follow trajection; it's so predictable that Vaughan might as well have had characters holding up arrows to point the way. But the three leads are almost unexpectedly charming: Alice Eve and Rebecca Hall provide obvious counterpoints to each other, but both have their own expressive qualities that should serve them well in the future. When the film comes to its obvious conclusion, its hard to keep a smile from brimming on your face, because, predictable or no, the best conclusion has come. Grade: B-]

[Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan (Larry Charles, 2006): The hyperbole surrounding the critical and audience sensation of 2006 became so great that my desire to see it faded to nothing between the weeks of its release and my eventual trip to see it. Said trip was taken with my younger sister, who had already seen (and liked) it, but was happy to sit through it again so she could see Pan's Labyrinth with me afterwards. Said trip was also for the 11:00am showing, which meant, unsurprisingly, that the cinema was rather bare: a few people dotted around and two teenage groups huddled at the back row. Unstandably the laughter that these people could possibly illicit wasn't exactly going to be racuous, but I got even less than I expected, and it was not hard to see why. Forget what you've heard: Borat isn't funny. Oh, I won't deny that occasionally I chuckled, but surely this is damning next to praise like "so funny it'll burst half the blood vessels in your face" (Empire). Worse still are all the claims that Borat is an incisive cultural commentary: it's not. It's just a selectively edited trip around America, occasionally encountering bigoted people who are surprisingly fluid with their opinions, but the film doesn't use this to actually say anything. So there are bigoted people in America- there are bigoted people everywhere! And in the sections in which Borat isn't encountering these people, he's embarassing perfectly acceptable human beings in the name of comedy which is rarely even funny. For Borat's main claim is that it's a comedy- the problem being, it's not funny. Grade: C]

Little Children, Scenes of a Sexual Nature and Slither

[Little Children (Todd Field, 2006): The initially middling grade I gave Little Children probably sprung for my intense desire to want to like it, to admire it, to say that the acting here covers up the horrendous mess of the script and direction. Kate Winslet is undoubtably my favourite modern actress, and maybe it just wounds me too much to say that even she can't make up for the deficencies here. There's nothing particularly wrong with her performance here; indeed, it's probably as good as it could have been, save perhaps for the scene where, ironically, she shows the most emotion. (The moment feels so odd, fitting in I suppose with the histrionics the script constantly visits; but in the context of repressed surburban housewife, it's jarring.) There's little, indeed, wrong with most of the performances here: Patrick Wilson, Jackie Earle Haley, Phyllis Somerville, Jane Adams, and particularly Jennifer Connelly (able, as always, to mine so much out of an underwritten and marginalized role) are all fine, often excellent- only Noah Emmerich is bad, a garish performance which suits the film around him better than do the other actors- but they're all slaving away in service of a confused, puzzling mess of a film which thinks it knows so much when it knows so little. It throws you off right from the beginning, the stale, sage narration of some always-unknown quantity striking up at irregular intervals and never, really, serving a purpose apart from highlighting things the audience should be left to understand on their own. But what's worst about Little Children is it's smugness- Todd Field and Tom Perrotta's script (adapted from Perrotta's well-recieved novel) sits there, laden with a strange bitterness and pessimism that is never explained, winding it's way through a serious of rather unexciting events concerning- and how ironic this is- adults acting like "little children", selfish and irresponsible, all wanting to feel needed and loved, trying to make their lives worthwhile. Even before it reaches it's bizarre and conflicted climax, Little Children navigates various levels of over-egged histrionics and self-involved events, abandoning all sense of balance to the talented cast to try and sort out- it's not their fault, I cry, vainly trying to convince myself that it deserves attention; but really, there are better performances out there that warrant attention, and Kate the Great will have to wait a few more years for that thin golden statuette. Grade: D+]

[Scenes of a Sexual Nature (Ed Blum, 2006/7): Even worse than the smugness of Little Children is the smugness of Scenes of a Sexual Nature, which has even less claim to the idea of knowledge than Todd Field's unweilding mess. No, here is a film which, like Little Children, has employed a talented cast- Ewan McGregor, Polly Walker, Sophie Okonedo, Andrew Lincoln, Eileen Atkins, et al- to act out its complacent "ideas" about sexuality, this time in the form of seven criss-crossing vignettes between various couplings. The first false note is struck by the sickeningly twinkly and whimsical score, which, as one review I read commenting, "will make you want to kill yourself". The script is hollow and empty, full of cliched lines and situations- most of the vignettes seem like the more boring scenes from a common romantic comedy, the bits you'd sit sighing through waiting for the amusing comedic side-kick to re-appear, because they're the real reason you paid the ticket price. The talent of the cast, and the reasonable performances they give, somehow makes the whole thing even worse- how, I ask loudly, could all these actors be conned into starring in this horrific mess? Oh, and I never, ever want to go to Hampstead Heath, thanks. Grade: F]

[Slither (James Gunn, 2006): The delirious joys of Slither take a while to kick in, but when they do, oh-ho-ho, they don't let go. In the spirit of '80's alien horrors, but without their laughable effects (Slither looks, at times, frighteningly realistic), James Gunn's debut is a witty, exciting ride, expertly balancing comedy and horror and never over-dosing on either. The cast is game, with Serenity's Nathan Fillion playing the hero with a reluctant gusto, and Elizabeth Banks is both a funny and sympathetic straight-face as the wife of the man-turned-monster (and, naturally, the object of Fillion's affections). Overall, Slither's narrative goes in a predictable direction, but Gunn has a lot of fun in the intermediate scenes, constantly springing gory surprises that provide for some hilarious lines. To use a familiar expression: no, it's not Citizen Kane, but there's a lot of fun to be had by all. Grade: B]

The Devil Wears Prada, Get Real and C.R.A.Z.Y.

[The Devil Wears Prada (David Frankel, 2006): Meryl Streep's much-loved performance as uber-bitch boss Miranda Priestly (reportedly, though according to author Lauren Weisberger NOT based on Vogue editor Anna Wintour) is the reason to catch this bitchy- though, in many ways, familiar- comedy, especially since it's garnering her Oscar predictions all over the shop. Anna Hathaway holds her own in a rather underwhelming role as her new assistant, fashion-unconscious journalist Andrea Sachs, who gets a job at fashion magazine Runway as a stepping stone to better things. The basic outline of Andrea's story is obvious- forced to fit in, she unintentionally alienates her boyfriend and friends, then ultimately realises the error of her ways- but screenwriter Aline Brosh McKenna does sprinkle a few surprises in Miranda's much more interesting story, and throws in a terrific role for British actress Emily Blunt as Miranda's other assistant Emily, a girl who is devoted to Runway and desperate to look great. Director Frankel keeps things afloat well enough, though it starts to feel a bit overstreched at points and it's never really as funny as it should be. But it's a must-see purely for the performances of Blunt and Streep- the first of whom deserves just as much attention as her legendary co-star. Grade: B-]

[Get Real (Simon Shore, 1998): This cliched and rather slow British coming-out drama puts the interesting twist of having it's central character already totally aware and accepting of his sexuality- Steven Carter (Ben Silverstone) is sixteen and cruises for older men in his local park, though only his best friend Linda (a sharp Charlotte Brittain) knows he's gay- even as his classmates constantly throw the traditional homophobic remarks his way, they don't actually believe he's that way inclined. But when, one day, his next-door neighbour in the park toilets turns out to be school sports hunk John Dixon (Brad Gorton), screenwriter Patrick Wilde brings out the traditional cliches of a young man struggling to accept himself. Get Real essentially pares down to a spate of melodramatic speeches, which Silverstone and particularly Gorton, in a surprisingly measured and tender performance, cope with well but are never able to truly sell. As it builds towards it's predictable climax, the only pleasures in watching Get Real comes the unravelling of Brittain's sparkling turn and Gorton's sympathetic hunk. If this is life at a British secondary school, I obviously skipped it. Grade: C]

[C.R.A.Z.Y. (Jean-Marc Vallee, 2005): The Canadian submission to 2005's foreign film Oscar selection, this unfortunately missed a nomination, but for those who can get it, this compelling study of Quebecian family life is well worth a watch. Fantastic performances from Michel Cote as the traditional father, Danielle Proulx as the more accepting mother and especially Marc-Andre Grondin as the central character anchor this all-encompassing story, ostentatiously concerning Zac's sexual confusion but in reality bracing a variety of issues we face growing-up, from religion to drugs. Director Vallee has a fascinating directorial hand, neither too constricting nor too loose, letting his actors fill out their roles fully while also adding some fascinatingly off-kilter touches and a bright colour palette to truly evoke the era the film charts (1960s-1980s). The much-touted soundtrack (the reason for a lack of release in the US) is indeed fantastic, with David Bowie and Patsy Cline providing much more than just background noise. If my grade is low for all this praise, it's only because I never really felt a personal connection, and perhaps because the story occasionally flew off in unneeded directions. But don't let that put you off giving C.R.A.Z.Y. a look whenever you can. Grade: B]