Saturday 18 May 2024

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of May 10-12, 2024):

1 (new) Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes (12A)
2 (1) The Fall Guy (12A) **
3 (3) Challengers (15) **
4 (4) Back to Black (15)
5 (6) Tarot (15)
6 (5) Kung Fu Panda 4 (PG)
7 (new) Nye - NT Live 2024 (15)
8 (new) La Chimera (15) ***
9 (new) Madama Butterfly - Met Opera 2023/24 (uncertificated)
10 (8) Love Lies Bleeding (15) ***

(source: BFI)

My top five:
2. Rome, Open City [above]


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Dune: Part Two (12) **
2 (new) Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire (12)
3 (2) Kung Fu Panda 4 (PG)
4 (3) Migration (U)
5 (new) The Crow (15) ***
6 (8) The Iron Claw (15) ***
7 (5) The Equalizer 3 (15)
8 (4) Bob Marley: One Love (12)
9 (7) Wonka (PG) ***
10 (9) Oppenheimer (15) ****


My top five: 
1. May December

 
Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (Sunday, BBC2, 12noon)
2. Portrait of a Lady on Fire (Saturday, BBC2, 12.50am)
3. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs (Sunday, ITV1, 6am)
4. The Hate U Give (Monday, Channel 4, 12.55am)
5. Dr. No (Sunday, ITV1, 2.25pm and Friday, ITV1, 11.15pm) 

Jugheads: "La Chimera"


Perhaps it should come with a trigger warning for magical realism, that most variably realised and take-or-leave of forms. Alice Rohrwacher's often magical 2018 film Happy as Lazzaro concluded with a character casually strolling out of the past and into the present day, some indication that the boundaries in Rohrwacher country are nothing if not porous. The writer-director's follow-up La Chimera heads even more forcefully in that same direction. We're in something like the 1970s now, and back in the Italian countryside, where superstitions, myths and legends have taken deep root in the soil, alongside the remnants of earlier civilisations. Going in search of the latter: Englishman Arthur (Josh O'Connor), a funny, shambling sort of mastermind whom we find returning to these fields after serving jail time for smuggling antiquities onto the black market. He returns unchanged in everything from his moral outlook to his grimy white linen suit - apparel that, like much else hereabouts, has clearly seen better days. Reuniting his crew of oddballs, he begins plotting his next heist - not on a museum or bank vault, but the bounteous earth itself, a process that involves divining with sticks while his crew congregate con molto anticipazione in his footsteps. To the last man, they're a confounding bunch: a Fellini wet dream, and doubtless a nightmare for others. For not unlike her recidivist diviner hero, Rohrwacher is herself testing the ground beneath her feet, seeing how far she can push what she does. That La Chimera debuted on the UK Top Ten - and was still playing to a packed house as I caught up with it on its second weekend - would indicate the filmmaker has been successful in at least some part of her enquiries; yet it also struck this viewer as highlighting the risks with this particular aesthetic, chiefly how porous the boundary is between genuine screen magic, a rapt ensorcelment, and at least semi-resistible whimsy.

Much of La Chimera represents the wesandersonification of Rohrwacher, the point at which previously organic, fabular storytelling takes a turn for the self-consciously quirky and infantile. (Possibly with an eye to capturing the infantilised hearts and minds of the mass audience.) Happy as Lazzaro's characters appeared carved from the landscapes they inhabited or passed through, as if out of stone; this shower, by contrast, are largely defined by their wardrobe choices. Arthur's suit; some retro leisurewear; a Steve Zissou-like woolly hat; a rakish moustache. They wouldn't necessarily have had to be authentic depictions of the Italian proletariat during the Years of Lead, but these figures forever feel more doodled than written or embodied, cut out of cardboard with safety scissors, filled in only with felt tips, added to the frame as a creative afterthought. It's possible O'Connor was cast specifically for his jug-like ears: they rhyme, not unamusingly, with some of the trophies he seeks, and render Arthur immediately recognisable in silhouette, like Bart Simpson. (Where Anderson turns to Tilda Swinton and her swelling prop box, Rohrwacher casts her own sister Alba as a mercenary antiquities dealer in a shameless canary-yellow jumpsuit.) The absence of depth and shade means that no matter how hard, far or wide the gang digs, the film remains stranded at surface level; these characters can't affect us any more than, say, the Hair Bear Bunch or the Ant Hill Mob. Arthur demonstrates some maturing of taste - a late-in-the-day appreciation for the beauty of statues, as distinct from their market value - but mostly spends the movie getting grubbier and grubbier. (O'Connor looks like a child who's raided his dad's closet for playtime; you spend much of the film wanting to take a spit-dampened tissue to his ever-mucky chops.) The squabbles among his entourage are often comical, but also negligible, and not really enough to sustain a film of 135 minutes. As sunny summer diversion, La Chimera still has a lot going for it: gorgeous scenery, excellent weather, fine mosaics; resonant images, lovely faded pastel colours, a nice wistful, dreamy mood. It's an easy sell, which is probably why it's been the critical and commercial hit it is. Yet it's also the first Rohrwacher film I've seen where you have to look past the people for fullest enjoyment, which isn't the development one was seeking at this stage in her career.

La Chimera is now playing in selected cinemas.

Thursday 16 May 2024

On demand: "The Tale"


2018's
The Tale proved a key text of the #MeToo moment: a Sundance-showcased HBO pick-up, with Laura Dern (and her never busier eyes) cast as her own director Jennifer Fox, a fortysomething documentarist thrown into a tailspin upon the rediscovery of an essay she wrote as a teenager describing her experiences at riding school. In its subject matter, it's not so far removed from the TVMs of yore: some form of injustice or abuse, a middle-aged heroine at the centre, some push for clarity and catharsis. What's new is the postmodern framing, which insists that clarity and catharsis can be difficult to achieve outside of a two-hour movie. Instead of procedural surety and security - a push in a specific direction towards carefully defined aims and goals - we observe Dern's Jennifer as she comes to interrogate her memories, trying to ascertain that what she now believes may have happened actually did happen. (She's a documentarist hunting the sources who might corroborate her own story.) By way of a primer, Fox stages flashbacks to camp life, where young Jenny (Isabelle Nélisse) hovers between her upright Englishwoman instructor (Elizabeth Debicki) and the latter's jockish partner (Jason Ritter); yet as we wait for the parade-ground discipline to warp or sour, we also get scenes in which Dern-as-Jennifer teaches (source of the film's most didactic writing, underlining one subtext: what have we learnt here?), potters around the family home under the concerned eye of ma Ellen Burstyn, backs away from pre-existing wedding plans made with hunky cameraman beau Common, and gradually applies an adult eye to events she didn't - or couldn't - understand as a child. For Fox, clearly, The Tale serves as a continuation of the haphazard, often plain messy process her younger self began when she wrote that story.

Like its telemovie predecessors, it doesn't look like much: the flashbacks have a sundappled period handsomeness, but more could have been done with the image to suggest an uncertain memory, and many of these scenes look as if they've been chopped to their core so the film could still occupy that two-hour timeslot. (A private investigator appears out of nowhere and disappears into nothing, deemed surplus to narrative requirements.) Yet the choices Fox makes within those frames frequently prove inspired indeed. The whole film is premised on the sophisticated irony that a non-fiction filmmaker should have felt compelled to move into fiction to bring herself closer to reality. Yet fiction permits Fox her most strikingly imaginative flourishes - to exert a greater control over how her story is interpreted. Take Debicki's height, for starters, here weaponised to convey something of how the instructor has grown in Jenny's imagination. (By way of stark contrast, the instructor's latter-day incarnation is Frances Conroy, the stooped mom from Six Feet Under.) And Dern's insistently bra-on sex scenes - almost parodically televisual, not to mention very un-HBO - make sense once we find out what happened to the character at a formative age.

Suffice to say, the adult material - when we get to it - goes some measure beyond the realm of the Channel 5 afternoon movie, not just in its language (phrases seared on the mind like cigarette burns), but its psychological complexity. The abuse here appears as much a result of what went on under Jenny's own roof (turning her younger self against anything so heteronormative as marriage) as what happens under her abuser's eye. That complexity is further borne out in Dern's central performance, at once fraught and lived-in, sketching not a stock movie victim or crusader, but a woman reshaped by her experiences and pointed toward various forms of self-sabotage. (Untangling her story involves untangling herself.) Despite the acclaim and awards, Fox hasn't made another movie since, which inevitably prompts speculation: perhaps this one exhausted her, perhaps she simply has no interest in directing again, perhaps the powers-that-be are scared of what other abuses she might think to put on screen. Yet last year, she told The New York Times the identity of her abuser, who had died two years before - and once you understand The Tale was filmed while Fox's (prominent) abuser was still alive, the film's flaws seem forgivable and its achievements become all the more impressive. This is the work of someone using a commercial framework to fumble towards an uncomfortable personal truth - and to make fuller (if not complete) sense of events no-one should have to endure.

The Tale is currently streaming via NOW TV, and available to rent via Prime Video and YouTube.

A separation: "Kidnapped"


While Luca Guadagnino flaps around, Marco Bellocchio has been quietly, assiduously underlining his claims to the title of Italy's greatest living filmmaker, in large part by disinterring sad, sorry, strangely resonant stories from his homeland's past. (He's like a more professional version of the amateur archaeologists roaming Italy in the current theatrical release La Chimera.) In last year's TV standout Exterior, Night (still streamable in the UK via Channel 4), Bellocchio returned to the site of his own fine 2003 thriller Good Morning, Night, relitigating the kidnap and murder of PM Aldo Moro and finding new things to say about the relationship between politics, the Catholic Church, trust and national neuroses. Now the writer-director travels further back in time - to 19th century Bologna - and comes up with an enveloping parable about faith and division. Kidnapped has the ring of Prince and the Pauper-like fiction, but all its facts have long been on the record: in 1858, representatives of the Catholic Church really did storm the home of a Jewish family, the Mortaras, and seized one of their nine children, seven-year-old Edgardo, after it emerged the boy had previously been baptised by a concerned housemaid - in the Church's eyes rendering the lad a) not kosher, and b) very much one of theirs. In alighting upon such a deplorable example of overreach, Bellocchio reminds us he's one of the last filmmakers working in period drama who means to engender no nostalgia whatsoever - not least because he senses the dark ages, when such stories were an everyday commonplace, aren't as far gone as we sometimes like to kid ourselves. For Bellocchio, history is an ongoing process or work-in-progress: either way, the past won't shut up.

This understanding makes him one of the few filmmakers left who could tell this story this comprehensively, and this well - and it has much to do with his own upbringing: he made his bones before directors started developing selective vision, ADHD and other bad habits. Much of Kidnapped is composed with the same sober classicism as the cathedrals this narrative proceeds through, the writing (credited to Bellocchio and Susanna Nichiarelli, working from Daniele Scalise's book Il caso Mortara) digging further into the story to uncover painful ironies and difficult truths. The initial rupture opens up two lines of narrative inquiry: the efforts of the naturally stunned and aggrieved clan to understand what just happened on their own doorstep, and the adventure of the boy (Enea Sala, later Leonardo Maltese), pulled away from a comfortable mercantile middle-class to be re-educated (reprogrammed, if you like) from scratch. Edgardo gains new pals in those fellow "orphans" with whom he bunks down in a church basement - here, Bellocchio notes this case wasn't some isolated aberration, rather a matter of state-wide policy - but when his clerical guardians start drawing parallels between him and the Jesus depicted in a chapel-wall fresco, it's all we can do not to puncture the hushed silence of the cinema with a loud, ominous uh-oh. Even here, though, Bellocchio regulates light and dark like a true artist; these late works have been painterly - masterly - in a way, say, 1965's scrappy breakthrough Fists in the Pocket wasn't, and he may have a more developed sense of contrast (lit. and fig.) than any of his world-cinema contemporaries. Exterior, Night was positively sepulchral: as I wrote at the time, it wasn't TV you binged so much as entombed yourself within. Kidnapped alights upon a comparably sorrowful story, yet Bellocchio uses the freedoms of the press (animating satirical cartoons showing Pope Pius IX as "the Great Kidnapper") to lighten up the conspiratorial thinking prevalent elsewhere within this plot, and he sets the elegance of religion - the ritual, the buildings, the vestments - against the extremism of its most reactionary practitioners.

Only the thunderous score - by Fabio Massimo Capogrosso, and it often seems massimo capogrosso, punching up the tale's worst injustices for any thickos in the back - seems like a misjudgement, and then only in those places where it threatens to drown out the film's subtler dramatic accomplishments. The kaleidoscopic technique Bellocchio developed in Exterior, Night - devoting an episode to each of its characters, the better to give even fuller voice to individual viewpoints - becomes even more striking when applied to a single, 135-minute feature, allowing us to look long and deep into the souls of its characters. Right through to Kidnapped's closing image, what we see are schisms everywhere: between Poppa Mortara (Fausto Russo Alesi), determined to plough on and even convert himself if it means bringing his boy back home, and a wife (Barbara Ronchi, another of Bellocchio's unforgettably mournful heroines) who sees only loss wherever she looks; between the grief-stricken family and the adaptable, suggestible boy. Pius (Paolo Pierobon, resembling Michael Stuhlbarg playing Gladiator's Commodus) is characterised by a midfilm bout of night terrors that involves Jewish intruders circumcising him as he lies stricken in bed. (As Bellocchio has realised, a lot of this story - and stories like it - is rooted in ignorance and insecurity.) Such is the close attention paid to physical and psychological detail - the places these people pass through, the thoughts passing through their head - we don't just walk a mile in these shoes, but start to feel the ground beneath: the yielding wood of the courtroom, the discomfiting brick of a cell, the nave's impassively cool marble. Raised to shoulder height by performers you've barely seen before, who carry no baggage yet look and sound intensely right for their roles, the result is something of a miracle: a story brought back to complete life, such that it casts sharp new light on the world's present woes. We're all praying to the same idea of a higher power, and for many of the same blessings. The question Bellocchio so eloquently and elegantly frames here is this: why do we then let others divide us so?

Kidnapped is now playing in selected cinemas, and available to rent via Curzon Home Cinema.

Friday 10 May 2024

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of May 3-5, 2024):

1 (new) The Fall Guy (12A) **
3 (1) Challengers (15) **
4 (2Back to Black (15)
5 (3) Kung Fu Panda 4 (PG)
6 (new) Tarot (15)
7 (4Civil War (15) ***
8 (new) Love Lies Bleeding (15) ***
9 (5Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire (12A)
10 (new) Macbeth (12A)

(source: BFI)

My top five:


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Dune: Part Two (12) **
2 (new) Kung Fu Panda 4 (PG)
3 (4) Migration (U)
4 (2) Bob Marley: One Love (12)
5 (9) The Equalizer 3 (15)
6 (11) Anyone But You (12)
7 (10) Wonka (PG) ***
8 (new) The Iron Claw (15) ***
9 (7) Oppenheimer (15) ****
10 (8) Late Night with the Devil (15) ***


My top five: 
1. Fallen Leaves

 
Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Animal Farm [above] (Thursday, Channel 4, 2.40am)
2. The Lavender Hill Mob (Saturday, BBC2, 1pm)
3. Clemency (Sunday, BBC2, 12 midnight)
4. 3:10 to Yuma (Saturday, Channel 4, 11.10pm)
5. Calamity Jane (Sunday, BBC2, 4pm)

Thursday 9 May 2024

Dig!: "Shallow Grave"


Thirty years ago, after a noteworthy TV career (including
the rave episode of Inspector Morse), Manchester's own Danny Boyle burst onto cinema screens. Shallow Grave's opening movement - a bumper-level, Leftfield-scored whizz over the Edinburgh cobblestones, restlessly craning to see what's up above or around the next corner - would help define the giddy, wide-eyed, eternally optimistic Boyle gaze in the years that followed. Yet this remains the director's most contained film, mostly unfolding on a single set, painted like Godard's mid-Sixties movies and big enough for Ewan McGregor to ride a bike around at one point. A workably tight John Hodge script charts the breakdown in relations between three insufferably cliquely flatmates (we've all known them) - journo Alex (McGregor), nurse Juliet (Kerry Fox) and chartered surveyor David (Christopher Eccleston) - after the discovery of a million pounds in tax-free used banknotes and a naked, dead Keith Allen in the flat's fourth bedroom. (Some might say Boyle was already on the right track in killing Allen off early, given the actor's track record in early Nineties British thrillers.) It's The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, essentially, brought indoors to counter a far cooler and rainier climate.

The scale of that set was the tipoff: here were creatives thinking big (key lines in Eccleston's opening narration: "this could be any city; they're all the same") and prepared to warp and razz the realism that had been Brit cinema's stock-in-trade for the better part of three decades. It was still identifiably British, as demonstrated by an odd little time-capsule moment: McGregor's wastrel telly addict chuckling at Lose a Million, the Chris Tarrant-hosted game show subsequently overwritten by Who Wants to be a Millionaire?. (A later clip from The Wicker Man now seems to announce the Boyle who masterminded the London 2012 opening ceremony.) Yet its dynamics were something else: the film was slick, irreverent, mischievous in a way the American movies we'd grown up watching were. That confidence was helpful, because it ushered us past Hodge's shakier plotting: I'm still not sure how our trio of anti-heroes get so many dead bodies downstairs without the neighbours noticing, nor why Alex and Juliet stay put after David starts waving a drill around. Thankfully, Boyle's feel for casting and personality is vastly more secure: we know the leads are in mortal danger once Peter Mullan is revealed as one of the goons closing in on them, and individual scenes gain considerably from the interplay between Fox's abrasive matter-of-factness, Eccleston's quiet intensity and McGregor's shit-eating grin. Next stop: Trainspotting. These were careers that hit the ground running, and then some.

Shallow Grave returns to selected cinemas from tomorrow.

Starfuckers, Inc.: "The Idea of You"


The A-list romcom returns, albeit with only a tentative theatrical release and a prime spot on streaming. (You'd think the powers-that-be might be a bit more confident about these things in the wake of
Anyone but You's runaway success, but this version of Hollywood is determined not to learn from its own good news.) Adapted from Robinne Lee's 2017 bestseller, The Idea of You has Anne Hathaway, with her happy-making face and honorable intention of building a career outside the usual franchise channels, as Solene, an LA gallerist and single mother of a certain age; while accompanying her daughter to Coachella - and in the most porous VIP area in corporate music festival history - she crosses paths with British boybander Hayes Campbell (Nicholas Galitzine), or "Hayes Campbell from August Moon!", as the supporting cast excitedly refers to him. Sixteen years Solene's junior, Hayes confirms the pair's connection while our gal is holding up the backstage meet-and-greet line something rotten. (In the real world, there'd be an insurrection on a par with January 6th.) Issues follow once the characters throw off their lanyards and wristbands and proceed into something approximating everyday life, where Solene finds herself being accused of cradlesnatching - or at least snatching away the figure onto whom the so-called "Mooners", young and not so young, have been so aggressively projecting all these years. How dare she try and turn a fantasy into a reality of sorts?

As the combined Internet appears to have realised over the past few days, the movie's one and only selling point is Hathaway, here shrewdly alighting on material that could only ever further her stardom. The entire second act, post-Coachella, is Solene pouring out her brokenhearted lifestory to her boyish suitor (a posh dolt, with a head like an electric toothbrush, but not uncharming in dispatches, and a good listener besides) in comfy locales; thus unburdened, she can start working through the romcom equivalent of a seven-step program. (Initially bemused by the lad's attentions, she's soon flattered, even giddy, and passing through denial and damp-eyed grief on her way to acceptance and happiness.) It's another notable example of a star almost physically elevating their material - Hathaway even makes funny the credulity-stretching bit wherein a woman with the face and form of Anne Hathaway looks in the mirror and appears not to like what she sees - while communicating what some part of the mass paperback audience connected with in Lee's original tome. Solene is a woman who, after a major romantic failure, no longer understands what makes her beautiful - and, evidently, there are middle-aged women who long to hear proofs of self-worth much as some teenage girls do. The trouble with The Idea of You is that it could only ever work for that select demographic; it offers the rest of us nobody to identify with.

For starters, the kid's never much more than a plot device, and in places barely more than a tape recorder, taking on Solene's words and then playing back what she wants and needs to hear. The supporting characterisation is ungenerous at best. Veep's Reid Scott, bringing some of his now-patented New Clooney swagger to proceedings, is repeatedly frozen out as The Guy Who Did Solene Dirty; his new girl, who wants so badly to be friends with her man's ex, is swatted away like a bug; and the other men in Solene's life are pathetic losers, hung up on their exes or dogs. It's a romcom that contrives to be unrealistic in both its plotting and its expectations: perhaps this is faithful to what folks loved about the book, but what's been brought to the screen, finally, is the perspective of an adult woman who really has got all her hopes pinned on fucking Harry Styles as a means of turning her life around. Actor-turned-director Michael Showalter has ways of dressing up such latent sociopathy: sunny exteriors, aspirational interiors, montages, some unexpected Wang Chung revivalism, plus lots of August Moon songs to show off the fact they shot this at actual festivals before real crowds. Yet where the director's 2017 hit The Big Sick had human frailty to keep things interesting, The Idea of You is so geared towards affirmation from the off that its dramatic stakes are practically zero. The lovers are on and off arbitrarily, at a moment's notice; and the rom-to-com ratio is lopsided throughout. (I had the same thought while fidgeting through The Fall Guy: where have all the gagwriters gone? Surely they can't all have migrated towards animated sitcoms?) You watch it in what's become a recognisable streaming mode - even as it goes in one eye, you can feel the film leaking out your ear, never to be thought of again - and with a newfound appreciation for what Richard Curtis and Roger Michell pulled off in Notting Hill, before the latter passed and the former went off the boil completely.

The Idea of You is showing in selected cinemas, and streaming via Prime Video.