This month's musical melange has spent the best part of three days avoiding Kings Of Leon and going round to pick up the last of its things when they're not there...
1) FERRABY LIONHEART - Harry and Bess (from the album entitled 'The Jack of Hearts')
Happy and jolly like brollies and lollies. Okay, that was a little weird, but it really is an infectious little tune this, and follows the pattern for the rest of the man's album. Bit Belle and Sebastien, bit Sondre Lerche, but all round fun and friendly frolicks.
2) WHITE DENIM - Tony Fatti (from the album entitled 'Last Day Of Summer')
I think this is their third album so far, and it's by far and away my favourite. More accessible and tighter than their previous offerings, and with a sunny, jazz-infected sound that sounds at times like Local Natives or Cold War Kids. "I'm like an engine but I got no gas/feel like an outlaw without a badge". Love that lyric.
3) ALOE BLACC - I Need A Dollar (from the album entitled 'Good Things')
This song is/was the soundtrack to the HBO series 'How To Make It In America'. I ain't never seen it, and I think I'm very late coming to this guy but I love his soulful voice. An observant chappy on youtube has commented that he "loves the bit where he needs a dollar". I can't concur more.
4) PETE MOLINARI - Streetcar Named Desire (from the album entitled 'A Train Bound For Glory')
STELLA!!! Okay, it's not a literal translation of Arthur Miller classic, and Brando isn't anywhere near this bitch, but doesn't it just make you want to hit the diner and put some records on the jukebox, then maybe go park with that cutie from Main Street? It does over here, I tell you. I put this album on and shut my eyes and I can almost taste the coke float. Love it.
5) HUNGRY KIDS OF HUNGARY - Coming Around (from the album entitled 'Escapades')
Like good old Rob Gordon, I'm feeling pretty basic today, and so here comes another "track one, side one" from this four-piece pop rock group from Brisbane, Queensland, Australia (The Earth). The album's a curious beast, at times poppish and simple, sounding a bit like Blue Album Weezer, and then there are sudden changes into a more angular, experimental sound that reminds one of Minus The Bear (the kings of that brand jazz-influenced psych-indie, if that even exists...). Either way you like your music, it's all done with charm and energy. What more can you want. Maybe a footrub? Not today. Okay.
6) DIE! DIE! DIE! - We Built Our Own Oppressors (from the album entitled 'Form')
Punky punks (though they look more like nice students) doing some sort of contemporary indie punk. From New Zealand. Very good. Find album. Listen to album. Over.
7) BELLE AND SEBASTIEN - I Didn't See It Coming (from the album entitled 'Belle and Sebastien Write About Love')
The new album by B&S is excellent, and has rightly received praise. They're just so damn likeable. I don't need to say much more about it, as it speaks for itself. Beautiful sound, beautiful songs. They get better with age, like a fine wine, or blues musicians...
8) IDA JENSHUS - No Guarantees (from the album entitled 'No Guarantees')
Caitlin Rose got a lot of praise for bringing back country music, and I hope that this lass will get a similar slap on the back. Her album is quite beautiful, a real heartbreaker. She may well not though, seeing as her name is almost unfathomably hard to say without sounding drunk or on meth.
9) GARETH LIDDIARD - Strange Tourist (from the album entitled 'Strange Tourist')
He writes long songs, and doesn't play with greatest accuracy, but there's a gripping heart to this guy's music, and this song I think shows his talent for passionate story-telling.
10) REVEREND PEYTON'S BIG DAMN BAND - Clap Hands (from some album, I can't for the life of me find out...)
Mental. Blues and country all mashed up and spewed out. It's great stuff, and when was the last time you saw somebody playing the washboard? Exactly.
11) HUNDRED REASONS - I'll Find You (from the album entitled 'Ideas Above Our Station', and WHAT an album)
I was fishing through my music collection the other day and I found Hundred Reasons' phenomenal debut 'Ideas ABove Our Station'. Back came the memories, flooding on with force. Drinking in the park. Heatham House band night. Secret gigs at the Underworld in Camden. Patches on the bag. I was such a huge fan, and having rediscovered the album, am again.
29 Oct 2010
28 Oct 2010
Music: Screaming Females
Hold the phones, I think I've found a new punk rock heroine, and she comes in the shape of a surly, sulky pint-sized guitar goddess with hair like the lovechild of Chrissie Hynd and Justin Bieber and a scream like nails in a frying pan. She is Marissa from the band Screaming Females and she took me and the rest of the audience to pieces last night in the goold old Luminaire in Kilburn.
Man alive can she play. Fucking yes she can. Watch:
The band's new album, Castle Talk, is out any day I suggest you do all in your power to wallow in its grunge-punk fury. It's absolutely, ear-bleedingly, head-bangingly tops. Plus, their live show beats anything they've recorded. Literally. With a stick. It is a sight to behold.
Word to the wise though, approach this little fucker with caution. She ended the set yesterday with a twenty second long solo in which her eyes rolled into the back of her head like the sick chick in The Exorcist. Then she collapsed to the floor. I have reason to believe she is, officially, a demon.
Man alive can she play. Fucking yes she can. Watch:
The band's new album, Castle Talk, is out any day I suggest you do all in your power to wallow in its grunge-punk fury. It's absolutely, ear-bleedingly, head-bangingly tops. Plus, their live show beats anything they've recorded. Literally. With a stick. It is a sight to behold.
Word to the wise though, approach this little fucker with caution. She ended the set yesterday with a twenty second long solo in which her eyes rolled into the back of her head like the sick chick in The Exorcist. Then she collapsed to the floor. I have reason to believe she is, officially, a demon.
Film: How I Ended This Summer/The Kids Are All Right
LFF comes to a close (for me at least, considering I'm neither successful nor desperate enough to get tickets for the gala screenings this weekend) with these two very different films. I will be swift I think with these, as I'm getting tired of typing such lengthy prose merely to give either a thumbs up or a thumbs down (or, let's be honest, a fair few thumbs in the middle) to a film...
HOW I ENDED THIS SUMMER is a sparse and slow, yet surprisingly suspenseful story set in the unforgiving Arctic, where two Russian fellas are stationed in a decrepit weather research station, measuring radiation levels. When the younger of the two men, on work experience and a childish fool in the eyes of his surly supervisor, receives the delicate news that the family of his boss have tragically died, he makes the strange decision to with-hold the information from his counterpart.
The secret-keeping continues, the chilling intensity and isolation of their barren surroundings only helping to heighten the tension between the two men, until the truth eventually escapes and the younger man is forced to flee for his life into the ice-cold wilderness, lest he be shot. At this point the film resembles something like a cross between The Road and Apocalypto, as the young boy has to scramble for food and shelter in the most inhospitable of terrains whilst being hunted down by the only other man for miles.
Though tenuous at times, the plot does turn at the right points, and supports both character and action well despite a restrictively (or is it liberatingly?) barren setting. Very tense, very taught, but also frequently touching and witty, the director, Alexei Popogrebsky, has found some great performances by Grigoriy Dobrygin and Sergei Puskepalis as Pavel and Sergei, as well as some good cinematography and punchy music, but it is the film's location that guides the plot, tone and drama of the story. A very smart and able showing indeed.
HOWEVER. My award for film of the fest just has to go to THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT, a brilliantly touching, dramatic, witty and original take on the marital drama. Lisa Cholodenko directs a stellar cast to inject a vibrant wit and charm and heart into the story of a lesbian wife and, well, wife (played by Annette Benning and Julianne Moore) whose two children seek out their sperm donor father (played by Mark Ruffalo).
Upon this man's arrival though (in all of his organic, free love, motorcycle riding glory), the family dynamic is grossly disrupted, and previously comfortable notions of love, loyalty, sexuality and motherhood are put to the test. Benning and Moore are superb as the married couple that drive the story, and bring an intoxicating charm and naturalism to the central relationship. Ruffalo is excellent as the free-spirited but ultimately destructive figure who interrupts our protagonists' lives, and Mia Wasikowska and Josh Hutcherson offer ample support as the confused, somewhat angsty, children.
There are moments of contriteness, especially surrounding the younger figures and their teen problems ("oh man, my dude friend with his skateboard is a bit of a douche but I don't know if he's a douche, but he is a douche..."), and there are some slightly uneasy references to popular culture that will always, no matter who they're directed by, seem ill-fitting and desperate, but overall this a film that avoids gay cliche sensibly and is instead a universally affecting, funny, heart-warming and original take on the myriad difficulties of family life. My hope is that it will be a huge success at the box office, and that Annette Benning in particular receives awards recognition for her superb performance.
Laters x
HOW I ENDED THIS SUMMER is a sparse and slow, yet surprisingly suspenseful story set in the unforgiving Arctic, where two Russian fellas are stationed in a decrepit weather research station, measuring radiation levels. When the younger of the two men, on work experience and a childish fool in the eyes of his surly supervisor, receives the delicate news that the family of his boss have tragically died, he makes the strange decision to with-hold the information from his counterpart.
The secret-keeping continues, the chilling intensity and isolation of their barren surroundings only helping to heighten the tension between the two men, until the truth eventually escapes and the younger man is forced to flee for his life into the ice-cold wilderness, lest he be shot. At this point the film resembles something like a cross between The Road and Apocalypto, as the young boy has to scramble for food and shelter in the most inhospitable of terrains whilst being hunted down by the only other man for miles.
Though tenuous at times, the plot does turn at the right points, and supports both character and action well despite a restrictively (or is it liberatingly?) barren setting. Very tense, very taught, but also frequently touching and witty, the director, Alexei Popogrebsky, has found some great performances by Grigoriy Dobrygin and Sergei Puskepalis as Pavel and Sergei, as well as some good cinematography and punchy music, but it is the film's location that guides the plot, tone and drama of the story. A very smart and able showing indeed.
HOWEVER. My award for film of the fest just has to go to THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT, a brilliantly touching, dramatic, witty and original take on the marital drama. Lisa Cholodenko directs a stellar cast to inject a vibrant wit and charm and heart into the story of a lesbian wife and, well, wife (played by Annette Benning and Julianne Moore) whose two children seek out their sperm donor father (played by Mark Ruffalo).
Upon this man's arrival though (in all of his organic, free love, motorcycle riding glory), the family dynamic is grossly disrupted, and previously comfortable notions of love, loyalty, sexuality and motherhood are put to the test. Benning and Moore are superb as the married couple that drive the story, and bring an intoxicating charm and naturalism to the central relationship. Ruffalo is excellent as the free-spirited but ultimately destructive figure who interrupts our protagonists' lives, and Mia Wasikowska and Josh Hutcherson offer ample support as the confused, somewhat angsty, children.
There are moments of contriteness, especially surrounding the younger figures and their teen problems ("oh man, my dude friend with his skateboard is a bit of a douche but I don't know if he's a douche, but he is a douche..."), and there are some slightly uneasy references to popular culture that will always, no matter who they're directed by, seem ill-fitting and desperate, but overall this a film that avoids gay cliche sensibly and is instead a universally affecting, funny, heart-warming and original take on the myriad difficulties of family life. My hope is that it will be a huge success at the box office, and that Annette Benning in particular receives awards recognition for her superb performance.
Laters x
20 Oct 2010
Film: Another Year
Mike Leigh's spirit of improvisation, realism and emotional investment continues in 'ANOTHER YEAR'; a deft, touching, meandering work that explores themes of loneliness and support in a group of ageing friends and family over the course of one year.
Tom and Gerri (Jim Broadbent & Ruth Sheen), are a married couple, seemingly the exception that proves the rule that finding love and happiness is a difficult, stressful and often fruitless task. Gerri is an occupational therapist, and throughout the film her house is transformed in an unofficial sanctuary for the lonely and depressed. This is most clear when one of Gerri's colleagues, the scatty and delusional Mary (played with show-stealing desperation by Lesley Manville), continues to return to the house, drinking herself into a stupor, flirting with the couple's son, Joe (Oliver Maltman), and pouring her heart out about love, loneliness and her troublesome new car.
Though Mary's character is the main focus of much of the film, and it is through her that Leigh can provide some resemblance of narrative arc, there are other characters in the story that move in and out of Tom and Gerri's lives and ultimately all contribute to the film's bigger picture. Ken (Peter Wright) is a crumbling man, drinking and smoking with abandon and a figure from Tom and Gerri's past, the history that is inevitably in danger of being left behind. Katie (Karina Fernandez) arrives as Joe's surprise new girlfriend, and quickly makes Mary bitterly jealous and competitive. Ronnie (David Bradley) is Tom's brother who, when his wife dies, is reunited with his volatile and hate-filled son, Carl (a tension-boosting cameo by Martin Savage). All of these characters show us the complexity of life outside of Tom and Gerri's comfortable London home and carefully tended allotment, it shows us that there is life that needs tending to above the ground, just as much as there is below it. In this sense 'Another Year' could be said to be a film about caring in all of its forms; for others, for the earth, for ourselves.
What Leigh does in his approach to film-making is gather together a group of actors who are intelligent, extremely talented, and who he trusts to develop characters outside of his immediate control. The result is a cinematic equivalent of devised theatre, a sort of mural that encapsulates and represents a number of creative voices and themes. It has a rambling effect, but one that is painted with such a natural palette that small looks and gestures become hugely meaningful. On occasion there are moments of stagnant theatricality, where dialogue seems to become formulaic, but then often there are passages of brilliant wit and camaraderie between the actors and characters that is thoroughly and almost achingly touching.
One thing that cannot be said of 'Another Year' is that it is superficial. Though not a ground-breaking or particularly revelatory piece of story-telling, it is nevertheless an expertly performed cinematic delicacy, and a heartfelt and personal project by a long-standing pillar of British film-making deserves to be seen merely for its existing at all.
Tom and Gerri (Jim Broadbent & Ruth Sheen), are a married couple, seemingly the exception that proves the rule that finding love and happiness is a difficult, stressful and often fruitless task. Gerri is an occupational therapist, and throughout the film her house is transformed in an unofficial sanctuary for the lonely and depressed. This is most clear when one of Gerri's colleagues, the scatty and delusional Mary (played with show-stealing desperation by Lesley Manville), continues to return to the house, drinking herself into a stupor, flirting with the couple's son, Joe (Oliver Maltman), and pouring her heart out about love, loneliness and her troublesome new car.
Though Mary's character is the main focus of much of the film, and it is through her that Leigh can provide some resemblance of narrative arc, there are other characters in the story that move in and out of Tom and Gerri's lives and ultimately all contribute to the film's bigger picture. Ken (Peter Wright) is a crumbling man, drinking and smoking with abandon and a figure from Tom and Gerri's past, the history that is inevitably in danger of being left behind. Katie (Karina Fernandez) arrives as Joe's surprise new girlfriend, and quickly makes Mary bitterly jealous and competitive. Ronnie (David Bradley) is Tom's brother who, when his wife dies, is reunited with his volatile and hate-filled son, Carl (a tension-boosting cameo by Martin Savage). All of these characters show us the complexity of life outside of Tom and Gerri's comfortable London home and carefully tended allotment, it shows us that there is life that needs tending to above the ground, just as much as there is below it. In this sense 'Another Year' could be said to be a film about caring in all of its forms; for others, for the earth, for ourselves.
What Leigh does in his approach to film-making is gather together a group of actors who are intelligent, extremely talented, and who he trusts to develop characters outside of his immediate control. The result is a cinematic equivalent of devised theatre, a sort of mural that encapsulates and represents a number of creative voices and themes. It has a rambling effect, but one that is painted with such a natural palette that small looks and gestures become hugely meaningful. On occasion there are moments of stagnant theatricality, where dialogue seems to become formulaic, but then often there are passages of brilliant wit and camaraderie between the actors and characters that is thoroughly and almost achingly touching.
One thing that cannot be said of 'Another Year' is that it is superficial. Though not a ground-breaking or particularly revelatory piece of story-telling, it is nevertheless an expertly performed cinematic delicacy, and a heartfelt and personal project by a long-standing pillar of British film-making deserves to be seen merely for its existing at all.
Film: The American/Meek's Cutoff
Two more LFF offerings find me tired and restless but, ultimately, still alive...
George Clooney makes sure, in 'THE AMERICAN', that nothing and no-one will detract from his being the centre of attention. Rarely off camera as Jack, a hired gunman fleeing to the Italian hills in hiding before taking on one last job, he fights off worthy adversaries in the brilliant cinematography of Martin Ruhe and the beautiful scenery and quaint rustic towns of Abruzzo to be crowned star of the show.
Anton Corbijn's follow up to 'Control', his expert debut, does little to detract from the idea that he is a photographer making films. Along with screenwriter Rowan Joffe he has taken Martin Booth's novel 'A Very Private Gentleman' and turned the protagonist from an Englishman into an American. Hence the title, then. But in his adaptation, Corbijn has approached the lead character with a photographer's eye for examination and study. 'The American' is a reflective film, slow-moving and often quiet and interested in picking apart the mind of its hero, who, in Jack's case, seems determined to find meaning, or possibly redemption, in his life.
When an explosive opening sees Jack ruthlessly despatch two men come to kill him, as well as his previously ignorant ladyfriend, he has no option but to go into hiding. His main contact, Pavel (played with typically menacing white hair by Johan Leysen), sends him to Italy, where he settles into a quaint town, all cobbled streets and small empty cafes with Sergio Leone on the TV (a nod to the westerns that Corbijn has said influenced the movie). Alone and suffering from painful dreams about his past misdemeanours, Jack befriends two people; a local priest, and a beautiful prostitute.
With this in mind the contemplative story moves between Jack's last job - the building of a gun for a fellow assassin, all be it one of the sexy, ice cold female kind - and the symbolic battle for Jack's soul. Will he find saviour? And if so, will it come from his body and heart, or from his faith? As the film comes to a close (with a twist that, due to the small number of characters in the story, is mundanely forseeable), Jack begins to find salvation, and the tension mounts as the action (of which there is significantly little) arrives. But there is a sense that the story has left too much unsaid, too much untouched, for us to be fully invested.
In the end, the film reminded me somewhat of 2007's Michael Clayton, which saw Clooney in a similarly dark and heartless role. In that film it was "fixing" troublesome issues for a major corporation that left Cloons cold and disenchanted, and here it is his ability to kill without hesitation, and his precise, craftsmanlike ability to build a weapon of death. Yet 'Michael Clayton' had a breadth of character and a resonance with contemporary audiences that 'The American' lacks, all-be-it a stylish, intelligent addition to the lone assassin canon, and not one that will upset George's CV.
If the American, though, felt somewhat meditatory, it was made to look like a veritable carnival in comparison to 'MEEK'S CUTOFF', a 19th Oregon-set "western" in its loosest form. A flash of the occasional gun does not a stand-off make, and this film is certainly not for those who like their bullets whizzing and their watertroughs popped full of caps...
Kelly Recihardt's film follows a group of settlers as they travel across the harsh and unforgiving desert under the guidance of gruff-voiced, hairy-faced frontiersman Stephen Meek (Bruce Greenwood). Desperate for sustenance, their only hope for survival seems to rely on a captured Native Indian, who they believe may take them to water if they, in turn, show him kindness.
Two hours long and consisting of numerous slow and poetic shots - people staring, women hanging up clothes, women hanging up clothes and staring - it is reminiscent of arthouse fair that is ambiguous and vague as a means of study, bringing to my mind Nicolas Roeg's 1971 film 'Walkabout'; a similarly difficult story set in Australia that focused, as well, on notions of time, race, spirituality and the treatment of native cultures.
Ultra-real in its pace and dialogue, 'Meek's Cutoff' forgoes excitement for a sense of artistic merit, but in doing will sacrifice all but a very slim audience. Good performances from Michelle Williams, Paul Dano, Shirley Henderson and Will Patton mean that any drama, when allowed, is watchable, but too often are we left with a sense of ponderous importance, with large chunks of dialogue said offscreen and intriguing histories or conflicts left untouched.
Not a waste for those who appreciate or enjoy their arthouse, but a struggle for those more inclined to visit the multiplex.
George Clooney makes sure, in 'THE AMERICAN', that nothing and no-one will detract from his being the centre of attention. Rarely off camera as Jack, a hired gunman fleeing to the Italian hills in hiding before taking on one last job, he fights off worthy adversaries in the brilliant cinematography of Martin Ruhe and the beautiful scenery and quaint rustic towns of Abruzzo to be crowned star of the show.
Anton Corbijn's follow up to 'Control', his expert debut, does little to detract from the idea that he is a photographer making films. Along with screenwriter Rowan Joffe he has taken Martin Booth's novel 'A Very Private Gentleman' and turned the protagonist from an Englishman into an American. Hence the title, then. But in his adaptation, Corbijn has approached the lead character with a photographer's eye for examination and study. 'The American' is a reflective film, slow-moving and often quiet and interested in picking apart the mind of its hero, who, in Jack's case, seems determined to find meaning, or possibly redemption, in his life.
When an explosive opening sees Jack ruthlessly despatch two men come to kill him, as well as his previously ignorant ladyfriend, he has no option but to go into hiding. His main contact, Pavel (played with typically menacing white hair by Johan Leysen), sends him to Italy, where he settles into a quaint town, all cobbled streets and small empty cafes with Sergio Leone on the TV (a nod to the westerns that Corbijn has said influenced the movie). Alone and suffering from painful dreams about his past misdemeanours, Jack befriends two people; a local priest, and a beautiful prostitute.
With this in mind the contemplative story moves between Jack's last job - the building of a gun for a fellow assassin, all be it one of the sexy, ice cold female kind - and the symbolic battle for Jack's soul. Will he find saviour? And if so, will it come from his body and heart, or from his faith? As the film comes to a close (with a twist that, due to the small number of characters in the story, is mundanely forseeable), Jack begins to find salvation, and the tension mounts as the action (of which there is significantly little) arrives. But there is a sense that the story has left too much unsaid, too much untouched, for us to be fully invested.
In the end, the film reminded me somewhat of 2007's Michael Clayton, which saw Clooney in a similarly dark and heartless role. In that film it was "fixing" troublesome issues for a major corporation that left Cloons cold and disenchanted, and here it is his ability to kill without hesitation, and his precise, craftsmanlike ability to build a weapon of death. Yet 'Michael Clayton' had a breadth of character and a resonance with contemporary audiences that 'The American' lacks, all-be-it a stylish, intelligent addition to the lone assassin canon, and not one that will upset George's CV.
If the American, though, felt somewhat meditatory, it was made to look like a veritable carnival in comparison to 'MEEK'S CUTOFF', a 19th Oregon-set "western" in its loosest form. A flash of the occasional gun does not a stand-off make, and this film is certainly not for those who like their bullets whizzing and their watertroughs popped full of caps...
Kelly Recihardt's film follows a group of settlers as they travel across the harsh and unforgiving desert under the guidance of gruff-voiced, hairy-faced frontiersman Stephen Meek (Bruce Greenwood). Desperate for sustenance, their only hope for survival seems to rely on a captured Native Indian, who they believe may take them to water if they, in turn, show him kindness.
Two hours long and consisting of numerous slow and poetic shots - people staring, women hanging up clothes, women hanging up clothes and staring - it is reminiscent of arthouse fair that is ambiguous and vague as a means of study, bringing to my mind Nicolas Roeg's 1971 film 'Walkabout'; a similarly difficult story set in Australia that focused, as well, on notions of time, race, spirituality and the treatment of native cultures.
Ultra-real in its pace and dialogue, 'Meek's Cutoff' forgoes excitement for a sense of artistic merit, but in doing will sacrifice all but a very slim audience. Good performances from Michelle Williams, Paul Dano, Shirley Henderson and Will Patton mean that any drama, when allowed, is watchable, but too often are we left with a sense of ponderous importance, with large chunks of dialogue said offscreen and intriguing histories or conflicts left untouched.
Not a waste for those who appreciate or enjoy their arthouse, but a struggle for those more inclined to visit the multiplex.
18 Oct 2010
Film: Trailers 4
Riddle me these trailers three...
1) A TOWN CALLED PANIC (Dir. Stephane Aubier)
Belgian lunacy in animated form, out in the cinemas any day now I think. The short films, of which there are quite a few, are all unspeakably bonkers, but also adorably catchy. Click HERE for a quicky to tickle your childish tastebuds. Expect the feature to just as, if not more, insane.
2) BLUE VALENTINE (Dir. Derek Cianfrance)
Two terrific actors, Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams, star in this forthcoming indie release that examines the ups and downs of a relationship. Simple stuff, but if done well, and it looks like it might have been from the footage here, then we could be on to a nice little watcher. Let's just hope that there aren't any zombies in act three. Or that Ryan Gosling doesn't turn out somehow to be a vampire.
3) THE KINGS SPEECH (Dir. Tom Hooper)
Oscar buzz already surrounds this upcoming film directed by Tom Hooper, accomplished TV director best known in the film world for 2009's The Damned United. Another biopic, then, but this time with a more political, historical, and triumphant core. It's protagonist is the man who would become King George VI, and a great cast, some nice dialogue and stirring passion seem to suggest that this will contest for awards come the early months of next year. Up the Brits!
1) A TOWN CALLED PANIC (Dir. Stephane Aubier)
Belgian lunacy in animated form, out in the cinemas any day now I think. The short films, of which there are quite a few, are all unspeakably bonkers, but also adorably catchy. Click HERE for a quicky to tickle your childish tastebuds. Expect the feature to just as, if not more, insane.
2) BLUE VALENTINE (Dir. Derek Cianfrance)
Two terrific actors, Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams, star in this forthcoming indie release that examines the ups and downs of a relationship. Simple stuff, but if done well, and it looks like it might have been from the footage here, then we could be on to a nice little watcher. Let's just hope that there aren't any zombies in act three. Or that Ryan Gosling doesn't turn out somehow to be a vampire.
3) THE KINGS SPEECH (Dir. Tom Hooper)
Oscar buzz already surrounds this upcoming film directed by Tom Hooper, accomplished TV director best known in the film world for 2009's The Damned United. Another biopic, then, but this time with a more political, historical, and triumphant core. It's protagonist is the man who would become King George VI, and a great cast, some nice dialogue and stirring passion seem to suggest that this will contest for awards come the early months of next year. Up the Brits!
Film: Little White Lies
As the London Film Festival continues to provide bountiful nourishment for honest film fans, buffs and snobs alike, I'm going to do my best to leap like a proverbial salmon between large, over-crowded dark rooms and find some shiny apples on the fruitful festival tree...
Today though, is not one of those days, as with LITTLE WHITE LIES, the new offering from 'Tell No One' (2006) director Guillaume Canet, the fruit is more like a moulding banana; a slapstick, slippery joke wrapped around an inedible, mushy mess. For whilst this film is peppered with some good comic moments, some occasionally honest and dramatic scenes and the odd chucklesome set-up that wouldn't seem out of place in 'National Lampoon's Vacation', it is too often bogged down in a very French self-importance, the kind of pseudo-intellectual bourgeois love-in that brings the viewer to sickness, jealousy, pity and mild xenophobia all at once.
The film opens with an abrupt crash, as a highly inebriated man, mysteriously upset by something, leaves a club and whizzes off through an empty Paris on his scooter before colliding with a fast-moving truck. So far so intriguing. Later, at the hospital, we find a horde of handsome, chic, thirty-somethings gathered in the waiting room. These are the closest friends of Ludo (the unlucky scooterist), and are tremendously shaken up by their pal's accident and horrific injuries, yet they come to the odd conclusion, outside the doors, that despite their friend's comatose condition, they will still indulge themselves in the traditional summer trip to the holiday home of successful restaurant owner Max (Francois Cluzet). There's nothing they can do by staying here, they agree, and someone will be on hand to give them a dingle should anything happen to their pal. Then, one thinks, they'll come and rushing back, sand buckets and flip flops a-flying. Well. Phew.
In the time preceding the jaunt and the couple of weeks spent away - a veritable middle-class explosion of glamorous boat trips, wine quaffing, oysters and new age philosophy - the dynamic of the group wibbles and wobbles through sexual, marital, romantic and philosophical revelations, as each character has his or her own chance for redemption and realisation. Ludo's accident takes its toll on some more than others, most of all Marie who, played by Marion Cotillard, is not too busy flippantly sleeping with various partners (of both sex, mind, she's such a free spirit) and basking in her own charitable visits to Africa to shed a tear for the man she used to date and to whom she confesses, over the phone (in a scene that played like The Diving Bell And The Butterfly if re-made by the team who brought us Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus), that she is not very good with men, but that she always loved him the most. Of course she did.
And it goes on, with various subplots - gay confessions, romantic missions to Paris, passing visits by crooning, rugged musicians - thrown together with clumsy, ill-judged nonchalance until the film ends with a frankly baffling succession of vomit-inducing confessions. When the inevitable happens and the friends are forced to realise that they may not have been the best of friends to each other, the director unleashes, through his own writing and unrelentingly gushy direction (the soundtrack is a mixture of pained acoustic warblings by such tear-jerk specialists as Damien Rice and Antony And The Jonsons and 70s free-love anthems) are torrent of sentimentality that makes one reel back in fear of having his or her shoes doused in tears.
Though some viewers, those who seek out the latest postcard sobfest (see 'My Sister's Keeper' or 'Grace Is Gone'), may enjoy the unhinged emotional outpouring, many will find it uncomfortable, unsympathetic and unnecessary. Death and mourning has been handled before, and with far better results, and this film suffers from a clash in tone that sees melodrama and slapstick comedy forced together like square pegs and round holes. One minute someone is maniacally smashing through the walls of his holiday home with an axe in search of unwelcome weasel intruders (those pesky varmits), and the next they are sat with the rest of the herd, cuddled up like the Dawsons Creek gang, watching old holiday movies of their comatose friend.
It's a strange thing to see a director whose talent has previously been clear to see come so strangely unstuck, but Little White Lies is a very unsettling experience indeed. An air of proud gloating seeps from the screen that makes one feel insulted, angry and inevitably quite bored, and one cannot help but feel that Canet, in making this film, is a director who wanted to show an ability for both the amusing and the serious, but who failed to handle the delicate balance between the two. Like a clown climbing from the wreckage of his tiny collapsable car and then delivering the final lines of Shakespeare's Juliet...
Today though, is not one of those days, as with LITTLE WHITE LIES, the new offering from 'Tell No One' (2006) director Guillaume Canet, the fruit is more like a moulding banana; a slapstick, slippery joke wrapped around an inedible, mushy mess. For whilst this film is peppered with some good comic moments, some occasionally honest and dramatic scenes and the odd chucklesome set-up that wouldn't seem out of place in 'National Lampoon's Vacation', it is too often bogged down in a very French self-importance, the kind of pseudo-intellectual bourgeois love-in that brings the viewer to sickness, jealousy, pity and mild xenophobia all at once.
The film opens with an abrupt crash, as a highly inebriated man, mysteriously upset by something, leaves a club and whizzes off through an empty Paris on his scooter before colliding with a fast-moving truck. So far so intriguing. Later, at the hospital, we find a horde of handsome, chic, thirty-somethings gathered in the waiting room. These are the closest friends of Ludo (the unlucky scooterist), and are tremendously shaken up by their pal's accident and horrific injuries, yet they come to the odd conclusion, outside the doors, that despite their friend's comatose condition, they will still indulge themselves in the traditional summer trip to the holiday home of successful restaurant owner Max (Francois Cluzet). There's nothing they can do by staying here, they agree, and someone will be on hand to give them a dingle should anything happen to their pal. Then, one thinks, they'll come and rushing back, sand buckets and flip flops a-flying. Well. Phew.
In the time preceding the jaunt and the couple of weeks spent away - a veritable middle-class explosion of glamorous boat trips, wine quaffing, oysters and new age philosophy - the dynamic of the group wibbles and wobbles through sexual, marital, romantic and philosophical revelations, as each character has his or her own chance for redemption and realisation. Ludo's accident takes its toll on some more than others, most of all Marie who, played by Marion Cotillard, is not too busy flippantly sleeping with various partners (of both sex, mind, she's such a free spirit) and basking in her own charitable visits to Africa to shed a tear for the man she used to date and to whom she confesses, over the phone (in a scene that played like The Diving Bell And The Butterfly if re-made by the team who brought us Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus), that she is not very good with men, but that she always loved him the most. Of course she did.
And it goes on, with various subplots - gay confessions, romantic missions to Paris, passing visits by crooning, rugged musicians - thrown together with clumsy, ill-judged nonchalance until the film ends with a frankly baffling succession of vomit-inducing confessions. When the inevitable happens and the friends are forced to realise that they may not have been the best of friends to each other, the director unleashes, through his own writing and unrelentingly gushy direction (the soundtrack is a mixture of pained acoustic warblings by such tear-jerk specialists as Damien Rice and Antony And The Jonsons and 70s free-love anthems) are torrent of sentimentality that makes one reel back in fear of having his or her shoes doused in tears.
Though some viewers, those who seek out the latest postcard sobfest (see 'My Sister's Keeper' or 'Grace Is Gone'), may enjoy the unhinged emotional outpouring, many will find it uncomfortable, unsympathetic and unnecessary. Death and mourning has been handled before, and with far better results, and this film suffers from a clash in tone that sees melodrama and slapstick comedy forced together like square pegs and round holes. One minute someone is maniacally smashing through the walls of his holiday home with an axe in search of unwelcome weasel intruders (those pesky varmits), and the next they are sat with the rest of the herd, cuddled up like the Dawsons Creek gang, watching old holiday movies of their comatose friend.
It's a strange thing to see a director whose talent has previously been clear to see come so strangely unstuck, but Little White Lies is a very unsettling experience indeed. An air of proud gloating seeps from the screen that makes one feel insulted, angry and inevitably quite bored, and one cannot help but feel that Canet, in making this film, is a director who wanted to show an ability for both the amusing and the serious, but who failed to handle the delicate balance between the two. Like a clown climbing from the wreckage of his tiny collapsable car and then delivering the final lines of Shakespeare's Juliet...
Music: Carolina Chocolate Drops
BRILLIANT old-style bluegrass and country, with even a small splash of throat singing (a lost art) from this North Carolina threesome. Their live performances sees them swapping instruments and harmonies and always displaying the highest standards in musicianship:
And for those of you who like their bluegrass to recognise underwhelming female hip hop acts:
And for those of you who like their bluegrass to recognise underwhelming female hip hop acts:
Comedy/TV: Harry and Paul
Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse, reminding us of the great tradition of sketch show comedy in this country.
Horne and Corden? Probably queer.
Horne and Corden? Probably queer.
7 Oct 2010
Music: Everything Everything @ The Scala
A packed Scala played host last night to new indie scene darlings Everything Everything, whose angular, disco-influenced sound has been taken to the bosom of critics, DJs and bloggers everywhere (and that includes me, don't think I've left myself out!). A four-piece from all over who released their first single in 2008, they've burst onto the scene with their debut album, Man Alive, and sold out this medium-sized show with ease.
And it was with a keen urge to impress their numerous fans that they took to the stage, jerking into action with the scuzzy, rawkus 'Qwerty Finger'. The sound was big and bold and tight and immediately filled the room with the combination soaring keyboards, sharp, guitars thudding drums and frantic, almost schizophrenic vocals that make their record so interesting. Jonathon Everything (the band are keen to hide their full names on websites, the bastards) is a rare talent, in possession of a superb vocal dexterity and able to manipulate his voice through the ranges, hitting high notes with precise control and delicacy, whilst simultaneously using the rhythm of his lyrics as a percussive instrument, adding another joint, or point, to their already textured sound.
With further tracks from the album such as 'Come Alive Diana' and 'Schoolin' came a steady progression of lively, impressive crowd-pleasures, but there was an air of predictability about the performance, and a distinct lack of whatever it is that makes bands memorable. When the quieter, more contemplative 'Leave The Engine Room' was the start of a half-hearted crowd sing-a-long, there was a danger of this gig finishing with a disappointingly under-whelming sigh, but with 'MY KZ, YR BF' the band's flagship single, came a rejuvination. The final few tracks of the set, and the encore that followed, displayed an aggression and energy that proved that Everything Everything are better compared to a Late Of The Pier than a Foals, more Post War Years than Friendly Fires. Beneath the three-part harmonies was suddenly a wall of guitars and pummelling riffs on tracks like 'Suffragette Suffragette', that sounded more dangerous and thrilling but never looser. Still tight as ever, they just notched it up, and benefitted handsomely.
'Photoshop Handsome' brought the encore to a rawkus, reckless end, and the band were quickly offstage, bereft are they of any real crowd communication skills. It is not surprising to see contemporary, intellectual bands perform for an hour without saying more than ten words to their audience, but it doesn't make us yearn for it any less. The art of showmanship, amongst the indie community at least, does seem to be on the wain, but then this does not distract from a good show and Everything Everything did indeed perform with skill and size beyond their relatively infantile years as a group.
It is sometimes a disappointment to see a band unable to translate their recorded sound for the stage, but Everything Everything are more than able to do so, and with a refining of their onstage charisma they could have themselves a jolly good show to offer.
And it was with a keen urge to impress their numerous fans that they took to the stage, jerking into action with the scuzzy, rawkus 'Qwerty Finger'. The sound was big and bold and tight and immediately filled the room with the combination soaring keyboards, sharp, guitars thudding drums and frantic, almost schizophrenic vocals that make their record so interesting. Jonathon Everything (the band are keen to hide their full names on websites, the bastards) is a rare talent, in possession of a superb vocal dexterity and able to manipulate his voice through the ranges, hitting high notes with precise control and delicacy, whilst simultaneously using the rhythm of his lyrics as a percussive instrument, adding another joint, or point, to their already textured sound.
With further tracks from the album such as 'Come Alive Diana' and 'Schoolin' came a steady progression of lively, impressive crowd-pleasures, but there was an air of predictability about the performance, and a distinct lack of whatever it is that makes bands memorable. When the quieter, more contemplative 'Leave The Engine Room' was the start of a half-hearted crowd sing-a-long, there was a danger of this gig finishing with a disappointingly under-whelming sigh, but with 'MY KZ, YR BF' the band's flagship single, came a rejuvination. The final few tracks of the set, and the encore that followed, displayed an aggression and energy that proved that Everything Everything are better compared to a Late Of The Pier than a Foals, more Post War Years than Friendly Fires. Beneath the three-part harmonies was suddenly a wall of guitars and pummelling riffs on tracks like 'Suffragette Suffragette', that sounded more dangerous and thrilling but never looser. Still tight as ever, they just notched it up, and benefitted handsomely.
'Photoshop Handsome' brought the encore to a rawkus, reckless end, and the band were quickly offstage, bereft are they of any real crowd communication skills. It is not surprising to see contemporary, intellectual bands perform for an hour without saying more than ten words to their audience, but it doesn't make us yearn for it any less. The art of showmanship, amongst the indie community at least, does seem to be on the wain, but then this does not distract from a good show and Everything Everything did indeed perform with skill and size beyond their relatively infantile years as a group.
It is sometimes a disappointment to see a band unable to translate their recorded sound for the stage, but Everything Everything are more than able to do so, and with a refining of their onstage charisma they could have themselves a jolly good show to offer.
Misc: HOWZAT!
This may well have NOTHING to do with anything, but it's a slightly drunk guy with a limited vocab talking about some old cricket game that looks like Matthew Broderick would have played it in WarGames...
Highlights include:
"there's skill factors, some people are wankers, some people aren't..."
"yeah, so I've run, and I'm run out...fucking useless"
"one more over lets just try and hit the fucker"
Highlights include:
"there's skill factors, some people are wankers, some people aren't..."
"yeah, so I've run, and I'm run out...fucking useless"
"one more over lets just try and hit the fucker"
4 Oct 2010
Film: The Other Guys
Will Ferrell, like him or not, is clearly determined to make as many films as he can in which he does, essentially, the same thing. That things seems to be standing eerily still next to a co-star and proclaiming, with amounts of intensity ranging from the deadpan to the overtly psychotic, things like "I'm in so much pain right now!" or "Now you're just hurting me. That hurt a lot. And not just in the arm, where you punched me, but in here [he points to his chest], right in here, in the ticker [the stoners and rugby players go wild and the catchphrase is repeated indefinitely by those who are either drunk or incapable of independent communication, or quite often both]".
His routine is one that has been banked upon by various Hollywood projects over the years and has varied amounts of success. But in The Other Guys he finds solace in working again with ex-SNL writer, 'Anchorman' director and co-founder of internet comedy hub 'Funny Or Die' Adam McKay, whose talent for creating grotesquely deluded, arrogant egotists is demonstrated in 'Anchorman' as well as 'Talladega Nights' (another Ferrell vehicle) and the over-looked US comedy series 'Eastbound & Down'.
What also comes from this frequently funny new film, and comes as somewhat more of a shock, is Ferrell's being outshone by Mark Wahlberg as a source of laughs. For it is, to some people's surprise, the Boogie Nights hunk and recent action star (though most reviews of Max Payne were about as complimentary as a burning turd through the letter box) who steals the show as the other "other" guy and Ferrell's sidekick in this strangely pitched police romp.
Ferrell and Wahlberg are Allen Gamble and Terry Hoitz, two NYPD officers who, like the rest of the department, are overshadowed by the courageous real-life superheroes Highsmith and Danson (played with great tongue in cheek bravado by Samuel L Jackson and Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson). Strutting around town busting chops and blowing up the bad guys, Highsmith and Danson are the toast of the city, but when a hilariously avoidable "accident" leads to their early demise they leave a gaping whole in the department. Who will be the new heroes?
Terry, a promising officer who was demoted when he fired an ill-judged shot into the leg of the city's favourite baseball star, immediately sees an opportunity for him and Allen to step up to the plate, but Allen is happy where he is, processing building permits in the safety of the office. But when Allen finds irregularities in his paperwork and moves to arrest billionaire investment banker David Ershon (played with the same old British smirk by Steve Coogan) they find themselves at the centre of a very real and major case that could see them finally recognised as more than just the "other guys"...
With plot playing second fiddle to jokes, there is not much about the story arc of The Other Guys to surprise an intelligent viewer, but this does not stop it being honestly enjoyable. Embracing the conflict of the "odd couple" comedy structure, in which two conflicting personalities are forced together and continually come to blows but inevitably respect each other, Ferrell and Wahlberg bicker and bite insatiably, and the dialogue (some of it presumably improvised) between them is frequently hilarious. But for all of Ferrell's slapstick talent as the nerdy Hoitz (whose past experiences as a campus pimp (don't ask) come back to haunt him...), it is Wahlberg's straight-faced hardman that impresses most. With varying measures of disbelief, anger, confusion and frustration, Wahlberg's Terry is a great comedy character. In one particularly funny scene, Terry visits his girlfriend, a dancer, to try and win her back. "If we didn't break up" he protests, "then you wouldn't be here in this strip club shaking it for dollar bills!" to which she rightly replies "This is a ballet class Terry."
Elsewhere the film is a predictable jumble of cop cliches and send-ups: car chases abound, but in Allen's feminine Toyota Prius, and explosions and gunfights are painted with broadly sardonic, tongue-in-cheek strokes. It is also clear that those responsible for the economic meltdown of recent years, specifically the major corporations and banks, are in the firing line for McKay, and this is never more clear than in the strangely Michael Moore-esque final credit sequence, in which a stream of facts and figures documenting the imbalance and injustice of the American economy are screened without any sign of irony. Whether the director expects us to be in the right mindset to absorb such data in a serious manner having just watched two hours of light-hearted comedy is questionable, but it is an oddly ill-fitting end to the picture.
It does, however, not detract from the capable work that has gone before, where a pacy yet irreverant script, great leading chemistry and some strong supporting performances from the likes of Eva Mendes (as Allen's bafflingly hot and sexually liberated "ball and chain" Sheila) and especially Michael Keaton (as the guys' Captain, Gene, whose frequent use of TLC lyrics in his pep-talks is one of the funniest running gags of the film), and the film has enough laughs to re-invigorate the frat-pack comedy genre. Lets just hope that those at those with the money and the power will refrain from throwing precious cash at bad scripts and copy-cat projects in the hope of riding the wave.
His routine is one that has been banked upon by various Hollywood projects over the years and has varied amounts of success. But in The Other Guys he finds solace in working again with ex-SNL writer, 'Anchorman' director and co-founder of internet comedy hub 'Funny Or Die' Adam McKay, whose talent for creating grotesquely deluded, arrogant egotists is demonstrated in 'Anchorman' as well as 'Talladega Nights' (another Ferrell vehicle) and the over-looked US comedy series 'Eastbound & Down'.
What also comes from this frequently funny new film, and comes as somewhat more of a shock, is Ferrell's being outshone by Mark Wahlberg as a source of laughs. For it is, to some people's surprise, the Boogie Nights hunk and recent action star (though most reviews of Max Payne were about as complimentary as a burning turd through the letter box) who steals the show as the other "other" guy and Ferrell's sidekick in this strangely pitched police romp.
Ferrell and Wahlberg are Allen Gamble and Terry Hoitz, two NYPD officers who, like the rest of the department, are overshadowed by the courageous real-life superheroes Highsmith and Danson (played with great tongue in cheek bravado by Samuel L Jackson and Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson). Strutting around town busting chops and blowing up the bad guys, Highsmith and Danson are the toast of the city, but when a hilariously avoidable "accident" leads to their early demise they leave a gaping whole in the department. Who will be the new heroes?
Terry, a promising officer who was demoted when he fired an ill-judged shot into the leg of the city's favourite baseball star, immediately sees an opportunity for him and Allen to step up to the plate, but Allen is happy where he is, processing building permits in the safety of the office. But when Allen finds irregularities in his paperwork and moves to arrest billionaire investment banker David Ershon (played with the same old British smirk by Steve Coogan) they find themselves at the centre of a very real and major case that could see them finally recognised as more than just the "other guys"...
With plot playing second fiddle to jokes, there is not much about the story arc of The Other Guys to surprise an intelligent viewer, but this does not stop it being honestly enjoyable. Embracing the conflict of the "odd couple" comedy structure, in which two conflicting personalities are forced together and continually come to blows but inevitably respect each other, Ferrell and Wahlberg bicker and bite insatiably, and the dialogue (some of it presumably improvised) between them is frequently hilarious. But for all of Ferrell's slapstick talent as the nerdy Hoitz (whose past experiences as a campus pimp (don't ask) come back to haunt him...), it is Wahlberg's straight-faced hardman that impresses most. With varying measures of disbelief, anger, confusion and frustration, Wahlberg's Terry is a great comedy character. In one particularly funny scene, Terry visits his girlfriend, a dancer, to try and win her back. "If we didn't break up" he protests, "then you wouldn't be here in this strip club shaking it for dollar bills!" to which she rightly replies "This is a ballet class Terry."
Elsewhere the film is a predictable jumble of cop cliches and send-ups: car chases abound, but in Allen's feminine Toyota Prius, and explosions and gunfights are painted with broadly sardonic, tongue-in-cheek strokes. It is also clear that those responsible for the economic meltdown of recent years, specifically the major corporations and banks, are in the firing line for McKay, and this is never more clear than in the strangely Michael Moore-esque final credit sequence, in which a stream of facts and figures documenting the imbalance and injustice of the American economy are screened without any sign of irony. Whether the director expects us to be in the right mindset to absorb such data in a serious manner having just watched two hours of light-hearted comedy is questionable, but it is an oddly ill-fitting end to the picture.
It does, however, not detract from the capable work that has gone before, where a pacy yet irreverant script, great leading chemistry and some strong supporting performances from the likes of Eva Mendes (as Allen's bafflingly hot and sexually liberated "ball and chain" Sheila) and especially Michael Keaton (as the guys' Captain, Gene, whose frequent use of TLC lyrics in his pep-talks is one of the funniest running gags of the film), and the film has enough laughs to re-invigorate the frat-pack comedy genre. Lets just hope that those at those with the money and the power will refrain from throwing precious cash at bad scripts and copy-cat projects in the hope of riding the wave.
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