My PulpFilm reviews 2005-2006:


Serenity
dir. Joss Whedon

As you may well be aware, Joss Whedon’s Serenity is a spinoff of his prematurely cancelled cult TV show Firefly, resurrected after much protesting from loyal fans. As such, Pulp approached the film with trepidation—although fans of Whedon’s far more successful Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Pulp knew next to nothing of the back-story to this sci-fi adventure. However, first-time viewers need not worry, as Serenity works very well as a stand-alone film, full of Whedon’s characteristic piquant humor, a marvelous ensemble (Dodgeball fans should look out for Alan Tudyk, aka Steve the Pirate, as the neurotic pilot) and some terrific action. Unlike some of Hollywood’s more straightforward attempts at the good old-fashioned action-adventure film this summer, Serenity has a spontaneous, cheep-but-cheerful charm that compliments the central group of characters, a bunch of loveable space bandits. The film balances moments of real darkness with frequent dashes of sparkling verbal wit, keeping the pace quick and the audience constantly entertained. It’s not perfect: there are a few spotty moments where the plot seems rushed along, a couple of characters pop up out of nowhere and there are probably numerous references that only fans of the TV show will understand. But Serenity gets by on its vim and vigour, and it’s hard not to be won over by the breezy charm of Nathan Fillion as the roustabout Captain Mal Reynolds. If you’re no sci-fi fan, this isn’t the movie for you, but if you have even a mild interest, give it a shot—you’ll find yourself pleasantly surprised.

****


Hidden
dir. Michael Haneke

From the supremely twisted Michael Haneke (Funny Games, The Piano Teacher) comes Hidden, an intriguing psychological thriller with a dazzling concept and powerful, politically charged subtext. The setup is masterfully simple: a relatively well-off French family in Paris anonymously receive surveillance tapes of themselves, a static hidden camera shooting outside of their house for hours on end, with no explanations or demands. Even though there is technically no threat, the very idea that they are being watched is so troubling to the husband (Auteuil) and wife (Binoche) that seeds of distrust and resentment are quickly sown. New tapes of other locations soon emerge, secrets are revealed and the tension continues to mount unbearably. It’s brilliantly executed by Haneke, who makes the most straightforward scenes nerve-wracking and squirrels away details in every scene that both help solve and complicate the mystery. Hidden’s genius is that is a great edge-of-your-seat thriller that both shocks and asks probing questions of the viewer. Pay close attention (particularly, Pulp would suggest, to the closing shot) and you won’t be able to get Hidden out of your head for days.

****


Stoned
dir. Stephen Woolley

Stephen Woolley’s long-in-the making Stoned chronicles the life and mysterious death of Brian Jones, founding member of the Rolling Stones. As we journey through the murky last months of his life, Jones slips in and out of a lethargic haze, alternately befriending and tormenting his builder Frank Thorogood (an unassuming Paddy Considine). Woolley throws in the requisite vivid flashbacks to days of sex, drugs and hedonism, although the film is curiously skimpy on Jones’ actual musical talents. There’s definite fun to be had here: Leo Gregory is suitably drawly and cool in the lead role, the gruff David Morrissey is great as the Stones’ no-nonsense road manager, and David Walliams of Little Britain pops up in a bizarre cameo as an accountant with the worst glasses ever. There’s something missing, though—Pulp found itself wanting to know more about the interplay between the band, instead of just having Jagger/Richards look-alikes hanging around in the background. Jones’ ambiguous relationship with Thorogood has its moments, but everything else is disappointingly by-the-numbers. All in all, this is just another bland rock biopic that skims over the surface of Jones’ genuinely interesting life and leaves the viewer unsatisfied. If you’re in the market for a genuinely interesting Stones movie, rent Gimmie Shelter—you won’t be disappointed.

**


Confetti
dir. Debbie Isitt

When a film has a cast as good as Confetti’s, it’s setting itself up for a fall. This sweet, sporadically amusing, completely improvised mockumentary contains some of the best of British comedy—Martin Freeman of The Office, Jessica Stevenson of Spaced, Robert Webb of Peep Show, Stephen Mangan of Green Wing and the ubiquitous Jimmy Carr. Pulp went in with high hopes for a cacophony of hilarity, considering the talent involved. But Confetti did not deliver, provoking little more than occasional chuckles from this reviewer. As it is a film about weddings (three themed weddings competing to win a prize), Confetti wears its heart on its sleeve. This is simultaneously its biggest flaw and the only reason to recommend it. Because our feelings are invested in the three couples, it makes it harder to find them figures of amusement (although some of the half-baked, toothless comic situations we find them in hardly help—for example, naturists aren’t funny). But, due in part to the uniformly excellent performances, Confetti is very sweet and on occasion quite touching. Freeman and Stevenson are particularly winsome as the MGM musical couple. It’s enough to keep you alert through the whole thing, which at 90 minutes still seems quite padded out, and the denouement featuring the wedding competition itself is the undisputed highlight of the affair. You won’t be crowning writer/director Debbie Isitt the next Gervais, but Confetti is pleasant enough to keep you happily distracted before the summer blockbuster season.

***

“What do you fear, Mr. Baxter?”

Don’t Look Now is only Nicolas Roeg’s third film (completing a bizarre yet exceptional trio with the studied anarchy of Performance and the sparse yet enthralling Walkabout) and, in some ways, it shows. The former cinematographer maintains total control over how he presents and withholds information - dropping clues and maintaining visual motifs; the film sometimes feels like an exercise in Roeg’s craft. Take the opening sequence: Roeg sets everything up meticulously--from the understated yet menacing threat of a static shot of rain hitting a pond, to the relaxed, comfortable intimacy of John and Laura’s relationship. Their daughter’s death in the pond is foreshadowed by the image shown above, a growing bloody stain on a slide John is examining detailing a Venetian church with a lurking figure dressed in red in one corner. It’s simple stuff, fully rooted in events to follow, but Roeg is smart not to pull his punches. John’s primal roar of despair as he drags his daughter from the water is instantly burned into the memory—but everything that previously passed remains in the back of your mind, later to be slyly evoked as we move into the alleys of Venice, one of the most perfectly unsettling locations in film history.

Don’t Look Now, despite all its disquieting power as a horror film, is primarily a study of a marriage burdened by grief: the film would fail utterly without its central couple (played by the assured Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie at the height of their skills). John buries himself in his work, trying to forget the deceased Christine, whilst Laura is adrift in sorrow. When a blind seer claims she can see her daughter with them, laughing happily, Laura grabs onto this shred of hope; John dismisses it (perhaps in denial of his own possible psychic gifts, glimpsed with his clairvoyance in the opening scene). The two are very convincing as a married couple: fully at ease with each other, but sundered by such an irreconcilable loss. Their chemistry is fittingly displayed in the famous love scene: Roeg cuts between the tenderness of the act itself and their dressing to go to dinner afterwards (Steven Soderbergh later paid homage by inverting the idea to the same effect in Out of Sight), and we see their effortless connection even when they are apart. This is the one truly happy moment Roeg grants both the couple and the audience, underlining the deeply human story of the film and truly earning the pathos of its opening and closing moments.

Despite all this, it is impossible to ignore the powerful, disturbing undercurrent that bubbles throughout the Venice scenes as well. There are precious few moments of action, and they are mostly red herrings or explainable mishaps. John follows a mysterious, hooded figure in red through the labyrinth of the city as his steadfast rationality is slowly bored down, both by his vision of Laura on a funeral boat and her growing conviction that their daughter is trying to contact them. There is another side-plot concerning a serial killer on the loose—but Roeg seems barely concerned with it, only using it in almost a throwaway manner to tie up the plot in the finale. All of this combines for a palpable mood—the grand, gothic, unfamiliar set of the city, the lurking danger in the hooded red figure and the endless canals that constantly remind the Baxters of their daughter’s fate. Aside from the catharsis of the love scene, Graeme Clifford’s skillful, clinical editing provides no relief from the tension, not until the brutal, shocking and remarkably upsetting finale (which I will try to keep unspoiled) which, whilst confusing, horrifying and difficult to watch, is also perversely just, giving a sense of deserved peace to such an emotionally ravaged relationship.

Roeg’s skill in preserving mood, tension and unmitigated horror in Don’t Look Now and balancing it with tender emotion and such a believable portrayal of a marriage is unparalleled among almost any director I have had the pleasure to see. His trained visual eye is impossible to refute; but it is his skill for storytelling, staggering and withholding information whilst constantly hinting at the terrible events to follow, that I truly admire here. Roeg never lets us fully abandon rationality and, as the credits roll, the preceding mood of prophetic doom complements the deep strike into the hearts of his audience.

Directed by Nicolas Roeg; written by Allan Scott and Chris Bryant; based on the short story by Daphne Du Maurier; cinematography by Anthony Richmond; editing by Graeme Clifford; original score by Pino Donnagio; production design by Giovanni Soccol; costume design by Andrea Galer and Marit Lieberson; produced by Peter Katz; released by Paramount Pictures. Rated R. Runtime 110 mins.

WITH: Donald Sutherland (John Baxter), Julie Christie (Laura Baxter), Hilary Mason (Heather), Clelia Matania (Wendy), Massimo Serato (Bishop Barbarrigo), Renato Scarpa (Inspector Longhi), Sharon Williams (Christine Baxter).

“Well I ain't about to kiss off forty thousand dollars! I'll get it back, and if any of it's missing I'll replace it with her fine, soft flesh!”

Mention even the concept of Van Sant’s Psycho to people and the reaction is near universal revulsion—many of those who have seen it consider it to be an inexplicable oddity, a cinematic waste of time, a bizarre waste of Gus Van Sant’s considerable talent. After Van Sant’s success with Good Will Hunting, a more mainstream effort than his previous work, he was allowed to progress with a project that had been declined him before, a remake of Hitchcock’s iconic Psycho. However, what Van Sant produced was unlike any remake ever attempted previously: the film was near-replicated, shot-for-shot, with Bernard Hermann’s score and Joseph Stefano’s screenplay, yet starring a different cast, set in the present day, and filmed in full-blown color. Although the abysmal reception to the film is perhaps understandable, to me the impact was instant and unique: through his approach Van Sant creates a kind of hybrid universe, a story that lives in the past but exists in the present, where even the most subtle changes speak volumes.

Van Sant announces his intentions in the opening credits: replicated exactly, with Bernard Hermann’s score, yet in brilliant green and with his name proudly displayed under “directed by”, sliced into three pieces exactly as Hitchcock’s was. He has the same knowing humor of his predecessor: Van Sant reprises Hitch’s original cameo, the sign on the Bates Motel says “newly renovated”, and Norman Bates points out the shower to Marion in an overt wink to the audience. Van Sant takes Hitchcock’s lead on other points too; he achieves tracking shots that were impossible in 1960. It’s surprising how many common interests the two directors seem to share. Following the shower scene, much is made of Norman’s obsessive cleaning after the act; the psychological implications about Norman’s repression are obvious, but the audience is also being allowed to draw a breath after the shocking abruptness of the murder. There’s a kind of ironic humor to all this—undoubtedly everyone who saw the 1998 version knew how and when Marion would die (indeed, I remember the ad campaign with the arch tagline “relax, unpack, take a shower”)—and yet Van Sant still memorializes her death, allows the audience to come to terms with the loss of a character they all knew was doomed from the start. There is a sparse, haunting quality to this scene that is quite removed from the pace and tension of the film—something I had totally forgotten about the original film. By playing to his own strengths in this way (I was reminded of his later ‘death trilogy’ of Gerry, Elephant and Last Days), Van Sant helps you rediscover the myriad of subtleties in the original that are so easy to overlook.

As there is little that has not already been said about the 1960 version, it is best to concentrate on the deviations from the original when reviewing a film like this. Christopher Doyle employs a take-no-prisoners approach in his tremendous use of color: particularly green, the “color of evil” according to Van Sant, which is especially associated with Marion. We first meet her clad in a luminous orange bra, a sort of postmodern scarlet woman. After she steals the money and goes on the run, she is again clad in orange, but her dress is covered in green splotches. Much of the production design and cinematography uses such simple, obvious motifs: the pastel colors, the vintage feel of the sets and costumes, the garishly red blood sprayed around the bathroom. These differences are how Van Sant sets out the ‘hybrid universe’ previously mentioned—although the opening titles assure us we’re in the present, the script mostly retains its original chintzy dialogue and the supporting cast (dotted with cameos of well-known character actors seemingly eager to take even the most meager role) are over-the-top to the point of pastiche. On first glance, the film doesn’t particularly succeed at straddling the two decades, but Van Sant highlights some interesting disparities, especially in the character of Marion Crane. Janet Leigh’s original portrayal sees her as a strong-willed woman taking the initiative in controlling her destiny by stealing the money. But in the neurotic 90s, Marion doesn’t have to resort to petty theft to be independent: her decision to take the money seems much more whimsical and ditzy, especially since it will only serve to unite her with the sketchy (if good-natured) Sam Loomis (played by Viggo Mortensen with a seedy kind of charm, a much more convincing lothario than the staid original). Heche brilliantly reflects this in her performance, mixing her God-given wiles with a deer-in-the-headlights stare used most effectively in the extended voice-over scenes that focus on her face as she imagines her downfall. Van Sant makes these scenes, a prelude to her final hours at the Bates Motel, much more explicitly nightmarish than Hitchcock did.

Easily the vastest difference in the newer film is Vince Vaughn’s Norman Bates. Anthony Perkins' original performance is precisely calculated and unapproachably good, and Vaughn does well to distance himself from it. Here, Norman is much calmer and more self-assured—his tight shirt, erect poise and pointed jaw give him an almost sexually threatening vibe. He shouts at his ‘mother’ with much more authority and giggles with gleeful mania. Even though this Norman seems more instantly approachable, he’s also more obviously disturbed. Yet there’s an odd charm to him, even though Vaughn often errs too far on the fey side. Marion half-flirts with him as they eat, and seems persuaded by his speech about “private traps”—sure, he’s kooky, but that’s nothing a little therapy couldn’t set right. Wherever Hitch hinted at sexual charge in the original, Van Sant brings it out and makes it explicit: never more noticeably than the masturbation scene—blind or deaf people could watch it and know what was going on. Most critics of the film revile how Van Sant has made the subtle obvious, but would Hitchcock himself have left sex to the imagination were he working in the present? Gus Van Sant clearly doesn’t think so.

It takes a balls-out attitude and a good sense of self-awareness to make a film like this, and that’s why the calculation of the film can easily leave one cold. There’s nothing to be gained and no fun to be had if you approach Psycho thinking that it was a pointless endeavor from the start. Sure, Van Sant gave himself enough rope to hang himself by attempting such an incredible task. But one has to give him at least a modicum of respect for setting the bar so inhumanly high, especially at the apex of his popular/studio appeal. Psycho is one of the most bizarre, different and instantly memorable films I’ve ever seen. Van Sant takes something that is not just a film, but one of the staples of popular culture, and both copies and inverts it – making its most lurid elements even more extreme and meditating on some of its softest, most delicate touches. It’s neither ‘success’ nor ‘failure’, simply a true oddity: a unique piece of work that belongs to a separate class of its own.

Directed by Gus Van Sant; written by Joseph Stefano, based on the novel by Robert Bloch; cinematography by Christopher Doyle; editing by Amy E. Duddleston; original score by Bernard Herrmann; production design by Tom Foden; costume design by Beatrix Anna Pasztor; produced by Brian Grazer and Gus Van Sant; released by Universal Pictures. Rated R. Runtime 105 mins.

WITH: Vince Vaughn (Norman Bates), Anne Heche (Marion Crane), Julianne Moore (Lila Crane), Viggo Mortensen (Samuel Loomis), William H. Macy (Milton Arbogast), Robert Forster (Dr. Fred Simon), Philip Baker Hall (Sheriff Al Chambers), James Remar (Patrolman), James LeGros (Charlie the Car Dealer).

“Screw the goddamn passengers! What the hell did they expect from their lousy 35 cents - to live forever?”

The Taking of Pelham One Two Three is a film very much rooted in its era. Just take a look at the cast list of the New Yorkers taken hostage on a subway train--it includes 'the hooker', 'the pimp', 'the alcoholic', 'the WASP', 'the Spanish woman', 'the hippie' and 'the homosexual'. Although the film certainly isn’t politically correct (most glaringly at the beginning, which contains a needless running joke about a group of Japanese businessmen) the rough-edged, seen-it-all-before attitude of its characters means it truly captures a New York spirit that few other films have. Scorsese’s best efforts at this mini-genre, Taxi Driver and Bringing Out The Dead, both concentrate on the lowest underside of the city, but The Taking of Pelham One Two Three takes a broader sweep in its focus, from the mayor’s office all the way down to the aforementioned pimps and alcoholics. From the inept politicians to the apathetic bureaucracy to the resolute passengers, The Taking of Pelham One Two Three is primarily a hostage thriller but also a compelling cross-section of a unique city.

The story concerns a gang of four armed men (addressed only by the colors of their hats: Quentin Tarantino later lifted this idea for Reservoir Dogs) who hijack a subway train with the intent of getting a million dollars from the city within an hour—if they don’t, they threaten to start killing their hostages. The gang of four fit archetypal modes: Robert Shaw’s Mr. Blue is English to a fault: cool as a cucumber and fully resolved, but with a strong sense of honor. Hector Elizondo’s Mr. Grey is the crazy one, Martin Balsam’s Mr. Green the nervous one, and Earl Hindman’s Mr. Brown is just there to have dialogue bounced off of him. They have to deal with transit policeman Zachary Garber (an enormously grouchy Walter Matthau) as well as a cowardly mayor, his slick deputy and a bunch of take-no-shit transit officers. Since the hostage drama lasts only 60 minutes, the film is played basically in real-time (with 20 minutes at either end for setup and denouement) and Sargent, a wildly inconsistent director, perfectly maintains an even flow and high tension. Without resorting to any wild histrionics (a scene where Matthau loses it with a fellow transit officer is quite effectively low-key) or graphic violence, Pelham never devolves into high-camp or becomes too ridiculous. In fact, Sargent’s treatment of the violence is one of Pelham’s best features. Each act of violence, always a shooting, is a pivotal plot point, and Sargent is always at pains to show, however subtly, the effect on each of his main characters. This keeps Pelham suitably ‘gritty’ but also keeps the violence from becoming too senseless, or ‘cool’.

One could argue that Pelham isn’t a film that really benefits from over-analysis. As a viewing experience, its major quality is just that it’s a terrifically taut thriller. The screenplay, based on John Godey’s novel, has some self-consciously silly ‘gangster’ dialogue, especially when crazy Mr. Grey is involved (“I’ve always done my own killing”, he spits at Mr. Blue) and a couple of fairly obvious twists. But it also has a lot of sharply funny dialogue, especially Matthau’s exchanges with a young Jerry Stiller as a fellow transit cop, and the tirades of the blustering subway manager played by Dick O’Neill. The finale is a little rushed—but it has moments of great power, especially the face-to-face meeting of Matthau and Shaw. But although Pelham is just a crime thriller, its overall attitude towards human nature is really quite fascinating and insightful.

In the New York of Pelham, almost all of the characters have only one real concern—their own personal bottom line. This is true both of the gangsters and almost all the supposed ‘good guys’. Mr. Green, repulsed by the idea of killing the hostages, worries more about his own prophecy that he’s “going to die tonight”. The mayor, feigning illness to try and escape the tough decisions, is finally won over to the idea of paying the ransom when his wife tells him what he’ll be getting out of it: “eighteen sure votes”. Even a toll booth officer, being interrogated as a possible suspect hijacker, demands the cops pay their 50 cent toll after they question him. Matthau’s character is really the only one with any empathy at all for the hostages—and even he is blackly cynical. Mr. Blue, the mastermind of the hijacking, still clearly is upset whenever violence is resorted to: the barest minimum of emotion creeps across his face occasionally, for he is no common crook but instead a villain out of a James Bond movie, a cool sophisticate who appreciates honor amongst thieves and a job well done (virtues that Quentin Tarantino also emulates in his films: quite a lot of Pelham’s tone and material can be found in Tarantino’s oeuvre). As Blue, Shaw gives his kind of tour-de-force performance: not anything of particularly great range, but perfectly judged and memorable long afterwards. Matthau is also playing to type but never becomes too hammy (as he often can) and emerges as the closest Pelham comes to a moral anchor.

The film has a really quite pessimistic view on the compassion of humans when it comes to events like these: ask them about an incident like a hijacking or a murder and they’ll profess sympathy, or outrage, or regret; but when it comes down to it, people will do whatever they can to survive and succeed. Sure, Mr. Green might grimace and say “aw, jeez” when a subway attendant is shot, but that doesn’t prevent him from gleefully bouncing around in his big pile of money later on. The Taking of Pelham One Two Three is a funny, well-made, thrilling movie, but it’s the refreshing lack of political correctness or social mores that really makes it stick in your mind.

Directed by Joseph Sargent; written by Peter Stone, based on the novel by John Godey; cinematography by Enrique Bravo and Owen Roizman; editing by Gerald B. Greenberg and Robert Q. Lovett; original score by David Shire; production design by Alixe Gordin; costume design by Anna Hill Johnstone; produced by Edgar J. Scherick and Gabriel Katzka; released by United Artists. Rated R. Runtime 104 mins.

WITH: Walter Matthau (Lt. Zachary Garber), Robert Shaw (Mr. Blue), Martin Balsam (Mr. Green), Hector Elizondo (Mr. Grey), Earl Hindman (Mr. Brown), Dick O'Neill (Frank Correll), Jerry Stiller (Lt. Rico Patone).

“It’s like hygiene. Either you smell good or you don’t. Either you’re krump or you’re not.”

On first look, Rize is certainly a film to approach with caution: a documentary about a new hip-hop dance movement directed by a fashion photographer/music video director definitely sets off the ‘vapid’ alarm bell. But even though David LaChapelle’s Rize, a film about the ‘krump’ movement of dance birthed in L.A. and its roots in the city, suffers from some flashiness over substance, it remains fully convincing and engrossing not only because of the visually astounding dancing itself, but also the quite stark and powerful intensity of the people behind the dancing.

We are introduced to a world apparently quite pervasive in inner-city Los Angeles (but completely unbeknownst to this writer, and I would guess much of the film’s audience, which adds to the wonder) first through meeting its founder, the ‘ghetto celebrity’ Tommy the Clown. A reformed drug dealer who began appearing as a ‘hip-hop clown’ at kid’s birthday parties in the early 90s, Tommy was intrigued by the identity he created, one wholly separate from the problems of violence, gangs and drugs that pervade his neighborhood and many just like it. His ‘Clown Academy’, which took in troubled kids and channeled their energies into performing (most notably dancing) evolved into a whole social structure—we see footage of kids with elaborately painted faces, in full clown costumes, walking around South Central with nobody around blinking an eye.

From ‘clowning’ came ‘krumping’, which places less emphasis on entertainment and more on a kind of powerful therapeutic group session of dancing. At the start of the film we are told that none of the footage has been sped up, and it’s easy to see why. We are shown people dancing so quickly, so bizarrely, we might assume that they are possessed, or on drugs, or in the grip of some seizure, or all three. This is the true appeal of LaChapelle’s film: his raw, primal footage of large groups of people dancing with no abandon, often paired with voiceovers by the dancers talking about their home life, or former tragedies that have befallen them. Sure, it’s not hard for a director to see the intense emotion that is clearly being released through krumping, but the effect is nonetheless cinematically breathtaking.

LaChapelle falls into a trap of focusing too much on a particular event centered around krumping: the ‘Battlezone’, a dance-off between Tommy’s clowns and the krumpers, is certainly interesting, but not enough to be built up as a denouement. I could have done with more of the early street footage both of the krumpers and the clowns, as well as delving more deeply into their backstories. But LaChapelle gets things right too: he does not shy away from showing us the very flawed nature of Tommy the Clown, a man who has done much for his community in keeping kids away from violence and drugs, but also clearly suffers from a quite inflated ego because of it. Another finale-esque moment involving him is one of the film’s finest non-dancing moments. Also, the parallels between traditional African cultures and the krumpers LaChapelle draws is obvious once you see it onscreen, but a keen perception nonetheless.

Rize is best to catch now before krump hits the mainstream: at the end, we see three of the main krumpers shot in a traditional, music video style by LaChapelle: gorgeous lighting, sweating, toned bodies and all in slow-motion. It certainly still has an impact, but the unedited, spontaneous footage of the rest of the film is really what will sear this film and these people into your memories for quite a while.

Directed by David LaChapelle; cinematography by Morgan Susser and Michael Totten; editing by Fernando Villena; original score by Amy Marie Beauchamp and Jose Cancela; produced by David LaChapelle, Mark Hawker and Ellen Jacobson; released by Lions Gate Films. Rated PG-13. Runtime 86 mins.

Coming soon:

www.cinema-mon-amour.com

My PulpFilm reviews 2004-2005:


Beauty Shop
dir. Billie Woodruff

Slightly embarrassingly, I have to confess that I quite like Queen Latifah, and I usually enjoy her performances, no matter how dire the film (Bringing Down the House springs to mind). Despite the varying quality of her output, Latifah is a reliable lead to anchor a story around, and this is no different in the fairly entertaining Beauty Shop. A spin-off from Barbershop 2 (I sadly missed that canonical masterpiece, but anyone who didn’t may recall Latifah’s character showing up in it), this film is concerned with Gina (Latifah) and her efforts to run a beauty shop in Atlanta: mostly an excuse for a smorgasbord of amusing characters and loosely-connected scenes. Among the bizarre ensemble, the standouts include Alicia Silverstone, sadly missed since her Clueless heyday, the charming Djimon Hounsou and most importantly the imperious Jorge Christophe, Gina’s Austrian former boss and scheming rival, a performance of sheer camp divinity by Kevin Bacon, resplendent in wavy blonde locks. His scenes are easily the most memorable and enjoyable in the film (the mere sight of him is enough to induce hysterics), although I could have done with a post-credits addendum to show his comeuppance. Please note this for the DVD release, director Billie Woodruff!
The storyline is on predictable rails from the start, and some of the subplots (one concerning Gina’s musically gifted daughter, as well as the inevitable romance between Latifah and Hounsou) are quite tiresome. But the actual body of the movie, set in the shop and involving non-stop rapid dialogue between the beauticians and the customers (a ‘device’ lifted from the Barbershop films) diverts the attention merrily for the 104 minute running time. Even if you find yourself counting down the minutes waiting for Kevin Bacon to appear again (as I sometimes did), there are certainly worse ways to spend an afternoon at the pictures.

***


Metropolis
dir. Fritz Lang

One of cinema’s most startling and influential visions of the future, Fritz Lang’s Metropolis was recently screened at the Tyneside with the jaunty Professor Marty Marks providing a live piano rendition of the original score. The German silent film, made in 1926, is impressive in that it still has the power to amaze today—despite having (once-revolutionary) special effects that the modern moviegoer might now scoff at. Metropolis is a world that has become the archetypal futuristic dystopia in film: huge, towering skyscrapers housing the educated and privileged, whilst the working masses toil underground. Films like Blade Runner, Minority Report and even Batman are clearly indebted to Lang’s artistic vision. There are obvious social and religious parallels: the rebellion of the underclasses, technology out of control, the idea of a single ‘savior’ figure to unite everyone peacefully—but one does not even need to delve that far into Metropolis in order to enjoy it. Visually it’s still a wonder—from the towering, inventive set design to the gorgeous, expressionistic lighting and camerawork. Being a silent film, the acting veers dangerously and often quite hilariously over-the-top, especially Rudolf Klein-Rogge’s demented performance as the scientist Rotwang. More impressive (and truly iconic) is Brigitte Helm in the dual role of the gentle and pastoral Maria and her famous robotic clone. The lovely Marty Marks, a musicologist from America, played the full score perfectly as well as providing some information on the film itself—adding to what was a wonderful experience that is essential for anyone interested in cinema.
*****


The Life and Death of Peter Sellers
dir. Stephen Hopkins

One would think that the life of renowned British comic actor Peter Sellers would make for a fascinating film—looking at the tumultuous life of the man behind Inspector Clouseau and Doctor Strangelove. Unfortunately, despite the thematic trickery of director Stephen Hopkins (of 24) and a quite brilliant imitation by Geoffrey Rush in the lead role The Life and Death… does not live up to expectations. Its real shortcoming is the story it’s trying to tell: you may find yourself wondering if, in fact, Sellers’ life was deserving of cinematic representation at all.
As Sellers himself repeatedly affirmed, he was quite devoid of a personality: despite his incredible comedic talent and the characters he created, Sellers the man was a blank mystery. This is not the best of starting points for any biopic. The film is full of pitch-perfect recreations of big events in Sellers’ life: the peerless John Lithgow turns up as the feisty Blake Edwards, director of The Pink Panther; Stanly Tucci is a sly Stanley Kubrick; and Charlize Theron mostly sits around looking gorgeous as second wife Britt Ekland. Rush, at centre-stage, gives a showy but undeniably challenging performance, seemingly a new character every ten minutes. However, when the story concentrates on Sellers’ domestic life—his womanizing, his tantrums, his long-suffering first wife (Emily Watson) and children—the film drags and constantly repeats itself. The more dramatic material simply isn’t weighty enough to justify the two-hours plus running time. As it stands, Sellers is a quite stunningly acted, but unfortunately rather run-of-the-mill portrayal of a man both fascinating and dull in equal proportions.
**


The Incredibles
dir. Brad Bird

I've been a fan of Pixar's output since from the first Toy Story to Finding Nemo, but by the last film I was beginning to feel twinges of doubt that their unbeatable formula was starting to wear thin. You know: take some funny-looking creatures, be they fish, toys, monsters or bugs, buddy a couple up and send them on a whirlwind adventure, meeting a lot of crazy oddballs on the way. Sure, it makes for an entertaining hour and a half, but it had all become rather pedestrian. Trust director (and Pixar outsider) Brad Bird, who was behind the magnificent The Iron Giant, to galvanise the studio with this terrific new film.
The Incredibles does well to remind us what it is that makes Pixar movies so much better than most of the other animated offerings we are served up by big studios. Instead of simply throwing money at big actors and creating a character around them *coughSharkTalecough*, here the characters are beautifully filled out and then perfectly matched to their voice actors (the glorious Holly Hunter should be particularly singled out here). The film is also consistently funny, but it doesn't resort to the broad, scattershot comedy of Shrek 2, which was a series of over-the-top sketches, throwing out as many pop culture references as it could to please the adult audience. Bird's script is witty and clever, and peppered with just the right amount of visual gags and set-pieces.
As a superhero story goes, it's top-notch. It smartly avoids the 'origin story', which has crippled the pace of many films like it, and instead dives right into the characters, who are all perfect: the strong, reliable father; the flexible, adept mother; the ice-cool best friend; the angsty and protective teenager who just wants to disappear, and the bundle-of-energy son. Their characters are perfectly defined, and their superpowers all fit perfectly. It's what makes the final act of the film work so well: not only does The Incredibles have some of the most exhilarating action of any film released this year, but throughout you can feel the characters shining through, which makes it all the more exciting and involving.
The Incredibles digs a lot deeper and darker than other Pixar films have ever dared. The family depicted feels truly realistic, and the message of embracing your individuality isn't hammered down your throat in a traditionally cloying manner. Villains brandish guns at children and play drinking games over a report of a city being ransacked by an evil robot, our hero is cruelly tortured both physically and psychologically, and there are even references to divorce and the break-up of the modern family (Helen also clearly suspects her husband of having an affair). But this is not to say that the movie isn't a rollicking good time: filled with laugh-out-loud moments and wonderful action set-pieces, I left with a huge smile on my face. One of the most memorable and successful films of the past few years, for sure, and a very worthy follow-up from Brad Bird.
*****

My Top 50 Artists/Bands Working Today


1/Beck


2/Radiohead


3/Ryan Adams


4/Yeah Yeah Yeahs


5/New Pornographers (also: AC Newman, Neko Case)


6/Cat Power


7/TV On The Radio


8/Dizzee Rascal


9/The Arcade Fire


10/Nellie McKay


11/The Flaming Lips


12/Broken Social Scene


13/The Streets


14/The White Stripes (also: Jack White's solo work)


15/Outkast


16/The Fiery Furnaces


17/Tori Amos


18/Rufus Wainwright


19/The Strokes


20/Soulwax


21/Bjork


22/Weezer


23/Missy Elliott


24/Girls Aloud


25/PJ Harvey


26/Bloc Party


27/Fiona Apple


28/M.I.A.


29/Jesse Malin


30/Kanye West


31/LCD Soundsystem


32/Queens of the Stone Age


33/Sigur Ros


34/The Shins


35/Daft Punk


36/Green Day


37/The Futureheads


38/Kylie Minogue


39/Loretta Lynn


40/Morrissey


41/The Coral


42/!!!


43/The Walkmen


44/Basement Jaxx


45/David Bowie


46/K-OS


47/Kings of Leon


48/The Libertines


49/The Killers


50/Kaiser Chiefs