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!