Archive for January, 2009

Serge Gainsbourg, vie héroïque

Friday, January 30th, 2009
Have you ever been excited to the point of paralysis? My mouth hit the floor when I learned that Joann Sfar, the famous French comic artist had been signed on by Universal France to direct a Serge Gainsbourg biopic. This is Universal France’s first local-language film; prompted by the success of La Vie En Rose (Oscar-winning Édith Piaf biopic).


I’m a worshipper of the guy.

Some people tend to criticise Bob Dylan for being “more of a poet than a musician“, far more interested in what he has to say rather than what he plays. While I don’t agree, I feel Gainsbourg is the best of both worlds. He’s proven himself to be one of the most celebrated pop songwriters of the 20th Century; the king of francophone chanson and the ultimate punk figure in pop. His influence has spread to groundbreaking artists such as Beck, Portishead, Arcade Fire, Pulp, Radiohead, MC Solaar, Nick Cave, The Orb and many more.

Gainsbourg was punk before punk. The Sex Pistols’ God Save the Queen was notorious, sure, and was met with much controversy (banned by the BBC). It was interesting to see a pop record that was so antagonistic and offensive to people shoot to number one, but consider this: Gainsbourg’s Je T’aime Mon Non Plus was an even bigger hit despite being banned in several countries and damned by the Vatican; they even went as far as threatening Catholics with excommunication for purchasing the record. Now THAT’S punk.

He was a great manipulator of words, and this showed in his songs, novels and films. His prose was often uncomfortably literal and laced with morbid innuendo. To use it as an example again, Je T’aime Mon Non Plus had lines such as “I love you, I love you; me neither. There’s no way out of physical love. I come and I go between your loins, I come and go, I hold myself back,” before erupting into the (literal) climax with his lover, Jane Birkin actually orgasming as they made love in the studio. In Le Poinçonneur des Lilas, one of his most celebrated hits, Gainsbourg sang something along the lines of “I punch holes in tickets. You go past me, but you don’t lock eyes with me. There’s no sun underground. I read Reader’s Digest to pass the time, I read of men who holiday in Miami while I go crazy in the bottom of this cave. They say there isn’t a bad job. Me? I punch holes in tickets.” And then the ticket puncher starts thinking of holes in the ground, and how he could be laid in one if he punched a hole in his own head.

The material he wrote for France Gall was even better. Poupee de Cire, Poupee de Son’s irony is overwhelming (if you can find Arcade Fire’s cover, give it a go. It’s great). France Gall actually won Eurovision with the song; the title having two possible English translations: “Wax doll, Bran doll” or “Doll of wax, Doll of sound”, the latter implying that Gall, as a teen idol and a pop star, is nothing more than a singing doll. To think that such an inherently anti-pop song won the most prestigious pop award at the time is mindboggling. He took the “singing doll” concept to a new level with Les Sucettes and Gall sang it as sweet and innocently as ever, unaware of the double-meaning. On first impression the lyrics are about a young girl with a passionate love for aniseed lollipops, sucking them and savouring the flavour down her throat… an elaboration isn’t necessary, I don’t think. He was hilariously devilish, and probably one of the first pop songwriters (if not the first) to use erotic double entendres. Gall must have slapped herself silly having not picked up on the innuendo. It’s not even disguised.

To me, he hit his creative peak with Histoire de Melody Nelson. It’s a criminally underrated pop-gem. Histoire tells a Lolita-esque story of a man (narrated with Gainsbourg’s trademark slur) who drunkenly drives his Rolls Royce down a street, scraping along the sidewalks. He crashes into a bicycle riden by a young girl, Melody Nelson, who is knocked unconscious. He falls into an almost rapturous love, taking her with him with a view to… well, we can only guess until it happens. Like Lolita, it suddenly swerves from being darkly hilarious to spinechillingly creepy three quarters into the album. Imagine if Joann Sfar adapted this one. Hoo boy.

Serge Gainsbourg, vie héroïque is due for a 2010 release.

The Empire of the Mind

Thursday, January 29th, 2009

Inland Empire constantly blurs the line between delusion and reality. Characters spawn alter-egos and plotlines, seemingly all related, run amok. I have my personal interpretation of what happens (embarrassingly underdeveloped in comparison to other theories), but it isn’t really worth discussing. Bits of the film would be ruined. Besides, you can read into the film if you want, but I stress that you don’t have to get it to like it.

David Lynch advertised the film with the elusive tagline “A Woman in Trouble”, and this is precisely the case. An actress, Nikki Grace (Laura Dern), wishes to resurrect her career by auditioning for the Hollywood production On High in Blue Tomorrows. A disheveled, eccentric European lady (Grace Zabriskie) who claims to be her neighbour seems to know more about this role than Nikki does, informing her that she has the role already, that the film concerns holy matrimony and murder, and that her husband is involved beneath the surface. The former proves to be correct; she does indeed score the main role. During a rehearsal they are interrupted by an uninvited guest (assumed paparazzi) who manages to escape “where it’s real hard to escape”. Unnerved by this, the director (Jeremy Irons) decides to come clean and reveal some details about the history of the production that he preferred to keep secret. Over a period of time Nikki loses herself in the character, resulting in many splintered personalities and delusions. The film largely takes place in the main character’s subconscious (or so it’s heavily implied), the title itself hinting at this (to make this clearer, the Italian title of the films translates as “The Empire of the Mind”).

The project was born when Laura Dern contacted Lynch for the first time in years, asking if some sort of collaboration could take place. He proposed that they film a series of short films for davidlynch.com, experimenting with the digital video format. She agreed and memorised a fourteen page monologue that they soon filmed (Dern and the psychiatrist, for those who have seen the film). Her performance inspired Lynch to develop the ideas into a feature.

Dern is gobsmackingly good. She portrays a range of personalities and emotions effortlessly; critics worldwide have praised her for it, and some even suggested she be nominated for an Academy Award. As Ebert said, it would have been an appropriate extension of her character. For fans of Lynch, you will see a handful of regulars on-screen, notably Laura Dern, Grace Zabriskie, Harry Dean Stanton, Justin Theroux, Laura Harring, Scott Coffey and Naomi Watts (true, she’s obscured by a rabbit mask, but still). It feels like an epic culmination of everything he’s done to date.

Inland Empire is a real progressive step for Lynch, being shot entirely on a digital, consumer brand Sony PD150. Like I mentioned before, this isn’t his first experiment with digital video; for davidlynch.com he shot films such as Rabbits, Darkened Room and Absurda, which all tie into Inland Empire in some way. His large role in its production makes the film feel like his most personal. He had final cut of the film, complete artistic freedom and composed most of the soundtrack (I’ll have Ghost of Love forever on my mp3 player). For the first time, Lynch is capturing all the images for himself without any studio influence. No deadlines, no real budget. StudioCanal lent him a hand, but the film was largely financed out of his own pocket. Free to do whatever the hell he wanted, for as long as he wanted with whoever he wanted. Not since Eraserhead has he had this much control. He even worked without a complete screenplay, essentially making it up as he went along.

I dig the PD150, and the digital format definitely works in Inland Empire’s favour. The images are gritty and malleable, and in the darker scenes the textures naturally melt into each other. Like a lot of films before it, it shows that independent filmmakers can make visually-stunning works using prosumer camcorders. Also, the handheld camera isn’t as distracting as people claim. I can think of only two occasions where it put me off; two very brief occasions.

Inland Empire is not only an audio-visual rollercoaster, it’s an visceral one. I was actually curled up with fear in the scene where Dern stumbles – screwdriver in stomach – along the brightly-lit streets of Los Angeles. She collapses on the side of the road among a collection of homeless people and lies there, dying. The scene hits you unexpectedly, but within five minutes it manages to establish a whole new world unexplored by his previous films. You feel for these characters based on their actions, gestures and emotions, even if you ignore what they’re saying. Like being sympathetic towards someone crying on your shoulder, even if they’re upset over something unfathomable. And to top it off, it is revealed that this warm, humanistic moment is a scene from Dern’s film, as we see cameras pan eerily around the set. My gut was ripped from my body.

The acting in Lynch’s films has always been strangely ambivalent. There is a scene in Eraserhead that demonstrates this perfectly: In the foreground, Mary X’s father grins inanely, while in the background Mary is sobbing her heart out. You get two contradictory emotions within the one frame and you’re torn between them. What are you supposed to feel? It’s both hilarious and gut-wrenching. In Inland Empire, the final confrontation with the Phantom (Krzysztof Majchrzak) is a prime example and to me, the very peak of the film. The soundtrack, fluctuating between chilling ambience and intense trilling really messes with your head. In these terrifying, alien situations, Lynch manages to create a scene that is comforting and terrifying all at once. The Phantom basks in the light of the projector (part of my interpretation, I guess it’s not explicitly stated), reeling from the impact of Nikki’s bullets. The music hints that he is a colossal threat yet he reacts calmly to her violent impulse, almost understanding. Doppelgängers play a large role in Inland Empire (a recurring Lynch theme) and this is the epitome of it all: Nikki sees her own face projected onto the man behind all the mystery. Is she the monster after all? Is the monster inside her?

Inland Empire was one of the best film experiences I’ve had. My eyes welled with tears, I laughed, and I shoved my fist in my mouth to stop myself from screaming. It does what horror intends (and often fails) to do. Turn the lights out, crank the sound up and prepare to have your brain raped beyond repair.

That said, I recommend you at least try Lynch’s films beforehand. To paraphrase Liam Lynch and friends of mine after watching the movie:

“So like, I was sitting in the movie theatre and there was like a lost Polish girl crying her eyes out in front of a television, watching rabbits lounge about and like, a piece of white trash stabs doppelgänger prostitutes with rusty screwdrivers and I was like yeah WHATEVER

Withnail, Marwood, my friends & I

Friday, January 16th, 2009

In a cold, damp and rat-infested flat in London, two unemployed actors (drug-addled and drunk out of their skulls) realise that it’s 1969: a new era is upon them. Sick and tired of a filthy, demoralising lifestyle that reaps few rewards, they leave their claustrophobic flat to spend a week in the English countryside. They obtain a key to a farmhouse owned by Withnail’s flamboyant and tempestuous uncle Monty, who seems to have an strange, almost disturbing interest in Marwood. What starts off as a vacation turns into a struggle for survival as they figure out how to cook and keep themselves warm.

The above is the synopsis of Withnail & I, maybe one of the most famous cult comedy films to come out of Britain. It is notable for kick-starting the film careers of Richard E Grant and Paul McGann. It was also Bruce Robinson’s directorial debut, who had previously written The Killing Fields for Roland Joffe and went on to direct How to Get Ahead in Advertising, Jennifer Eight and the upcoming Hunter S. Thompson adaptation The Rum Diary. The film is blatantly autobiographical; Robinson, educated as an actor at London’s Central School of Speech, went though a long period of unemployment while living with friends in a small, crappy apartment. He had occasional moments of glory, such as in Romeo and Juliet by Zeffirelli and Truffaut’s L’Histoire d’Adele H’, but most of the time he found himself waiting by the telephone, picking up only to find the odd television or radio commercial offered to him. Despite having a fairly prolific film career, Withnail & I is by far his most memorable work.

When I was at Uni (briefly), my friends and I would get together before parties and play the Withnail & I drinking game. It went a little like this: Every time a character in the film picked up a drink and downed it, you had to reciprocate. A drink of your own choice, I add, I don’t want you to go off and drink antifreeze straight after reading this.

According to experts (ie, third year arts students) it’s impossible to make it to the end of the film. The human liver can’t handle that much alcohol. I think most people get about forty minutes into it before it all kicks in, and by the hour’s mark you’ll have most likely passed out.

It’s a fantastic party movie in that it’s virtually laugh-a-minute. Honestly, I nearly coughed up blood the first time I watched it, I was laughing so hard. The magnificently crafted dialogue is so perfectly delivered by Richard E Grant and Paul McGann (who really deserves more acclaim than he gets, not just in this film). It’s probably one of the most quotable comedies ever written; a real icon of British comedy. Next time you’re invited to a party (assuming you have friends, of course), make sure you bring four six-packs of double-strength lager and a DVD copy of Withnail & I. And anti-freeze, if you have any.

Revolutionary Road

Thursday, January 15th, 2009

Revolutionary Road has just recently started getting advertised over here in the UK, and something worthy of note is that the ads don’t seem to be focusing on the DeCaprio/Winslet pairing. They, as you most likely already know, were the stars of Titanic, the highest-grossing movie of all time, and it’s the first movie they’ve been in since, over a decade later. It’s a sure-fire way to fill seats (Especially with old women), so why haven’t they taken that route? The answer’s fairly simple. Revolutionary Road is not for fans of Titanic. Titanic was an epic romance movie, set in front of an epic backdrop, and Revolutionary Road is neither of those things. It’s about unhappiness, starring two characters who are completely miserable with their lives, and have all but given up on their hopes and dreams. Set in 1950s Connecticut, we meet Frank and April Wheeler; married, two kids, him the breadwinner, her the housewife, both of them trapped in a life they despise.

This isn’t new material for Sam Mendes (The director, as well as Winslet’s husband), of course. His directoral debut was the fantastic American Beauty, which starred Kevin Spacey as a man frustrated with his surburban life. Revolutionary Road is not quite as good as that film, but still manages to exceed it in some ways. The cast, for one. DeCaprio and Winslet are two of the finest actors of this generation, and they prove it with this film more than they ever have before. Their performances are Oscar-worthy (Winslet has already won the Golden Globe, and is tipped for the big one too), and succeed more than I could tell you at getting across the frustration and the pain the characters feel. Other than them, the best performance comes from Michael Shannon. He plays John Givings, the son of the realtor that sold them the house, Helen (Also portrayed excellently by Kathy Bates – one of those actresses you never really think about as being particularly good, but who is always great to watch in any movie). John spends most of his time in an insane asylum, but is let out occasionally to have dinner with his parents and the Wheelers; Helen thinks spending time with a “normal” family like Frank and April’s will help him learn how to function. John, however, isn’t insane; just ahead of the curve. He sees straight through everyone’s façade, and represents the next generation; his parents type of society is in its dying years, and will soon be replaced by the 1960s, and a culture that would have suited him much better. He calls the Wheelers on their bullshit, and his scenes are fantastic to watch.

Revolutionary Road has been compared to the TV show Mad Men, and they share many similarities: set in the same era (Where everyone, ever, smoked like chimneys), starring a man who works an office job in the city, and his wife, who is unhappy with the traditional gender role she seems to have been assigned. If you like one (And you should; both this film and the show are fantastic), you are likely to enjoy the other. There are differences, though. Revolutionary Road is all about the home life, only occasionally showing work, whereas the work main character Don Draper does in Mad Men is a major part of the show, Sopranos-esque in the way it shows the contrast between the two worlds. One of the most major differences is that Frank Wheeler hates his job. When he first meets April, at the start of the film, he has dreams, aspirations. He wants to move to Paris, where, with rigour and zest, he describes people as “alive” in comparison to the dull people that surround them in America. Much like John Givings, Frank and April are ahead of their time, but the difference is that they are unwilling to live out their dreams for fear of upsetting the status quo and ending up like John.

I’m wary to give out too much of the plot, as coming into it fresh was a good experience for me, but there’s a point where Frank and April come very close to attaining their goal, only for it to be snatched away by fate. While DeCaprio plays Frank as becoming more resigned to his fate, despite being unhappy, April clearly becomes more destroyed as the movie goes on. It’s worth mentioning the performances again; DeCaprio and Winslet both play their parts to perfection, to the point where you completely forget it’s fictional, they are the Wheelers, trapped in a miserable, dead-end life, almost powerless to escape the day-to-day monotony. The way the film ends is harsh, but ultimately necessary.

Revolutionary Road is a great movie, and one of the best of 2008. There are many ways to interpret it; some might say it’s about how people were held down by American society in those days, while others could proclaim that Frank and April get punished by their own cowardice. Whatever the case, the movie is miserable, pessimistic, and ultimately hopeless. Not for the Titanic crowd.

Rating: ★★★★½

Gummo – the best film ever made and Dom Kelly only disagrees cos he’s a dick

Wednesday, January 14th, 2009

“I knew a guy who was dyslexic, but he was also cross-eyed, so everything came out right. “

I’ve always had a slightly morbid fascination with the “dregs”, if you will, of Western society. The poor white trash, with little money, lots of prejudices, and a violent attitude (Now is probably a good time to point out I don’t look down on people because of their economic situation or anything, but if I met someone who was honestly racist or homophobic there’s a good chance we wouldn’t be hanging out much). Gummo focuses entirely on these types of people; every character is broken in some way, whether they’re addicted to drugs, mentally retarded, or just kind of creepy. The plot synopsis on IMDb is “Lonely residents of a tornado-stricken Ohio town wander the deserted landscape trying to fulfill their boring, nihilistic lives.” but this is more than a synopsis; it’s pretty much the entire plot. Nobody is going anywhere or trying to achieve anything, and you get the feeling like the events that occur are just normality in the day-to-day lives of these people. Anyone who starts to watch this expecting any form of convention is going to be disappointed.

Gummo is an incredibly surreal and odd film, in regards to the way it’s filmed and the usage of different camera styles, but it’s also incredibly realistic in its depiction of white trash. One particular scene that stood out to me was the second scene with the Bunny Boy, where he meets two young children, no more than nine years old, playing. The way they yell and shout and swear, despite their age (One of them asking if police are mad because “we get more pussy than they do” is perhaps the funniest and best example of this), is something I’ve seen before, in children with poor mothers, living in council houses. The movie is extremely accurate in the way it depicts these characters, but it isn’t inviting the audience to laugh or sneer at them; if anything, we sympathise. I think the setting and the backstory has something to do with this; it’s set in Xenia, Ohio, which was hit by a tornado in 1974. The movie moves the tornado’s arrival to only a few years before the events of the film (Assuming that the movie was set in the present, 1997. No specific date is given, and it could fairly easily take place in the late 70s or early 80s). The death and destruction the tornado caused clearly sent the town into a stupor from which it hasn’t recovered; and all that seems to exist there are the disturbing, broken men, women, and children we see throughout the film.

Gummo was absolutely savaged by the critics on first release, and when you read the reviews it’s easy to see why; they all see Harmony Korine, the writer/director, as trying to make a huge statement or something, and they’re just not getting it. One review even says Gummo is a movie of moments.” and tries to bring this up as if it’s a negative thing, rather than the entire point. Werner Herzog says it best with this quote: “It’s not going to dominate world cinema, but so what?” Many of these reviews also seem to miss the humour in the movie. It takes being able to make you laugh and cry at the same time and stretches both as far as they can go. It’s disturbing, creepy, almost downright terrifying in places, but at the same time is completely hilarious. One scene in particular, involving a boy, his mother, and tap-dancing, is deeply tragic, but what’s happening on screen is funny enough to make you laugh out loud. The reality of the film still stands up throughout all of this, though; if someone had decided to tell me it was a documentary before I saw it, there’s a good chance I might have believed them for a while.

There is also, in the film’s surprisingly short running time (88 minutes or so), some of the best art direction ever seen on screen. The settings are perfect, in their way, and feel completely natural. One example always used by people, it seems, is a scene set in a bathroom near the end of the film, where there is a slice of bacon sellotaped to the wall. At first it’s confusing, but the more you think about it, it becomes clear that yeah – that character, or another member of his family. probably would have sellotaped some bacon to the wall. Despite this ridiculous attention to detail, the scenery never calls attention to itself; there are never any shots of just locations in that way. Gummo is entirely character-driven, and these amazing sets just serve to make these characters seem more three-dimensional and real. Oddly enough, for such a surreal, unconventional film, it has a lot of quotable lines, which I will not reveal here to you, but which you will know if you ever watch it.

The assortment of characters in Gummo aren’t something I’ve really paid that much attention to so far, other than to say they’re realistic. They’re more than that, though, they’re fully-fledged, brilliantly written, and instantly recognisable to fans. The main characters (Or at least, the ones that crop up the most) are Solomon and Tummler, who spend most of their time shooting cats and sniffing glue, but to talk about them would be to barely scratch the surface (And, to be honest, this is one of those films where it’s best to keep a fair amount of it a surprise).

When it comes down to it, what is Gummo about? It’s about a town stagnating, struggling to cope after a terrible disaster. It’s about the odd things that you can do when you don’t really have anything to live for. Mostly, though, it’s about people. It’s about these people. It’s about these people, and the lives they lead. It feels like nothing more than a short snapshot into the lives of these people, which we leave as quickly and suddenly as we enter. They don’t change. Hell, why would they? To them, we weren’t even there. Even when characters talk to the camera it feels like they’re staring past us and looking at a wall.