Bopping with Niall JP O'Leary

Falstaff (Chimes at Midnight)

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Tue, 05 Jan 2016 23:01:00 +0000

A curious adaptation of several of Shakespeare's historical plays aimed at giving Falstaff centre stage, Orson Welles's 'Falstaff (Chimes at Midnight)' is regarded by some as his masterpiece. It certainly doesn't suffer from the troubled production it had and that so many of his later films fell prey to. Also, given his lack of resources, it looks never less than stunning. The frenetic pace in editing and staging he invests in some of his works, works very well here, and the whole film holds one's attention throughout. Again it is a beautiful film, beautifully made as well as shot. However, and not withstanding his iconic make-up, I never felt the love for the character that Welles so obviously did. Sure, he's a lovable old rogue, but he never seems to be anything other than for himself (Stevenson's Long John Silver somehow manages this selfishness far better) and foolish along with it. When at the coronation I should have been tearful, instead I was saying, 'What the hell are you doing, you old idiot!' It may well have been my fault; though I am familiar with the plays, the Shakespearean dialogue often got the better of me. Whatever it was, and wonderful though Welles' take on the character was, it just did not grab me. Certainly a high point in his career though and essential viewing for film buffs.

Saint Joan...Up from the Ashes

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Sun, 03 Jan 2016 23:52:00 +0000

For completion's sake, I have just finished watching Otto Preminger's 1957 film version of Shaw's 'Saint Joan'. Adapted by Graham Greene, it has some changes, notably in the use of the epilogue to act as a frame for the tale, but the fundamentals are there. I didn't have too much of a problem with Jean Seberg in the role. She emphasised Joan's frailty far more than the strength that comes across in the play, but I don't doubt the sincerity of her interpretation. I would have liked to see the more definitively Shavian Wendy Hiller in the role, but sadly that can never (and even in 1957 could never) be. Richard Widmark may over play the buffoon as the King, but again, to be fair, the role calls for such a comical performance. Generally it isn't a bad interpretation. To Seberg's credit she showed me some of the more subtle possibilities of the role. Hiller would have been perfect for it though. Think of her in 'I Know Where I'm Going!' And apparently Hiller originated the role of Catherine Sloper on Broadway in 'The Heiress' (playing opposite Basil Rathbone as her father! What a production that must have been). She could do weak and strong. Anyhow whatever about what might have been, Preminger's take is a good deal better than cinders.

Visual Correspondence

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Sun, 03 Jan 2016 00:00:00 +0000

Visual Correspondence - Historical Letters from a new perspective

Just in passing, if anyone has an interest in historical correspondence, I have created a web site devoted to that very topic. Using basic information that is common to almost all letters, I try to map where historical figures were over their lives. I also try to chart their social circles and provide a lot of different tools for seeing what they got up to, as letter writers that is (but actually not just as that). The site is Visual Correspondence and it would just make me feel a bit better about wasting so much time on it if more than one or two people (mostly me) actually used it. At present there are over 156,000 letters dealt with, featuring everyone from Karl Marx to Robert De Niro (I kid you not; do a search on the site). And if you are aware of any online collections of correspondence that you think might be suitable for the site, please let me know. So remember folks, http://letters.nialloleary.ie/

Saint Joan

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Sat, 02 Jan 2016 22:56:00 +0000

Shaw's account of the rise and fall of the curious saint, 'Saint Joan', is a peculiar beast. It is a battle of two sides, each obsessed with religion, told by an atheist. Shaw's dialogue is clear, angular, and a delight, but his characters never seem more than mouth pieces. Don't read this play looking for an insight into the historical figure; Joan starts out a 'saint' and ends a 'saint' and experiences nothing by way of character development along the way. This is very much a play of ideas, and not the worse for that.
I am always a little bemused by the amount of attention lavished on Wilde, O'Casey, Yeats, Beckett and all the other Irish greats, while Shaw seems to get just a perfunctory once off revival every now and again or a brief aside on how clever he was. He wrote over 60 plays after all. Shouldn't we see more of them? Or maybe it's just I haven't devoted enough attention to him. (I've spent more time inside his namesake pub than reading him, I will admit.) Well, there's a New Year's resolution for me!

In the Heart of the Sea

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Sat, 02 Jan 2016 22:42:00 +0000

Ron Howard's adaptation of Nathaniel Philbrick's 'In the Heart of the Sea', an account of the sinking of the whaling vessel, The Essex, the supposed basis for 'Moby-Dick', does what it says on the tin, I suppose. We get some big whales, sailors in lifeboats and dubious cuisine. However, we also get Chris Hemsworth doing Thor at sea and some fairly unconvincing visuals. Perhaps Hemsworth himself is a CGI-generated being much like the other behemoths rolling through the fake oceans. Anyhow remedying matters a little is Brendan Gleeson playing one of the aged survivors; he is actually better than I've seen him in a while (and he's never too far off the boil anyhow). The strange thing for me though is the story itself. A rogue white whale attacking a ship and harrying its mariners! It all makes better fiction than fact, and I don't quite buy it all. Granted I came out of the cinema wanting to read the well-regarded book (to get a handle on just how reliable the whole plot is), but for the moment I'll stick with 'Moby-Dick'.

Literary Bleach

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Mon, 15 Jun 2015 21:49:00 +0000

Starting to get reading again. In the last few weeks I have finished a whole murder of horror collections, most of which I had started at some point in the past.
King's 'Nightmares and Dreamscapes' has its fair share of dodgy material, but with so many stories this is to be expected. It's still entertaining and what I always take from King is his storytelling ability. The stories are not always the greatest - just look at what too often ends up on the silver screen - but the telling is worth the journey.
Then I finished off Dennis Etchison's 'The Dark Country'. A totally different kettle of fish. Aiming more at the high-brow, his stories are resolutely downbeat. After a point I got a little weary of the whole maliciousness of it all. I put the book down over midway through some months back. However, with less left to read I thought I'd try it again. I am not sure what his problem is with organ transplants, and sometimes the ambiguity of the whole thing irritated me, but in the end he is definitely a voice worth hearing. Not entirely my cup of tea, but fine in sips.
When I was young, Ray Bradbury, ripe prose and all, was someone I associated with the Twilight Zone style of story and as a result was one of my heroes. Then I read some of 'Quicker than the Eye' in my later years and started to get a wee bit disillusioned. Am I just maturing, getting older, or losing my childlike sense of wonder? Whatever it is I read Bradbury's 'The October Country' a while back to give him another chance. Not bad. Some tales are nice and dark (the one about the husband and wife in Mexico, for instance.) Still though it didn't blow me away and I started on 'The Illustrated Man' more for completeness sake than out of enthusiasm. After a while I put it down. Again in the last few days I thought I'd finish it off, and so I did.
I had read some of the stories in this collection before and okay, it is good. But ultimately there's a superficiality to everything that kind of bores me. The downbeat bleakness I took from other stories by Bradbury (such as 'The Small Assassin' or 'The Playground') is too tempered by an overdose of sentimentality here. It's sad stuff, but paper thin too.
I suppose it's the likes of Etchison and particularly the next author I read that has raised my expectations a little. Robert Aickman's apparently most 'accessible' collection, 'Cold Hand in Mine' is BIZARRE. He is an excellent writer, but what on earth is he doing? His description of his own stories as 'strange stories' is the most appropriate description anyone has ever made of their work. Each one is full of unease, sexual tension and some sort of horror, but rarely is there any closure, and seldom any attempt at explanation. 'The Same Dog' is horrible, but what the hell just happened?!! 'Meeting Mr Millar' is full of the adult character you do not get in Bradbury, but again what is going on? As to the masterpiece of the collection, 'The Hospice', I really do not know what it was all about, I just know it was nasty. What was the cat bite about, not that it seemed to be a cat? Was it a rest home for fans of the Seven Deadly Sins? What was with the food, the lightbulb, the woman with the perfume, the changing Banner, the EVERYTHING? Never before have I reached for my phone so many times to look up Aickman to find out what were his views on religion, women, Freud - who the hell was this guy. He is bizarre, definitely not for everyone, but for those who can take the lack of solid answers, strangely addictive. It says something that the one story that seems most straight-forward, 'Pages from a Young Girl's Diary', was for me the least interesting. As a slow, slow reader I was surprised to find I had finished the book in just over two days. Addictive.
Algernon Blackwood's 'John Silence' stories should be just the thing I like. Silence is an investigator, or rather specialist, in the supernatural, something along the lines of Hodgson's Carnacki, and acting as a precursor to Kolchak and the X-Files. However, the stories despite dealing with shape-shifters, mummies, possessions and devils are almost always too genteel to really get the blood racing. After three or four stories again I had put the book down. Anyhow there were only three stories left so I picked it up again last night. 'Secret Worship' deals with a coven of Satanists masquerading as monks running a posh, isolated school for toffs (not a million miles from Argento's 'Suspiria', for instance). You can see immediately how influential it has been as a theme, and Blackwood's John Silence is always at the centre of truly mythic themes. The story starts well following a former pupil's mysterious compulsion to visit his old school and it builds well too. You can practically see poor old Christopher Lee, may he rest in peace, as Kalkmann the monk who opens the door and makes the visitor so welcome. The tension builds. Even the appearance of the devil is original enough to keep things on a good footing. However, the entrance of John Silence (previously largely missing from the tale) is something of a damp squib. He is literally compared to Jesus, and the best sort of English man, while the German monks are equated with evil. Blackwood slyly amplifies this ludicrous dichotomy with an alignment of merchants and silk-selling with the forces of Goodness. Capitalism is a very Good thing apparently! Anyhow I will finish the thing, but Blackwood, for all that he wrote 'The Willows' and 'The Wendigo' is still an awfully silly, not to mention too laid-back, a writer.
Anyhow I am finally starting to clear the reader's block.

Reader's Block

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Sat, 10 Jan 2015 15:31:00 +0000

Got two books on the go, Malcolm Gladwell's 'Outliers' and Andrew Matt's 'A History of the World'. Also really want to get back to Arthur Schlesinger's Diaries if I can find the time. I want to read!

Hitchcock

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 09:35:00 +0000

Apparently telling the story of the making of Hitchcock's seminal 'Psycho', 'Hitchcock' misses almost every target it aims at. Its high class cast of Hopkins, Mirren, Johanssen, Huston, etc. at best are competent, at worst distracting. Danny Huston is particularly awkward, but Hopkins, in the huge role of Alfred Hitchcock, is never anything other than Anthony Hopkins; you never see Hitchcock on the screen. The direction is bland, the editing amateurish, and for a movie about a movie characterised by one of the most memorable scores in film history, the jaunty bubblegum of this film's soundtrack is never anything less than a let down. And then there's the script.... Can I count the ways...?

The basic adultery plot is insultingly slender;
The 'challenges' faced by Hitchcok in making his movie are less than impressive;
The Ed Gein conceit simply doesn't work;
The tone is completely misjudged;
There is no insight into either Hitchcock or the making of 'Psycho'.

Anyone with even a cursory knowledge of Alfred Hitchcock and his obsessions would already be far ahead of this screenplay's 'insights'.
A wasted opportunity.

The Words

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Fri, 11 Jan 2013 00:42:00 +0000

'The Words' tells of the ultimate sin: Plagiarism! After suffering rejection for so long, can a budding writer resist a masterpiece that just lands in his lap, just because it isn't his?
The film boasts a strong cast - Bradley Cooper, Jeremy Irons, Zoe Saldana, Olivia Wilde, Dennis Quaid - a Glass-style score (by Marcelo Zarvos), nice production values and a convoluted story within a story framing device. It positively reeks of artistic intent. However, look beneath the surface, and things are a little less convincing.
For a start, the high-powered cast doesn't always deliver; there's some ham from Irons, blandness from Cooper, and a strange campness from Quaid. Mitigating things somewhat are good performances from Saldana, Wilde and Ben Barnes. The score is pleasant, but forgettable, trying as it does to sound like 'The Hours'. The real test though is the script itself, the real words.
Its tricksy framed narrative, with its sly questioning of what's real and what's fiction, strives to fool the viewer into believing this is a profound piece of cinema. It handles its story within a story structure well, but its a measure of how well-worn this approach has become that there is no risk of any audience member being challenged. And that reflects the film in its entirety. This is not a profound film; it just thinks it is. Ultimately it's a simple, sentimental tale told with purple prose..
Whatever its pretensions, there is a sincerity in its willingness to tackle guilt and its effects on people. It just doesn't have too much more to add to what other better films (such as 'Crimes and Misdemeanors') have already taught us. Its one good insight is to stress how words can complicate, confuse and ultimately spoil the good things in life. The young soldier and his French love are never more happy than when they share only one word in common. It's a trite and simple lesson, but one that nevertheless resonates. However, do we really need three(?) writers, several fictional books and a title to drive the point home?
In a way, yes, we do. You see 'The Words' is pretentious, and yes, there are many flaws, but for all that I still kept watching. The writerly aspects (rejections, doubt, exhilaration) rang true for me. In terms of its narrative structure, it really couldn't but take the approach it does. They are cheap tricks that it uses, but they are bookish tricks. And then I am a softie at heart (I'd just wiped up my tears after having watched 'Up' again beforehand), so sentiment is not the kiss of death it might be for others. For all my harsh words then, I can't just dismiss this one. Simple, sentimental, defiantly middle-brow, it is still a guilty pleasure. If you see it in a bargain bin, pick it up.

Blogging Dilemmas

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 22:59:00 +0000

I haven't been writing much in recent months. It has been suggested that the confessorial, or should I say pseudo-confessorial, approach that I often adopt is not appropriate and can convey an inaccurate (and not necessarily flattering) impression of me as a person. Though this hasn't been the reason for my not writing, it does give me pause for thought in considering taking up the keyboard once more. I never really cared about flattering myself, but there can be real-life repercussions. To what extent is the persona portrayed in a blog accepted as an accurate reflection of the blogger as a person? Can it not be regarded as in a sense a type of performance art? Can the stand-up comedian make the most outrageous statements safe in the protective halo of the stage while the blogger must consider family, friends, and - most importantly - employers? How does one know when one is performing or laying one's soul bare? Shouldn't that be clear from the writing? But what if that writing is unclear or just plain bad; what is the price of freedom of expression then?
The debate about identities in cyberspace, and to what extent we can use them to be something we are not in 'the real world', is rightfully gathering pace. There are a raft of issues, not least those concerning defamation, copyright and just plain courtesy, that need to be considered whenever we blog, tweet or otherwise use the web to publish our writing. (How many Facebook users have casually used a status update to devastate a 'friend'?) But can we limit ourselves too much? From my own personal perspective, are my blog posts, particularly my more 'personal' entries, taken as intended, that is exaggerated for hopefully humorous effect, or are they instead seen as condemnation of myself from my own mouth, a portrayal of an unpleasant individual inadvertently revealing his dark underbelly? Are my posts intolerant, misogynistic, and excessively concerned with alcohol, or are these elements, if present, merely the trappings of observational humour as observed by my slightly manic doppelganger? Is there ever an excuse for their presence in a blog, humorous or otherwise? If anyone cares to respond I'd be interested to hear your view. Personally I love to go over the top for comic effect, but apparently that doesn't always come across to the reader. Any views? Am I successful or not? Can readers tell when I am serious or when I play? Or am I simply a bad writer incapable of conveying the right tone?

State of the Company

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Wed, 11 Jul 2012 09:14:00 +0000

When a government puts the rights, well-being and prosperity of the individual (not the generic 'people' they are so happy to crow about) below the finances of the state, the country becomes just another company. I'm not naive enough to think states have not been in this role for a long time, but I get the feeling they'll become 'companies' in name too very soon. We won't even have the idea of state to cling to.

Trial by Trocadero

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Wed, 11 Jul 2012 09:10:00 +0000

I was at a family dinner last Saturday. Food was only okay, and it took practically an hour after starters for the main course to arrive, but the coup de grace I only became aware of later. My brother ordered some fish. Kindly the kitchen had put an extra maggot on the side of his plate. To be fair, it was trying to wriggle off, but it really spoils my impression of the place. Very, very disappointing.

Anglo-Irish Treaty 1921 eBook

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 09:33:00 +0000

I recently had a hand in creating the 'Anglo-Irish Treaty 1921' ebook, a collection of correspondence by the participants in the Treaty negotiations that ultimately led to Ireland's civil war. Reading it I was bowled over by the size of the task the negotiators had (the British threw everything at them), the personalities involved and the tragedy of the whole enterprise. The characters who really jump off the page for me are Griffith, Childers and Lloyd George.
It is clear Lloyd George and Griffith have tremendous respect for each other, but it's also clear that that is something that might compromise negotiations. Griffith was certainly aware of this danger, but whether it ultimately did have this effect is difficult to say. Lloyd George had a difficult game to play with his compatriots one way or the other.
Erskine Childers constantly amazes me. His detailed memos on defence treaties and the ramifications of failing to properly provide for Ireland's security are detailed to the point of mesmerism. How he could bring all of this together given the limited communications at his disposal is a miracle. His keen acumen is clear and his vision of the future far-sighted (understandably though, coming just after the First World War, the only possible superpower he can see threatening the stability of Europe is America). In contrast, his final account of the cabinet meeting that debated the finished treaty is necessarily ambiguous (they are just blunt jottings) and heart-breaking.
As to De Valera, I don't need to say anything, nor do I want to. The debates will go on regardless of my own views. His skills and commitment are clear, but so too are his failings. As they say, he condemns himself out of his own mouth.
Anyhow don't take my word for it. You can download the ebook as an epub or mobi file (or even a PDF) for free:

Joyce Carol Oates

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 08:59:00 +0000

I had the good fortune to attend a reading and Q&A by the respected American author last week. She proved to be refreshingly straight-forward in her discussion of her work and the influences that drive her. I was a little surprised though at the basic level of analysis. I am no perceptive critic when it comes to weighty literature, but some things appear obvious. One was the similarity between the heroine of her latest novel and Oates herself as documented in her recent account of widowhood. Jerusha McCormack nodded sagely beside me as Oates appeared to spontaneously note this resemblance, but anyone with ears to listen could not have failed to see it far earlier in the discussion.

One incident did distress me a little. A fan in the audience asked a 'question' that ran on for several minutes. Everyone, myself included, began to sigh as the never-ending 'question' rolled on and on. The questioner was obviously a little star-struck in the presence of her idol, but she couldn't fail to feel deflated when Oates prefaced her answer (one she had to interrupt to give, it must be said) with the remark that she'd hate to have to have the question repeated. Humorous though this might be, the effect of the put-down could only have been exacerbated by the round of applause the remark got. Much as she initially annoyed me, I felt for the fan.

The John Ford Symposium

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 08:58:00 +0000

Someone did a fine job in organising a wonderful discussion of the work of John Ford. Going on over four days, I ended up attending a directors' panel (Jim Sheridan, Thaddeus O'Sullivan, Brian Kirk,and John Boorman), a writers' panel (Patrick McCabe, Eoghan Harris, Colin Bateman, and Ian Power), a composers' panel (David Holmes, Kyle Eastwood, and Christopher Caliendo) and - highlight of the symposium - an interview with Peter Bogdanovich.

The Directors' Panel, contrary to what you might expect, was dominated by Brian Kirk ('Game of Thrones', 'Middletown') and Thaddeus O'Sullivan ('Nothing Personal', 'Veronica Guerin'). Kirk showed a real passion for Ford and backed up his arguments with solid observations on the director's work. O'Sullivan complemented this with some astute film school type analyses of scenes and styles (he gave a lucid commentary on a scene from 'My Darling Clementine'). Chairing the discussion was critic and novelist, Kim Newman, but good though he was, he couldn't rouse Boorman to do more than recount one or two amiable stories about Ford (predictably concerning his drinking habits). If Boorman proved difficult, reigning in the obnoxiously rambling Sheridan was impossible. Not only did Sheridan confess to only a cursory knowledge of Ford's oeuvre (why was he there then?), he constantly droned on and on, often losing the train of his thought and evidently taking his audience for some crowd of imbeciles ("I just turn up on set and the camera just appears in some place. I don't know how films get made.").

The Writers' Panel, though it featured some astute comments from Bateman (less so from tyro Power), was largely a battle of wills between McCabe and Harris. Harris proclaimed his love of rhetoric; a speech by Fonda's Lincoln in 'Young Mr Lincoln', dealing with ideals and lofty notions of right and wrong, was his quintessence of drama. McCabe objected; this was cornball stuff and didn't take account of the complexities drama should really respect. Black and white is appealing, but it hides a multitude of sins. While I get misty eyed with the worst of them when confronted with an aspirational speech, I can tell you I was firmly in the McCabe camp. What we all wanted was a Celebrity Death Match between the two, or failing that just a no holds bared debate.

The Composers' Panel was dominated by host, Dave Fanning, and guest David Holmes, for all the wrong reasons. Eastwood (who has written a lot of music for his father's films) seemed to have little to say, Caliendo a lot more; one way or the other neither could get a proper word in between Fanning's phone going off ('My son wants me to get him tickets for Jay-Z for tonight.') and Holmes' monopoly of the event. Obviously Holmes, a self-taught DJ and composer, has a story to tell, but narrative is not his strong point and he rivalled Sheridan in his rambling. Worse, he showed little respect for his fellow guests or the audience. At one point he stood up and walked out to go to the toilet. Fair enough, but as if this attention seeking was enough, he got up again close to the end claiming he had to run for a train. When the event did end and we left the auditorium, he was standing outside chatting away.

The highlight of the whole event was the interview with Peter Bogdanovich. Anyone who has read 'Easy Riders, Raging Bulls' cannot consider Bogdanovich without a little distaste. Like Coppola and many others, fame went to his head in unpleasant ways. He curried favour with many of the greats in what strikes me as a queasy way (Welles staying over, hobnobbing with Ford). He's kind of like the slick teacher's pet everyone loves to hate. Then there was his peculiar later life (something tactless interviewer Paul Byrne seemed determined to bring up). However, now in his seventies, he has become absorbed into that very pantheon of classic directors he once paid excessive obeisance to. So when he compared himself to Welles with Tarantino in what had been his role ("I stay over with Quentin"), I think the audience forgave him. Certainly his string of on the money impressions of old stars like Cagney and Stewart won me over in the end.

American Gods

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 08:56:00 +0000

I finally got around to reading Neil Gaiman's tale of ancient gods squabbling in modern America. It is a big book filled with nice characterisations and some stand out scenes, but it never seems to become anything more than the sum of its parts. Well written though it may be, the climax is weak, the premise equally so. The ostensible villains of the piece, a collection of new 'gods', hardly warrant the name and often you get the feeling that this just wasn't thought out well enough. A subplot concerning an ideal American town with a dark secret, is grafted on with only a modicum of relevance to the main plot. It's almost like Gaiman wanted to fit so much into his great American novel, that he felt obliged to include a pseudo-detective story as well. It's all very entertaining (and I believe there's a television adaptation in the works), but not nearly as important as it thinks it is. Much more engrossing are the extracts from Gaiman's website dealing with the process of turning his manuscript into a best-selling book.

Madrid

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 08:55:00 +0000

I had one of the finest rib-eye steaks in a long while at a small, unimpressive restaurant just off the main avenue. Later we went to Toledo and were suitably impressed (what a cathedral!), though the El Greco Museum was closed.

All in all a fine week's travelling.

Lisbon

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 08:55:00 +0000

I had a wonderful trip to Lisbon (thanks Kellie). Coupled with trips to Sintra (a beautiful royal getaway) and Estoril (nice beach), I had the pleasure of being doused in pigeon dropping while riding in an open top bus. Cronenberg's 'Cosmopolis' was having a premier there and though I didn't get to it, I believe I saw Cronenberg stride down the red carpet as I watched from my bus.
I also got to wrestle a 'Russian spy' at a firework lit celebration on the main square too (kicking off the June festival). While sitting outside a restaurant, waiting for a fish meal, street performers struck up a clown car race right beside us. I went to take some pictures when suddenly man covered in a fur rug was thrust at me and I was ordered to keep the Russian spy captive. That meant being wrestled to the ground at which point I felt my duty had been performed and I let him go.

Really not wanting to go home when it came time to leave, we changed our plans and went instead to...

Peaks, Valleys, and the Hillsides Between

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Wed, 27 Jun 2012 23:51:00 +0000

The last few weeks have had a few cultural high points, or at least points of interest, from my perspective. The next four or five posts reflect those.

Killer Joe

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Wed, 27 Jun 2012 00:30:00 +0000

When Chris Smith (Emile Hirsch) lets his gambling get him into debt with a local loan shark, he fixes on a novel way of getting the money he needs; hire a hitman to kill his mother for her insurance policy. The hitman he hires is dirty cop, Joe Cooper (Matthew McConaughey). Things get out of hand though when Cooper demands Chris's sister as 'a retainer'. Then there's Chris's father and stepmother to consider, one not the sharpest tool in the machine shop, the other perhaps too sharp for her own good. And is little sis just going to take this lying down? And so the black comedy that is 'Killer Joe' begins.

Adapted from his own stage play by Tracy Letts, 'Killer Joe' centers on a 'white trash' family of stereotypical losers who inadvertently invite the devil, well, Matthew McConaughey, into their home. Its violence, amorality and clever dialogue remind one of Tarantino, but these similarities (no doubt things that attracted hit-starved Friedkin to the project) are somewhat superficial. This was a play afterall and despite attempts to broaden the action out, it often plays like one. On the plus side, there is a real playwright's attention to the organic integration of plot and character. Similarly Letts doesn't allow his command of dialogue get in the way of the drama; while not so obviously showy as Tarantino, it is almost always precise and effective. However, there is also a tendency to talk rather than show and unless the director is really on song this can paradoxically mute a movie.

Is director William Friedkin on song? His career has been patchy at best since his high-rolling days of 'The Exorcist' and 'The French Connection'. With 'Killer Joe', he attempts to resurrect his moribund reputation with something designed to provoke. His notion of provocation though is simply to trot out a lot of female nudity and some awkward misogyny. Reveling in the low Texas milieu of the characters he ends up concentrating on what is in my opinion the least successful aspect of the screenplay, the 'white trash' ideology. From the dim-witted dad to the gambling son to the incipient incest Dottie seems to provoke, the portrayal of the trailer park anti-heroes encourages an easy point-the-finger attitude in its audience. This family should be exemplars of humanity as a whole, demonstrating our worst excesses much in the manner of a Jacobean tragedy like Middleton and Rowley's 'The Changeling'. To concentrate on who they are without opening them out allegorically, is to take easy potshots at a bunch of stereotypes. Friedkin doesn't open the play out at all. True, it is no doubt all in Lett's script, but Friedkin is too slavish to that screenplay. He floats on the surface showing us the hoods, the strippers and the self-destructive trailer folk, but seems unable to get beneath their skins, the system that holds them or the world that binds them to us. If you want a contrast, think of the Coen Brothers' black comedy, 'Fargo'. A similarly themed story of a man in debt's botched attempt to extort money using a family member; hired thugs prove his undoing too. However, 'Fargo' never lost sight of the fact that its characters were not really too far from its audience. There but for the grace of God....

Friedkin is not without his talents though, and this is a kind of return to form. 'Killer Joe' never flags and never loses our engagement. If I dislike the ideology behind it, I can still respect it for the solid entertainment it is. It's also one boosted by selfless performances from all involved (with the possible exception of Hirsch, who hams it up a wee bit too much). In particular, and against the odds, Matthew McConaughey succeeds admirably in the menacing role of Cooper. If this is not the film to resurrect Friedkin's career, it may well be the one to resurrect McConaughey's. (No doubt he was thinking of John Travolta in 'Pulp Fiction' when he signed up to the project.)

With a current cinematic landscape that is so bland, any film that pushes the boundaries should be welcomed. 'Killer Joe' is certainly not bland and consistently tries to go beyond the pale. Brandishing two fingers to the cosy mores of today's sanitised Hollywood, it strikes a distinctly seventies pose. But there were bad aspects to the seventies too, things like misogyny, stereotyping and polarisation. These surface here too. 'Killer Joe' pushes the boundaries, but one has to wonder if it pushes them in the right direction.

Red Lights

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Sun, 17 Jun 2012 14:14:00 +0000

Robert De Niro, Sigourney Weaver, Cillian Murphy, Elizabeth Olsen...don't be fooled by the cast! 'Red Lights', a tale about paranormal investigators (played by Weaver and Murphy) coming up against a formidable blind clairvoyant is pure hokum. Weaver is excellent, De Niro nothing special, Murphy by the numbers, and Olsen completely wasted (remember her in 'Martha Marcy May Marlene'), but the real let down is with director and writer Rodrigo Cortes. This is a classic case of someone taking on too much.
There is the seed of an interesting story here. Paranormal investigators, especially modern thoroughly scientific ones (do they really exist?), are appealing characters and provide a fertile environment for spooky happenings. More particularly Cortes is aiming at a Shyamalan-esque big twist (yes, there's one of those) that has a lot of potential too. However, at almost every turn he fumbles the ball. Starting off with a weak joke (Murphy wakes Weaver to tell her to get some sleep), we then get the obligatory debunking scene (to show what they do, how good they are, and the types of charlatans and issues they may encounter). All very well. But when weird things do start to happen the rigour and curiosity they initially showed seems to go out the window. We get unlikely, unbelievable encounters (Murphy visits a fraud he helped put in prison and expects help; Murphy assaults a fellow academic and then expects to be put on the man's committee) and bewildering non sequiturs (What is Silver doing giving private audiences? And how does he not recognise Murphy?).
The big twist is barely effective given the muddle that has gone before. Things are not helped by a consistently hyperactive approach to direction. High angles, a busy camera and rapid cutting (Cortes is editor too) all make the most mundane scene painfully bloated or portentous. Again 'muddle' is the word that comes to mind. He seems to have no sense of building tension, no understanding of structure. The climactic confrontation is hardly involving at all given that Cortes has already displayed all his wares in previous less important scenes. Cortez obviously got this gig on the strength of his earlier (overrated) 'Buried'. That film was set entirely in a coffin. Getting out of that box doesn't seem to have helped him much.

Ray Bradbury RIP - A Star Dies

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 22:02:00 +0000

The grand old man of fantasy and sci-fi is dead. As a kid, his name under a title was a sure sign of quality and I grew up with Bradbury's star shining brightly in my firmament. As I grew older, his light occasionally flickered (I didn't like some of his later short stories), but purple prose and all, he was a true original. (To think one of his first stories was 'The Beast from Twenty Thousand Fathoms'....) We are definitely the poorer for his passing. It's probably appropriate that his death was marked by an astronomical rarity like the transit of Venus across the sun. He was a far more impressive rarity. He'll be missed, by me especially.

Coincidentally

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 22:42:00 +0000

Given the pleasure of watching "The Cabin in the Woods", I should mention that I'm reading Lovecraft's "The Case of Charles Dexter Ward" at the moment. It's the one major work by Lovecraft I haven't yet read (though of course I am familiar with the story and have seen both Corman's "The Haunted Palace" and O'Bannon's "The Resurrected"). It is a frustrating piece of work. Even more than usual, Lovecraft's insistence on not describing what he describes as indescribable is just plain annoying. The plain thrust of things is pretty clear, yet to make his 'big reveal' late in the novel, he feels the need to obscure things early, so of the raid on Curwen's farm we get small hints and glimpses from people uninvolved in the action. You see it is terrifying just how close-lipped everyone actually involved subsequently became! I feel like throwing the rubbish away, but my dedication to the genre necessitates some hard work. It shall soon be over, thank Yog-Sothoth!

The Cabin in the Woods

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 22:20:00 +0000

Ah, it makes an old horror buff's heart grow warm! An unholy, if welcome, conjunction of Shirley Jackson ('The Lottery') and H.P. Lovecraft (Chthulu), 'The Cabin in the Woods' is a humorous celebration of the schlockier depths of horror. Five pretty teenage stereotypes go off to the titular cabin - a structure not just like but pretty much identical to that of 'The Evil Dead' - where they encounter well, pretty much everything you'd expect, and a lot more. Because, you see, the cabin is not all it appears....
Which is pretty clear from the outset (and from the trailer), so don't expect too many surprises. The joy of Drew Goddard's film is the joy with which he embraces all the tropes and conventions of the genre and doesn't just send them up (a la Kevin Williamson's 'Scream' movies), but revels in them. It is silly fun, but undeniable fun.
Knowing its territory so well, it tries to cover all bases, and largely succeeds. For instance, while the opening credits were rolling, I eagerly looked for a cameo appearance from a big name ("And with...."). You need a heavyweight for the big villain, don't you? Not really, but given all the unknowns involved (Chris Hemsworth is the biggest name listed, though Richard Jenkins also features), such a guest role would add a little class (remember De Niro in "Angel Heart"?). I had a little twinge of disappointment; there was no one of note listed. This movie might be just too close to the middle-budget, B-movie rip-offs Hollywood recently has churned out after all (eg. 'Friday the 13th'). Thankfully there is a small, but appropriate cameo towards the end. And anyway this is original enough to be a million miles distant from Hollywood's usual horror output (usually horrific in every way). Much better than Raimi's last "Drag Me to Hell", this is inventive shlock with a tongue so far in its cheek it's pierced the skin.
It makes me want to go out and call up the Old Ones now.... Or maybe I'll just go see it again.
Oh, by the way, did I mention "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas"? There's even a philosophical point.

Poetry and Prosaic

nialljpoleary@gmail.com (Niall) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 23:54:00 +0000

I'm attending a conference in Canberra (Digital Humanities Australasia 2012) and true to my fate it's raining (while back home, Ireland is experiencing an unseasonal heat wave). And I have a sore throat (pesky air conditioning).
Yesterday I was at some workshops, the first on data management. When put in groups to discuss our experiences, one rather over the top guy declared 'I have a great data management tool on my Mac. I'm not sure if it's available on the PC'. He then proceeded to show the Finder window. I inwardly screamed and wondered if I had travelled halfway round the world to visit the Dark Ages and a collection of village fools. Thankfully he was the only village fool there and a very real one. In contrast some head of humanities tried to explain markup to me; I had to stop her very early on -I'm dealing with markup for over 16 years - but one has to wonder.
This morning the keynote was delivered by Alan Liu from California. A wonderful presentation, he tried to make the case for a continuum between the New Criticism of Cleanth Brooks and the distant reading approaches that characterise digital humanities scholarship. It may not have entirely convinced, but it was wonderful. Coincidentally his analysis of a poem by Wyatt, 'They Flee from me', reminded me of a chapter in Gladwell's 'Blink', a book I am currently reading. He noted the words that convey the narrative of the poem without explicitly telling it. Gladwell recounts the priming of students in an experiment, where a simple word test prepared volunteers to behave in a particular way. The narrative was prepared without being explicitly stated, the readers unconsciously loaded with a way of behaving. Isn't this the same mechanism at work?