Helter skelter

Coverage of this year’s Edinburgh Film Festival should be along shortly. A preview of the festival was commissioned by a commercial but non-paying site and written by me, but subsequently spiked; the kind of occurrence that makes the whole unpaid film “journalism” charade sound even more ridiculous than it does when I’m explaining it to my team of accountants and the man who polishes my bullion.

Meantime: I reviewed The Purge here for Critic’s Notebook. The staging is a mess and characters do inexplicable things just to fit in with the plot, so the most interesting aspects are the borrowings from Manson-ology, which paint the film’s One Percenter outrage in a most disconcerting light. But that’s such a knotty issue that the film opts not to get stuck in – a missed opportunity having got halfway there, and not the only hint of solid conservative values. The campaign to get Lena Headey into a Marvel super-villain role rolls on, though.

And: I have a lot of time for Neil Jordan films, and although limited resources cause Byzantium to puff somewhat on its way up the hill, there are still enough subtexts about the historical plight of women living and undead alike to raise it out of any vampiric rut it looks like it might be settling into. That review is here at the same venue.

Matters of gravity

A report with some thoughts on this year’s Encounters Short Film and Animation Festival has been posted at Little White Lies. A few more:

Last year, when Encounters announced a move from November to September to enhance awards eligibility for the films being shown, it looked like part of the constant jockeying for position among film festivals, a subterranean grapple that sometimes breaks into view now there seem to be three festivals every week of the year.

But since then a larger picture has also emerged from the political fog, an overhaul of Britain’s international film festivals that’s closely tied to the BFI’s funding review. During the consultation process the Institute has made positive noises about the security of the four headline international festivals – London, Edinburgh, Sheffield and Bristol – and even more positive noises about the likelihood of a network of regional hubs to be the focus of activity once the funding dust settles.

Bristol’s Watershed must surely be on the inside track for a place at that table. The BFI is unveiling the final figures imminently, and at Encounters there was conspicuous optimism from some who sit where Encounters and Watershed overlap, who are no doubt in a position to read the tea leaves. The truth will emerge shortly.

Even if the daylight hours hadn’t shifted, Encounters would still have felt different this year, since newly installed live-action programmer Gaia Meucci steered the line-up in a subtly different direction. Out, for the most part, went that sub-set of short films backed by larger production companies featuring bigger names. There were exceptions – Care made by Warp Films with Gina McKee as a conflicted District Nurse was one – but nothing to match the regular appearances of people like Michael Fassbender and Jonathan Caouette and Matthew Holness and Chloë Sevigny and Tony Grisoni that characterized last year.

This time round the programme tilted towards the earnest. Nothing wrong with that as a guiding principle; short-form filmmaking attracts serious minds with serious things to say, and Encounters featured several talented artists doing just that in animation and live-action. But laughter, actual unforced fun, was harder to come by than it had been.

Notes From Underground, Isabella Eklöf’s film about a Danish paedophile with a young girl in his cellar, divided audience opinion – I was pro; others were emphatically not – but more to the point the film would not, I think, have appeared in a daytime screening slot in the international programme of Encounters previously. It wouldn’t have fitted well in the festival’s late-night sections either, which tend to go for genre shorts and exercises in excess rather than authentically challenging material.

I’m not sure Old Encounters would have known what to do with it, not that that’s automatically criticism. New Encounters knew exactly what it wanted to do with it, not that that’s automatically praise. In either case, the festival is evolving, along with the film infrastructure around it.

The Little White Lies article is here.

Pictured: an exception to everything I just said. Till Nowak’s The Centrifuge Brain Project involves an engineer designing fairground rides unhindered by the laws of physics. If only the High Altitude Conveyance System, a ride so complex that one circuit took 14 hours, could really be built; and if only people could sometimes miss their exit and have to go round again. I’d be laughing for a week. I laughed for nearly a week anyway when I realized that the scientist, who looks like he might be related to Professor Denzil Dexter of the University of Southern California, is actually played by the man who really is HR Giger’s US agent. Beat that.

Less Bergman, more Crazy Frog

Flicker. Så är det.

David Hudson declined to aggregate much coverage from the Edinburgh International Film Festival this year. He limited himself to a couple of the festival press releases, and one article each from Indiewire, Filmmaker and The Scotsman. This speaks volumes, should anyone be listening.

A first round-up for Little White Lies covering week one, give or take, is posted here.

The second, covering a conspicuously more vibrant week two, is posted here at the same venue.

And for Critic’s Notebook, five films deserving a further few hundred words:

Killer Joe is a wicked black comedy about male impotence and a reminder that Gina Gershon knows no fear.

7 Days in Havana is over-extended but catches aspects of Cuba that normally get left behind.

Dragon is Western-friendly wuxia with a Weinstein Company flavour.

Shadow Dancer sits at the point where TV and cinema theoretically overlap but where TV usually wins out, the same space that Page Eight occupied last year. But Andrea Riseborough can do no wrong.

Meanwhile, the British remake of Pusher occupies a space all on its own.

No room in any of them to mention Flicker, the black comedy whose vision of life in Swedish industry stirred many repressed memories, most of which I was glad to find were still there. I wore that hat.

Take a left over Frigia

A weekend at Derby’s ID Fest on behalf of Little White Lies produced, among other things, a close encounter with Brian Blessed. The great man’s firm belief in Flash Gordon as an enduring example of the mind at play is tough to dispute while he’s in full flow, and not all that easy to pick apart after he’s gone. Consideration of the issues raised involved reacquaintance with 1980-model Ornella Muti, which is the equivalent of reopening old wounds.

Another larger than life presence was Ken Russell, thanks to the festival showing three of his movies and screening The Debussy Film as well. Paul Sutton, biographer and advocate, took the opportunity to put the boot in to the establishment figures whom he felt had damaged Russell over the years, which was pretty much all of them: “The British film industry and Hollywood are run by categorical idiots and imbeciles. By the end of Russell’s first professional year, 1959, he had made seven amazing 35mm shorts; none of which are available to the public since the BBC are assholes.” And much else in similar vein. Sutton’s in-the-works five-volume Russell biography has apparently been funded by John McTiernan, which sounds like a great trivia question in the making.

The folks at ID Fest felt that this was the year their event entered a new and more ambitious stage of its development, and it showed. A festival round-up is now online at LWLies.

Mondo apocalypto

The annual year-end bun grapple over at Critic’s Notebook brings the inevitable list: Ten films I liked from 2011.

At this rate next December’s apocalypse will be caused entirely by the posting online of more Top Ten Films of 2012 lists than the cosmos can allow.

Updated to add:

I didn’t realise that Julia Leigh’s Sleeping Beauty – that’s Emily Browning above, in the process of applying for the job – never got a review at Critic’s Notebook when it was released in the UK or subsequently when it broke cover in the US. It’s also one of those films that seems to have left the New Model Collective of film reviewers in a bit of a muddle. So for the record, set the Wayback Machine for Things I Wrote Down Last October (now with fewer typos):

Julia Leigh Sleeps Furiously: Sleeping Beauty

None of the many calamitous ways in which the sight of old men queueing up to fondle a comatose Emily Browning could have gone off the rails actually happen in Sleeping Beauty, since it turns out that Julia Leigh is a) a clinician with a painter’s eye for compositions and tones, and b) not mucking about. She’s also not exactly breaking new ground, pulling on threads already tackled in one form or another by Kubrick and Bunuel, and indeed by Jane Campion, whose name on the label seems to have confused those forgetting that Campion’s waded out into frustrated sexuality and the human textures of homesteads before. But not quite like this. To say Leigh scores a bullseye on some complex ambiguities of masculine power and feminine voids is an understatement. Sleeping Beauty is taut as a stretched rubber band, set squarely in the art house wheelhouse with acres of still compositions and sound design to let the mind roam around, but with the tonal refresher of the whole Australian setting and screen acting style kicking in all the time. It’s also roughly as erotic as eye surgery, and anyone detecting actual misogyny or anti-feminism in its sights and sounds deserves a close encounter with the mighty pillow of truth, especially if they’re male. In fact your reaction may hinge entirely upon exactly which side of life’s median line you happen to find yourself.

Leigh doesn’t bother to hide the cogs, so Sleeping Beauty is transparent. Browning is orally penetrated for money in the name of science in scene one and doesn’t get much joy from it, so her half of the agenda is in plain sight from the off. The meatier side comes later via the three old men who queue up for a grope, three fearless old actors whose conflicted and conflicting horrors are only slightly weakened by noticing that one of them was in Mad Max when the world was younger. Some reviewers have detected pretension everywhere, but the film’s only actual tinge of the stuff comes via a long literary monologue delivered straight to camera by Old Man One (the interweb tells me it’s a story by Ingeborg Bachmann), shortly before he bares a bod that looks in need of a thrash with a carpet beater and is revealed to be hung like a dormouse. Not sure that bravery is quite the word for that.

All the rigid lines and staged country-house formality of it keep the focus squarely where Leigh intends it to be: on the minds rather than the bodies. Rachel Blake’s madam is carved from some kind of marble, and if her deportment wasn’t all you needed to know about her then the way her pinky finger locks at precisely thirty degrees while pouring the tea fills in the gaps. Leigh uses fades rather than cuts, the classic metaphor for decay and unconsciousness, and builds them into an Aussie setting with all its body consciousness and free-wheeling machismo intact – states of mind which are then unpicked by Leigh with a laser microscope, in a manor-house lit by southern hemisphere sunlight. Emily Browning’s naked body is on screen so often you almost ignore it, but the varying views and vistas out of the windows she parades in front of at different points in the plot are at least as significant. Look at the framing of her alabaster body among the other olive-skined brunettes and tell me this director isn’t in complete control of mood, tone and perspective.

Browning’s bravery in doing this thing is beyond question, and at least her style looks a better fit with the actual story here than it was in Sucker Punch. But the dilemma that always hangs around screen portrayals of shallow characters applies: casting someone who’s not a born firebrand might suit the story, but dents the film. Browning is obliged to downplay so far she’s practically planted in the ground, swinging between being a hollowed-out void to strangers and a conflicted bitch to people she knows. She comes across as an emptier vessel than the investigation underway can really use. Faced with a cameoing Amazonian brunette I’d not seen before named Mirrah Foulkes, whose six-foot black-clad face-decorated usually-topless frame glides around as if following lines of magnetism while she radiates the kind of air that could lead a man to his doom, Browning seems lost for words. She wasn’t the only one.

Live from the Acme Retirement Castle

Chloe Sevigny in All Flowers In Time

The challenge in covering Bristol’s Encounters Film Festival, once you’ve calculated a route to Canon’s Road that doesn’t actually involve Canon’s Road on a Saturday night, is to accept the inevitable: A festival report that attempts to describe everything screened at a short-film festival would have to rumble on for a week. Even one limited to just the films you actually like will have a commissioning editor reaching for the migraine pills.

Little White Lies gave me space to rave about a few, but leaving out the ones that wouldn’t fit was a chore. No room to mention Tony Grisoni’s The Pizza Miracle, with its fake slice of black and white Italiano called The Madonna of the Eels and the looming silent presence of none other than Ray Cooper. No space to giggle at The External World, David O’Reilly’s spasm of animated lunacy on which a year’s worth of catchphrases can draw. Darren Kent playing a lad allergic to sunlight in Sunny Boy and blurring the lines between acting and reality completely; the young actress in Burn My Body who did the same thing from the exact opposite direction; Luke Treadaway looking very harassed in Man In Fear (“I’m being hunted by a conceptual artist.”/”Is he threatening to drop a pickled shark on you sir?”)… All gone, washed away by the editing tide.

The Little White Lies festival report about the ones that survived the edit, including the film in which Chloë Sevigny does something remarkable with her face, is posted here.

An Encounters interview with animator John Kricfalusi circled the runway for a while but has now landed over at Critic’s Notebook.

Just for comparison’s sake an earlier Encounters report from a few years back is online at the same place, this being the one in which my admiration for Rebecca Hall really kicked in.

The wives of others

Sebastian Koch in Albatross, unhappily ever after.

Those caught on the receiving end of my enthusiasm for Paul Verhoeven films will be surprised that I remembered to ask Sebastian Koch about his new film Albatross, and didn’t spend our entire interview grilling him about Black Book. In fact my cunning plan to spend the interview asking about Black Book and then shout some questions about Albatross at his retreating car as he left for the airport worked perfectly. He’s lucky I didn’t follow him onto the plane.

Albatross is a sprightly attempt to goose some life into a template from which most life has already fled. Miserable married men have been seen losing their footing over precocious young girls who forget to wear bras since the invention both of movies and of bras; and this one does it in an English seaside guest house, a venue already pre-loaded for farce. Sooner or later someone’s going to leap into the broom cupboard when their spouse comes round the corner, and sure enough they’re dressed as the Pope at the time.

Most of the goosing comes from the actors, vivid and surprisingly cosmopolitan bunch that they are. Director Niall MacCormick has a lighter touch than Brit-coms usually have to withstand, and a while back he cast Andrea Riseborough as Margaret Thatcher so safe to say his instincts for performers are habitually spot-on. This is a lucky break for Albatross, since the actual plot and its Be Yourself moral, arriving courtesy of sad grandparents and snotty upper class twits, provides hardly any goosing at all. After seeming determined to grab an odd bunch of ingredients and charge up a particularly British sit-com cul-de-sac just to see what happens when it hits the wall at the end, the film decides to settle for a nice cup of tea instead.

But better a light touch than no touch at all. The very English Jessica Brown-Findlay sashays around the more urbane Julia Ormond as if touching her would set off an alarm, while Sebastian Koch squeezes his oversize Germanic frame into tiny rooms that don’t fit him and simmers with nameless frustrations. Between them they look like the New Europe crashing into a ditch.

My chat with Sebastian Koch is now online over at Little White Lies. Albatross is an opportunity to see this fine dramatic actor stretch his comedic muscles, play the fool a little, and dance a shimmy. So naturally I asked him about Nazis and the Holocaust and Hauptsturmführer Ludwig Müntze.

He said, she said

Céline Sciamma’s effortlessly touching film Tomboy gets its message across in so many subtle ways that the one moment of deliberate directorial flourish leaves you suddenly adrift. Having made a point of regarding Laure, the ten-year-old girl in the process of passing herself off as a ten-year-old boy, with a minimum of nervous excitement and plenty of Gallic égalité, the camera suddenly deserts her. In her moment of keenest need it swings away into the trees for a bit, where the natural world rolls on. Eventually it wanders back to find that Laure has rolled on too. Poetry for the eyes.

My interview with Céline Sciamma about the film and her obvious encounter with the gods of casting is online here at Little White Lies.

Immigrant song

A Better Life

The absence of grit in A Better Life is more about director Chris Weitz taking a thought experiment out for a spin than any lack of nerve. All the space that a story of migrant workers and familial strife would normally fill with hand-held camerawork and hard-core frowning gets used instead for deliberately lush photography of some very un-lush bits of East Los Angeles and a sweeping score by Alexandre Desplat. Much of the rest is occupied by the very fine Demian Bichir, honest self-sacrifice oozing from every pore in exactly the way it didn’t when he played Fidel Castro as a self-propelled agent of revolution in Steven Soderbergh’s Che a while back. Weitz’s tactic of addressing the immigrant experience through colour and music and high production values rather than friction and noise and aggression is clearly deliberate, the work of a man who knows whose shoulders he stands on. So naturally he’s getting some stick for it.

My talk with Chris Weitz about the film and why he made it the way he did is now online at Little White Lies.

To the wilds of Iberia with Carolina Bang

The 65th Edinburgh International Film Festival was what it was. Some of the well-publicised flaws were not technically disasters, just a substantial retreat from the glory days of old. And some of them were so fundamentally wrong-headed that they seem unfixable short of breaking the festival back down to the ground and rebuilding from scratch. On top of which, for every truly stupefying mistake concerning ticketing or press relations or unfortunate programming, there was an act of god which just made the whole unlucky enterprise seem cursed. Many of these involved the Cameo’s lavatories.

For Little White Lies, a festival report in two parts.
Part One including Celine Sciamma’s tender view of childhood uncertainties Tomboy, and a sympathetic portrait of Bobby Fischer’s internal torments.
Part Two including David Mackenzie’s divisive Perfect Sense, the clearly star-making Albatross, and the poignant Life In Movement which happens to be one of the best documentaries about dance I’ve ever seen.

I also did some interviewing for LWLies, to appear at various points in the future. Here’s one: Craig Viveiros and John Lynch talk about their bruising prison drama Ghosted.

Mubi Daily Notebook once again picked up some of my coverage.

Over at Critic’s Notebook, four films worthy of deeper wordage:
Perfect Sense is an emphatic return to form for a director last seen disappearing beneath the waves of Hollywood seemingly never to return. And a litmus test for film reviewers, by the look of things.
The Last Circus is so utterly bonkers that Carolina Bang swinging on a trapeze in front of a big picture of Telly Savalas counts as one of its more rational moments.
Page Eight really had no place being at the festival but gave me newfound appreciation of Bill Nighy’s approach to tailoring.
The Divide is every bit as downbeat and dour and post-apocalyptic as its makers intended, which is a lot.

EDITED TO ADD: Wayward programming can have its advantages.
Hello again, Lightbulb Kids.

Brand Upon The Brain