Jean-Marc Barr and Pascal Arnold’s fifth film as co-directors tells the story of 18 year old Romain’s search to lose his virginity whilst all around him his family is getting busy. Whilst the moments of interior monologue all come from Romain, the perspective of this film is split between Romain and his mother. Shocked out of her routine by the news that her son has been caught filming himself masturbating in class Romain’s mother sets out to find out if all of her family are sexually fulfilled.

This very modern age quest is equally a charming one as she goes round each generation, from Romain’s grandfather to Romain himself asking each in turn how they fare, and with varying responses.

Scenes of the family talking are cut with many, many scenes of all of them engaging in a range of sexual acts (except Romain of course). All tastefully shot, with a frank and intimate use of the camera, these scenes are generally engaging and sexy. However, in what is a film of 82 minutes I think we could safely say that a good 25 was taken up with sex scenes; now I’m no prude, but this seems like a lot in anything other than porn. But I suppose the title was telling no lies.

The greatest shame about this over abundance of sex seems to be that the filmmakers demonstrate such an ability to make a lovely little film around all the sex scenes that you kind of want more of that. Certainly, Romain’s adopted sister seems to have hardly any lines at all; instead, the rest of the family’s activities are cut with many scenes of her and her boyfriend, ‘at it’. In terms of this character you get the impression that all her lines were left on the cutting room floor in favour of the many shots of her rather fake breasts. This over-abundance isn’t offensive, just somewhat self indulgent.

The central character of Romain creates the real heart of the film as his sad little face drives the action forward towards it’s very predictable ‘climax’; what can only be described as a hugely self indulgent scene of his ‘first time’, taking up as it does a healthy chunk of the film’s running time.

For all its self indulgencies however, this is a very lovely little film that treats the subjects of both family and sex with the same honesty and good natured sense of humour. I laughed a lot and didn’t shed one tear so that for me sells it.

The Rest of the World chronicles a short period in the lives of a French family of three sisters and their father along with a few respective partners. The family are haunted by the ghost of a mother who died twenty-odd years before as well as by the secrets she left behind. Secrets emerge throughout, allowing this carefully crafted family dynamic to start coming apart at the seams and various tensions to come to the fore.

Not quite so subtle is the addition of the ‘stepmother’, played with terrifying brilliance by Emmanuelle Beart. Surely even poor Snow White didn’t have to put up with the shit these women take from their stepmother as she proceeds to tell vindictive secrets, ruin every family event, and, in one rather memorable scene, beat the crap out of their dad. In such a pool of well developed and sensitively crafted characters, this almost pantomime villain seems slightly out of place.

Having said that, the addition of the stepmother does make for some of the most entertaining scenes in the film and creates some light moments in what is generally quite a heavy storyline, following as it does the central sister’s discovery of her pregnancy in the wake of her boyfriend’s recent suicide.

It is this central character of Eve, who creates the most beautiful heart of the film, and not simply because the camera adores her. The fact that overall she has very few lines not only reflects that she works with deaf children but also the quiet role she seems to play within the family dynamic. Eve’s struggle to come to terms with her situation is just as quiet and creates a poignant drama that seems to almost recall and reinforce the shock of the death of her mother.

This somewhat tragic formula does however go a long way to representing the chaotic web of connections, alliances and resentments that make up any family. The fact that there is the possibility of a baby at the heart of the action similarly comes to represent the future and next phase of this group as well as to centre all their concerns about parentage and family on a very real centre-point.

Director Damien Odoul is described by the programme as an ‘EIFF veteran’ and certainly this self assured and delicate film reflects his experience as well as his understanding of how to create a rather beautiful piece of art.

When newly-wed Molly moves back into her long-abandoned childhood home, details of the house’s sinister past soon emerge, and she is forced to relive the horrific events which led her to substance abuse years earlier. Frequently alone due to the absence of truck driver husband Tim, she becomes convinced that the house is haunted by the malevolent spirit of her dead father. But is it all simply in her head?

The child abuse back-story employed here is fast becoming one of the most reliable clichés in modern horror. It may afford the opportunity for a bogeyman who is potentially scarier because grounded in reality, but it still feels vaguely exploitative and in this instance raises too many questions. Considering the horrors that were inflicted upon her there as a child it seems implausible that Molly would return to the house in the first place, let alone stay there after she suspects it is haunted. The writers try to negotiate pitfalls like this, or why she never receives the psychiatric help she clearly needs, by painting the newly-weds as a blue-collar couple with no money or health-insurance, bound by circumstance. Unfortunately the film’s squeaky clean casting works against this. I understand the story’s need to have Tim out of the house, leaving Molly at the mercy of her demons, and I don’t want to make any sweeping generalisations about the appearances of truck drivers, but O.C. alumni Johnny Lewis makes just about the least convincing one I’ve ever seen.

As Molly, Gretchen Lodge gives an admirable performance that the film doesn’t really merit. There’s very little here that hasn’t been done better elsewhere, and that includes the copious hand-held camera sequences littered throughout. It’s unclear whether Sanchez is simply giving a nod to the genre he helped cultivate, or if it’s become a crutch that he is incapable of parting with. In either case it adds nothing, and only serves to undermine the dominant theme of ambiguity over whether the house is actually haunted or Molly is just mad.

The film does have some things going for it. I’m a sucker for a villain with cloven feet and thought the demonic horse motif was fun. The rich soundscape full of equine grunting and clopping helps to sustain a sense of foreboding and induce the odd shiver. Even that begins to grate though. The incessant breathing down the back of your neck may be creepy at first but it quickly becomes tiring.

Crucially, the film just isn’t all that scary. Whatever your thoughts on THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT, it made a lasting impression on not just horror but the movie-making landscape as a whole. That its two creators should come together after a decade apart to make something as inconsequential as LOVELY MOLLY is more than a little disappointing.

KILLER JOE is his second collaboration with playwright Tracey Letts after 2006’s BUG and marks the director’s first outing on the big screen since then.

The story, adapted from Letts’s play, revolves around a Texan trailer-trash family operating at Sam Shepard-plus levels of dysfunction. Stepmom Sharla answers the front door naked from the waist down, hangdog dad Ansel thinks nothing of spitting on the living room floor, and deadbeat son Chris wants to murder his own mother for her $50k life-insurance policy: a scheme which the rest of the family, including beautiful, oddball little sister Dottie, think is a swell idea. The Smith clan make the Lohans look like the Waltons.

Things get complicated when police detective and moonlighting hit man “Killer Joe” Cooper appears on the scene. Hired to carry out the murder of Ansel’s ex-wife, the quietly menacing cowboy lays claim to Dottie as sexual collateral until he receives his cut of the insurance money: a sum which may or may not ever arrive. His presence forms the natural catalyst for the muggy, incestuous air of the Smith household to ignite into full-bloodied murder.

The source material is strong, but to Friedkin’s credit, KILLER JOE always feels like more than just a filmed play. His thoughtful composition allows each actor’s face to tell its own story, and he permits us breathing space between the many intense and often claustrophobic dialogue scenes with some unexpected belly laughs and a chase sequence that while not quite THE FRENCH CONNECTION is nonetheless a thrilling addition to a film that for the most part functions as a full-frontal chamber piece.

Letts’s characters occasionally teeter on the brink of caricature, but five stellar central performances elevate the Smiths beyond mere exaggerated stereotypes. Thomas Hayden Church imbues the downtrodden Ansel with an understated pathos and humour that make him the perfect counterpoint to his increasingly erratic family, whilst Gina Gershon gets put through the ringer both emotionally and psychically and comes out shining. The already infamous scene she shares with a piece of KFC is a harrowing watch and ensures her yet another entry into the cult pantheon. Even Emile Hirsch, who probably has the least to work with out of anyone here, brings a disarming charm to a character that might have proven irredeemable in the hands of a lesser actor.

Arguably though, the two actors here who will set most tongues wagging are Juno Temple and Matthew McConaughey. As Dottie, Temple brings an ethereal, almost spooky quality to a vulnerable role that marks hers as one of the faces to keep an eye out for in coming years. And while the film may serve as a launch pad for her it could well prove the source of a glorious reinvention for McConaughey. Following a terrific run on HBO’s Eastbound and Down, his spellbinding turn here appears glowing confirmation of a long-stalled career finally shifting gears. As the laconic, predacious Joe, he is utterly compelling, giving the performance of his career so far, one that is as transfixing as it is chilling. It’s a world away from the rom-com dreck that his name has too long been associated with, and could quite conceivably bag him an Oscar nomination.

Tarantino once spoke of his respect for directors who retire before they hit old age, eschewing the habit of fleshing out filmographies with “limp dick old man movies”. At 76 years old though, Friedkin has crafted a rock hard, deep fried, cinematic sucker punch that feels more akin to a film made by a director half his age. Savage, sexy, and blackly comic, KILLER JOE represents a brave choice for EIFF opening night and carries with it the promise of a festival that will shock and delight in equal measure.

That was my very discerning thought process in the lead up to reviewing this film. There were other factors, I hasten to add, none particularly discerning though. Predominantly I really wanted to watch a feel-good film, one that didn’t include too many clichés or romantic tropes.

Salmon Fishing in the Yemen does fulfil that mantra rather well. The two love interests are very clearly set out at the start as unavailable, one in situation, the other emotionally; a messy scenario if ever we have one. Shots of Fred (McGregor) and his wife’s wedding rings become less and less subtle until we even have an odd scene of the two of them in a kind of village band in London, wedding rings centre shot. And Harriet (Emily Blunt) is with a sexy, but sensitive soldier who promises not to break her heart. Lovely. Confusing.

The story itself is not a romantic one. Fred has been drafted in to bring salmon fishing to the Yemen. Harriet is the ‘facilitator’; I’m not entirely sure what Harriet’s job is but she sure has a lovely office and doesn’t blink when you tell her a job will cost £50 million. Fred, on the other hand, works for the government, as a fish expert. Yes I know, who’d have thought it, no offence to Fred but you would think that might be the obvious place to make some cuts. Ultimately however, they both work for Sheikh Muhammed (Amr Waked), the ‘visionary’ who wants to bring salmon fishing to the Yemen.

The silly title is the best thing about this film and the silliness of that task is what brings the magic to the film. I am reliably informed that the book is also very funny and off-beat. The real problem then, is that the film starts to take itself seriously half way through and romantic shots of salmon move from being ironic to genuine so all I can do is confusedly wonder if someone mixed up a nature programme in the film. I suppose this is the problem when you adapt a book to film and try to keep all the ingredients; Fred’s marriage problems and Harriet’s soldier boyfriend might have time to resolve over 300 pages but over a short two hours, they really don’t.

So, is this a rom-com? It certainly seemed so in the trailer, which packaged together all the meaningful shots of the two leads. With a ‘current’ edge? Yes, and the film does toe the line with some very real situations, not least because it is half set in Afghanistan.

I couldn’t quite place what it was that disappointed me about Salmon Fishing in the Yemen. The film was certainly funny at the start and the two leads are good, especially in acerbic Brit mode. Waked is rather lovable as the Sheikh who just wants to bring about a little change and indulge in a gentle bit of sport and soldier boy is suitably wet that we don’t really care about his plight. The ending is the weakest part of the film by far, as Kristin Scott Thomas’ ball-busting politician manipulates the film to its close; one that will inevitably involve a romantic shot of a salmon. Who’d have thought? This film actually is about salmon!

Salmon Fishing in the Yemen is now showing at Cameo, Edinburgh.

That is basically all I had heard about A Dangerous Method, although my own impetus for going was far more along the lines of: Aragorn and Mr Rochester, yes why not, and to be honest I should imagine that is the draw getting most of the women into that audience. On the downside neither man is particularly attractive in the somewhat severe garb of an Edwardian intellectual, on the upside the film itself is rather good.

David Cronenberg’s latest controversial offering details the relationship between three big names in psychoanalysis in pre First World War Europe. Centring around the character of Carl Jung (Fassbender), the film traces the relationship between the doctor and his star patient (Knightley) as well as the working relationship between Jung and Freud (Mortensen).

Cronenberg seems to have developed a habit of working with Viggo Mortensen on his big projects and this relationship has no doubt been a rewarding one having spawned both A History of Violence and Eastern Promises. Mortensen responds well to these intense roles which you can’t help but think may be a lot closer to his acting preference than the traditional hero type he styled in Lord of the Rings. With such an intense double act already on board it seems only natural to bring in one of the most heavyweight actors of the moment, Michael Fassbender, whose intense sex-fest in Shame may have missed out on all the big awards but has still gleaned a lot of media attention simply for its controversial subject matter.

And, true to form, the two actors are wonderful in their respective parts, particularly Mortensen, whose portrayal of Freud is irritatingly likeable. The film is billed as the story of a relationship between the two men and the sections about the two are both intensely poignant and intellectually challenging. Fassbender is very much a match for the brilliance of Mortensen’s acting and the two bounce of one another in a charming manner. It is in the character of Sabina (Knightley) though, that the storyline is confused somewhat.

Knightley’s acting is good and her accent fine, although I’m no expert in Russian accents. The relationship between Sabina and Jung is very engaging even if to be honest I thought Keira Knightley a little too frail looking to withstand a beating with a belt. The problem is that Cronenberg’s film just can’t seem to decide whether it is a buddy film about the developing and then fraying relationship between Freud and Jung, or if it is a love story between Jung and Sabina, and so it goes for a bit of both. This in itself gives the overall product a feeling that it is somehow not complete and whilst we have been indulged for two hours with some beautiful acting, we have not quite been told a story.

A Dangerous Method is now showing at Cameo Edinburgh.

The interesting thing about The Artist is that the one thing the trailers don’t make entirely clear, that it is a silent film, is the main concept of Michel Hazanavicius’ award seeker. Set in 1929, the year that silent films went out and ‘talkies’ came in, The Artist is also a play upon the form itself. This is a silent film about the death of silent film, which in itself is a fascinating concept. Even as we watch George Valentin struggle with the fact that that the art form in which he was so successful is a dying art, we see him do it in that format.

The storyline follows George Valentin, a successful star of talking film, and Peppy Miller, a newbee to whom George gave her first big break. Billed as a romance, the film is in fact far more a character piece mostly about George and the way in which he copes when the world no longer wants him. George’s gripe that talkies are not ‘real art’ results in him refusing to change with the times and instead he self destructs whilst at the same time Peppy’s rise to fame mirrors George’s fall from it.

For a generation to whom talkies are the only form, this film is both a revelation and a fascinating display of a very different art. The fact is that while we all grew up with black and white films on channel two, even if you hardly watched them, they were there. Silent films however, never get re-shown and generally are regarded as a dead art form, something that film went through but, apart from the odd glimpse of Charlie Chaplin, something that we have no proper experience of. But the fact that this film makes very clear, even whilst it subtly critiques George for his pride, is that silent films are an art. Talkies may be too, but the subtle acting techniques, the means of demonstrating mood and thoughts and the rather more visual style of someone who basically has no dialogue has, by necessity, to be very different from a form in which things can be spoken and, to an extent, manners can be fairly true to life.

The Artist not only allows us to experience the form however, it also plays upon it. The opening sequence shows a clip of one of George’s films with cuts to shots of a very appreciative audience and then at the end of the film a cut to an applauding audience again, but this time with no music and thus, no sound. It is this clever awareness of the form that allows the film to be so self aware whilst at the same time plunging itself into a different time and style. You have also never been quite so aware of the power of silence as you are in The Artist, when certain scenes avoid the loud orchestral dictation of our mood and instead demonstrate the real intensity of the moment by cutting the sound completely. There are various subtle moments and a very clever dream sequence that makes sound into a nightmare, just as it is George’s, which demonstrate the care and attention that has gone into every moment of this film.

And the fact is that the careful construction of silent films is the one thing that may have been lost from film. In a form when there are no voices to distract, and everything has to be conveyed through the body, every moment has to be precisely choreographed. The actors themselves work beautifully in this style in The Artist, as relative unknowns, Jean Dujardin and Bérénice Bejo, manage to recreate the male star come all around entertainer and smooth talking hero and the plucky underdog whose big eyes and charm will take her all the way. In the representation of a film industry that relied heavily upon the personality of its stars these two are a perfect homage to old fashioned Hollywood. The actors are also able to work well within the limitations of the form and manage to make it a style that they can embrace. In an age when silent film is so buried it must have taken a lot of research and careful study by both the actors and Hazanavicius create something that is both so clever and so representative of a beautiful art form that has so long been abandoned.

The Artist is now showing at the Cameo, Edinburgh.

Set in post WW2 Britain, The Deep Blue Sea is Terence Davies’ film version of the 1950’s play of the same name. The story is that of a married woman (Rachel Weisz) who falls for a younger man and leaves her wealthy husband for him, only to realise that he cannot return the sincere level of her affection. With an opening scene in which she tries to kill herself and the depressed spirits of a post war generation hanging over the film it is clear from the start that this is no chipper British fare.

Davies’ stylised film mimics the classic film styles of the period in which it is set, with tragic music that beautifully dictates our emotions and a colour palate that although not black and white is rather reflective of the period and echoes of sepia photographs. The direction seems determined to situate the film in a very clear time frame despite the vague opening statement that the start is set ‘Around 1950’. From the incredibly dowdy 1940’s décor to scenes of cheap pubs and the inclusion of the various other inhabitants of Hester and Freddie’s dowdy tenement rooms, the film is strongly reflective of a Britain that sits in the shadow of two world wars.

Moving between two very different worlds; that of Lady Collyer and that of her life with Freddie, simply as Hester, Mr Page’s mistress, the film reflects a sadness and aged glory in both. My favourite scene, that between Lord Collyer’s ‘mummy’ and Hester, in fact reflects as sympathetically on the old order as it does on the new. ‘Mummy’ might be stuffy as hell, but she has a much better sense of humour than this new, earnest generation and she provides the lightest scenes in the film; especially when she recommends ‘guarded enthusiasm’ over passion, and gardens over people to Hester. And you can’t help but wonder, had she followed her mother in law’s advice, if Hester mightn’t have ended up a little happier.

This film in no way looks like a play as some adaptations do; the screenplay has made full advantage of the effects at its disposal and used them to emphasise the tragic little world in which it’s set. The opening sequence as Hester tries to kill herself cuts to her passionate relationship with Freddie and then following scenes move easily through time and scenes of Hester with her husband and her lover. The potentially self indulgent flashback of Lord and Lady Collyer sheltering with London’s finest in the Underground to an entire rendition of Molly Malone is in fact beautiful. The song is reflective of the time and British spoken culture and, combined with the pathos of the words, serves well to emphasise the home front tragedies of wartime London as man woman and child of every class stand shoulder to shoulder singing.

The acting in The Deep Blue Sea is spot on, with all three of the main actors playing their part to perfection. Irritatingly no one is entirely likeable and no one is entirely unlikeable. The three are each incredibly tragic in their own way and caught in a situation from which there is no clear escape. This makes for a film that is both highly frustrating and highly engaging and definitely not a film to cheer you up.

The Deep Blue Sea is now showing at Edinburgh Filmhouse.

French painter Jean Marc Calvet has many former lives, each one marked by violence; abused street kid, Foreign Legionnaire, vice cop, professional bodyguard, underground thug. Yet it is the incredible story of the man, who on the run from a Miami mobster with a case of stolen money found himself in Central America, tormented by paranoia and addiction and close to death, who in a moment of rage and desperation began to paint, that forms the centre of Dominic Allan’s powerful documentary Calvet. Now a successful artist Calvet delves into his past, finally confronting experiences he has long tried to escape, and returns to France to seek out the son he abandoned twelve years earlier without a word.

Allen tells the story of first meeting Calvet. Of driving with friends from Costa Rica to Nicaragua and hearing rumours about this French guy. ‘“He’s painting, and he robbed a bank, or he was a mercenary or something” and I just went “what?” But then we arrived and I saw this painting on the wall, and I always tell people that because it really screamed out at me, it really stopped me and I just said “Jesus, who the hell did that?”And because it was so bright and tortured it really spoke to me at the time. It was just very very powerful.

‘It was two years later that I was cutting a film in London and his name just popped into my head again. He had sort of been haunting me a bit, and I rang him up and went back to see him. Started to talk to him and hear the story and that was really the beginning.

‘He used to say to me, “I don’t quite understand why you want to make a movie about me.” Almost a little suspicious, didn’t quite get it. But I was always very straight with Jean Marc in terms of why I wanted to make the film. I [had] a very clear idea that I was going to make quite an epic feature documentary; I knew what it was about and why I wanted to do it. It was quite difficult for Jean Marc to grasp that because he didn’t know me from Adam. So I always told him that it was a story, [a] film that would come from a very dark place and would have a big message of hope . . . a very inspiring message.’

The film itself is nonlinear, moving back and forward though time, across continents, with unusual ease. ‘I always saw this [film] as a bit of a structural maze, or what I call a fractured structure,’ says Allan. ‘But as I soon discovered, that’s quite hard to do. It’s a process and it’s a wonderful puzzle but when it clicks it doesn’t feel like an effort, you don’t feel like you’re taken elsewhere without wanting to.’

The film involves a process of revisiting, almost re-enacting through Jean Marc’s very engaging, energetic, physical onscreen presence, though to this Allan is quick to point out that at no point did Calvet act. Yet the memories expressed are often so vivid as to provide the viewer with a sense of being shown rather than told. Allan states, ‘How you tell a story in the past is always a challenge. Jean Marc had not been back to these places before and I thought how are you going to re-do that story? You can relive it, if you relive it you go back in time and you go to these places. The next best thing is actually to do that but with the adult in the present moment. So you take the adult back through these places.

‘It’s the first time he’d been back into that public loo, or wherever it may be, the apartment where he lived with his parents, you can see it when he arrives, outside the apartment he goes “oh fuck, this is where I lived.” And you can see it in his face. It’s completely raw. So in a sense you’re not re-enacting, what you actually end up with is telling a story about the past which is alive in the present.’

This rawness is clear in the often horrific nature of the events being relived. Calvet explains these in saying, ‘I had one point, [in] fact two points, [that were] very hard for me. One when I was young in the toilet and the second part, that was the scariest, was the house. I didn’t want to go back. But at the same time I knew I needed, we needed, to go. I didn’t want [to] but it’s good therapy. All the movie was like this “boom boom boom boom.”’ He says with a beating heart gesture. To which Allan adds, ‘the three things on the shot were definitely going back to that public toilet in Nice, going to the house and finding his son and as one happened and it was over you could see quite a big relief. More was released each time with him.’

Calvet’s work itself is intrinsic to the film and its visual style. From the first paintings, scrawled in whatever could be found in the house Calvet had shut himself up in, to his later, equally tortured but in many ways, more formalised work. He speaks animatedly about his initial motivation to paint as a means of survival. For Calvet painting is merely a medium through which he can exorcise his demons so as not to ‘go completely crazy or die.’ At first destructive, he now views the work as a process of construction. Confronting areas of himself and his past that for years had remained locked away. ‘I take something that’s in the dark part and [I use] colour and it doesn’t scare me anymore. . . . It’s therapy without chemicals.’

Calvet’s more recent works no longer feel chaotic. Although bright, bursting with colour and detail, they display a sense of order and with that perhaps a degree of safety. Calvet describes those first paintings in terms of purging, of vomit or trash he had to be rid of. ‘Now I move my trash, personal trash, and I say “put this here and put this here” I want to understand more, before I didn’t want to understand I just wanted [to get it out]. . . because it would kill me but now I try to understand. Before I was stranger in the mirror and I didn’t understand you.’

Calvet throughout displays a sense of intimacy between filmmaker and subject, this and a clear sensitivity to those also affected by the film that is particularly apparent in its approach to finding Calvet’s son. ‘That was something I gave a huge amount of thought to,’ says Allan. ‘How would I do it if they met, and in what circumstances would they meet and how could I handle that, in a situation that would be appropriate for Jean Marc, appropriate for his son, or his family whoever’s with him. First of all in terms of the search for the son I very much felt that we were there as a support to Jean Marc, and we travelled together and obviously we talked about those [decisions] but it was all Jean Marc’s choices. One thing that actually [becomes] part of the story, in a sense, is that the search for the son is also, in his manifestation of how he does it, the proof of the changed man. Because he becomes in the search the father he never was, before he’s found him, in the choices he makes, writing the letter, having the number [but] won’t call. And that was purely Jean Marc. I was interested because documentary is risk management and you’re kind of going along with it. And you think “well I wonder how Jean Marc’s going to deal with it.” And so that was very interesting and I really have a huge amount of respect for Jean Marc in seeing how he did that.

‘I really feel my way with these things and I think if you’re really in the zone, as it were, and you’re really sensitive to not just the scene you’re capturing and how you think it ought to look but how that really ought to sit in terms of what’s going on, and that’s obviously a huge responsibility and I think you just have to feel it. With the grandfather for example, was the first time that really came up. It just felt absolutely right to me, I didn’t have to think about it for too long it was just “ok we’re going to sit here at ten meters” and he was on a radio mic and I just thought “ok I’m going to get the sound and I’m going to stay here, I’m not going to go any closer” and that scene feels absolutely appropriate to me.

‘And that the phone call [between Jean Marc and his son] happened was very fortunate because you get the outpouring [of emotion] without having to be [intrusive] . . . I could never do that if the son was there. And obviously I decided categorically not to record the son’s side of the phone call. It just feels right. . . . And then I always saw the ending again distanced.’

Another way in which this intimacy was preserved was through Allan’s decision to hire a non-French speaking director of photography, Dewald Aukema. ‘He’s a quiet chap and he doesn’t speak French which was actually quite important from my point of view . . . so my relationship with Jean Marc could stay very private.’ Calvet adds, ‘when I was on the phone it’s wasn’t a problem for me, I didn’t think about the camera, I didn’t think about Domenic, Domenic is part of my life . . . it’s still a private moment because Domenic is a part of me.’ Again Allan credits much of this to the close relationship developed between them and to the discretion of Aukema, ‘you really don’t feel the camera’s there a lot of the time.’

What this intimacy and trust result in is an often shocking candour. ‘That was absolutely the point,’ says Allan. ‘The film came along at a very important time because it came along at a time when Jean Marc needed to purge. And the film was the ultimate purging; it was the ultimate extension of his art in terms of needing and wanting to heal. So that from a filmmaker’s point of view was really attractive. I said ok if we do this we do it all. I said you say what you want and I’ll know if you’re holding back.’

Although Calvet is an exceedingly personal story it contains a definite sense of universality perhaps rooted in the notion of redemption. ‘You know there is a universal theme there,’ says Allan, ‘and I think that it’s perhaps that we, most of us, have unconsciously, and often irrationally, this feeling that we need to forgive ourselves for something. This idea of a second chance.’

Calvet explains that this was not something he was truly able to consider whilst making the film, that only later could he feel the sense of catharsis that was the result of this journey. ‘My reaction for the camera is honest and pure and direct because I had no time to think.’ Interestingly, for Calvet, seeing the finished film represented a particularly important point of closure. He uses a metaphor that could be applied equally to his work. ‘Now it is like a puzzle. You know when you begin a puzzle you don’t understand but you put the blue here or the red here, it is not finished, but now I see something good. I understand, and this is very different because before it was chaotic like my painting. Now it is chaotic but organisational. . . . It’s changed my painting, it’s changed my life.’

‘I have to say it’s one of the most rewarding things as a filmmaker to see,’ notes Allan. ‘I tell you because I used to make films for TV, commissioned stuff and now I’m making my own stuff and doing stuff that inspires people, other people, that’s the biggest reward. Knowing that it’s a really profound mutual exchange between filmmaker and protagonist where everybody wins, and it’s how I think documentary should be.’

Calvet adds, ‘he knows the man of 2004, he sees in 2006 and 2008 and now in 2011. [Allan is] the only witness, he knows all and he sees me, he sees the evolution. . . . I don’t know if this is a good word but it’s like I’m reborn and this is my brother. He’s part of [my] family. He is the only man who it is possible to talk about this [with].

‘I think [Dominic] sees a difference, and this is because of the movie. The painting sure, at the same time, but the movie is something strong.’ Allen then, in making a film in large part about art and its power to transform has succeeded in making something that is, in itself, transformative.

Ruth Johnston

Calvet is showing at the Edinburgh Cameo on Thursday the 24^th of November at 18.40, followed by a Q&A with director Dominic Allan.

http://www.picturehouses.co.uk/film/Calvet/

Details of further screenings are available on the website.

www.calvetmovie.com

www.facebook.com/calvetmovie

Yes, well Ms Arnold, your new adaptation may have actually ruined my capacity for watching endless hours of period drama. There was even a nightmare moment during Wuthering Heights when, two and a bit hours in I began to wonder if they had actually adapted the entire book and not just the first half and I was stuck in there for an interminable amount of time. The thought nearly killed me.

Andrea Arnold’s innovative new take on Emily Bronte’s classic novel is about as ‘arty’ as they come. The story itself is broken up with shots of the moors, shots of dead animals and meaningful shots of bugs that may or may not be representative of the pent up sexuality of the characters. The acting itself isn’t half bad, but the endless close ups of animals as well as people, oh and trees, a lot of trees, is quite frankly boring.

Now before I get too carried away with my rage I must say that the acting in the new adaptation is good, especially that of the younger actors, who, contrary to the usual pattern of things, have a lot more camera time than the older actors. The decision to cast a black actor in the part of Heathcliff, which may or may not have been a media grabbing decision, does work in part, especially since the action is transposed back to Regency times, making finding a runaway slave on the streets of Liverpool a much more likely option. The love story between Heathcliff and Cathy develops well as the two roll around in the dirt and convincingly depict not so much the love but the overpowering need that the characters in Emily Bronte’s novel have for one another.

However, this brings us to the sexual undertones that run through the story, or in the case of this film, the overt overtones. From Heathcliff straddling a horse behind Cathy and a close up of his hand on the pulsating muscular creature beneath them, to their overtly symbolic tussle in the mud and of course the aforementioned meaningful shots of wild creatures, the film simply pulsates with sexuality. Added to that, all the action seems to go on outside, quite literally, to the extent that Hindley’s child is both conceived and born amongst the wild (and quite frankly cold) backdrop of the Yorkshire Moors. Now I don’t mean to be too unromantic, and rough out of doors sexual encounters aside, who in their right mind allows a pregnant woman to give birth outside?

But then to be fair the Wuthering Heights of this film is so small, grimy and dirty that it is probably more hygienic to do everything outside. To describe the film as a grimy version of the story would be an understatement. Of course I do understand that the dirt goes to help the grubby carnal sexual undertones, but to be honest we got that message when Cathy licked blood from Heathcliff’s back. The fact is that class distinctions do make a difference and the way the Earnshaws are painted in this version they are distinctly lower middle class. If that is the case then the Lintons would not mix with them and certainly not even think of allowing their son to marry Cathy, so some of the basis for the action becomes highly questionable.

Not only is the house so distinctly grubby that you wonder what the servant does with her time, but the family themselves seem to have an ambiguous class status, from Cathy who wears trousers at the start (a passable suggestion if addressed) to her horrible brother, Hindley whose portrayal can be described as nothing so well as a stereotypical member of the BNP. (This is especially funny when, later in the film, his seven year old son is depicted as a miniature version of his father, skinhead and all.) Both of the Earnshaw children swear like fishwives, in the other crowd pulling innovation that this film brings to the table: swear words. Fine, swear, but use authentic swearwords; the fact is that these two have lead a closeted life in the Yorkshire Moors with a highly religious if rather rough father: where exactly have they been exposed to fuck and the c-word; words, that in this time period are only used in very rough brothels in inner city backdrops. It just makes no sense, especially since, in all other respects the film is suggesting it’s authentic, if artily authentic.

The swear words are among the few words that do feature in a very limited script. For its own sake I have no objection to a limited script, the novel is wild and untamed and most of the voices in it are those of narrators so it bears this adaptation well. However, what did bother me was the way in which the story is broken up with an entire catalogue of meaningless arty shots that cut the script down even more. From the camera wandering through the grass at the start to a really close up shot of a dying sheep (sound effects and all) and numerous close ups of the aforementioned bugs (especially moths) the effects can only be described as gratuitous. And this seems to be the name of the game in Andrea Arnold’s version of the novel; determined to prove that she is not making something like other period dramas a lot of the action and shots toe the line between unnecessary and offensive until we even have suggestions of necrophilia at the end.

But Arnold is not the first to bring arty effects to period drama; Jane Campion did it in both Bright Star and The Piano, to beautiful effect. Wuthering Heights however, is trying so hard to be different that I ended up feeling bored and a little bit violated. I came out of the cinema nearly crying with frustration and gagging for something staid and conventional.

Wuthering Heights is now showing at the Cameo, Edinburgh.