Review: American Hustle

American Hustle is as swaggering as its charismatic characters. David O. Russell (Silver Linings Playbook, The Fighter, I Heart Huckabees) has dared to mix crime caper, the mafia and comedy in this lavish production, with a slew of ridiculous characters all playing each other in a desperate bid for personal supremacy. Loosely based on the F.B.I.’s famous Abscam sting operation that targeted public corruption in the 1970s and ’80s, we focus on a braggadocio con-artist couple who are forced to help the feds bring down the big politicians whose actions are ‘ruining America’. American Hustle has been compared to The Sting and Goodfellas. From its hustling flashbacks and confidence tricks to its Henry Hill voiceovers and retro style, American Hustle is exactly that.

Aesthetically flawless, the clothing and makeup departments must have worked in overdrive (‘Another metre on those flares!’ ‘Skin another dog: we need more fur!’). American Hustle is a visual delight – a Savile Row LSD nightmare of ’70s sartorial chutzpah. The complex hairstyles (comb overs, pompadours, rollers, wigs) are a fitting metaphor for the characters, who carefully conceal the ugly reality with risible charade. The devastating soundtrack, of brassy Duke Ellington, strutting Tom Jones and bassy disco, whips up a perfect aural accompaniment of bold hedonism and flash class. It all makes for a thrilling watch.

The actual plot is surprisingly simple: various characters on a collision course of conniving conning. I was expecting more twists and turns that didn’t materialise, which means that the characters are by far the most important element. The film’s strength undoubtedly lies in the acting, which is pure perfection. Christian Bale (The Fighter) dominates the screen as the overweight, balding but convincingly charismatic conman Irving Rosenfeld. The mercurial performance straddles loveable rogue and thieving so-and-so. Amy Adams (The Fighter), Irving’s partner-in-crime, is unsettlingly credible as a perpetually-reinventing borderline sociopath: her fake British accent starts to muddle with her American one as she falls too deeply into her role-playing. Bradley Cooper (Silver Linings Playbook) plays ambitious F.B.I. agent Ritchie DiMaso with hyperactive enthusiasm. This irrepressible performance is another which proves that Cooper isn’t simply a romcom support. Jennifer Lawrence (Silver Linings Playbook), one of Hollywood’s most talented young actors, is Irving’s unstable wife, who regularly sabotages plans and sets fire to a good number of household objects. Lawrence also manages to be the funniest of the main cast. Jeremy Renner, new to the Russell canon, is in more of a supporting role, but is nonetheless solid as a sleazily slick but well-intentioned Italian-American politician. Also watch out for a surprising star guest appearance.

What the audience might not expect is the comedy, for the film is as much that as it is drama or crime. American Hustle is incredibly funny, thanks to the actors’ brilliant comic touches, from their ridiculous actions to petty squabbling during high-octane action. Russell has even cast comedian Louis C.K. as a spendthrift cop who incessantly starts, but never finishes, a random story about ice-fishing. It works almost like a sitcom, with the cast weaving in and out of each other in neurotic hilarity, and it’s a lot funnier than Friends.

Distrust abounds in this society, trapped somewhere between love and hate, admiration and contempt. They play each other and that is their problem: life is a desperate attempt to attain the shimmering mirage of The American Dream. The title is thus perfect for a critique of ego-centric greed and boundless ambition which dominate today’s political and economic headlines.

American Hustle is less straightforward than it seems. The tempo, the humour, who the bad guys are and who you should root for all elude simplicity. I’m not too sure what kind of a film it really is: is it any more than superficial fun? I believe so, because it is so effortlessly entertaining that you don’t realise what a thoughtful study of humans and their motivations it really is. A dry statement precedes the movie, saying ‘a lot of this actually happened’: American Hustle is as dazzlingly deceptive as the characters themselves.

Review: Nebraska

Semi-senile old man Woody (Bruce Dern) and his nice-guy son David (Will Forte) travel across the Midwest to collect a sweepstakes prize that doesn’t exist. Nebraska is, quite simply, a road movie.

Woody Grant, whose neck is completely covered in beard hair, is a laconic old git with a history of alcoholism and family neglect. Prone to delusion, the cantankerous fool is tricked by a cheap marketing flyer into believing that he has won a million dollars. Nothing will prevent him from trying to walk 750 miles to collect the big bucks himself, so his son eventually acts as chauffer. He knows it’s a delusion, but sees an opportunity to connect with his old man who loved the sauce more than his boys. Predictably, over the course of the film this does happen, as an inebriated accident force the pair to stay at Woody’s hometown and a family reunion is organised. David learns more about his distant father – how he used to be generous and popular, and had a traumatic war experience.

There is nothing wildly novel about Nebraska. From the opening black-and-white film footage of railroad tracks we know that this is a road movie: Paris, Texas; It Happened One Night; Little Miss Sunshine. Stagnant shots of fields, dilapidated barns and forgotten diners establish a fading American landscape as the set. The viewing experience is much like watching drizzle for an afternoon – depressing. There is little music, sparse dialogue, and silent family get-togethers. We feel ourselves being sucked into the world of people who have given up joy in their monotonous lives. Their relationships have crumbled, they ponder lost machinery, and they wear fleeces. Nebraska draws you in to where you don’t want to be.

Of course, the dough isn’t really important – the prize could have been a budgerigar because we know that it is non-existent, and maybe Woody does as well. Where Nebraska really packs a punch is in the emotion department. An irredeemably dislikeable Scrooge tenders pathetically as he looks around his old house, in rooms where he grew up and his siblings died. Understanding his past allows his family to understand his present. The relationships are important to us because, by the end, we care. This, I believe, is due to the acting.

Bruce Dern, a man of mixed career recognition, uses all his melancholy abilities to portray this forlorn old timer who treads precariously between sympathetic and punchable. Also worthy of mention is Will Forte, whose dependable presence allows the relationship to take off. His delivery seems strange though – the talking pace, high-rise terminals and post-speech pauses are straight out of a generic U.S. comedy (Forte was in Saturday Night Live, 30 Rock and American Dad). Similarly, Woody’s wife Kate (June Squibb) is almost a stand-up. But this comedic element serves Nebraska well. Far from undermining the seriousness, the black humour prevents any saccharine sentimentality. The cynical observations enhance the feeling that the film knows what and where it is, as well as making it enjoyable. I challenge you not to chuckle at the fat, goateed hick losers who sit around all day laughing at others’ stupidity, or Woody’s identical brothers who occasionally mutter to each other about broken cars.

It is also a neat study of small-town America. We see the drawbacks: bored retirees watching traffic; obese redneck ex-cons sneering in camouflage; a Bad Day at Black Rock bully who sings karaoke Elvis in the Coors-drenched bars. But we also see the positives: the wholesome values of the simple pioneers who literally built their town and whose fraternal civic conscience kept it together. This America is what Bruce Springsteen exists to wail about. Payne has used this setting, which could be a million one-horse towns across the States, to tease out emotions not in abundance on a Hollywood set.

Nebraska is realism worshipper Alexander Payne’s first film since Oscar-nominated The Descendants. A melancholy portrayal of human relations, people dealing with the endless march of time, and the ability to forgive, this film deserves the same respect.

Top 10 Film Noirs

1) The Maltese Falcon

And so it all began. This 1941 production is generally considered to have kickstarted the genre, combining various elements of earlier cinema (such as German Expressionism) and popular fiction (like the dime novel). The Maltese Falcon blends these in iconic fashion.

Humphrey Bogart stars as Sam Spade: the classic Noir actor playing the classic Noir character. That image that we all have – of a mac-clad fedora’d PI, stalking the nocturnal cityscape in the rain, pulling guns on low-lives and falling for dames – emanates from The Maltese Falcon.  The grotesque Sydney Greenstreet and the snivelling Peter Lorre support, bumbling both sides of the blurred good-bad line. It created a template for the next decade and a half: cynical private eye, devious femme fatale, duplicitous career criminals and a whisky-soaked rambling hardboiled plot. And a lot of smoking.

2) The Big Sleep

Howard Hawks, the stylish master director behind a diverse string of Hollywood hits, brought Raymond Chandler’s pulp masterpiece The Big Sleep onto the big screen.

The plot is a convoluted mess, with many elements not adding up. It boils down to a decrepit old man, so physically broken that he has to derive all tobacco enjoyment from passive smoking, hiring a detective to investigate his daughter’s blackmailing. Obviously, it’s a little more complicated than this. Indeed, it is so complicated that an addled Hawks himself had to ring Chandler to enquire about some details... Chandler was as clueless. But this muddle reflects the mess that the characters are involved in.

Humphrey Bogart predictably turns out a masterful performance, but newcomer Lauren Bacall ensures that the on-screen chemistry sizzled between the stars unforgettably. Think The Maltese Falcon, then double.

3) The Third Man

The Third Man stands out, partly, because it is European. An all-star cast and production crew (Orson Welles, Joseph Cotton, Carol Reed, Graham Greene, David Selznick) ensured that this was a hugely successful film, and is still considered one of history’s greatest movies. The startling zither soundtrack, awkward camera angles, and postwar Vienna setting have created a unique European take on the classic Noir.

Cotton plays Holly Martins, a puppy-like writer of cheap novelettes. He is promised a job by old buddy Harry Lime (Welles), but on arrival in Vienna discovers Lime has been killed. Yes – it’s a little more complicated than that. Nosey Martins enters a crash course with the military police, who run the city, and racketeers, who do the same, as well as treading a tragic path of unrequited love with Lime’s old flame, Anna (Alida Valli).

The film’s brilliant dialogue, mesmerizing acting and complex human interactions mean that The Third Man is more than just 'fun': it is a heavyweight production and fantastic viewing. If for nothing else, then watch for the famous last scene, which shows the making of a cynical Noir protagonist out of the mould of an optimistic American.

4) Double Indemnity

It is often Double Indemnity, and not The Big Sleep, which earns the ‘top Noir’ prize in such lists. Written by pulp-master Raymond Chandler in a stupor (as a recovering alcoholic, Chandler insisted that he be locked at home with a typewriter and a box of whisky to be able to do this job) and directed by Billy Wilder, Double Indemnity is told characteristically for the genre through flashback.

A dying Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) narrates the doomed tale of his destruction at the hands of Barbara Stanwyck’s Phyllis Dietrichson, the ultimate femme fatale. Her heart, we eventually learn, is pure evil, although we guess it well before sucker Walter. Stanwyck’s mesmerising performance ensures that it is the most iconic depiction of a femme fatale. Also featured is Edward G. Robinson as a sage-like godfather figure. His acting pedigree in the genre is supported by appearances in Key Largo and Scarlet Street.

5) Gilda

Another Noir that explores the femme fatale is Gilda, only this time in a more sympathetic light. Instead of pure evil, Gilda (Rita Hayworth) is as much of the victim as anyone, a rareity in Film Noir.

Glenn Ford is Johnny Farrell, a two-bit loser of a gambler who ends up working for the enigmatic Ballin Mundson (what kind of a name is that anyway?) played by George Macready. They do nicely, Johnny running Ballin’s lucrative casino. But one day old Mundson appears with a new wife, Gilda. She and Johnny used to know each other well, but their relationship ended acrimoniously. Things heat up, and the makers threw in some criminals for added zest.

Three immature adults arguing in a casino might not sound all that great, but its exploration of the vulnerabilities of Noir characters is gripping and thought-provoking, and not what might be expected.

6) Pickup on South Street / Kiss Me Deadly

Pickup on South Street’s tense opening scene shows pickpocket Skip McCoy using his lightfingered ways to relieve a young woman of her belongings. Unfortunately for Skip, a boastful egotist who lives in a shack with the Hudson River as a fridge, the woman’s purse contained state secrets due to be smuggled from the country. Thus, braggadocious Skip winds up in an international spying conspiracy, and has to outwit both the cops and the criminal traitors. Whilst its hallmarks are all typical Noir, what makes Pickup on South St. interesting is that it is a reflection of Cold War paranoia – a fear of subversion, foreign powers and America’s inability to guard its secrets. On a more immediate level, the broody jazz soundtrack and wiseguy cop-crook banter make Pickup on South Street a lightly entertaining picture.

In terms of plot, nothing about Kiss Me Deadly really stands out. Ralph Meeker is PI Mike Hammer, a Noir staple a little less recognisable as Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe. There are some cops (FBI this time), some girls, and a whole lot of nocturnal anger. But what Kiss Me Deadly has is the same as Pickup on South Street: a reflection of Cold War paranoia. This time it’s nuclear annihilation. Hammer is looking for the great whatsit, a MacGuffin which materialises as radionuclide stuff, stolen by gangsters. The result isn’t pretty. 

7) Out of the Past

If there is one depressed Noir male more weary and cynical than Humphrey Bogart it’s Robert Mitchum. Mitchum, whose heavy eyelids alone mark the tragedy of a thousand heartbreaks, plays PI Jeff Bailey, on a case of double-crossing, theft and a femme fatale – you know the score by now. There’s rain, there’s darkness, there’s shooting. There’s a private dick in a mac and a wide-brimmed hat. Over the course of the film, the layers are peeled back and we learn more about how Joe was wronged and outwitted.

This is stereotypical stuff, but, much like The Big Sleep, it is classic stereotypical stuff. Mitchum’s laconic performance engenders real sympathy from the viewer.

8) Sunset Boulevard

After a series of unfortunate events, hack screenwriter Joe Gillis (William Holden) is hired by forgotten silent star Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) to work on her triumphant return to the screen. He is by no means a courageous fighter, more of a down-and-outer (to quote Brando) trying to take advantage of an old bat. She is half mad, deluded and suicidal – a worse situation, one might argue. Being a Noir, it doesn’t end well.

Swanson was herself a successful actress in the pre-sound days, and as this was her most significant post-‘20s hit, we can guess where she got her inspiration from. A similar character is her butler, Max. He was once a prominent director and husband of Norma, but gave that all up to care for the love of his life. Max is played by Erich von Stroheim, an Austrian star and director from the silent era, now playing a supporting role to survive. Other similar figures make appearances, like Cecile B. DeMille and Buster Keaton. Art imitating life indeed.

As well as being a brilliant and gripping film, Sunset Blvd. is a stinging critique of the Hollywood system. Its superficial gloss and the madness it throws its forgotten rejects into seem real because, in all likelihood, they are. Listen for the famous ‘All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up!’.

9) In a Lonely Place

If you’ve seen other Bogart Noirs, such as the above or Key Largo, In a Lonely Place will be a pleasant surprise. A film which showcases Bogart’s emotional depth as an actor like The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, this film centres on a relationship breakdown and paranoia.

Another unlucky screenwriter falls for Gloria Grahame’s (herself an experienced Noir star) Laurel in a whirlwind romance. Rather annoyingly, he is simultaneously a suspect in a murder enquiry. How tedious! The stress of this position works over his mind until he is a violent bully, convinced the world is out to get him. He is cleared, but it is too late to salvage his relationship.

One of Bogart’s finest performances – a worthy rebuttal to any non-believers of this man’s immense talent.

10) Touch of Evil

In 1958 Orson Welles produced his finest attempt at a Noir. So stylish and dark is this that Welles finished what The Maltese Falcon had started – it couldn’t be pushed any further.

Welles uses his grotesque obesity to good effect as an irredeemably corrupt cop, who frames shady characters left, right and centre in a sleazy border town. Mexican gangsters vie for control, bombing and murdering anyone they need to. However, Mexican detective Vargas (Charlton Heston, who doesn’t look any more Hispanic than a kilt) arrives at the works with a spanner. He is also trying to have a good start to his recent marriage with Janet Leigh’s Susie – a veritable comedy of errors.

The camera angles of The Third Man are times ten, the madness of Sunset Blvd. is revved up, and the brutal sleaze of Double Indemnity is put into overdrive. The writing is tight, the storyline comprehensible, and tragedy tearjearking. A strong cast, featuring Marlene Dietrich, also helps. And look out for the scene which resembles Psycho very strongly.

Review: Dom Hemingway

Dom Hemingway is, when it really comes down to it, a film about Jude Law playing a cockney. The plot follows Law as the title’s namesake, a safecracking diamond geezer, who has just served serious bird for keeping schtum about his boss, Mr. Fontaine (Demain Bichir). On release, Dom and his dandy pal Dickie (Richard E. Grant) seek out the convivial Fontaine in order to collect his reward, plus ‘a present’. However, a near-fatal car crash and annoying robbery force Dom to reconsider his priorities in his search for better luck.

Dom Hemingway doesn’t know what it is – old-school gangster film or sentimental character study? Initially, it seemed the former: shots of Dom’s pointy boots and immaculately tailored three-piece suits, criminals getting up to no good with booze and coke, Motörhead blaring over the soundtrack. This is what the film is sold as: The Italian Job cooked in a Layer Cake with a sprinkling of Goodfellas glamour. Thus, we all relish Dom and Dickie snorting and swearing their way round London, shocking old grannies on the Eurostar and smoking a cigarette (each) in a pub. But as Dom seeks to mend his broken relationships the whole pace slows down. Dom the don leaves the screen and we have to endure Law exploring a hard-man’s sensitive inner soul: it worked in The Sopranos, it does not work here. By blending the two types of film, Dom Hemingway has neither the pulsating excitement of a crime caper nor the gritty insight of a kitchen sink drama.

Jude Law simply isn’t convincing as a flamboyant Cockney hard-man. The performance reminded me of Tom Hardy in Bronson, but it’s not Tom Hardy, it’s Jude Law. I suspect that he wanted to play a classic gangster, and this film serves as a vehicle for that ambition. So a flabby Law swaggers around, biting ears, bullying the weak and generally being uncouth. It isn’t like Law can’t play frightening characters – think Road to Perdition or even The Talented Mr. Ripley. But as Dom Hemingway, who looks like a Kray and speaks like John Cooper Clarke, his powers are wasted. He is also incredibly annoying. The writer must have thought that he was making Dom interesting through his verbal diarrhoea. Literary references mix with violent expletives and course sexual bravado (think Joey Barton) in cringing ridiculousness. After two minutes I just wanted him to shut up. The saving grace is Richard E. Grant, a much underrated actor with a comic flourish consummate enough to render any film watchable. Grant is convincing as a greasy lunatic who is one hand short of two. His various gags, visual and oral, are funny. I could have happily watched this East End Withnail drinking cognac in a mobster pub instead.

I was expecting a shallow but scintillating film. What I got was a reasonably enjoyable hour and a half of a few amusing scenes with boring interludes, and the rare chance to watch Law spitting on his own acting record.

Interview and Review: Day of the Flowers

Day of the Flowers is the first British film set in Cuba since the 1950s. The plot follows Rosa (Eva Birthistle), a Scottish political activist, who travels to Cuba to bury the ashes of her father, supposedly a veteran of the Revolution. But Rosa’s plan for a socialist holiday with grubby friend Conway (Bryan Dick) is interrupted when her materialistic, gregarious sister Ailee (Charity Wakefield) tags along. Things start to go downhill as naive Rosa finds trouble seemingly everywhere: tensions mount and various home truths are revealed. The film also stars Carlos Acosta, famous Cuban ballet dancer, as Tomas, a tour guide and generally decent chap. I spoke to director John Roberts about his recent venture.

For me, the human element is the most important aspect of Day of the Flowers. Would you agree?

Yes, that is what really drew me to the script. The human story grabbed me after about three pages – with the relationship between the sisters – particularly the older one who was in a crisis.

Although it is ostensibly about the two sisters it focuses on Rosa – the film literally starts and ends with her. What about her, or her type, stood out as worthy of investigation?

I found Rosa an interesting character because she seemed so conflicted and unable to square everything. She was trying to make something good out of what was much more complex, and when I got to Cuba I saw that you can’t ignore the realities. She seemed like a throwback in some respects, but actually became more relevant with what’s been happening recently (financial crisis et cetera), and there’s been a resurgence of people protesting.

I thought that she was almost relying on politics to make up for her own problems dealing with life.

There is a truth there. Without wanting to be too broad, politics often serves as an outlet for other things, even at the highest levels. With people who are dogmatic you think ‘what’s driving them?’. There was definitely a sense of that with Rosa – a lot of stuff going on underneath ­which took a while to tease out.

Were you tempted to explore Ailie more? She remains largely the same throughout.

She does, and I thought that she was the more level-headed of the two – a little more intuitive. But actually a whole backstory about them emerged very late in the writing process. Without revealing too much, we were aware that something hadn’t quite been addressed. Eventually the penny dropped.

I suspect that the main criticism levelled at Day of the Flowers will be that it can seem obvious at times – the characters definitely are ‘types’. But this is slightly irrelevant, because they were intended to be ‘types’.

Having said all that, the Cuban element is nonetheless prominent. Was the inclusion of this country a major aspect of planning the film, or was its prominence accidental?

It was very important for the writer – she’d been there many times. I think Cuba acts as a symbol in the West, though I’m not quite sure of what it stands for now. So it was important on that level, and I cannot think of anywhere that has that Romantic idea of revolution. What I was interested in was the gap between that and the reality.

And that’s Rosa’s issue. For her, Cuba is an image, it stands for something but is not a real place.

Yes, and so many people have that. A lot of the crew were keen to go because they thought they knew what Cuba meant. After three months a number of them had changed their ideas quite a bit. I went in thinking ‘what I see, I see’, and stuff just started to filter through. The people are very well educated and absolutely wonderful. I found it visually stunning, partly because there is no advertising – none of the clutter that you see in the West. So it is a remarkable place.

In terms of the visuals, you are providing a condensed image of Cuba, so in a sense you are summarising it for viewers who haven’t been. Did you try hard not to act like Rosa by romanticising and simplifying?

Yes I was very aware of that, and I also found it more interesting than the ‘Buena Vista Social Club view’ of it. In terms of the infrastructure there’s so much Soviet and East German stuff, like apartment blocks. And then on top of that it’s very clear that everything is changing – mobile phones are starting to be allowed for example. So we were mixing it up, because, while we wanted to stay outside of the cliché, it is still there.

The characters have these various brushes with the dark underbelly of Cuba. Was your experience more savoury?

It’s an incredibly safe country to visit, without doubt safest place that I’ve been to: the people are absolutely delightful. At the same time there is an economy based on sex tourism and that kind of thing which is very clear, and we didn’t want to duck that. But in the end it is not a tragedy, and I wanted to capture the Cubans’ great spirit.

Roberts has indeed captured Cuba consummately. It is beautifully and respectfully shot, accompanied by a fitting soundtrack.

With regards to Carlos Acosta, you must have had some reservations about casting an inexperienced actor in such a major role?

I didn’t, we were just delighted to get into a room to talk to him. There was only one thing for me – whether he could act. And he was an absolute natural: within two seconds it was obvious that he could hold his own against very experienced actors.

Casting Acosta certainly paid off. He has a real screen presence but nailed a naturalistic performance. Roberts further stressed the quality of all the actors. Eva Birthistle transforms into the most infuriatingly self-righteous pseud since Michael Sheen in Midnight in Paris, and Charity Wakefield’s charisma ensured every one of her scenes was a delight to watch.

Day of the Flowers is not, as Roberts points out, a tragedy: There is humour, there are thrills, there is romance.

Were you consciously trying to keep a balance between a feel good factor and a stinging personal critique?

I certainly enjoyed the humour in the script. Every time we tried to make it tougher politically, it sunk. I felt that the writer had a very light touch and I wanted to keep that. Whether we succeeded I don’t know.

I think that he and his crew have succeeded. You can decide for yourself from 29^th November.

Review: In Fear

In 2013’s cinematic landscape of CGI, digital technology and lavish blockbusters, audiences can thirst for a film stripped down to the bare essentials. In Fear is one such film, about little more than two spritely young urbanites getting lost in the countryside. Tom (Iain De Caestecker) and Lucy (Alice Englert) are looking for a remote hotel and – yes, you guessed it – there is something unsavoury in the woods. Instead of finding the Killarney Arms, they find a terrible start to the holiday.

For a while, this minimalistic style works. A simple, everyday setting can enhance a horror film because it makes it ‘real’ for the audience. It is this which allows In Fear to be scary: two people inside the car; something menacing outside. As Tom and Lucy drive hopelessly lost for hours, things go from bad to worse, their increasing stress levels mirroring the nervy audience’s. The acting is good and believable, especially considering that the set is essentially a car and the actors have to be frightened of something that they know is not there. However, that is really all that I can say in the film’s favour.

When the satnav eerily blinked ‘signal lost’, I wondered if this was going to be tongue-in-cheek – An American Werewolf in London style comic-horror. Actually, In Fear is simply unaware of how riddled it is with laughable clichés: an unwelcoming pub of cantankerous, three-eyed locals who enjoy nothing more than turning music off when strangers enter; a decrepit roadside shack with broken tractors in the garden and a ‘KEEP OUT’ sign on the rotten gate; shaking cameras filming the car from behind a bush, the operator atmospherically pushing the lens into the nearest leaf every few seconds. Most of the dialogue is ‘that’s funny, I could have sworn...’ and ‘it’s probably nothing [so let’s face away from the impending danger]’. Some viewers chuckled, others walked out.

Without wanting to reveal too much – although it would be a struggle to do so – the most flawed aspect of In Fear is its total lack of story. Whereas Halloween, Psycho or Friday the 13^th explain their killers and introduce a spooky legend, the writer(s) of In Fear apparently just didn’t bother. This means that all of the fright dissipates on exiting the cinema. The Alan Partridge-style pitch for this movie must have been over in seconds. Much of it doesn’t actually make sense – many of the spooky happenings are literal physical impossibilities. Fundamentally, this is an insult to the audience, who are paying increasingly expensive ticket prices. Additionally, I just didn’t care. There is no biographical information about the characters (I couldn’t even work out her accent), so they remain cardboard cut-outs, dispensable youths to be sacrificed on the altar of horror. Where is the terror in that?

In Fear does what it says on the tin. It is a horror film, designed primarily to scare, and there are plenty of frights: suspense, ghostly figures and people jumping out suddenly. If this is what you’re after, then In Fear is perfect. Just don’t expect anything else.

Review: The Counselor

The Counselor is a star-studded affair: Brad Pitt, Javier Bardem, Penelope Cruz, Michael Fassbender and Cameron Diaz. It is written by Cormac McCarthy, whose works are always being adapted for cinema (e.g. No Country for Old Men), much like Daphne du Maurier and Stephen King. Ridley Scott directs. Despite this, The Counselor is a preposterous film. 

The plot is not particularly original. Fassbender’s lawyer character decides to get involved with the narcotics trade, as one does, through a client of his, Bardem’s gangster. Diaz is Bardem’s scheming girlfriend, who has ‘issues’. Pitt is a nutty cowboy middleman, and Cruz is Fassbender’s fiancée. And guess what? Things go pear shaped. There are violent deaths, a funky Mexican soundtrack, and lots of cowboy boots. For me, setting a film in a situation as real and horrendous as Mexican cartel wars and drug trafficking should be for more than mindless fun: maybe as a vehicle for highlighting something terrible, a documentary-style investigation, or an insightful examination. This was none of those things – it was just an easy way to create excitement.

Michael Fassbender is completely out of his depth. He is a damp squib of irrelevance on-screen, especially when sharing a scene with the charismatic Pitt or Bardem. His character doesn’t even have a name. Perhaps everyone kept forgetting it, such was his lack of magnetism. Neither was he a convincing lawyer, although that’s less Fassbender’s fault than those who designed his look. Thankfully, Diaz, Pitt, Bardem and Cruz make up for this. They do captivate, and all, Cruz excluded (she’s the nice one in this), exude Pesci-esque psychopathy. The problem is that these are stock characters. Bardem, for example, is the same flamboyantly dressed oddball with an unfathomable haircut as he was in No Country for Old Men and Skyfall. Pitt is the same sartorially snappy cowboy with greasy long locks and a cocksure attitude as he was in The Assassination of Jesse James and Killing Them Softly.

One thing that The Counselor does have going for it is, surprisingly, that much of it is people talking in rooms. There is no doubt that its sprawling plot makes the viewer think - something which this kind of film very rarely does. Much as Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy or Funeral in Berlin are not simply gunfights – there is intrigue. Most of this thinking, though, is just trying to work out what is going on: a failure to explain the plot doesn't make a movie clever. For all that McCarthy is a brilliant writer, some of the lines are too consciously ‘cinematic’ (‘the truth has no temperature’). The metaphor-laden soliloquies about hunters and greed et cetera are trying to mimic No Country for Old Men, but the wisdom is absent. There are even a couple of cheetahs, resplendent in diamond collars, purring and hunting – how metaphorical! Or just impractical and a clear health and safety hazard. We have the theme of greed stuffed down our throats to show that this film is saying something, but it is hard to swallow because it is portrayed in a two-dimensional fashion. So many details are left unexplained, such as the relationships between characters, that it is a convoluted mess.

The Counselor is a classic case of a badly made, but entertaining, film. The problem is that it is not nearly entertaining enough. I’d suggest buying No Country for Old Men on Amazon.

Yet another bad hair day at work for Bardem

Review: Philomena

Philomena is about Philomena Lee (Judi Dench) who had entered a convent after falling pregnant, the holy authorities subsequently selling the son to a rich American couple. A conspiracy of silence from the ‘evil nuns’ has ensured that Philomena has never been allowed to know anything about her child's development. Phil’s daughter (Anna Maxell Martin) approaches journalist and former spin doctor Martin Sixsmith (Steve Coogan), believing the story to be good. Martin and Phil attempt to track down the son order to write a popular article.

There is ample opportunity to make Philomena a little obvious: the evil Church; the stereotypes of a naive old Irish woman and an arrogant Oxbridge Labourite; excessive emotion. In no way does this happen. There is a lot of emotion, but it is powerful, partly because it is derived from a true story and partly because the film is well made. Dench both accurately portrays this God-fearing ex-nurse and nails the psychological process that the real Philomena must have gone through. Coogan's role is, I suspect, closer to home for him. I have said before that he seems to bring a lot of his own vulnerabilities and insecurities into his roles. Any good actor will do the same, but it is a shame that because of Coogan’s noticeable mannerisms, people will insist that he is ‘just playing Alan Partridge’. The cynicism and anger present in Sixsmith shows that Coogan has self-awareness, insight and, ultimately, an ability to turn his flaws into art. That is surely the mark of a good artist.

The relationship between Philomena and Martin is enhanced by the acting relationship between Coogan and Dench. Maybe they just got on well, but the apparently genuine affection and understanding is a feat of performance. This relationship, I think, is a major part of the film’s charm. Steve Coogan stated several times before its release that he was proud of the film’s lack of cynicism – the touching friendship is warming to watch, and without any kind of saccharine coating. Their mix of ignorance and wisdom in different areas complements each other perfectly. The supporting cast, such as Maxwell Martin, is solid and back Dench and Coogan well.

I would certainly recommend Philomena. It is intelligent and wise, has a touch of class, and really is an ‘uncynical’ study of a heart-wrenching tale.

Review: The Great Beauty

The Great Beauty is a visually stunning epic directed by Paulo Sorrentino, set in Berlusconi’s Rome. It stars Toni Servillo as Jep Gambardella, a cynical journalist who once wrote a famous novel. He spends his time partying amongst Italy’s rich and powerful, from cardinals to poets to men who own keys to palaces (no, it’s never explained). But one day a stranger informs Jep of the death of a woman he once loved, and his halcyon decadence is jolted by introspective pondering.

Jep refers to the world’s ‘haggard, inconsistent splashes of beauty’ in ‘the wretched squalor and miserable humanity’, and it seems that a large number of those splashes bounced off the streets of Rome. Every shot is a picture, a Mediterranean Barry Lyndon. The characters’ fine tailoring is a suitable descendant to Casino’s: colour coordinated outfits of dazzling jackets and well-creased silk. Sorrentino’s filming perfectly captures the veneer of glamour through sartorial splendour and fine liquor which masks the dark underbelly of extreme living, just as Scorsese managed in Goodfellas. For example, the parties are so drunken, debauched and wild that it is impossible not to feel enticed, yet we see that at such frequency they would be nauseating. Like a bucket of fried chicken, one might say.

People refer to this film under the shadow of La Dolce Vita, and rightly so. World-weary journalist living among Rome’s idle rich, depressed with his existence and wanting to write a literary work of importance, forever trapped in the haze of cigarette smoke and decadence – this describes them both. Several scenes are highly similar. The poetry, aesthetic beauty and philosophical soul-searching owe much to the neo-realism of Italy’s past. It certainly owes something to Rome: the characters live literally in the shadow of Rome’s historical beauties (Jep’s apartment overlooks the Colosseum). In a way, their late-night wanderings through the beauty spots are as meaningless and pathetic as Marcello’s. There is also a chunk of The Great Gatsby – is the questing playboy moral, immoral, or just complicated?

While little exists in the way of a linear plot, the main narrative focus is Jep’s quest for ‘the great beauty’. This is inspiration for his second novel that he never located in the whirl of Roman high society. It is this profundity, this gravitas which Jep seeks, but his hedonistic lifestyle of late nights and no mornings do not allow it. Again, think of Marcello in La Dolce Vita. It takes religious poverty and frequent mortality to allow his mind to focus on the important aspects of living. Ultimately, it is this quest which proves the most consistently interesting aspect.

At two hours twenty minutes there is much which could, and should, be cut. This was its main drawback: not just the effect on audiences used to 90 minutes, but also the endless scenes of minimal importance convey a sense of arrogance on the part of the director. Moments that may have seemed interesting to Sorrentino don’t necessarily equate to viewers’ enjoyment. In fairness, the incessant nature does work well in conjuring the monotony of Jep’s playboy existence, but this could be confined to a handful of long scenes. Remove the bloated extra hour, as any Hitchcock, Scorsese or Fellini would, and The Great Beauty’s stunning positives will shine brighter.

The Great Beauty is at points entertaining, at others self-indulgent. Overall it is highly interesting, but like a piece of modern art, not like Goldfinger.

Review: The Kings of Summer

The Kings of Summer is about two friends who move away from their oppressive parents (mind-numbingly embarrassing in one case, fascistically strict in the other) by building and living in a house in the wilderness. Once there, the duo are joined by a machete-wielding Buddha-like Italian or Spanish (it’s not that clear which) kid, who is allowed to stay because they ‘don’t know what he’s capable of’. Cue friendship testing and affirming moments, joyful tastes of freedom, hardships and the realities of life, and anguished parents.

From the beginning it is obvious that this is a quirky indie film, with kids in old t-shirts who play acoustic guitars. The folksy soundtrack and unorthodox shooting style are obviously present, adding to the off-tempo story. There are several clichés and motifs already present in cinema – living in the wild, three friends mucking about, cringeworthy high-school moments.

But for all that, The Kings of Summer is a lot better it could be. It is entertaining and highly amusing, the light touches of humour keeping the whole project pleasurable without belittling its gravitas. The actors are all proficient at delivering genuinely comic lines (Megan Mullally from Will & Grace especially).

Ultimately the thing is a metaphor – the realities of building a house and living in the wild are wildly unrealistic. I suspect that the writer conceived the theme before the actual plot, as opposed to wanting to write a story about kids in the wilderness. Instead, the viewer is watching a parable about those formative teenage years – moving away from family, testing friendships, growing up, getting out into the world, dealing with its problems. It’s a nice way of doing it, because it gives a more driving direction to the plot whilst retaining the key themes that we all understand.

Overall The Kings of Summer is funny and warm, significantly more so than other films billed as ‘comedies’, and there is a kind of reckless silliness that makes up for any creative shortcomings.

Review: Only God Forgives

Only God Forgives. Well, the characters in Nicholas Winding Refn’s latest offering certainly don’t, due to their violent psychopathy. It certainly is a bizarre film, one of those that causes you to take a moment to readjust to reality afterward. After the first successful collaboration between Refn and leading man Ryan Gosling in Drive, this is their next, perhaps more ambitious, project.

If I were to compare Only God Forgives to Kubrik’s filmography, I’d say that it is a hybrid of Barry Lyndon’s aesthetic beauty and A Clockwork Orange’s brutal madness. The camera-work is incredible – every shot could be hung in the Louvre. There are fantasy sequences, cutaway scenes to parable-song-filled karaoke performances... and all that stuff. Don’t forget this is as much an art film as a Hollywood blockbuster. I should add that for anyone not keen on extreme violence, which hopefully should be the majority, watching this will be a task at points. There is more chopping and slicing than an episode Masterchef, more blood than a French steak, more guns than a bodybuilding competition. Although it’s all very powerful, and I guess that that’s a good thing, it is the type of production that will probably get people thinking whether the violence was necessary or just gratuitous. Like a Tarantino movie. Personally, I would say it was vital to the story, and so disgusting that there is nothing glamorous about it all. Good soundtrack, too.

The film centres on two American criminal brothers working in Bangkok, and when one is killed mother Crystal (Kristen Scott Thomas) comes to sort things out. She is not a nice person especially, pretty evil, and Gosling’s Julian is thoroughly disturbed, so much so that he barely speaks (Gosling must have had an easy time with learning his lines, both of them). This cues a collision course with a karaoke-singing policeman ‘The Angel of Vengeance’ (Vithaya Pansringarm), whose favourite mode of retribution is swift removal of recalcitrants’ arms via traditional sword. The plot is really very simple - there aren't a host of twists and turns that one might expect.

Is it, as people insisted on predicting, just Drive 2? Well, no, if a every repeated actor-director collaboration was a carbon copy then Scorsese and De Niro would have made eight Mean Streets and Hitchcock would have made four Suspicions. There are similarities, of course, but Gosling’s character is very different. This time, he isn’t a cardboard cut-out of a Man With No Name hero, he’s a disturbed and vulnerable young man.

There are numerous themes running throughout, such as Julian’s feeling of isolation and the nature of his mothering. They are presented in a complex way, through visions and dreams, enough to keep Freud occupied for days. Whether you enjoy it or not, and I did, it is stimulating stuff, and certainly not deserving of the trashing reviews that it has thus far received.

Review: Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa

Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa – one of the last decade’s most eagerly anticipated films? Well, for me and certain other Partridge enthusiasts is was long overdue. With a raft of recent activity (online radio episodes, an autobiography that actually sold this time, a documentary, appearances on TV and radio interviews), this big-screen move is another career move from one of North Norfolk’s most successful radio DJs and light entertainment hosts. And this was my main fear: that it had so much to live up to, and TV-to-radio adaptations so often fail.

Imagine my relief, then, when it was all OK. TV Quick Magazine’s Man of the Moment 1994 was working his magic. The plot was solid, there were a lot of laughs, and many of the old faces were there (PTSD Michael, embattled Mrs. Doyle-esque Lynne, boozed-up dosser and dwad Dave Clifton). There were numerous broadcasting gaffes from the man who suggested monkey tennis, inner-city sumo and youth hostelling with Chris Eubank. ‘Tonight we’re asking: has anyone ever met a genuinely clever bus driver?’

It was also an intelligent attempt at maturing Alan. In the decade of absence between series two of I’m Alan Partridge (unless you count a half-hour special) and his return on Mid-Morning Matters, he has gone from a young fogey in the midst of a mid-life crisis to an old fool more comfortable in his own skin, experimenting with staying young and hip. Gone are the blazers, polo necks and anoraks – 2010s Alan is all about the jeans, trainers and snazzy jackets. Watching him banter with Tim Keys’ Sidekick Simon is as funny as Alan’s awkward inability to fend off Chris Morris’ taunts during On The Hour.

I guess that the main problem was that there just wasn’t enough time watching Alan bumble and annoy his way through Norwich. The best moments in his illustrious career have come from very ordinary interactions – chatting to a Geordie about small arms fire procedure, smelling cheese with the chief commissioning editor of the BBC, judging a country fayre in Swaffham. With all this running and slapstick, the very essence of inadequate Alan, and thus his huge appeal, is lost.

Alpha Papa is a very good film, very funny, and as addition to the Partridge canon, a solid effort. Ultimately, nothing is ever going to live up to series one of I’m Alan Partridge. But overall: cashback!

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