Wavumba

Steeped in the folklore of fisherman, Wavumba (which means “those who smell of fish”) explores director van Velzen’s early memories as a young white child in coastal Kenya. Here, the sea is the source of both life and culture, providing food for the plates and for the mystical stories of the local shamans. The storytelling tradition is celebrated here, and nobody is more celebrated than the heroic fishermen who brave the seas.
Perhaps the most heroic of all (it remains unclear how much of his ‘legend’ is to be believed) is Masoud. He’s a shark-killer of great repute, a sinewy, knotted old man with ragged clothes and calloused hands who has wrestled 400kg fish into his tiny wooden boat unaided. But as the years advance, Masoud finds himself increasingly reliant on his grandson Juma – who suffers his grandfather’s castigation and criticism with humble stoicism. As the season turns, and with age creeping up on Masoud, he sets out to catch just one more shark…

Wavumba is a beautiful film, crafted with a love and care which mirrors the affection van Velsen clearly holds for his former home. His style is unobtrusive, with no obvious attempts to influence his subjects or coerce performances from them. Instead, he documents what he sees without judging, gaining terrific insight into Masoud and Juma’s world in a way which suggests great intimacy between the director and his subjects.

Four storytellers share the folk history of Kenya in sumptuously shot scenes which show nothing more than their expressive faces, Juma’s muscles bulge as he rows his grandfather out to sea, and Masoud’s eyes dance as he tells shares his elaborately exaggerated tall-tales.

At times, the camera zooms into impossible close-ups of the old man, depicting every wrinkle on his sun-beaten face or each scar on his damaged hands. These moments are all the more impressive when they occur at sea – with at least three people crammed into a tiny rowing boat it’s difficult to conceive of how van Velzen created some of the angles he filmed from. He’s equally adept away from the water, too. The glorious scenery is beautifully framed and some of the imagery stunning – not least a late night hunt captured in the smouldering glow of Masoud’s homemade torch.

Despite the stunning visuals, the real star here is Masoud. He’s the kind of character who can only exist in documentary – it would be impossible to invent him. Whether his mythology can be believed is a moot point – he believes it and that’s all that matters. Such self-conviction might be seen as arrogance in someone else, but Masoud is so completely charming that he’s never less than utterly loveable – even when barking orders at Juma.

Of course, Masoud’s quest for his final catch is not just about killing one last shark. Rather, his aim is to re-live, or perhaps prolong, his glorious youth. With his twinkling eyes and sing-song voice, it’s easy to imagine him as a younger man – van Velzen has done a terrific job of capturing and portraying his enthusiasm and exuberance. This quality disappears, however, as the film reaches its climax in Masoud’s fearsome and violent hunt for sea-snakes.

In this scene, the warrior is revealed. Masoud is ruthless and brutal, smashing his prey with the flat of his machete blade and, at once, it becomes obvious why this tiny, wrinkled man is held in such high regard.
 It’s a shame that Masoud’s captivating story isn’t the only narrative on show here. Although director van Velzen’s personal history has clearly informed his knowledge and affection for Kenya, the scene-setting scenes early in the film which explain his past add very little to the film. The story of van Elsen’s childhood might add a little context to proceedings, but it almost seems like a vanity for him to add his younger self to the action. His poetic narration is more assured and, at times, reminiscent of Mark Cousins’ lilting voiceover work. This was the only presence he needed to present in his finished film.

Wavumba is a beautiful and evocative documentary which moves sedately through a romanticised world of dreams, myths and legends. It makes no attempt to steer the audience towards which version of events is true – and is all the stronger for it. As it seems unlikely that such a niche subject will receive a wide release in the UK, you’ll need to seek this little treasure out for yourself.

Planet of Snail

“In the beginning there was darkness and silence, and the darkness and silence were with god. And when I arrived, they came to me.” So speaks Young-Chan, who has been deaf-blind since childhood. He occupies the ‘planet of snail’ where touch has replaced his missing senses. Along with his wife, Soon-Ho, he moves through the world at his own gentle pace, relying on his sense of touch and his wife’s love and care to get by. This amazingly tender documentary tells their tale.

Young-Chan and Soon-Ho are the most wonderful screen couple you could possibly imagine. Soon-Ho has her own disability and is barely waist high to her husband – a real problem when it comes to changing a light bulb. An early scene sees the pair do exactly that, working together to conquer their many impediments in a beautiful ballet of movement, communication and patient understanding. Their task is complicated by Young-Chan’s needing to reach his hands up to the bulb – for his hands are his chief means of communication.

Sign-language is no use to a deaf man who cannot see. Instead, Soon-Ho spells words out on the backs of his hands, tapping her fingers lightly over his in an intimate form of Braille. In this way, these two seemingly incomplete people become whole, accomplishing tasks which would otherwise be beyond them: learning Hebrew, writing and directing a play and sledging down a slope on inflated inner tubes.

Young-Chan’s sense of awe at the world’s beauty is transmitted elegantly through his dreamily poetic voiceover, but words are not that important here. Instead, his tactile engagement with trees, sand and, hilariously, fir cones reminds us that there are many things we take for granted. Sometimes, it takes someone like Young-Chan to remind us how lucky we are.

Planet of Snail can be streamed for £2.99 at www.dogwoof.com or from iTunes.

THE IMDB TOP 50 CHALLENGE #19 City of God

When City of God is all over, it’s possible to believe you’ve been watching the film for around eight hours. Not because it’s boring. But because there is simply no way that director Fernando Mereilles can really have crammed so much action, so many colourful characters, time periods and story strands into a movie which lasts just 130 minutes.

It’s a kinetic, electrifying look at life in a Rio favela seen through the eyes of children drawn into a world of drugs, guns and killings – kids who grow into the criminal overlords who rule the slums through a heady cocktail or ruthless personality and chilling violence. The film’s main protagonist, Rocket (Alexandre Rodrigues) is rather more innocent than that, pre-occupied as he is with losing his virginity and becoming a professional photographer.

From his place on the peripheries of proceedings, Rocket provides the narration. His voice is often needed as a whirlwind of characters are rapidly introduced- and violently dispatched almost as quickly. The characters which the film hangs on, however, are brilliantly drawn: the sociopathically violent gang leader L’il Ze (Leandro Firmino da Hora) and amiable Benny (Phellipe Haagensen) particularly.

L’il Ze’s tangible menace is allied keenly with his youth: he’s seen butchering innocent people as a child in a chillingly brutal scene. And then taking great delight in butchering children as an adolescent. He’s as much a victim of the favela as anyone else, though. Almost every character here is without a traditional home – relying instead on the network of criminals and their codes of honour to replace the family unit. Indeed, adult characters rarely appear anywhere in the film.

The destruction of the kids’ dreams happens early on as their football as obliterated with a bullet. Clearly, these youngsters will never play their way out of the ghetto. Theirs will be the way of the bullet. Some, such as L’il Ze, will shape and define their lives with violence, rape and intimidation. Others, like Rocket will see their dreams cut down by the violent acts of others. But nobody will escape.

The film has particularly resonance given its basis in fact. The source for the script, Paolo Lins’ novel of the same name, was featured real characters from his childhood (many of whom are pictured in the closing credits with their fictionalised equivalent). The vast majority of the cast, too, were drawn from the real favelas and were acting on film for the first time.

The storytelling, in particular is magnificent, utilising flashbacks, narration, captions and collages to create a breathtakingly effective collection of intertwined stories. Mereilles accelerates through some scenes before revisiting them later, offers tantalising glimpses of the future and then reverses back to an earlier key moment which needs fuller explanation. Told linearly, City of God would be a brilliant film. Told this way, it is simply wonderful.

THE IMDB TOP 50 CHALLENGE #45 Spirited Away

First, a disclaimer: I am a huge fan of Japanese culture. My favourite author by far, Haruki Murukami is a Japanese writer whose books are set solely within his native country. I am a regular sushi consumer. I have been known to partake in karaoke. But I draw the line at anime.

It’s just not an art form I’ve ever had any affection for. I don’t like the style, I don’t like the way the characters look, I don’t like the way they speak and I especially hate it when they get emotional and weird things start happening to their screwed up, tightly closed, teary eyes. So it was with a heavy heart that I prepared to sit through two (yes two!!) hours of Spirited Away.

The storyline will be familiar to anyone well versed in children’s films and literature. Borrowing heavily from the likes of Alice in Wonderland, Charlie & the Chocolate Factory and Labyrinth, the tale tells of little Chihiro, a girl miserably forced to move house and abandon her childhood friends. On the journey, she and her parents chance upon an abandoned theme-park. Here, her mother and father discover a mysterious buffet and are instantly turned into pigs having ‘gobbled up the food of the spirits’. And so begins Chihiro’s quest to restore her parents to their natural state.

Her journey through the spirit world sees her take employment at a ghostly bath-house – a place inhabited by all manner of creepy and strange characters. Like the stories which inspired Spirited Away, the main interest here lies not with the central protagonist but rather with the cast of eccentric and weird caricatures she meets along her journey.

It’s a good job: Chihiro is an intensely irritating child. Much of the blame for this can be apportioned to her voice: she shouts and whines constantly, barely able to display any emotion other than wounded confusion. There’s a scene where her mouth is magically sealed shut – it’s arguably the best moment in the whole movie.

Thankfully, some (but by no means all) of the characters surrounding Chihiro are charismatic and memorable. It’s in these characters that the animators really earn their crust, creating a combination of hideously curious creatures capable of eliciting genuine sympathy – even from a cynical audience. The problem with this ensemble is that they don’t quite hang together properly: some of them look like they belong in a different film entirely.

As a result, Spirited Away looks like something of a mish-mash: a collection of scenes and characters forced together to create a feature length film. Perhaps less ideas and a more compact running time would have resulted in a cohesive movie which felt less episodic – and less of an ordeal.

THE IMDB TOP 50 CHALLENGE #50 Fritz Lang’s M

Made in 1931, Fritz Lang’s M is a film which has, unlike many of the same period, aged rather well. Coming just years after the advent of ‘talkies’, its dialogue is remarkably well written and performed. Similarly, the themes explored in the movie are just as relevant today as they were upon M’s original release.

Set in Berlin, the story tells of Peter Lorre’s unnamed child-killer. Despite having killed at least eight young children, the police have no concrete leads and are stretched to capacity. With swarms of officers combing the city for the murderer, organised crime syndicates and brothels are forced to quell their activities, severely disrupting their capacity to earn money. As a result, one crime-clan decides to take the law into their own hands and catch the killer themselves.

Lang sets the scene with predictable Teutonic efficiency. As children sing nursery rhymes about the murderer, his next victim innocently bounces a ball against a poster detailing the killer’s crimes. Just seconds later, he abducts her.

Even more impressive is the way the director creates his panicked city. Through a combination of short scenes and voiceovers he depicts various raids, avenues of investigation and encounters with the prickly and frightened public. Everyone is implicated and yet nobody is prosecuted: the investigation is a shambles. Thankfully, the criminals are more resourceful than the police, recruiting the local beggars as spies. This information network quickly reveals the identity of the killer – thanks largely to a creepily whistled musical motif.

It’s at this point that M gets really interesting. Whilst its theme of moral panic still resonates with a modern audience, it’s the idea of vigilante justice which remains most relevant. The murderer (probably the first psychopathic serial killer scene on film) is brought in front of a kangaroo court to plead for his life.

It’s a stunning set-piece. Peter Lorre’s acting looks a little dated now, but still packs a weighty emotional punch – as well as posing some serious moral questions. Lang’s direction and cinematography here are glorious: the assembled crowd are shot as a grotesque gallery leering at their prey, yet he still manages to create a sense of ambiguity about which way their decision will go.

It’s a shame that the rest of M doesn’t quite match its amazing ending. At time the pacing is a little pedestrian. Over the years there have been various restorations made to the original print which have added to the running time – perhaps Lang’s more compact cut was a snappier production. There are some scenes which could certainly have been lost with no effect on the narrative. Many of these have no sound whatsoever – this could be a hangover from the recent ‘silent’ period, but more likely the sound simply didn’t exist when restoring the print.

It’s slightly churlish to complain about such things, however. If Lang had concentrated solely on advancing the storyline, he wouldn’t have given us some of the beautiful cinematography he produced here. Poetic cutaways of a child’s ball and a balloon trapped in power lines have become iconic, but it’s the expertly framed shots of geometric shapes (buildings, windows and staircases particularly) which stay lodged in the mind.

Various filmmakers owe a debt of gratitude to Fritz Lang and his influence has been enormous. For students of cinema, M shows exactly why. Although aspects of his masterpiece have dated, it’s still a movie with interesting things to say about cinema and, more importantly, society.

Juan of the Dead

Vampires are so passé. Despite Twilight’s best efforts, it appears that the bloodsuckers look set to be usurped by their undead cousins, the zombies. With numerous zombie movies in the pipeline and Andrew Lincoln battling his way through The Walking Dead, the genre has rarely been in better shape.Even the Cubans are getting in on the act…
Juan of the Dead is the first zombie flick to come out of Cuba, and like many of stalwart George Romero’s pictures it has political comments to make in amongst the gore. With director Alejandro Brugués on hand to explain the movie’s social commentary, a packed Hyde Park Picture House settled in to enjoy his production.
Opening with the eponymous hero (Alexis Díaz de Villegas) and his friend Lazaro (Jorge Molina) afloat on a homemade raft, the two accidentally harpoon a floating zombie. Quite how he came to be there is never made clear – Brugués makes no attempt to explain the presence of the undead. Instead, the film focuses on how Juan and his motley crew of friends and family can both survive the outbreak and turn it into a profit making enterprise.
Initially, it seems that Juan of the Dead will be nothing but knockabout fun. The hangdog hero and his gang of friends are crudely drawn but entertaining and there are some snappy gags. One inspired set-piece featuring a zombie anchored to his dead wife with another stray harpoon is original and clever, but such ideas quickly run out. Instead, there are some slightly seedy scenes involving large breasts, wet t-shirts and masturbation, some standard ass-kicking montages and a contrived and predictable family sub-plot.
Perhaps something has been lost in the cultural crossover, but at times Juan of the Dead felt a little misogynistic. Bad subtitling also meant that some of the gags fell slightly flat. That said, the plot races along, the gore factor is impressive and there are genuine laugh-out-loud moments. Brugués has made a brave film given the obvious (and occasionally clumsy) political references to his homeland, but for a British audience his film is more miss than hit.

The Kid With A Bike

Realistic portrayals of children are rare on film. The reasons for this are twofold: firstly, talented child actors are extremely rare and, more often, such parts are one-dimensional caricatures. The Dardenne brothers’ The Kid With A Bike avoids both of these potential pitfalls by giving us a young anti-hero who is multi-faceted and flawed - yet utterly charming.

Thomas Doret plays Cyril Catoul with an insolent charm which belies his years. He’s on screen almost throughout the film’s running time and is never less than completely compelling. First seen trying to escape from a children’s home, Cyril is distraught and distrusting of those attempting to take care of him. He refuses to believe that he’s been abandoned by his father and is even less inclined to believe that his errant parent could possibly have sold his prized possession: his bicycle.

In his attempts to regain his bike, Cyril comes into contact with the kindly Samantha (Cecile De France) and, via a bizarre hugging incident, is taken into her care. It’s apparent that she feels some affinity for his situation and she shows kindness and patience he barely deserves given his propensity for violence and belligerence. Sadly, Cyril is destined for trouble and finds it via a gang of local hoodlums. After bonding with them over Playstation, Fanta and biscuits he commits himself to a course of action which will ultimately change his life.

Although the narrative is slight (and a little predictable), The Kid With A Bike is a moving piece of cinema. Rather than focusing on plot, the Dardennes concern themselves with character, creating, in Cyril and Samantha, a memorably unlikely screen couple whose chemistry and affection for one another truly shines. There is little exposition to explain how they came to be who they are, but thanks to wonderful acting and intelligent storytelling, their unconventional love-story is entirely believable and extremely watchable.

The Kid With A Bike is not without flaws – not least a contrived and slightly silly ending – but has enough heart and charm to win over the most cynical observer. And in Thomas Doret it features the best debut performance from a child actor since Thomas Turgoose in This Is England. Recommended.