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After two weeks of never quite getting round to it, I finally got around to seeing Persepolis last night and I’m glad I made the effort. Ok, it wasn’t much of an effort, a fifteen minute walk to the cinema, but you know what I mean. I’m quite aware of the fact that haven’t seen enough new films this year – I blame The Wire, which has occupied most of my free time for the past two months – but this brilliant little animated film has renewed my interest in getting out there and trying new things again.
Based on Marjane Satrapi’s graphic novel of the same name, Persepolis is essentially the coming of age story of a young girl in Iran, before, during and after the 1979 Islamic revolution. The film is told from the point of view of Marjane, who was around ten years old at the time of the revolution, and so reflects on the situation from a child’s perspective, and the child of a reasonably affluent communist family in Tehran at that. Marjane’s uncle Anouche, a recently freed communist activist, is effectively Marjane’s most influential history teacher, too, so those looking for the other sides of the political argument will not find them covered equally here. As I said, it’s a coming of age story with a side order of politics, not a political essay. And it’s all the better for it.
After the revolution, with Iran embroiled in a devastating war against Iraq – you know, the one we supplied the weapons for – Marjane is sent abroad to Austria to attend school by her parents. The film follows her experiences there, as she gradually loses touch with her homeland and struggles with her identity, trying, with limited success, to integrate herself into Austrian society. This segment of the film offers a pleasantly distracting comedic element (the Viennese anarcho-punk scene, a string of useless boyfriends) but there are also poignant scenes as the European experience turns sour for the teenage Marjane. Crushed by a series of unfortunate events, she heads back to the now very different Islamic Republic of Iran to attend college and, eventually, to undergo a political re-awakening that will see her return to Europe once and for all.
While sarcasm, humour, and politics are never far away, it is the strength of its supporting characters and the depth of their relationships that makes Persepolis great. Key to the film’s success is Marjane’s bond with her grandmother, a charismatic, wise and above all loving lady whose words of wisdom (”the first marriage is only practice for the second one”) are matched only by her beauty tips – I certainly wasn’t aware of the cosmetic powers of a bowl of cold water. (Watch the film, you’ll see what I mean).
While others might disagree, I also felt that the film’s handling of the revolution – i.e. its one-sided, childlike portrayal – worked surprisingly well. Refreshingly free of preaching, Persepolis has encouraged me to go and learn more about pre-revolution life in Iran under the Shah and the revolution itself. It’s prompted me to think, rather than telling me what to think, and that distinction is important.
Still, even if you have no interest in Iran or politics whatsoever, Persepolis a great film and, as much as I enjoyed Ratatouille, I think this would have been a worthy winner of last year’s Best Animated Feature Film Oscar. Then again, I suppose it’s a minor miracle that a French film about an Iranian girl even got nominated in a major category.
From Rear Window to Rushmore, Citizen Kane to Amélie, obsession is a perennial favourite in modern cinema.
Michel Spinosa’s Anna M. tackles the theme through the eyes of an unhinged female stalker and the result is a chilling psychological drama. Think of it as a better, artier take on Fatal Attraction.
Isabelle Carré stars as Anna, a slightly odd, detached young woman who works at the National Library in Paris and lives with her equally troubled mother. After deliberately walking into the path of a speeding motor vehicle, Anna finds herself in hospital where she develops what at first seems like an innocent crush on the surgeon responsible for fixing her shattered femur, Dr Zanevsky (Gilbert Melki). Of course, Spinosa’s film is about obsession and over the course of the next 90 minutes we see Anna take the art of stalking to a whole new level. It’s an uncomfortable journey, as those containing casual sex, masturbation, late night phone calls, vandalism and reckless endangerment of children tend to be, and by the end I was so unsettled by Carré’s character that I found it genuinely difficult to praise her outstanding performance.
Anna M. is not without its share of flaws – a few stretched plot devices (the slightly cavalier attitude of the locksmith had me scratching my head with frustration) detracted from the tension somewhat and the dream sequence ending seemed like a bit of a cop out – but ultimately I found it to be a rewarding piece of cinema. Spinosa is no Michael Haneke (whose Caché, incidentally, is probably the last great stalker film) but he’s certainly a name to watch. (7)
Where can an actor/writer turn to after exhausting the possibilities of cult sitcom, zombie horror and twisted cop-themed buddy movies? Romantic comedy, apparently. And middle of the road romantic comedy at that. The almost irritatingly likeable Simon Pegg would do well to remind himself that Will Ferrell was once considered endearing, too. A string of lifeless comedy vehicles soon put an end to that, and if Pegg fails to exercise caution in his future film choices then he may suffer a similar fate (lots of $/£, but dwindling respect from irrelevant critical types like myself).
Run, Fat Boy, Run isn’t a major disaster but I’d be highly surprised to see it emphasised on Pegg’s CV - or David Schwimmer’s for that matter – in five years time. It’s a minor late summer rom-com, with a plot and characters far too slight to life up to its billing as “comedy of the year”. On the plus side, it has in Pegg a versatile lead actor with impeccable comic timing, who’s just as comfortable expressing emotion as he is clowning around with the physical comedy gags. On the downside, well, that’s where the script comes in.
The basic plot. Dennis (Pegg) deserted the pregnant Libby (Thandie Newton) minutes before their wedding and has regretted it ever since. Now she’s got a new guy, the smug, seemingly perfect, marathon running American, Whit (Hank Azaria). Fuelled partly by jealously/hatred, but ultimately through a desire to impress Libby, Dennis – an overweight security guard by day, sedentary slob by night – enters the Nike River Run, a twenty six mile slog along the banks of the Thames. Now comes the funny bit – he only has a few weeks to get in shape. And obviously he’ll need a spanking new pair of Nike trainers. And did I mention there’s a son involved? And a poorly fleshed out best mate (Dylan Moran)? And a landlord/trainer who is not so much a character but a caricature of a middle-aged British Indian (Harish Patel)? No? I wonder why.
The ending is hopelessly predictable, of course, as first time runner Dennis shaves thirty minutes off the marathon world record to reclaim his sweetheart and thwart the evil American. Ok, it’s not that predictable, but you’ll still see it coming from a good twenty six miles off. (In my version, he would have hit the wall after 3 miles, collapsed and been admitted to hospital overnight for intravenous fluids and observation, with all parties agreeing what an irresponsible decision it was to attempt a marathon with such inadequate prepation in the first place.)
So, if you love Simon Pegg and/or David Schwimmer and don’t care about scripts or supporting characters run out and see this film. If you hate Simon Pegg and romantic comedies, avoid it like the plague. And if, like me, you think Pegg’s pretty good in the right setting (usually this involves Nick Frost and Edgar Wright) but aren’t a massive fan of romantic comedies and find British attempts at the genre particularly unsettling then by all means see Run, Fat Boy, Run, but don’t expect a classic. Or even a good film for that matter. (5)
In the wake of media hysteria over David Beckham’s estimated £128million transfer from arguably the most prestigious club side in the world to MLS outfit Los Angeles Galaxy, it’s easy to forget that this is by no means the first time that the mighty dollar has lured a global football star to the States.
This lively documentary film, originally released last year and now available on DVD, offers a unique insight into the even madder days of the North American Soccer League and the New York Cosmos, who in the late seventies and early eighties invented the whole galactico concept.
The Cosmos was undoubtedly the glamour franchise of the NASL in its hey day and Once In A Lifetime follows the club from its humble beginnings, with a tight knit group of enthusiastic semi-pros, playing on pitches littered with broken glass, to its mid seventies explosion and later, its inevitable decline. This of course makes for a rather neat narrative arc, which the filmmakers follow conveniently.
Few could argue that the big money signing of Pelé in 1975 was the catalyst for the club’s move into the mainstream, and as such a large proportion of the film’s 93 minute running time is dedicated to this. The details and origins of the actual deal are actually quite sketchy, with every living Cosmos associate having a different take on events – and usually one which exaggerates their own role in the saga – however it is fascinating to see how the soccer-sceptical US sports media reacted at the time. This section of the film in particular suffers slightly due to Pelé’s refusal to be interviewed for the film, although the archive footage gives the impression that his motives for the move – large sums of money and the chance to conquer football’s last frontier – are remarkable similar to those offered by Beckham today.
Every custom built dream team has its multi-millionaire financier and the Cosmos was no different. The charismatic CEO of Warner Communications, Steve Ross, had backed the project from the beginning and bankrolled the Pelé transfer. Spurred on no doubt by the overwhelming impact of Pelé’s arrival – the average Cosmos attendance tripled in his first season – Ross was clearly hungry for more, and in 1976 a charismatic yet slightly unhinged Italian by the name of Giorgio Chinaglia arrived in the Big Apple becoming the team’s second major overseas star. At the age of 29, Chinaglia was also in the prime of his career, and he subsequently went on to become the NASL’s all time leading scorer.
Unlike Pelé, Chinaglia does contribute to Once In A Lifetime and is the source of much of the films humour, particularly when talking about his Brazilian team-mate with whom he did clearly not get along with. Indeed, he apparently reduced the great number 10 to tears in one dressing room argument. Chinaglia is involved in a great deal of the mythology behind the Cosmos, and at times resembles a mafia boss when providing ambiguous replies to accusations of corruption.
Of course, New York in the late seventies was not just about football, and the film has all the necessary shots of the players and executives mingling with the likes of Mick Jagger, Dustin Hoffman, Muhammad Ali and Henry Kissinger, hanging out as VIPs at Studio 54, and, as you’d expect, posing with lots of beautiful young ladies. A cracking soundtrack of funk, soul, disco and pop music from the era completes the mood nicely.
Once In A Lifetime moves at a swift pace and is a great deal of fun but it is not without its flaws. For starters, there is simply not enough match footage to satisfy the average football fan. I appreciate that NASL matches were only covered by network TV for one season, but it would have been great to see more of Pelé, Beckenbauer, Chinaglia and Carlos Alberto playing together in the same side. I see this as an opportunity missed. Secondly, the film barely skims the surface when recounting the collapse of the Cosmos and the league in general. The narrator cites dilution of talent through ridiculous overexpansion and the obvious overspending as the NASL’s cause of death, but I’d have liked to learn more about this and its impact on the league’s players and fans.
It remains to be seen whether David Beckham’s move to Los Angeles will open the floodgates for an influx of foreign talent – and a subsequent boom in US soccer – but with the relaxation of Major Soccer League’s previously strict salary rules and reports that several US clubs have been inquiring about Zinedine Zidane’s availability, the possibility of history repeating itself is certainly there. Until then, fans of the beautiful game will enjoy basking in the slightly skewed nostalgia of this richly entertaining film. (7)
Film review published on NORIPCORD.COM
The big screen has played host to more than its fair share of hot shot detectives, hard-nosed American cops, and shady undercover agents, but for decades the humble British Bobby has been suspiciously absent, relegated instead to mundane TV shows like The Bill and Heartbeat. In fact the last truly memorable portrayal of a police officer was thirty four years ago, when Edward Woodward shone as the wonderfully naïve Sergeant Howie in 1973’s The Wicker Man.
Enter Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the team behind surprise zombie hit Shaun of the Dead and the brilliant cult sitcom Spaced. Taking inspiration – and a few one liners – from 90’s Hollywood action flicks such as Bad Boys, the Lethal Weapon series and Point Break, Wright and Pegg have created that rare beast – a British film that successfully combines two genres, in this case action and comedy.
A brief synopsis. P.C. Nicholas Angel (Pegg) is the Metropolitan Police’s top constable. Concerned that his superb arrest record is making everyone else look bad, Nicholas’s superiors (cameos for Steve Coogan, Bill Nighy and the Office’s Martin Freeman) arrange for his transfer to the sleepy West Country village of Sandford, where he is immediately shocked by the relaxed attitude to policing of Chief Inspector Butterman (Jim Broadbent) and his team of startlingly incompetent officers, which includes Butterman’s son Danny (an excellent Nick Frost).
The workload of missing swans, rogue hedge-cutting (really), and teenage shoplifters initially seems routine to Nicholas, but as he meets Sandford’s less savoury characters, most notably Timothy Dalton’s smarmy supermarket mogul Simon Skinner, he soon begins to suspect that things in the village are not what they seem. And, needless to say, he’s right.
Nicholas goes on to expose the village’s dark secrets and an all-action final third ensues, a relentless torrent of one line gems, film references – a staple of Pegg and Wright’s work dating back to their Spaced days – and enough gun fights, car chases and explosions to satisfy even the most hardened of action movie junkies.
Some have billed Hot Fuzz a spoof – indeed the same label was attached to Shaun of the Dead – but I think this misses the point. While Wright and Pegg clearly recognise the absurdity of big-budget American action movies, they also understand what makes them entertaining, and these elements are lovingly incorporated into Hot Fuzz. The comedy element comes from the juxtaposition of these American action values (e.g. Nicholas and Danny’s relationship) with the church fetes, Neighbourhood Watch meetings and underage drinking that are all so typical of English village life.
At two hours Hot Fuzz is perhaps a touch on the long side and the drawn out ending(s) – another nod to this film’s American action counterparts – are probably unnecessary, but in terms of sheer laughs it’s impossible to argue that Hot Fuzz is anything but another total success for one of British cinema’s most talented film-making teams. Roll on the DVD release. (8)
Film review published on NORIPCORD.COM
The dismal English title of Rachib Bouchareb’s latest film perhaps goes some way to explaining why I found myself watching it in an empty cinema just two days after its national release. Films about World War II are hardly in short supply – Clint Eastwood alone made two last year – and all the major campaigns (and most of the interesting subplots) have already been covered. In fact, prior to this, I hadn’t seen a WWII film that captured (and held) my attention since Oliver Hirschbiegel’s Der Untergang (Downfall).
The problem with ‘Days of Glory’ is that conjures up images of national flags, Hollywood A-listers, and the kind of historically inaccurate, one-sided tales of patriotism that have so significantly devalued this sub-genre. It almost sounds like an Alistair MacLean story. I can fully understand why someone glancing at a cinema schedule who knew nothing else about this film wouldn’t give it the time of day.
The tragedy is that these people will miss out on one of the most intelligent and thought-provoking war films of the decade.
Indigènes follows a French Army regiment of Algerian volunteers from their recruitment and training in North Africa, through their first taste of battle in Italy, and then for the remainder of the war in France. Each of the men has his own unique reasons for signing up. Brothers Yassir (Samy Naceri) and Larbi (Assaad Bouab) are there for the money; the intelligent corporal Abdelkader (Sami Bouajila) has his eye on a military career; Saïd (Jamel Debbouze), who comes from a background of abject poverty and has been sheltered by his mother, wants to prove himself. Their one common goal is to achieve freedom for the Motherland and to be regarded as equals, although members of the regiment share varying opinions regarding the likelihood of the latter.
Indigènes is successful on three different levels – as a war film, as a film about friendship, and, vitally, as a film about inequality.
The first poignant moment comes in the aftermath of the first battle, as Bouchareb effectively communicates the war’s incredible waste of human life. We see hundreds of brave North African volunteers, idealistic and fresh from their training camp, obediently advancing into a barrage of machine gun fire for the sake of a desolate stony hill. The chief purpose of this advance, we discover, is to determine the German position. With this established, the French artillery bombard the hillside and a victory is claimed. Afterwards when a journalist asks the French colonel about the number of casualties he is simply told, with some enthusiasm, to report a great French victory.
From this point forward we begin to see more transparent signs of discrimination. The victorious men are told that their celebratory dinner will not include tomatoes, as these have been reserved for the French troops. Abdelkader makes an eloquent stand and the troops get their tomatoes, but this is only the beginning of a greater struggle for recognition, which sees all of the main characters affected in one way or another. Despite showing excellent leadership skills, Abdelkader is repeatedly overlooked for promotion, the powers that be showing a clear preference for French natives despite numerous recommendations from the sympathetic yet outwardly stern Sergeant Martinez. Later on, when the French troops are enjoying leave, the Algerians are told that they have to remain at base where they are subjected to an amateurish ballet performance.
The most powerful scenes are reserved for the film’s final third, however, when the troops put earlier disagreements aside to work side by side as a team. The bravery and comradeship of all of the men is obvious, although in the aftermath of the final battle it is once again cruelly overlooked.
The film ends in the present day, with one of the aged Algerian campaigners returning to a military cemetery to pay his respects to his fallen friends. Critics accusing Bouchareb of borrowing this final scene from Saving Private Ryan – a film that ceased to do anything for me emotionally beyond the first twenty minutes – are way off mark. The truly poignant moment is when the elderly man stumbles anonymously – and alone – through the crowded streets to his sparsely decorated, miserable apartment. Onscreen text informs us that the pensions of retired North African servicemen who served France during the war were cut when the countries of their birth gained independence. This climactic scene was presumably the sledgehammer blow that forced Jacques Chirac to amend this atrocious law, which to many, the heroes of Indigènes included, must have been the ultimate in a long line of injustices.
It is to this film’s immense credit that it will make the efforts of these seemingly forgotten men somewhat less easy to disregard. (9)
Film review published on NORIPCORD.COM
If Dead Man’s Shoes forced critics of Shane Meadows to think again, then This Is England will make them wonder why they ever questioned his abilities in the first place. (I’ll give you a clue: Once Upon a Time in the Midlands). This semi-autobiographical piece about growing up in Thatcher’s Britain against the gloomy backdrop of the Falklands War is not only one of the year’s most entertaining works; much more importantly than that, it’s also one of the most relevant.
The action centres around 12 year old Shaun, a prickly little outsider wonderfully brought to life by newcomer Thomas Turgoose. After a particularly eventful day at school which culminates in a visit to the headmaster’s office, Shaun meets a group of amiable skinheads, led by the charismatic Woody, who gradually welcome him into their gang. In a heart-warming first third, we follow Shaun’s transformation from a chubby Keith Chegwin look-alike to bona fide skin with his very own Ben Sherman shirt and grade one all over to match. There’s even room for a little coming of age action, too, as Shaun finds time to fumble around in the garden with a New Romantic called Smell (because it rhymes with Michelle, apparently).
Just as This Is England is starting to become comfortable, however, the film takes a decidedly dark turn as the sinister Combo (a chilling Stephen Graham) usurps the likeable Woody and splits the gang with his far-right politics, thinly veiled racism and manipulative rants. Combo preys on the fact that Shaun’s dad was killed in the Falklands War and uses this to lure him away from the safety of Woody. With the chaotic, unhinged Combo in charge, events begin to spiral out of control and while Shaun initially finds the action enthralling he will soon learn a difficult lesson or two as things turn really nasty.
As well as providing a snapshot into 80’s Britain and right-wing politics, This Is England is an intensely personal film about the role of the family and in particular the father. In Shaun’s case it is about bereavement and the paths that a boy follows after his father’s untimely death. Increasingly withdrawn from his home life and particularly his mother, he finds comfort in the almost familial atmosphere of the gang, and both Woody and later Combo temporarily occupy at least a part of the void left by his father’s death. But, intriguingly, the relationship between Combo and Shaun also tells us a great deal about Combo’s own childhood, and without really fleshing out the details, Meadows provides a few clues as to how he has ended up an intensely bitter and remorseless adult. Indeed, much of the latter part of the film sees Combo clumsily attempting to deal with his own father’s shortcomings and his inability to do so ultimately fuels his downfall.
If you look beyond the dubious trends of the decade and the laughably dated uniforms of the opposing tribes in 80’s teenage society, This Is England provides a chilling reminder that very little has actually changed. Nearly twenty-five years on the same racial tensions exist on British streets. The country is involved in another controversial war overseas and at home the British National Party is far more successful than the National Front could ever have dreamed of being. And just because the far-right politicians wear suits and sport respectable haircuts nowadays it doesn’t mean they’ve tempered their manifesto. The skinheads may have all but disappeared from England’s streets but the streets themselves aren’t quite as different as we’d like to think. (9)
Film review published on NORIPCORD.COM
