Here's Tom with the weather...
Sunday, 16 November 2014
No Man Is An Island
It takes a wise man to coin an aphorism which endures for 400 years, but John Donne managed it with some aplomb. No man, indeed, is an island. We are all wrapped up in mankind, our humanity intrinsically linked to the humanity of those around us. Alone, we are nothing.
But many people are alone. Many of us are islands.
We live in a world of interconnectedness: Facebook, Twitter, mobile phones, rolling news coverage, email alerts, Snapchats and Instagrams. We announce our every move, pronounce our every thought, picture our every meal. We know where are friends are. Who they've been with. What they wore. Who did their hair.
None of this shit matters.
These are details. Fripperies. They are not real. They are illusions. They have no depth, no weight, no emotion. Yet for many of us they have come to replace real human contact.
We labour under the misconception that our friendships are close and meaningful because we know what and when and where our friends do the things they do. But how often do we ask how or why?
We see the glossy surface they choose to represent: the best photos of their night out, the edited highlights of their holiday. We witness this artifice, this social construction and we convince ourselves it is real. It isn't.
Our social media selves are a representation of the real us. They don't show the drudgery, the struggle, the schlep that life often is. We struggle with boredom, self-doubt and loneliness because we compare ourselves with the bullshit beamed onto our devices - the kind of highlights packages we can't ever dream to compete with.
We have replaced time spent together with time spent watching each other through the window, a glass screen separating us from what really matters: a hug, a squeeze, a kiss. We feel that we're involved because we know so much, but all we really know is what's on the surface. We forget to scratch beneath for what really matters, isolating ourselves, retreating into our hermetically sealed existence.
We watch our friends' lives and worry that ours aren't so interesting. We see their relationships and compare ours to theirs, chastising ourselves for our inadequacies. We see people having the fun we wish we were having and we withdraw still further, until one day we realise that we haven't actually seen a good friend for twelve months, that we didn't cuddle them when their mum was ill, that we haven't met their baby daughter.
And as we cast ourselves adrift, we peddle the lie that things are okay. We represent ourselves online in the way we wish to be seen, convincing our friends and families that we are fine when in reality we are lonely and hurting, scared to express our true feelings lest they become lost in the ocean of updates, tweets and images.
Instead of skimming this surface meaning, we must take the plunge and dive beneath it, immersing ourselves and, as John Donne advised, ensuring we are "involved in mankind". It's the only way we can hold our heads above water.
Sunday, 27 October 2013
Captain Phillips
I have a hatred of Hanks which I find difficult to justify.
Perhaps it his slightly nasal, whiny voice. Maybe that irritating eye-narrowing
thing he does. Possibly his annoying everyman shtick. More likely it’s that
batch of woeful romantic comedies he made with Meg Ryan in the mid-nineties.
After all, I’ve occasionally chosen to overlook my Hanks hate – Forrest Gump,
the first twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan, childhood favourite Big. And
so it was with Captain Phillips: a film which, despite its abysmal title, has
received rave reviews and in which Tom Hanks gives possibly the best
performance of his career.
The plot is a simple one: the eponymous Captain (Hanks) is
piloting his cargo ship through international waters off the Horn of Africa
when it is hijacked by a group of four Somali pirates. Phillips appeals for
help from the authorities, but assistance fails to arrive in time to stop the
armed raiders boarding the ship – leaving the noble captain to protect his
unarmed crew and his boat.
Such a simple synopsis reveals nothing of the film, however.
Tom Hanks is superb as a man out of his depth, forced to
confront difficult decisions in the most difficult of circumstances. Initially
he seems the archetypal company man, following protocol and playing it by the
book. But as his captors become increasingly unpredictable, so Phillips’
actions become more inspired, courageous and innovative. He takes huge risks in
the most prosaic ways – it’s only after leaving the cinema and reflecting on
the movie that it becomes clear how just how risky some of his plays were.
At the other end of behavioural the spectrum is the pirates’
own captain. Muse (Barkhad Abdi) is desperate, bitter and emotional – a
trembling, wide-eyed, wounded animal whose erratic nature is the antithesis of
Phillips’ cool exterior. It’s a mesmerising performance from a first-timer who
didn’t even meet Tom Hanks until their first on-screen confrontation.
And what a confrontation it is. Sparks fly as the characters
face off, with the threat of violence constantly simmering beneath the surface.
There is mutual respect too, with moments of genuine compassion and humanity
passing between the two – not least as Muse attempts to protect Phillips from
some of the less sanguine pirates in his crew.
As the film lurches towards a conclusion, the action becomes
increasingly claustrophobic and the tension is almost unbearable. Barry Ackroyd’s
photography is superb, placing the camera amidst the action as blood and sweat
are spilled and violence threatens to erupt in the closest possible confines.
Even knowing the true story which inspired the film doesn’t lessen the
knuckle-whitening tension.
The final scenes are an acting tour-de-force: a visceral,
powerfully emotional outpouring which offer an increasingly tense audience some
kind of catharsis after one of the most gripping, tautly made movies of recent
years.
Labels:
Barkhad Abdi,
Captain Phillips,
Film,
Movie,
Paul Greengrass,
Review,
Tom Hanks
Tuesday, 23 July 2013
The World's End
First, a confession: I didn’t like Spaced. I was not a huge fan of Shaun of the Dead. I didn’t even watch Hot Fuzz. It’s important to get this information out in the open in order to deal with accusations of prejudice appropriately: I really wanted to enjoy this film.
For this man of a certain age, a movie about reuniting the
old gang and returning to the shit-hole town of their birth has a particularly personal
resonance: our annual pub crawls have only recently ended thanks to births,
marriages and disapproving spouses. With my man-crush Paddy Considine on board
and a soundtrack borrowed from my youth, The World’s End would surely be the
film which finally convinced me of Pegg, Frost and director Edgar Wright’s
charms.
The story is a simple one: Simon Pegg plays Gary King, once
Newton Haven’s biggest big-shot, but now desperately trying to recapture his
youth by recreating what remains the best night of his life. That night saw
Gary and four friends fail to complete the Golden Mile pub crawl, falling just
a few pubs short of their twelve pint target. Here, he reassembles the gang to
finish what began so many years before.
Obviously, the crew have moved on significantly since that ‘legendary’
night, assuming comfortable lives at the helms of various businesses. They’re a
stereotypical, crudely drawn bunch – but thanks to the actors filling the roles
this can almost be forgiven. Paddy Considine, Martin Freeman and Eddie Marsan
are always charismatic presences, although they’re given little to do here save
for one touching speech from Marsan.
Rather, the focus remains firmly on Pegg’s Gary. This is his
story and he is central to everything that happens.
This would not be a problem
if he were not such an insufferable wanker. Obviously this is, in some part, deliberate.
Gary is an alienating presence whose presence divides even his friends. But the
problem here is that there is no warmth in the character: he does not deserve
anyone’s sympathy. Even in flashback, Gary is a bit of a prick – just why did
anyone like him in the first place?
Thankfully, if you throw enough mud some if it sticks.There are some clever moments: incorporating song lyrics
into the script is a neat in-joke which reveals much about Gary’s character; a
neatly choreographed fight scene sees him struggle to beat off dozens of aliens
without spilling his precious pint.
Oh yes, the aliens. It transpires that Newton Haven has been
taken over by robot aliens intent on beating the shit out of our increasingly
drunken gang. It’s a familiar trope, but has been done so much better so many
times before. From Dusk Til Dawn did it with vampires and everyone has done it
with zombies – including those concerned here.
The action scenes here are zingy and well filmed, but rapidly become repetitive and dull. There is no real sense of genuine peril and the enemies
are less than terrifying. Perhaps the whole film would have worked more
effectively if they’d accentuated the political and societal satire touched on:
conformity and homogeneity are gently mocked, but there is scope for truly
biting satire with such subject matter.
Instead, The World’s End takes the easy way out – not least
with a truly atrocious final battle which demonstrates a lack of imagination and
absolutely no dramatic impact at all. Thankfully an epilogue is added which
dilutes the pain of the terrible concluding conflict.
Above all, however, The World’s End’s problem is this: it is
not funny. I genuinely did not laugh. The audience around me sniggered just three or
four times. Not funny, no emotional heart, dislikeable characters – a bad film
all around. Thankfully Pegg/Frost/Wright have indicated that this is the final
part of the ‘Cornetto Trilogy’ – the success of the previous films have caused
them to become self-indulgent and lazy. Enough is enough.
Labels:
Eddie Marsan,
Edgar Wright,
Film,
Hot Fuzz,
Martin Freeman,
Nick Frost,
Paddy Considine,
Review,
Shaun of the Dead,
Simon Pegg,
The World's End
Saturday, 20 July 2013
The Prestige
Christopher Nolan is one of the most feted filmmakers in the world and for good reason. He
blends the cerebral with the spectacular in fine fashion, creating blockbusters
with brains and creating compelling characters – a rarity in a world where
tent-pole summer releases rely on relentless action rather than any sense of
plot of character development. Yet somehow, The
Prestige has become Nolan’s forgotten film. An amazing cast and intricate plot
proved spectacularly successful for Inception, but here the presence of Bale,
Jackman, Caine (and even David Bowie) did not have nearly the same impact.
Perhaps this
can be attributed to the Victorian setting: in all regards this is an old
fashioned film. There is little CGI, with the film relying on traditional
mechanical effects where possible (an approach Nolan continues to employ) and
the art of storytelling to create its impact. Even the performances (particularly
Hugh Jackman’s vaudevillian) are pleasingly old school.
Based on the
novel by Christopher Priest, The Prestige tells the tale of two stage
magicians: American showman Angier (Jackman) and his working class rival Borden
(Christian Bale). Their enmity is born of a tragic stage accident which sees
Angier’s wife perish on stage and is fuelled by a dangerous sense of one-upmanship.
The desperate desire to outdo one another becomes centred on a stunningly
simplistic trick: The Transported Man.
Michael
Caine’s charming explanation of the three part magic trick - the pledge (the
set-up), the turn (the twist) and the prestige (the unbelievable finale) –
opens the film, playing over the thrilling denouement of The Transported Man
and the conclusion of the film itself. What follows is an explanation of how we
came to this point in a multi-layered narrative which moves backwards and
forwards in time and across countries.
Of course,
the real intrigue in the film is in the magic. The mechanics of the craft are
discussed and revealed, the science explored and debated. But above all else
the audience is reminded that this is all a trick. From the outset Nolan asks
his audience, “Are you watching closely?” – suggesting that there is a
deception lurking beneath the surface sheen of his film. And as an observer you
know you are about to be fooled – but how?
It’s a
daringly devious trick from Nolan which, if discovered partway through the tale
might ruin its telling. But having failed to spot it the first time, a second viewing
serves only to confirm just how audacious the sleight of hand really is. Subtle
it ain’t, but like all the best magic tricks the art is not in the trick
itself, but in the misdirection which disguises it.
Perhaps the film’s (relative) lack of success can be attributed to the
unsympathetic characters – neither Angier nor Borden are particularly likeable.
Perhaps the twist which sees magic become science (courtesy of Bowie’s Nikola
Tesla) was too hard to swallow. But for sheer showmanship, The Prestige is a
film which deserves to be seen. And then seen again – so you can work out what
you’ve just seen!
Labels:
Christian Bale,
Christopher Nolan,
David Bowie,
Film,
Hugh Jackman,
Michael Caine,
Movie,
Review,
Scarlett Johansson,
The Prestige
Monday, 17 June 2013
Man of Steel
The involvement of Chris Nolan (as screenwriter and
producer) ought to guarantee a successful re-imagining of a superhero
franchise. After his sterling work on Batman, his wonderful manipulation of
narrative in films like Memento and proving his big-budget blockbuster
credentials in Inception, who better than to steer director Zak Snyder and his
all star cast through another attempt at rebooting Superman.
Since Christopher Reeve’s early incarnation as the Man of
Steel, the franchise has suffered by the law of diminishing returns. The
sequels grew worse, and a recent attempt to resurrect Clark Kent’s alter-ego
was so unmemorable that nobody can even remember who played him.
Small screen success was easier to find, with Dean Cain and
Teri Hatcher enjoying considerable chemistry in the nineties, and the popular
Smallville exploring Superman’s early years on TV. It’s here, in fact, where
the inspiration for much of Man of Steel’s most successful scenes seems to have
been gleaned.
While the film focuses on the relationship between the young
Clark and his father on earth (a fabulously weathered Kevin Costner), it really
works: a superb combination of youthful angst and worldly wisdom debating the
pros and cons of revealing Clark’s true identity. One scene particularly, as a
huge tornado rages around them, is beautifully written and played. Sadly, this
material is in short supply.
The problems with this film are huge. And there are lots of
them.
Although Henry Cavill has the chiselled face and physique
required for the role, he doesn’t seem to have the personality. Whether this is
lack of acting ability on Cavill’s behalf is uncertain – it seems the part is badly
underwritten. Here, Superman is little more than a cipher, a symbol or a plot
device. He certainly lacks of the depth of Christian Bale’s Batman or Hugh
Jackman’s Wolverine. Perhaps this is because the end product was intended to be
a little lighter fare than those previous movies, but the humour required for
this is conspicuous by its absence.
The storyline initially appears adventurous, with
interesting twists adding to the back-story of Krypton’s destruction and how
Clark comes to be so powerful on Earth, but the plot rapidly runs out of steam
and becomes reliant on preposterous exposition and absurd alien invasions.
Russell Crowe is Clark’s father on Krypton and dies early – only to constantly reappear
throughout, engaging in detailed conversation with his son despite his demise
33 years earlier. It’s a contrivance which makes absolutely no sense – but it’s
not the only one.
Following an unsuccessful coup on Krypton, the evil General
Zod (Michael Shannon) and his minions are frozen in stasis and set adrift in
space. Conveniently, however, the destruction of their home planet results in
their release. There’s no explicable reason for this – other than a desire to
have them turn up later in the film as the main villains. There are other such
examples – insults to an audience’s intelligence.
Perhaps, though, the expectation was that the audience would
demand little cerebral stimulation? It certainly seems that way as the film
barrels towards its conclusion via a series of ‘epic’ battles which are so
spirit crushingly repetitive that I committed the cardinal sin of falling
asleep in the cinema. These sequences are extremely and execrably dull,
employing so much CGI that you may as well be watching your little brother
playing a video game. At least then you could join in.
Labels:
Amy Adams,
Christopher Nolan,
Film,
Henry Cavill,
Kevin Costner,
Man of Steel,
Michael Shannon,
Movie,
Review,
Russell Crowe,
Superman,
Zak Snyder
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