REVIEW: TRON: Legacy (dir. Joseph Kosinski)

Cast: Jeff Bridges, Garrett Hedlund, Olivia Wilde, Bruce Boxleitner

Joseph Kosinski’s renewed and reinvigorated TRON is certainly one of the most eagerly anticipated films since Avatar, and that anticipation is largely due to the avowed cult status of Steven Lisberger’s 1982 original. That film – with its mixture of archaic CGI, live action, and crude hand drawn animation – is arguably the most important and innovative special effects film ever made; but its simple plot and memorable performances also rendered it an unforgettable film in the hearts of film fans who worried about the sickly smooth aesthetics of Star Wars and the Rocky films.

To impress any of the legions of eager viewers awaiting his first feature, Kosinski had to do two things: create stunning visual effects that rivalled, and hopefully surpassed, those of Avatar; and create a memorable, quirky, and enjoyable story to hold it all together. He has succeeded wonderfully in the former, and perhaps predictably failed dismally in the latter.

The effects are truly ravishing. The 3D doesn’t kick in until Sam (Hedlund), the son of disappeared computer genius Kevin Flynn (Bridges), is transported into The Grid – a cyber-world created by Flynn, in which he has been trapped for the past 20 years. Over the space of those 20 years, the rudimentary, almost analogue, neon minimalism of the original film’s alternate reality has evolved over countless ‘cycles’ to produce a world so rich in glassy texture and sleek graphic cities that it more closely resembles a futuristic vision of earth than a more abstract idea of a ‘cyber world’ based on 0s and 1s. Kosinski’s background in architecture is clear – The Grid is a stunning futuristic vision, a cross between Philip K Dick and the Bauhaus. Kosinski was determined to honour the original film by avoiding complete reliance on CGI, so many of the sets are tangible, created out of concrete and glass, and you can feel their weight on the screen.

But is this an entirely positive point? This is supposed to be a vision of a ‘cyber world’ created entirely out of digital programmes. It necessarily needs to be anthropomorphised in order to be understood as a ‘mythic’ story, but is the chic interior design and the hog roast dinner entirely necessary? When Sam arrives on The Grid he is disrobed and prepared by four android-like ‘sirens’, and he later bumps into one of them as she is finishing her shift and leaving “the office” with an umbrella! What exactly is she protecting herself from in this instance? Cyber rain? There is something disappointingly easy about this interpretation of The Grid, which in the original film was a much more abstract space simply due to the limitations of technology. The wonders of the modern world have allowed Kosinski to render a truly outstanding vision on screen, but whether it is the right vision or the honest vision for TRON is debatable.

Two unquestionable triumphs should be mentioned though: the first is Daft Punk’s glitchy, techno score. Their infectious, cosmic dance pop is a perfect fusion of the organic and the ‘technologic’. It is at once cold and monotonous yet energised and vibrant. The second is the most important element of the TRON idyll… the disk battles and light cycles of legend are absolutely stunning; taking place in gigantic stadia before enormous crowds of baying ‘programmes’. The glistening quicksilver appearance of the bikes’ trails is breathtaking in 3D, and the battles themselves are easily as thrilling as anything James Cameron has created. They commend the film on their own, regardless of the success, or lack thereof, of the overall narrative.

The story, alas, falls between the cracks of the wonderful aesthetic choices. The evolution of The Grid has been plagued by the controlling, cancerous influence of Clu – a ‘programme’ built by Flynn in his own image to create a ‘perfect world’ on The Grid (while Flynn was busy battling the Encom corporation in the real world). Clu’s pursuit of a non-existent ideal has led to a dangerous and dark world of dogma, destruction, and genocide. Sam’s unlikely arrival provides a brief opportunity for Flynn to defeat Clu and escape The Grid… and so the fight is on. This could have been a halfway interesting story, but it really is not. Essentially, the story involves father and son, and Flynn’s adopted cyber-daughter Quorra, travelling across a barren landscape and getting into a few fracas before, well, winning. Somehow this random trip provides Sam with the cathartic, epiphanic inspiration he needed to “find himself” and turn his life around on returning to the real world. This is like a ‘Sci-fi action epic’ jus – a boiling pot of Gladiator, Star Wars, and The Matrix left on a high heat until all that is left is a sickly syrup of clichés and half-baked ideas.

The acting unfortunately, fails to save the piece. Jeff Bridges does nothing wrong as Flynn or, thanks to some wonderful visual effects, in his younger incarnation as Clu. But there has never been any doubt that Bridges’ talent lies in subtle and sincere character studies, rather than sci-fi epics. Garrett Hedlund is inoffensive as Sam, but he is either too young to too incapable of finding a way to save his vacuous character’s journey by adding some intangible dimension of emotional honesty.

In the end, this is a travesty of a story and a failure of a sequel, but an absolute triumph for CGI… it is to the original TRON what Avatar is to Ferngully.

REVIEW: Catfish (dir. Henry Joost & Ariel Schulman)

Nev is a 24-yr-old photographer from New York, his brother Ariel and their best friend Henry are filmmakers. When Nev strikes up an online friendship with Abby, an 8-yr-old girl who wants to paint his photographs, Ariel and Henry decide to document this bizarre online relationship. As the paintings start to arrive, Nev strikes up a more romantic relationship with Abby’s older sister Megan. Over the ensuing months Nev and Megan’s relationship becomes more passionate, and his feelings for Abby’s family become increasingly powerful… and then the cracks start to appear. When Megan sends Nev a song dedication, it only takes a few minutes of searching on YouTube to discover that she has stolen the recording and claimed it as her own. Soon after, when Abby’s mother claims that Abby has a gallery exhibition, an equally simple search on Google Earth proves that the gallery doesn’t even exist. Their suspicions aroused, Nev, Ariel, and Henry head off on a road trip to uncover the deepening mystery. What they discover when they arrive on Abby’s rural farm… is quite disturbing.

Critics are split on the issue of whether this film is really genuine, but this critic is willing to take the leap of faith. The warmth and spontaneity of Joost and Schulman’s filmmaking is too sincere to be a hoax. The story has obviously been edited to create a more traditional flow of revelations and moments where the tension is amped up, but messing around with the flow of time doesn’t mean that the events themselves are not real. Nev is an intriguing and roguish young man who knows how to work an audience, and his familiarity with the guys behind the camera make for an intimate and engaging film. The real draw of the film is obviously based around the revelations at Abby’s farm; but I don’t want to spoil the surprise, so I will leave it there for now… just go and watch this film!

REVIEW: The Tourist (dir. Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck)

Cast: Johnny Depp, Angelina Jolie, Paul Bethany, Timothy Dalton, Steven Berkoff, Rufus Sewell

Let’s not mince words here… The Tourist is one of the most outstandingly atrocious films of the year. It is so unbelievably bad that we must surely assume von Donnersmark and co-writer McQuarrie (who brought us The Lives of Others and The Usual Suspects respectively) have done this purposefully and in a knowing fashion. The plotlines, performances, camerawork, and shoddy effects are terrible; and yet there is some strange enjoyment to be had out of all this pomp and cheese... and it doesn’t feel like an accident.

From the moment Elise (Jolie) appears on screen – in a cream gown and fur lifted from ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ – we are transported to a shimmering realm of 1950’s glare and colour where subtlety and originality have been obliterated. This is what an espionage thriller would look like if Jerry Bruckheimer were staring at The 39 Steps through Gene Kelly’s View-Master. Elise is racing through Gare du Lyon to catch the 8:22 train; and we know this because we hear her voice-over explaining that she needs to catch the 8:22 train… and then we see a close-up of the departure board advertising the 8:22 train… and then we see Paul Bethany – a bitter and overworked British agent – using some of Bruckheimer’s patented ‘neon-blue-computer-stuff’ technology to piece together a ripped-up note revealing that his target is getting the 8:22 train. Alexander MacKendrick would be proud, but anybody born after 1953 will be yawning and/or laughing.

When a modern Pendolino train shows up at the platform it feels as though an alien spaceship has crashed into post-war Lyon; but Elise doesn’t waste any time in her mission to find a man that has the same height and build as her mystery accomplice (we know this is what she is trying to do because her voice-over tells us so) and dragging him to the suitably art deco dining car for the duration of the journey. The hapless chap whose life is about to be torn apart simply because he has the same height and build as a criminal is Frank (Depp) – a maths teacher from Wisconsin who smokes an electric cigarette and reads spy novels.

When they arrive in Venice (where else could this film be set?) Frank finds himself escaping from Interpol and Russian gangsters who all believe him to be Alexander Pearce; and when Elise rescues him from the jaws of death she finally admits that she has been using him as a foil to protect her lover, who has stolen billions from the gangster and is wanted by MI5. She tries to send Frank home, but the forlorn traveller with his sad-puppy eyes and glass jaw refuses to flee from the woman he loves (he has fallen in love by the way). Queue an epic climax where all the various parties descend on a sparkling Venetian ball and fight it out. Oh! and there’s a gigantic and jaw-dropping twist too… you’ll never see it coming!

Some early reviews have called this a ‘turkey’, but those reviewers can’t possibly have appreciated the Ealing-throwback chivalry of the whole enterprise. This isn’t quite a comedy (it isn’t Carry On…) but it goes beyond Hollywood ‘tongue-in-cheek’ trashiness to provide a sleek and thoughtful rubbish film that earns its laughs.

REVIEW: Somewhere (dir. Sofia Coppola)

Cast: Stephen Dorff, Michelle Monaghan, Elle Fanning, Chris Pontius

‘Somewhere’ opens with a fixed shot of our protagonist – fatigued film star Johnny Marco (Dorff) – driving his sports car round and round in circles in the middle of the dusty Californian desert, alone. The film goes on to show Johnny dealing with the trials and tribulations of being a world-famous single father living in a hotel with legions of ‘hangers-on’ and nowhere to go. But that simple opening shot haunts the entire film with its stripped-down purity… what is anybody doing in Los Angeles if not driving round and round in circles in the middle of the dusty California desert, alone?

The Chateau Marmont on Sunset Blvd. is the crumbling, nicotine-stained crypt of a bygone age… the perfect home for our hopeless hero. Johnny lives in room 59, a room with an unused kitchen and plenty of space in the bedroom for strippers to erect their mobile poles. His “best friend” Sammy (Pontius) organises exclusive get-togethers almost every evening; and to the vacuous socialites and desperate actors that gain entry, this lonely man’s hotel room is the coolest place in town.

The only person to whom our pampered film star has any responsibility is his 11-year-old daughter Chloe (Fanning). So when his ex-wife (Monaghan) takes off and leaves him to look after the girl, the scene is set for a classic tale where the “sassy-kid-teaches-her-useless-dad-a-thing-or-two-about-adulthood.’ But Coppola never even entertains this clichéd idea. Chloe is a nervous pre-teen who adores her father; he doesn’t have the sense to hide his drinking and womanising habits from her, and she doesn’t have the guts to call him up on it.

This is not so much a dramatic narrative as a portrait of an artist as a young(ish) man. It is a story reminding us that stories don’t really exist, and not even movie stars in Hollywood are living the fairytale lives we see on screen. “Nothing ever really happens to anyone, and nobody ever really changes.” This isn’t a hopeful or nuanced point – and it certainly lacks the poetry of ‘Lost In Translation’, where another hopeless actor found some form of spiritual enlightenment through his relationship with a younger female – but it is a point well made by Coppola.

There aren’t many filmmakers who can embrace silence and inactivity and somehow imbue it with a mischievous sense of ‘saying something’. Michael Haneke is the indisputable master of leaving a camera staring at nothing and yet never allowing our senses to calm down. When our senses are starved of the barrage of information they come to expect while sitting in a darkened room with popcorn, they suddenly become alive to the possibilities of silence, the exciting ambiguity and anticipation of ‘nothingness’. Coppola is comfortable doing the same thing; the opening shot is a clear statement of intent, but another excellent example is a painfully slow zoom-in on Johnny as he sits in a make-up chair waiting for the mould that covers his entire head to dry. Encased in a waxy mausoleum, entombed with his own thoughts, the viewer eventually happens upon a terrifying possibility… what if Johnny isn’t thinking anything at all? What if too many years of stardom have switched his brain to standby mode?

A poem for Godspeed You! Black Emperor

Godspeed You! Black Emperor - ATP2010, Butlins Minehead

The throbbing drone of a 'nowhere to go' poem.

Cymbals shimmering…

 a growing expectancy of abandon.

Disgruntled distortion; flashing, ephemeral, menacing madness; the elegiac strength of poetry's newfound power.

The luscious, disintegrating grain of film flickers hesitantly across their gloomy parchment faces.

The soothing banshee wail of violins whistles amongst the crumpled analogue voices of men who will not be heard again. Jersey men. Important men.

Surrendering, waiting for the chasm between soul and sound to be bridged, by music that is like food too hot to have taste.

No layer unfulfilled, no synapse untantalised. An assault on every piece of the humdrum soul that was mine moments ago. Two thousand heads bobbing, faces downturned, staring vacantly at the space where they used to be. The growling howls of these vagabonds still screaming at us,

"Don't give up, there's LIFE to fight for yet!"

A tremor rips through the aether!

The air is kindling!

And now it burns and shines!

The silence blows the hearth to stillness…

The energy retreats, but leaves a stinging heat.

I can feel it against my skin,

as our sulking masses leave,

and our lives begin again. 

REVIEW: Of Gods and Men (dir. Xavier Beauvois)

Cast: Lambert Wilson, Michael Lonsdale, Olivier Rabourdin

Xavier Beauvois’ film spent four weeks at the top of the French box office after its September release, such was the national esteem held for the director and his chosen subject – the beheading of a group of French monks in North Africa in the mid-‘90s. The film is beautifully shot and masterfully sparing in what it is willing to show to its audience. Visitors arrive at the monastery with stories of road blocks, burnt out buses, and rioting gangs, but we never really leave the convent. In this way the film feels more like a stage play – there is a unity of time and space that makes the drama even more visceral and intimate.

The central performances are superb, especially those of the ageing, cuddly Michael Lonsdale and the frighteningly reasonable and saintly calm Lambert Wilson (who plays Christian, the head of the monastery). There is a synergy between the quiet and gripping performances and the spare cinematography that culminates with a spectacular scene during dinner, when the camera patiently lingers on each wrinkled, resolute, monastic face as the moving score reaches its crescendo… it is quiet, patient, unnoticed, but thoroughly engrossing.

If there is a criticism that can be levelled against this film it is that Beauvois seems to confident of what he is trying to say, and there is little room for the sort of mystifying ambiguity that cuts through most great European films. He knows exactly what his message is and exactly how he will express himself through the characters. In such a long and pensive film, it would have been more interesting if there were a sense of tearing at the heart of the premise… a dialectic played out by the characters. Unfortunately this is never the case, and Beauvois’ control over his thoughts is as thorough and totalitarian as the control Christian has over his subordinate monks.