Anyone For a Film?

That's a Wrap Folks!

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Sat, 9 Apr 2011 16:27:00 -0700

As those who follow this blog may have gleaned, I've not been consistent with the updates of late. This is because I have moved onto other writing projects, so as a result, I'm no longer updating this site. I want to say thanks to my loyal band of 10 followers, and thanks to everyone who's read my blog! Those who want to keep up with my work are advised to visit http://www.devon-cornwall-film.co.uk/, http://www.talktorbay.com/ and http://www.mfiles.co.uk/. As they say in the business: 'Thats a Wrap!'

BAFTA Reaction

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 14:20:00 -0800

So the BAFTA's have been awarded, the slushy speeches have been forgotten and the hangover of the after party has faded into a distant memory. In short, now the rubble's settled, let's look back on the winners.

Truthfully, the nominations were more exciting than the ceremony itself, an eclectic spread from Exit Through the Gift Shop for Best British Debut to a posthumous nod for Pete Postlethwaite for The Town. Well neither the late great actor nor Exit Through the Gift Shop won, and several other exciting nominees also lost out.

Was there ever any doubt though? This was the night The King's Speech reigned supreme. And yet, Tom Hooper's magnificent film is no mere awards-baiting showcase, but rather deserves all the success it's getting. It's a triumph of real acting, real story and real characters, and, judging by its UK box office receipts, has clearly struck a chord with the mainstream audience as well as the awards panel. It's a multifaceted success on every level, and Colin Firth and Helena Bonham Carter deserve kudos for their sincere acceptance speeches. The same kind of sincerity underlined all aspects of the production, and it's no surprise the film's hitting such lofty heights both financially and artistically.

Four Lions meanwhile was a smaller-scale but no less impressive triumph and it was thrilling to see it pick up Best British Debut. Elsewhere, there was a degree of balance by awarding Best Director (David Fincher) and Best Adapted Screenplay (Aaron Sorkin) to The Social Network. The riveting tragio-comic undercurrents to the story of the founding of Facebook really do derive from the combination of incisive, pacy direction and snappy, witty screenplay. On a technical level, Roger Deakins (who, I'm proud to announce, is from my hometown of Torquay) romped home with the Best Cinematography award for his tremendous work on True Grit, indicating with every passing year that he's likely the best DOP in the business today.

Christopher Lee's moving appearance when collecting the BAFTA Fellowship meanwhile is guaranteed to go down as one of the most memorable moments in its history, adding real poignancy to a sycophantic evening. Toy Story 3 for Best Animated Film and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo for Foreign Language Film were pretty much shoo-ins from the off (it would have been nice to see Noomi Rapace get Best Actress, though). Truth be told, Natalie Portman deserved no less for her extraordinary performance in Black Swan.

Niggles? A couple. Inception, predictably, was relegated to the technical categories (not even Original Screenplay?), and John Powell lost out on Best Original Score to Alexandre Desplat for The King's Speech. The latter's a fantastic score and crucial to the film it accompanies but Powell's effort is one of the greatest adventure scores to emerge in recent years.

Still - can't have everything. Roll on the Oscars!

Sanctum 3D

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 12:09:00 -0800

As an underwater caving movie, Sanctum opens itself up to the most sneering phrases. 'Achieves no more than the slow drip of suspense'; 'Flows along with minor eddies of tension' and so on and so forth. Unfortunately such descriptions hold - yes - water. It's the very definition of average pedestrian cinema, drifting along at a deathly pace that draws attention to some stonking great cliches.

By no means is it terrible. It's just not especially good either. If anyone deserves mud slung at them it's the marketing team for plastering James Cameron's name all over the posters. Aside from his much touted role as executive producer, Cameron had no involvement in the film's creative process. If he had, it no doubt would have proven to be a more claustrophobic, gritty experience, if only because Cameron would likely have made more physical demands on his actors (a la The Abyss).

But instead we get the equivalent of Neighbours Goes Underwater. A group of Aussie actors headed by Van Helsing's Richard Roxburgh end up trapped in a vast underground caving system after a nasty tropical storm arrives early. Of course the only way out is down and before someone can scream The Descent, there's squabbling, bickering and failing oxygen masks aplenty. The only thing was The Descent sustained tension to an exhausting degree, on a fraction of Sanctum's budget. If that isn't proof that money doesn't buy you everything, nothing is.

While the boxes are being checked - father son reconciliation; slimy American entrepreneur emerging as a baddie (played by Ioan Gruffudd in a textbook definition of miscasting) - there's undeniably some beautiful underwater photography. Yes, DOP Jules O'Loughlin knows how to light a cave magnificently and, when accompanied by David Hirschfelder's ethereally textural score, it does often take the breath away.

But of course amazing caves do not a caving thriller make; unfortunately we are constantly distracted by the plastic human figures at the centre of the drama. A few sequences late on threaten to grapple with more tension but the film is undercut by its own cynical constructs, including a desperate last ditch attempt to draw more audiences with the lure of 3D. Sorry, that's no substitute for the inherent lack of good drama.

And as for the equally desperate 'based on true story' epigraph - when a key character seems to die and come back to life twice, that's no representation of reality. It's pure cinematic hokum.

Biutiful

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Mon, 7 Feb 2011 13:31:00 -0800

Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu exploded onto the art house scene with Amores Perros. A vital, thrilling series of interlocking, harsh, nasty stories, it lit the proverbial fire beneath Mexican cinema, leading the charge for the renaissance it enjoys today. Unfortunately, his latest, Biutiful, doesn't so much burst into life as seep slowly down the screen like treacle. It's less schematic than his previous effort, Babel, but is so intent on rubbing our faces in spiritual and physical miserablism that it is by turns numbing, irritating and farcical.

Someone should tell Inarritu that many of the best dramas are flecked with just as much compassionate humour as despair. Well, humour's definitely what's missing from Biutiful, although trying to elicit laughs from the ludicrous number of torments piled on Javier Bardem would certainly be difficult. It attempts to make the audience suffer vicariously as its protagonist does - but unlike Amores Perros, or indeed 21 Grams, the sheer magnitude of the suffering means the film feels oddly artificial.

Bardem's Uxbal is dying. Not just physically (from cancer, he is informed at the outset), but spiritually, too. By turns a devoted father to his two children and a lowly, underworld figure in a strikingly seedy, grubby Barcelona (one of the film's successes is how it subverts the popular image of the city), he is also experiencing a crisis of faith. Involved in local drug dealing, he also has connections to a Chinese immigrant sweatshop. His bipolar ex-wife, Marambra (an excellent Maricel Alvarez) is also an unpredictable factor in his life. Can he juggle all his responsibilities as he prepares to meet his maker?

Well, it's a lot of emotional baggage. So much so that even one of Thomas Hardy's classic tragic heroes may have asked someone else to help shoulder the burden. But Inarritu's biggest failing is that none of the misery amounts to anything on an emotional level. Instead, he makes the fatal mistake of assuming that overloading the screen with tragedy will make his film inherently tragic. Sorry, Alejandro, it doesn't work, and attempts at faux spiritualism (Uxbal's ill-defined abilities as a medium; birds flying across a vast expanse of blue sky) only serve to make it more trite.

Any and all of the film's limited success can be attributed directly to Bardem. It's to Inarritu's and cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto's credit that they choose to make the most of this commanding actor's craggy features in extreme close-up throughout, allowing Bardem to deploy his thousand yard stare to more thoughtful and distressing effect. But despite his best efforts, the performance is quashed by Inarritu's overbearing, over-achieving direction, which, in its attempt at profundity, instead has the opposite effect of dumbing everything down.

Seminal Scores: Out of Africa (John Barry, 1985)

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 13:24:00 -0800

The start of 2011 has already proven especially tragic with the loss of actors Pete Postlethwaite and Susannah York. But the death of veteran film composer John Barry hits closer to home for me. Truly one of the titans of film music has passed on; I'm a firm advocate of orchestral film scores - but rarely were they composed with the finesse and grace that Barry brought to the table. Unfairly pigeonholed in later years as a composer of weepy epics, he was in fact one of the most astute and dynamic musicians in Hollywood, one who spread himself across a variety of genres. He was both a tremendous melodist and a pioneer of 60s musical sounds; a man frequently dismissed as repetitious and samey but who possessed the most vital of gifts: an understanding of the orchestra. While probably best known for his eleven Bond scores, I'm here to cherish his memory through his Oscar-winning 1985 masterpiece, Out of Africa.

Rest in peace John. Your passing marks the end of an era.

Sydney Pollack's 1985 weepie swooped low over the Kenyan grasslands to eventually scoop seven Oscars, including one for the director himself, one for Best Picture and one for lead Meryl Streep. Taking on yet another intimidating accent (Danish in this case), Streep stars as Karen Blixen, on whose memoirs the film is based. Blixen, a baroness, entered into a passionless marriage of convenience in 20th century Africa but found her soul kindled by a big-game hunter (English in real life; all-American Robert Redford in the film). Klaus Maria Brandauer (as Blixen's legal husband, Bror), Michael Kitchen and others round out the support cast but truly it's a bit of a stodgy affair, crippled by over length and overuse of Streep's voice over.

What can't be disputed though are the film's awesome technical credits. If nothing else, the film is a paean to the majesty of Africa in a way few others are, David Watkin's cinematography capturing every facet of waving grassland and hazy plain beneath the scorching Kenyan sun. But while the cinematography alone guarantees the film's status as a breathtaking travelogue, there's a far more fundamental reason why it has stuck in the hearts of viewers since release. And no, it's nothing to do with Streep's warbling, overly researched accent. There's something else in the film that really makes us care about what's going on. And that is John Barry's score.

Famously, when first faced with the print of the film, Barry rejected director Pollack's notion that it be scored with indigenous melodies. Instead, he hit on the far more elemental (and far more powerful) notion that the music should score the emotion of the characters at the centre of the film. The landscape meanwhile could always speak for itself. A skeptical Pollack hesitantly agreed but the gamble paid off: Barry's approach to Out of Africa proved to be one of the most astute dramatic decisions of his career, resulting in a score that punctuated the turgid, navel-gazing gloom of the film to evoke real compassion and emotion for the characters.

The composer, ever self-deprecating, expressed surprise when he won the Oscar for Best Original Score, citing there was no more than 35 minutes of it in the two and a half hour film. But it's the sparing use of the music itself that guarantees it such heart-wrenching success. It's a brilliantly spotted film, and Barry's capacity for sheer, old-fashioned beauty cuts right to the centre of Blixen's heartbreak. Much of the score's success can be credited to its magnificent central theme, I Had a Farm in Africa, one that's clad in Barry's familiar style (high strings, low horns) but which takes on a spectacularly rich vein of melancholy when placed in the context of the film. Barry's understanding that human emotion in and of itself can be represented in an expansive, melodramatic fashion was a massively insightful notion, one that guaranteed the theme's status as one of the most glorious ever to grace the silver screen.

Positioned alongside the main theme is the lesser known but breathlessly intimate one for Karen herself. Split into three movements across the album (I'm Better at Hello/I Had a Compass from Denys/If I Know a Song of Africa), it's truly lovely, with particular emphasis going on woodwind and piano. Barry effectively pits the quiet intimacy of Karen's theme against the broader expanse of the Farm theme to create a dramatic contrast in scale. By choosing to score the emotional landscape as opposed to the physical one, Barry underpins both album and film with a genuine aura of sincerity.

There is one brief concession to local sounds at the end of the moodier Karen's Journey/Siyawe, which deploys ethnic voices to authentic effect. By contrast, Safari plays up the expansive joy of Karen's venture into the landscape, another example of the multitude of nuances enriching an admittedly brief score. The most memorable moments however are those that put the main theme at the forefront, chiefly the astonishing Flying Over Africa which builds from a low choral/orchestral combination to a majestic, thrilling variation on I Had a Farm. It's one of the most heavenly moments in Barry's lengthy career, and in the film, when combined with David Watkin's jaw-dropping aerial photography, it's simply remarkable.

It's also incredibly moving. By the time one reaches the heartbreaking End Title movement (You Are Karen), Barry's sense of musical compassion is overwhelming, the full orchestra performing the difficult trick of seeming uplifting and deeply melancholy at the same time. This is Barry's greatest achievement with the score, painting human heartbreak as a symphony and with that graceful, deft touch that only the very best film composers attain. In a career packed with highlights, Out of Africa stakes a claim as one of John Barry's most resonant and successful works, achieving a level of heart and soul that all scores aim for but which few achieve.

Morning Glory

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 13:00:00 -0800

Midway through Morning Glory, perky, ambitious producer Becky Fuller (Rachel McAdams) confronts grouchy veteran anchor Mike Pomeroy (Harrison Ford) about the true value of television broadcasting. Do you feed people bran, she asks, something that's healthy but ultimately tedious, or a sweet, fluffy doughnut, which offers immediate, if short-lived, gratification?

Such a comparison could be levelled at Roger Michell's new film in its entirety. If Morning Glory ultimately veers more towards sugary, forgettable confection as opposed to substantial, intelligent nourishment, it's no less enjoyable for it, benefiting from solid casting in the central quarters and a vein of nicely caustic humour that prevents it from drowning in too much syrup.

Much of the latter in fact stems from Ford himself. On his finest form in years, the actor appears to be doing little more than channeling his real personality, face hewn like Mount Rushmore's more rugged cousin and voice set to a perpetual growl. If this is what it takes for Ford to fully engage an audience however, he should consider doing it for the rest of his career; somehow he makes this ageing, miserable chauvinist lothario both hilariously funny and immensely likeable.

His sparring with McAdams lies at the heart of the film, although it takes a while to reach the juicy, jam-laden centre. At the start, McAdams' Becky is fired from her job; having sent her resume around to all the television stations in the New Jersey and New York area, she is finally picked up for an executive producer spot on struggling breakfast show Daybreak (British viewers will see an irony there) by an uncharacteristically slimy Jeff Goldblum. He has no faith in Becky's assertion that she will boost the ratings by essentially blackmailing Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Ford to appear as anchor on the show alongside Diane Keaton.

But then, daft pipe dreams are what Hollywood's made of, and make no mistake, Morning Glory has little interest in exposing the bleary-eyed, backbreaking world of morning television. McAdams for one never looks like she's more than a step away from the make-up tent but when she demonstrates this much pluck and pizazz, we can overlook that. And once she starts sparring with Ford, she's cooking with gas.

There are problems. The higher profile support cast (including Keaton and Patrick Wilson as McAdams' bit of stuff) are given little to do aside from the odd amusing set-piece (the frog-kissing scene generates a priceless reaction from Ford) and it's a shame that cynicism is replaced by a predictable cooking against the clock climax. It's less station satire than smart sitcom but it's infinitely more enjoyable and easier to digest than yet another crude, so-called bromance comedy.

The Green Hornet

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Sun, 23 Jan 2011 09:46:00 -0800

The Green Hornet is a strange film in that it owes its enjoyment to those others it steals from. Add to that problems in tone (swearing is surprisingly aggressive for a 12A, indicating a level of immaturity from co-writer/exec producer/star Seth Rogen), and a distinct lack of director Michel Gondry's authorial stamp, and what you get is a bunch of ill-fitting bits.

What can't be argued is its almighty debt to Kick Ass in particular (plus Batman and others), which covered similar ground with much more edginess, controversy and self-awareness. Ironically, that film had the capacity to sting, and did so without mercy; The Green Hornet is more blunted and dulled. It's got the full force of the Hollywood marketing machine behind it but, bizarrely, the film is somewhat regressive. Being the latest incarnation of a superhero whose inception dates back to the 1940s, and who has already enjoyed a rich history (including Bruce Lee's short-lived TV series), there seems to be little sense of modern sophistication or wit.

It would be interesting to know what creators George W. Trendle and Fran Striker would have made of their hero being reduced to the level of Seth Rogen slobbery, because that's exactly what happens. Rogen stars as Britt Reid, playboy son to a newspaper magnate (Tom Wilkinson) who dies from a bee sting. Realising his father's coffee maker, Kato (Jay Chou) is a whizz with gadgets, Reid hits on the notion that they team up and become superheroes, in his case The Green Hornet. The plan is to pose as baddies in other to divert attention from themselves when in fact they'll be fighting the villains on their own turf for the greater good.

It all sounds promising but the whole ethos of the piece can be summed up by an undercooked, though enjoyably smarmy, Christoph Waltz. As antagonist Chudnofsky, Waltz carries an air of someone happy to be simply invited onto a Hollywood set. Such coasting pervades the whole film, adrenaline levels rarely exceeding a moderate hum throughout, while all of the best gags carry an uncomfortable air of familiarity. The 'ordinary schmo becomes a superhero' overlap with Kick Ass would perhaps be considered unfortunate until one considers the former began filming long before Hornet, leaving plenty of time for liberal 'riffing'. How else to explain the presence of an identikit gag whereby both heroes dance in their car The Black Beauty prior to going out and kicking butt?

But it's not just Kick Ass. There's the playboy/superhero duality that Rogen simply can't convey in the manner of a Keaton or Bale; the house fight that was diluted in Iron Man II because of the metal suits but which carries an air of childish nastiness here; and many more lifts that act as entertaining reminders of other, better films. Rogen's overbearing persona almost completely stomps out the Gondry spark which made Eternal Sunshine and Be Kind Rewind such a joy; his screenplay, co-authored with Superbad cohort Evan Goldberg, revels in the boorishness of the Reid character but fails to make us feel anything sincere.

There are glimmers of the self-referential film Gondry wants to make; at one stage, the screen splits into multiple frames conveying a series of criss-crossing conversations. Later on, a key revelatory moment is also conveyed in brilliantly inventive fashion, staving off the need for tired exposition. These are the moments that should dominate throughout but in the end it's more a Seth Rogen film than a Michel Gondry film. There's nothing strictly wrong with that but it's a bit of a cheat to fly under the radar of a superhero film, only to come over all Funny People. The utterly superfluous presence of Cameron Diaz however is just Superbad.

Bullitt: The Car Chase That Blazed A Trail

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Sat, 15 Jan 2011 08:11:00 -0800

A single 10 minute scene in the midst of a fairly dull 1968 cop thriller forced Hollywood to re-assess its entire outlook on the car chase. Bullitt coasts largely on the other-worldly cool of leading man Steve McQueen (has any other star proved more unflappable?) and the on-location photography in hippie-era San Francisco. While the film was an undeniable influence
on the likes of Dirty Harry, on the whole it remains fairly mundane - bar *that* scene. With the recent tragic death of the film's director Peter Yates, it's only right to look back on the granddaddy of all movie car chases, arguably the first to be constructed as a serious dramatic set piece. My all-time favourite remains the Paris fender bender in Ronin, but Bullitt's is arguably the most important and the most influential, showcasing a commitment to reality that forced every subsequent thriller into a flurry of recycling.

#1 The Logistics

Far removed from the gadget-laden Aston Martin chase in Goldfinger or the buffoonery of The Pink Panther, in Bullitt, director Yates displayed a ruthless commitment to ground-level realism. Making the decision to film the chase on actual San Francisco streets brought a whole host of dangers, the cars exceeding the expected speed limits (and at one point colliding with a camera). Shot over three weeks, the route was also carefully planned, starting in the Mission District and ending on Guadalupe Canyon Parkway, traversing different locations which showcased the extreme topography of the city, raising the tension. Yates also hired stunt co-coordinator Carey Loftin (the unseen truck driver in Duel), stuntman Bud Elkins (for McQueen's more dangerous moments) and stunt driver Bill Hickman as the villain McQueen pursues, all of which lends the chase that vital sense of lived-in realism. By taking the chase into the real world like never before, Bullitt set the standard by which all others are measured.

#2 Steve McQueen

Those who've watched the fascinating (if amusingly portentous) 'Commitment to Reality' featurette on the old Bullitt DVD will be well-aware of Steve McQueen's desire for immersiveness way beyond the confines of his character. Not merely content with throwing himself under a jumbo jet during the film's climax, he also performed the majority of his own driving work, taking to the racetrack with Bill Hickman weeks beforehand to better prepare himself for the dangers that lay ahead. The result is a not merely a car chase but a car chase centered around a real character, feelings exacerbated by the authentic presence of McQueen behind the wheel. Authenticity would become all in every chase to follow, be it Gene Hackman almost colliding with a pram in The French Connection to the clever trick-work in Ronin where all the actors were subjected to terrifying high-speeds (although the actual drivers were carefully concealed). No-one ever maintained their cool like McQueen, though.

#3 The Cars

The guttural roar of Bullitt's 1968 Ford Mustang GT is enough to send car-fanatics and action-movie enthusiasts into a flurry on its own. When coupled with the brute-force of the Dodge Charger however, it becomes a symphony of speed, the sound of the engines transforming the entire scene into a celebration of speed and American muscle. Both cars are put through their paces on 'Frisco's unforgiving hills and valleys, groaning with screeching tyres and thumping suspension, sound effects reminding the audience that the vehicles on-screen are being treated as cars, not empty fashion vessels. The sense of verite realism spills across into the sound design as well as the visuals, further adding to the thrilling excitement of the chase.

#4 The Tension

Bullitt was a breakthrough at the time for the careful, steady way it built up tension prior the chase starting, indicating this was a film that didn't treat action as an ostentatious gimmick but as a powerful dramatic device. As McQueen spots his assailants in the traffic opposite, a witty little cat and mouse game ensues whereby he draws the baddies in before turning the tables on them and appearing in their rear-view mirror. The use of close-ups, aerial views, reverse shots and low angles all achieve an irresistible, nail biting rhythm, accompanied by Lalo Schifrin's ice-cool jazzy score ('Shifting Gears' on the soundtrack), which lends a broiling sense of anticipation. Interestingly, the score in Ronin is used in reverse, coming in as that chase builds to its climax. That the chase necessitated such careful planning ensures it retains a rigorous sense of control once Hickman buckles up his seat belt (terrific attention to detail rarely glimpsed in such scenes) and roars off up the hill.

#5 The Climax

Frank P. Keller's Oscar-winning editing is vital throughout the scene but takes on an especially dynamic rhythm in the latter stages. All car chases risk failing with an anti-climax but Keller builds tension so effectively beforehand that the payoff is nothing less than spectacular. Dribbles of a demolition derby threaten through, be it a scraped chasse here or a missing hubcap there (not to mention an unfortunate motorcyclist nearly coming a cropper), but it really shifts into high gear (arf arf) in the last couple of minutes. Bullitt at first attempts to bash the fearsome Charger off the road, only to hold back when the second hit man (Paul Genge) blasts a few terrifying shots through his windscreen, before finally going in for the kill: ramming his enemies off the road into a petrol station for a spectacularly explosive coup de grace.

Mr Kobayashi - Who Is He Exactly?

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 12:26:00 -0800

WARNING: SPOILERS

Played by the late, great Pete Postlethwaite, the mysterious and menacing Mr Kobayashi is the role I'll forever identify the chameleonic actor with. Famed for his ability to sink into a variety of roles, from the band leader in Brassed Off to alpha male hunter Roland Tembo in Steven Spielberg's The Lost World (who reportedly described the actor as 'the best in the world'), Postlethwaite's angular, ambivalent demeanour is at the heart of Bryan Singer's slippery, tricky tale. In a world where nothing is as it seems, and spinning a story can seduce and fool the best of them (credit Kevin Spacey's subtlety and Christopher McQuarrie's marvellous screenplay for that), the bizarre presence of this most British of performers playing the lawyer of crime lord Keyser Soze should strike a false note. He even sports a dodgy Welsh/Pakistani accent. But somehow, Postlethwaite's alien demeanour, accent and all, works brilliantly on a meta fictional level because both character and actor are freed from the constraints of perceptible reality, only existing in the world of Verbal Kint's story, which of course may or may not be true.

That is, until the final shot of the film of course ...

Regardless, it stands as one of Pete Postlethwaite's best performances. Rest in peace, you are sorely missed.

The King's Speech

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 13:32:00 -0800

When King George VI, formerly Albert, Duke of York, finally found his voice after a battle with a horrendous stammer, it proved one of the most miraculous moments in British constitutional history. Finally, the monarch was able to deploy the full power of the written word and unite his people over the wireless during the immensely turbulent period leading up to World War II. And now Tom Hooper's tremendous new film, The King's Speech, finds an eloquent cinematic voice of its own, emerging from the stumbling, half-baked Christmas season as one of the most rewarding and enjoyable costume dramas in recent years.

It arrives showered in acclaim and Golden Globe nominations, and is hotly tipped to do well at the BAFTAs and Oscars. Such hype can be a dangerous thing, as can the dreaded 'Heritage Cinema' tag applied to many films of this ilk. As Eddie Izzard observed, we half expect it to be populated with British actors constantly opening doors in each others faces and coming all aflutter. Well, there are British actors, and there are many scenes of said actors walking in and out of rooms. It also owes a debt to The Queen, the drama that made cinematic portrayals of British monarchs all the more fashionable. But it is staid and mannered? Is it heck. Does it exceed the hype? Yes, it does.

In fact, this is cinema dripping with passion and compassion, warmth and humour. It's a bracing eye-opener to a vital period in British history and also, unexpectedly, a heartfelt buddy movie. Colin Firth meanwhile continues to build on the heartbreaking work seen in last year's A Single Man, and seems to have cornered the market in low-key British melancholia. The difference is, here he is burdened with greater expectation. Much as the King himself was required to shoulder incredible pressure, Firth not only has to embody the monarch's regal principles but also has to humanise him through the presence of the dreaded stammer.

The actor pulls it off magnificently, fully conveying the sense of terror that arises from the conflict between public speaking and bodily rebellion. Accompanied by Alexandre Desplat's lovely score, one which gives an air of florid intimacy, the film opens on Albert's 1925 Empire Exhibition address at Wembley Stadium. Freezing in his tracks before the microphone and a rapt audience, the Duke is crippled by mechanics he can't control. Consequently, his wife, Elizabeth (Helena Bonham Carter, understated and all the better for it) consults flamboyant, unconventional speech therapist Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush) to see if he can cure her husband's problem.

'What is he, an indentured servant?' Logue enquires, initially unaware that he is being consulted by a member of the Royal Family (under a different name). Such disarming moments are frequent in the film, and work brilliantly in generating a warm atmosphere that shatter any preconceived notions of stuffy history. Stuffy is one thing the film certainly isn't; it relishes the sense of period and, bar some discrepancies, appears to represent it accurately. And when the mighty Rush begins to spar with Firth, it never looks back, right from the moment he insists on approaching the future king on an even keel and calling him 'Bertie'.

Both actors forge a delightful chemistry that never threatens to become overbearing because the film ensures the personal growth of the two characters is but one part of the bigger picture. Both Hooper and screenwriter David Seidler have a firm hand on the multifaceted narrative, pitting personal anguish against public tension. As Logue pioneers increasingly eccentric ways for Albert to overcome his impediment (everything from rolling on the floor to rib-tickling bouts of swearing), the political intrigue elsewhere gathers apace, and the film builds enormous tension in spite of the fact that its conclusion is a foregone one, subservient to the path of history.

Indeed as Albert's brother Edward VIII (Guy Pearce) abdicates in favour of marrying American divorcee Wallace Simpson, the film changes from intimate comedy drama largely set in the confines of Logue's shabby office (one of the film's pleasures is the way it frames royalty against unflattering environments) to broader constitutional thriller, Albert reluctantly forced to take up the mantle of king. Yet it never loses that vital sense of humour and pathos. Firth, Rush and Bonham Carter all continue to wear the immense burden of history lightly and professionally, putting a vivid human face on the class divide in pre-Blitz Britain.

Throughout, Danny Cohen's careful framing, Eve Stuart's impeccable art direction and Jenny Beavan's lush costumes are all critical to Hooper's vision. In spite of the odd inaccuracy, the film's emotional honesty and sense of integrity is never in doubt. All aspects of the production fuse together seamlessly to form a film which doesn't just inhabit the period but which also brings the period thrillingly to life, nowhere more so than in that agonising final showdown between the monarch and the mic. That we care is one thing; that we're practically on the edge of our seats is something else entirely.

The Next Three Days

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 10:02:00 -0800

Paul Haggis sets himself a difficult task with The Next Three Days, effectively trying to fuse a breakout movie with a moodily introspective drama. To put it another way, this is his attempt to make a serious action film. It's an unexpected move for the acclaimed writer-director, here adapting the hit French film 'Pour Elle'; for while he's earned genre chops on the screenplays for Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace, his work behind the camera (Crash, In the Valley of Elah) isn't exactly pacey or energetic.

That he makes a good fist of it is a pleasant surprise, although Three Days is kind of on a hiding to nothing. No matter how many anguished close-ups of leading star Russell Crowe or moody statements delivered by Danny Elfman's uncharacteristically subdued score, it can never fully escape the silliness it inevitably trundles towards later on. After all, action and drama are not good bedfellows; the nearest thing to a recent success in this area would be something like The Dark Knight, a grand drama which just happened to have action sequences in it.

Nevertheless, Haggis' ambition is noteworthy and Crowe is a commanding, riveting centre. Bouncing back from his turn as Robin Hood, one which gained lukewarm reviews (but which, in the opinion of this reviewer, was fine), this is Crowe doing what he does best: holding the lion's share of the spotlight but allowing little nuances to infect his broad, immensely physical performance. It helps that he has a strong leading lady to bounce off, in this case Elizabeth Banks as his devoted, if mercurial, wife, who, at the start of the film is arrested for apparently murdering her boss.

With Crowe's happy home life disrupted (he has a young son to bring up), the film proceeds to jump ahead in stages, until the day comes he decides to break his wife out of prison. Irrespective of whether she's innocent or guilty (and oddly this threatens to become irrelevant as the film wears on), Crowe lurches forward, brow furrowed and voice set to its lowest level. At one stage he even consults Liam Neeson (performing a one-scene cameo and also growling) who establishes a series of do's and don'ts for a prison break. We barely question Crowe's motives or the fact that the evidence is stacked up against his wife because he is a force of nature, so set on his path that we can't help but be swept along with him. And, in spite of the film's odd tone, it continues to build a tremendous amount of tension.

But, given this is a Paul Haggis film, the pacing is in fact less active than it is ambling, opening up the story's flaws of logic to greater examination. Brief glitches like breaking into a van with a punctured tennis ball pale next to ostentatious sub-plots such as Crowe desperately attempting to steal money from local Pittsburgh drug addicts to fund his convoluted scheme. And of course, once the director's set down the road towards the jail break, he cannot deviate for fear of cheating the audience, although there is ironic pleasure and an undercurrent of plausibility in the way that everyman Crowe (yeah right) unwittingly continues to break Neeson's rules throughout due to his inexperience in busting people from the joint.

It's that attention to detail which saves The Next Three Days from being a complete disaster, detail which, almost counter-intuitively, underpins the silly moments with a degree of believability along with strong star performances from Crowe and Banks. The latter is excellent: effectively creating an unpredictable air of ambiguity, so much so that we're not sure if Crowe's gallantry is misguided.

It's a credit to both stars that they're able to communicate pathos amid the later crashes and bangs; this is clearly where Haggis' film is carefully poised to rise or fall, although in the end it mostly falls between the two poles, admittedly through no fault of the performers. By its very nature, it's doomed not to be a complete success but kudos for trying. Just imagine if Crash had more crashes and car chases; it's a strange brew but you certainly won't be looking at the clock for the duration.

2010 In Review

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 15:00:00 -0800

2010 has come to an end and I'm rounding up an eclectic year of film with an epic five part review of the best and worst cinema has had to offer over the past 12 months. Where films have been reviewed for different publications, the hyperlink is included. Enjoy this round-up of my favourite art-form in all the world!

Best Films of 2010

#1 Inception (Christopher Nolan)

Christopher Nolan's achievement with Inception is nothing short of miraculous. Building on his technically astonishing, dramatically astute work on The Dark Knight, Nolan here continues a rich, intelligent vein of form, deploying literary tropes and metaphors (notions of dreams and the subconscious) and bolting them to a confidently realised, visually dazzling world, one which can pivot, shift and tilt at will. It is at once an art film and a blockbuster; an intellectual powerhouse and a James Bond style spy adventure. Fingers crossed that it will mark a sea-change whereby executives privilege films that respect an audience's intelligence. Brilliantly cast, fabulous to look at and bracingly complex, Inception raises the bar on summer movies.

#2 Toy Story 3 (Lee Unkrich)

Who ever thought that a CGI animated feature could prove more moving than most other live action movies? Toy Story 3 manages a quite extraordinary coup, transcending crude notions of child and adult cinema to take on a beautifully complex texture. It is a film which carries a colourful exterior but mines heart-wrenching notions of loss, identity and the dreaded concept of neglect; an ostensibly kiddie-friendly story that portrays complex emotions through the eyes of plastic toys. It is by a long distance Pixar's greatest achievement to date; not only the best film in an already landmark trilogy but a profound meditation on what it means to be human, with an ending that proudly takes its place alongside the likes of The Shawshank Redemption and It's a Wonderful Life.

#3 A Single Man (Tom Ford)

Certain daft accusations were made against A Single Man; namely that because it marks former Gucci head Tom Ford's directorial debut, it's a triumph of style over substance. Such claims are perfectly ridiculous. The beauty of Ford's film is the way in which it finds the substance beneath the admittedly plush style, eking out the deeply moving story of a bereft ex-pat teacher as he sets about what he's decided will be the final day of his life. In a world where sharp suits, cuff links and chrome cars mask wrenching sadness, Colin Firth conveys a breathtaking sense of melancholy, supported by vivid turns from the likes of Julianne Moore and Nicholas Hoult. Heartbreak never looked so handsome.

#4 The Kids Are All Right (Lisa Cholodenko)

It comes bearing the dreaded 'indie film' tag but The Kids Are All Right is a fantastically warm experience, fizzling with rich humour and wonderfully observant of awkward social situations. Hitting on the simple yet deceptively profound notion that a supposedly unconventional, lesbian family are far more conventional than they appear, Lisa Cholodenko's breezily confident direction gazes unflinchingly at the sun-baked California suburbs, exposing the frailties that lie beneath. But it's never smug or unpleasant; rather honest and refreshing, backed by superb performances from Annette Bening, Julianne Moore and, especially, Mark Ruffalo.

#5 The Secret In Their Eyes (Juan Jose Campanella)

Both a profound meditation on memory and a gripping suspense thriller spanning decades, The Secret In Their Eyes begins with one of the most striking opening scenes of a film in 2010. Encapsulating feelings of loss and sadness in just a few frames, the power of these early scenes reverberates throughout the rest of the film, transforming it into a rippling, eerie tale of lost romance and second chances. Throughout, Juan Jose Campanella's multi-stranded direction is underscored with a gripping sense of portentousness, and a tracking shot into a football stadium takes its place as one of the year's most astonishing cinematic achievements.

#6 Lebanon (Samuel Maoz)

A long-gestating personal project of director Maoz, Lebanon is a remarkably accomplished technical venture, painting a picture of the 1982 Lebanese conflict from within the confines of a tank. But the film's most remarkable achievement resides in its vivid portrayal of humanity, painting a picture of anguished young soldiers trapped within an environment that conspires to sever any notions of compassion. Maoz, drawing on his own experiences, clearly draws cinematic inspiration from the likes of Das Boot but his film is a strikingly original, haunting effort nonetheless. http://www.moviemuser.co.uk/Reviews/4792/Lebanon-DVD.aspx

#7 The Social Network (David Fincher)

A film crucially not about Facebook but about those who created it, David Fincher's latest is blessed with his usual formidable attention to detail and fascinatingly taps into a period of recent history where the possibilities for online networking were still in their infancy. Graced with excellent performances, a witty sense of humour and a fascinating central portrayal from Jesse Eisenberg, how much of it is true or not is up for grabs, but it's film making done with integrity and self-belief nonetheless. http://www.devon-cornwall-film.co.uk/2010/10/18/status-update-the-social-network-movie-review/

#8 The Ghost (Roman Polanski)

Roman Polanski is on his best form in years with The Ghost Writer, ironic when one considers his famous imprisonment during the film's post-production period. Not that you'd know from watching the confident results on-screen. It's a classic Polanski poisoned chalice, where dark humour and menace exist as sides of the same coin. Ewan McGregor gives a superbly blank performance as the ghost writer of the title, getting into hot water when he's called to work on the memoirs of a former UK Prime Minister (a brilliantly creepy Pierce Brosnan). Special mention must go to Olivia Williams' understated but vital supporting role.

#9 Four Lions (Chris Morris)

No other comedy this year was as bold, as controversial or indeed as successful as Chris 'Brass Eye' Morris' directorial debut, the story of a group of British jihadists on a quest for glory. Blending uncomfortable laughs with a genuine sense of tragedy, it refuses to go for the cheap shots, portraying its lead characters, first and foremost, as human beings. In fact, it occupies a particularly difficult position where comedy proves to be tragic and vice versa, never aiming for tired punchline gags but always striving for that intangible glimpse of humanity.

#10 Fuse (Short) (Ben Barfoot)

A beautifully realised slice of dystopian horror, Fuse is an astonishing achievement, influenced by a rich heritage of sci-fi cinema and achieved on a virtually non existent budget. Proof that money is no harbinger of talent, the pioneering technology used to animate live action photography lends the film an eerie texture, remarkable when one considers its torturous post-production process. My interview with the makers of the film can be found in the October section of this blog. For more information on the film itself, visit http://coppercircle.com/about-fuse.html

...2010 In Review (cont.)

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 14:57:00 -0800

The Best Film Scores of 2010

#1 How to Train Your Dragon (John Powell)

Forget Inception. No other film score in 2010 brimmed with such a magnificent, thrilling sense of adventure as John Powell's How to Train Your Dragon. Boasting as sweeping a main theme as one could hope to find (one that perfectly encapsulates the thrill of flying), plus an array of energetic, dazzling action music typical of this composer, it's arguably Powell's finest score to date. A massively bold, massively exciting score from start to finish.

#2 Alice in Wonderland (Danny Elfman)

Proof of the frequent, bizarre disjunct between fantastic scores and dreadful films, Danny Elfman's latest collaboration with Tim Burton conjures up more magic than the movie in its entirety. Blessed with the composer's most memorable theme in years, thundering along with choir, vocals, timpani and prancing strings, the array of marvellous instrumental textures combined with an overriding sense of whimsy make this one of the best scores of Elfman's entire career.

#3 The Ghost (Alexandre Desplat)

In an outstandingly prolific year for one of Hollywood's most exciting up and coming composers, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part I may have stolen the limelight, but for sheer edgy atmosphere, The Ghost takes some beating. Alexandre Desplat conjures up a brilliantly spiky sense of menace for Roman Polanski's thriller, deploying an almost quirky ensemble to represent the blackly comic whirlpool into which Ewan McGregor's eponymous ghost writer sinks.

#4 The Last Airbender (James Newton Howard)

Another fantastic score for a truly awful film! James Newton Howard proves once again that his burgeoning talents in the realm of romantic fantasy are wasted on the inept M. Night Shyamalan. By composing such a breathtaking score for a useless film, Howard proves he has his own sixth sense, resulting in massive orchestral forces that are enormously engaging, moving and spiritual. The finale, Flow Like Water, is likely the most awe-inspiring track of the composer's career to date.

#5 Gulliver's Travels (Henry Jackman)

A marvellous surprise with which to end the year, Henry Jackman's robust, delightful effort for Jack Black's Gulliver's Travels proves there's plenty of life left in the old-fashioned, fully orchestral film score. Conjuring up the spirit of John Williams in its brassy sense of adventure and powerfully rhythmic action sequences, it's a superbly romantic work from start to finish and earmarks Jackman as a talent to watch in future.

#6 Tron: Legacy (Daft Punk)

An example of an electronic/orchestral hybrid score done properly, the spirit of Vangelis is very much alive in Daft Punk's thrilling score for Tron: Legacy. Drawing on their background in live performance, the band base the score around a powerfully noble theme that is put through a series of pulsating synthetic variations, ranging from the action-packed to the serene. Many film scores attempt a likewise fusion but very rarely is it pulled off with as much confidence and flair as it is here.

#7 The Tourist (James Newton Howard)

Entry number two for James Newton Howard finds him in a frothy, exuberant kind of mood - but there are terrific hidden depths here. Howard's score for Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck's lambasted comic thriller blends modern electronic rhythms and exciting action sequences with some of the loveliest romantic work of his career, resulting in a score that's at once traditional and contemporary. It may be insubstantial but the composer is rarely as entertaining.

#8 A Single Man (Abel Korzeniowski)

Korzeniowski's stately, moving score for Tom Ford's acclaimed adaptation of A Single Man brims with the same style and tragedy inherent in the visuals, but that description makes the score sound as dull as ditch water. Nothing could be further from the truth; despite being one of the more classically oriented film scores in 2010, this is beautifully wrought music, dripping with emotion and adding further layers of melancholy to Colin Firth's outstanding central performance.

#9 The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (David Arnold)

Film score fans have waited a long time for David Arnold to return to the exuberant, lavish style of Independence Day and Stargate. 2010 marked just such a return. Voyage of the Dawn Treader, like Henry Jackman's Gulliver's Travels, restores life to the full-blooded fantasy score, paying lip-service to Harry Gregson Williams' original themes while relying on a bedrock of swashbuckling new material. Both thrilling and, in the end, extremely moving, this is Arnold's best score in years.

#10 Predators (John Debney)

With Predators, John Debney achieved the finest tightrope act of any film composer this year, re-orchestrating Alan Silvestri's classic themes while also bringing the franchise into the modern age courtesy of some truly terrifying, abrasive new material. Debney's greatest achievement resides in that difficult position between homage and original work: this is score aware of its rich heritage but possessed of a thunderous new identity that is thrilling to behold.

...2010 In Review (cont.)

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 11:21:00 -0800

The Worst Films of 2010

#1 The Lovely Bones (Peter Jackson)

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Someone really needs to take Peter Jackson's computer away from him or else risk inflicting another tacky, gaudy, CGI-led monstrosity like this on the world. Completely bereft of the confident storytelling seen in Lord of the Rings and reducing spiritual concerns and notions of evil to offensively trite levels, it's a waste of a talented cast (Saoirse Ronan, Mark Wahlberg, Stanley Tucci) and an example of self-indulgent, big-budget film making at its worst.

#2 Alice in Wonderland (Tim Burton)

The award for Biggest Disappointment of the Year goes to Tim Burton's latest. When it's not even apparent what planet a dual-accented Johnny Depp is on, it's not a good sign, but truthfully Alice in Wonderland is a mess from start to finish. Lumpen storytelling, the exhausting gloss of green-screen in every other shot and a relentless march to a derivative sword-swinging climax somehow bleed all the whimsy and enchantment out of Lewis Carroll's source material, literature that, ironically, should have played right to Burton's strengths.

#3 The Last Airbender (M. Night Shyamalan)

If anyone harboured doubts about the increasingly po-faced, patronising nature of M. Night Shyamalan's movies, then said doubts were replaced by hearty belly-laughs in this mega-budgeted piece of nonsense. Further proof that Shyamalan can't script dialogue, can't direct actors and clearly finds anything approaching humour a struggle, there are some priceless lines in here ('From birth, I knew you were always destined to be a bender'), ones which invite more laughs of derision than gasps of awe

#4 Clash of the Titans (Louis Leterrier)

1981's Clash of the Titans was no masterpiece but it was at least fun and respectful to the rich history of Greek mythology. Louis 'Hulk' Leterrier's bone-headed remake is none of those things, replacing any sense of artistry and entertainment with a stream of noisy, CGI dominated set-pieces cribbed from any number of stupid, forgettable blockbusters. It shouldn't be possible to make Greek myths boring but Leterrier and a faceless cast led by a shockingly vacant Sam Worthington somehow achieve it.

#5 Skyline (The Brothers Strause)

A triumph of effects over the fabric of cinema, the idiotic Skyline is so brazenly derivative, it actually becomes jaw-dropping. Fighter pilot attack from Independence Day? Check. Gribbly fleshy/mechanical monsters from The Matrix? Check. The list goes on but where those films lucked out was in entertainment value. Skyline's incoherent reliance on set-pieces is just boring. But then what did we expect from the directors of Aliens Vs Predator: Requiem, one of the worst films ever made?

#6 Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps (Oliver Stone)

Unbelievably spineless fare from a director as politically charged as Oliver Stone, the long-awaited Wall Street sequel has its priorities up the spout. Instead of taking an angry, impassioned look at the events which exacerbated the current recession, Stone frustratingly points the camera in the direction of charisma-vacuum Shia La Beouf, something which robs the film of relevance and political intuition. Thank goodness then for Michael Douglas, returning to his Oscar-winning role as Gordon Gekko; he single-handedly makes it all watchable.

#7 The Other Guys (Adam McKay)

Will Ferrell is, on occasion, capable of producing something truly brilliant (Anchorman) but there's always a danger of his comedies turning into cliquey frat-parties between actors and filmmakers keen to pat themselves on the back. The Other Guys unfortunately leaves the distinct impression that a better, funnier edit was left on the cutting room floor. What we're left with is a smug montage of improvised bits, a wasted partnership between Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg and a bizarre end credits sequence clearly hinting at the film it once was.

#8 Unstoppable (Tony Scott)

Draining any and all tension from a real-life incident with blatty, MTV style camerawork, Tony Scott's bag of tricks prove tiring in the extreme with Unstoppable. Denzel Washington and Chris Pine do what they can but in the face of such hectic film making, it's hard to remain interested. With edits every five seconds and a hectoring sound design, Scott frustratingly refuses to let the incident speak for itself (perhaps because the train in real life wasn't travelling as fast as the filmmakers like to make out). http://www.devon-cornwall-film.co.uk/2010/12/10/in-unstoppable-the-runaway-train-goes-down-the-track-%e2%80%93-and-it-blows/

#9 The Book of Eli (The Hughes Brothers)

Ouch, stinker number two for Denzel this year. The Book of Eli tries the classic bait and switch with its audience, pretending to be a Christian allegory when in fact it's all about the in-vogue monochrome look of current post-apocalyptic movies. Both Washington and Gary Oldman as the baddie are subservient to the needs of a narrative that punches far above its weight, one that is riddled with holes and falls apart on closer inspection. Stupid films are one thing; stupid films that think they're onto bigger and better things are something else.

#10 Hot Tub Time Machine (Steve Pink)

A film that was clearly sold on the basis of its title, the extent of the wit in Hot Tub Time Machine is measured by those very four words. It's a peculiarly lazy comedy, one that's dominated by its high concept but which fails to do anything especially funny with the concept itself, bar a few good jokes about 80s fashion. By and large, the humour just withers and deflates, relying on a series of tired bodily fluid gags that could be taken from any substandard comedy. The presence of John Cusack may have fooled viewers but really this is just lazy formula.

...2010 In Review (cont.)

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 10:39:00 -0800

Best Surprises of 2010 (Film/Actor)

#1 The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (John Ford, 1962)

As rich, disturbing and ironic a take on the Western as it is possible to find, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is one of John Ford's most assured films. In the film that gave birth to the famous epithet 'When the truth becomes legend, print the legend', James Stewart and John Wayne occupy opposing points of the moral compass in a burgeoning town beset by the repulsive criminal Liberty Valance (Lee Marvin fashioning one of the most intimidating villains in cinema). Featuring an extraordinarily forward-thinking sense of pessimism and melancholy in its outlook on heroes and how society perceives them, it's a rare film that hasn't dated since release but has instead increased in stature and complexity. A masterpiece in every sense of the word.

#2 Bad Day at Black Rock (John Sturges, 1955)

A ruthless exercise in furniture-chewing suspense, Bad Day at Black Rock has few rivals in terms of quietly mounting paranoia. From the moment one-armed army veteran Spencer Tracy arrives in a backwater, redneck town to investigate a disappearance, the eerie, ill-defined sense of menace never lets up, and things aren't helped by the presence of monstrous thugs Robert Ryan, Ernest Borgnine and Lee Marvin. Tracy acts as a riveting moral centre in what is a remarkably quiet film, one which features few scenes of overt violence but which is rife in deadly, slow-burning atmosphere. Director Sturges brings his customary intelligence to bear on a chilling story that bubbles with unpleasant racial undercurrents, bringing the western kicking and screaming into the modern age.

#3 Noomi Rapace (Lisbeth Salander, The Millenium Trilogy, 2010)

Whatever the flaws in the adaptations of Stieg Larsson's Millenium novels, Noomi Rapace's tremendous central performance never faltered. As goth, bisexual, anti-social computer hacker Lisbeth Salander, Rapace is electrifying from first frame to last, fashioning a thoroughly modern heroine who lies at the heart of Larsson's disturbing expose of male-female relationships. By turns victim, persecutor and enigma, Salander is never a cipher but always a plausible centrifuge to the increasingly convoluted and ridiculous plot machinations surrounding her. Rapace plays it to the hilt, and the moment in the final entry, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, where she turns up in court with a mohawk is one of the most triumphant moments in a film in 2010.

... 2010 In Review (cont.)

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 10:01:00 -0800

Best Surprises of 2010 (Film Scores)

#1 Explorers (Jerry Goldsmith)

Quite possibly the best collaboration between Goldsmith and director Joe Dante, the score for Explorers, one of Dante's most overlooked films, brims with a terrific sense of optimism not often heard in the composer's work. It's arguably his finest score for a live-action family film, boasting a tremendous main theme (The Construction) that is practically alive with the possibilities of childhood adventure. And with a plethora of typically accomplished electronic segments and an awe-inspiring round up of the primary themes at the climax, it's a magnificent, full-blooded effort from Hollywood's greatest film composer, one who is sorely missed.

#2 Kikujiro (Joe Hisaishi)

Joe Hisaishi is perhaps best known for his wonderful efforts on the Studio Ghibli films, scores which boast memorable themes and heavenly incidental sections. However, he also brought these principles to bear on his other key collaboration with director Takeshi Kitano (one that unfortunately came to an end a few years ago), most notably in his delightful score for the director's Kikujiro. Featuring a beautifully intimate sense of melancholy throughout, with special emphasis going on the interplay between piano and strings, it's an enormously moving work, one which underlines the film's central relationship (between a crook and an unnaturally repressed young boy) with deftness and intelligence.

#3 Heavy Metal (Elmer Bernstein)

For a composer best known for his work with intimate ensembles on the likes of To Kill a Mockingbird, Elmer Bernstein made an astonishing plunge into large-scale fantasy with Heavy Metal. For what is essentially an animated anthology featuring lusty babes, blood and guts, Bernstein composed an extraordinarily rich, almost apocalyptic effort, one that reaches for a grand sense of choral/orchestral chaos rarely heard in the rest of his output. It's a shame the film simmered under the radar as a cult classic because the score rivals the best of John Williams and Jerry Goldsmith, boasting one of the composer's best themes (Taarna), some blistering action music and the type of compositional intelligence we always associate with Bernstein's work.

Happy Christmas 2010

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Sat, 25 Dec 2010 11:49:00 -0800

Festive greetings and happy new year to all those following me in the blogosphere!

Long may it continue into the new year - stay safe

Reel Retrospective: It's a Wonderful Life (1946): The Richest Man In Town

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 04:16:00 -0800

As the festive season draws in, here's a reminder of a film (my second favourite of all-time, after The Shawshank Redemption) that redefined the way we look at Christmas. Just as Charles Dickens altered our perceptions with his landmark story A Christmas Carol (oft-filmed itself), when famed humanist director Frank Capra decided to spin the story of George Bailey, he crafted a masterpiece for the ages. It's a Wonderful Life is sometimes dismissed as sugary hogwash (indeed the film's antagonist Mr Potter may have described it as such) but the magic of the film is in the way it extracts perhaps the greatest moral ever seen in cinema from a story about a decent man contemplating suicide. Out of the bleakness comes an evergreen story that hasn't aged a day since the film's release in 1946...

WARNING: SPOILERS

Two of the close-ups in It's a Wonderful Life simply rip the heart out of the viewer. Both occur fairly late into the story, when businessman George Bailey (James Stewart) is plumbing the agonising depths of despair, having misplaced a sum of money vital to the survival of his Building and Loan, the ball and chain that has seen him tethered to his hometown of Bedford Falls. His gut-wrenching fragility as he frantically clutches his child to his chest is heightened in a scene later on where, out of sheer desperation, he verbally prays to God in his local bar. In the latter case, he is rewarded with little more than a punch in the face from the husband of his daughter's teacher whom he earlier insulted on the phone. 'That's what you get for praying', he caustically remarks.

George's cynicism and self-loathing gets a reprieve however when, on the verge of suicide, he plunges into an icy river to rescue an angel, Clarence Oddbody (Henry Travers). It transpires Clarence is not just an angel but George's own guardian angel, who has been sent to remind George of his very wonderful life. By showing him what life would have been like had he not been born, George is reminded of his importance in the world, importance he had previously taken for granted. In a neat twist on the Dickensian fable, Clarence's quest is used as a framing device during Capra's film; at the start he is instructed in the history of George's life, and it is through this framework that we come to understand the tormented everyman.

As portrayed by James Stewart, arguably the Golden Age's finest exponent of human decency, George becomes the most vital, believable and sympathetic protagonist ever seen in a motion picture. We trace his wonderful life from the start, when he saves his brother from drowning in a frozen lake, to his marriage to childhood sweetheart Mary (Donna Reed) to his eventual financial struggles. Along the way, he is forced to give up his dreams of travelling and is locked in an eternal struggle with the odious Dickensian villain Mr Potter (Lionel Barrymore). But it is only when Clarence reveals the 'black hole' left behind in Bailey's absence that he realises what a plethora of riches he has bestowed on those around him.

It's a simple home-truth but a magnificent one at that, one that is rife with tremendous compassion and which transforms the cinematic tapestry into a joyous meditation on basic human decency. No actor was ever better at conveying the complexity of such straightforward emotions than Stewart, and Stewart never did better work than here, able to move from light comedy to melancholia to freewheeling joy in such a breathless fashion that more acute empathy for a central character was never felt again in a film. Capra's Italian-American eye again benefits the underdog and the everyman, observing small-town America with just the right amount of gentle humour and, eventually, overwhelming pathos.

It's also a darker film than is commonly suggested, making George's final push for redemption one of the most magical, gut-wrenching journeys seen on the big-screen. After all, it is about a man contemplating suicide and the circumstances that have brought him to such a position. Stewart, bringing his World War II experience to bear on the role, somehow makes the simple struggle to remain a good man the most gripping story of all. Throughout, we will George to fight against the darkness and bitterness within him, desperately wanting to cry out that he needn't yield to life's cruelty.

And it is George's eventual moment of revelation that culminates in perhaps the most magnificently moving moment in cinema. Faced with the bleak horror of a world in which he never existed, George finds Bedford Falls has been transformed into Pottersville; his brother Harry was unable to save the lives of comrades on a transport in WWII (because George wasn't there to save Harry as a child); his wife is a spinster; and his mother doesn't recognise him. It's an existential nightmare of the worst kind, and George realises the richness of his life needn't be measured in the money stored at the Building and Loan. Capra's deft handling of the film's moral tone however is never that glib or trite, the haunting black and white photography poised delicately between sadness and potential catharsis.

And when the catharsis does come, it is impossible for the viewer to leave feeling less enriched than George does. So careful has Capra's application of emotional texture been, and so involving have been the performances of Stewart and his co-stars, that the film taps into a vein of wonder guaranteed to evoke floods of tears. But they're not sickly, sentimental tears; they're genuine ones, evoked by genuine emotion and the closest thing cinema has got to genuine characters. It's a fabulous moment when George charges home simply appreciating the reality of his life (even if that means going to jail) but the coup de grace comes in the final 10 minutes.

Those are possibly the most inspiring and uplifting ever witnessed in a film, as George is reminded of his status as 'The richest man in town' by an assortment of colleagues, friends and family who each contribute money to bail him out of his troubles. Miraculously, it's never corny, just a celebration of love, courage and genuine emotion. As Auld Lang Syne reverberates on the heart-strings and Stewart comes to realise the magnitude of his apparently insignificant life, it's impossible not to be moved. It's not just reactions to the script rippling across the actor's face: it's the well-spring of humanity that has come bubbling up to wash over the audience. Never again would cinema work such wonders. If only every time a bell rings, we got a film as good as this ...

The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Sun, 5 Dec 2010 09:25:00 -0800

And so, Stieg Larsson's Millenium Trilogy finally reaches its end in The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest. Is it a cathartic finish for Noomi Rapace's goth computer hacker, Lisbeth Salander? Will Michael Nyqvist's crusading journalist, Mikael Blomkvist, be able to save the day? Or is it less of a sting in the tail and more a blunted climax?

Thankfully, after the idiotic Girl Who Played Fire, an entry that sank under the sheer weight of ridiculous, convoluted storylines, Hornets' Nest ends on a note that is at least satisfying, if nothing else. It's talky, prosaic and very long but it sensibly treats the characters as characters once again, as opposed to devices. It's hard to tell if all the extraneous storylines are tied up but the loyalty to the characters is refreshing and, crucially, plausible. It hearkens back to the moody Gothic intrigue of opener The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, a thriller that, although flawed, proved grimly compelling in spite of a muddled storyline.

Briefly recapping the bloody end of Fire, Salander has wound up in hospital with a bullet in the head. Her repulsive, sex-trafficking father has survived as well, although her impervious-to-pain half-brother is still on the loose (maybe 007 can sort him out). The sense of intrigue and portent gathers steam when the mysterious organisation who have been lurking in the background of the previous two films plot to remove Salander and her father once and for all. It's up to Blomkvist to compile a credible legal case and begin the final fight back.

It's a big ask to sit through what is essentially more than two hours of exposition and, with even more characters constantly added to the mix, it threatens to become ever more over-wrought. But there's a vital sense of things coming to a dramatic head, and when Rapace turns up in court, hair done up in a mohawk, clad in heavy leather, make-up and rings, the moral concerns of Larsson's work cut through all the fluff like a hot knife through butter.

For while there's been a lot of padding during this trilogy, Rapace has been nothing short of magnificent, forging one of the most dynamic, complex female character studies seen in a film in years. Nyqvist is also impressive, albeit in a more understated, impassioned sense, and it's terrific to him finally fighting for the cause, but it's Rapace's show all the way. Her character is the greatest enigma of all, and the film has the good sense to end it as such. Ultimately, sexual politics may be the most confusing thing of all - but it's never dull with characters like Salander around.

The Kids Are All Right

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Sun, 5 Dec 2010 08:24:00 -0800

A story about an unconventional family who are in fact far more conventional than they let on, The Kids Are All Right is as balmy and nourishing as a ray of California sunshine but with a firm grip on the neuroses bubbling beneath the swanky, terracotta suburbs. A rare indie that never idolises the lives of its characters, instead, it exposes a well-spring of philosophical uncertainties underpinning the lives of a supposedly hip lesbian couple, their children and the sperm donor who puts the cat among the pigeons.

Mia Wasikowska (Alice in Wonderland) and Josh Hutcherson (Bridge to Terabithia) put in charming performances as the kids of the title, Joni and Laser, conceived separately by Julianne Moore and Annette Bening via anonymous sperm donor Mark Ruffalo. With Joni about to head off to college, curiosity compels her to seek out her biological father. Although Ruffalo's shambling, womanising restaurateur Paul isn't exactly what she imagined, she welcomes him into her family, and director Lisa Cholodenko (Laurel Canyon) takes great pleasure in examining the baffling collision of characters, sexualities and attitudes.

'Lesbians? Yeah I love lesbians' a bewildered Paul explains to Joni during their initial phone conversation. Such a vignette beautifully sums up the understated, frequently rib-ticking, pathos of the entire picture. For Cholodenko's film is very much a dinner-table movie (the poster also bears this out): in essence, one that focuses on the claustrophobic interaction between people of all stripes, where a piercing glance or conflicting eye line says just as much as the razor sharp dialogue. In this sense, Cholodenko's work shares much in common with that of Mike Leigh. And although she isn't afraid to get bawdy in places, more pleasure comes from the character quirks that feel astonishingly genuine.

Of course it helps that Cholodenko has cast her film brilliantly. Wasikowska and Hutcherson refreshingly downplay the expected brattiness of the teenage archetypes, while Moore and Bening invest each of their parental figures with such a rippling sea of contradictions and agitations, it's dazzling. All cropped hair and guzzling wine, Bening's high-maintenance doctor Nic calls to mind her mother from American Beauty (much less grotesque however), such a contrast to Moore's flame-haired, free-spirited Jules that one takes enormous delight in simply observing their chemistry. Their clear belief in the characters results in a family portrait that's poignant, painful and very, very funny, ripe with a sense of conviction that bursts off the screen.

As good as they are, however, Ruffalo steals the film, hook, line and sinker. Having built up an impressive CV of understated, layered portrayals (those who saw Shutter Island this year would agree), his mumbling, shambling commitment-phobe is a delight from beginning to end. Both bemused by the turn of events (witness the crackling barbecue scene) and, in the end, consumed by them as sexual identities are criss-crossed and spiral out of control, if there's any justice, he's a shoo-in for an Oscar nomination.

His dry wit and crippling insecurities also form much of the concerns of the film, one which pries open the sun-baked California suburbs to uncover a series of inescapable moral truths. Regardless of whether a couple is straight or lesbian, humanity continues to be bound by the same anxieties; it's a straightforward conceit but one that sustains the film brilliantly, always underscored by Cholodenko's canny mix of comedy and drama. The Kida Are All Right is more than just alright; it's one of the best films of the year.

Reel Retrospective: Airplane! (1980): RIP Leslie ... Or is it Shirley?

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Thu, 2 Dec 2010 12:31:00 -0800

Not content with depriving us of one icon earlier this year (Dennis Hopper), life has now cruelly conspired to take away another. On the same day that tragically saw the death of The Empire Strikes Back's Irvin Kershner, Leslie Nielsen, hailed deadpan spoof icon and the saving grace of many lacklustre 90s comedies, passed away at the age of 84. In my mind immortalised as the magnificently inept Frank Drebin in The Naked Gun series (films I've cherished since a young age), his most important role came years earlier. It was to mark a radical change in direction for a square-jawed actor who had toiled for years in stoic roles in films such as Forbidden Planet and The Poseidon Adventure. It was a film that similarly changed the face of comedy cinema forever. Its name was Airplane! Nielsen's character was called Shirley ... Hang on ...

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If ever a single line of dialogue could be said to have changed the direction of an entire career, Airplane!'s following exchange surely would be it. With most of the crew and passengers of a stricken air-liner having come down with food poisoning, the following banter between Robert Hays' conflicted war veteran Ted Striker and Leslie Nielsen's Dr Rumack entered into history:

RUMACK: 'Can you fly this plane and land it?'

STRIKER: 'Surely you can't be serious?'

RUMACK: 'I am serious. And don't call me Shirley.'

It's not the film's best gag but the knock-me-down simplicity, combined with Nielsen's shrewdly ironic distance, promptly shattered any notion that this actor's appeal resided in noble gravitas. Just as he had slyly agreed to subvert his typecast image by simply signing on to Jim Abrahams' and the Zucker Brothers' directorial debut, so too did the whole movie re-build Nielsen's entire image. For an actor who had spent decades working hard in theatre, television and film, Airplane! was to bring more overnight success than most of his other work combined.

But it wasn't just Nielsen's counter-casting that guaranteed the film's enormous fiscal success. Following their writing credit on John Landis' Kentucky Fried Movie, Abrahams and the brothers Jerry and David, using 1957's Zero Hour as a springboard, hit upon the marvellous notion of casting a whole host of authoritative leads against type, from Lloyd Bridges to Robert Stack. So, underneath the famously fast stream of gags both visual and verbal ('I take it black ... like my men'/'Do you have anything light?' - 'How about this leaflet, Famous Jewish Sports Legends?'), there's a brilliantly sly sense of awareness. An awareness of the most ridiculous cinematic conventions that, while able to engage us in tense drama, can also be contorted to produce exactly the opposite effect.

It begins in the rib-tickling opening scene, Elmer Bernstein's deceptively straight-laced score (another trend-setter) riffing on John Williams' Jaws theme before a jet erupts of the clouds, launching us into a pitch perfect piss-take of the portentous marches heard in the likes of Airport. The performances play the same game, Robert Hays and Julie Hagerty (as old flame and stewardess Elaine) forging a hilariously solemn faux-chemistry to saccharine musical swells. The brilliantly simple notion that the portentousness of disaster movies can be flipped on its head for the purposes of busting a gut has guaranteed Airplane! a place in audience's hearts for years, underpinning the more tasteless gags with a sense of intelligence.

But it's Nielsen who embodies the whole ethos of the piece. In a terrific comedy performance, there is not only the sense of a respected actor playing on his own iconography like an expert violinist, but also of an actor who's careful to let the audience in on the joke. Throughout, his serious mask never fails, whether he's lying to the passengers about the on-going crisis and growing a Pinocchio nose, or removing eggs from a woman's mouth without batting an eyelid. It doesn't deserve to be reduced to a single gag about a woman's moniker; Nielsen's tack, just like the directors', is much more carefully honed than that.

And, without Airplane!, we likely wouldn't have seen Nielsen's career bloom as it did. Because of this film, he graduated to the short-lived Police Squad series, and then onto The Naked Gun's 1, 2 1/2 and 33 1/3. It was a turnaround in fortunes that resulted in a batch of brilliant comic roles, even in inferior fare like Spy Hard and the latter day Scary Movie entries. Because of Airplane!, Nielsen was able to be attacked by a Japanese fighting fish behind an unsuspecting Ricardo Montalban and make daft voiceover statements such as: 'Like a midget in a urinal, I was going to have to stay on my toes'.

Just don't call him Shirley.

RIP Leslie - you'll be very much missed.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part I

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 12:00:00 -0800

When a giant killer snake crawls toward camera and promptly chows down on a tasty human snack, you know that Harry Potter isn't the beast it once was. And that's a terrific thing to behold. Less abracadabra, broomsticks and Hogwarts (this latest entry doesn't even set foot in the school), much like The Prisoner of Azkaban, the joy of Deathly Hallows Part I comes from real emotion, not wand-waving. And of course, seeing as it's Part I of the culmination to J.K. Rowling's hugely successful book series, it's denied that sense of cathartic resolution; parents, think wisely before bringing young children, for there's not much redemption in this wintry, bleak Potter entry.

But then, both the films and books have seen their target market age with the film's characters. Younger viewers are advised to stick with the earlier entries; those who have matured over the past decade since the franchise's inception, are better positioned to understand Hallows' gloomy mix of apocalyptic despair and latent sexual tension. It's the careful application of mood that sustains Deathly Hallows in spite of numerous plot strands that are left unexplained due to the film's truncated nature. While not entirely coherent for Muggles, it's a gripping emotional experience.

From the moment Alexandre Desplat's appropriately subdued (if controversial) score teases out sparse strains of John Williams' Hedwig's Theme, the famous title logo rusting in front of us, we're dropped into a murky and stormy world that bears next to no resemblance to Chris Columbus' franchise starters. Plotting? Well, there's a lot of talk but not a lot of explanation. Just a distinct sense that Ralph Fiennes' Lord Voldemort, plus his clique of lackeys, are out to get the boy wizard, assayed again by Daniel Radcliffe. The quest this time? Well, it involves something called Horcruxes, which seem to contain something of Voldemort's soul, and which it's Harry's, Hermione's (Emma Watson) and Ron's task to destroy.

It's a film that moves in three clearly delinated acts. The first and last play most like a traditional Potter story, a rogue's gallery of British A-listers filling out the scenery from Brendan Gleeson's Mad-Eye Moody to David Thewlis' Remus Lupin. Notable new faces include a typically primal Peter Mullan as Death Eater Yaxley; Bill Nighy's Rufus Scrimgeour (whose doomy portents open the picture); and Rhys Ifans as Xenophilius Lovegood (later given the unenviable job of explaining the Deathly Hallows themselves). But it's the middle that grips the most, transforming into Harry Potter and the Dead Man's Shoes as our heroes traverse Britain in search of the Horcruxes, benefiting from less CGI, impressive aerial photography and a desolate soundscape that heighten the desolation felt by Harry and his friends.

Necessitated by the two-film structure, David Yates' third (or second and a half) effort as Potter director often feels like it's on a road to nowhere but sensibly draws on a magical well-spring of verite, washed out cinematography that only increases the riveting sense of apocalyptic despair. He pulls some stunning directorial tricks out of the bag, including a near silent woodland chase and an almost German Expressionist animated sequence. Refreshingly, unlike many of the earlier films, it also recognises that more transcendent magic is to be found in the unspoken sexual chemistry between the three rapidly maturing leads as opposed to yet another Patronus spell; it is in fact this emotional honesty that sustains the film in its dramatic gear changes as the plot never approaches coherency at any stage.

Truthfully, the reliance on franchise knowledge is somewhat refreshing, respecting the core audience and refusing to pander to those attempting to pick up the series halfway through. And if the latter's the case, what are you doing here? It makes sense to start at the beginning, even if Rowling's multitude of plot strands and supporting characters appear to have been cast into the wind. It's the most ruthlessly pared down entry of all, memorable gallery characters like Alan Rickman's Snape and Helena Bonham Carter's enjoyably psychotic Bellatrix Lestrange reduced to walk on parts.

The resultant focus goes entirely on the kids, and they by necessity have to up their game. None will be mistaken for magnetic, charismatic leads on the basis of their work here but for once, they verge beyond the competent to touch on real pathos. An impromptu dance number between Harry and Hermione (not in the book) strikes a breathless chord of romantic spontaneity, becoming one of the most memorable moments in the series so far, while Ron gets to do more than boggle-eyed fear, plumbing the depths of sexual jealousy in a shocking hallucinatory scene that will bemuse younger viewers as much as it will appeal to the alienated teen in older ones.

It's not a masterpiece; none of the films are. The blandness of the Potter character, hard as Daniel Radcliffe tries, means he's far less interesting than the fleeting array of support performers, in spite of all the anguish the narrative throws at him. It also makes little to no sense to those who haven't read the books, with key characters dipping in and out and often dying off-screen, the event signalled by throwaway dialogue. It's hard to judge on its own terms until we see the whole picture resolve itself next year, although the conscious breaking point of Deathly Hallows is a carefully chosen one, marking a truly heart-breaking moment that only elevates the sense of grief and loss.

But the film in fact deserves to be applauded for relying on a tender thread of emotional logic, rather than a static series of set-pieces. Even it is little more than an efficient, $150 million set-up, it's a vital one for laying the groundwork. It's hard to believe any viewers would care what happens in next year's installment were it not for the hard work of director Yates and his crew here. Deathly Hallows Part I may be a thankless task - but it's an exciting, scary and moving one, nonetheless.

Seminal Scores: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (2004): John Williams

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Wed, 24 Nov 2010 02:01:00 -0800

A distinct wintry chill has settled over the latest Harry Potter escapade. But as the boy wizard sets his sights on the Deathly Hallows and prepares for his final battle next July, let's cast our minds back to the key Potter entry that informed much of the darkness of the recent installments. When acclaimed director Alfonso Cuaron took over the reigns from Chris Columbus for The Prisoner of Azkaban, he let loose, arguably, the first strains of real magic in the series, elevating it from a series of effects-led line readings into a gripping piece of drama. Also along for the ride was composer John Williams - and like Cuaron, he wasn't resting on his laurels, bouncing back with an astonishingly multi-faceted and detailed score that's a contender for my favourite Williams work of all time...

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From the first tinkling celesta strains of Hedwig's Theme, one could be forgiven for thinking John Williams and Alfonso Cuaron were headed down a well-trodden path with The Prisoner of Azkaban. But the unexpected left-field turns that follow elevate both film and score to the finest in the series so far. Working with cinematographer Michael Seresin (Angel Heart), Cuaron casts a deliberately autumnal sheen over Harry's third adventure at Hogwarts, one that sees the escape of the eponymous prisoner, Sirius Black. With Harry's life seemingly in danger, the foul Dementors are called in to guard the school, adding a danger and edge to the jolly St Trinians routine of old. But of course there are revelations aplenty, plus a batch of new characters and challenges.

That it's Gary Oldman playing Black (infusing the film with a ferocious blast of energy in what amounts to little more than 20 minutes of screen time), is talismanic of the approach Cuaron takes as a new director, but the whole production is clearly boosted by his level of energy. He coaxes excellent performances out of Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson and Rupert Grint; introduces new faces with verve (including Michael Gambon as Dumbledore, replacing Richard Harris, and David Thewlis as Remus Lupin); and walks the tightrope final act of J.K. Rowling's novel with aplomb, sketching the time-shifting showdown with visual style and narrative economy. And despite the famous absence of Voldemort, it's arguably the most emotionally engaging of the series, plumbing the poignant depths of Harry's past and weaving them into the narrative brilliantly.

Also clearly bolstered by the change in pace was John Williams. Aside from the shimmering delicacy of Hedwig's theme (now as much of a character signifier as The Raider's March or Superman's theme), his efforts on Philosopher's Stone and The Chamber of Secrets lacked that vibrant identity associated with his best work. With Azkaban however, Williams grabbed the bull by the horns, imploding the musical identity of Rowling's universe from within. Clearly galvanized by his director's richer emotional tapestry, Williams recognises the need not to constantly rely on Hedwig's signifier, instead conjuring up a plethora of new themes, stand-alone moments and dazzling flights of fancy. Such an approach is entirely in-keeping with the maturing Harry of the books and films, as he transforms from pre-adolescent wizard into tortured young man.

As mentioned, things begin on a nostalgic and familiar note in Lumos!, although even here, the central theme is given a somewhat more mysterious, wistful edge. Once the gates to the Potter universe have been eased open, Williams really starts having fun, revelling in a kind of youthful enthusiasm and experimentation not heard in many of his recent scores (excellent though they are). Aunt Marge's Waltz marks the first unexpected venture, a delightfully old-fashioned piece carrying with it a definite air of The Thieving Magpie Overture from A Clockwork Orange. Other marvellous self-contained tracks come thick and fast, adding a boisterous, fascinating texture, such as The Knight Bus, a manic jazzy cross between Williams' own Cantina Band music from Star Wars and Alan Silvestri's Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Then there's a brand new song, penned by the composer during the production itself, entitled Double Trouble, carrying a definite air of Danny Elfman in its mischievous adaptation of words from Macbeth, and sung in the film by the Hogwarts students (it also featured in the trailer). It seems to be an open invite to audiences, informing them that this year at Hogwarts is going to carry a different air from previous ones.

Clearly then the influences and variations come thicker and faster in this Potter score than in its predecessors, although the real mastery of Williams is that he never compromises his own musical voice. In Azkaban he brilliantly stitches together both the set piece themes and those continuing Harry's emotional journey, ensuring a smooth flow throughout. There are similarities with Jurassic Park, Close Encounters and Minority Report in those tracks suggesting the creeping horror of the Dementors, all scratchy strings and growling brass, ramming home the notion this is a franchise growing up. Thunderous Kodo-style drums at the start of Buckbeak's Flight are just one example of the multitude of orchestral nuances lurking in the fabric of the score; elsewhere, the score carries a definite medieval vibe courtesy of musical specialists The Dufay Collective, hinting at the rich, magical history of Hogwarts and its inhabitants.

The central new idea is the gorgeous theme of longing representing Harry's connection with his parents, first appearing in A Window to the Past on recorder. At the end of that track, it gains heartbreaking resonance when passed onto the full orchestra, before a massed choir at the album's end fuses it with the chilling Dementor music in The Dementors Converge and Finale. It speaks of Williams' desire to bring new-fangled maturity to the franchise and is one of his loveliest themes, although there are plenty of comical 'sneaking' themes around the album's mid-section, tracks such as Secrets of the Castle and Hagrid the Professor carrying the aforementioned medieval tone. When even the token filler music is invested with this much attention, it's apparent this is a Williams score worth shouting about!

Throughout, Williams' interplay between chimes and, especially, woodwinds, is spellbinding; it's a cliche but it really does convey a magical air. Equally as compelling is his thunderous action music, an element of the score that really shows his aggressively modernistic, post-2000 side. Tracks such as The Whomping Willow, Quidditch Third Year and The Werewolf Scene are wonderfully exciting and extremely dark affairs, adding a palpable sense of danger to Harry's Hogwarts routine, the combination of orchestra, choir and heavy timpani giving a far more primal sound. When Hedwig's Theme is used in subtle but dramatic counterpoint to much of the mayhem, it only increases the enjoyment, giving the score a much needed sense of backbone (something which the recent Potter scores have lacked). Williams is also a fine dramatist and innovator, slowing things right down in Saving Buckbeak and Forward to Time Past, and adding a subtle ticking-clock urgency to the film's time-bending conclusion. Of course, it also helps build the emotional power of the conclusion, where Harry's new family theme gets its most powerful airing.

Yet it's on listening to the closing 12 minute epic Mischief Managed that the sheer scale and bravado of Williams' third (and likely final) Potter entry becomes apparent; after all, it takes that long just to sum up the score's major thematic threads. It ends in perfect fashion, with a tinkling, teasing fade out on Hedwig's theme, but this is a score that is blessed with such a variety of treasures, far too many to sum up in one review. Whatever Cuaron slipped in Williams' coffee, it resulted in a miraculous score, being composed of apparently disparate elements that gradually come together, eventually representing the multitude of Harry's emotions without ever resorting to over-use of the central theme. It's the best possible approach for Potter: The Teenage Years, an unpredictable ride that floors you with jazzy mania, hints at unspoken anguish and brims with dark foreboding, all the while honing an addictive, grown up sound. While Patrick Doyle, Nicholas Hooper and Alexandre Desplat have each had their go on the carousel, Azkaban is their one to beat. But however Potter ends musically next year, The Prisoner of Azkaban remains a magnificent Williams entry that earns its place in his all time top 10 greats.

Due Date

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 13:44:00 -0800

The current IMDB rating of Due Date (7.1), when compared with that of its oddly hailed predecessor, The Hangover (7.9) may indicate a slip in public affection towards crass, blokey American comedies. A shame, as it has an ace up its sleeve in the form of Robert Downey Jr, bringing his entertainingly twitchy persona to bear on a film that is beneath him. He also has the ability to make his somewhat unpleasant character halfway watchable, something which counts very much in Due Date's favour; after all, The Hangover also featured a dearth of likeable characters but, crucially, there was no A-list baggage to pull us out of the rut.

So, while Due Date is no masterpiece, it is a considerable improvement on the mean-spirited adolescent mindset of The Hangover, benefiting not only from Downey Jr's star chops but his obvious tendency to get co-stars on their A-game. He plays highly strung (and borderline misanthropic) businessman Peter Highman, who, after an altercation with aspiring actor Ethan Tremblay (Zach Galifianakis) on his plane back to Los Angeles, finds himself stranded. He needs to return home in time for the birth of his child, Michelle Monaghan making such a non-existent appearance that you could not blink and still miss her.

Lucky then that Tremblay has also vacated the plane and is willing to offer Highman a lift to 'Hollywood' as he naively refers to it in one of the film's more effectively subtle gags. Predictability clearly doesn't count in Due Date's favour but once Highman and Tremblay hit the road, it comes to enjoy a (largely) easy, laid back rhythm, riffing on the likes of Planes, Trains and Automobiles and Midnight Run. It doesn't come close to those landmarks but the road movie structure nonetheless remains an effective device, and a more emotionally engaging one than the tiresomely juvenile, strung together set-pieces of The Hangover.

Consequently, the string of mishaps thrown in the characters' way carry more of a rib-tickling urgency than an ostentatious nastiness, although certain scenes come close (a dual wanking gag and a needlessly elaborate car crash go nowhere, indiscriminately placed to draw the juvenile audience). We're also allowed to grow into the characters properly over the course of their journey; Downey Jr, in spite of the fact he spits on a dog at one point, invites a degree of empathy in his frustration while Galifianakis is surprisingly endearing in forging a character more plausible than his similarly styled idiot in The Hangover.

It also allows for a richer palate of pratfalls and verbal gags (Tremblay's Texaco/Mexico confusion is a screamer, as is Highman sucker punching the child of one of Tremblay's dope suppliers played by a game Juliette Lewis). And while director Todd Phillips can't entirely decide whether to pull in the direction of his earlier hit or let the journey speak for itself, ultimately he shows both more technical flair (in the form of some lovely on-the-road photography) and a surprising poignancy in a running theme about wanting to see the Grand Canyon. In the end, we can take or leave the stoner gags and the 12 year old snickering at a key character's mincing gait, but it's the Downey Jr/Galifianakis chemistry that we remember, making likeable two deeply unlikeable fools

Let Me In

seanwilson731@hotmail.com (Sean Wilson) — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 13:03:00 -0800

Let Me In puts viewers - and more so, reviewers - in a quandary. It's a remake of last year's acclaimed Swedish vampire hit Let the Right One In, a film that was less a genre piece than an exquisitely atmospheric drama with supernatural trimmings. Adapted from John Ajvide Lindqvist's novel, it was also one of the best films of 2009, hauntingly shot by Tomas Alfredson. Now, the inevitable American remake has arrived, and immediately invites eye-rolling. Blimey, can't those Yanks leave well enough alone?

But the rub is Let Me In is a fine piece of work (the glowing reviews also bear this out). However, this only serves to increase the frustration. Because it is so faithful to its cinematic forefather, rigorously, devotedly faithful in fact, it calls into question which film we're enjoying: Let Me In, or its predecessor? Make no mistake: Let Me In differs from Let the Right One In in several respects. But the parts it does best are also the ones that worked effectively first time around. More confusingly, the differences are no discernible improvement, but simply that: differences, seemingly dropped in to distinguish this film from the other.

Added to that, Cloverfield director Matt Reeves' take on both novel and film (under the newly resurrected Hammer label) has a thankless mountain to climb in the form of remake prejudice, something that invites scorn at the best of times. Yet this shouldn't blind people to the qualities of Let Me In: this is a remake done well, too well in fact. Instead of shifting the scenario drastically and altering characters and situations, Reeves has done, ironically, the unexpected, and skewed very close to his inspiration.

It should be no surprise that Reeves, given his American sensibility, chooses to make explicit what was previously implicit; painting in more obvious emotional strokes (there's more overt crying in this version) and sacrificing the eerie, chilly ambiguity of the Swedish original. On the other hand, it may simply be more emotionally direct. Certainly, Michael Giacchino's liturgical score is far more apparent. Regardless, the tone is different. Much of this stems from the warmer background hues of the apartment complex, in which bullied, lonely Owen (Kodi Smit-McPhee, as good here as he was in The Road) forges an unlikely connection with young vampire-next-door, Abby (Chloe Moretz, more affecting than she was in Kick Ass).

Although they never approach the cryptic ambiguity of the chemistry between Kare Hedebrant and Lina Leandersson, Smit-McPhee and Moretz forge brilliantly adult performances that belie their tender years, and are a compelling centre, even if the dynamics have changed. Elsewhere, Reeves has altered the flow of the narrative, reducing Owen's father to a single-scene phone conversation while by contrast subtly humanising Abby's 'protector' (a suitably weather beaten Richard Jenkins). He's also honed in largely on his child protagonists' plight at the expense of supporting performers, Elias Koteas' unnamed cop now embodying the principles of the Swedish community seen in the earlier film. Young Owen's naive sexual curiosity is also adapted in more blatant coming of age terms (as evidenced in his peeping tom activities spying on his neighbours).

Yet it's the ostentatious additions that are more troubling, dramatic gear changes that serve as high-powered distractions while adding little in terms of improvement. Regardless of its technical prowess, an in-car crash point of view shot would seem more appropriate for the likes of Jason Bourne, while the ropey CG vampire attacks are also jarring (although, to swing the boat the other way, Reeves wisely dispenses of the daft cat attack scene). More puzzling however is the decision to foreground the sense of time and place to no great avail. So, while a title card solemnly informs us this is 1983 New Mexico and Pacman is in full rage in the arcades and The Vapors' Turning Japanese dips in and out, it never amounts to a substantial change in direction.

Again, it's a film with an identity crisis, an identity crisis that infectiously passes on to the viewer like a dreaded case of vampirism. That one should watch Let the Right One In is without question, subtitles be damned (never was there a more ridiculous excuse to avoid watching such a beautifully crafted piece of cinema). But to dismiss Let Me In out of hand is also nonsensical, given that it is crafted with intelligence and care, a firm rebuke to our much derided remake culture. Perhaps it's best to drop the 'remake' tag altogether and instead see it as an American companion piece to its Swedish counterpart, one that should belong as half of a special supernatural DVD pack encompassing both Swedish and American attitudes to vampire lore. So, while it may not be the right one to let in, let it in anyway, if only out of sheer curiosity.