Steven Spielberg - Hook (1991)

Cuando era más joven, tenía la impresión de que mi vida seguía una trayectoria lineal; sentía que podía ver cómo mi vida había empezado, y el curso que había tomado, como un trozo de cuerda. Sin embargo, en algún momento de los últimos cinco años, dejé de tener esta sensación de una linea recta. Ahora en cambio, es más como si yo fuera un barco en medio del mar, que no recuerda el puerto donde empezó su viaje. Y dado esto, lo único que puedo hacer es adaptarme lo mejor que sepa a las circumstancias en las que me encuentro.  Y bueno, una de las consecuencias de esto es que ya tengo opiniones que no recuerdo haber formado.

Por ejemplo, "Hook" es una de mis peliculas preferidas. Siento que esto es verdad. No obstante, no tengo ni idea cuando ví "Hook" por la primera vez, ni recuerdo las razones por las que decidí, en algún momento, hace no sé cuántos años, que es una de mis peliculas preferidas. Realmente entonces, no es un opinión, sino el recuerdo de uno, el casco de uno.  Me parece que esto es una de las consequencias de hacerse mayor: vives lo suficiente para olvidar de trozos enteros de tu vida, y luego, cuando recuerdas de ellos, te das cuenta de que sigues con opiniones que formaste hace años, que realmente ya tienen muy poco que ver con quien eres ahora. Effectivamente, tu memoria se ha convertido en un almacén en el que vagas, encontrando de vez en cuando un archivo perdido.

When I was younger, I had the impression that my life followed a linear trajectory; I felt that I could see how my life had started, and the course it had taken, like a piece of string. However, at some point in the last five years, I stopped having this sensation. Instead now, it's as though I were a ship at sea, that's forgotten the port where it began its journey. And given this, the best thing I can do is to adopt myself the best I know how to the circumstances in which I find myself. And well, one of the consequences of this is that I now have opinions that I don't remember having formed.

For example, "Hook" is one of my favourite films. I feel that this is true. However, I have no idea when I saw "Hook" for the first time, nor do I remember the reasons why, at some point, years ago, I decided that this was one of my preferred movies. I find that this is one of the consequences of growing older: you live enough to forget entire chunks of your life, and later, when you remember them, you realise you've still got opinions that you formed years ago, that really have very little to do with who you are now. Effectively, your memory has become a warehouse through which you wander, stumbling now and again on a lost file.

Perdida - David Fincher (2014)

Cuatro días despúes de haber visto "Perdida", lo que queda conmigo de la pelicula es el extraño sentido de armonia que hay durante ciertas escenas; en particular, los flashbacks a las fases iniciales de la relación entre Nick (Ben Affleck) y Amy (Rosamund Pike). En estas escenas, nos parece que hay una química perfecta entre ellos, y que nada puede salirse mal. Sin embargo, vemos todo esto en el contexto de una relación que se ha acabado de la manera más desastrosa imaginable. Entonces, a pesar de la armonia que supuestamente existe entre Nick y Amy en estos momentos iniciales, sobreponemos un sentido del peligro que hay porvenir; no aceptamos la imagen perfecta que estas escenas nos vende. 

Y, me parece que nuestro rechazo de esta armonia tiene mucho que ver con nuestro sentido innato de la realidad. Rechazamos la presentación de una relación perfecta, de la misma manera que burlamos de un anuncio que nos presenta una imagen de la vida demasiado conveniente ("Usa este producto y tus problemas se te irán" etc); nos parece falso, y incluso peligroso. Sin embargo, estas escenas de "Perdida" se han quedado conmigo. Y por qué entonces? Pues, quizás porque, a pesar del hecho de que rechazamos la imagen de una relación perfectamente armoniosa, nos sigue gustando la idea. La queremos creer, a la vez que la vemos con escepticismo. En breve entonces, estas escenas son como un anuncio que te vende algo muy atractivo, que sabes que no puede existir.

Four days after having seen "Gone Girl", what sticks with me from the film is the strange sense of harmony that fills certain scenes; in particular, the flashbacks to the initial phases of the relationship between Nick (Ben Affleck) and Amy (Rosamund Pike). In these scenes, it seems to us that there's a perfect chemistry between the pair, and that nothing can gone wrong. However, we see all this in the context of a relationship that's ended in the most disastrous way imaginable. Hence, in spite of the harmony that apparently exists between Nick and Amy in these initial moments, we superimpose a sense of the danger that's to come; we don't accept the perfect image that these scenes sell us.

And, it seems to me that our rejection of this harmony has a lot to do with our innate sense of reality. We reject the presentation of a perfect relationship, in the same way that we laugh at an advert that presents us a too-convenient image of life ("Use this product and your problems will vanish" etc); it seems false to us, and even dangerous. However, these scenes of "Gone Girl" have stayed with me. Why then? Maybe because, in spite of the fact that we reject the image of a perfectly harmonious relationship, we still like the idea. We want to believe in it, at the same time that we view it with scepticism. In brief then, these scenes are like an advert that sells you something very well, that you know can't exist.

Joe Wright - Anna Karenina (2012)

Anna Karenina es suntuoso para ver. Sin embargo, lo que pasa es que su estético super-desarollado tiene poco que ver con los propios eventos de la peli. Es decir, el estético de una pelicula debería reflexionar y comentar sobre su historia. Si no, hay una disconexión; vemos la belleza de las escenas, y el cuidado de su construcción, pero nos preguntamos "Para qué tanta belleza, si no informa la vida de los personajes?" Es como pintar un retrato de una mujer trágica, pero en vez de usar colores que reflejan su situación y estado emocional, usar los más opulantes posible. Como observadores, podemos apreciar su riqueza, pero al final el cuadro nos deja vacíos, o incluso torcidos, porque vemos que el pintor ha malentendido su sujeto.

Anna Karenina is sumptuous to look at. However, the thing is that it's super-developed aesthetic has little to do with what actually happens in the film. This is to say, a film's aesthetic should reflect and comment on its events. If it doesn't, there's a disconnection; we see the beauty of the scenes, and the care of their construction, but ask ourselves "Why so much beauty, if it doesn't inform the lives of the characters?" It's like painting a portrait of a tragic woman, but instead of using colours that reflect her situation and emotional state, using the most opulent available. As viewers, we can appreciate their richness, but in the end the portrait leaves us empty, and even twisted, because we see that the painter has misunderstood his subject.

Guillermo del Toro - Pacific Rim (2013) (2)

Si ya estás familiarizado con las obras de Guillermo del Toro (por ejemplo, Hellboy o El Laberinto del Fauno), sabrás que esperar de Pacific Rim: una mezcla de fantasía y psicología, en que a menudo el primero se sirve como metafóra para el segundo. Por desgracia, mientras que las obras anteriores de del Toro funcionaban porque la complejidad de sus personajes igualada la riqueza de sus mundos imaginados, Pacific Rim no es tan buen equilibrado, y entonces no tan exitoso. Por qué? Porque no hay nada interesante sobre los personajes que del Toro pone ante nosotros esta vez. Nunca nos engancha con su historia de pilotos de robots, quién pelear tanto con sus propias traumas de la infancia como los monstruos que amanezan la tierra. Entonces, mientras que las escenas de batalla entre los robots de cien metros de altura y los monstruos son espectaculares (cómo no?), últimamente malgastamos una mitad de la película esperando que la otra vuelva.

If you're already familiar with the works of Guillermo del Toro (for example, Hellboy, or Pan's Labyrinth), you'll know what to expect from Pacific Rim: a mix of fantasy and psychology, in which the first often serves as a metaphor for the second. Unfortunately, while del Toro's previous films worked because the complexity of his characters equalled the richness of his imagined worlds, Pacific Rim isn't so well balanced, and hence not as successful. Why? Because there's nothing interesting about the characters del Toro puts before us this time. He never hooks us with his story of robot pilots, who fight as much with their own childhood traumas as the monsters that threaten the earth. Hence, while the scenes of battle between the 100-metre tall robots and the monsters are spectacular (how couldn't they be?), we ultimately waste one half of the film waiting for the other to return.

Guillermo del Toro - Pacific Rim (2013)

Si has pagado €10 para ver una película de monstruos y robots en el cine, has preguntado alguna vez, "Bueno, todas estas explosiones y tal son muy lindas, pero deseo que hubiéramos tenido la oportunidad de conocer los personajes más. Parecían seres humanos de verdadero profundidad y interés." Si eres en lo más mínimo como yo, la respuesta es no. Has pagado tu dinero porque quieres ver máquinas gigantescas (o extraterrestes, o lo que sea) golpeando el moco sagrado fuera de uno al otro, y cada escena de diálogo solo te deja queriendo una devolución. Si es absolumente necesario que haya seres humanos, mejor que sean tios del primer orden. Por desgracia sin embargo, Guillermo del Toro parece medio-convencido que su película nueva de monstruos y robots es, de hecho, un pariente espiritual de Ingmar Bergman, con efectos especiales añadidos. Por cada escena de bestias grotescas lloviendo infierno sobre Hong-Kong o Sydney, aguantamos cinco minutos de, "Sí, conduzco un robot 100 metros de altura, pero no estaba contento cuando era pequeño." En breve, hay una diferencia entre las expectativas del espectador, y lo que del Toro nos entrega, y la película nunca se recupera.

If you've paid €10 to see a film about monsters and robots at the cinema, have you ever asked, "Well, all these explosions and such are very pretty, but I wish we'd had the opportunity to know the characters more. They seemed like human beings of real depth and interest." If you're in the least like me, the answer is no. You've paid your money because you want to see giant machines (or aliens, or whatever) whacking the holy snot out of each other, and each scene of dialogue just leaves you wanting a refund. If it's absolutely necessary that there are human beings, they'd better be dudes of the first order. Unfortunately however, Guillermo del Toro seems half-convinced that his new film of monsters and robots is, in fact, a spiritual relative of Ingmar Bergman, with added special effects. For each scene of grotesque beasts raining hell over Hong-Kong or Sydney, we endure five minutes of, "Yes, I drive a 100-metre tall robot, but I was unhappy as a child." In short, there's a difference between the viewer's expectations, and what del Toro delivers, and the film never recovers.

Takeshi Kitano - Outrage (2010)

En este punto, facilmente podríamos subtitular la carrera de Takeshi Kitano "variaciones en un tema." Después de todo, casi todas sus películas se tratan de la misma cosa: la muerte sangriente de yakuza, en actos impulsivos de venganza unos a otros. Su película más reciente, "Outrage", no es diferente. Tienes los traiciones obligatorios entre jurados hermanos de sangre, los intentos fútiles de penitencia por el corte de dedos pequenos, y las escenas en que docenas de matones buen-vestidos caen en una lluvía de balas. Sin embargo, afortunadamente estas repeticiones no significan que las películas de Kitano son aburridas. Hay un verdadero placer en preguntarse, "Cómo va a hacerlo esta vez?" Además, podemos preguntarnos, "Por qué Kitano quiere hacer la misma película tantas veces?" Es una falta de imaginación? O (y esto es mi opinión) es una especie de compulsión, en que Kitano (que protagoniza, además de escribir y dirigir) quiere ver su mundo derribarse? No podría decir. De todas formas, significa que aún hay interés en "Outrage," aunque es una historia que ya hemos visto muchas veces.

At this point, we could easily subtitle Takeshi Kitano's career "variations on a theme." After all, almost all his films concern the same thing: the bloody death of yakuza, in impulsive acts of vengeance against each other. His most recent film, "Outrage", is no different. You've got the obligatory betrayals between sworn blood brothers, the futile acts of penitence involving cut-off fingers, and the scenes in which dozens of well-dressed thugs fall in a hail of bullets. Fortunately however, these repetitions don't mean that Kitano's films are boring. There's a real pleasure in asking yourself, "How will he do it this time?" What's more, we can ask ourselves, "Why does Kitano want to make the same film so many times?" Is it a lack of imagination? Or (and this is my opinion) is it a kind of compulsion, in which Kitano (who stars, as well as writes and directs) wants to see his world collapse? I couldn't say. In any case, this means there's still interest in "Outrage", even if it's a story we've already seen many times.

Fabián Bielinsky - Nueve Reinas

Una de las cosas que me gusta de aprender un idioma es que hay muchas maneras en que puedes entender lo que alguien dice. Es decir, en realidad, no tienes que entender todas las palabras que dice. En lugar, es suficiente (incluso mejor) fijarte en cómo dice lo que dice, el tono de su voz, y la postura de su cuerpo. Por ejemplo, ayer vi la pelicula Nueve Reinas. No tenía subtitulos, y es de Argentina, entonces hablaban una forma de español bastante diferente de lo que estoy acustumbrado. En breve, entendí digamos una palabra en cinco de lo que decían. Pero, a pesar de eso, seguí la pelicula bastante bien, porque me fijé en la manera en que hablaban. Entendí las relaciones entre las personajes, y cogi suficientes palabras para seguir el narrativo. De hecho, hubiera sido peor si había intentado a seguir todas sus palabras, porque habría perdido el foco en la comunicación no verbal. Y, bueno, si vives en un país en que no hablan tu propio idioma, esta es una buena manera de sobrevivir, hasta tal punto que entiendes a la gente. (Vamos, es cómo vivía los primeros doce meses en España.) "Pero bueno," podrías decir en este punto, "si no te fijas en lo que dice la gente, cómo vas a aprender?" Pues, a mí me parece que, claro, tienes que fijarte en lo que dice la gente. Pero, si pierdes el contexto emocional de lo que dice por haber tratado demasiado entenderle, es mejor que no lo hagas. Créeme, con el tiempo, tu cerebro va a hacer el trabajo de descifrar la palabras.  Y así, poco a poco, entenderás más. Entonces, a mí me parece que lo importante cuando aprendes un idioma, no es que entiendas absolutemente cada palabra. En lugar, es más importante que entiendas el mensaje más ancho de la oración, el connotación emocional, y que te disfrutas.

One of the things I like about learning a language is that there are many ways you can understand what someone's saying. This is to say, in reality, you don't have to understand every word. Instead, it's enough (even better) to pay attention to how they say what they, the tone of their voice, and their body language. For example, yesterday I watched the film Nueve Reinas. It didn't have subtitles, and it's from Argentina, so they spoke a form of Spanish quite different to that which I'm accustomed. In short, I understood let's say one in five words of what they said. But, in spite of that, I followed the film well enough, because I paid attention to the way they spoke. I understood the relations between the characters, and caught enough words to follow the plot. In fact, it would have been worse if I'd tried to follow all the words, because I'd have lost the focus on the non-verbal communication. And, well, if you live in a foreign country, this is a good way to survive, until such point that you understand what people say. (In fact, this is how I lived the first twelve months in Spain.) "But well," you could say at this point, "if you don't pay attention to what people say, how are you going to learn?" Well, it seems to me that, of course, you have to focus on what people say. But if you lose the emotional context of what they say for having tried too hard to understand them, it's better that you don't do that. Believe me, with time, your brain will do the work of deciphering the words. And hence, little by little, you'll understand more. Thus, it seems to me that the most important thing when you learn a language, isn't that you try to understand absolutely every word. Instead, it's more important that you understand the wider message of what's said, the emotional connotation, and that you enjoy yourself.

Robert Ressen – The Hustler (1961)

How do directors justify making sad movies?

For that matter, how do directors justify making violent movies or movies that contain immoral messages?

I realise there’s an argument for free speech here.

Directors should be able to make the movies they want, because no other human being should be able to determine what is and isn’t acceptable.

That’s fine.

But I mean a slightly different thing.

I’m asking: how do directors justify to themselves creating something that could have a negative emotional impact on other human beings? What motivates them to do it, and what is their reasoning to themselves?

I ask having watched The Hustler last night.

It’s about a pool shark who, having formed a relationship with an engaging but damaged young woman, is forced to choose between glory on the billiards table and her. It’s a great movie, featuring excellent performances from Paul Newman and Piper Laurie.

But it’s also unrelentingly downbeat.

So what motivated director Robert Ressen to make it?

Could it perhaps be an exercise in catharsis, in that Ressen is using the movie to deal with his own demons? Could it be a lesson to his audience, advising us to value our human relationships above all else?

I’m sure Ressen was a decent person after all.

I doubt he'd have befriended a stranger, only to spend two hours abusing them, or bringing them down in conversation.

So why is an audience different?

Hmm.

I realise I’m on thin ice here. I realise I’m perhaps advocating a return to 1950s censorship, or a media comprising almost solely of upbeat children’s programming.

But I just can’t see why someone would go to so much trouble to create something so saddening. Or in general, for that matter.

Isn’t life tough enough?

Answers on a postcard to the usual address, if you please.

[Get it here: The Hustler (1961)]

Pedro Almodóvar - Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (1988)

One thing I like about watching old movies in which established actors are just starting out is the sense that they haven’t yet become themselves. It’s as though they’re recognisable, but in terms of personality and characteristics blank slates, too young to have established their niches as it were. For instance, settling into Pedro Almodovar’s Women On The Verge Of A Nervous Breakdown last night, I noticed Antonio Banderas featured high on the credits. “Oh good,” I thought, having recently seen The Skin I Live In, a recent Almodovar film in which Banderas also stars. “I do enjoy his unique brand of Latin charismo, like a sophisticated version of Bruce Willis or something.” But then, about half an hour in, and unable to make heads or tails of the film excepting that it starred a woman who first wanted to see her ex-lover, then didn’t, then did again, I became impatient. Where was Banderas? Surely he could provide some forward momentum to this unfocused and self-indulgent thing? But the only male character in sight as a pale fellow, sporting a questionable perm and oversized plastic glasses, who kept stuttering and looking uncertain of himself. Would Banderas never turn up?

Then of course it hit me. This was Banderas, just 28 at the time Women On The Verge Of A Nervous Breakdown was released in 1988, and yet to stumble onto the Latin action man persona he's now known for. Well. It seemed to me like stumbling onto someone’s old photos of themselves as a child, or exercise books from school. I thought, does Banderas ever watch himself here three decades on? If so, what does he think? Is he proud? Or would he perhaps like the film removed from existence, so that no one can see him prior to when he became himself as it were? It made sitting through the ninety minutes more than worthwhile, even though the film itself was quite terrible.

[Get it here: Pedro Almodóvar - Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (1988)]

Laurel and Hardy - Sons of the Desert (1933)

I’m just getting into the era, but the 1930s is reputed to be a Golden age of Hollywood cinema. In comedy, giants including the Marx Brothers and Charlie Chaplin lit up the screen, prompting much bursting of sides and so forth. In addition, Laurel and Hardy are of course listed alongside these legends. But for me at least, judging from Sons of the Desert, this is an ill-deserved reputation. I realise this is probably not a popular opinion: the Laurel and Hardy appreciation society is named after this film for instance. Nonetheless, for me at least, it features nothing that the aforementioned Chaplin and Marx Bros. didn’t do better.

Take for instance the entire Laurel shtick. He plays a hapless figure, someone unable to influence his environment, and so subject to the calamities that circumstances impose on him. He is to be pitied because of this. In Sons of the Desert for instance, he tells us he can’t attend the convention of the titular group, without permission from his wife. Fine fine fine. But how is this altogether different from the Tramp figure in Chaplin? The Tramp too is a hapless loser, tossed too and fro according to circumstances. Moreover, the Tramp is arguably more pitiable, because he is silent. He gains our sympathy because he is unable to defend himself or retort, even in words. This is something Chaplin himself recognised: the introduction of sound spelled the end for the Tramp, because his being likeable depended on him not speaking. No such luck for Laurel though. He rarely retorts in Sons of the Desert, instead misspeaking words and seeming to misunderstand all that is said to him. But this is tame stuff, and does nothing to enamour us to him. 

In addition, the slapstick in Sons of the Desert comes up short compared to that in Chaplin and the Marx Bros. Here, perhaps the biggest visual jokes come from Hardy repeatedly hitting his head, be that against support beams or china plates tossed in his direction, and Laurel proving incapable of pressing the correct front door bell. Ho-hum. Do you suppose these guys saw the mirror scene in Duck Soup, or the boxing scene in City Lights? Judging from what they came up with here, I sure hope not. Otherwise the failure to aspire to those same heights is inexcusable.

Like I mentioned at the start, I realise this probably isn’t likely to be a popular opinion. Criticising a long-established classic is about as close as you can come to pissing in the wind. For all that, I must admit I’m probably going to watch another Laurel and Hardy film. The towering reputation of the pair means I’m inclined to give them another go. Moreover, I’d like to find out whether Sons of the Desert is representative of their efforts, or just a one-off flop.

[Get it here: Laurel and Hardy - Sons of the Desert (1933)]

Che Part Two – Steven Soderbergh (2010)

In Che Part II director Steven Soderbergh illustrates the second part of Che Guevara’s life in which, having conquered Cuba, Che aims to recreate his success in Bolivia. I got the impression throughout that this was a misstep for Che, owing both to the subdued atmosphere, and infighting among his men. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with making a film in which not much happens, so long as it’s engaging. This is the crucial distinction between form and content. For me though, Soderbergh doesn’t quite manage this, neither taking us to the heart of Che as a person, nor elucidating the precise reasons for his Bolivian failure. Instead, like Che’s men, I just waited, expected something that never came. Skilful filmmaking of a kind I guess, but not entertaining.

The Day The Earth Stood Still - Scott Derrickson (2008)

Last night I watched The Day The Earth Stood Still (2008) with the old man on the sofa. Neither of us spoke or moved in the two hour running time, except to take occasional sips from our drinks: a bottle of madeira (me) and the new Stella cider (him.) The sun set and the rain came down and the alcohol disappeared. Then at the end of the film, the old man got up from the sofa, stretched, and said, I can’t remember the last time I sat through such mindless drivel. I nodded, and we went to bed.

It’s definitely an N word.

Where Eagles Dare - Brian G. Hutton (1968)

People used to war films like Black Hawk Down might experience a shock while watching Where Eagles Dare. The camera is so still. It doesn’t shake each time a bridge explodes nor bullet ricochets. It doesn’t chop and change each half second, as though it’s not a film but a music video. In fact much of Where Eagles Dare depicts nothing more than men changing into Nazi Wehrmacht uniform, or planting explosives. People used to modern battle films might find themselves squirming. But in fact the comparative slow pace of the film has a purpose. It redirects our attention from the explosions to the competence of the soldiers. Each time Clint Eastwood ties explosives to a bridge it’s a chance to acknowledge his cool under pressure. It means people might not feel Where Eagles Dare brings them close to the action. But it does instil admiration for people that can perform such a job without losing their heads.

Machete - Robert Rodriguez (2010)

Machete hails from a pretty specific niche of the action genre. In this niche the goal is not just to show men being riddled with bullets, but carnage no one has seen before. So at one point Machete is beset by goons at a hospital and, finding himself machete-less, builds a cat-o-nine-tails from scalpels and nurses’ belts. He then inserts this thing into the nearest goon and, plunging his hand into the screaming man’s stomach, rips out his long intestine. Machete then leaps from the nearest window using the man’s organs as a rope. Read that and, instead of thinking, That’s fucking grotesque! nod and think, That’s an original means of killing someone? Then chances are you’ll like Machete.

Broken Embraces - Pedro Almodovar (2010)

Pedro Almodovar’s 2010 release Broken Embraces might appeal to people that like Eastenders or Coronation Street, could said people be convinced to sit through a subtitled film. It recounts in anecdote a romantic quartet, in which aspiring actress Penelope Cruz embarks on an affair with film director Lluís Homar, to the displeasure of both Cruz’s partner José Luis Gómez, and Homar’s editor and friend Blanco Portillo, who has nursed a crush on Homar since ages past. In it we discover the retribution that Gómez and Portillo inflict on Cruz and Homar once each learns of the latter’s romantic tangle, and the reasons for Homar’s present blindness.

Broken Embraces is a beautiful film to look at. Director Almadovar ensures throughout that, though his characters might be doing nothing more compelling than sitting to tea, the film is sumptuous to see. For one Almodovar has the contrast turned up just a tad, so that the red of Cruz’s dress for example appears that much brighter, or the blue of the ocean that much deeper. Furthermore Almodovar is fond of filling his scenes with provocative paintings, so that an argument between Cruz and Gomez for instance might occur against a backdrop of revolvers, painted in outlines of red and black. It means if nothing else that Broken Embraces is never dull to look at.

In addition Broken Embraces has a lot of interesting observations to make about our vulnerabilities. Homar for instance is blind and middle aged in the present, but succeeds in seducing and bedding a beautiful blond that helps him cross the street at the film’s opening. He doesn’t give the encounter a second thought, but takes the attitude that life is to be enjoyed. Portillo’s son in contrast is responsible for Homar’s welfare and, though a man in his twenties and more cautious than Homar, suffers an overdose after drinking coke laced with GBH at a bar. It seems Almodovar is making the point that, regardless of our individual strengths and weaknesses, trouble can strike at random, so it’s best to take what pleasure we can from life.

The problem with Broken Embraces however is how receptive Almodovar’s characters are to each other and perceived slights, as though his planet were inhabited solely by introverts that’re quick to hold a grudge. Near the beginning for example, Cruz learns that her father’s doctor has cancelled the treatment that might stave off his terminal cancer to go on vacation, and is understandably upset. Seconds later when Cruz is called into Gomez’s office to take down a memo, Gomez notices when Cruz sniffles, and insists on her telling him about it. This’d be fine, except that Gomez’s emotional well-being seems to depend on Cruz not being upset, and that every character in the film reacts the same way.

In other words normal adults, the kind that’re wrapped up in themselves and don’t need to know that everyone else in the room is alright to feel alright themselves, don’t exist. It means Broken Embraces maintains an extreme emotional pitch that isn't quite credible and, as I mentioned at the beginning, might appeal most of all to people that like soap operas.

Che Part One – Steven Soderbergh (2010)

Directors that make historical films face a unique challenge: how to overcome the problem that the film’s events are pre-determined? For instance, it wouldn’t have made sense for James Cameron to release Titanic telling people: You’ll have to wait and see how it ends! since that much is obvious. Instead, I think directors have two choices. First, to present their protagonists as agents of historical change ala Marx, sweeping obstacles aside. Or second, struggling to reach destinies that, since it’s a historical film, everyone knows are coming. Both approaches, I think, have downsides. 

The former risks turning the characters into supermen, less individuals struggling to reach their goals, than people fated to change things. The latter, meanwhile, risks patronising the audience, asking them to pretend that an ending everyone knows is coming in fact isn’t. In Titanic, James Cameron sidesteps this problem by turning turning the ship’s sinking into a backdrop for romantic mush. In Inglorious Bastards meanwhile, Quentin Tarantino plays a joke on his audience, ending his film with the massacre of the Nazi elite. Both films, for me at least, avoid the problem of historical subjects.

Steven Soderbergh’s Che Part One, meanwhile, is perhaps the best film I’ve seen of late that takes a real stab at overcoming this issue. To do this, Soderbergh makes the inevitable course of his film a tenet of his protagonist’s character. Che behaves like a man driving fate. He might tend a soldier’s wounds, or lead resistance against incumbent dictator Fulgencio Batista, but in each moment he appears sure of himself. It’s an interesting trick because, for me at least, it turns Che from a film about How does he take Cuba? to a film about Tell us more about the character of this man. (This is kinda explicit from the title, I admit.) Soderbergh assumes that his audience knows Che’s accomplishments, and aims to shed light on this man that could do such things. In short, it’s less about the destination, than the journey, maaan. 

For instance, there’s almost no banal chit-chat in this film. The purpose driving Che defines each conversation. This demonstrates astonishing strength of purpose,  but is also a little alienating. Che appears not to have a private self, or just the ghost of one. Furthermore, Che’s belief in himself as an agent of historical change, though justified, makes him appear egotistical. He talks to other people, in particular the US journalists and senators he meets, as though they’re not there. It’s as though his purpose abstracts him from the rest of the species.

To be honest, this a film I struggled to sit through, at least until I’d figured out Soderbergh’s aim. Having done so though, I’m looking forward a lot to seeing the second half, and recommend others check out the first part too. Hurrah!

The Lovely Bones - Peter Jackson (2009)

I didn’t dig Peter Jackson’s latest film The Lovely Bones. But this isn’t to suggest I mightn’t dig it in the future. For instance, dig it a big fat hole in the middle of the earth, then pile each DVD of the film into that hole using a large Caterpillar truck plus industrial snowplough. Then I might dig the film. Dig it while watching the clip I’ve posted from The Warriors. Now that’s a film I can dig. Yes indeed.

I guess I ought make a passing attempt at explaining what it is about The Lovely Bones I didn’t dig. Though that seems like pointing out to someone that the grass is green, or that deontological conceptions of ethics are laughable. Let’s have a go nonetheless. The Lovely Bones is about a gut bustingly earnest 14 year old that succumbs to the sweet whispers of her middle aged male neighbour to join him in a big hole in the middle of a corn field, gets moidered nice and proper, then spends the following 36 months in a computer generated purgatory populated solely by other victims of said neighbour, torturing her family from beyond the grave.

It’s set in the seventies for no reason I can discern, except that it gives Peter Jackson the chance to mis-cast Mark Wahlberg as the gut bustingly earnest 14 year old’s daddio, then shame him with long greasy hair across his forehead. Oh, and did I mention, it doesn’t make a lick spittle bit of sense. Not one. Not even a hint of a shadow of a whisper of a rumour of an idea of a premonition of a lick of sense. Nothing. For instance, for some reason there’s a black dude from England with a weird obsession with Othello, who insists on calling himself the moor, Sweet Jesus no. Plus a goth girl that wouldn’tyouknowit sees dead people.

Worst of all the film isn’t about anything. It features a collection of mis-cast actors placed in stereotypical roles, then doesn’t do anything with them for 120 minutes, except perhaps hint at the spiritual presence of those who’ve passed on. It’s a trite sentiment, packaged with a $65m budget and a theme’s park worth of special effects, and produced by Stephen Spielberg. It’s so bad, I kinda think that in future, directors ought be made to view The Lovely Bones before making their own films, but in addition such screenings should be preceded and followed with the words: Never Forget. In short, I cannot dig it.

Bad Lieutenant - Werner Herzog (2009)

Bad Lieutenant is a film about routine. Know how you get up in the morning and take a shower and go to work? It’s like that. Except instead of showering and eating breakfast, it so happens that Nic Cage’s routine involves snorting vast amounts of narcotics and solving multiple homicides. For the most part in that order.

So in fact, like most routines, Bad Lieutenant is quite a repetitious film. I counted four main camera angles used again and again throughout the movie, plus about three kinds of repeated character interaction. Let’s count them. Shot one: Nic Cage pacing a corridor, camera at his back, pistol drawn and pocketing all the narcotics he sees. Shot two: Nic Cage talking to someone, other person’s shoulder visible from the right hand corner. Shot three: Nic Cage driving, camera outside so the light catches the chassis. Shot four: Nic Cage parked, focused on the object of his attention, face visible in the interior mirror.

Next up the modes of interaction. Type one: Nic Cage telling someone he can fix their problem (be it prostitute girlfriend or drug dealer boss.) Type two: Nic Cage extorting someone for drugs (be it his colleagues in the police department or innocent people.) Type three: Nic Cage taking drugs.

Yep. Bad Lieutenant is composed of not much more than these four angles and three modes of interaction, repeated throughout. It sounds dull, but the brilliant thing is that it isn’t in the slightest. Instead, the film establishes these routines with great care (you’d never notice them unless you were searching for patterns and structures, which I was) then hides them in Nic Cage’s performance. Like most of us, he’s so engrossed in the life he’s living, he doesn’t notice his patterns until things start to go wrong. So his blatant disregard for police procedure in order to get things done doesn’t cause a problem, until he almost asphyxiates a US senator’s mother to get answers or, for instance, beats up the son of a man that owns half New Orleans for not paying his prostitute girlfriend.

It’s brilliant, because in effect the film is about a man striving to fulfil his aims and responsibilities like the rest of us, but living life at such a pitch it proves self-destructive. Suffice to comment this is all treated with tremendous dark humour, and is delicious to watch.

The Good, The Bad and The Weird - Jee-woon Kim (2008)

Illustrating the tragic lives that ordinary people in action movies such as The Good, The Bad and The Weird must lead.

Kang-ho Jim had spent the morning at market mulling his options for dessert when it happened. He had finished inspecting a stall of ripe melons and was presenting his choice to the shopkeep when a calamitous bang shook the building. The melon he was holding hit the dirt with a splut. 

Fuck-a-doodle-doo he thought, and glanced at the shopkeep. The old man pointed with his stare to the exit, and nodded to Kang-ho Jim to peek outside.

Fuck-a-doodle-doo to You too, Kang-ho thought, but crept to the frame. 

He was about to poke his nose outside when an explosion ripped the door from its hinges and sent it whizzing in. Kang-ho was propelled back and landed at the far wall. FUCK-A-DOODLE-DOO he thought, batting aside the smoking remnants to see a man in pilot’s goggles shouldering a grenade launcher. 

Kang-ho pressed his palms to the dirt to stop the world spinning and tried to launch himself up. Before he could though, the shopkeep brought a hand against his shoulder. 

You’re nuts if you’re planning to go outside, he frowned. 

Kang-ho nodded and slumped against the wall. 

Outside he watched a man in a tailored suit shoot past on a motorbike, one hand clutching a sten gun and spraying lead. He exited the frame but then reappeared as an explosion launched him from the bike. Still clutching his sten gun the man shook his head to clear his senses, then dashed off. 

Fuck-a-doodle-poodle, Kang-ho nodded to the shopkeep, and the pair huddled close. 

Explosions filled the town, shaking the stalls and sending melons plummeting into the dirt. Pots and pans hanging from the ceiling collided. 

Then an errant grenade rolled in. 

The next thing Kang-ho Jim knew it was raining splinters, and the scream of bullets had lost place to a high-pitched squeal. 

He found himself prostrate where the shop had stood, clutching the shopkeep. The old man’s face was shrouded in blood. Fuck-a-doodle-doo, Kang-ho thought, and forced himself to examine the street. 

Platoons of men were unloading lead death into one another. Some wore suits and carried automatic weapons, others wore uniforms and wielded shotguns. Combatants launched themselves from scaffolds and emptied magazines into the ground, then landed safe at another building, and all round carnage reigned. 

Kang-ho let go the shopkeep and scrambled to shield himself beneath a dead horse. He clamped his palms across his ears and waited for the end. 

Then it came. 

Silence ruled where moments ago gunfire had made mayhem of the streets. In the distance Kang-ho could hear the combatants raging, but it appeared they’d gone. Carcaseslittered the roadside. Blood splattered the sides of buildings. Not a whole structure remained. 

Kang-ho dusted himself down. He entered the sad remains of the melon shop, picked a ripe specimen and, cradling the thing, walked home.

Danny Boyle - 127 Hours

Seeing a Danny Boyle movie is like seeing someone bust a gut telling an anecdote. It’s like a colleague relating something that happened to them at the weekend, but hiring an orchestra to accompany them. It’s like Christ! That was incredible! But then the euphoria fades, and you can’t help feeling they’ve spent too much effort turning a three minute pop song into a symphony. Take Boyle’s latest film 127 Hours. It’s about a rock climber who wedges his arm between a boulder and a cliff face, and spends five days trying to free himself. Boyle uses every conceivable trick to make a mountain from his mole hill. He inserts panoramic shots of the desert that start with the climber in his crack in the cliff, thereby illustrating his smallness in comparison to the earth. He inserts shots of marathons and crowds of people at football games, thereby illustrating the climber’s isolation from human kind. He inserts a rock soundtrack and close-up shots of the climber prior to his accident, thereby illustrating his mistaken belief that nothing can harm him. These are all good things. But ultimately, Boyle never convinces us this is anything but some dude relating his bad weekend. It never becomes about the character, but remains about the situation. It means I might gasp and stare for as long as he’s telling the story, but once it’s over I’m not going to give it another thought. For all Boyle’s technical mastery, the film is ultimately trivial.