So, the Xbox One arrived last night, and so did my copy of Lego Marvel Avengers. Do you think I'd let this make me neglect my blogging duties, though?
Damned right I would, but I saw a film last night (sort of) and so here's a writeup (sort of).
In the interests of strict honesty, I didn't so much watch Hellboy II, The Golden Army as sleep through it. I've seen it a bunch of times before, though, so I can probably mostly remember what goes on. Ish.
Guillermo Del Toro is a talented director, no doubt about it, but the vast majority of his output has totally failed to set me on fire. Don't get me wrong, I admire him as a visual stylist and especially as a creature creator, it's just that his storytelling tends to shoot for the mythical but land at the banal. I land up cringing when I should be thrilling, and beauty that should delight me lands up winding me up in the face of just how trite it all is.
Superhero stories, though? They're meant to be a bit cheesy, a bit sentimental. Okay, maybe they're not meant to be, but that's how I like them. Giving Del Toro the Hellboy franchise, therefore, has resulted in two movies that have both more or less hit my sweet spot, combining cheerfully soap operatic storylines with a pinch of magic and some truly gorgeous visual touches.
In the second instalment, Hellboy and the gang go up against a renegade elf played by former boy-band member Luke Goss in a long blonde wig and the sort of shimmery makeup that must have made the yaoi brigade wet their collective knickers. There's monsters aplenty, plus a new team member in the form of clockwork scientist Johann Krauss, who is apparently voiced (in what was, when I found this out 20 seconds ago, a genuine wtf moment) by Seth MacFarlane.
The fate of the world is at stake, but somehow this never seems quite so important as the romantic entanglements. Y'know what, though? I like it that way. One thing I've noticed about this film is that amidst all the special effects, the only scene anybody ever talks about is the one where Hellboy and Abe the fishman get drunk and sing along to Can't Smile Without You. You'd never see an Avenger doing that, which may be why the likes of Ant-Man and Guardians of the Galaxy have felt so refreshing. While these are both fun films, though, their protagonists still can't match Hellboy and his associates in terms of down-at-heel, shambling charm. The BPRD team are genuine misfits, and that's probably why they'll always have their own untouchable place within my heart.
Friday, January 29, 2016
Monday, January 25, 2016
Animal Farm (1954)
Propaganda - it's what's for breakfast, or rather, it's what was on iPlayer last night. I've never been that fond of the 1954 adaptation of George Orwell's anti-Stalinist polemic "Animal Farm", but it remains of interest if only because it was the first feature-length British animation to see public release (the Navy were first in 1945, with Handling Ships, but this was never shown in cinemas and if you search for it on Youtube you'll find quite a lot of stuff you wish you hadn't).
Possibly the most interesting thing about Animal Farm is that it was funded by the CIA, who were willing to spend quite a lot of money to ensure the next generation didn't grow up to be filthy commies. To this end, we're granted quite a lot of cutesy duckling action to lure the little ones in before the pig overlords get nasty and the swill really hits the fan. When I was small, I found it all terribly thought-provoking and not a little depressing - sure, it explained how power can corrupt, but it didn't offer any better solutions. Man hands on misery to man.., my younger self thought, but I couldn't shuck the notion that Communism could actually be a really good system if people weren't bastards - something I still believe to this day. True, there's a lot of bastards around, but do we really want to let them win?
Leaving the politics aside, it looks pretty good. Sure, the palette is muted and the animation doesn't have all the bells and whistles we'd expect nowadays, but while it might look dated it doesn't look particularly cheap. The cheapness instead, it turns out, went on the voice acting work, with Gordon Heath narrating and Maurice Denham voicing every single animal. Denham plays it straight, or at least as straight as you can when you're voicing a singing chicken, and the result is decidedly creepy - it is the nonverbal characters such as Boxer the horse who remain most firmly in the memory afterwards.
Tellingly, given the funding source, the film alters Orwell's original sad ending to suggest that revolution might foment once more. All very red-blooded, certainly, but does this really suggest anything other than that the world is determined to repeat its own mistakes in an eternal cycle of hope being torn down by corruption?
If you want to fire your kids up with hope for a better future, this may not be the way to go.
Possibly the most interesting thing about Animal Farm is that it was funded by the CIA, who were willing to spend quite a lot of money to ensure the next generation didn't grow up to be filthy commies. To this end, we're granted quite a lot of cutesy duckling action to lure the little ones in before the pig overlords get nasty and the swill really hits the fan. When I was small, I found it all terribly thought-provoking and not a little depressing - sure, it explained how power can corrupt, but it didn't offer any better solutions. Man hands on misery to man.., my younger self thought, but I couldn't shuck the notion that Communism could actually be a really good system if people weren't bastards - something I still believe to this day. True, there's a lot of bastards around, but do we really want to let them win?
Leaving the politics aside, it looks pretty good. Sure, the palette is muted and the animation doesn't have all the bells and whistles we'd expect nowadays, but while it might look dated it doesn't look particularly cheap. The cheapness instead, it turns out, went on the voice acting work, with Gordon Heath narrating and Maurice Denham voicing every single animal. Denham plays it straight, or at least as straight as you can when you're voicing a singing chicken, and the result is decidedly creepy - it is the nonverbal characters such as Boxer the horse who remain most firmly in the memory afterwards.
Tellingly, given the funding source, the film alters Orwell's original sad ending to suggest that revolution might foment once more. All very red-blooded, certainly, but does this really suggest anything other than that the world is determined to repeat its own mistakes in an eternal cycle of hope being torn down by corruption?
If you want to fire your kids up with hope for a better future, this may not be the way to go.
Friday, January 22, 2016
The Heist (2009)
It began, as most things do, in innocence. I didn't have a film in mind to write about today, so I headed over to iPlayer to see what it could offer me. There was the usual crop of popular but predictable Britflicks and subdued romantic dramas, but none of them appealed - none of them ever do. A movie called The Heist, though, starring Christopher Walken, Morgan Freeman and William H Macy? Three top character actors in a movie that proudly proclaimed its membership of my absolute favourite genre? Of course I was going to be all over that - I mean, what could possibly go wrong?
Walken and Freeman are ageing security guards at one of those gallery/museum arrangements you get in every town. They're happy in their work and knowledgeable about what they do - more knowledgeable, we are shown in an early scene, than the younger female museum guides. Viewed as more-or-less loveable eccentrics, they're part of the furniture and receive about as much credit for their knowledge as the average sofa. So far, so interesting; we're clearly watching something aimed at the silver set, but there's nothing wrong with that.
Our heroes' problems begin, however, when a change of management decides to ship some of their favourite items from the collection to Copenhagen. They decide this must be prevented, and to this end, they recruit William H. Macy's ex-army night security man. They do this by blackmailing him with security footage of him undressing nightly in front of the young male statues.
My problems begin, meanwhile, at about the same point, with a dawning, slightly sickening realization that this is a film about older men in love with images of younger women, to the point where they're prepared to risk everything to steal them and take them home for themselves. Leaving aside Macy and his slapstick shenanigans, which are never adequately (or even inadequately) explained, we're expected to sympathise with two elderly men who have an unhealthy obsession with young girls - heck, Walken's character is cheerfully prepared to sacrifice his marriage for the chance to stare at a painting of a frankly rather sad-looking young woman on a beach. How could nobody have realised how incredibly dodgy this is?
The cast do their best with material that consists largely of shonky slapstick, while the visuals are on the shoddier side of adequate. One thing I normally like about films aimed at an older demographic is that they tend to be pretty easy on the eye. The Heist, however, favours function over form - often a good thing in a movie of this particular genre, but here the complete lack of artistry just serves to hammer home the director's singular vision. I wouldn't want to meet him on a dark night without a can of Mace in hand.
***
I hadn't actually been planning on watching Role Models last night, but after the Heist debacle I felt I needed something that was at least aware of its tastelessness. I was rewarded, pretty much, with a cheerful comedy that mixed charming performances with a few belly laughs and a touch of genuine heart. I wouldn't exactly call it a paean to feminism, but I really appreciated watching female characters with real agency, who were smart enough and brave enough not to need the male leads to look after them. Paul Rudd, meanwhile, is becoming a name I'm starting to look out for - his low-key charm seems to add a sprinkle of class to everything he touches.
Walken and Freeman are ageing security guards at one of those gallery/museum arrangements you get in every town. They're happy in their work and knowledgeable about what they do - more knowledgeable, we are shown in an early scene, than the younger female museum guides. Viewed as more-or-less loveable eccentrics, they're part of the furniture and receive about as much credit for their knowledge as the average sofa. So far, so interesting; we're clearly watching something aimed at the silver set, but there's nothing wrong with that.
Our heroes' problems begin, however, when a change of management decides to ship some of their favourite items from the collection to Copenhagen. They decide this must be prevented, and to this end, they recruit William H. Macy's ex-army night security man. They do this by blackmailing him with security footage of him undressing nightly in front of the young male statues.
My problems begin, meanwhile, at about the same point, with a dawning, slightly sickening realization that this is a film about older men in love with images of younger women, to the point where they're prepared to risk everything to steal them and take them home for themselves. Leaving aside Macy and his slapstick shenanigans, which are never adequately (or even inadequately) explained, we're expected to sympathise with two elderly men who have an unhealthy obsession with young girls - heck, Walken's character is cheerfully prepared to sacrifice his marriage for the chance to stare at a painting of a frankly rather sad-looking young woman on a beach. How could nobody have realised how incredibly dodgy this is?
The cast do their best with material that consists largely of shonky slapstick, while the visuals are on the shoddier side of adequate. One thing I normally like about films aimed at an older demographic is that they tend to be pretty easy on the eye. The Heist, however, favours function over form - often a good thing in a movie of this particular genre, but here the complete lack of artistry just serves to hammer home the director's singular vision. I wouldn't want to meet him on a dark night without a can of Mace in hand.
***
I hadn't actually been planning on watching Role Models last night, but after the Heist debacle I felt I needed something that was at least aware of its tastelessness. I was rewarded, pretty much, with a cheerful comedy that mixed charming performances with a few belly laughs and a touch of genuine heart. I wouldn't exactly call it a paean to feminism, but I really appreciated watching female characters with real agency, who were smart enough and brave enough not to need the male leads to look after them. Paul Rudd, meanwhile, is becoming a name I'm starting to look out for - his low-key charm seems to add a sprinkle of class to everything he touches.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Return to Oz (1985)
Are you in the mood for some kiddie horror? I am. Presenting, then, 1985's Return to Oz, which has apparently terrified more kids than... y'know what? That simile can just remain incomplete for now. I hadn't seen the film in 30 years, give or take, but among my generation it tends to get mentioned whenever the conversation turns to childhood trauma. Oddly enough, while I remember being frightened by it as a child it's not one of the ones that really melted my brain - certain scenes have stuck with me, sure, but not to the point where I had to nerve myself to watch again.
To be honest, I haven't seen the original Wizard of Oz in around thirty years, so I can't really judge how much darker this semi-sequel is than the original. That said, it packs a whole lot of horror cliches into its 113-minute runtime, starting early on when Dorothy, after months of insomnia, is packed off to an asylum for a primitive version of electroconvulsive therapy. Whilst waiting for the treatment, she meets a mysterious blonde girl who appears to be the only friendly face about the place. Later, during a thunderstorm, the girl rescues her by untying her from the gurney to which she's been strapped, warning her that the screams she's been hearing are from other patients who've been damaged by the treatment. Pretty intense stuff, in other words, and that's only the beginning. After falling into a flooded river, Dorothy finds herself back in Oz, but not the Oz she remembers. The once-magnificent Emerald City has been reduced to ruins, and it's up to her to restore it to its former majesty. Standing in her way are some truly terrifying adversaries, but luckily, new and magical allies are close at hand.
What really struck me about this one was how incredibly good it looked. The costume design in particular was gorgeous - sure, shrieking baddies the wheelers scared me witless as a kid, but this time round I found myself squinting at the screen to try and get a closer look at the textures on the coats they wore. It was the same with villainous sorceress Mombi, she of the interchangeable heads, but also of the truly glorious wardrobe. Set and sound design receive similar attention to detail, with the latter perhaps accounting for the wheelers' power to terrify. There's also some flat-out nightmare fuel Claymation from technique pioneer Will Vinton, proving that rocks have not only ears but eyes, noses, teeth and a variety of facial expressions from sneaky to bloodthirsty.
As Dorothy, the then ten-year-old Fairuza Balk holds her own against the special effects, producing a brave and naturalistic performance that contrasts markedly with Judy Garland's more mannered interpretation. Support comes in the form of Piper Laurie's Aunt Em, whilst Nicol Williamson and Jean Marsh play the villains in both Oz and Kansas, harking back to the it was all a dream ending of the original film.
I was actually surprised by how much I enjoyed this one. Disney films of the early-to-mid 80s often carry the faint whiff of desperation - profits were down during the period and they were fighting the belief that their output was just too cosy for modern audiences. Their response was to move darker, with the likes of this and Ray Bradbury adaptation Something Wicked This Way Comes. That was another film in search of an audience, I think, but its more literary and lyrical source material left me with a vague sense of irritation about how much seemed to have been left on the cutting room floor. Something Wicked was a failure, I think, if an interesting one, but Return to Oz succeeds thanks to a combination of great production values and a clear directorial vision. Recommended.
To be honest, I haven't seen the original Wizard of Oz in around thirty years, so I can't really judge how much darker this semi-sequel is than the original. That said, it packs a whole lot of horror cliches into its 113-minute runtime, starting early on when Dorothy, after months of insomnia, is packed off to an asylum for a primitive version of electroconvulsive therapy. Whilst waiting for the treatment, she meets a mysterious blonde girl who appears to be the only friendly face about the place. Later, during a thunderstorm, the girl rescues her by untying her from the gurney to which she's been strapped, warning her that the screams she's been hearing are from other patients who've been damaged by the treatment. Pretty intense stuff, in other words, and that's only the beginning. After falling into a flooded river, Dorothy finds herself back in Oz, but not the Oz she remembers. The once-magnificent Emerald City has been reduced to ruins, and it's up to her to restore it to its former majesty. Standing in her way are some truly terrifying adversaries, but luckily, new and magical allies are close at hand.
What really struck me about this one was how incredibly good it looked. The costume design in particular was gorgeous - sure, shrieking baddies the wheelers scared me witless as a kid, but this time round I found myself squinting at the screen to try and get a closer look at the textures on the coats they wore. It was the same with villainous sorceress Mombi, she of the interchangeable heads, but also of the truly glorious wardrobe. Set and sound design receive similar attention to detail, with the latter perhaps accounting for the wheelers' power to terrify. There's also some flat-out nightmare fuel Claymation from technique pioneer Will Vinton, proving that rocks have not only ears but eyes, noses, teeth and a variety of facial expressions from sneaky to bloodthirsty.
As Dorothy, the then ten-year-old Fairuza Balk holds her own against the special effects, producing a brave and naturalistic performance that contrasts markedly with Judy Garland's more mannered interpretation. Support comes in the form of Piper Laurie's Aunt Em, whilst Nicol Williamson and Jean Marsh play the villains in both Oz and Kansas, harking back to the it was all a dream ending of the original film.
I was actually surprised by how much I enjoyed this one. Disney films of the early-to-mid 80s often carry the faint whiff of desperation - profits were down during the period and they were fighting the belief that their output was just too cosy for modern audiences. Their response was to move darker, with the likes of this and Ray Bradbury adaptation Something Wicked This Way Comes. That was another film in search of an audience, I think, but its more literary and lyrical source material left me with a vague sense of irritation about how much seemed to have been left on the cutting room floor. Something Wicked was a failure, I think, if an interesting one, but Return to Oz succeeds thanks to a combination of great production values and a clear directorial vision. Recommended.
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Dogma (1999)
What an utterly, utterly dismal week. First Bowie, then Rickman, and it's starting to feel as though my youth is being dismantled piece by piece. It's a horrible feeling, an unwanted reminder of my own mortality during the darkest, coldest days of the year.
It's been weird, to be honest, watching other people's reactions and realising the celebrity they felt was theirs was so very different to the person you admired and almost loved. There's a whole generation who think of Bowie as the Goblin King from Labyrinth, and I maybe should have been one of them. My first exposure to him, though, was as the singer who did Let's Dance, and this is who he'll always remain in my head.
In a similar vein, I'll never be able to bring myself to think of Alan Rickman as Snape from the Harry Potter films, not really. I was seven or eight years too old for them, I suppose, and ten or twelve years too cynical, and it took me a long time to be able to appreciate them for the solidly-crafted pieces of fantasy and British actors' pension plans that they were. Die Hard was more my era, I suppose, but I was always turned off by the particularly senseless brand of violence it espoused - I distinctly remember it being the first film where I found myself feeling dreadful for all the collateral damage characters who got so mindlessly murdered for the sake of a few fancy-looking explosion effects.
No, the character when I think of when I think of Rickman is the Metatron. the voice of God from Dogma, Kevin Smith's cheerful meditation on the nature of modern Catholicism. There's a lot of things I love about Dogma, but I love Metatron the most, a snarling, whining ball of rage that initially looks like pure petulance but is gradually revealed as something both far warmer and far more melancholy. Rickman's performance makes me ache inside in the very best way, and returning to it yesterday was a genuine joy.
There's not much about the film that isn't a pleasure, though - Smith's dialogue is thoughtful but punchy, performed by a talented cast who mostly bring their A-game. Linda Fiorentino makes a fine lead as the world-weary Bethany, who hopes her church will never find out that she works at an abortion clinic, while Matt Damon and Ben Affleck are endlessly entertaining as Loki and Bartleby, the pair of rogue angels she's informed she has to thwart in order to prevent the unmaking of all existence. Damon in particular sparkles - it's not often he's allowed to play the villain, and if this is anything to go by that's actually a real shame. Here he displays a laid-back but gleeful sense of malice and fantastic timing that makes me wonder what he might have done if Marvel had cast him in a certain, ah, similarly-named role.
I seem to remember something at the time about movie theaters being picketed over the alleged blasphemy. I mean, as an atheist I'm probably not qualified to have an opinion, but I'm not sure I saw anything there to be offended by. God is presented as all-powerful, loving, funny and Canadian. Is there any kind of deity you'd rather believe in?
If you've missed this one - and I get the impression plenty have - it's definitely worth a shot. The combination of laugh-out-loud wit and transparent humanity are hard to beat, especially during a week like this.
It's been weird, to be honest, watching other people's reactions and realising the celebrity they felt was theirs was so very different to the person you admired and almost loved. There's a whole generation who think of Bowie as the Goblin King from Labyrinth, and I maybe should have been one of them. My first exposure to him, though, was as the singer who did Let's Dance, and this is who he'll always remain in my head.
In a similar vein, I'll never be able to bring myself to think of Alan Rickman as Snape from the Harry Potter films, not really. I was seven or eight years too old for them, I suppose, and ten or twelve years too cynical, and it took me a long time to be able to appreciate them for the solidly-crafted pieces of fantasy and British actors' pension plans that they were. Die Hard was more my era, I suppose, but I was always turned off by the particularly senseless brand of violence it espoused - I distinctly remember it being the first film where I found myself feeling dreadful for all the collateral damage characters who got so mindlessly murdered for the sake of a few fancy-looking explosion effects.
No, the character when I think of when I think of Rickman is the Metatron. the voice of God from Dogma, Kevin Smith's cheerful meditation on the nature of modern Catholicism. There's a lot of things I love about Dogma, but I love Metatron the most, a snarling, whining ball of rage that initially looks like pure petulance but is gradually revealed as something both far warmer and far more melancholy. Rickman's performance makes me ache inside in the very best way, and returning to it yesterday was a genuine joy.
There's not much about the film that isn't a pleasure, though - Smith's dialogue is thoughtful but punchy, performed by a talented cast who mostly bring their A-game. Linda Fiorentino makes a fine lead as the world-weary Bethany, who hopes her church will never find out that she works at an abortion clinic, while Matt Damon and Ben Affleck are endlessly entertaining as Loki and Bartleby, the pair of rogue angels she's informed she has to thwart in order to prevent the unmaking of all existence. Damon in particular sparkles - it's not often he's allowed to play the villain, and if this is anything to go by that's actually a real shame. Here he displays a laid-back but gleeful sense of malice and fantastic timing that makes me wonder what he might have done if Marvel had cast him in a certain, ah, similarly-named role.
I seem to remember something at the time about movie theaters being picketed over the alleged blasphemy. I mean, as an atheist I'm probably not qualified to have an opinion, but I'm not sure I saw anything there to be offended by. God is presented as all-powerful, loving, funny and Canadian. Is there any kind of deity you'd rather believe in?
If you've missed this one - and I get the impression plenty have - it's definitely worth a shot. The combination of laugh-out-loud wit and transparent humanity are hard to beat, especially during a week like this.
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Zoolander (2001)
...My sadness at David Bowie's passing hasn't been tempered in the least by the discovery that he appeared in a lot of really, really crappy films.
I mean, like, really crappy, not just Labyrinth bad. Not even The man who fell to Earth bad, and God knows that was bad enough. No, it appears that Bowie was a serial Nolan collaborator, one of a series of bad judgement calls that will hopefully go unremembered thanks to all the other amazing, wonderful stuff he did.
Today I will not be writing about any of the works of Christopher Nolan, because guess what? When Hell freezes over, I still won't have reviewed any of his films, although I might possibly pen a few pithy lines on how being buried beneath several thousand megatons of ice might have actually warmed his heart a little. If he had one, obviously.
Where was I?
Bowie, that was it, and how I wanted to review a film with him in because I really admired the guy, but not so much that I was prepared to have a wretchedly bad time doing so.
Hence, Zoolander.
It all started a very long time ago in the Tesco Express in town, when the cashier tried to upsell me the DVD for a fiver. I'm a pushover for this stuff, so I brought it home and we took a look. It was funny, definitely; we watched it, enjoyed it, then passed it on to my parents as something we were unlikely to feel the need to view again. After a few months, however, I found odd lines seeping back into my consciousness and realised how much I missed it. I'd love to say that I begged my folks to give it back and that some sort of weirdass DVD custody battle ensued, but I think we probably just bought another copy instead.
None of which tells you what the movie's about, of course. Look, it's been a long day, can't you just take it on trust when I say that this one's worth a look? I appreciate that the only time you normally let me get away with halfassing it like this is when I mollify you with cat pictures, but what can I say? My cats have been really, really boring lately.
I appreciate your understanding - see you on Saturday!
I mean, like, really crappy, not just Labyrinth bad. Not even The man who fell to Earth bad, and God knows that was bad enough. No, it appears that Bowie was a serial Nolan collaborator, one of a series of bad judgement calls that will hopefully go unremembered thanks to all the other amazing, wonderful stuff he did.
Today I will not be writing about any of the works of Christopher Nolan, because guess what? When Hell freezes over, I still won't have reviewed any of his films, although I might possibly pen a few pithy lines on how being buried beneath several thousand megatons of ice might have actually warmed his heart a little. If he had one, obviously.
Where was I?
Bowie, that was it, and how I wanted to review a film with him in because I really admired the guy, but not so much that I was prepared to have a wretchedly bad time doing so.
Hence, Zoolander.
It all started a very long time ago in the Tesco Express in town, when the cashier tried to upsell me the DVD for a fiver. I'm a pushover for this stuff, so I brought it home and we took a look. It was funny, definitely; we watched it, enjoyed it, then passed it on to my parents as something we were unlikely to feel the need to view again. After a few months, however, I found odd lines seeping back into my consciousness and realised how much I missed it. I'd love to say that I begged my folks to give it back and that some sort of weirdass DVD custody battle ensued, but I think we probably just bought another copy instead.
None of which tells you what the movie's about, of course. Look, it's been a long day, can't you just take it on trust when I say that this one's worth a look? I appreciate that the only time you normally let me get away with halfassing it like this is when I mollify you with cat pictures, but what can I say? My cats have been really, really boring lately.
I appreciate your understanding - see you on Saturday!
Saturday, January 9, 2016
Helvetica (2007) and Hot Fuzz (2007)
The plan today was to write about Helvetica, Gary Hustwit's 80-minute documentary about the world's most iconic typeface. It's a fascinating piece of filmmaking, thoughtfully shot and soundtracked and featuring interviews with luminaries of the design world both old and new. I loved the serenity of it and the people it introduced me to, the discussions it provoked with Mr. B and the way I'll never be able to look at another poster or brochure or sign without thinking of what cultural significance the style of lettering might carry. I'm not sure it's the kind of film I could sell to anybody, though - if it's your sort of thing, chances are the mere knowledge of its existence will be enough to have you hunting a copy down. I know that was how it happened with me.
Besides, it's been a while since I've written something rambly about the Cornetto Triology, hasn't it? Luckily, ITV2 was showing Hot Fuzz last night and there aren't many pleasanter ways to spend a quiet evening. Granted, I dozed through a line or two of dialogue, but I've been watching it three or four times a year since a cinema trip during its original release period, so I feel this is probably forgivable.
As with Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz takes a genre dominated by the US, translates it to a typical UK setting and then follows this to its extreme logical conclusion. This time round we have a typical buddy cop set up, as we're introduced to London supercop Nick Angel (Simon Pegg) just as he finds himself uprooted from his preferred environment to sleepy Sandford, a village so beautiful it wins awards. Here he lands up partnered with the hapless Danny Butterfield (Nick Frost) who he first encounters when he drunkenly reverses his car into a fountain. An amiable sort, Danny has apparently gained the entirety of his knowledge of policing procedure by watching the likes of Point Break and Bad Boys 2. Of course, this is hardly going to be a problem in Sandford, is it? Not Sandford, where everybody's lovely and the most hardened criminal is an escaped swan.
Nick's a stickler for the rules and takes a lot of flak as a result. You'd think that once the murders start the rest of the local plods would be glad to have someone like him around, but no, it's easier for everybody simply to pass them off as accidents and the new face in town as a fanatic. Only the faithful Danny is prepared to believe he might be onto something...
Boasting the same top-notch editing as Shaun, Hot Fuzz is a delight from start to finish. Granted, it rambles a little more than Shaun, but then, I'd argue that the world it presents is more detailed and benefits from a more lengthy viewing. I was raised in England's leafy shires, in the world of church fetes and vegetable growing contests, and I know the levels of spite and superiority that lurk beneath the immaculately-manicured flowerbeds. It's nice to see it all, err, honoured, particularly (spoiler) in the climactic shootout scene.
There's lots of other things to enjoy here, in any case. Is actor-spotting your thing? On your left, look out for veteran character actor Billie Whitelaw of The Omen fame. As we travel on further, meanwhile, you may catch a glimpse of a tall gentleman of somewhat limited intellectual capacities. Are you sure you haven't seen him before in, say, Game of Thrones, as Sandor Clegane, the Hound? Particularly perceptive types may even notice appearances by Cate Blanchett and Peter Jackson, although if you find these without looking them up you have sharper eyes than I do.
The humour is a nice mix of slapstick and on-point satire; Frost in particular has a bunch of quotable lines. He has the difficult task of providing the film with its heart and moral grounding, and in the end, the gifted but tightly-wound Nick has as much to learn from Danny as Danny does from him. The friendship elements here are absolutely spot-on, far more nuanced than they were in Shaun and at times, genuinely touching.
It's not perfect, of course, and it probably wouldn't be even if the casting team had seen fit to furnish the film with a single non-white face. Women receive similarly short shrift, for the most part - granted, not everybody in a comedy needs their own character arc, but there's a real lack of three-dimensional female characters here. This is, unfortunately, becoming something of a trademark in Wright's work, and is part of the reason I've given up trying to like his Scott Pilgrim vs. The World no matter how great it might look.
Still, Hot Fuzz remains close to the top of my list of favourite comedy movies, and to paraphrase Shaun of the Dead's Ed, I'll only stop watching it when ITV2 stops showing it.
Besides, it's been a while since I've written something rambly about the Cornetto Triology, hasn't it? Luckily, ITV2 was showing Hot Fuzz last night and there aren't many pleasanter ways to spend a quiet evening. Granted, I dozed through a line or two of dialogue, but I've been watching it three or four times a year since a cinema trip during its original release period, so I feel this is probably forgivable.
As with Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz takes a genre dominated by the US, translates it to a typical UK setting and then follows this to its extreme logical conclusion. This time round we have a typical buddy cop set up, as we're introduced to London supercop Nick Angel (Simon Pegg) just as he finds himself uprooted from his preferred environment to sleepy Sandford, a village so beautiful it wins awards. Here he lands up partnered with the hapless Danny Butterfield (Nick Frost) who he first encounters when he drunkenly reverses his car into a fountain. An amiable sort, Danny has apparently gained the entirety of his knowledge of policing procedure by watching the likes of Point Break and Bad Boys 2. Of course, this is hardly going to be a problem in Sandford, is it? Not Sandford, where everybody's lovely and the most hardened criminal is an escaped swan.
Nick's a stickler for the rules and takes a lot of flak as a result. You'd think that once the murders start the rest of the local plods would be glad to have someone like him around, but no, it's easier for everybody simply to pass them off as accidents and the new face in town as a fanatic. Only the faithful Danny is prepared to believe he might be onto something...
Boasting the same top-notch editing as Shaun, Hot Fuzz is a delight from start to finish. Granted, it rambles a little more than Shaun, but then, I'd argue that the world it presents is more detailed and benefits from a more lengthy viewing. I was raised in England's leafy shires, in the world of church fetes and vegetable growing contests, and I know the levels of spite and superiority that lurk beneath the immaculately-manicured flowerbeds. It's nice to see it all, err, honoured, particularly (spoiler) in the climactic shootout scene.
There's lots of other things to enjoy here, in any case. Is actor-spotting your thing? On your left, look out for veteran character actor Billie Whitelaw of The Omen fame. As we travel on further, meanwhile, you may catch a glimpse of a tall gentleman of somewhat limited intellectual capacities. Are you sure you haven't seen him before in, say, Game of Thrones, as Sandor Clegane, the Hound? Particularly perceptive types may even notice appearances by Cate Blanchett and Peter Jackson, although if you find these without looking them up you have sharper eyes than I do.
The humour is a nice mix of slapstick and on-point satire; Frost in particular has a bunch of quotable lines. He has the difficult task of providing the film with its heart and moral grounding, and in the end, the gifted but tightly-wound Nick has as much to learn from Danny as Danny does from him. The friendship elements here are absolutely spot-on, far more nuanced than they were in Shaun and at times, genuinely touching.
It's not perfect, of course, and it probably wouldn't be even if the casting team had seen fit to furnish the film with a single non-white face. Women receive similarly short shrift, for the most part - granted, not everybody in a comedy needs their own character arc, but there's a real lack of three-dimensional female characters here. This is, unfortunately, becoming something of a trademark in Wright's work, and is part of the reason I've given up trying to like his Scott Pilgrim vs. The World no matter how great it might look.
Still, Hot Fuzz remains close to the top of my list of favourite comedy movies, and to paraphrase Shaun of the Dead's Ed, I'll only stop watching it when ITV2 stops showing it.
Monday, January 4, 2016
Notes on a Scandal (2006)
Never Google your exes. I mean this, kids. Up until about a month ago, I would've sworn that the most depressing possible outcome of this would be the discovery that they're contented and successful, with a nice house and whatever the regulation number of kids is these days. Up until about a month ago, when I looked up C, who I wrote about in August and who introduced me to the works of Tarantino and Boyle as well as The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
I'm not sure what I was expecting to find - happy Facebook photos, perhaps? Cosy domestic scenes, children growing up, maybe (given that he'd been studying for a PGCE) grumbles about how hard teaching has become nowadays. A jail sentence for having had improper relations with an underage student, though? Yeah, not so much.
Notes on a Scandal has been on my mind a lot since then. It's the cinematic adaptation of Zoe Heller's Booker Prize-shortlisted novel, about... well, yes, it's about an affair between a teacher and a student, but that's not the meat of it, not in the book and not in the film either. Rather, it's about loneliness and obsession, and how self-delusion can drive us to acts that we would not ordinarily believe possible.
Judi Dench stars as Barbara, a history teacher at an inner-city comprehensive school. Jaded and isolated, Barbara is nearing retirement age. She (specifically her diary) serves as our narrator, detailing the arrival of Sheba Hart (Cate Blanchett), a former potter turned art teacher who hopes to instil a love of art in the students' often bleak and deprived lives. Fey, Barbara tells us dismissively, but just like the rest of the staff, she finds herself falling under the transcendently beautiful but deeply naive Sheba's spell.
Barbara craves company of any sort, but perhaps of one sort very specifically, and when she accidentally uncovers Sheba's potentially career-ending secret, she sees not a scandal but an opportunity. She installs herself as her confidante, offering to keep quiet and help her through but exacting an unspoken price in the form of demands on her time and increasing emotional intimacy. Of course, eventually something happens for the deception to be uncovered, leading to predictably explosive consequences...
With lead actresses like Dench and Blanchett, there was never any real way Notes on a Scandal was ever going to be anything less than quality. Director Richard Eyre gives them a great screenplay penned by Patrick Marber and top-notch support from the likes of Bill Nighy and Joanna Scanlan, and then lets everyone have at. The result? Quite the most elegant, engaging, intellectually and emotionally satisfying B-movie melodrama you're ever likely to see. The dialogue fizzes and crackles with spite and angst, with both Dench and Blanchett more than willing to abandon all dignity and likeability to get properly down and dirty. Pay no attention to the trappings, children, this is joyous trash of the first order. This is Whatever Happened to Baby Jane moved to the inner city, right down to the slash of purple-red lipstick Sheba dons as the prelude to a good old-fashioned screaming and throwing things breakdown.
This is a magnificent film, but also a twisted, dirty, nasty one, and I mean that in the best possible way. Highly recommended, because even intellectuals need a little trash in their lives from time to time.
I'm not sure what I was expecting to find - happy Facebook photos, perhaps? Cosy domestic scenes, children growing up, maybe (given that he'd been studying for a PGCE) grumbles about how hard teaching has become nowadays. A jail sentence for having had improper relations with an underage student, though? Yeah, not so much.
Notes on a Scandal has been on my mind a lot since then. It's the cinematic adaptation of Zoe Heller's Booker Prize-shortlisted novel, about... well, yes, it's about an affair between a teacher and a student, but that's not the meat of it, not in the book and not in the film either. Rather, it's about loneliness and obsession, and how self-delusion can drive us to acts that we would not ordinarily believe possible.
Judi Dench stars as Barbara, a history teacher at an inner-city comprehensive school. Jaded and isolated, Barbara is nearing retirement age. She (specifically her diary) serves as our narrator, detailing the arrival of Sheba Hart (Cate Blanchett), a former potter turned art teacher who hopes to instil a love of art in the students' often bleak and deprived lives. Fey, Barbara tells us dismissively, but just like the rest of the staff, she finds herself falling under the transcendently beautiful but deeply naive Sheba's spell.
Barbara craves company of any sort, but perhaps of one sort very specifically, and when she accidentally uncovers Sheba's potentially career-ending secret, she sees not a scandal but an opportunity. She installs herself as her confidante, offering to keep quiet and help her through but exacting an unspoken price in the form of demands on her time and increasing emotional intimacy. Of course, eventually something happens for the deception to be uncovered, leading to predictably explosive consequences...
With lead actresses like Dench and Blanchett, there was never any real way Notes on a Scandal was ever going to be anything less than quality. Director Richard Eyre gives them a great screenplay penned by Patrick Marber and top-notch support from the likes of Bill Nighy and Joanna Scanlan, and then lets everyone have at. The result? Quite the most elegant, engaging, intellectually and emotionally satisfying B-movie melodrama you're ever likely to see. The dialogue fizzes and crackles with spite and angst, with both Dench and Blanchett more than willing to abandon all dignity and likeability to get properly down and dirty. Pay no attention to the trappings, children, this is joyous trash of the first order. This is Whatever Happened to Baby Jane moved to the inner city, right down to the slash of purple-red lipstick Sheba dons as the prelude to a good old-fashioned screaming and throwing things breakdown.
This is a magnificent film, but also a twisted, dirty, nasty one, and I mean that in the best possible way. Highly recommended, because even intellectuals need a little trash in their lives from time to time.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
To Die For (1995)
Time for a bit of a palate cleanser, I think, in the form of Gus Van Sant's small but perfectly formed black comedy To Die For. It's the perfect antidote to all that bloating and tinsel and CGI, running at an hour and three quarters but passing in an eyeblink.
We start at the end of the affair, with the opening credits rolling over a background of newspaper footage detailing the implication of weathergirl Suzanne Maretto in her husband's murder. For reasons which only become clear far later on, the narrative here isn't strictly linear; it follows a fairly straight trajectory as it describes Suzanne's meeting with and marriage to one Larry Maretto, but isn't afraid to take the odd detour along the way.
The majority of these detours are to an interview with Suzanne herself, played by Nicole Kidman as one of cinema's truly memorable monsters. Endlessly coquettish but tightly wound, Suzanne seems to think that a life lived off-camera is a life only half lived, if at all. Annoyingly, however, she's managed to land up married to sweet-natured Italian homebody Larry (Matt Dillon), who wants nothing more than to settle down, run the family restaurant and have a litter of kids. Given the social unacceptability of divorce, really, what's a girl to do other than recruit a bunch of no-hopers from the local high school and convince them to bump him off, leaving her to frame them and make her name and a tidy sum of cash from selling a documentary about it all?
To Die For is an easy film to love, thanks to Buck Henry's smart, witty script and a bunch of killer performances. Kidman dazzles, of course, in the sort of villain role that has now become her trademark - traces of Suzanne can clearly be seen in the terrifying Marisa Coulter from The Golden Compass. The most frightening thing about Suzanne, however, is how believable she is - I defy you to listen to her voice and watch her mannerisms and not be reminded of somebody you know. This isn't operatic evil, it's the sort of small-scale, banal self-delusion that causes emotional and physical harm in homes and workplaces across the country every day of the year.
The film isn't a solo effort, however, with even the minor characters benefiting from careful casting and a real sense of depth. My favourite was Alison Folland's Lydia, one of the few completely likeable characters of the piece, so achingly lonely that you can't help but wish her well. Her co-conspirators, meanwhile, are played by Casey Affleck and an unsurprisingly effective Joaquin Phoenix.
Only as the movie draws on does it slowly dawn on us that the heroes and villains of the piece aren't so cut and dried as we might think. Suzanne is vain and stupid and eventually murderous, but then, Larry's family are parochial, oppressively traditional and, er, eventually murderous. I'm not really sure if there's any sort of moral to be drawn from this, in fact, other than that most people are arseholes but that the smarter arseholes are sometimes able to get away with it.
With this in mind, please accept the following New Year's wish from me: Here's hoping that this year, all the arseholes you meet will be stupider arseholes than you.
We start at the end of the affair, with the opening credits rolling over a background of newspaper footage detailing the implication of weathergirl Suzanne Maretto in her husband's murder. For reasons which only become clear far later on, the narrative here isn't strictly linear; it follows a fairly straight trajectory as it describes Suzanne's meeting with and marriage to one Larry Maretto, but isn't afraid to take the odd detour along the way.
The majority of these detours are to an interview with Suzanne herself, played by Nicole Kidman as one of cinema's truly memorable monsters. Endlessly coquettish but tightly wound, Suzanne seems to think that a life lived off-camera is a life only half lived, if at all. Annoyingly, however, she's managed to land up married to sweet-natured Italian homebody Larry (Matt Dillon), who wants nothing more than to settle down, run the family restaurant and have a litter of kids. Given the social unacceptability of divorce, really, what's a girl to do other than recruit a bunch of no-hopers from the local high school and convince them to bump him off, leaving her to frame them and make her name and a tidy sum of cash from selling a documentary about it all?
To Die For is an easy film to love, thanks to Buck Henry's smart, witty script and a bunch of killer performances. Kidman dazzles, of course, in the sort of villain role that has now become her trademark - traces of Suzanne can clearly be seen in the terrifying Marisa Coulter from The Golden Compass. The most frightening thing about Suzanne, however, is how believable she is - I defy you to listen to her voice and watch her mannerisms and not be reminded of somebody you know. This isn't operatic evil, it's the sort of small-scale, banal self-delusion that causes emotional and physical harm in homes and workplaces across the country every day of the year.
The film isn't a solo effort, however, with even the minor characters benefiting from careful casting and a real sense of depth. My favourite was Alison Folland's Lydia, one of the few completely likeable characters of the piece, so achingly lonely that you can't help but wish her well. Her co-conspirators, meanwhile, are played by Casey Affleck and an unsurprisingly effective Joaquin Phoenix.
Only as the movie draws on does it slowly dawn on us that the heroes and villains of the piece aren't so cut and dried as we might think. Suzanne is vain and stupid and eventually murderous, but then, Larry's family are parochial, oppressively traditional and, er, eventually murderous. I'm not really sure if there's any sort of moral to be drawn from this, in fact, other than that most people are arseholes but that the smarter arseholes are sometimes able to get away with it.
With this in mind, please accept the following New Year's wish from me: Here's hoping that this year, all the arseholes you meet will be stupider arseholes than you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)