Ivan Zulueta
Synopsis
Madrid,1980. Jose Sirgado, a labouring bohemian b-movie filmmaker finishes editing the sequel to a previous film. Visibly displeased he journeys home to his girlfriend strung out on heroin. After attempting to tidy his home and taking some heroin himself he opens a mail package from an old acquaintance Pedro P. containing a reel of super-8 film, a cassette tape and a key to his apartment. Watching the film and listening to the accompanying tape on which Pedro talks through the pair’s first meeting, their ensuing friendship and how he developed an addiction to filmmaking, notably recording himself in bed as he reached a state of rapture induced by the camera manifested in a series of flashbacks. As Pedro’s gravelly voice over wears on it becomes clear that his camera has taken on a vampiric life of its own absorbing its subjects and ultimately erasing them from the real world. Pedro’s final recording informs Jose of his suspected fate and informs him to visit his apartment where he too is absorbed by the camera.
Review
In a surprising attempt to blend horror, filmmaking and addiction Ivan Zulueta succeeds in producing a cataclysmic cocktail of peverse characters, characteristics and scenarios. From the introduction there is the anticipation of a meditation on filmmaking as beleaguered director Jose puts the finishing touches on his latest picture – a sequel that appears to be an Ed Woodesque attempt at a vampire flick – visibly dissatisfied he retreats to his bohemian apartment swathed in multi-coloured streams light from studio lights in the corners of the room covered in boldly tinted pieces of silk. Revealed in the opening moments we are witnessing intensely self-reflexive characters and a film produced by a director of the same persuasion. Only once drifting into a dreaded area of kitsch and camp the film manages to steer away from an unwatchable horror film about a vampire camera to being a serious meditation on the addictive powers of cinema, its relation to reality and a study of obsession.
The single most interesting character of the piece is eccentric avant-garde filmmaker Pedro P. named purposefully after JM Barrie’s forever-young adventurer. Noticing and embracing the full power of film and cinema his life is usurped by the quest for finding solace in its presence and his own adventure takes him between the frames as a pained author may try to get between the lines ultimately driving him too far and away from any vision of beauty and creativity. Recording everything he experiences, encompassing the mundane to the dull, we witness his descent as he hopes to ascribe purpose to what he puts on the screen, himself questioning the meaning and existence of something if it is not recorded. All very deep and ponderous, and while Zulueta perhaps achieves his probable aim with the film, it seems watching the editing of P’s film and Arrebato itself as though the 1960s psychedelic eras in Britain and America as quick to arrive as they were to leave never landed on the shores of Spain. Pedro’s home movies bear a startling resemblance to those of John and Yoko’s Tittenhurst experiments in celluloid even including the slowly erecting penis akin to the opening of a flower.
It is within the visual and technical aspects of the film that suspends it in cultural cultish limbo for the ages and in so reveals the main factor that can be attributed to its final outcome. Francisco Franco, conspicuous in his absence, overarches all the themes of the picture, from the freshly imbued freedom of the Spanish arts set, the loose expose of Madrid underground drug culture and embrace of experimental cinema to be embodied in the following decade by the La Movida Madrileña and exported internationally by its champion Pedro Almodóvar – interestingly enough it is he who provides the appalling element of camp and kitsch with some voice over work that midway through almost brings the film the film down to its knees. Occupying an awkward space in Spanish and international film history whilst some years later than the free jazz influenced cinema of Cassavetes, Godard and Schlesinger into doubt anticipates Danny Boyle’s introduction of heroin chic to the street of Edinburgh and London and Aronofsky adopting similar methods of depicting addiction essentially fifteen to twenty years later Arrebato explores of previously uncharted liberated territory and the release of a repressive older regime.
Monday 5 March 2012
Sunday 5 February 2012
Im Schatten (In the Shadows) (2010) review ...
Thomas Arslan
Synopsis
Berlin, the present. Recently out of prison Trojan is a professional criminal looking for his next big job. Meeting up with old contacts he soon hears of a job requiring three men, but upon learning that his colleagues are to be an alcoholic and a junkie he instantly jettisons it. Despite his careful actions and attempts to cover all his tracks rival crooks and a corrupt police detective are now separately tailing him. Meeting up with a female lawyer friend Trojan learns of a job stealing over a million Euros from a security van, the presumed ease of which has been revealed by one of the drivers who is willing to be “in” on the job. Requiring an extra man for the job he contacts a former associate, an older man, who consents to being involved. The policeman and rival gangsters observe the actions of those planning the heist. The job is carried out successfully with precision; Trojan and his older accomplice divide the bounty equally into four. Trojan delivers half to the lawyer who passes on the driver’s share. The policeman kills the driver taking his share after tailing him to his flat and the rival crooks kill the older man. The policeman follows Trojan to a hotel room; Trojan then kills him, before disposing of his body with the lawyer. Trojan retreating to his cabin hideout is then found by the rival crooks that he proceeds to kill. Returning from disposing of the bodies he sees policemen searching his cabin and runs away through the woods. Stealing a car from a garage he drives away presuming himself a fugitive.
Review
The life and times of a criminal foot soldier is well-trodden film territory, yet stripped of it’s anti-hero themes, operatic tendencies and gratuitous violence Thomas Arslan offers something far more intriguing. A truly accomplished film for a relatively young director of four previous feature films, none of which receiving distribution in the UK. In the Shadows is set against a backdrop of post-industrial Berlin and explores the criminal underbelly of modern Germany, the nature of business and the dangers of working as a free-lance professional. In search of new leads on possible jobs with low risks and high reward upon his release from incarceration, Trojan, the classically pseudonymed crook, turns to former contacts and associates - as may any enthusiastic European job seeker in any line of work today - in the hope that something will present itself. The film, therefore, chimes as a parable of the post-industrial age where work is scarce and the markets are cutthroat. Sitting, as it does, within the bounds of an easily digestible genre and clearly honed realist stylistic constraints the film is wholly palatable and always believable.
Employing over 80 years worth of conventions generic to the gangster film Arslan takes a released convict, composites his outlook on life and professionalism towards his job, adds a delectable set of goons, and executes a well-polished heist. No time for cumbersome character development is afforded in the cold and corrupt mechanical business of this world. Nothing is revealed of the central protagonist, the leading lady or the shady police officer, yet their laconic, emotionless and inspired performances anchor the film in a strangely abstract realism. In the Shadows expands on the notion of moving the crime thriller away from romanticised image of the gangster. Never tempted into lazy flashbacks or montage it is within the palette of colours that this finely crafted film moves along. Highlighting the darkness of day and night, the inner city and the countryside; light fluorescent reds and yellows give way to cold claustrophobic greys and blues whilst sharply contrasting greens burst vividly onto the screen later in the film. It is often, however, the dark, deep, and, at times, black scenes that are most illuminating and effectively placed within the narrative; presumably a choice that dictated the title, or one that was dictated by the title.
Early in the film a central theme of paranoia is propagated through the inner city greys and blues, thus setting up the dynamic of the harsh realities of business and corruption and raising the element of trust in the settings of hotel rooms and BMWs to run down garages and lunch time coffee outlets. The freedom of a getaway cabin hideout is surrounded by blessed green foliage before gradually switching to a wet grey long shot in a climactic moment of pathetic fallacy. This transition sequence is particularly emblematic of the film’s style and flow.
A propulsive soundtrack lurks beneath the action. Gracefully sprinkled sparingly throughout at moments of heightened tension, yet we are never fully submerged in the throbbing percussive bass or dissonant chords as may have been tempting and as would be expected with any of its Hollywood counterparts. Instead subtlety and craftsmanship are the factors that provide the intrigue. All too often the implication of craftsmanship suggests something ‘soulless’ within criticism, however, what is presented here is a well-cultivated exposé on the current business climate, equating crime to any other modern industry, in a film that is precisely crafted, excellently paced and competent in its execution.
Review by Matt Henshaw
Synopsis
Berlin, the present. Recently out of prison Trojan is a professional criminal looking for his next big job. Meeting up with old contacts he soon hears of a job requiring three men, but upon learning that his colleagues are to be an alcoholic and a junkie he instantly jettisons it. Despite his careful actions and attempts to cover all his tracks rival crooks and a corrupt police detective are now separately tailing him. Meeting up with a female lawyer friend Trojan learns of a job stealing over a million Euros from a security van, the presumed ease of which has been revealed by one of the drivers who is willing to be “in” on the job. Requiring an extra man for the job he contacts a former associate, an older man, who consents to being involved. The policeman and rival gangsters observe the actions of those planning the heist. The job is carried out successfully with precision; Trojan and his older accomplice divide the bounty equally into four. Trojan delivers half to the lawyer who passes on the driver’s share. The policeman kills the driver taking his share after tailing him to his flat and the rival crooks kill the older man. The policeman follows Trojan to a hotel room; Trojan then kills him, before disposing of his body with the lawyer. Trojan retreating to his cabin hideout is then found by the rival crooks that he proceeds to kill. Returning from disposing of the bodies he sees policemen searching his cabin and runs away through the woods. Stealing a car from a garage he drives away presuming himself a fugitive.
Review
The life and times of a criminal foot soldier is well-trodden film territory, yet stripped of it’s anti-hero themes, operatic tendencies and gratuitous violence Thomas Arslan offers something far more intriguing. A truly accomplished film for a relatively young director of four previous feature films, none of which receiving distribution in the UK. In the Shadows is set against a backdrop of post-industrial Berlin and explores the criminal underbelly of modern Germany, the nature of business and the dangers of working as a free-lance professional. In search of new leads on possible jobs with low risks and high reward upon his release from incarceration, Trojan, the classically pseudonymed crook, turns to former contacts and associates - as may any enthusiastic European job seeker in any line of work today - in the hope that something will present itself. The film, therefore, chimes as a parable of the post-industrial age where work is scarce and the markets are cutthroat. Sitting, as it does, within the bounds of an easily digestible genre and clearly honed realist stylistic constraints the film is wholly palatable and always believable.
Employing over 80 years worth of conventions generic to the gangster film Arslan takes a released convict, composites his outlook on life and professionalism towards his job, adds a delectable set of goons, and executes a well-polished heist. No time for cumbersome character development is afforded in the cold and corrupt mechanical business of this world. Nothing is revealed of the central protagonist, the leading lady or the shady police officer, yet their laconic, emotionless and inspired performances anchor the film in a strangely abstract realism. In the Shadows expands on the notion of moving the crime thriller away from romanticised image of the gangster. Never tempted into lazy flashbacks or montage it is within the palette of colours that this finely crafted film moves along. Highlighting the darkness of day and night, the inner city and the countryside; light fluorescent reds and yellows give way to cold claustrophobic greys and blues whilst sharply contrasting greens burst vividly onto the screen later in the film. It is often, however, the dark, deep, and, at times, black scenes that are most illuminating and effectively placed within the narrative; presumably a choice that dictated the title, or one that was dictated by the title.
Early in the film a central theme of paranoia is propagated through the inner city greys and blues, thus setting up the dynamic of the harsh realities of business and corruption and raising the element of trust in the settings of hotel rooms and BMWs to run down garages and lunch time coffee outlets. The freedom of a getaway cabin hideout is surrounded by blessed green foliage before gradually switching to a wet grey long shot in a climactic moment of pathetic fallacy. This transition sequence is particularly emblematic of the film’s style and flow.
A propulsive soundtrack lurks beneath the action. Gracefully sprinkled sparingly throughout at moments of heightened tension, yet we are never fully submerged in the throbbing percussive bass or dissonant chords as may have been tempting and as would be expected with any of its Hollywood counterparts. Instead subtlety and craftsmanship are the factors that provide the intrigue. All too often the implication of craftsmanship suggests something ‘soulless’ within criticism, however, what is presented here is a well-cultivated exposé on the current business climate, equating crime to any other modern industry, in a film that is precisely crafted, excellently paced and competent in its execution.
Review by Matt Henshaw
Saturday 7 January 2012
The Hurt Locker (2008)
The Hurt Locker, yet another movie depicting the horrors and tribulations which American soldiers face in the Iraq
Kathryn Bigelow's movie follows a team of elite soldiers as they patrol the streets of Bagdad prepared to disarm any IED (aka roadside bomb) they encounter. The elite team consists of the rule abiding Sergeant JT Sanborn (Anthony Mackie), the highly insecure and rather troubled Specialist Owen Eldridge (Brian Geraghty), and their adrenaline junkie leader, Sergeant William “wild man” James (Jeremy Renner).
As the story of the team’s endeavours progresses it becomes clear that James is much more interested in the thrill of danger than ensuring the safety of both his comrades’ and the many innocent Iraqi civilians at risk from the bombs he must disarm. He jumps at every opportunity to don his safety armour and enter the ‘kill zone’, risking his life and others (much to his team’s dismay). We also see his collection of pieces of explosive devices which he collects as keepsakes of bombs he has disarmed; and it becomes clear to the viewer that the movie’s most infamous quote highlighted in the opening credits, “war is a drug” is exemplified most potently within Renner’s character. It is Renner’s character alone therefore, which ensures that this is movie is not ‘locked’ in the cliché of politically driven war movies.
The story itself is not politically driven; Bigelow’s film is merely a vector for presenting the typical everyday activities carried out by soldiers in Iraq
This placing the audience into the action of the film and allowing them to live through the soldier’s toil alongside Bigelow’s characters is achieved using various effective devices. Most notably the deafening silence present throughout the movie and the lack of a lavish, theatrical score creates an intense atmosphere, drawing the audience into the action and surrounding them in the setting. This, teamed with the regularly shifting POV and shaky camera shots successfully places the viewer on the barren, dilapidated streets of Bagdad , where they watch alongside the Iraqi civilians as Sergeant James and his team attempt to disarm the ever present deadly IED’s. The audience experience the activities of war as the characters do and this allows for an intense emotive response; so intense in fact that this movie was deemed the Best Film 2009.
And I have to agree. Ignoring the cunning political stand point Bigelow illustrates, this film was well deserving of its title and well deserving of overthrowing Avatar. Although Avatar offers the viewer the same experience of being placed into the action of the movie, Bigelow’s film does this unaided by 3D Imax technology; it is simply a brilliantly constructed film in which one is injected into the ‘Hurt Locker’ of war and comes out the other side having undergone an enlightening experience. The experience of a drug. The experience of war.
Tuesday 3 January 2012
We Need to Talk About Kevin (2011) review
We Need to Talk About Kevin (2011)
Lynne Ramsay
Synopsis (in chronological order, not as shown in the film)
Opening at Tomatina, a large tomato fight in Valencia successful travel writer Eva is enjoying the prime of her youth and success. Returning home to an American city she falls in love with a wealthier man quickly falling pregnant and is persuaded to take a break from her career to raise their newborn son, Kevin. Initially the child will not stop crying when in the presence and care of its mother whilst remains quiet when father returns home. As a toddler the boy becomes mute in the care of his mother and responds little to her attempts to nurture him resisting the lessons of potty training and good behaviour before Eva resorts to a solitary moment of violent frustration. Their relationship is fractured throughout his young life only taking an interest in his mother reading him The Tales of Robin Hood that fires an enthusiasm for archery spurred on by his doting father. When a younger sister arrives accidentally Kevin resents the girl killing her pet guinea pig and blinding her in one eye. The two parents file for divorce before Kevin kills his father and sister and carries out a massacre at his school approaching his 16th birthday. Eva moves into a smaller house in the area that is pelted with paint along with her car, she gets an entry level job at a travel agents and attempts to avoid the parents of her son’s victims drinking and medicating herself to sleep every night.
Review
From a wide-ranging selection of independent cinema’s most prized ingredients you would expect a dish far more sophisticated than the one ham-fistly presented here. I can only apologise for the food based analogy but for the first half an hour of the film I couldn’t help feeling how over cooked it all seemed to be. The heavy-handed approach to We Need to Talk About Kevin must surely lie at the feet of director Lynne Ramsay, also credited for co-writing the clunky screenplay. The story is a potent tale of an American boy as he grows from maligned infant to sociopathic teenager in episodic flashbacks from his mother’s point of view. Most harrowing aside from his actions is that the usual suspects of blame come into play whilst the writing never allows the complex psychological persuasion of the central character to be explored as uncomfortable moments invite us to find humour in desperately humourless situations.
The film shows snippets of sugar sweet cereal, snatches of the star spangled banner and sketches of schizophrenia, the causes of which are lazily misattributed. It seems as though the script was written scribbling down and sticking with the first visual ideas that popped into the screenwriters heads, substituting the dramatic exploration into an American problem child’s psyche from the novel on which the film is based for obvious and arbitrary judgmental visual statements. It’s as if it was made as a knee-jerk reaction to the Columbine massacre had it happened in the 1980s. “Die! Die! Die!” Kevin sporadically shouts at the screen as he plays on a video game with his loving father. Are we being lectured on the violent nature of video games? “I don’t want to leave the city” insists successful travel writer mother Eva to financially stable father Franklin, sufficiently adequate performances from Tilda Swinton and John C. Reilly respectively, before they whisk their new addition to the family off to the suburbs and a house that strikingly resembles that of Tony Soprano’s - minus one point in the parenting handbook for careerism and the chase of the almighty American dollar. Surprisingly Medieval folklore is even represented in the form of Robin Hood and his exploits in Sherwood Forest with a bow and arrow inspiring Kevin’s preferred means of execution, as though surely we must be wary of the things you feed into our child’s minds.
The only regular stalwarts of bad parenting and characters of subversion that aren’t referenced are music and the movies, and if they are it is with a subtlety that perhaps I missed amongst the onslaught of obvious gestures. The recurring costume choice of a Led Zeppelin t-shirt worn by both mother and father at significant points in their lives was maybe a decision made to somehow link Jimmy Page’s interest in Alistair Crowley and the Occult to the actions of their offspring, however, I would wish to balk at the backwardness of this idea if I thought it was a conscious effort. Never though, as may be expected part way through, do we have Kevin attend a Marilyn Manson concert. Movies on the other hand are only glossed over as mother and daughter, sister of the rampaging Kevin, cosily watch what sounds like a code-era soft gangster flick.
Finally, attention should be drawn to the sound of the film, as it craves attention for the majority of the picture as if for the most part something more interesting is happening out of the frame, usually signified by Tilda Swinton’s forced reactions. When done expertly and this can be a highly effective technique as David Fincher exhibits time and time again. But the volume at which some of the sounds are escalated to in the sound mix is excruciating for all the wrong reasons, when Kevin bites and picks his finger nails or gobbles a lychee that represents the eyeball of his blinded sister – possibly a reference to Un Chien Andalou, if again somewhat awkwardly done – the sound is amplified beyond any kind of proportion. A seemingly schizophrenic soundtrack ties the series of flashbacks together and may have made for interesting listening had it not been so self-consciously attempting to replicate the quirky nature of other 21st century independent films. Perhaps the reason rock bands never come under scrutiny in the films bad parenting blame game the film is scored by Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood but never reaches the heights scaled by Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood caught as it is between so many different genre signifiers. Thus emblematic of a film where maybe too many cooks have spoiled the broth, or an ambitious yet inept head chef has let her specials menu go awry on a big night in the kitchen.
Review by Matt Henshaw
Lynne Ramsay
Synopsis (in chronological order, not as shown in the film)
Opening at Tomatina, a large tomato fight in Valencia successful travel writer Eva is enjoying the prime of her youth and success. Returning home to an American city she falls in love with a wealthier man quickly falling pregnant and is persuaded to take a break from her career to raise their newborn son, Kevin. Initially the child will not stop crying when in the presence and care of its mother whilst remains quiet when father returns home. As a toddler the boy becomes mute in the care of his mother and responds little to her attempts to nurture him resisting the lessons of potty training and good behaviour before Eva resorts to a solitary moment of violent frustration. Their relationship is fractured throughout his young life only taking an interest in his mother reading him The Tales of Robin Hood that fires an enthusiasm for archery spurred on by his doting father. When a younger sister arrives accidentally Kevin resents the girl killing her pet guinea pig and blinding her in one eye. The two parents file for divorce before Kevin kills his father and sister and carries out a massacre at his school approaching his 16th birthday. Eva moves into a smaller house in the area that is pelted with paint along with her car, she gets an entry level job at a travel agents and attempts to avoid the parents of her son’s victims drinking and medicating herself to sleep every night.
Review
From a wide-ranging selection of independent cinema’s most prized ingredients you would expect a dish far more sophisticated than the one ham-fistly presented here. I can only apologise for the food based analogy but for the first half an hour of the film I couldn’t help feeling how over cooked it all seemed to be. The heavy-handed approach to We Need to Talk About Kevin must surely lie at the feet of director Lynne Ramsay, also credited for co-writing the clunky screenplay. The story is a potent tale of an American boy as he grows from maligned infant to sociopathic teenager in episodic flashbacks from his mother’s point of view. Most harrowing aside from his actions is that the usual suspects of blame come into play whilst the writing never allows the complex psychological persuasion of the central character to be explored as uncomfortable moments invite us to find humour in desperately humourless situations.
The film shows snippets of sugar sweet cereal, snatches of the star spangled banner and sketches of schizophrenia, the causes of which are lazily misattributed. It seems as though the script was written scribbling down and sticking with the first visual ideas that popped into the screenwriters heads, substituting the dramatic exploration into an American problem child’s psyche from the novel on which the film is based for obvious and arbitrary judgmental visual statements. It’s as if it was made as a knee-jerk reaction to the Columbine massacre had it happened in the 1980s. “Die! Die! Die!” Kevin sporadically shouts at the screen as he plays on a video game with his loving father. Are we being lectured on the violent nature of video games? “I don’t want to leave the city” insists successful travel writer mother Eva to financially stable father Franklin, sufficiently adequate performances from Tilda Swinton and John C. Reilly respectively, before they whisk their new addition to the family off to the suburbs and a house that strikingly resembles that of Tony Soprano’s - minus one point in the parenting handbook for careerism and the chase of the almighty American dollar. Surprisingly Medieval folklore is even represented in the form of Robin Hood and his exploits in Sherwood Forest with a bow and arrow inspiring Kevin’s preferred means of execution, as though surely we must be wary of the things you feed into our child’s minds.
The only regular stalwarts of bad parenting and characters of subversion that aren’t referenced are music and the movies, and if they are it is with a subtlety that perhaps I missed amongst the onslaught of obvious gestures. The recurring costume choice of a Led Zeppelin t-shirt worn by both mother and father at significant points in their lives was maybe a decision made to somehow link Jimmy Page’s interest in Alistair Crowley and the Occult to the actions of their offspring, however, I would wish to balk at the backwardness of this idea if I thought it was a conscious effort. Never though, as may be expected part way through, do we have Kevin attend a Marilyn Manson concert. Movies on the other hand are only glossed over as mother and daughter, sister of the rampaging Kevin, cosily watch what sounds like a code-era soft gangster flick.
Finally, attention should be drawn to the sound of the film, as it craves attention for the majority of the picture as if for the most part something more interesting is happening out of the frame, usually signified by Tilda Swinton’s forced reactions. When done expertly and this can be a highly effective technique as David Fincher exhibits time and time again. But the volume at which some of the sounds are escalated to in the sound mix is excruciating for all the wrong reasons, when Kevin bites and picks his finger nails or gobbles a lychee that represents the eyeball of his blinded sister – possibly a reference to Un Chien Andalou, if again somewhat awkwardly done – the sound is amplified beyond any kind of proportion. A seemingly schizophrenic soundtrack ties the series of flashbacks together and may have made for interesting listening had it not been so self-consciously attempting to replicate the quirky nature of other 21st century independent films. Perhaps the reason rock bands never come under scrutiny in the films bad parenting blame game the film is scored by Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood but never reaches the heights scaled by Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood caught as it is between so many different genre signifiers. Thus emblematic of a film where maybe too many cooks have spoiled the broth, or an ambitious yet inept head chef has let her specials menu go awry on a big night in the kitchen.
Review by Matt Henshaw
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