Review: Inside Llewin Davis

The Coen brothers have an odd way of looking at the world. Not a Hunter S. Thompson acid trip way, just slightly off-beat, as if they wear wry-tinted spectacles. Weaving sardonic humour and gross brutality, tragedy and comedy are rarely far apart – a well-used concept in storytelling. They seem fascinated by those on the losing side, from The Dude to Llewellyn Moss to Larry Gopnik, and this must have been the case with Llewin Davis.

Based on one Dave Van Ronk, Llewin is a musician attempting to forge a career in the burgeoning folk scene of early 1960s Greenwich Village. He is less hero than protagonist, losing friends’ cats, ruining dinner parties, heckling performers and creating unwanted pregnancies. Self-indulgently self-destructive, Llewin wallows in masochistic, passive-aggressive failure. We do not know why – maybe his musical partner’s suicide is making solo work unpalatable. In any case Llewin is complex like any human, a positive three-dimensionality for a biopic to have. He might be a musical genius, but he might be just alright.

Inside Llewin Davis runs so smoothly, like a creamy cinematic oyster, that it is a delightful watch. The Coen brothers have buttered the camera and sent the viewer sliding through, to the extent that the film might feel lightweight to some. There is no linear plot, with each new development fading away. Similarly, the supporting cast enter and exit, forgotten as quickly as they appear. This all reflects Llewin’s life: he cannot grasp career success, but drifts from job to job and couch to couch. But maybe it was too elusive for its own good. It is certainly a film that would do with multiple viewings – the significance of the recurring feline escapades, for example, or what it all really means. The music is mostly performed live, a wise move which provides a bracingly sincere and talented soundtrack in today’s Auto-Tuned pop world.

Oscar Isaac deserves applause for his portrayal, for the production is entirely centred on him. For all of the Coens' abilities, it was up to Isaac to deliver a presence both passively restrained and charismatically dominant. Despite their diminished screen time, there are some other notable performances. Carey Mulligan is a raging wife of one of Llewin’s friends, reluctantly living the Village beatnik life. John Goodman is a heroin-addicted, cane-wielding fat man – Colonel Sanders meets Lord Byron. Pop pretty boy Justin Timberlake sings nicely in a sweater. Various oddballs, from laconic beat poets to guitar strumming yokel GIs, are chanced upon by Llewin.

Those who knew Van Ronk have complained that he was far nicer than Llewin, and that Greenwich Village loses some of its ‘vibrancy’ on-screen. But is the point of the film to tell this man’s story and introduce us to the ’60s folk scene, or is it about themes that the setting encapsulates? Joel and Ethan are very obviously demonstrating Van Ronk’s / Llewin’s influence on the most musical decade of the century, with a young Dylan and the Clancy Brothers popping up. Yet more deeply, Inside Llewin Davis is a study of failed artists, about trying to live one's dream. When do you give up? It is a beguiling, intriguing film, and one which asks more questions than it answers.

Review: The Wolf of Wall Street

Based on the memoir of a convicted fraudster, The Wolf of Wall Street has suffered extensive pre-release fatigue thanks to the dogged media questioning of its ethical position. Will it promote illegality? Will it glamorise dishonest lifestyles? Will it be able to stop the audience thinking for itself? This is all predictable stuff for maestro Martin Scorsese, who has built a career on seducing viewers with the glittering highs of gangster life. Whether or not those questions are satisfactorily answered according to a strict, pre-ordained moral code, however, does not necessarily impinge on The Wolf of Wall Street’s quality.

Like many of Martin Scorsese’s productions, we follow a man who finds himself dangerously in at the deep end of ill-gotten affluence. This time it is Jordon Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio), an ambitious yuppie who climbs the Wall Street ladder by founding his own company, Stratton Oakmont, and trading illegally. He hires a bunch of frat-boy buddies, all part-time weed dealers, and builds the company into a sickening behemoth of corporate greed. All is done, of course, at the expense of ‘ordinary’ Americans. This money is then spent on himself: drink, drugs and debauchery. He becomes addicted to Quaaludes (look them up), has affairs and crashes diverse vehicles.

Needless to say, DiCaprio is faultless, as usual playing the tortured and charismatic protagonist. When he performs the manic sales pitches to his adoring employees, like a warped Sermon on the Mount, we are offered a glimpse of how the actor works. Through colossal force of personality, DiCaprio pulls the viewers into his pulsating eyes, and I suspect that this is close to the real Belfort. Jonah Hill injects much mirth as Belfort’s number two, Donnie Azoff, a cousin-marrying loudmouth who exudes an aura of sweaty perversion. Margot Robbie plays Belfort’s wife. At just 23, this must have been challenging in such a chauvinistic film, and with a director who almost exclusively films from a male perspective. Various other names (McConaughey, Lumley, Dujardin) pop up magnificently.

A lot of what you see on-screen is not cinematic fabrication – bombastic Belfort really did indulge in antics that make Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas look like Last of the Summer Wine. At first, it is dazzling. Then it becomes nauseating. By the end, you are repelled. It’s all fluorescent teeth and Italian loafers at Stratton Oakmont, where Friday night celebrations involve copious cocaine, high-class hookers and more psychotic laughter than a mad hatters’ convention. Standing at three sickening hours, even Gordon Gekko would be put off his popcorn.

So are the stylish peaks of the first half adequately answered by the mortal troughs of the second? If hubris does not subside into nemesis, then the film is simply an advert for immorality, the critics cry. I personally believe that it does: Belfort is clearly a pig and the fact that he gets away with it makes us hate him all the more. There will of course be some whooping young chaps at Canary Wharf Cineworld, but should art be banned for fear of a minority misconstruing its morals? There are always going to be criminals who enjoy Scarface, soldiers who think Saving Private Ryan looks fun, and greedy sociopaths who want to emulate Belfort. Scorsese doesn’t show the victims, focusing instead on the bullies. But he presents Belfort as undoubtedly a wrong ’un; a crazed maniac who would abuse strangers for sport if he gave them a second thought.

Great fun and very funny, The Wolf whizzes along like any good epic. People sometimes claim that Scorsese produces one masterpiece per decade, and this certainly looks to be his 2010s magnum opus. What Scorsese does so well is to let the viewer make up their own mind: this is exactly what you should do with The Wolf of Wall Street.

Review: The Railway Man

Whilst attempting to write this review, I found that my thoughts weren’t easily translating into words. That, I suspect, tells you something about the emotional pull of this film: it submerges you so successfully into the protagonist’s shattered mind that the horrors of war become unfathomable.

The Railway Man is based on the true story, and subsequent book, of Eric Lomax. He was a soldier captured by the Japanese in World War Two, and forced to build a railway in his surrendered army of de facto slaves. He was also tortured by the Imperial military police, which is never nice. The setting is pure The Bridge on the River Kwai, but the story is more akin to the The Deer Hunter: Lomax remains trapped in his war for decades. Having always been interested in trains, on civvy street the fragile Lomax has become obsessed, sinking into old railway timetables instead of facing his demons. Thankfully his new wife is not so ensnared in the past, and thus is able to help break the omerta that imprisons her husband in emotional confinement. What really helps Lomax to regain control over his life, and which makes this story so interesting, is his meeting the Japanese officer who tortured him, Takashi Nagase. Forgiveness is, fairly obviously, central to the narrative.

The film weaves between events surrounding Lomax and Nagase’s meeting and flashbacks to the nascent railway in 1940s Asia. We glimpse the brutal abuse and murder which was meted out to so many men in that situation, then fast forward to the ceaseless repercussions. The two men finally coming face to face serves as the climax, and maybe it has had the movie gloss treatment. There was no confrontation, surprise or re-enactment in reality, and apparently the two men hit it off immediately. The story is also fairly predictable and the outcome expected, but because it hasn’t been imagined by a scriptwriting hack it becomes all the more powerful.

Colin Firth is perfectly cast as the elder Lomax. On numerous occasions Firth has played men quietly stewing in turmoil, and here you can almost see the barely hidden emotions churning under his stiff upper lip exterior. The younger Lomax (Jeremy Irvine) turns out an equally impressive performance. Holding his own opposite such an experienced actor is quite an achievement, but he had more high-drama and physicality to squeeze in as well. Nicole Kidman is forgettable as Lomax’s wife. In reality, Patti was a headstrong and resourceful person, but here she is waifish and unremarkable, all deference and cardigans. She just did not have enough character to break the wall of silence in a convincing fashion. What eased the inter-generational story into believable territory is the successful matching of WWII era Lomax and Nagase (Tanroh Ishada) with older 1980s Lomax and Nagase (Hiroyuki Sanada). The younger actors captured the mannerisms of Firth and Sanada in extraordinary detail, foreshadowing the mournful movements of their sad future selves. Swedish actor Stellan Skarsgard is oddly cast as a British veteran who does not manage to escape his past.

The Railway Man tries hard to illustrate the horrifying effects of war. But, more broadly, it shows how easily humanity can both fall apart and reform. Despite this, it is the restrained emotional performances which capture life’s brutal realities as best an artistic recreation can. The Railway Man may not be the greatest film about humanity’s ability to destroy itself, but in my mind it is a tearjerkingly good attempt.

Review: Anchorman 2

Hotly anticipated since rumours of its existence surfaced years ago, Anchorman 2 has a lot to live up to. The first Anchorman introduced the ridiculous news anchor buffoon Ron Burgundy (Will Ferrell) and his loudly-dressed team. It became enough of a cult hit to put it on a pantheon with Withnail and I and The Big Lebowski. The crazed 70s style, idiotic philosophical musings, illegal aftershaves and jazz flute performances provided fans with enough quotations to keep them happy for years. Thus, this sequel was released with a substantial responsibility to viewers.

Having lost his job and wife (Christina Applegate), Ron Burgundy hits rock bottom. Fired from presenting the dolphin show at Sea World for gross misconduct, he fails even to commit suicide. Luckily Ron is offered a lifeline by an agent for GNN, the first 24 hour news network, seeking to recruit him. Anchorman 2 then treads a well-established narrative path. Burgundy travels to San Diego to reunite the old gang. Sickly smooth Brian Fantana (Paul Rudd) is a successful cat photographer, redneck jock Champ Kind (David Koechner) runs a bat-frying chicken shop and Brick Tamland (Steve Carrell) thinks he’s dead. The team then battle for viewers, partake in professional rivalries and spout nonsense. Plot twists include temporary blindness and falling-outs followed by get-togethers.

What this Anchorman has is a conscious satirical undercurrent. It traces the birth of ubiquitous news channels, mixing with it the rise of cheap tabloid sensationalism. ‘Don’t just have a good evening,’ Ron declares after reporting on another live car chase, ‘have an American evening’. I thought this was all a little eager. The original Anchorman was satirical, it just didn’t go about it in an obvious way. Based on a real newsreader, Ron Burgundy was a laughable throwback to 70s alpha-masculinity, with misogyny and moustaches juxtaposed brilliantly. I mean, this is a guy who pompously declared 'I'm very important. I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany'. Critics became rather obsessed with the plot and satire, but Will Ferrell comedies are supposed to entertain and draw laughter. That alone is what Anchorman 2 should be judged on.

A lot of this film is simply to please fans. The whole thing reads like an ode to Anchorman. Jazz flute, Baxter the dog fighting carnivores and a large news team battle are funny because they are familiar. In the first, they were funny because they were original. It wasn’t that the jokes weren’t amusing, they just weren’t amusing enough. There is therefore not the same high yield of quotable lines. Paul Rudd should have been used more – after all, he is the man who delivered the statistic ‘60 percent of the time, it works every time’. There were some outstanding moments, like an RV crash where we see the characters colliding in slow motion (moments before: ‘why have you got a bag of bowling balls and a box of snakes in the back?’ ‘Oh that’s a long story. Let me just go over to this deep fat fryer I’ve had installed.’).

The Anchorman franchise loses something through its retelling: any novelty factor has, of course, worn out. Bereft of enough comedy to make this venture equal to its predecessor, Anchorman 2 is nonetheless completely funny 60% of the time.

'Don't act like you're not impressed.'

Review: The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

Ben Stiller is a funny actor. Not funny as in comedic, but funny as in odd – mercurial, enigmatic, unfathomable. Some of his juvenile flicks (Along Came Polly) are pure Adam Sandler, while others are genuinely amusing cult hits (Zoolander). His directing and producing, meanwhile, is bafflingly intriguing (Submarine). As star, director and producer of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Stiller seems to be trying to cement his reputation as a serious cinematic player.

Inspired by the classic American character of yesteryear, Walter Mitty is about a depressed serial daydreamer learning to live his fantasies. Carpe Diem is the subliminal motto of this film. We follow events surrounding Life Magazine, where Walter works, turning exclusively online. He is charged with processing the final cover’s photograph, yet cannot locate it. Submitted by elusive explorer Sean O’Connell (Sean Penn), the picture apparently captures ‘the quintessence of life’ (magazine or mortal state?). Nudged by the colleague who he is infatuated with (Kristen Wiig), Walter embarks on an international adventure to locate Sean, with whom he shares a mutual respect, and retrieve the photo.

Walter’s fantastical fantasies are not the main focus of this film. Rather, the well-known character is used to tell a story of self-fulfilment. Walter inhabits his imagination because he cannot create success in the real world. As highlighted by his everyman shirt-and-tie uniform, Walter represents the average Joe. He speaks to us all when he is imagining an alternative reality: acting without hesitation, living life abundantly and shunning mediocrity. Learning to break his self-indulgent invisibility, Walter is a self-help guide for those who have ever been cowed by the prickly heat of shyness, uncertainty or timidity. (That’s everybody.) Here is insight into ordinary human emotions.

The film feels like it is a little shallow. The plot smoothly follows a predictable trajectory, and the dream-reality blend is abandoned early on. Some will thus see Walter Mitty as being compromised by its lack of substance. But it isn’t claiming to be deeply intellectual. Its whole charm results from the stripped-down story. People might not see the movie’s subtle virtues, but that is perhaps due to their own inability. I found that it stimulated a genuine emotional response.

Walter Mitty is not particularly funny either. Stiller is a comic actor, and a number of incidents are supposed to be amusing, but my laughter was limited. Adam Hendricks raises the comedic bar as the ‘transition manager’, a ludicrously arrogant corporate fool with a beard that’s half way between carpet and ZZ Top. Again, this flaw does not detract from the film’s insights.

Walter idolises Sean, but he is a bit of a moron. Resplendent with gap year hair and indigenous bracelets, O’Connell dishes out ‘old school’ wisdom like ‘I don’t take the photo if the moment means something to me’. (Why not? There’s a snow leopard in front of you!). But he is really a MacGuffin, a plot device which moves the narrative forward. He is there to inspire Walter into adventure, literally beckoning him from a photo during one daydream. If there is a single message at the heart of Walter Mitty, it is that we all should find our O’Connells so that we can live life to the full. That is surely a worthy enough reason to see this film.