Review: Legend

It has been a quarter of a century since New Romantic guitar brothers Martin and Gary Kemp starred in The Krays, about the infamous Cockney gangster twins. In that time, both have died (the Krays, that is, not the Kemps; they’re very much alive and enjoying a Spandau Ballet comeback), and someone has decided that a new blockbuster about their exploits is needed. So 2015 sees Tom Hardy star in Legend, a film which follows Reggie and Ronnie (both played by Hardy) from moderately successful criminals to gangster overlords to their inevitable downfall. It also focuses heavily on Reggie’s attempts to control the mentally unstable, psychopathic Ronnie, as well as the former’s doomed marriage to Frances Shea.

As with most films starring Tom Hardy, it is the actor who is of greatest interest. His presence makes bad films worth watching and good films great. He is talented of course, and able to play characters in a convincing fashion, like any successful actor, but that is not what makes him such a standout performer. Generally, top actors are stars; they are magnetic personalities that draw viewers to them. These are the Valentinos, Garbos, Bogarts, Taylors, Grants and Caines. Because they must get crowds into cinemas simply by appearing in a production, and because of their personal magnetism, they often play similar types or display the same mannerisms. Hence why DiCaprio is frequently, and idiotically, accused of playing the same role. But such critics miss the point - the stars are not there to disappear into new humans every film, they are there to add their own inimitable personal touch to characters.

At the level below, you have character actors. These guys are consummate professionals, and able to morph into any distinct and unique subject. But it is precisely because of their mercurial abilities that they rarely reach the heights of a true star: the audience is never captivated in the same way. What is so interesting about Hardy is that he is able to do both, the perfect blend of charisma and on-screen presence with physically diverse personality changes. He runs the whole gamut of emotions, sizes, nationalities and morality in his career, and it is for this reason that I believe he will be remembered as one of the finest acting talents of his generation.

Tom Hardy demonstrates all of this skill in Legend. He presents the charm and the utter ruthless thuggery of the two gangsters, the threat of violence always lurking under the Savile Row suits and brylcreemed hair. It is a tense watch, as we wait for one of the twins to snap and nail a grass to the floor. One poor schmuck is hit in every scene in which he appears, but always at the end of a protracted conversation. It is Hardy’s ability to tap into the gangsters’ overbearing menace that is Legend’s greatest asset. Not to mention the fact that he is playing the two protagonists. How it is possible to act in scenes opposite yourself I don’t know.

There is a surprising dosage of humour in this film, which never threatens to nullify the horror of it all or underplay the violent story, but it does introduce a farcical undertone to a number of scenes. It helps to show the insanity of the world that we are watching, how extreme violence was always present, and how ridiculous it was that a pair of psychopathic hoodlums were able to fool so many into worshipping them.

One of the problems inherent in cinema is the fact that, due to filming techniques and identification, the viewer is naturally drawn to sympathise with the protagonist. This may be a serious problem when the protagonist is a bad chap, as we see happen with popular gangster films. Different directors have different ways of dealing with this - Scorsese shows, in no uncertain terms, the brutality and the awful realities of organised criminal life. In Legend, an incredibly effective solution has been played in the shape of Frances narrating. Emily Browning captures the fragility of Reggie’s wife, and the horror as she realises that the life of glamour has descended into a nightmare of self-medication and lonely depression. Cutting the dashing exploits of the twins on-screen, Browning’s voice helps to put their bullying thuggery into context.

While not exactly GoodFellas, Legend does all it needs to to dispel myths of the Krays’ old-school appeal. As mentioned earlier, it’s worth seeing simply for the performance of Mr Hardy.

Review: Child 44

Any publicity is good publicity in the movies. Just think of cheese-loving North Korean despot Kim Jong-un declaring blazing retribution for all countries who allowed the release of mediocre The Interview. And the governmental censors are at it again. This time, Soviet spy thriller Child 44 has found itself as unwelcome in Russian cinemas as Triumph of the Will. The Russian culture minister has compared its portrayal of the USSR to that of Tolkein's Mordor. (Then again, this is how Tolkein's fictional world is seen in Russia: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sl7w2Z0vGpA). Whether or not the banning is justified there is little doubt that the current media whirl will be vastly more helpful in selling tickets than the reviews, which have been lacklustre to say the least.

So, is Child 44 worth such political energy? In short – no. Swedish director Daniel Espinosa’s production lurks somewhere between murder mystery and stylised dystopian blockbuster. In this way, Espinosa seems to have punched above his weight and lost the powerful essence of the story: the crushing, illogical brutality of the Soviet Union.

Part of the problem is that the translation from page to screen has been too boldly cinematic. What could have been a nauseatingly claustrophobic study of grim reality has become a popcorn movie that showcases well-worn tropes, character developments and plot lines. Sensationalist shoot-outs and predictable clichés are more numerous than an unpacked Russian doll.

The story is interesting enough, if muddled. Tom Hardy is Leo Demidov, an orphaned survivor of the Ukrainian famine, a World War Two veteran who placed the Red Flag above the Berlin Reichstag for the iconic photo, and an agent in the MGB (the KGB’s predecessor). He is surly, taciturn, brutal when necessary and intelligent. He is not, inexplicably, as vindictive as he could be, with a soft underbelly to his gruff demeanour. Demidov is married, although his wife, played by Noomi Rapace, is more scared by than attracted to him. So he gets on with arresting traitors in an effective and speedy manner. When his comrade’s son is brutally murdered, Demidov diffuses a potentially dangerous situation: there is officially ‘no murder in paradise’, so a human-on-human killing in peacetime USSR does not exist.

He goes on that way until, that is, his wife is named by a colleague as a traitor, and Demidov refuses to give her up. Thus he is demoted and the two relocate to some two horse hellhole outside the relative luxury of Moscow. But fate has more in store for Demidov. A boy, clearly murdered, is found close by. Demidov convinces his general, portrayed by Gary Oldman, to allow him to investigate. And this means that he is effectively fighting the state.

The plot should be straightforward, yet Espinosa has allowed it to become muddled and bloated. Subplots wrench the action in different directions, the film subsequently lurching down one road then another. Espinosa seems as if he was unaware of what the story’s central theme is, so covered all areas. Should we care more about the capture of the serial killer, Demidov’s career, his marriage or the various orphan plotlines? Ultimately, we care less about each than Stalin did for his citizens.

Child 44’s biggest attraction is, political wave-riding aside, the acting. Tom Hardy is a safe pair of hands, forcing some feeling onto the viewer. He is well supported by the cast, not least Rapace, and, of course, Oldman. They are worth watching simply for their performances but, unfortunately, it is not enough to carry the story.

Historically we are on thin ice. The weaving together of the Red Flag being hoisted atop the Reichstag and a serial killer from the 1980s has created an elaborate and inaccurate recreation of reality that any dictator would be proud of. I’m not sure where the ‘no murder in paradise’ bit comes from, as homicide detectives worked openly on the real case on which this was based. Nonetheless, the double-speak of officials and the fearful alacrity with which citizens swallowed the lies neatly demonstrates how such governments act. The relentless executions, plotting and physical violence of a harsh society is captured on-screen. Thus, what Child 44 does so well is it showcases the ceaseless and nonsensical nature of the USSR – or, indeed, of any similar dystopia.

Child 44 has doubtless been unfairly savaged. I suspect that it was so promising that critics have been disappointed and thus too harsh. It could have been so much more, but compared to the Ukrainian famine the film is a perfectly pleasant experience. It is a flippant murder mystery that neatly encapsulates the absurd, devastating brutality of an oppressive state ruled by a paranoid leader.

Review: A Most Violent Year

A Most Violent Year is an inverse-gangster movie, a typical 1960s-1980s-set New York American Dream tale, full of loud clothes, louder guns and deafening ambition. It is GoodFellas with all the trimmings, except for a protagonist who will do anything to avoid becoming a criminal.

Oscar Isaac hit the big time with Inside Llewin Davis the other year, and he is evidently keen to continue his blockbuster success. In a less hippy role, Isaac channels all his steely grit to portray  the suit-and-polo-neck-wearing Abel Morales. Abel is an industrious Hispanic oil tycoon who seeks to rise above the nefarious, Mafia-like thuggery that typifies the nasty, neanderthal bosses of the industry and attain ultimate wealth and comfort.

But as Abel's company grows in power he faces opposition: the DA hits him with dubious law suits and his competitors routinely hijack his trucks. In the face of adversity, however, the moral Abel refuses to resort to violence with near sociopathic stoicism. We watch as he attempts, in these trying circumstances, to outgun his enemies by buying a large distribution plant by the river, with 30 days to raise funds to settle the deal. It's all a little stressful.

Behind him is his wife, Anna, played by Jessica Chastain with sarcy vigour. She is the daughter of a Mafia chap, and she urges Abel to use violence in order to protect his business. Some critics have compared her to Lady Macbeth, which is completely unfair because the Medieval Scot was a piece of work who helped destroy her husband's world. Anna and her husband are a team and they work together, despite a few deceptions and disagreements. A symbolic scene where she shoots dead an injured deer, one that Abel can't seem to deal with, demonstrates her greater desire to turn to gunslinging, but this is merely a difference of opinion about the means. They certainly agree on the ends. When external forces close in, Abel and Anna mesh together to fight as one.

Although Abel tries so hard to play by the rules, he is destined to have one foot in the world of gangsters. Thus, A Most Violent Year takes full advantage of the trappings of that genre. Aesthetically, we have silk clothes and fast cars, gaudy style and lurking groups of powerful men. Criminals are omnipresent, from Anna's father to the oil bosses talking business in a dark local restaurant. But the violence is often implied: there are a couple of gunfights, but blood and gore is conspicuous by its absence , especially considering the title. In a way, this makes it all the more ominous, because we see the effects of killing as opposed to absolving, glamorous shoot-outs. Violence is the cause of problems, not the resolution.

I mentioned the American Dream in the opening sentence, and it is indeed an obvious core of the tale. The world in which Abel tries to mark his territory is a grotty, greasy one. Abandoned warehouses, dark bars and train tracks typify the environment. The people are Hispanic, black and Italian: there is no WASP respectability afforded to this America. Abel clearly believes that hard work and honour can be used to attain the financial and social heights in which he hopes to raise his family. The shots of him looking out over a cityscape are a little obvious, but that aside, A Most Violent Year helps the audience to understand why the American Dream is such a holy concept for so many unfortunates in the United States.

Another, less overt theme of the film is perhaps that of being a man. This is not the glorious success afforded disproportionately to male characters so often in the movies, such as the white-hatted cowboy dispatching his enemies. This is more along the lines of Locke: the burdened man having to bear his responsibilities as the walls around him move inward, struggling because it's his only option. We don't know quite what drives Abel to such masochistic lengths (indeed, when someone asks why he wants to dominate such a dirty business he can't find an answer), but providing for his family is clearly key. We see them move into a new, garish mansion even as trouble threatens to envelope Abel.

The soundtrack adds to the events in a supporting capacity. Composed by Alex Ebert, whose score featured in All Is Lost, it channels the '80s synth sound of the time, and reminds us of the soundscape in Scarface and A Clockwork Orange. There is something epic, almost Biblical, about the pulsating, grinding music, implying doom and conveying gravitas that acts like a moody theatre backdrop to Isaac and Chastain.

I would criticise the movie's structure, though. It would be great as a play or a long TV drama series, but as a film it heightened the importance of events that weren't that big a deal. We were really seeing just a segment of Abel's life and career, albeit a dramatic one, but over the two or so hours I sat there imagining that this was the pinnacle of his existence. And it isn't. The result is to lessen the impact of what we do see, and make the whole production seem a little aimless.

We have had a generous amount of serious, yet highly entertaining, films in the past month or so due to the upcoming Oscars, and A Most Violent Year stands at the end in sombre, American drama that befits the award ceremony for the country's most important art form.

Review: Inherent Vice

A Californian private eye is visited by a young woman, who tells a mysterious story of deception and intrigue and thus sets into motion a typical whodunnit tale of murder and sleaze. Only novelty is, we're not in his office with whisky on the table but instead in his beach-side shack with joints and beer: Inherent Vice is an LA detective movie updated to the hippy age. Larry 'Doc' Sportello (Joaquin Phoenix) is said snooper, only he's outfitted in a hippy shirt, jeans and sandals instead of suit, fedora and raincoat. Doc gets stoned rather than drunk and has sideburns that make Lemmy look pre-pubescent. He apparently smells, too. Badly.

The mercurial Joaquin Phoenix appeared in Paul Thomas Anderson's critically acclaimed The Master, along with the late Philip Seymour Hoffman. They reunite here for a stylish, funny and dark mystery story set in 1970.

I won't try to explain the plot in its fullness. It involves several strains, all interweaving, and includes Nazi motorcyclists, Asian drug smugglers, cops, land barons, the CIA and, naturally, hippies galore. Imagine if Woodstock had been held in a fascist state, then Humphrey Bogart was sent to investigate a kidnapping.

Suffice to say, the plot is winding and complex, and although not confused it is certainly confusing to sit through. It feels like you are sitting in the same hazy smoke that engulfs Doc, like Anderson is trying to put us in his sandals rather than simply show us the character. 

It isn't quite as complicated as people suggest. I remember when everyone went on about how tricky Inception was to follow so I made a bit of an effort and all was well. So just concentrate and most of it should be fine. It certainly makes more sense than The Big Sleep which, in parts, made literally no sense.

Ultimately we must ask: does it matter that many viewers won't follow the events? Anderson says not really, and other critics agree. I'm not sure I do: why would you make a film that confuses people? It seems a little lacking in respect for the audience, but it is true that you don't have to be able to link every small detail to appreciate the movie. Even Doc doesn't really get what's going on half the time, and he seems pretty relaxed for a man in his predicament. I guess it's the herbal relaxants.

What Inherent Vice does so well is bottling the various social, cultural and political issues which raged at the time. So straight edged cops, Nazi bikers, drug dealers, hippies and wealthy businessmen are bump into each other in a desperate game of survival - Nixon makes an appearance. It is set very much in 1970, as the good times and optimism of the 1960s woke up to the hangover of the Watergate era. Heroin addicts are at the point where the highs are lows and Manson is mentioned several times. 

Paul Thomas Anderson has a knack for producing films that make you think 'what was that about?' Just watch The Master and you'll see what I mean. If this were 1975 then the answer would be easy, and I'd wind this piece up by telling you that Inherent Vice is a comment on the times and that was its primary intention. But herei n 2015, instead it seems like a period piece adrift ideologically from the audience. So who knows what Anderson's motives were for making this, but he certainly condenses the spirit of the times into two and a half hours very neatly.

Like the plot strains, there are simply too many actors to evaluate outside of an academic thesis. Benicio del Toro, Owen Wilson, Reece Witherspoon, for example, to name but a trio. The star is obviously Phoenix, and I cannot recall any scenes in which he is not present. Amusing was Josh Brolin, a buzzcutted hippy-hating LAPD cop who always looks one annoyance away from a burst blood vessel. He is such a ridiculous little Hitler that he provides a good foil to the perpetually chilled Doc, with whom he reluctantly works. Together they form the Laurel and Hardy of law enforcement.

Inherent Vice is beautifully made, and overall it is put together well enough that you don't have to worry about every minor plot intricacy. It is a little bloated and frayed at the seams, kind of like Doc, but definitely worth seeing as many times as you can stomach.

Review: Whiplash

Whiplash is a psychological drama from Damien Chazelle, telling the story of an ambitious young jazz drummer and his intense teacher. 

Andrew Neyman studies percussion at America's most prestigious music college, and ultimately dreams of joining his idols in the pantheon of jazz legends. The vital stepping stone on offer in the jazz faculty, it seems, is to play in the band of a charismatic, infamous teacher, Terence Fletcher. When Neyman gets his shot, however, Fletcher is a little more intimidating that Andrew believed. 

The main element of the film is not Neyman's path to glory, nor really the music (although this is obviously a prominent feature and praise must be lavished on the instrumental performances by a cast who don't even get character names), but the teacher-student relationship.

Basically, Fletcher is a psycho. The jazz connoisseur, perpetually outfitted in a cool dark suit and occasionally dabbling in trilbee use, espouses a teaching method whereby students must be pushed further than they thought was possible. This is how Charlie Parker became so great, and it will help Fletcher uncover the next Parker. This results in him rehearsing drummers until they bleed, throwing chairs at students' heads, engaging in psychological abuse and taunting musicians in hideously personal ways.

Maybe we're supposed to think he has a point, that he is a monster but a genius. However, I was never convinced. I'm not sure I'd have taken two minutes of his bullying nonsense - what's the point? He also vastly overestimates the importance of jazz. No offence to the genre, but giving the world another Charlie Parker isn't that vital, certainly not worth all of the misery and suffering it has caused to the musicians. Perhaps he should get into heavy metal instead, it would certainly provide a vent for his tension - jazz is too laid back for a wound up sociopath like him.

As I have said, the focus is on Fletcher and Neyman. J.K. Simmons is garnering praise left, right and centre for his bullying music monster, and Miles Teller as Neyman for his instrumental prowess. I also appreciated Teller's realist acting style, reminding me a bit of Brando in On The Waterfront. Unfortunately for Simmons, so well does he slip into the role that I think people will find it hard to see him as anything other than a nasty piece of work. Incidentally, he looks a little like a turtle who has lost his shell. Maybe that's why he is so angry?

There is thus little room for other characters. A few of Neyman's peers get occasional lines; Melissa Benoist plays his girlfriend but is restricted to about three scenes, as is Paul Reiser as his father.

What helps to turn Whiplash into a worthwhile film is the brilliant stimulation of tension. The way that the camera picks up on details, such as sweat or blood or notes on a manuscript, focus the viewer's attention on relevant information. The conductor prowls around, hurling things at students but just a little later than we're expecting, making each rehearsal as uncomfortable for the us as it is for the band. At points, when I was waiting for something to go wrong, I felt like I was watching a bank robbery. 

In fact, the whole scenario has a dearth of human warmth. Neyman is a loner, the other musicians either ignore each other or are actively hostile, and Neyman ends a relationship to pursue his musical career. As guests in his world, we end up in his void.

We could discuss the ending and what it means until the cowbells come home, but unfortunately the finale is a realm into which reviewers cannot enter. But I will say that what happens in the last segment can change how you think of the film as a whole, depending on your personal perception.

Is Whiplash a self-contained tale or a more general fable? Is the jazz a metaphor for all ambition, the price of success and what we sacrifice for it? Tales like these, generally speaking, are set in a specific context to add human interest to a broader musing on life. But I didn't feel Whiplash was. All I saw was an angry abuser in a black T-shirt, and a music school. It will be interesting to see how it fares in time, but until then it is an intense, uncomfortable yet enjoyable production, and as neat as the music that Fletcher's band produces.

Review: Foxcatcher

Foxcatcher opens with old black-and-white footage of a fox hunt from some forgotten corner of history. A class of men and women who have long disappeared trot about on noble steeds, dressed to the hilt in aristocratic hunting regalia and staring from behind bristling moustaches (not the women though). This is Foxcatcher Farm. We are being shown a dynasty of humans who were born to rule. If a poor fox gets in their way, it will be ripped apart. As will any other beast.

The story is ‘based on truth’, that interminably vague ascertain that there is a grain somewhere that was indeed present at some moment in time. But this one seems fairly close to reality, having been praised for authenticity by one of the main figures portrayed (then lambasted for inaccuracy, and finally re-praised minus the odd caveat of exaggeration). Mark Schultz here is a silent, depressed young man. He lives humbly with a bare apartment and mundane routine. But he won the Olympic gold for wrestling, as did his more charismatic older brother, Dave, and dreams of further patriotic glory. He thinks of wrestling almost as an emblem for American pride, drawing an unspoken parallel between his exploits and Washington crossing the Delaware.

He gets a shot at that greater glory when John E. du Pont contacts him. Du Pont is (and was) a strange but immensely wealthy member of the du Pont family, an influential clan who had made a killing (no pun intended) selling gunpowder during their Civil War. He is a wrestling fan, and also dreams of American glory through the sport. So he builds a state of the art training facility on his estate, Foxcatcher Farm, and invites Mark to build a team.

Du Pont is played by Steve Carell, usually a comic actor, but already drawing huge praise for this transformation, both physical and in terms of character. Du Pont is lost, lonely, sleazy. He is always in control despite his diminutive physical stature, thanks to Carell’s dominating, unspoken menace. Carell mimics well but allows du Pont to become a cinematic character, a little less like the everyday du Pont perhaps but with the exact same mannerisms, speech patterns and gait. He is desperate to bond with these blue collar guys in a primitive sport, one which his equine-obsessed mother considers ‘low’. He is sad that his one childhood buddy was paid to play with him by his mother. And yet he uses his wealth to buy tournament victories and everything else. Although he considers Mark a friend, it all comes down to money and how much he will pay him. Du Pont is lost in his own isolating wealth.

Channing Tatum should also be lavished with praise. People think of him as the slab of meat in the G.I. Joe franchise, but here he is excellent as Mark. He is a grunting man, full of sorrow, depression and silence. He barely talks, instead communicating physically – the relationship with his brother is conveyed through a wrestling scene early on in brilliant metaphor. Almost as lost as du Pont, the two bond in a strange father-son relationship that leaves no room for Mark Ruffalo’s affable Dave Schultz. This is where things get complicated, the trio heading for a nasty car crash (metaphorically of course, I haven’t given away the dramatic automobile climax).

From the start there is an animalistic presence: Foxcatcher Farm displays countless fox statues and trinkets; Du Pont’s mother is obsessed with her horses, a metaphor for her upper class sensibilities and distance, the animals symbolically being let loose by John; the millionaire is an ornithologist who has published books on birds. He himself moves like a sneaky fox, stalking his victims and ready to attack or slink away at any moment. Mark bulldozes through the mansion like a bull in a china shop (much like in Raging Bull or Bullhead). Also, men obsessed with birds are usually weirdos in cinema.

The style and setting all convey a fatalistic, foreboding feeling. The countryside is melancholy, seemingly always trapped between Autumn and Winter, with Mark taciturn and du Pont slow. Music is minimal and minimalistic. The large, lonely mansion sits silently in the mist. It all enhances the uncomfortable vibe.

And Foxcatcher is certainly chilling. The menace stayed with me, and I couldn’t shake du Pont out of my mind. After seeing Birdman last week I forgot about what I had seen soon after, but this I remembered. Where Birdman is about one guy, this is much more a study of humans: just like Raging Bull it uses sport to examine people more broadly. Those men and women in the opening footage are shown as very much still around.

Weird

How the Goths Influenced Cinema

These days, when someone talks about Goths you may think of this:

Well before these long-haired layabouts were moaning and wailing, however, the Goths looked more like this:

Purveyors of destruction (equally hirsute and unkempt but a lot more active and outdoors-y), the Goths, originally from Sweden way, travelled around on an extended European tour. They clashed with the Huns in the East and the Romans in Italy, splitting into two (Ostrogoths and Visigoths) and wearing hats with wings on. They defeated Attila the Hun, sacked Rome and were pushed into Iberia by the Franks. There they settled, mixing with the Hispano-Romans to create modern day Spain and Portugal.

Surely the Goths would be appalled at their descendants' style of play. I think of them more embodied in scrappy underdogs Croatia

Despite their fast-living lifestyle, like Hell's Angels on horseback, the Goths could be sensitive and artistic. They made some stuff, learnt from the Greeks and Romans, and influenced Germanic styles later. However, their forays into creativity were not actually that influential.

So why do we talk about Gothic art?

Well, many centuries later, during the Renaissance, the term Gothic was disapprovingly thrown about by the more artistically inclined Italians. The Visigoths, Ostrogoths and Vandals were all evoked to dismiss Germanic vulgarity and imply an unhealthy invasion into civilised Italy. The term Gothic is therefore retrospective, and has little solid link with the ancient tribe. The real connection comes in a more general, cultural belief of primitive Northern European doom and gloom.

Architecture

The most important aspect of Gothic art was undoubtedly architecture, a descendant of Romanesque. In the mid Middle Ages, stonemasons and architects created innovative ways to support large stone structures in the bigger churches and cathedrals popping up. New types of vaults and arches looked different to before, conveying the imposing grandeur of style that would find itself well used in later horror fiction and film.

 

Painting

The stylistic innovations of buildings influenced painting during the latter stages of the Middle Ages. Bear in mind that art was mainly religious at this time, being used to portray scenes of God and wholesome stuff like that. Bibles were illuminated by monks, which naturally grew more sophisticated as time went on. It became similarly flowing, the curved arches of stonework reflected in the less stiff, Lowry-like humans now appearing on canvas. A more 'realistic' approach was gradually mastered through depth perception. Secular themes became more prevalent. This all influenced the Renaissance.

Absolutely classic Gothicism. I didn't realise there were so many tiny men in the Roman Empire.

Romantic art, with its focus on feeling, turned back to the earlier stages of Gothic as inspiration. If we look at the works of Caspar Friedrich, for example, we see clearly the use of Gothic architecture in a way that we would recognise as 'spooky'. Much the same as when we see Dracula in his crumbling castle.  

Friedrich's The Abbey in the Oakwood. Not an environment conducive to contemplative prayer.

Literature

The sensual qualities of Romanticism and eerie qualities of Gothicism were further combined by writers in Gothic Horror. From the mid-eighteenth century, novelists turned to Gothic architecture's ability to inspire unease as settings for their spooky stories. Edgar Allen Poe is a good example, The Raven especially; Bram Stoker's Dracula and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein are the peaks of Gothic Horror. They also exploited fears of the day to inject further discomfort in their readership, such as Frankenstein's monster coming alive thanks to the new developments in this pesky 'science' business that the pious Victorians were hearing so much about.

Gustave Dore's illustration of The Raven visibly harks back to Friedrich

Cinema

As this is a film related publication, it would only be right to ask: how does this pertain to cinema?

In 1922 German director F.W. Murnau produced Nosferatu, based on the novel Dracula. It's pretty similar, but with minor changes like names. At this time, Germany was in between World War One and Nazi rule, and the general sense of unease and impending doom can be clearly seen in the nation's artwork. German cinema learned from Gothic Horror and Romantic painting to create suitable settings for their terrifying (at that time at least) stories. Nosferatu shows the link explicitly because it is an adaptation of Dracula, but take into account works like Dr. Caligari (1920) and Metropolis (1927).

Nosferatu

Metropolis

Dr. Caligari

By the end of the decade, sound had arrived, and Hollywood set about becoming the top dog for scary films. In 1931 Dracula was released, which starred Bela Lugosi as the titular count. His slow, deliberate speech and movements were terrifying and definitive: the image of Dracula as a pale aristocrat in white tie and a cape come from Lugosi's performance, not the novel or any other stage / film adaptations. It was enormously popular, and the use of his crumbling Transylvanian mansion gave rise to the genre of film Gothic Horror: the term had found a new home.

Hollywood rushed to release Frankenstein, with Boris Karloff as the monster, using similar techniques and a Gothic setting and proving equally as popular. Again, Karloff's portrayal is what we think of today: bolt through head, arms outstretched, stitching all over.

Gothic Horror proved enormously successful. The Bride of Frankenstein and The Mummy are just two of a slew produced in the 30s. However, tastes change quickly in cinema, and by the Second World War, with all its horrors, Lugosi and Karloff mugging it in black and white on obvious sets seemed a little quaint. Lugosi could never quite shake off the character, professionally haunting him as it had the fictitious victims.

Meanwhile, German Expressionism was continuing its influence. German emigree directors, fleeing the Nazis, found themselves in Hollywood making American films. Gangster movies, stuff with guns and whiskey and cops, and cynical love plots were their stock in trade during the 1940s and 1950s, but their roots were clear. The chiaruscuro, the night scenes, the evil that lurked round street corners, the filthy world of violence and death: it is now called Film Noir.

Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall ruled this genre, and the image of a jaded private eye in a mac and trilbee, smoking as he holds a gun, is as recognisable as Lugosi's count.

In the 1950s, Gothic Horror saw an unexpected surge in popularity. But it wasn't the Americans or Germans: it was the British. The relatively tiny Hammer Studios found success with The Quatermass Xperiment. Remakes of Frankenstein, Dacula and The Mummy were released, all to rave reviews and enormous global popularity. Now in colour, they made full use of red to scare audiences as blood was splashed liberally over the screen.

Today

After the 1960s, horror became more graphic and less interested in Gothic trappings. Films like Saw and Hostel still display signs of the early Gothic Horror cinema, however. Tim Burton and Guillermo Del Toro produce works which directly mimic the style, and productions like The Woman in Black are as Gothic as Robert Smith. Hammer Studios was re-started after closure, and is producing Gothic Horror once again.

Neo-Noir is now considered a genre (or perhaps sub-genre) in its own right: Chinatown; True Romance; Sin City. The elements may be strained, but they have all the hallmarks of Touch of Evil.

So there you go. Ryan Gosling in Neo-Noir Drive can be directly traced back to the Goths. In fact, without the marauding destroyers of civilisation, we might not even have a Drive. Europe may have been set back a millennium or so by the sacking of Rome, but at least we have In Bruges.

Hooray!

Film Book Review: Nightmare Alley: Film Noir and the American Dream by Mark Osteen

Film Noir is one of those terms that everyone recognises but is often misunderstand. Most call it a genre, some call it a mood, others call it a style. Whatever it is, the hallmarks are unmistakeable: Expressionist aesthetics (chiaroscuro, awkward angles, unorthodox use of camera angles) taken from its many German émigré directors; world-weary investigative protagonists; dangerous but alluring femme fatales; brutal violence; ambiguous morality; a cynical outlook; and a doomed, tragic plot. As a staple of 1940s and 1950s Hollywood, these hardboiled films were born out of social and political fears, adapted from various literary sources of inspiration, and influenced by earlier cinematic genres. At the time, their portrayal of boozed-up punch-ups and casual inter-gender trysts meant that Film Noir was generally considered to be highly radical, a whisky-soaked attack on clean living mid-century America. Stylistically, it was an important force for shaping the direction of Western cinema. Even since its 1958 downfall, Noir has continued to exert a profound influence on (usually sinister) cinema, right up to today - think L.A. Confidential, Drive or In Bruges. Yet for many, the precise details of Film Noir remain elusive, a hazy chapter in cinema’s book of pulp pessimism. It is for this reason that Mark Osteen’s recent publication on the matter is highly welcome for movie history fans, film academics and those hoping for a long overdue Noir reappraisal.

Nightmare Alley: Film Noir and the American Dream has one main aim: to inspect the ways in which Noir ‘subverted, challenged, and ultimately discounted’ many aspects of the American Dream. At the time, the United States was finishing one World War and starting a Cold one, ascending to the status of superpower, and generally doing a lot of introspective thinking. Central to these identity shifts was the idea of individualistic self-improvement: the frontier cowboy trying to survive in the twentieth century. As the 1940s and ‘50s were in the middle of Hollywood’s Golden Age, under the full glare of HUAC’s McCarthyist witch hunts, challenging these nationalistic myths and values on a fifty foot silver screen would have been highly controversial. The book’s author, Mark Osteen, an accomplished and varied academic and writer, draws on his apparent and vast cinematic knowledge to prove exactly how he believes this celluloid rebellion was executed. He runs each chapter along thematic lines, allowing one area, such as the activity of leftist filmmakers, to form a backbone of reasoning. Each of these themes is analysed deeply through key films, discussed within the context of their political and social times. Theoretical perspectives are juxtaposed with Osteen’s own reflections. The sum of these parts is a demonstration that jaded filmmakers portrayed negative and futile sides of American aspirations in the midst of musicals and screwball comedies.

Named after the nauseatingly fatalistic 1947 picture, Nightmare Alley is perhaps not for those seeking an introduction to Noir. For that, there exists ample literature on its background already, including common features, roots and overt meanings, not to mention endless definitions. Publications such as Film Noir Reader, Film Noir Reader 2 (I said that there were endless definitions) and In a Lonely Street: Film Noir, Genre, Masculinity are comprehensive compendiums for those who want to dip their toes into the Noir pool, discussing in great depth elements of the films. Unfortunately, these introductions are where much of the Noir literature ends. Owing to a lack of widespread intellectual analysis, little debate has been stimulated on the subject. Sometimes, an article will prompt a flurry of shock and derision, such as film critic Raymond Durgnat’s unorthodox musings (he categorised 2001: A Space Odyssey as a Noir). But these discussions remain largely within limited a framework of technicalities. Refreshingly, Mark Osteen dispenses with much of this rudimentary describing and defining, choosing instead to use the several hundred pages for thorough analysis. And the analysis is indeed thorough: his rich knowledge of all things film is used comprehensively in evidential material. His discussion of several diverse subjects present in Noir, from painting to wounded veterans to automobile culture, shows an eye for subtlety and breadth of expertise. At no point does one feel as if Osteen is mugging it, or manipulating facts to suit his own cinematic opinions. It must be said, however, that space could be cleared for further analysis by cutting down on the lengthy and unnecessary storyline descriptions, which illustrate every plot turn in annoying spoiler clarity.

But why is this work important? Because for so many years considered counter-cultural in a narrow, Bogart-centred fashion, Film Noir is long overdue a reappraisal. Thus Nightmare Alley is important because it is a crucial addition to the shelves of cinema history. Generally, it is generally presented as a genre which challenged the cinematic status quo. Many critics saw it as attacking censorship with its radical topics: an article in 1946 asserted that it was changing the face of film. Unfortunately, these descriptions are usually the pinnacle of Noir thought. Thus, crude clichés and lazy stereotypes have abounded for too long about what is a highly influential, philosophical and diverse groups of films, feeding the belief that Noir was little more than the dark, nihilistic underbelly of Hollywood. Whilst Osteen does not seek to refute the genre’s anti-status quo credentials (indeed, he discusses several in great detail), he does attempt to shed new light and stimulate novel notions. He scrutinises preconceptions, such as the prevalence of the femme fatale and the consistency of moody jazz soundtracks. What we think of as Noir, Osteen patiently explains, is only the beginning. For example, one chapter discusses the large number of women who exerted significant influence on many productions, undermining the view of Noir as a chauvinistic hellhole where dames only mess things up.

On a subtler level, Osteen is theorising that Film Noir is not simply a bit close to the bone. Instead, it is portrayed as opposing prevalent national value systems far more aggressively than we might have assumed. Reinvention, upward mobility and capitalism are shown as being heavily criticised in Noir, implying that it is actively anti-American. Of course, these are only American values as dictated by a select few. Still, one gets the impression from Nightmare Alley that Film Noir was very narrowly avoiding moral treason. Yet for all of this novel thinking, Osteen trenchantly feeds the existing belief that Film Noir was subverting the narrow-minded values of bigots, that its heroes were wholly American and labelled ‘other’ only by ‘self-styled patriots’. Thus, Osteen allows Film Noir to remain both highly radical and solidly American, and in this way Nightmare Alley is not challenging anything. It is rare that anyone acknowledges Noir’s conservative messages, such as a negative portrayal of women’s rights or an irrational fear of Communism. Messages like these were plentiful: is it not coincidental that during World War Two, when millions of women went to work for the first time in an historic act of empowerment, films like Mildred Pierce showed women’s industry and self-determination to be a social scourge? While Noir’s radicalism continues to be indulged without qualification, such truths will never be realised.

On seeing that Nightmare Alley had been published, I was pleased that the reappraisal of Noir had begun. I welcome Osteen’s attempts wholeheartedly, and hope that the book stimulates further discussion. This would be more important than people realise, because the genre was, and is, highly influential. Cinema attendance may not be what it was when Bogart and Lorre squabbled over bronze birds, but it remains a hugely popular art-form. Furthermore, analysing an artistic product of people in days gone by can help us to understand the history and thoughts of the time, perhaps not available in traditional historical sources. My main reservation about Nightmare Alley is that instead of challenging the existing status quo of Noir thought (how very fitting when Noir is the subject matter), it instead validates it. I would like to see a serious study which contradicts these clichés – how could it be so counter-cultural when the system was so conservative? How were reactionary principles instilled in audiences about social problems of the times? Nonetheless, new and intriguing angles are offered through intelligent insight. For any Noir fans seeking a different look at the genre, Nightmare Alley: Film Noir and the American Dream, an immensely readable book, is the perfect choice for a dark and rainy evening. Let there be more.

Review: Birdman

The opening credits appear with grating sluggishness, words filling in one letter at a time to the staccato smashes of a jazz drum beat. That sets the pace for this bizarre Marmite of a film. Mexican movie-maker Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu has impressed before with his contemplative, insightful studies of human beings and how they react to life around them. This is anti-Hollywood filmmaking, where event driven plots and big thrills are eschewed for realist observations. Amores perros, 21 Grams, Babel and Biutiful are all examples, and all steeped partly or wholly in Mexican society.

Washed up actor Riggan Thomas (Michael Keaton) is desperate to be taken seriously. He is about to open a Broadway play which he adapted, directed and now stars in. He also poured his money into it, hoping to shake off the restrictive shackles of only being remembered for his Birdman superhero blockbuster trilogy in the early ’90s. Buzzing about his head like flies are his friend and agent (Zach Galifianakis), daughter (Emma Stone), co-stars (Andrea Riseborough and Naomi Watts) and late entry arrogant thespian co-lead (Edward Norton). All Riggan wants to do is impress, but is hounded by self-loathing, suicidal tendencies and a voice in his head.

If Birdman is ‘about’ anything then it is the creative process. There are certainly parallels to be made with 8½, the celebrated work by Italian maestro Fellini, which stars Marcello Mastroianni as a filmmaker stuck in an artistic quagmire on-set. It is full of fevered dreams and fantasies, off-kilter musical scores and jarring styles. This struggling artist theme is what drives Birdman.

Birdman is also about the artist's place in today's world. Riggan feels plagued by technology. He just wants to perform art in front of people in a traditional fashion, desperate to ignore Twitter and please a single newspaper critic. He remains blissfully unaware of the power of an accidental viral publicity stunt. Indeed, the films subtitle / nickname / 19th century novel style alternative title is 'The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance'.

The style is what really stands out. Shot as if one take (in reality a series, sewn together seamlessly), Birdman strives for a semi-real-time continuity of theatre and ultimately life. The recurring, unaccompanied drum beat (we see the supposed actual drummer twice) inserts a frenetic and discordant soundtrack, like a mosquito in the back of the room, and very much like the constant buzz of depression in Riggan’s life. We hear a voice inside his head throughout, and the body of the voice (the Birdman character which made Riggan famous) eventually appears. Various characters from his imagination pop up to represent his fevered fantasies that are barely suppressed. All this helps to convey how he feels rather than letting the audience rely on imagination.

It is interesting to note that Keaton’s career tailed off after Batman. Perhaps it is this personal link with Riggan which allows for a great performance. Indeed, the actors in the play speak frequently about the importance of truth in their craft. The madness, the rage and the sheer difficulty at surviving life pour forth from Keaton’s movements and facial expressions as they well could in reality. The other big names turn out good performances, too, especially Emma Stone as Riggan’s addict daughter. But Zach Galifianakis (surprisingly serious), Edward Norton (surprisingly funny) and Andrea Riseborough and Naomi Watts (surprisingly abandoned midway through a plot development) are really there as a supporting cast. Much like the other actors and related people are merely second tier in his life, present to support his play and his career.

It’s a movie that critics will, and do, love. Ironically, there is in fact a critic on-screen: a hideous cliché of one, a pretentious snob who plans to trash the actor in her review without seeing the play purely because he was in films and thus a celebrity instead of an artist. I find that often films which stray precariously close to pretention will be the ones most aware of pretention, featuring pseudo-intellectual characters in satirical ridicule. And I am sure that it won’t only be critics who love it. Nonetheless, it could be a bit bloated and too actor-y for many viewers. What is supposed to seem ‘interesting’ can very easily wind up as ‘self-indulgent’ in the arts. 

Birdman is ultimately designed to make you feel. It’s not a film to enjoy on a rational level, but on an emotional one. The viewer is put you into the psychological realm of a struggling artist, and I suspect that it was a very personal production to those who made it.

The Worst Films of All Time

People readily admit to gorging on junk food, indulging in crap TV or chain smoking. Humans will happily sit wasting away in front of a computer screen looking at gossip columns and pictures of food on square plates.

And yet these very same people always seem to be questing after quality when it comes to their movies. How many of you have purposefully sought out low grade cinematic beef? Why must we always be after the prime cut fillet? The horse-heavy offal burgers of cinema, churned out by the studio equivalent of a condemned abattoir in a former Soviet satellite state, can prove to be just as tasty.

I'm not talking about a dodgy Adam Sandler rom-com, nor a remake of a fourth-in-the-series franchise in which the actors are asking for their paycheck as they deliver the lines. I mean the truly abysmal, below human grade offerings. Here are my personal favourites:

Reefer Madness (USA, 1936)

Modern stoner films are all the rage now, in part due to North Korea's boosting of the Franco-Rogen partnership. But back in the 1930s things weren't so liberal. Midway through the decade, in fact, a film was produced to show the dangers of smoking cannabis. The results were hilariously extreme: murder, madness, suicide, car crashes, rape and the descent of the characters to cackling, paranoid animals. Rediscovered in the 70s, Reefer Madness boasts anachronistic attitudes within the realm of shoddy acting and poor production values.

Plan 9 From Outer Space (USA, 1959)

Crossdressing filmmaker Edward D. Wood produced a number of films that could contend for a space on any 'worst film' list, but I've chosen just to show the absolute worst. Wood planned a science fiction epic in which extraterrestrial baddies would raise the earth's dead to help them take over the planet. Despite severe financial constraints, Wood pressed ahead, allowing every limitation to show like the stitching on a pair of jeans. Bad acting, bad sound, bad special effects, bad plot... Plan 9 From Outer Space was instantly decried as an atrocious cinematic endeavor.

However, history has been a little kinder. Plan 9 gradually gained a cult following, and now holds a 66% critical score on Rotten Tomatoes. In 1994 Tim Burton released Ed Wood, about the filmmaker, starring Johnny Depp (who else) as the eponymous eccentric. Plan 9 is also known as Bela Lugosi's last film, whose role comprised of footage cut from another, abandoned Wood production.

Manos: The Hands of Fate (USA, 1966)

In my mind the worst of the lot. Appalling does not even begin to describe what a Texan fertiliser salesman produced as a bet. El Paso native Harold P. Warren was trying to prove that it wasn't that hard to shoot a horror movie. In the strictest sense he demonstrated that he had a point, writing, directing, financing and starring in this glittering display of self-delusion.

The plot revolves around a family being trapped in a polygamous cult, but that would be less of a trial than watching the movie. For example, a character is massaged to death. At one point, a couple is introduced in a car on the side of the road, only for them to be completely forgotten. In another instance, two cops run a couple of meters only to halt in their tracks for no apparent reason. It's also put together it a comical style: a whimsical jazz soundtrack plays as characters are killed; a woman claims 'it's getting dark' as the midday Texan sun blazes behind her; the clapperboard even makes an appearance. 

Also, Manos is Spanish for 'hands'. So the title is really Hands: The Hands of Fate.

The Man Who Saved the World (Turkey, 1982) 

I'm surprised that nothing from the 70s made this list. This was the decade that produced flares and the pet rock. Anyway, forward to the early 80s and we can see what Turkish cinema was up to. Oh look, an insanely bad work of which half was lifted entirely from Hollywood. Its illegal use of Star Wars footage led to the nickname Turkish Star Wars, and the music is completely stolen from films such as Ben-Hur and Raiders of the Lost Arc. What would have been a terrible adventure romp became an inadvertent work of comedic gold.

It actually spawned a sequel in 2006.

The Hobbit (USSR, 1985)

With the final, CGI-laden installment of Peter Jackson's Hobbit trilogy just released, some people might forget that the great socialist utopia of the USSR got there first. I don't know why, during a decade of weakening national economics, endemic poverty and alcoholism, and the final stages of the Cold War, someone decided to pour money into a retelling of Bilbo Baggins. But they did, and thank God for that. It was shown on TV for the general population, which answers numerous questions about why the Soviet Union collapsed.

Howard the Duck (USA, 1986)

When people criticised George Lucas' work on the second Star Wars trilogy and the last Indiana Jones, they had obviously forgotten what he was up to in 1986. And I don't mean that film whose name I can't remember or the other one with David Bowie. I mean Howard the Duck, which Lucas produced himself. In person. He actually saw this leave his office and thought 'yep, that's a film.'

Howard the Duck was originally a satirical Marvel comics character (deeply existentialist according to Wikipedia). He was trapped on earth as a sentient, loquacious bird who could point out the absurdities of life through his anatine form. Someone, somewhere, for some reason got the idea that the poultry hero would make a great animated film character. And he might. Problem is, contractual obligations forced it to be a live action production. The result: a man with a giant plastic duck's head running around in hot tubs and reading Playduck magazine.

Perhaps if Howard the Duck had been shown before Revenge of the Sith then critics may have been more forgiving.

Troll 2 (Italy / USA, 1990)

A film called Troll 2 that does not actually feature any trolls is, well, a bit of a troll. It's never going to be Casablanca is it (a film which, just to be clear, did contain a Casablanca). It was allegedly written due the director's wife's disgust at her friends becoming vegetarian, which shows just how much evil vegetables can cause. It is also completely unrelated to the first Troll, which was actually about trolls and featured a character called Harry Potter. Spoiler alert: the film ends with goblins eating a woman in a bathtub.

The Room (USA, 2003)

The rock star of bad movies, The Room has proven that the 21st century is a great age. Tommy Wiseau, an enigmatic oddball whose year and continent of birth remain unknown, mysteriously produced a romantic drama for the big screen so bad that it has been called 'The Citizen Kane of bad movies' (thanks again, Wikipedia). Whilst I stand by my earlier decision to annoint Manos as the very worst, I can see why The Room is many people's favourite. Because it's not just a cheesy exploitation horror or far-fetched sci-fi bogged down in its own imagination and ambition. It's a little arthouse film which tries, and fails, to tell a pretty simple story about a few people in love. Whole thematic strains are abandoned, such as one of the characters having cancer. Random scenes show male characters playing American football with each other for no apparent reason. And the dialogue, delivered by Wiseau... well, it's worth a look yourself.

Wiseau has now embraced his failure. Sporting his signature look (long hair, sunglasses, waistcoat, thick tie, jeans, crazed expression) he appears at screenings and fan conventions looking like the former drummer of a moderately successful 80s hair metal band, and claiming that his great creation was all deliberate. Not that I doubt him of course. It just would have been a little clearer if he'd stated that before people saw The Room. 

Gigli (USA, 2003)

One of the few films on this list which is visually decent - no poor production values, mismatched dubbing or amateur dramatics acting. It stars Ben Affleck, Jennifer Lopez, Al Pacino and Christopher Walken, and was distributed by Columbia Pictures. Yet it was one of the most costly box office flops of all time and carries an unfortunate 6% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes. It seriously dented Affleck's career, which had been doing well, but 2003 also saw him star in the panned Daredevil.

Quite why it is so reviled is perhaps somewhat strange, given that it is a cut above The Room. But it has neither the humerous failure of a low-budget Troll 2 nor the redeeming features of a lavish but empty blockbuster. It isn't sure whether it's a feelgood romcom or a violent thriller, much of the dialogue is laughable, and the end product feels like a Saturday Night Live sketch. Laughable.

Run for Your Wife (UK, 2012)

Professional mockney actor Danny Dyer has an appropriate surname. Although not a bad actor in my humble opinion, and now with a regular role in British soap Eastenders, Dyer has turned out some shocking performances. Acerbic film critic Mark Kermode, known for his baiting of Dyer, called this particular offering 'unwatchable'. Dyer has threatened Kermode with physical violence. It is against this backdrop that you must try and enjoy Run for Your Wife.

The IMDb lists Run for Your Wife as a comedy. You would have had more laughs living through the carpet bombing of Dresden. On its opening weekend (this is my favourite 'what a useless film' fact) Run earned 600 pounds. Britain, the country that produced Dad's Army, Monty Python, Alan Partridge and The Office has descended into this. Dyer.