Not entirely sure what prompted me to give Paddington a go yesterday. Actually, no, that's not true; I'd been feeling miserable and wanted to get back in touch with my six-year-old self, despite not being able to remember whether she'd been a particularly happy soul, either. In any case, Paddington Bear brings back memories - the smell of the mobile library, and afternoons on the sofa watching shonky animation made from cardboard cutouts. It feels like another universe, and I suppose it sort of is; true, this means I'm getting old, but it's all swings and roundabouts, I guess - on the upside, cartoons these days are way better.
The film actually isn't a cartoon; the only animated part is Paddington himself, voiced by Ben Wishaw sounding as though he's impersonating the incomparable John Finnemore. Following a catastrophic storm that kills his uncle and sends his aunt to the Home for Retired Bears, Paddington sneaks aboard a freighter and makes the journey from Darkest Peru to London. He's searching for the explorer who befriended his aunt and uncle decades previously, but mostly, he's just looking for a home. Eventually, stranded on the platform at Paddington Station, he's taken in by the kindly Mrs. Brown (Sally Hawkins) and her rather more reluctant family, but only for one night. It's a kids' film about a bear wanting a permanent place to live; I'm sure you can get the rest.
I didn't particularly enjoy Paddington, but then, I'm not sure I'd want to be the sort of adult who does. The heavy reliance on slapstick is just fine for the little ones, and I'm sure there's plenty of adults out there who don't mind seeing England in general and London in particular being treated like some sort of cutesy theme park. Me, I just found myself quietly fuming over yet another British film about a staid, settled group being gently shaken up by an outsider who nudges up against the boundaries of social acceptability. Even worse, however, was watching one of my heroes toppled, as the mighty Peter Capaldi attempted to tackle a London accent and landed up sounding like Dick Van Dyke failing a screen test for a Guy Ritchie gangster flick.
With all that said, however, Paddington isn't afraid to wear its central message on its grubby blue sleeve. True, it's a film about kindness, and bravery, and about it being okay to be different, but so are a lot of kidflicks. What sets this one apart is its insistence that immigration is a good thing - it takes the time to provide explanations of evacuation and the kindertransport when many of the target audience probably won't have living relatives who remember those times. In an age where some would try to convince us that multiculturalism is a bad thing, Paddington isn't afraid to stand up and encourage tolerance and understanding, and this trumps any other qualms I might have had.
(Banksy, Bristol)
Another one crossed off my need-to-see list, then, but that feels like an awfully mundane way of putting it. In truth, I still don't quite know what I should be saying about Lindsay Anderson's If..., because I can't believe that a film made nearly fifty years ago can actually feel more relevant today than it possibly could've done when it was first released. It rings true on so very many levels; by turns I was angry, disgusted, excited, shocked and saddened.
In its simplest form, If... is a story of rebellion and revolution within a traditional English public school - if you're in the US, that means a private school, which is honestly a much more sensible thing to call them, if you ask me. Anyhow, College House is one of those places where the elite go to prepare themselves for life as part of the ruling classes, full of arcane traditions and arbitrary rules that would seem slightly deranged if it wasn't for the fact that it's all backed by a bunch of incredibly wealthy people and has been for centuries. It's a hothouse, of course, and as with any hothouse, it's inhabited by organisms that grow far too quickly and in unnatural directions. Some of the staff and students flourish, of course, but others such as Mick Travis (Malcolm McDowell) find themselves stifled and seeking any possible means of escape.
I keep trying to write about this one and then losing the thread of what I was going to say, such is the strength of emotion it evokes. Anderson reputedly hated his own time at public school, to the extent that he used the place as a location set for the film, and the audience is left in no doubt whatsoever as to his own convictions. The masters are cowards and at the mercy of the senior pupils (Whips), who treat the younger students as some sort of underclass, viciously stamping down on any who fail to obey or even simply to conform. Beneath Alberto Korda's iconic portrait of Che Guevara, we watch Travis' rage at the system begin to coalesce into something almost tangible.
The film is very much a slow burner. There's no clear narrative structure, and its slightly dreamlike air is enhanced by seemingly random switches between colour footage and black and white. Apparently, this was entirely due to budgetary considerations; nevertheless, I found it kept me perpetually uneasy, right up to the infamous climax.
Speaking of which, I watch a lot of films these days, and I suppose I've been deluding myself into believing I've been desensitised. A day after another random rogue gunman laying waste to a Louisiana cinema, however, I found it hard to watch a group of amateur marksmen on the school's chapel roof, picking off the congregation like targets in a video game.
Films like If... and Terry Gilliam's Brazil were intended as overblown dystopian fantasies; not even cautionary tales, not really, because the polite assumption was that nobody could ever be so callous, so stupid, so short-sighted as to let things reach a point where the worst horrors they depict could ever possibly come true. Decades later, they seem eerily prescient.
I have no words left any more.
I suppose it was always going to happen sooner or later; it'd be a Sunday, my options would be limited and I'd find myself tackling some traditional Disney animated fare. I've lost a lot of my old animosity towards the House of Mouse in recent years, in any case, if only because I have a friend who's a regular visitor to their theme parks. She's a generous soul, and I have to say, evil or not, their merchandise tends to be beautifully well-made.
In any case, The Emperor's New Groove might be traditional in terms of its animated style, but in all other respects it's very much a lighter alternative to the classic animated musicals we're used to from Disney. There's only the one song, therefore, and there's no talking anthropomorphic light relief barring our main protagonist. He's called Kuzco, he's voiced by David Spade and he's an incredibly obnoxious Incan-style emperor, transformed by a vengeful former employee into an incredibly obnoxious talking llama. Left stranded far from his palace, his only hope of salvation lies in the hands of the llama herder Pacha (voiced by John Goodman). Unfortunately, Pacha is still fuming from an earlier meeting with the then-human Kuzco, who used their time together to decide to tear down Pacha's family home to make room for his own personal water park.
It's still Disney, of course, so there's still lessons to be learned about generosity and friendship and teamwork and shit, but for the most part, this one seems to be mostly about the one-liners and sight gags. It doesn't quite approach the anarchic amorality of the old Looney Tunes, but that definitely seems to be the approach it's going for and to be honest, it more or less works. Its 78 minutes are composed primarily of wisecracks, chase sequences and improbable pop culture references, lent charm by an appealingly scratchy artistic style.
Did it set my world alight? No. Will it set your world alight? I really hope not. Do I regret making time to watch it? No, if only because it's not as though I'd normally be doing anything better on a Sunday afternooon. Marginally more fun than sorting out your laundry, I guess.
It's kind of appropriate that I can't really be arsed to write this today, given that the titular character of Guillermo Del Toro's Hellboy is very much the poster child for can't-be-arsedness. As played by Ron Perlman, he's a great, shambling slob of a creature with way too many cats and a penchant for classic American junk food.
Is it any wonder that I find him a more appealing and accessible superhero than most of the current crop? You wouldn't want to invite Captain America over to watch bad movies; how would you be able to enjoy yourself properly knowing he was judging you for the stains on the carpet and the cat hairs in the snacks? Hellboy, though, he'd feel right at home.
I know everybody's favourite Del Toro movie is supposed to be Pan's Labyrinth, but dammit, I just like this one better. I'm not saying it is better - the acting is dodgy and the plot's a hopeless muddle - but I definitely like it more. It retains Del Toro's visual artistry and gentle humanity, bringing them to a genre which was and is in desperate need of both. Mr. B says it's overly sentimental. Me, I say that's the whole point. I love Hellboy, his pyrokinetic girlfriend Liz and thoughtful fishman Abe, whilst Jeffrey Tambor takes the character of Tom Manning, a spiritual precursor to Clark Gregg's Phil Coulson, and makes him the prematurely-aged, frustrated curmudgeon you'd have to be if you were babysitting a superhero team.
There's a story in there somewhere; it involves the Nazis, Rasputin and a bunch of Catholic exorcist-style stuff. This isn't why I watch the movie. I watch it because it portrays its heroes as fuckups - not tragic, operatic-style fuckups who come shining through, but everyday low-grade messes who make mistakes and then struggle to clean them up as best they can. It makes me feel hopeful, and is there anything better you can say about a superhero movie than that?
Just a quickie today, I'm afraid, as I don't have any notes for this one. I'd been meaning to watch it sooner or later, but then yesterday came around and I needed enjoyable background noise while I focused on a marathon session making polymer clay charms.
As it turns out, however, Big Hero 6 is absolutely lousy background noise. Instead, I found myself glued to the screen, savouring every second of what has to be my favourite animated feature in years. I have no idea what they're putting in the coffee at Disney right now, but it's making me seriously rethink a bunch of my prejudices. Here, they present us with a sweet, humane story and some of the most irresistible superhero characters since Robert Downey Junior sent himself to the canning plant.
Our protagonist is Hiro, which might be a clever name if Neal Stephenson hadn't been there and done that decades ago. He's a 14-year-old genius with a talent for robotics, and we first encounter him sharking for money at the illegal bot-fighting pits of San Fransokyo. Things turn nasty, of course, as they were bound to, and he only escapes thanks to elder brother Tadashi. Not keen to repeat the experience, Tadashi attempts to distract Hiro by showing him the lab at his exclusive college, where he meets fellow science brains Go Go, Wasabi, Honey Lemon and mascot Fred. He also meets Baymax, Tadashi's current work in progress, a squashy vinyl robot nurse.
Fired up with enthusiasm, Hiro sets about creating a project to gain him entry onto Tadashi's course. He's successful, too, blowing the admissions tutor away and having to fend off the attentions of notorious tech capitalist Alistair Krei. Just when all seems to be going well, however, tragedy strikes, leaving Tadashi dead and Hiro in a deep depression. Only Baymax, with his pre-programmed empathy and childlike literalism, is able to help Hiro reconnect with his friends and deal with an enemy that comes from the unlikeliest of sources.
Let's be frank here: this one looks, sounds, and plays like a dream, everything coming together in one beautiful moment to create the sort of film that reminds me of why superheroes have always been my first and deepest cinematic love. It's just the little things, like the hero team having more than one female member and the black dude being the prissy uptight one of the bunch. None of the characters are saddled with the burden of having to be a walking cliche, which is frankly no small feat in such an ensemble piece. I was besotted by the hopelessly girly chemist Honey Lemon, and I'd bet everything I own that you'll find a favourite to fall in love with, too.
As for the narrative arc? Arguably it's nothing terribly new, with the usual mystery adversary and a handful of fairly predictable twists and turns, but it's all handled with real humanity and, importantly, without ladling on too much sentiment. There's a lot of positive messages about letting go of the past and trusting your friends, but they never take precedence over the prevailing comic book aesthetic.
Even if you think you're allergic to Disney, you really want to give this one a shot. Trust me, you won't regret it.
End-of-term party at the office yesterday, so I figured why not follow up one horror with another? I'd been noticing 2014's It Follows receiving a lot of positive critical attention, and while teen slasher flicks aren't normally my bag, I thought it might be worth a shot.
The premise, at least, is intriguing, if not technically anything new - teenage sex has been carrying unwanted supernatural consequences in the movies since the 70s, if not long before. Even this, in fact, is part of a far older tradition, dating back to the likes of Red Riding Hood; the metaphors become more oblique the further back you go, but they're still there, warning us that growing up can be a dangerous and unforgiving process.
The kids in It Follows have less in common with fairytale protagonists, however, than those written about by the likes of Enid Blyton or Roald Dahl, inhabiting a sunlit world where adults seem almost entirely incidental. Our heroine, Jay (Maika Monroe) is first seen lounging in a collapsible pool, planning an afternoon with friends followed by a date with the dashing Hugh (Jake Weary). Their romantic evening out is curtailed when Hugh suffers what looks like a severe anxiety attack; however, by dusk, things seem to be back on track, and before long they're heading to a local beauty spot for a romantic encounter on the back seat of Hugh's car. As Jay basks in the afterglow, however, Hugh drugs her, and she awakens, tied to a chair, in a deserted parking lot. Hugh shows her the demon which is now pursuing her in human form, and will continue to do so until she has intercourse with somebody else; should it kill her, it will go after Hugh, and then the person that infected him. Hugh's actions were callous (if fairly understandable), but Jay is made of more moral stuff; along with her loyal friends, she decides to attempt to defeat the demon even if it costs her her sanity.
I really wanted to like this one; it pulls off the clever trick of taking the superficial trappings of a teen slasher flick and using them to clothe what's actually a superior suspense thriller. Low on gore but high on tension, it boasts an elegantly minimalist soundtrack and some of the most impressive jump scares I've ever seen. It's intelligent, at least by genre standards, and uses post-industrial Detroit to create a temporally unfocused setting that's at once disturbingly otherworldly and all too familiar.
So, what went wrong? I'm not sure anything did, to be honest, it's just that I'm too old to get with the teenage zeitgeist. Everything was so muted and faded and flattened, from the pallette to the performances to the prevailing emotions. Struggles take place in slow motion; characters scream, and the sound engineering reduces them to silence. It's aesthetically interesting, sort of, but the problem is that it dampens down the tension and the urgency of the piece. I've heard a lot of people say how badly rattled they felt after watching, but the only nagging fears to remain with me were the ones that my sight and hearing might have started going on me.
An interesting film, at least on an intellectual level, but not for me and probably not made for me, either. It's nice to see today's teens getting some good ones for themselves, though.
I know I discussed The World's End a while back when I was covering Paul, but having spent the weekend at a family wedding, I found myself thinking about weighty matters - things like getting older, and being tolerant, and the bloody-minded determination to recapture one's youth by means of drinking copious amounts of alcohol whilst listening to Come on Eileen.
I'll admit, it wasn't a film I enjoyed at first watch; I actually didn't especially rate it at second or third watch, either. It's the third part of the Cornetto Trilogy, though, and as such, I've been desperate to brainwash myself into loving it. I'm still not quite there, but I think that day's probably getting closer.
Very basically, the film starts out as a high school reunion movie, with former tearaway Gary King (Simon Pegg) trying to reassemble his gang of chums to complete a twelve-pub crawl that they began some twenty years previously but never managed to complete. At nearly forty, however, and with busy lives, his companions Andy Knightley, Peter Page, Oliver Chamberlain and Steven Prince (get the connection?) are less than enthusiastic about the whole business. A little emotional blackmail works wonders, however, and before long they're back in their old hometown of Newton Haven, (played with quiet dignity by the Hertfordshire new towns of Letchworth and Welwyn Garden City). As is to be expected, the place has changed a lot. However, the slowly dawning realization that most of the populace has been replaced by blue-bleeding automata definitely comes as something of a shock to the system. Yes, we're back in genre parody territory again, and this time it's the alien invasion paranoia movies that were so popular a handful of years ago.
Make no mistake, there's a lot to like about The World's End. True, it's no Shaun of the Dead, but not many movies are - storytelling that tight and elegant only comes about a few times in a generation. Instead, we get a nicely-acted, nicely shot little character comedy that lays on the sentiment a little heavily but manages to engage nevertheless. The cast doesn't hurt, of course - Pegg surrounds himself with British reliables in the form of Martin Freeman, Paddy Considine, Eddie Marsan and long-term partner in crime Nick Frost, who grounds the film and gives it heart in the same way he always does. As is also traditional, the women are largely present in background roles, although Rosamund Pike is game and rather adorable as the woman Gary and Steven have longed for since the 90s.
Where the film fails, however, is with the bodysnatchers stuff. At around a third of the way in, it's introduced far too late and without the clever foreshadowing that made the first two parts of the trilogy such a delight. Instead, it jars, transforming a sweet and genuinely funny comedy drama into something that borders on being flat-out silly. I find myself wondering what would have happened if there hadn't been the thematic pressure to introduce the genre elements; it's not that I'm condemning horror or cop movies as being for kids, not exactly, but The World's End is all about growing up and accepting adulthood (if not necessarily actually embracing it). I do think that letting it stand as a straight-up dramedy, therefore, would have been a brave choice, and would probably have resulted in a rather better piece of cinema.
