On a Great Start for British Film Making with Locke

There is a scene in Steven Knight’s Locke where the eponymous protagonist is asked if he has seen Samuel Beckett’s 1940s absurdist play, Waiting for Godot. It is clear he has not and the caller reminds him, he is not a theatre goer. Like Beckett’s Vladimir and Estragon Locke finds himself enthralled in a mental anguish that he cannot escape, and like the play, Knight’s Locke is so stripped down that viewers will bring to it their own interpretations and anxieties to find a meaning.

Locke is quite literally a slice of life. An almost real time real world problem unfolding over the phone as Locke drives to the birth of his child that has come about as a result of an affair. On top of this personal crisis, he must also fix a developing professional crisis regarding concrete, that has arisen as a result of his drive to the hospital. This is an experimental, gripping film with a simple narrative and it makes another mark in 2014 for British cinema that is exploring and playing with the rules of cinema.

From 12 Years a Slave at the start of the year to the more recent The Double and Starred Up, British filmmakers are telling great stories in unconventional, yet captivating styles. This may be a response to the growing domination of big budget films, the season for which seems to be growing every year. The continued success of these films (many of which are repetitive, thematically and stylistically) results in less financial input for riskier films that can’t guarantee large audiences. The inventiveness of these recent British films display a resolute response to such growing uniformity in cinemas; not just great narratives, not just challenging for audiences, but with style and experimentation too.

Locke is perhaps the most inventive, and as gripping as it is, it doesn’t manage to be quite as complete as Slave, The Double or Starred Up. This is not to detract from the skill on display and the remarkable performance from the voice actors, but mostly from Tom Hardy who disappears into this slice of life. The reference to Godot offers a brief clue as to Knight’s inspiration, but importantly not too much. It is part of Locke’s achievement that any readings differ with each viewer. More of the same, please.  

On the Uncertainty of Calvary

Calvary is an uncertain piece of cinema. Tonally and narratively the film is a faltering mix of ideas with an overall effect of self-importance that frustrates rather than impresses. The story of a priest threatened with death for crimes of paedophilia committed by the Catholic Church is a good one, but Calvary isn’t really about this. The dialogue makes reference to it, but the film isn't about it. More than anything, the film is about death and is full of clumsy death metaphors that are spoken by apparently literary characters who frustrate the protagonist who in turn takes some pleasure from revealing his congregations’ lack of literary merit. Instantly, Father Lavelle is an unlikeable character, especially as much of what he says also sounds pretentious. Combined with its unsure tone and dialogue that makes reference to a wider cinematic context we at times almost expect Father Lavelle to turn to the camera, nod and wink. Aren’t I clever, the film is telling us, I know what you, the audience, also know? In this way Calvary resembles Martin McDonagh’s Seven Psychopaths (2012), but far less successfully.

Calvary’s tone also does the film no favours. At times feeling like an episode of The League of Gentleman (1999 – 2002), at others bleakly depressing, it’s difficult to know whether this is tragedy or absurdist cinema. If it’s the latter where is the commentary on the human condition? The characters here are too tentative to be substantial. The title refers to the moment of crucifixation or a piece of art depicting this. Calvary ends with the death of a man, but there is no sacrifice here, there is no resolution to the loose paedophilia story and no one is saved by his death. If there is a message to be found in this reversal of ideas, it is indistinct.

On the Panoptical and Starred Up

David Mackenzie’s Starred Up is a fierce prison film, calling to mind Un prophete (2009), an addition to the prison genre that will become a classic of the canon. And, like Un prophete, Mackenzie’s film shows you don’t need to sacrifice style to tell a hard hitting, intelligent story.

More than being a narrative that asks the nature versus nurture question, Starred Up offers a fascinating insight into the institution, perhaps best explored through Bentham’s architectural guard, the Panopticon, a tower designed to give the impression of all round surveillance. From the moment Mackenzie’s protagonist, Eric enters the prison, the institution takes over; stand here, move there, take this off, wear this, turn right. The monotony of the quick orders, reminding Eric he is now one of many, ends with him being placed in a cell, viewed from a narrow slot in the door; to be seen without knowing or seeing back. Eric is initially wrapped within the panoptical.

Mackenzie often films the prison (which the film never leaves) with low angle shots looking up through the middle, or the opposite, offering us views of all the floors and the mesh like steel that divides them. Designed for all inmates to be observed by prison guards. After Mackenzie defines the institution he spends the rest of the film having Eric try to break it. This middle section of the film, developing the role of Eric’s father, a leader of the prison, raises the nature versus nurture question, especially as we never see Eric as a free man. Here Eric begins to uncover the immorality of the prison, seeing the institution for the flawed establishment that it is. Eric and his small group of friends (found in therapy he is initially reluctant to attend) become the pan doing the observing.

Mackenzie’s film is not a criticism of Bentham’s theory, but instead a film that offers no easy solutions on guilty and not guilty (Rupert Friend’s Oliver comes closest to such a category, but is removed before the dénouement). The idea of therapy is offered as a preferred alternative to the institutional routine, but even this Mackenzie shows to be impractical against a prison hierarchy who ‘see all’. Starred Up is not an easy watch and raises difficult questions, but deserves to be seen, by all. 

On The Double

Richard Ayoade’s second feature, The Double is based on Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s novel of the same name, published in 1846. The bulk of Ayoade’s film follows Dostoyevsky’s narrative, although he opts for a more optimistic ending.

The protagonist of both stories, a socially inept, low-level bureaucrat in a dystopian world finds himself confronted by his image double, but personal opposite. Dostoyevsky’s story sees his protagonist begin to see more and more replicas until he has a break down and is hauled off to a mental hospital. Ayoade’s more positive ending connects the doppelgangers’ physically and when one hurts the other does too. A purposefully botched suicide sees one perish and one injured, but alive.

The subject matter is far from Ayoade’s first feature in 2010 Submarine, but no less impressive, both for showing incredible range as a director for balancing varying narratives, but also for creating complete fictional worlds.

The mise-en-scene of The Double is so perfectly and intelligently realized that the fantastical driving idea behind the film is completely plausible. Additonally, the characters, played by a collection of very recognizable actors, disappear into Ayoade’s unnamed dystopia. Despite being dark and existential The Double is also very funny.

What The Double offers, more than a thoroughly enjoyable film, is hope that intelligent cinema can find its way through the superhero blockade. Art over audiences.

On a Question of Semantics with Noah

The Treachery of Images by Rene Magritte is a semantic piece of art. The painting of the pipe with the words Ceci n’est pas une pipe (This is not a pipe) may not be subtle message, but it perfectly sums up the question of semantics; do not mistake what you think with what you see.

Early reviews of Darren Aronofsky’s Noah focused on a key issue of the Noah story, which is the question of God. There is no God in Noah. No Morgan Freeman style sage. However, this is simply a question of semantics and semiotics.

There were two ways Aronofsky could have approached this story. Firstly he could have removed the religion and told the story of a family man, a conservationist, who sees the damage that man is doing to the world and prepares for the worst (a tsunami style disaster). The second is creating a piece of biblical propaganda and hiding behind language and images to hopefully avoid upsetting anyone. Aronofsky chose the second and the disguise is weak.

Noah is careful not to mention the word God, but the meaning of the words they do use leaves little to the imagination. Characters regularly refer to Him or the creator, often while looking up at the sky. The capitalised third person pronoun is a common synonym for God (“All glory to Him forever”) and the creator is even less subtle than that, especially when a drop of rain instantly produces a beautiful flower, replacing one that was just picked; life for death. God is not absent; He is just referred to by familiar sobriquets. 

Going beyond the semantics and looking at the meaning of images reveals a similar weak masquerade. Russell Crowe’s Noah, on bended knees looks up at the sky. The connotation is that of prayer. Aronofsky’s CGI sky (before the rain) glistens with stars, pulsates with rainbows, both substitutes for the booming voice from the heavens. Morgan Freeman may not play God, but He is played by CGI, perhaps appropriate for a mythical, ambiguous figure.

None of this is necessarily critical if Noah had openly claimed to be a retelling of the biblical story, but it does not. The biblical references are noticeably absent from the promotional material and the decision is understandable, but one that art should not be afraid to make. Many art forms have been susceptible to the obnoxious claims of religion and Noah is careful to try and find a non-threatening middle ground. Aronofsky neither refers to God (which could to some be seen as an insult in itself), but still stays honest to the story. Although the final result is one far more positive about religion that negative.

Yet this is s shame, as it does not come from a director known for playing it safe. All of Aronofsky’s past features have been challenging character pieces that use all the tools that cinema has to offer to shock audiences, with Black Swan (2010) providing the peak of his filmmaking.

Noah is a safe film and it feels like a safe film that lacks the visual daring of earlier pieces such as Black Swan and The Fountain (2006), the close character study of The Wrestler (2008) or the screaming divisiveness of Requiem for a Dream (2000). If Aronofsky wanted God in Noah, then why not be upfront about it, rather than create a concealed character simply because of the controversy it may bring? Surely any controversy that was coming Noah’s way will be unrelenting anyway as the reference is clear, to even the least analytical viewer.

There are impressive features to Noah. Russell Crowe’s performance is powerful and carries many of the weaker performances. The CGI is used to aid the story, rather than take it over and there are some flourishes in style, expected from the director. But it’s a forgettable, unchallenging piece that lacks a clear message because it doesn’t know itself what it wants to say.

On Something Unexpected with Labor Day

An escaped convict forces a lonely, agoraphobic single mother into taking him into her home where after some sensual baking experiences they fall in love. The convict, for the weekend he spends with the broken family, becomes a patriarch for the son and a new lease of life for the mother. The convict, somewhat inevitably goes back to jail (no love story is complete without tragedy) and the son becomes a famous chef after witnessing and partaking in some of the sensual kitchen activity. After twenty something years in jail the convict and the single mother are reunited and rekindle their love.

Everything about Labor Day sounds like a trashy middle-aged fantasy novel with a sun drenched book cover with a rugged convict and pretty young single mother. And Labor Day is a novel first (written by Joyce Maynard) and a Jason Reitman film second. That Jason Reitman directed Labor Day is somewhat of a surprise taking his past films into account. That the film is really quite good shouldn’t be a surprise (taking his past films into account), but considering the subject matter is better that you might imagine.

Thank You for Smoking (2005), Juno (2007), Up in the Air (2009) and Young Adult (2011), Reitman’s past features are in parts satirical, challenging, unexpected, pertinent, reflective. Labor Day is a simple, sun drenched love story. There are no unexpected twists as in Up in the Air, no culturally reflective narratives found in Young Adult or Thank You for Smoking. In, fact Labor Day is a historical love story, set during the 80s and feeling older than that.

Therefore Labor Day is an unexpected treat; it looks great, is well acted and genuinely moving. The narrative may at times stray into the realms of the fantastical or ridiculous, but Reitman does his best to keep it firmly down to earth and is mostly successful. Not only different in subject matter, which many of his films are, but different in tone and a welcome variation in both.

On the Success of Wes Anderson with The Grand Budapest Hotel

In October 2013 Abrams published a beautiful hardback book, The Wes Anderson Collection.  By Christmas 2013, the book couldn’t be found anywhere. It was a surprise hit to publishers and bookshops, but to anyone who has followed the feature film career of Wes Anderson, the shock of the book is symbolic of Anderson’s career.

From Bottle Rocket (1996) to his most recent feature, The Grand Budapest Hotel, Anderson has created characters and told stories that any business of film student will tell you shouldn’t sell. But, like the book Anderson’s inventive, anti-mainstream cinema is a success. The Grand Budapest Hotel was a number one film in the UK and worldwide has taken $12 million shy of $100 million, which is a remarkable achievement for a film with a budget of 23 million Euros. And this isn’t a rarity: The Royal Tenenbaums (2001), $71 million, Moonrise Kingdom (2012), $68 million, the animated Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009) $45 million. Most filmmakers would kill for this kind of consistency!

Combine this with critical success (Anderson hasn’t made a film that disappoints) and his pick of actors (George Clooney, Harvey Keitel, Bill Murray. Edward Norton, Bruce Willis) and Anderson could be considered the most successful working director in America.

The Grand Budapest Hotel is beautifully crafted and has a collection of wonderful performances. The number of characters to which Anderson must give screen time is both a pro and a con. The former means the film is a constant delight to watch, and the latter means it lacks some of the emotional punch of Anderson’s earlier films, as we never connect on an entirely emotional level. This is a small criticism and The Grand Budapest Hotel is an incredibly accomplished addition to the Wes Anderson’s collection.