REVIEW: Shutter Island (dir. Martin Scorcese)

Cast: Leonardo DiCaprio, Ben Kingsley, Mark Ruffalo, Michelle Williams

US Marshall Ted Daniels (DiCaprio) has his head “halfway down the toilet bowl” for the duration of his stormy trip to Shutter Island, a dark and jagged outcrop off the coast of Boston, home to the infamous Ashcliffe Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Unfortunately for Daniels, his headaches are only just beginning…

Daniels has been called in to investigate the disappearance of a patient, Rachel Solando, and is joined by new recruit Chuck Aule (Ruffalo). But Professor Cawley (Kingsley) and his subordinates make life extremely complicated for the Marshalls, and Ted soon decides there is no point in continuing without the help of the FBI. But when a destructive hurricane strikes the coast, Ted and Chuck are stranded on the island; surrounded by rats, the criminally insane, and the morally questionable staff.

It is at this point that Ted finally confesses to Chuck why he really came to the island: Andrew Laeddis, the man who set fire to Ted’s house and killed his beloved wife, Dolores, is being held in the high-security ‘Ward C’. While checking out Laeddis, Ted also discovered a high-reaching conspiracy involving barbaric, government-run experiments in mind control conducted on Ashcliffe inmates. Suddenly a much more terrifying possibility becomes all too real… what if Ted has been lured to the island because of the threat he poses to Cawley’s experiments? And how can Ted prove his own sanity if Cawley tells the world he has lost it?

This is an unapologetically melodramatic and lugubrious take on the ‘psychological thriller’ genre, but it is also eerie and gruesome. As the classic, Soviet-styled, minimalist credits and the bombastic orchestral overture ebb away, we find Ted talking to himself in the style of a 1950s anti-hero (“It’s just the sea… just a whole lotta sea”) and stumbling through a galley filled with rusty manacles hanging from the ceiling to reach Chuck on the deck.

These early scenes –filled with jump cuts, still frames, and moaning, creaking, marine noises – also employ a purposefully obvious use of back-projection, and one of the most exhausting and pompous scores since Howard Hawkes set down his camera. There is humour, but there is also an assurance that we are watching one of the masters of the homage creating a truly ‘classic’ piece of filmmaking.

The swirling storm clouds and jagged shards of rock erupting from the ocean bed convey one very simple message from the outset: the hospital might not be a ‘prison’… but the island is. Within this dank world, however, Scorsese is not scared to bring his love of vibrant colours and purposeful production design. The hospital itself, save for the menacing ‘Ward C’, is a charming community of red brick buildings and colonial gardens; Ted and Chuck’s ties are ludicrous; the wardens uniforms resemble Gestapo regalia; and the small graveyard is straight out of a Hammer film. There is an easy comparison to be made to ‘The Wicker Man’ in all this, and Scorsese does not make those comparisons any harder to draw up.

‘Shutter Island’ is a perfect example of why Scorsese will remain underappreciated by the vast herds of cinemagoers less cine-literate than himself. It would have been so easy to strip Dennis Lehane’s novel of it’s knowing genre conventions and subtle humour, and create a brooding and edgy ‘neo-noir’ that had audiences and critics cooing throughout the festival season. But instead, Scorsese has created an uneasy hybrid of ‘Douglas-Sirk-melodrama’ and ‘Stanley-Kubrick-horror’.

Leonardo DiCaprio is engrossing as the browbeaten Marshall. His Boston accent remains faultless, and is here imbued with a sharp 50’s twang made dull by years of drinking. His well-practiced ‘grimacing-while-choking-back-tears’ face – which served him so well during his dalliance with the greatest romantic tragedy ever told, not to mention during the tale of a certain hubristic cruise liner – is once again affecting and powerful. DiCaprio has rarely put a foot wrong in his career, and his partnership with Scorsese is fast becoming the stuff that legends are made of.

This is not an easy film to enjoy unless you have a soft spot for the melodramatic thrillers and films Noir of Hollywood’s Golden Age. Scorsese has created a wonderful, personal take on a ‘classic’ style of cinematic storytelling; and while ‘Shutter Island’ may lack the pace and raw modernity of recent neo-noirs, it makes up for it in zeal and self-confidence.

REVIEW: Father Of My Children (dir. Mia Hansen-Løve)

Cast: Louis-Do de Lencquesaing, Chiara Caselli, Alice de Lencquesaing, Eric Elmosnino

Hansen-Løve was inspired to create The Father of My Children following the tragic suicide of Humbert Balsan in 2005. Balsan was a prolific producer and one of the most respected figures in French cinema, and his suicide sent shock waves through the industry, but the fact that one of those waves resulted in this beautiful and touching film will surely stand as a testament to his spirited life.

The film follows ‘Gregoire’ (Louis-Do de Lencquesaing) as he struggles to keep Moon Films afloat. This is no colourful and romanticised vision of the film industry (as Gene Kelly and Pedro Almodovar would have us see it); it is a realistic and almost mundane insight into the artistic alienation and financial suffocation that great producers suffer from. Gregoire is a champion of artists, and is happy to take huge personal gambles to produce the work of filmmakers he respects, but it is a thankless job infested with conceited directors, dispassionate financiers, and unforgiving bank managers. Eventually the stress becomes too much to bear, and Gregoire shoots himself.

It is at this point that the ode to independent cinema ends and the Lorca-inspired tale of grief begins. Gregoire's wife Sylvia (Caselli) enlists the help of Gregoire's closest friends to save Moon Films and finish the films currently in production. It is a brutally pragmatic approach to grief and Caselli's performance ensures that it is moving and subtle. The other focus of this exploration of grief is Gregoire's sulking but passionate teenage daughter Clémence (Alice de Lencquesaing). Clémence is at that age where she is trying to distance herself from her parents, and having her father stolen from her at such a disorientating time makes her a fascinating study in repressed anguish. She escapes into the city of Paris, immersing herself in the cafes and cinemas that she loves; but it is clear that these adventures are far scarier than she would have wished without a father to return home to at the weekends.

This is not as tightly honed a film as some of the masterful European films released this year. Gregoire's descent towards suicide feels slightly too assured, and the honesty of the film loses its way slightly as it rushes towards this major plot point. And after his suicide the film begins to lose its way slightly in the exploration of grief that perhaps proved a bit of a stretch for the young and relatively inexperienced Hansen-Løve.

But it is possible to forgive any of these structural flaws because of the wonderfully evocative and warm-hearted nature of the film. It is rambling, but it is sweet throughout; and it shares that effortless cinema-verite aesthetic and indescribable 'watchability' that comes so naturally to French cinema (I am thinking of Le Voyage du Ballon Rouge and Code Inconnu here.) It is a moving tribute to a great producer, but it is also a superb and sincere testament to the beauty that can still exist in the cinema.

REVIEW: Chloe (dir. Atom Egoyan)

Cast: Julianne Moore, Amanda Seyfried, Liam Neeson

Catherine (Moore) is a confident and strong-willed doctor with a seemingly perfect life: her handsome husband, David (Neeson), is a respected professor; her talented son, Michael, is a prodigious pianist; and her beautiful suburban home is the envy of all her friends. But when Catherine begins to suspect David of infidelity, her confident shell is crushed, revealing a timid and insecure middle-aged woman who questions her own sexual appeal.

Catherine cannot bear the mistrust she feels towards her husband, and would rather know that he is cheating than suspect it for the rest of her life. And so she enlists the services of Chloe (Seyfried), a starry-eyed and ethereal young escort, to seduce her husband and prove his waywardness. Over a series of meetings, Chloe reveals the sordid details of her afternoon trysts with David; and it is Catherine’s reaction that creates the main source of drama in this film… she is devastated, of course, but she is also strangely compelled by Chloe’s sexuality.

Catherine is so engrossed that she fails to notice the inconsistencies in Chloe’s stories; and as Catherine and Chloe’s relationship heats up, Chloe’s fragile mental state becomes more and more apparent, and the safety of Catherine and her family becomes increasingly jeopardised.

Egoyan’s treatment of Chloe is reminiscent of Hitchcock’s carefully created ‘blondes’ in ‘Marnie’ and ‘Vertigo’. She is a floating image of haunting beauty, and Amanda Seyfried’s performance is ethereal and captivating. Egoyan works hard to prevent Chloe seeming like a seedy prostitute or a rebellious ‘Élisa’. She is a Noirish creature who seems out of place in this world. The only thing preventing her from being a more memorable film ‘vamp’ is the lack of any really engaging character motivation.

The film works hard to achieve a suspenseful tone and a thrilling psychological undercurrent, but it is to the detriment of any really believable and engaging characters. Seyfried and Neeson are the biggest victims; their characters lack any depth and it is difficult to believe in them let alone empathise with them.

Catherine is the only character with any real depth and nuance, and Moore (as if it need be mentioned) latches on to this deeply troubled woman and creates a rich and absorbing heroine. She is the picture of professional perfection, studied and aesthetic, calm and precise, but with a flustered vulnerability piercing through the surface in times of desperation.

In the end, not even Seyfried’s haunting and at times terrifying gaze can persuade us that this damaged girl poses any real threat to our heroine. The film’s ending is a damp squib, and for all Egoyan’s hard work creating a visually and tonally stunning film; it is difficult to feel any emotional connection to the story, and even Egoyan fans will leave the cinema unmoved.