Blue Ruin

US/France | 2013 | Directed by Jeremy Saulnier

Logline: An obsessive loner returns to his childhood home to carry out an act of vengeance, but winds up in a brutal and messy fight to protect his estranged family.

The sleeper masterpiece of the year is the second feature from a cinematographer-cum-director. A drama that burns with the quiet ferocity of crawling lava, Blue Ruin is just as its title suggests, a tale of wretched revenge soaked in sadness, mired in melancholy, a tragedy of errors. Along with Cheap Thrills, it is one of the best independent American movies I’ve seen in the past five years.

Macon Blair, in a tour-de-force of restrained hysteria, plays Dwight, a disheveled and young man living on the bones of his arse in a pathetic, vagrant existence. But fueled by the memory of his parents’ double murder, and the release of Wade, the apparent culprit, he stumbles into a desperate call of duty: cold-blooded revenge.

After a vicious confrontation with Wade in a bar toilet Dwight finds himself on the run, with the killer’s equally murderous family members in pursuit. A deadly game of cat-and-mouse ensues as Dwight attempts to salvage what he has left in his life by arriving at Sam, his sister’s house.

Blue Ruin is Murphy’s Law incarnate. Everything goes pear-shaped, rotten even. It’s the stripped-back, slow-burn thriller from Hell. Mesmerising, like a horrendous train wreck in slow motion, powerful in its simplicity, as gripping as a wrestler’s handshake, and packing a serious visceral punch. Not forgetting a pitch black sense of humour that occasionally rears its head.

The movie was funded by a successful Kickstarter campaign, which goes to prove just how useful crowdfunding can be if the right people are on board the right project. It’s very inspiring to struggling filmmakers. I’ve no idea what the budget was, but Jeremy Saulnier and his producers used it very wisely and very effectively. One of the more striking poster designs of recent years too.

I must bring to attention the superb special effects make-up, courtesy of Toby Sells Creature Make up FX Shop. The set-pieces for Blue Ruin were better than many horrors I’ve seen recently, in particular, a screwdriver to the temple, removing an arrow from the thigh, and a high-powered rifle shot to the head. These were executed with a level of genuinely horrific, shocking realism.

If the scenes of violence hadn’t been done as impressively as they were the movie wouldn’t have been nearly as affecting, because Blue Ruin is an intense study of violence; the appalling domino/snowball effect revenge inexorably creates. Perfectly drawn, beautifully shot. 

The Hours And Times

USA | 1991 | Directed by Christopher Munch

Logline: A fictionalised account of what may have happened when John Lennon and Brian Epstein went on holiday together to Spain in 1963.

As a curious character study that clocks in at just under an hour, "speculative featurette" would be an apt tag for this quiet drama. Christopher Munch takes liberty with a poignant and peculiar moment in history; a few days in Spain that John Lennon, of The Beatles, and the band’s manager, Brian Epstein, spent in intimate rest and recreation following an exhausting stint of concerts back in England.

It was April 1963, and of course, The Beatles were fast becoming the international phenomenon that would change the world of popular music forever. John Lennon, who was struggling in his relationship with Cynthia, his first wife and mother of baby Julian, so he relished the chance to get away from the hordes and the pressures of fatherhood and husbandry.

Brian Epstein was openly gay (well, at least to close friends and the rest of the band) and he harboured an infatuation with John. John was well aware of Brian’s deep-rooted attraction, and being the mischievous rascal he played on it. But as charming and witty as John was, he could also be cruel and heartless, as observed in the scene where he is on the phone to Cynthia. He was also a prick (tease) to Brian.

John was an opportunist and he loved to experiment. The Hours and Times presents a possible series of moments that might have occurred between the two men as the lounged and lingered around the Barcelona hotel. John smoked like a chimney and chewed gum like it was going out of fashion. Brian wore clean shirts and made plaintive glances in John’s direction. There was a tension, some of it sexual, much of it a power game.

Christopher Munch captures a city trapped in time. Filmed in high contrast black and white and cleverly shooting the beautiful urban exteriors (a lot of Gaudi) so as not to give away that the movie was made nearly thirty years later. There’s a visual poetry that weaves and slides, languid and emotive. Nothing much actually happens, yet during these hours, the times they are a-changing. It’s fascinating and compelling, but strangely distant.

Ian Hart delivers an uncannily spot on performance as Lennon, looking remarkably similar in facial features, but also nailing the nonchalant body language, the Liverpudlian drawl, and his impulsive sense of humour. Hart would go on to play Lennon again in the excellent early Beatles biopic Backbeat. David Angus isn’t as strong an actor as Hart, but he has the Oxford-educated accent down pat, and he also bears a striking resemblance to the real Epstein.

Stephanie Pack is memorable as an airline stewardess whom Lennon flirts with in the movie’s opening scene and who turns up later at their hotel only to have Lennon play the whimsical tango fob-off. John didn’t know what he wanted, and Brian could only indulge him and keep his fingers crossed. When John pushed the envelope of their friendship it would only prompt tears before bedtime. Perhaps it was John’s rejection of Brian that fueled the manager’s suicidal tendencies? I guess no one will ever really know.

Big Bad Wolves

Israel | 2013 | Directed by Aharon Keshales & Navor Papushado

Logline: A rogue detective, a desperate father, and a meek schoolteacher find themselves caught up in the cruel machinations of a child serial killer.

It’s rare for an Israeli movie to make an impact in the realm of hardened genre lovers, but Big Bad Wolves does more than bark loudly, it has a nasty bite too. This is classic crime fare, told with an emphasis on character and situation. It’s not an action flick, but there’s some solid ultraviolence. It’s not a complex plot, but there are some neat diversions. It’s not a comedy, but there are some perversely funny lines of dialogue. Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?!

I can see why Tarantino was jumping up and down about this one; it’s got some of his style splashed on it, especially Reservoir Dogs. It is dialogue-driven, mostly interior-set, with strong performances, and some memorable  moments; for example the torturing. Oh yes, the finger-snapping, toenail-pulling, chest-blowtorching is guaranteed to make the most hardened viewer wince. The kind of over-the-top violence that immediately gives the movie cult appeal.

Micki (Lior Ashkenazi, looking, amusingly, like Steve Carroll) is a police detective on a vigilante hunt for the serial killer responsible for the heinous murder of a young girl (stuffed full of drugged candy, then maimed, raped, and beheaded!). The suspect, Dror (Rotem Keinan), a mild-mannered religious studies schoolteacher, has been arrested, but released due to lack of evidence.

Micki, after being suspended from the case, kidnaps Dror with the intent of extracting a confession. The father of the murdered girl, Gidi (Tzahi Grad), takes matters into his own hands and, assisted by Micki, tortures Dror in the basement of an abandoned house. Dror insists on his innocence, despite his horrific injuries. Then Gidi’s father (Doval’e Glickman) arrives and the situation begins to get even messier.

With Tarantino’s quote – “The best film of the year!” - emblazoned across the already striking poster art with its own succinct tagline – Some Men Are Created Evil – Big Bad Wolves promises big, bad things. But the first half of the movie is strangely wayward and mostly underwhelming. It’s the intense second half where the movie really comes into its own, and where the rich Tarantino-esque flavours come blistering to the fore.

This is one of those movies where it could’ve gone either way. The “twist” revelation right at the end is both satisfying, yet, oddly underwhelming. It’s a resolution that makes sense, but raises a couple of itchy questions.

I wasn’t wholly convinced by the extreme violence either. It packs a punch, but its consequences are far from realistic. Had the writer/directors paid more attention to that level of realism, and tightened the first act, the movie would’ve been very impressive indeed. That said Big Bad Wolves is solid Saturday night fare for the discerning beer and pizza crowd.

Big Bad Wolves is released in Australia by Transmission Films.

Beneath The Harvest Sky

US | 2013 | Directed by Aron Gaudet & Gita Pullapilly

Logline: Two teenage best buddies plan to leave their small-town trappings, but find more than they bargained for when they become embroiled in the criminal activity of one of the fathers.

Documentary filmmakers Gaudet and Pullapilly turn their talents to the feature and have crafted a solid coming-of-age drama, one that bristles with a thriller edge. Beautifully shot, and superbly acted by a fresh-faced bunch that includes the daughter of Kiefer Sutherland, a new Australian hearthrob, and Littlefinger from Game of Thrones, Beneath the Harvest Sky is sure to be one of the American indie sleepers of the year.

Dom (Callan McAuliffe) is working on the potato fields of Van Buren, a Maine country town that borders with Canada. It’s his final harvest, saving the money so that he and his pal, Caspar (Emory Cohen) can get the hell out of dodge. On Dom’s bedroom wall is a large map of America with a tag by their town saying “You Are Here, But Not For Long.” The harvest break can’t go fast enough, and Dom’s seen enough blue potatoes to last him a lifetime.

As close as they are as friends, Dom and Caspar couldn’t be more different. Whilst Dom is responsible and committed, Caspar is a volatile, aggressive, and impulsive. Harvest acquaintance Emma (Sarah Sutherland) is quietly pursuing Dom, while Caspar is cruelly stringing along the impressionable young Tasha (Zoe Levin), whom has dropped a pregnancy bombshell in his lap.

Clayton (Aidan Gillen), Caspar’s dad, smuggles pot and pills across the border, ingeniously hidden within his Ute. His anxious brother Badger (Timm Sharp) is the mule. The criminal business is ticking over nicely. Caspar gets a cool wad of cash from dad whenever he delivers a bunch of stolen pharmaceuticals from a breaking and entering. That dirty money goes straight into the duffle bag hidden beneath the floorboards in the dilapidated, derelict wooden home on the outskirts of town. The same place where he and Dom shoot spuds from their homemade potato cannon.

Like a well-etched novel, Beneath the Harvest Sky tumbles along, the narrative and character threads being tugged a little tighter as the plot thickens. The tone and atmosphere is reminiscent of the impressive subtleties and complexities of Shotgun Stories, another tale of small-town dysfunctional relationships and inexorable wrongdoings. This is dark harvest moon on the rise.

Beneath the Harvest Sky screens as part of the 9th Possible Worlds – US & Canadian Film Festival, Sydney, Saturday 9th August, 6.30pm

The Dirties

Canada | 2013 | Directed by Matt Johnson

Logline: Two high school best buddies embark on a film class project aimed at mocking the bullies, only to discover that one of them is deadly serious.

Quite possibly my favourite indie flick of the year; a pitch-black comedy aimed squarely at high-fiving those who have been bullied at school and slapping the mugs of those who bully. This is the shit that can happen. When a joke gets taken too far, a prankster loses control, or to be precise, becomes inexorably entwined in his own deadly machinations. This is a satire that steps into docu-drama territory, one foot in the truth, one foot in the fiction, the reality is rendered askew.

Young Matt Johnson’s debut feature is a brilliantly engineered and executed revenge plot of moments, asides, vignettes, sketches, and indulgences. Johnson plays Matt (ostensibly himself, and it's a gung-ho, bravura display of Geek), and pal Owen Williams plays Owen. They’re shameless movie geeks, Matt is forever referencing some cult or classic flick. They are dorks and they are cool. Their creative project in film class is titled "The Dirties", which refers to the two class bullies who take great pleasure in humiliating the two lads.

"The Dirties" stars Matt and Owen as two detectives out to bring the scum to justice. Their crew consists of two cameramen, who are never seen or heard, but are ever present, filming from close and far. Matt and Owen have wireless mics attached, so no need for a boom operator. Matt and Owen edit all their footage in Matt’s bedroom, surrounded by movie posters and memorabilia. This is a skeleton crew, shakin' dem bones.

Chrissy (Krista Madison), the class beauty, has been a long-standing crush of Owen’s since grade three. Now, she finally takes notice, and this drives a wedge between the buddies’ friendship. It seems the plan to take out the bullies for real is, in fact, a real plan, according to Matt. Owen is feeling more and more removed. Soon, the proverbial shit will hit the classroom fan.

Like Bobcat’s God Bless America, this is another fantastic example of when American filmmakers nail their own idiosyncratic failings. The Dirties is a hip-shooting, clever comedy that perfectly illustrates the disturbing unreality of our social climate. In a make-believe world of perfect retorts and hilarious movie context shenanigans Matt and Owen have created a monster.

Although it takes its cue – and reflection – from the infamous Columbine High School massacre, The Dirties is incredibly relevant in today’s increasingly pressurised para-social circumstances and trendy DIY filmmaking. There is a frightening rationale lurking behind Matt’s sarcastic, and ironic t-shirt statement, “We’re just here for the bad guys.”

Quite simply, The Dirties is the shiznit; the freshest, most original, and dangerously entertaining, low-budget indie flick in several years.

The Dirties screens as part of the 9th Possible Worlds – US & Canadian Film Festival, Sydney, Saturday 16th August, 8.30pm.

Shotgun Stories

USA | 2007 | Directed by Jeff Nichols

Logline: Three grown brothers bring a years-long hatred against four half-brothers to boiling point after they make an unannounced appearance at the funeral of their father’s.

Simmering like a Southern stew, the violence seething under the surface, with the rich characterisation of a Scorsese gangster flick, this dark rustic tale of a blood feud between two sets of half-brothers in the state of Arkansas is a modern American classic that has echoes of the tranquil beauty of Terrence Malick’s Badlands and the ominous intensity of a Shakespearean tragedy.

Michael Shannon commands the screen with a brooding intensity, and you can't take your eyes off of him, just as a young Sean Penn and Martin Sheen did in their early careers. This was the movie where I first really noticed Shannon, then I saw William Friedkin's Bug (released the previous year) and he immediately became one of my new favourite actors.

Jeff Nichols’ screenplay unfolds with the grace and careful pacing of a novel, yet he imbues the film with a visual punctuation that reflects the landscape; the cotton fields and dusty backroads, the straw sun setting, and those lazy porch afternoons suppin’ cold beer and watching the world go by. Curiously, despite its sensationalist title, a shotgun is only ever fired once.

The Hayes brothers, Son (Shannon), Boy (Douglas Ligon) and Kid (Barlow Jacobs), weren’t even given proper names by their loser father. Their young mother hated them for the dog-eared card life dealt her. The four half-brothers were given normal names and had the privilege of working the land, while Son works at a fishery, Boy lives out of his decrepit van, and Kid has a tent pitched in Son’s backyard.

Son has a wife Annie (Glenda Pannell) and son, and it becomes apparent that it is the children of these brothers than might be the saving grace, preventing the brothers from systematically killing each other over a hatred that should’ve been buried many years earlier. But old habits die hard. Annie provides a peripheral dramatic edge of reason and anxiety, while Cleaman Hayes (Michael Abbot Jr.), the sombre second eldest half-brother, and Boy, put the reasoning into precarious practice.

Nichols doesn’t opt for any showpony directorial flourishes with the visual narrative, instead concentrating on eliciting brilliant performances from his mostly unknown cast. The soundtrack is suitably mellow, fitting snugly, and yet providing a resonant contrast to the slow-burn thriller elements. These "stories" reflect the ironies of love, hatred, retribution and resignation. It's a masterful debut.

Shut Up Little Man! An Audio Misadventure

Australia | 2011 | Directed by Matthew Bate

Logline: When two friends tape-recorded the mostly verbal fights of their noisy and eccentric neighbors, they accidentally created one of the world’s first “viral” pop-culture sensations. This is their story.

Audio verité is the term used to describe real-life recordings made surreptitiously. These can include found sounds and phone pranks. When twenty-something university students Eddie Lee Sausage and Mitchell D. (Mitch Deprey) moved into The Pepto-Bismol Palace, a cheap pink stucco unit, 4/237 Steiner Ave, San Francisco, in 1987, little did they know they were moving adjacent to an encapsulated phenomenon just waiting for the unofficial release form. A couple years down the track Mitch and Eddie and had a piece of pop-culture cult history in their hands.

“I love people. I love the world. I love life. But I sure as fuck can’t love a piece of shit!” — Raymond Huffman

Peter Haskett and Raymond Huffman were the classic odd couple. You couldn’t write better characters for a hit sitcom. Peter was middle-aged and homosexual and Ray was middle-aged and straight-as-an-arrow. When they were sober they were best of friends. They shared an apartment, they even shared a room, with a cheap Formica dining table separating their single beds. But when they got drunk - and they were drunk most of the time - they fought like kings and queens. Verbal abuse was hurled back and forth at loud volume. The walls of each apartment were made with “snot and cardboard” according to Eddie, and so the two students could hear the mud-slinging as clear as day.

“I got a decent dinner ready. Nothing happened with the dinner. Because you crucified it. You ruined it. God damn you!” — Peter Haskett

Within a week of their arrival Eddie and Mitch were exposed to what would become a dependable and hilarious routine from their next-door neighbors. As Eddie puts it, “Evenings charged with belligerent rants, hateful harangues, drunken soliloquies, death threats, and the sound of wrestling bodies thumping against the wall that separated their apartments.”

“If you wanna talk to me, then shut your fuckin' mouth!” — Raymond

But it was following a middle of the night confrontation with Ray that left Eddie with the willies and sparked the two lads into deciding they should record the violent matches issuing from next door in case anything actually criminal went down. So they taped a microphone to an old lamp stand connected it up to their cassette recorder and when the shouting began they opened their window and probed the mic alongside their neighbours’ window. The funny thing is that Ray and Peter soon realised they were being recorded but didn’t care. And therein lies the subtle Rub.

“What did you do during the war? You were wounded? Yeah. Bullshit. You were maybe wounded when you fell over your bayonet when you were drunk.” — Peter

What is almost immediately obvious is that once Eddie and Mitch started inviting friends over on the night rent was due (almost guaranteed arguments from next door) then they were doing it for the lulz, as the modern expression goes. But the whole shebang really took off after Eddie and Mitch started giving tapes of the verbal assaults to friends who would then bootleg the recordings and give them to others. Soon enough Ray and Peter's clandestine audio files were worldwide, being satirised by famous cartoonists and inspiring playwrights and filmmakers. The collection of recordings became known as Shut Up, Little Man!, one of Peter’s favourite digs at Ray.

“I can kill you from a sitting position.” — Raymond

Matthew Bate has fashioned a superbly entertaining, and surprisingly poignant documentary. Using a cut-and-paste visual style, recreations, and posing intelligent questions about morality and exploitation, pop-culture, fame and infamy, and the true nature of art, Shut Up Little Man! is more than a document of a curious misadventure, it’s a wonderful pre-Internet date stamp, and a sly nod to the X-Generation. It’s essential viewing/listening for voyeuristic freaks and audio geeks, and those with a zany sense of humour.

"You always giggle falsely. You don’t have a decent giggle in you.” — Peter Haskett

Shortbus

USA | 2006 | Directed by John Cameron Mitchell

Logline: Several gay and straight characters struggle for sexual inspiration and a deeper understanding of love and commitment within their respective relationships.

The title takes its inspiration, perhaps a little obscurely, from the shorter yellow American school bus that often follows the longer traditional one. On board the main bus sit the “normal” kids, while segregated and trailing behind in the short bus are the outsiders; the emotionally-disturbed, dysfunctional misfits. In the movie Shortbus is the name given to an underground salon, infamous for its blend of art, music, politics, and carnality, where the main characters, immersed in their lurid subterfuge, all converge.

The whole look and feel of the film is very NYC; the Big Apple stretching as Grace Jones once crooned. From the brilliant animation sequences that inter-cut the stories – camera flying over a painterly model Manhattan, diving down through the trees of Central Park and zooming into the window of some lower eastside apartment block – to the biting, self-depreciating sense of humour, the nonchalant polysexual tone, and of course, the mischievous, no-holds-barred explicit sex.

Shortbus embraces sexuality with a bear hug and a reach around, part of the mid-noughties' boundary-pushing splurge that included Michael Winterbottom’s tenuous 9 Songs and Catherine Breillet’s contemptuous Romance and Anatomy of Hell. These were movies that featured unsimulated sex (or "actual sex", as the Australian Classification Board prefer to label it). Certainly not the first time in "mainstream" cinema (see 1975's In the Realm of the Senses for one of the early pioneers), but probably with a wider cinema audience than ever before.

Shortbus is one of the first to combine all orientations under one roof. In between the soul-searching and body-issues all proclivities get serviced, including a scene of rather impressive auto-fellatio!

The successful hardcore porn directors of the 70s had pipe dreams that the adult movie industry and Hollywood would eventually merge, but thirty years down the track and the contemporary provocative left-field Tinseltown directors can continue to dream away, as Hollywood will never make a film like this. Thankfully we have a clutch of independent filmmakers who are willing to push the envelope.

Shortbus is the kind of transgressive, genre-bending “mainstream” filmmaking that only rears its head periodically. Many stick-in-the-mud viewers will see it as nothing more than elevated porn, but hey, sex and art have always tangoed. Mitchell elicits performances that are surprisingly solid, injecting the film with intelligence, honesty, and a genuinely emotional edge. While the narrative meanders from time to time, its central themes of self-acceptance and open-mindedness anchor the movie.

Vividly colourful and frequently funny, it's an outrageous melting pot of underground styles ejaculating over the mainstreet. Think Federico Fellini meets John Cassavetes meets Nicole Holofcener meets Richard Linklater meets Robert Altman meets Jack Smith meets Woody Allen at a swingers club in downtown New York City, and you’ll get Mitchell's acquired taste. Whether you spit or swallow is up to you.

Don's Party

Australia | 1976 | Directed by Bruce Beresford

Logline: On the night of the 1969 Australian election, Don holds a party in his Sydney home, where his crass middleclass friends discuss sex and politics, get drunk, and try to seduce each other’s wives.

Arguably playwright David Williamson’s finest hour-and-a-half, Don’s Party is a superbly sustained comedic treatise on suburban wankery, macho hoohah, feminine guile, sociopolitical diatribes, and other shambolic party shenanigans. It worked brilliantly (and still does) as a play, and Bruce Beresford turned it into a classic of Aussie 70s cinema, complete with more bush and tackle than you shake a cold Coors tinnie at.

The feature was honoured six times at the 1977 AFI Awards with Best Director, Best Original Screenplay, Best Editing, Best Sound, Best Actress (Pat Bishop), and Best Supporting Actress (Veronica Lang). Williamson’s screenplay adaptation loses none of its finely-honed satire, and Beresford’s casting is top notch, the cream of Australian drama and comedy together under one roof and having a ball.

The male players; John Hargreaves as opportunist school teacher Don, Graham Kennedy as amateur pornographer Mack, Ray Barrett as sleazy embittered Mal, Greame Blundell as mild-mannered, safari-suited Simon, Harold Hopkins as cowboy Cooley, and Kit Taylor as grumpy lawyer Evan. The female players; Claire Binney as hot-to-trot Susan, Candy Raymond as adulteress Kerry, Pat Bishop as long suffering Jenny, Veronica Lang as impressionable Jody, and Jeanie Dryan as Don’s wife Kath, at the end of her tether.

Don’s and his democrat mates are confident of a win, and the election news early in the night suggests they’re celebrations won’t be in vain. But booze and boorish behaviour go hand-in-glove for these grotesque characters, and it’s not long before the layers start to peel back and reveal the beasts beneath the polyester shirts and flared slacks.

The dialogue spits and crackles like a dozen bangers on the barbie, and with the fine performances, baring more than just bad behaviour, the scene is raucous affair of competitive bullshitting and ill-conceived social commentary. The wives are the occasional bystanders, but eventually get their hands dirty. The wild card, nineteen-year-old free-sexpot Susan, is the springboard for temptation and corruption, but sultry Kerry knows a thing or two in the bedfellow stakes.

The background is very much Australian, but the true colours exposed are universal. There is a soft underbelly waiting to be slit open, the entrails of hypocrisy and fear of failure ripe for plucking and roasting, which Williamson and Beresford achieve with casual perfection. The narrative arc is terrific in exploiting the kind of chaos and disorder that swings at a party full of adults keen to shed their inhibitions, yet pathetically tied to their shortcomings.

Don’s Party is essential viewing for all well-read young Australians, and yet, dare I suggest it, but an intelligently cast remake set in this equally volatile, over-sexed modern age of too much information, too little political savvy, and ethical over-spill, could well be in order. But before that happens, indulge in a little lusty, hilarious distraction with the crackin' original.

The Wrestler

USA | 2008 | Directed by Darren Aronofsky

Logline: A middle-aged professional wrestler struggling with drug addiction, thankless gigs, and being estranged from his daughter, is told to retire by his doctor, yet he’s reluctant to throw in the towel.

This was the comeback gig that touched Hollywood’s heart - but not quite enough to win Mickey Rourke the Oscar everyone thought he should get, although it must be said Sean Penn’s performance as Harvey Milk was equally deserving. In one of those art-imitating-life curiosities, The Wrestler reflected much of what Rourke had been through in the past fifteen years; a wilderness of drug and alcohol addiction, a sport that left him dazed and battered, and a confrontational attitude that caused him to burn every bridge he crossed.

Visionary director Aronofsky originally had Nicolas Cage in mind for the role of Randy “The Ram” Robinson, but Cage out-priced himself. Legend has it Aronofsky tracked Rourke down and made him a proposal whilst prodding him in the chest, offering him a lead role, with fee deferred, but absolutely no prima donna bullshit and wastrel shenanigans, and he’d guarantee him an Academy Award nomination. Rourke wondered who the hell kind of arrogant hotshot had the balls to make demands of him like that?!

Rourke accepted, and found the initial going tough, especially with Aronofsky demanding take after take. But the director was bang on. Rourke delivered the performance of his career; a warts-and-all, heartbreaking portrait of a man lost in his own arena, a man emotionally scarred, physically wrecked, and psychologically unstable, yet a man desperate to get back on track, to right some family wrongs, and to earn the stable love of a decent woman, even if she does lap dance and strip for a living.

The Wrestler’s naturalistic production values and raw visual narrative harks back to the gritty, uncompromising stylistics of the classic filmmaking of the 1970s. In fact the whole movie almost feels like it was made and set several decades ago. The cold New Jersey climate, the cinema verite style camerawork, the method-style acting: both Rourke and Marisa Tomei, as Stephanie aka Cassidy, bare their souls, with Tomei baring quite a bit more - and looking in damn fine shape to boot! In a supporting, but pivotal role, Evan Rachel Wood, as Randy’s embittered teenage daughter, is excellent. Their scenes together, especially around the weathered, rundown boardwalk and derelict gambling palaces of Coney Island, are incredibly poignant.

This is a profound character study and one, like Lars Von Trier’s Breaking the Waves, that is determined, provocative, stubborn, and whilst uplifting, is ultimately bruised in tragedy. This is a movie that contrasts – in a clever, but understated way – grotesque brutality with touching sensitivity. The power of love doesn’t always conquer the fragility of institution.

Even if wrestling leaves you cold, you’ll definitely be stirred by this sad, beautiful tale; The Wrestler is unique, powerhouse filmmaking; the kind I didn’t think Hollywood could make anymore. And not to forget the striking poster design, hilarious glam-rock soundtrack and impressively-staged, “realistic” wrestling sequences! The Wrestler is a slam-down tour-de-force!

12 Years A Slave

US/UK | 2013 |  Directed by Steve McQueen

Logline: In pre-Civil War America a free black man is kidnapped and sold into slavery.

Based on the slave memoirs of Solomon Northup, first published in 1853 (and authenticated in 1968), 12 Years a Slave is a grim and powerful drama that seethes with violence and cruelty, but is sheathed with a sense of beauty and hope. It is one of the most authentic and affecting portraits of American slavery ever put to film (yes, director McQueen eschewed digital in favour of 35mm!)

Northup (Chiwetel Ejiofor) is a well-read musician with wife and young daughter, living a privileged life in upstate New York. His skill on the violin earns him a visit from two talent scouts, Moon (Taran Killam) and Hamilton (Scoot McNairy), who offer him lucrative work in Washington D.C. He is wined and dined, but much to his horror and dismay wakes with a splitting hangover, and chained to the floor in a dark wooden cell.

For the next twelve years Northup is forced to work on two Louisiana plantations. He is re-identified as Platt, a runaway slave from Georgia, and is bought by Ford (Benedict Cumberbatch). A violent confrontation with an overseer (Paul Dano) results in him being sold to another plantation owner, the sociopathic, alcoholic Epps (Michael Fassbender), who believes it his God-given right to abuse black people.

The elegance with which McQueen directs this heart-wrenching, and at times stomach-churning, drama is exquisite. Utilising striking tableaux and stunning landscape imagery, cinematographer Sean Bobbitt (McQueen’s regular lensman) strokes the South in painterly fashion. It makes for an interesting contrast to the sweat and toil, the blood and fury, the tears and outrage of Northup’s predicament.

An excellent support cast of established names, some in very small roles, brings much weight to the production, despite their familiarity. Paul Giamatti plays a slaver opportunist who first sells Platt to Ford. Sarah Paulson plays Epps’ wife who, rightly so, suspects her husband of desiring one of the young slave girls, Patsey (Lupita Nyong’o). Bard Pitt, who was instrumental in getting the production financed, plays an abolitionist who listens attentively to Northup’s plight whilst helping him build a gazebo.

Fassbender is typically superb, but it is Ejiofor who delivers the most notable performance, in the central role, and it is a demanding piece as he is in almost every scene. Extraordinary to learn that the actor hails from Britain, as his diction and accent for the role of Northup was perfect. It must be noted, the period dialogue for the entire movie is as authentic as possible, but it doesn’t make for easy audience consumption.

McQueen feels 12 Years a Slave is an American version of The Diary of Anne Frank. He was compelled to make it, and to be as honest as humanly possible, and even though it features Hollywood actors and has an upbeat ending (although its very emotional), he refuses to compromise in order to appease Hollywood audiences. The result is a painfully resonant, unexpectedly poetic, and richly satisfying drama.

12 Years a Slave is released in Australia by Icon Home Entertainment.

Tyrannosaur

UK | 2011 | Directed by Paddy Considine

Logline: A lonely middle-aged man battling with his own penchant for violence is drawn toward a Christian woman trapped in an abusive relationship.

Joseph (Peter Mullan) has anger issues. In a small English town he plods along, a widower, cursing at the world, and taking his extreme bitterness out on the innocent and the guilty. Within the first few minutes of the movie Joseph, in a paroxysm of rage against those who administer his dole money, and kicks his dear dog to death. He loved that mutt.

Drowning his sorrows in a pint of ale his tolerance is further tested by several obnoxious youths playing pool. One of the lads threatens him and he retaliates by assaulting the boy and scaring off the other two. Later as he stumbles into his front yard he’s set upon by the youths and has the living daylights kicked out of him. Dawn sees him crossing the path, or storefront to be precise, of Hannah (Olivia Colman), who runs a charity op shop.

Tyrannosaur is a tale of redemption, a baptism by fire, a scalding of the soul. It is the debut feature from the talented actor Paddy Considine, who joins the ranks of Gary Oldman (Nil by Mouth) and Tim Roth (The War Zone), two exceptional actors who dug deep down into the bowels of their nightmares and made two of the most disturbing, distinctly English studies of family, violence and abuse, of the past twenty years. Tim has never directed since, and Gary has only just announced his second feature (perhaps the cinematic exorcisms of thier demons proved too harrowing an experience?), but something tells me we’ll be seeing more movies from Paddy Considine.

Considine is no stranger to violence on screen having played an adult bully of boys in Shane Meadows A Room for Romeo Brass and a psychopathic returned soldier in Dead Man’s Shoes, as well as a sociopathic religious freak teetering on the edge in My Summer of Love. Considine as all the acolytes and fuel to burn and thus elicits a stunning turn from Peter Mullan. But he pulls an extraordinary – and heartbreaking – performance from Olivia Colman.

Tyrannosaur is essentially a two-hander, but there is a third wheel to this dark and disturbing tale of dysfunctional love and twisted vengeance, in the form of Eddie Marsen as Hannah’s grotesque husband James. Marsen’s work is almost as impressive as Mullan and Colman, and that’s still very high praise.

Tyrannosaur is a difficult movie to recommend to sensitive souls, it’s an emotionally-wrenching movie, but also there are several genuinely upsetting scenes of violence (including two scenes of animal cruelty) and a nasty rape, as well as an appalling confession, but it is made and delivered within a powerful quest for justice, as surprising, disquieting and controversial as that search may be. The title plays on the concept of Joseph as some kind of marauding beast, but is referenced in one of the movie’s few moments of (dark) comic relief when Joseph explains to Hannah how his dead wife was so fat that he nicknamed her "Tyrannosaur"(in itself a reference to the movie Jurassic Park).

Subway

France | 1985 | Directed by Luc Besson

Logline: A cocky safe-cracker evading police finds an escape haven in the Metro of Paris and is befriended by a ragtag group of musicians and misfits, while an elusive romance beckons.

“To be is to do” – Socrates, “To do is to be” – Satre, “Do be do be do” – Sinatra.

Luc Besson is a style merchant extraordinaire. He became the ciné vogue du jour, at just twenty-five, with the release of this breezy riff of a tale that slides and floats and drifts and skedaddles from one moment to the next. Actually it is the moments within Subway that make it so irresistible, not the plot itself which is threadbare at best. Besson is more interested, and excels, at providing arresting images and a distinct rhythm, both in the mise-en-scene and the soundtrack.

Subway pulses with an infectious 80s Euro-pop-funk score courtesy of Besson regular Eric Serra, who plays a small part as the bassist (and songwriter) of the subterranean funkster outfit. The band is never named, and neither are the musicians. In fact only two of the movie’s characters are given names: Fred (Christophe Lambert in the most endearing and least irritating performance of his career) and Héléna (Isabelle Adjani). Fred is the thief, and Héléna is the frustrated wife of the man Fred robbed. Héléna has her own agenda, whilst Fred seems more interested in pursuing her, and in the chase given by the underground authorities.

Subway exudes character, even the subway system itself takes on a personality, as Fred delves deeper and deeper into its rabbit warren maze of tunnels and chambers. There are only a couple of scenes set above ground; the very opening car chase sequence where Fred in his little Peugeot is being pursued by several policemen in a large Mercedes-Benz. The other scene is an hilarious situation where Héléna finds herself at a dinner with her indifferent husband and numerous stuffy guests, and can’t help but insult them all with expletives and a fast exit.

Subway oozes style and fashion; from Fred in his tuxedo and platinum blonde hair brandishing a neon tube for illumination in the dim light of the tunnels, to Héléna’s wild spiked punkette hair-do, Euroasian eye makeup, and bellowing black dress. They make a fabulously attractive pair, even if they don’t get it together until the very end (and even then their romance is thwarted by tragedy).

Adjani had already garnered a strong reputation for being a difficult diva and although Besson was yet the star director he warned her that if she walked off his set in one of her infamous tantrums her career would be over. She promised she wouldn’t act like a prima donna, and she kept her word. Truth be told, one of the main reasons Subway is so memorable is Adjani's ravishing otherworldly beauty and that snobbish allure. Apparently in France she is held in such high esteem that she is only known only as Adjani.

Besson frequently uses elaborate fast dollying shots weaving in and out of bystanders waiting for trains amidst the supporting subway pillars, or close-up wide-angles that enhances the charisma of his ensemble supporting cast: a very young-looking Jean-Hughes Anglade plays The Roller, a nervous lost soul perpetually rollerskating, the always excellent Richard Bohringer plays The Florist, a spanner in the works and a cog in the criminal wheels, and Jean Reno (sporting the most hair I’ve seen him with) plays The Drummer of the band, drumsticks always in hand, tapping away on anything, much to the annoyance of Fred.

Finally near movie’s end Fred manages to recruit a busking saxophone player and a singer, and his band are ready to perform to the public. They highjack a small stage designated for a festival orchestral performance and Eric Serra and The Drummer begin a slap-happy groove. Fred breaks into his radiant grin, Héléna has come to realise she actually has feelings for the reckless scoundrel who ripped off the husband she no longer loves. But a determined policeman in the background has his pistol poised …

Ultimately Subway is a drama romp tinged with melancholy, laced with melody, and underpinned with a steady throb. Ricki Lee Jones’ Lucky Guy plays on a ghettoblaster in the middle of the movie, seemingly incongruous, yet utterly fitting. But it’s the final song, a gorgeous pop tune, It’s Only Mystery, that encapsulates the essence of Subway’s mood and tone.

Bronson

UK | 2009 | Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn

Logline: The prison life story of Michael Peterson, Britain’s most notorious criminal, who spent thirty years in solitary confinement.

The true story of one of the most violent, unruly, and headstrong prisoners of the British penal system who systematically sabotaged his own future, and yet made a name for himself via his alter-ego, Charlie Bronson, the prison raconteur extraordinaire, the cuckoo that flew over the clockwork orange, Bronson is a docu-drama-biopic unlike anything you've seen before.

A tour-de-force of narrative delivered in unconventional stylistics and driven by a central performance that seethes and blisters with a powerhouse charisma and volatile intent; Tom Hardy is Michael Peterson, who in 1974 was charged with the armed robbery of a post office and slapped with a seven-year sentence in one of England’s harsher gaols. Seven years stretched out to thirty-four, and Peterson adapted to life inside by licking the dish of bittersweet vengeance.

Authorities realised it was costing too much of the Queen’s resources to keep Peterson locked up as he repeatedly damaged prison property and injured prison security, not to mention the grievous bodily harm to himself and subsequent time in the prison infirmary. While he was briefly on the outside he hooked up with an illegal fight club, earned the nickname Charlie Bronson (after the gruff vigilante Hollywood actor), became romantically involved with a young woman (who subsequently duped him), but eventually landed himself back in the insular, oppressive realm he knew best.

Refn’s sound and vision is brilliantly executed, at times surreal, at times frighteningly realistic. Early 80s electro, synth-pop, and opera music adds distinct flavour, and the production design is very authentic. Presented like a pantomime flashback told as if Peterson, aka Bronson, is delivering a one-man stage show, his self-assurance dominates everything, as does his aggressive stranglehold on his destiny. Violence is his natural form of communication. He’s not dumb, but he’s no smart cookie either. He’s scuttled his options and seems resigned to the consequences of his actions.

What elevates this seemingly grim and savage portrait is the black sense of humour that permeates the entire movie. It’s dark and grotesque, coal black, boys from the blackstuff material. It leers and jeers and slaps and tickles in equal measures. One scene in particular will push a few scatological buttons! Apparently the real Michael Peterson is quite proud of the movie, especially excited about his legacy continuing on after his death, his toil and trouble immortalised on celluloid. British authorities were apparently none too impressed with Refn's liberal portrait.

The movie is filled with great supporting performances; too many to mention here, but suffice to say Refn’s natural talents in casting serves him well. Like his brilliant Pusher trilogy Bronson bristles, barks and bites like a dangerous dog (“You just pissed on a gypsy in the middle of nowhere, that’s hardly the hottest ticket in town.”) You can pat the mongrel, but be wary, Peterson was renowned for biting that hand that fed him. Bronson is an acquired taste, like warm beer or black pudding.

Bronson is the kind of pure cinema that polarises audiences. Dramatically it falters on occasion, but the source material has furnished a fascinating tale, and there’s more than enough incident, detail and nuance of performance to lift the illegal game and place it on a subversive pedestal.

Halloween

USA | 1978 | Directed by John Carpenter

Logline: An escaped psychopath returns to his childhood neighbourhood, terrorising and killing several people whilst his doctor desperately tries to warn the local sheriff of the killer’s intent.

“Black cats and goblins and broomsticks and ghosts
, covens of witches with all of their hopes,
 you may think they scare me, you’re probably right,
 black cats and goblins on Halloween night . . .
 trick or treat!”

For nearly three decades Halloween was the most profitable independent low-budget feature ever made (excluding the porn feature Deep Throat). Then The Blair Witch Project was released in 1999 and blitzed the box office with its clever marketing campaign. Then along came Paranormal Activity, another "found footage" flick made on the whiff of an oily rag, to became the most successful low-budget horror movie ever produced.

As genuinely frightening as both The Blair Witch Project and Paranormal Activity are (actually the third in the PA series is the scariest), and as “realistic” as both those supernatural movies are, neither of them possess that elusive, but utterly resonant, slick uber-chill factor that exudes from Halloween’s effortlessly spun nightmare fabric. Halloween is the ultimate boogeyman bad dream. Forget all the ludicrous sequels (though I’ll admit that Halloween 2 - more of the night He came home - is a guilty pleasure), and the less said about Rob Zombie's travesties the better!

A small cast on a small budget with style to burn; cinematographer Dean Cundey’s creeping Panaglide (the precursor to the Steadicam) camerawork and deep shadowy lighting, Carpenter’s shocking use of Nick Castle as The Shape (mostly Michael Myers in silhouetted long-shot, or edging into close-up frame), and, of course, the movie’s most memorable element; Carpenter’s brilliant and unnerving piano/electronic score.

Laurie Strode (played with hysterical aplomb by Janet – Psycho – Leigh’s daughter Jamie Lee Curtis) is our Final Girl, Donald Pleasence is Dr. Loomis, a man driven by the fear of what Michael Myers is capable of. And therein lies the beautiful rub; Michael Myers is the boogeyman. “That was the boogeyman?” Laurie mumbles in a shocked stupor, “As a matter of fact, that was.” Loomis states matter-of-fact, then walks across to the balcony where Myers has just tumbled over after having been shot at point blank range several times in the chest. Loomis peers over the over edge, and stares in disbelief at the impression on the grass where Myers had landed. He’s gone. Vanished. Into the night. The nightmares isn’t over … This man is evil incarnate.

Halloween (which had the working title of The Babysitter Murders) was influenced by a couple of earlier 70s movies that featured an unknown, or masked killer who offed numerous people in creative fashion over the course of a night or so; Bob Clark’s Black Christmas and Mario Bava’s Twitch of the Death Nerve, but Halloween was the movie held responsible for spearheading the stalk’n’slash genre; at the very least making the term “slasher flick” a household phrase used by concerned parents as their impressionable teenagers head off to the local drive-in to make out under the reflected light of a flashing blade.

In the wake of Halloween came Friday the 13th, Terror Train, Prom Night, My Bloody Valentine, Hell Night, and dozens more. But what sets Halloween apart from all of its imitators (putting aside for a moment that Halloween isn’t wholly original) is its palpable mood and atmosphere and that it actually features very little on-screen bloodshed, as well as a relatively small body count. The horror that permeates the movie is more about terror than graphic violence. Carpenter cleverly eschewed having to spend money on elaborate special effect set-pieces so he could afford to play with the fancy camera equipment, and much of the movie’s overall effect is the result of the prowling, fluidity within the mise-en-scene.

And that mortifying musical motif that re-occurs throughout the movie; da-duh-duh, da-duh-duh, da-duh, da-duh, da-duh-duh, da-duh-duh, da-duh, da-duh …

As Sheriff Brackett says to Dr. Loomis, “It’s Halloween, everyone’s entitled to one good scare.”

“Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream …”

The Ballad Of Genesis And Lady Jaye

USA/Germany/UK/Netherlands/Belgium/France | 2011 | Directed by Marie Losier

 Logline: A documentary portrait of the career and relationship between experimental musician and performance artist Genesis P-Orridge and his wife and collaborator Lady Jaye.

Like him or loathe him Neil Andrew Megson, who changed his name to Genesis P-Orridge in 1971, has got balls. These days he also has breasts. He’s a widower now, and this scattered, but fascinating and affecting documentary tells part of his story and a little of his partner and soul mate, Jacqueline Mary Breyer a.k.a Lady Jaye’s story and influence and inspiration in his life. The ballad that is their love life is as strange and bizarre as the avant-garde music and theatre that have been instrumental in Genesis’s career.

Genesis P-Orridge experimented with COUM Transmissions during the late 60s pushing the boundaries of performance art with their sexual/intellectual projects. They were deemed “the wreckers of Western civilization” by an English MP, much to their amusement. Throbbing Gristle (local Brit slang for erection) evolved from the debris of COUM and the four-piece went on to pioneer industrial music. In 1981 Genesis formed Psychic TV, a broader, but no less experimental group, which achieved wider success.

In 1993 whilst Genesis was living in America on a self-imposed exile, following a bitter divorce, and indulging heavily in the club and ecstasy scene, he met Ms. Breyer. It was love at first sight. She was a beautiful young woman, working as a fetish performance artist and dominatrix, which appealed to Genesis immensely. He had found his soul mate. They married, Jaye becoming stepmother to Genesis’s young daughter and son, Caresse and Genesse.

What makes this documentary particularly fascinating is the project of pandrogyny that Genesis and Lady Jaye had been so fervently involved in. It was a years-long pursuit, undergoing numerous plastic surgery procedures in order to become gender-neutral humans that looked like each other.

“We started out, because we were so crazy in love, just wanting to eat each other up, to become each other and become one,” explains Genesis, “And as we did that, we started to see that it was affecting us in ways that we didn’t expect. Really, we were just two parts of one whole; the pandrogyne was the whole and we were each other’s other half.”

“We view Breyer P-Orridge as a separate person who is both of us,” Lady Jaye explains, “Neither of us take credit for the work, the work is a melding of both of our ideas which we would not have had singly. Both of us are in all of our art. That third being, Breyer P-Orridge, is always present.”

Transgressive transmogrifications aside, Genesis Breyer P-Orridge and Lady Jaye Breyer P-Orridge shared a genuine love and it is evident. His childish behaviour is irritating and it’s frustrating that the documentary doesn’t examine Jaye’s life and her role in the partnership in more depth. She remains more of an enigma than her husband. She died in 2007 from a heart condition exasperated by a long battle with stomach cancer. One can only imagine the acute grief Genesis would have felt after losing his “other half”.

While it fails as an equal opportunity portrait of its titular couple, as a time capsule (there is lots of archival footage) and as an observation on left-field body modification philosophy and avant-garde artistry The Ballad of Genesis and Lady Jaye is essential viewing. There aren’t too many exotic exploits like those of Genesis P-Orridge and Lady Jaye’s.

Monsters

2010 | USA | Directed by Gareth Edwards

Logline: After a returning space probe has inadvertently deposited alien organisms on Earth, a journalist reluctantly agrees to escort a tourist through the infected zone to safety.

A truly remarkable endeavour; An ex-pat Englishman shooting an American feature movie with almost no script, only two actors (the rest of the cast are real people being used as featured extras), no storyboard, a skeleton crew, shot entirely on location in a non-English speaking country. The result is a modern classic; ordinary boy meets ordinary girl amidst extraordinary times in unfamiliar landscape, laced with intrigue and danger, melancholy and ultimately a profound sense of tragedy, despite the thread of connection and possibility of love.

Scoot McNairy plays Andrew Kaulder, a twenty-something American photojournalist in Mexico, hoping for the scoop of his career thus far (capturing one of the monstrous alien creatures within the infected zone, or victims - especially dead children). He’s instructed to locate his boss’s daughter, Samantha (Whitney Able), who’s roughly the same age and on a vacation of sorts, and bring her safely back home across the US border. Kaulder isn’t too happy to be pulled from his potentially lucrative opportunity into a rescue mission. He finds Sam with an injured wrist in a local hospital, and they embark on the journey north.

What begins as a road movie transforms into an elusive science fiction thriller, and ends abruptly as a romantic drama. But there is a deep sadness that permeates the narrative. This is instigated in a prologue sequence depicting the US military on a search and rescue mission, which culminates in an airstrike on one of the massive alien “octopus-spider” creatures, which involves Kaulder and Samantha as casualties. This isn’t immediately apparent, but can be confirmed upon repeat viewing.

Apart from the superb performances from McNairy and Able (and the great work elicited from the non-professionals), what makes Monsters such a powerful and intelligent movie is Gareth Edwards’ approach to tone and atmosphere. The narrative isn’t so interested in the bigger picture, although that is addressed, albeit ironically, even cryptically, by the movie’s title, but by the little moments within scenes, the nuances of the characters' expressions, through body language and reflection of thought. This is one of the most moving and unassuming love stories I’ve ever seen, exquisitely heightened by Jon Hopkins beautifully atmospheric, hugely emotive, ambient electronic score.

The vivid cinematography is often raw and urgent, and in places beautiful, even mesmerizing. Gareth Edwards not only camera-operated (on a consumer-level digital camera) and edited, but also designed all the CGI effects, including the amazing creature design, and the clever adjusting of existing signage, plus adding military vehicles, ruined buildings, etc. The dreamy mood and languid pace of the movie (although it's not a long film) may be uninteresting to viewers expecting a horror-action picture, but it is precisely this unusual hybrid of elements (especially for a Hollywood-looking movie, and I mean that in the best possible way) that makes Monsters such an affecting experience, both emotionally and psychologically. Not only my favourite movie of 2010, but it has secured a place as one of my very favourite movies of all-time.

Henri-Georges Clouzot's Inferno

L’enfer d’Henri-Georges Clouzot | France | 2009 | Directed by Serge Bromberg & Ruxandra Medrea

Logline: A documentary about the making of an ill-fated feature by a legendary French director and starring a legendary Austrian actress.

French director Henri-Georges Clouzot had an illustrious career, with two brilliant movies in particular; The Wages of Fear and Diabolique. In 1964 he began work on what promised to be his most adventurous and profound piece, Inferno, a study of jealousy and madness. It was a big budget affair and was to utilize a plethora of wildly inventive camera and photographic techniques in order to capture the internal machinations of the lead male character; his psychological breakdown and descent into paranoid, irrational behaviour as he becomes convinced his gorgeous young wife is cheating on him.

Serge Reggiani was cast as suspicious Marcel the husband and Romy Schneider was cast as his carefree wife Odette. Jean-Claude Bercq was cast as Martineau, the handsome temptation, while Dany Carrel was cast as the sly fox flaunting herself in between. After weeks of test-shoots and experimentation with lens and gels and projections and all manner of cinema tricks principal photography got under way on location at a stunning hotel riverside resort with nearby aqueduct and railway line.

Clouzot, being the meticulous perfectionist that he was, had painstakingly storyboarded the entire movie, not an entirely unusual process in the mid-60s, but Clouzot made sure his camera compositions matched the storyboards precisely. He employed three different camera crews, but was reluctant to leave one set-up to go to another in case the one he left wasn’t perfectly realised. Quickly the production got behind schedule. Reggiani began to have clashes with the director, Clouzot would shout back. One simple shot would take a whole day to shoot. Clouzot would then insist on re-shooting.

185 cans of film later and Reggiani walked off the production claiming illness, but in reality it was despair and frustration, and Clouzot had replaced him with Jean-Louis Tritignant (although he didn’t even screen test). Shortly later Clouzot suffered a heart attack. That was the end of Inferno. Clouzot only made one other feature before dying in 1977. His wife held the archived rolls of film captive finally disclosing them to the public in 2005.

This superb and fascinating documentary-cum-reconstruction features several key players from the original production talking candidly about the experience of working on the movie. Also two contemporary actors, Berenice Bejo and Jacques Gamblin read from the original script, to extrapolate from the existing original scenes which were shot, but without sound. It’s a crying shame Romy Schneider wasn’t able to offer her own thoughts (she died tragically in 1982 aged 44), as the documentary uses her seemingly co-operative presence (despite her reputation as a prima donna) from the movie as a focus point. Such a radiant, exquisite beauty she was, in a way this doco is a beautiful tribute - a paean - to her.

Who knows how well Inferno would have turned out, but certainly the extravagant, expressionistic, prismatic use of cinema techniques including the juxtaposition of black and white for the main story and colour reversal for the sequences depicting Marcel’s hallucinatory madness would have ensured the movie a firm place in cult classic history. The colour footage, in particular shots of Romy bathing, the turquoise water against her flawless tan skin just looked sublime. That fact that the movie was never finished makes it all the more tantalizing.

Clouzot’s widow sold the rights to Inferno to another famous French director, Claude Chabrol in 1992 and two years later he made his own version of the movie starring Emmanuel Beart and Francois Cluzet. I must check it out as I admire Beart’s work, and I’m curious as to how provocative Chabrol’s version is considering how provocative Clouzot’s was going to be, in terms of raw sensuality and uncompromising narrative structure.

Incendies

Canada/France | 2010 | Directed by Denis Villeneuve

Logline: The perplexing request of a mother’s will sends her adult son and daughter into the dark heart of the Middle East to discover their tangled roots amidst hatred and love.

The French word “incendies” translates roughly as “destruction by fire” or “scorched”. And indeed, this is a searing, slow-burn drama that quietly crackles like a murder mystery, blisters like a thriller, and scars like the best tragedies of love and despair. Yet it also offers a unusual sense of reward, a kind of baptism by the flames of inhumanity that results in a movie that has you emotionally battered and bruised, but complete.

Incendies tells two journeys and runs their narrative concurrently, jumping back and forth between two timelines. There is the path of discovery a brother and sister are forced to take after they are read their mother’s last wishes. Two envelopes reveal a father they thought was dead, and a brother they didn’t know existed. Jeanne (Melissa Desormeaux Poulin) and Simon (Maxim Gaudette) will only be granted their mother’s burial rights by her notary (Remy Girard) once they’ve solved this enigmatic “inheritance”.

The second narrative arc is that of their mother Nawal (Lubna Azabal), her story from the hardships of her young adult life to her posthumous mind games. She is revealed as an exceptional woman who endured the most heart-wrenching twists of fate, right up to her final days. Jeanne and Simon must travel into a harsh and unforgiving landscape, an unnamed Middle Eastern country (Beirut?) where their mother struggled to survive.

Incendies is a study of violence and resilience. Denis Villeneuve elicits stunning performances from his three leads, especially Luban Azabal, a tour-de-force from her. There is a stark and desolate beauty to the mise-en-scene, cinematography and score. Each scene builds on the last taking the audience deeper into this intriguing, but ominous family mystery. There is a brooding sense of menace that lingers through much of the second half of the movie.

Based on a play by Wajdi Mouawad, Denis Villeneuve has fashioned a superbly cinematic adaptation with striking imagery and a powerfully affecting mood. Politics riddles the movie, but never does it feel like propaganda or a socio-political lecture. There is complexity, nothing is black and white, and there is a beautiful narrative core that transcends any language limitations. Incendies delivers its dual stories with minimal dialogue.

Incendies is harrowing, but ultimately a movie of rare fractured beauty. Denis Villeneuve made one of my favourite French-Canadian movies of the past twenty years with Maelstrom (2000), with Incendies he tackles a similar sense of loneliness and quest for knowledge, but bravely ventures outside of his comfort zone; in geography, origin, and language.

Withnail and I

UK | 1986 | Directed by Bruce Robinson

Logline: It’s 1969 and two disheveled, unemployed London actors decide to spend a rejuvenating weekend in the country only to have their escapade turn into a series of embarrassing incidents and disasters.

"We want the finest wines available to humanity. And we want them here, and we want them now!"

Quite frankly I think Bruce Robinson’s semi-autobiographical yarn is one of a rare handful of perfect screenplays. It’s also one of the most moving and affecting films about friendship. And it also happens to be exquisitely funny. I’ve watched this movie more times than any other, except maybe Blade Runner, Apocalypse Now, and Alien.

Story goes that Robinson has circulating a manuscript for a novel he’d written, based on his experiences with a fellow thespian and raving alcoholic named Vivian (whom the character of Withnail is based on). The script ended up in the hands of George Harrison who decided it was suitable for his Handmade Films production company. Robinson was then offered the director’s role. He’d never directed anything before.

During principal photography producers who were viewing some of the rushes complained that there weren’t any gags, and that the movie wasn’t going to be funny enough. They wanted Robinson off the picture. Bruce became enraged, insisting that the comedic effect was cumulative, and based on character, not one-liners (although the movie is endlessly quotable). He was kept on, only after demanding that the producers were not allowed on set under pain of death.

The casting is sensational. Paul McGann is terrific as Marwood (never actually named in the movie and credited only as “… and I”), the more earnest  and prospective of the pair, whilst Richard E. Grant’s portrayal of Withnail is a calibrated stroke of genius. As crazy as it seems Grant was a teetotaler, yet delivers arguably the finest depiction of a desperate drunk ever put to celluloid. Then there’s Michael Elphick’s wily poacher Jake (“I’ve been watching you, prancing like a tit, you need working on lad!”), Ralph Brown’s irrepressible drug fiend Danny (“If I spike you, you’ll know you’ve been spoken to!”), and last, but not least, Richard Griffith’s blisteringly camp Uncle Monty (“There is, you’ll agree, a certain je ne sais quoi oh, so very special about a firm, young carrot!”).

Apparently Daniel Day-Lewis was offered the role of Withnail, but declined (he’s great, but no). Kenneth Branagh was tested (eeek!), as was a young Bill Nighy (interesting). In the end, there’s no one else who could’ve pulled off what Grant did with the role. And McGann was the perfect foil.

I could describe the elements in Withnail and I like a beautiful marriage. Every scene compliments the last, every line of dialogue is pitch-perfect, every nuance of character shimmers, and every moment is to be savoured like a 1953 Margeaux or thrown back like a pair of quadruple whiskies and a pair of pints. The original score by David Dundas and Rick Wentworth is magical, and there’s the now infamously inspired use of two Jimi Hendrix tracks; All Along the Watchtower and Voodoo Chile (Slight Return), which prompted the Hendrix family estate to change their licensing policy because they were dismayed over the continued association with drug culture.

Superbly filmed (the location shooting in the Lakeside District is highly memorable, especially in the scene where Marwood in his magnificent leather trench coat steps out of Crow Cragg cottage into the frosty early morning air and has a look around), and deeply poignant, Withnail and I lingers like vintage wine and fond memories. Poor Bruce Robinson has never made any money from the movie, and to rub salt in his wounds, it has one of the strongest cult followings of any English comedy, challenging even Monty Python.

I could write a bloody thesis on this movie – maybe one day I will – but for the meantime I’ll simply bookend my review with another reference to the movie’s key themes of fraternity and loneliness, streaked with irony, where Withnail turns to a few bedraggled, disinterested zoo wolves and recites Act II from Hamlet; “I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth …”

NB: Feel free to try the associated drinking game. You drink whatever and whenever they do.