Silence is Golden?

Last week's #twittersilence has been labelled by some (notably the esteemed Samantha Brick and her pet ego) as a total failure. Honestly, I agree, but it might be better that way.

Its important to acknowledge the severity of online bullying, now known as Trolling. Just because Mary Beard happens to be a famous classicist who spoke out about her victimisation does not make her case unique, in fact it speaks volumes about how widespread the problem has become. If minor academic celebrities are sent death threats, what exactly goes on behind the scenes in the world of social media?

Users of the now ubiquitous technology, particularly the younger generation, have an unusual approach to manners in an online setting. That is, a lack thereof. Unlike the proverbial playground, the internet is safe from the prying eyes of teachers and parents alike. All etiquette that comes into play 'in real life' dissolves here- its a dog eat dog world wide web. The very fact that, in the aftermath of all this jazz, twitter cooperatively offered to install an 'abuse' button sheds a few rays of light on the dark underworld of social media.

And along with good manners goes responsibility, skipping off into the sunset and leaving a void behind. 'John' might not be a very nice boy, but he'd never threaten his teacher with his penknife in real life- God knows what kind of trouble that could get you in. But he might log into his pseudonymic twitter account that evening and give her 140 characters of his mind. Because nobody can get in trouble for that, right? Wrong. As Mary Beard has so consistently pointed out, a death threat is a death threat is a death threat. A criminal offence is not decriminalised behind the anonymity of an online persona. And anonymity? I know enough people with a clump of blu-tack shuttering their webcam to take Facebook's privacy settings with a pinch of salt. But I digress... Freedom of speech. Is it freedom of speech to be granted the liberty of bandying violent promises around under the guise of a clever anagram of your surname? 'You taught me language; and my profit on't / Is I know how to curse...'

The platform provided by social media and the (current) lack of censorship involved in that may be handing a gun to your pursuer, but it is also - I state the obvious - one of the most valuable and unique aspects of the internet. With the internet has come the age of whistle-blowing, of prying the hands of the corrupt away from the eyes of the people. It has made information so easily accessible, opinions so easily shared, petitions so easily signed. Of course, minimal policing means someone somewhere is going to abuse their newfound power, but we've know that was going to happen since bloody Plato told us so. What we should be focusing on is how we can use this platform for the better.

If I had been walking down my slightly shady road in south east London and a slightly shady character had thrown a slightly shady comment my way, I would have walked a bit faster. There would be scenes of muted outrage in my living room, someone might throw a swearword across a picnic table in a busy beer garden. Revolution! If the same comment had been preceded by an @the_observist and confined to the remaining 126 characters, with a lewd # thrown in for good measure, the world is my jury. The firing squad is 277,599,976 strong, the consequences are public shaming and widespread outrage, action and a global awareness of a problem that usually slips under the radar. Especially if I happen to be a demi celebrity with a famous @ to my name.

Caitlin Moran, I do love you so, but on this occasion you've missed a golden opportunity. Why use your right to remain silent? It's finally possible to make a loud enough noise to make a difference.

Reflection: Natural Selection

As an English Literature graduate it would be a wild claim if I were to deny any form of literary snobbery towards film adaptations. You'd have a certain amount of disdain too, if you'd had to sit through word-perfect, oaken performances of Emma that went on for five and a half hours. As it is, even though I'd call myself a cinephile, I'm recovering from a dark past as an adaptation fundamentalist.

In years gone by, upon the announcement of an upcoming adaptation of a treasured novel, I would become inexplicably yet unbearably excited. Unlimited card in hand, I would be waiting edgily in line for the first showing, no matter what Empire magazine had warned me was in store for me. And yet, despite my sunny optimism, I would consistently leave the cinema foaming at the mouth over character emissions, plot edits and  - God forbid - a changed ending. The quality of the film itself rarely (if ever) informed my opinion.

I will now begrudgingly admit to having a closed-minded attitude, something I so deplore in others, when it came to being so vehemently anti-adaptation. I failed to see film as an art form in its own right, at least not when it was using a literary influence as a crutch. I was convinced that, by being unfaithful to the book it was based on, a film must be inherently bad - and I'm sure I was not alone in that conviction. It's only recently that I've realised (and I am well aware that every rule is defined by its exceptions) that films that remain closest to the books they are based on are often the worst adaptations. Let's be honest, the experience of reading a novel is intrinsically different to that of watching a film. My reliance on screenwriters and directors to follow the book... well, by the book, and to be dismissive of those that did not was a misplaced categoriastion. A director who rejects infidelity will have a hard time creating anything more impressive than a 'fairly good' film.

The origin of the word 'adaptation' stems from Darwinian theory, and of course means change - change in order to survive in a new environment. Simply lifting the contents of the page and placing them on the screen guarantees extinction - a faithful adaptation is almost paradoxical. Reading a book is an imaginative act: a film adaptation is one person's reading of the book, creating from the words a multi-sensory experience of image, music and dialogue. It is impossible to represent in this all possible readings of the book. If our outrage is based on an inaccurate line, or a protagonist who is 'not how I imagined him' we have to accept that he was never going to be. If we had made the film ourselves, no doubt it would be almost entirely different, and we should accept the director's creation as a new work of their imagination rather than a mere translation of book to film. Consider how often we come across a painting inspired by a play (Ophelia springs to mind most readily), a poem inspired by a painting, a piece of music inspired by a fairy tale. Are we to dismiss these on the grounds they are not a direct replica of the original, because they are not how our own interpretation may have turned out?

Let me use a famous adaptation to illustrate my point. Of course, as a closet geek, this example will be Lord of the Rings. I cross my heart, I've read it (more than once!), and not very long ago, and I loved them. But the idea of a faithful adaptation makes my stomach churn. I've spent enough of my life on the brink of insanity, following twelve hours holed up in a student living room, stinking of smoke and Doritos and clutching a misplaced sense of pride that I finally made it to Mount Doom, thank you very much. I would not appreciate a 72 hour saga, which is no doubt what we would be left with without Peter Jackson's tactful trimmings and embellishments. Let this remind us that the success of a good adaptation does not rely on the act of simply changing things, but on allowing the right elements of the raw novel to evolve on screen.

Review: Paul Thomas Anderson's 'The Master'

"You do this for a billion years - or not at all"

Release Date: 16th November (or out now on 70mm film at the Odeon West End)
Paul Thomas Anderson
Joaquin Phoenix, Philip Seymour-Hoffman, Amy Adams

If you've been drumming your fingers since 2007 and yearning for the release Paul Thomas Anderson's most recent masterpiece, rest assured you will be rewarded for your patience. From the very first second - choppy Pacific waters and a prolonged shot of shifting, stormy eyes, urged forwards with the booming orchestra of Johnny Greenwood's perfect score - it's obvious that the past five years of Anderson's life have not been spent idly.

The story is one of power, manipulation, trauma, vulnerability, love and loneliness... but the story was somewhat insignificant. It feels that Anderson isn't trying to tell a story, nor give us a narrative - his plot just serves as a canvas for the characters he is painting. And, much like Plainview and Eli in TWBB, what we care about is this warped father/son-esque power struggle that his characters engage in. Joaquin Phoenix has gifted us with his most accomplished performance yet as Freddie Quale, an apt name for a Naval Veteran and a drunk who squirms with inner turmoil. Freddie seems so filled with pain that his entire body is curling in on itself. He is a man at sea in every sense - and he's lost control of his ship in stormy waters. His limbs spasm, violence takes him over and he unsteadily lurches across life. Anderson's characteristically brooding close ups (a la Daniel Plainview) show us a man broken by war and desperate for somewhere to rest. Enter Seymour-Hoffman, that is Lancaster Dodd - a charismatic, enchanting ship commander who looks past Freddie's erratic, anti-social behaviour and takes him under his wing after he stows away on the good ship Alethia.

And so begins a  captivating play-off between the leading men, Seymour-Hoffman and Phoenix, set against Anderson's suggestive and stunning backdrop of barren desert and rolling beaches - brought to vivid, saturated life on the 70mm film. Like the hopelessly vulnerable Freddie, we are at first sucked in by the charm of Dodd, but steadily the cracks begin to show and Dodd's amiable patriarch gives way to a megalomanic Ahab, Captain of religious-movement-cum-cult 'The Cause', and incapable of being questioned without bursts of quickly dampened rage. Anderson brings to mind Scientology in a vague sort of a way, but like the story this is insignificant in comparison to the charged close-ups of faces and souls, and we feel reluctant to see this as a comment on its contemporary counterpart. Despite our slow disenchantment, Freddie remains in the Masters thrall, and we witness his struggle with this surrogate father, with alcohol and with himself. He is drawn to Dodd, comforted by him and in adulation of him, he provides a long sought for island of calm for a man in turmoil. For Dodd, Freddie is his disciple, his son and his greatest challenge, and like a dog follows him faithfully and attacks his adversaries. Like volatile lovers they hurl abuse at one another, then return for an embrace - excommunicate one another only to call, grovelling, and ask to come back.

Although the film is so forcefully about masculine power, the feminine force driving these men - something totally absent in TWBB - is soft and steely. The wholesome, heavily pregnant Amy Adams is a driving force behind The Cause, and where Dodd embraces Freddie, she coldly turns him away. Her perseverance in her following of her husband's gospel, 'you do this for a billion years - or not at all' implies a dogged devotion, but we aren't convinced. Always still, quiet and on the periphery of the action, Peggy Dodd is a silent power and suggests the true momentum behind Langston's booming confidence - a silent wind in the sails of his Pequod. She not so much defines the Master, but underlines him. Similarly, in the opening scenes of the film, the bestial Freddie is reduced to a 'crying episode' by a letter from a girl he used to know. We get a sense that the very cores of these men are, however indirectly, engineered by their women.

I feel that the only way you can fully appreciate The Master is by feeling it - the desperate sadness of a broken man and the fearsome power of oration. Paul Thomas Anderson has created characters as powerful, solitary and moving as Daniel Plainview twice over, and it's fair to say that he is the real master here.

Review: Skyfall

Since Quantum of Solace received such a brutally cold reception, Skyfall had a lot to answer for. Over the past few months, the internet has been the soundboard for a constant foreboding that Skyfall is bound to disappoint, and concerns have been raised that we have most probably seen it before in the form of... well, every other Bond film.

 But Sam Mendes can be suitably smug about the latest instalment of the 007 chronicles. Of course, Skyfall is full of Bond stereotypes and blatant references to previous films - indeed, what is a Bond film without the mandatory death-by-wild-animal? But, in intentionally using props and plots from previous adventures, he crafts something wholly new. And here, we meet the James we know and love again. Except, somehow, without doing anything particularly new, Craig shows us an entirely fresh kind of Bond - soft and emotional, vulnerable and, after twenty three adventures, understandably ageing. 

Barring a brief soujourn in Shanghai, the main action in Skyfall is on and under home ground, featuring pursuits through the London Underground reminiscent of the just-in-time commute we all know and loathe and action-packed scenes in rural, ethereally foggy Scotland. Skyfall coaxes elements of the classic Bond franchise into it's British bosom and, quite literally, blows them up.

Performance wise, there was hardly a flaw. Javier Bardem as 'the villain' Silver was just plain weird... utterly distressing to watch, and despite being the funniest aspect of the film his unnerving performance is on a par with Christoph Waltz's chilling Hans Landa of Inglorious Basterds. The veterans were of course on top form, with Craig using Bond's suddenly uncovered past to create a more complex and personable character than his previous efforts. We are also treated to the delightful addition of Ralph Fiennes as a morally ambiguous sparring partner for Dench, and the ever-impressive Ben Whishaw as an adorable, wool-clad 'Q'. 

As Adele croons over the credits we can be safe in one conclusion - that Skyfall has reincarnated James Bond in every sense. 

Review: Shame

Director: Steve Mcqueen
Starring: Michael Fassbender, Carey Mulligan

I was not sure what to expect from a film so self-proclaimedly explicit, though I suppose centring on the struggles one goes through in the battle with satyriasis it would have been hard to avoid. I understand why Fassbender said it was a blessing in disguise that his mother couldn't make the Venice Film Festival premiere. It's also no wonder he won an award for his moving yet frankly quite disturbing performance as sex-addict Brandon.

We already know that Steve McQueen is not afraid of pushing Fassbender to physical extremes, as we saw in Hunger, with Fassbender as an emaciated Bobby Sands, literally wasting away. On this level, the troubled, angry and subversively pleasant man we meet in Shame makes for extremely uncomfortable watching. Yes, I'm pretty sure anyone watching this film will have found it uncomfortable, but it's also impossible to tear your eyes away. Fassbender and Mulligan's explosive and melancholy - not to mention borderline incestuous - relationship, and their private anguish is an utterly hypnotizing playing out of damaged lives. It is stark and crude, but beautiful, epitomised in Mulligan's haunting rendition of New York, New York, and the silent tear it moves Brandon to shed.

McQueen does little to offer his characters a route out of their ruts, and we are left with a somewhat grim dissatisfaction, from which there seems to be no escape. His morbid fatalism is a grey undertone of the whole film, both literally, in everything from the costume to the clinical lighting, and in a more pervasive way - the whole film feels overwhelmingly colourless. McQueen has crafted a stark and brilliant look at the lives of the secret down and outs, creating a complex distortion of how success and satisfaction is perceived. Shame is almost definitely worth a watch, just don't go and see it with your parents.

War Horse

Speilberg was brave to attempt to adapt a book written in a horse's perspective (which, having been done in Black Beauty so memorably can't really be done again) and a play that shot to fame for its incredible puppetry. So, detracting the main elements of the success of its other forms, what are you left with? In fact, a remarkable film. Our heartstrings are played with the ideal balance of gut-wrenchingly sad scenes and the odd, perfectly timed laugh. I don't even think such thorough enjoyment depends on a tendency to love horses, or a tendency to love Benedict Cumberbatch (but who lacks that tendency anyway?). Tears seemed to be a fairly unanimous reaction, unsurprisingly. In fact, this would be my only criticism, I do begin to tire of films engineered to melt the hearts and tear-ducts of its audience in such a contrived way - often such a bleak film seems unnecessary, unless it can save itself on it's merit as a piece of art.
Luckily, Spielberg managed once again showed the horror of the war from a completely different point of view, in a completely new way, so there was nothing of the 'same old' attitude I've developed towards the 'genred' films that seem unforgivably formulaic. The sheer quantity of eye-candy was also something of a plus point- from the handsome horse to the men he carried. Even the scenery and camera-work was occasionally so beautiful you forgot all about the film itself. The final scene was such an incredible piece of cinema it will take a long time to forget- the colours and light on screen were like nothing I'd seen before.
Now all I want to do is see the stage production.

My Week With Marilyn

Director: Simon Curtis

Michelle Williams, Eddie Redmayne, Kenneth Branagh

On debating what to see at the cinema this weekend, we opted for this based on time alone. It was a happy coincidence. Michelle Williams is beautiful as Marilyn, and bears such a genuine resemblance it could almost be her on screen. The plot is fairly predictable but it's a light-hearted hour or so with some dashingly handsome/pretty case members- barring a few irritating castings, for instance Emma Watson, whose wooden acting adds nothing to the film- but, thankfully, takes nothing away from it, and would perhaps have gone unnoticed had she not just stepped out of the highest grossing film series of all time. And, of course, Kenneth Branagh had be cast as Sir Laurence Olivier- he wouldn't be seen dead in a film where he had no opportunity to reel off Shakespearian monologues at regular intervals. Luckily, for once I managed to curb my hate for him did not let it eclipse my enjoyment of the film, in fact it added a few laughs, if unintentional on the director's behalf. As a BBC production you are guaranteed surprising cameos, and the occasional appearance of some of Britain's finest - Derek Jakobi and Judi Dench spring to mind.

It is usually American films that are tiresomely obvious. But if you're looking for a deep, reflective film this probably isn't it, nothing is left up to the audiences imagination in a film where the characters impulsively and extremely un-Englishly announce their greatest torments to the rest of the cast and the world. The vocalisation of emotional issues is far from believable, but on occasion I don't mind being told something I already know- it makes for easy watching and is probably infinitely more profound than Breaking Dawn. 

Contagion

The 'real life' version of 28 days later, this film is enough to give a squatter OCD. With unnerving, neurotic close-ups on 'contaminated' objects from the first scene the obsessive tracing of the origin of the next, real global epidemic of bird flu (or 'bat' flu). If you've got the November cold that's doing the rounds I'd advise you not to go and see this films for the benefit of your sanity. I'm typing this in my University library- someone, somewhere is coughing and I'm finding it hard not to cover my mouth and nose with my scarf.
The idea of a film about a virus spreading across the globe without the benefit of Zombies and thrills seems like it might make a fairly dull film. However, the obscenely all-star cast and consistent twists and turns of the unlikely plot make this a very interesting film. It even dabbles in the controversial conversation about alternative medicines- however, the fact that pharmaceutical giants are given a massive, grinning thumbs up undermines this somewhat. But the seed is there, something unusual for a blockbuster of this size.
It's pretty good, pretty paranoia-inducing, but also not the most revolutionary idea in cinema. It's a start though- at least there were no Zombies.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

Director: Thomas Alfredson
Starring: John Hurt, Gary Oldman, Colin Firth, Mark Strong, Toby Jones, Tom Hardy, Benedict Cumberbatch...

The film posters for Alfredson's adaptation of John Le Carre's cult novel have taken London's bus shelters by force. The occupation has served to remind me for six months now how much I am looking forwards to this film, from the Let The Right One In director. Upon first glance of the posters thoughts of the spy films we know and love fill our minds; Bourne, Bond, bombs and boobs are a set montage that come with the genre. Tinker Tailor could not have set itself further apart from our culturally ingrained preconceptions of it.
It is beautiful, reflective and slowly astounding. The chronically all-star cast step out of their familiarity one by one and though we are incredibly well acquainted with their previous roles Alfredson allows them to become new and interesting; Oldman is, for two and a half hours only, an up-and-coming newcomer to hollywood. The same is difficult to say for Firth, who is sadly a good but monotonous actor, and if it were he carrying the weight of the film upon his shoulders it may have floundered. With Oldman, it glides.
Discussing the film with an acquaintance, he quoted a review he had read, or his own opinion, I cannot quite remember and called the film pseudo-intellectual, with 'too many conversational scenes and much less action that I'd hoped'. Ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing pseudo about the intellectual side of the film, nor is there any issue with the inching pace of the film. If you want action, perhaps you might go and see Tom Hardy's other new release, Warrior, but don't attempt to pin it on every film you go and see. This is a film that, although I know very little of it, adds more reality to the world of espionage and genuineness to the events of the film than Bond will ever be able to, precisely because it amputates the epileptic explosions of it's contemporaries. And if you don't like the subtlety, more fool you. For me it is this that is what sets it so far apart from being quality time spent in the cinema to being a masterpiece.
As soon as I can I will watch the 70s TV series, I've been repeatedly told of it's superiority. If it is superior, it's bound to blow all of our minds.

The Tree of Life

Director: Terrence Malick

Starring: Brad Pitt, Sean Penn, Jessica Chastain

This film is brilliant, if it's your cup of tea. If not, I'm pretty sure you'd hate it. If it is, this self-indulgent slow mover is probably the perfect way to spend an evening. It has to be said, it was a little slow and a few people walked out of the cinema during the half-an-hour-long montage of artistic photography, and this was perhaps a little over the top for a film that was bound to be shown in all major cinemas due to Brad Pitt's surprising role in it; it would have felt more at home in a cellar-cinema with five seats.
The story itself, although central, was minimal and the majority of the conclusions were left to the audience to guess or to invent themselves. In fact even reading the copious reviews online there are some, to me, grave interpretations of the opening event and the core of the film- the death of a son, which is not shown in the film, is confused frequently with the death of a neighbourhood boy that opens the childrens' eyes to the reality of death and, for one (a young Sean Penn) deepens the dissatisfaction of the father/son struggle. Essentially the film is about nature, family turmoil, overcoming grief and most obviously- but not too forcefully- a belief in God which is questioned then solidified. It was, as I said, a little self-indulgent and at times it felt like it would be eternal, but if you're in for that kind of thing I suggest you watch it next time you have a hangover- it's something of a work of art.
It's massive- encapsulating meditatively everything that exists at the same time as focusing on the smallest details of one family's conflicting life. It only falls down where it attempts to literally depict metaphysical events, rather than alluding to and suggesting them- perhaps it would have been more effectively thought-provoking and poetic without the final five minutes.  In places it an Attenborough style observation of wildlife, it's walking with dinosaurs, it's the big bang, it's a father's first encounter with his son, it's the beauty of nature and the beauty of Jessica Chastain, it's birth and death- it's inexpressibly pretentious but profoundly moving and beautiful.

Captain America: The First Avenger

Director- Joe Johnston

Starring- Chris Evans, Hugo Weaving, Hayley Atwell

I don't really want to talk about this film- usually I avoid writing negative reviews, they terrify me. But it's time for me to face my fear. In fact, my friend and I pointedly did not discuss what we had just seen upon leaving the cinema, which is so abnormal it's almost frightening. It wasn't that the film was awful (although it wasn't good)- it was that there seemed to be nothing to discuss. The two and a half hours we spent in the cinema was dead time. Any hint of a story, or what could be called a thrilling film, was covered in a ten minute montage in the middle of the film, and the rest Hayley Atwell, who up until now I have admired, was cast, seemingly, for her looks- she fitted in perfectly with the wartime setting, but her looks never changed. She wouldn't have been out of place in Madame Tussauds. And frankly I'm shocked that Hugo Weaving considered the role. I don't even have anything to put in a review of the film. 24 hours after leaving the cinema I feel like I'm still waiting for it to start. 

The film also serves as a cautionary tale for all producers who invest too much in the not-so-impressive 3D and not enough in the plot itself. As this, and Transformers' most recent installment prove, the results are not worth the money for a ticket.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part Two

It's hard to talk about Harry Potter films in a critical way, as for me and most of my generation the Harry Potter Corporation is much, much more than a series of films and books. The final film of the eight-long, multi-billion-pound series is a heartbreaking film, and not just because of the storyline. July the 15th marked the end of a series, the end of an era, and what seems to be the end of our childhood. Since the first book was published in 1997, when I was just six years old, Harry Potter grew in fame and age at an alarming rate. By the dawn of my sixteenth birthday, coincidentally the publication date of the final book in the saga, still awake after a party with my equally sycophantic friends, the hyperactive excitement we felt was akin to that before... well, it was incomparable. In all honesty, as an English Literature Student, I find it difficult to praise the books themselves, although I adore them. Fair enough, her writing improves as the books go on, but that's beside the point. We don't read the books for the lyrical prose, it wouldn't have mattered if they were written monosyllabically - we want to know what our friends have been up to. We would have been in their year at Hogwarts (and how we prayed on the eve of our eleventh birthdays), we may even have been friends. We know them, we like and dislike them as we do our own peers, and we desperately need to read the next instalment of their lives. And so the final book was a full stop to a part of our lives we had taken for granted, and so we clung to the films to fill that gap. And now, as the advertisements all too poignantly point out to us, 'It All Ends Here'.

The second part of the Deathly Hallows has to be one of the most frantically anticipated films of the decade, and so it was never going to live up to the unfathomable expectations of die-hard fans. At midnight, on the very edge of the day, the lights in the cinema dimmed and the film began to disappoint. It is, to all extents, an excellent film. There are lavish battle scenes, tearful death scenes, heart-stoppingly tense confrontations. But it's not enough, it never had a chance of being enough. To be so anticipated also means to be brutally scrutinised from the Warner Bro's logo to the end credits. And they didn't even try their best- by making adjustments to the book, they open their arms to the blows from avid readers, but as the films have gone on it has become clear that they area a separate monster, and in many ways they have as much of a right to change the story as if they were writing it afresh. To some extent. To change the climactic, spectacular battle scene between Harry and Voldemort was the biggest mistake they could possibly have made, and they made it. The film also allows itself to fall flat unless it is propped up by it's prequel- in essence the films can only be appreciated as a single, very long film. Warner Brother's money making efforts were evident and foolish- all character building is left to part one, resulting in part two being a slideshow of shallow characters who often have no screen-time devoted to them at all, until it's too late. 

However, that is all I have to say about the film in a negative way. Criticisms aside, the film is good, it is exciting and it is, most importantly, the end. Whatever any review says, you will go and see it because it has become a societal imperative, claims of disinterest are met with horror and often with incredulity. The films, viewed as an octet building the talent of actors, the lives of the characters and the rise and fall of evil within society are perhaps unmatched.

I loved the film, but it wouldn't have mattered if I had despised it. I would have gone to see it, twice (once in 2D, once in 3D) and so would the rest of my Pottermanic generation. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows part two is an amazing, terrible thing, and all we can feel at the end is genuine grief. 

What do we do now?

Submarine

Director: Richard Ayoade
Starring: Craig Roberts, Yasmin Paige, Sally Hawkins


Definitely go and see it. For a debut film, this is very good. The shooting is nice and artistic, aided by it's beautiful Welsh scenery and sweeping sunset beach scenes (although pushing it a bit with the sheer volume of such scenes). The actors are great, and their comic execution is excellent. Alex Turner's soundtrack was also not that bad, it fitted with the ambiance of the film quite perfectly. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience.
On the surface, I was not too keen on the twee story; an adolescent with parental issues and a first love, you can imagine a fifteen year old submitting it as ground-breaking and original creative writing coursework, only to discover its horrible banality. However, don't let that put you off, Ayoade (and, presumably, the novel it was based on) has managed to turned it around to be quite a refreshing subversion of angst into witticism. On the whole, not what you would expect when you picture Moss behind the scenes.

Sorry

I've had LOADS of Uni work on at the moment.
I will resume when I have time!
I have seen a few films but I feel like reviews will be out of date now.

Never Let Me Go

Director: Mark Romanek (One Hour Photo)

Starring: Carey Mulligan (An Education), Andrew Garfield (The Social Network), Keira Knightley (You all know)

I've been waiting for this film to arrive in UK cinemas for almost a year, so there was no question we would see it on the day it came out. I'm not yet sure it lived up to expectations.

It was certainly a profound and unsettlingly beautiful piece of work, and was startlingly close to the original story of Kazuo Ishiguro's novel (which, incidentally, is one of my favourites and the reason I wanted to see it so desperately). It was nice to see Carey Mulligan taking centre stage over Knightley, who although good did rather well as a (slightly) less important character- such a well known, pouty face would have taken a lot away from the film. Nice, too, to see such good child actors, who for once I felt no animosity towards, and as well as being convincing also resembled their adult 'selves' uncannily.

One thing I would not be easily persuaded to do to myself is to see the film again, however well made it may have been. It was simply too sad, more so, I think, than the novel, and more than any film I have seen: the quiet sorrow that runs through from start to finish (I think more so if you have read the book and know what is coming) made it somewhat less than enjoyable despite it's masterly camera-work and impeccable detail.

But I'm a pathetic girl and was in a less than gleeful mood before I went into the cinema: don't let this put you off, go and see it anyway, it's definitely worth it. 

Black Swan

Director: Darren Aronofsky

Starring: Natalie Portman, Natalie Portman, Vincent Cassel, Mila Kunis

I don't want to say that every film I see is my new favourite, but since I saw this at the Venice Film Festival in summer, (I do love to drop that in...) it has had a firm grip on the title. I can't wait to see it again.

Far more disturbing than expected, it's the Machinist of the classical dance world: Aronofky's obsession with pushing actors and films to their limits comes off incredibly and Natalie Portman embraces the role pretty close to perfectly. Far from a twee ballet ballad, this is a labyrinth (but don't worry, not quite on the level of Inception) that leaves us all feeling slightly unstable and enormously impressed. It is, also, definitely not a girl film: if not just to ogle at Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis in some fairly graphic scenes, males shouldn't reject it because of it's tutus. 

The King's Speech

Director: Tom Hooper

Starring: Colin firth, Geoffrey Rush, Helena Bonham-Carter

It lives up to the hype.

Colin Firth's struggle with his speech impediment is incredibly real, and pity for his character is well rounded off in the climactic 'King's Speech' the film takes it's name from. The combination of the personal relationship with the character and the national despair on the cusp of World War II round the film out into more than just a personal struggle. Geoffrey Rush's counterpart to Firth is a ballsy, impertinent speech therapist and one of the most likeable characters I've met on the screen in a while. Tom Hooper is definitely breaking out of obscurity. One of Bonham-Carter's less otherworldly roles, and she was a little disappointing, acting as nothing much more than a prop for Firth's performance. She plays a literal supporting role, but very well.

And, to top it all of, Timothy Spall plays Winston Churchill. Top notch casting.

127 Hours

Director: Danny Boyle
Starring: James Franco, A Rock

I was intrigued when I heard that Boyle had decided to make a feature-length film out of Aron Ralston's autobiographical book 'Between a Rock and a Hard Place' (witty bugger), as 95% of the plot takes place in exactly the same place, with not that much happening save for the occasional flashback.

The film wasn't, however, a huge disappointment. James Franco's winning smile and perfect crow's feet may have had something to do with it, but the film was actually fairly gripping and appropriately soppy. Add a dash of ever beautiful, Clemence Poesy (of Gossip Girl and, more recently and perhaps more widely appreciated, Harry Potter fame) and it wasn't a bad film at all, despite the run-up to both of the film's key events comprising of somewhat agonising anticipation for said events. I'd not go and see it again, but I enjoyed it thoroughly, down to the rather-too-graphic penultimate moments.  

I'm Still Here

A film by Casey Affleck, starring Joaquin Phoenix

Watching this much mulled over film does little to put the mind at ease, and rather than solving the debates of it's legitimacy that have been bouncing around for two years (ever since Joaquin handed in his actor's notice), instead it fires them up and with a new gusto they are being argued over pasta and wine in the restaurants of the Venice Lido. Nobody can say for sure whether this was a documentary or a 'mockumentary', save for Affleck and Phoenix themselves, and others involved in the making of the film. Despite some obviously staged scenes, the film is remarkably convincing.

I'm Still Here: The Hoax
Hats off to Phoenix. The younger, more handsome Affleck brother's film is stage to some of the most convincing, moving and dedicated method acting I have ever seen, and seriously questions the nature of 'Hollywood' mentality and the destructive effect it can have on the lives of those it engulfs.


I'm Still Here: The Documentary
If we consider that this may very well be an intimate portrayal of a man's rejection of his career and a retreat into another life, which eventually leads to some sort of breakdown, it is impossible to deny that it is a highly valuable piece of cinema. And again, my hat stays in the air for the subject of the film. The bravery (or stupidity? It's a fine line) Phoenix showed in allowing himself to be portrayed in compromising and vulnerable situations is second to none. Primarily, the film invokes sympathy for Joaquin as we see his most profound moments of fragility.

Whether we are to take this film as ‘reality’ or as an elaborate ruse, it makes for enthralling, moving and incredibly uncomfortable watching. It also sparks a great debate, frequently overheard after screenings, as to the nature of acting in general. Even if this film is a hoax, the Joaquin Phoenix that Phoenix chose to present to the world was a real person engaging in real activities; it is impossible to disconnect the actor from the role he plays, as this role is essentially himself. Ultimately, the film asks us what is acting- or perhaps closer to the bone, can we really tell who is or isn’t living their life playing a role?

Turns out http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/17/movies/17affleck.html?_r=3&src=twt&twt=nytimes

Pequeñas Voces (Little Voices: Review)

a film by Jairo Carillo and Oscar Andadre 

 This deeply moving animation film was something close to ten years in the making, and my does it show, in the careful craftsmanship of the animations, and in the meticulous layering of every image. The animations themselves are made up from a combination of two dimensional, remastered childrens' drawings of their own experiences and of digitally animated main characters- allowing them to function within a world they created for themselves. These characters all experience very different, but similarly moving and traumatic effects of the conflicts and displacement in Columbia: the film brings the four together in a union of the four stories.  

 The beautiful ‘Little Voices’, real children who were interviewed to tell their own stories and asked to illustrate their tales, bring a new and overwhelmingly innocent attitude to the events in Columbia. The pure truth of the voiceovers telling of life before, during and after their experiences is enough to move you to tears. The film is a masterpiece, if not of technicality of truth and emotion, and is not created only by Carillo and Andrade but by the raw innocence of the children’s opinions and their breathing life into their own drawings. 

 As an animation it is also very interesting; using a simulation of a ‘camera’ which moves and pans out as though it is filming a real sequence and the immobile backdrop of landscapes and secondary characters taken directly from the childrens' own artwork. We are drawn into the world of Pequeñas Voces as though it is a reality; we forget it is an animated movie almost entirely. The film, altogether, was beautiful. 

The most incredible aspect was the attitude the children have, harboring no resentment and no bitterness, happy with their lot, despite the trauma it had presented them with. The optimism of their view of life is quite contagious, the beauty of the film resounds for some time after leaving the cinema.