Fucking Valentine’s day. What a shitshow. If you’re single it’s just another possibly unwelcome reminder of that state of affairs and the fact our culture values you solely on your prowess in achieving and sustaining romantic relationships. And if you’re not single it can serve to highlight everything wrong with your relationship that you try and avoid confronting for the other 364 days of the year. But truth be told February 14th does not bother me that much-despite being a bitterly single wench. Christmas, New Year, my birthday (which all fall in a three week consecutive whammy of Bridget Jones misery for me) is always the time I feel the most woefully unattached and the time when I’m most in danger of rekindling it with any of my endless list of of ex melters. But Valentines day doesn’t massively arse me. This is probably because I’ve previously spent the hallowed romantic day with some of said melters and it was awful. Give me a single Vally day over one in a relationship past its sell by date any day(I mean give me one in a healthy, functional relationship with the love of my life if you’re giving out stuff, like, but you catch my drift). But if you are feeling particularly mopey and masochistic, here are my choice of films about love, heartbreak and relationships- themes that have brought out some of the best art in every form for centuries. Love might hurt like a motherfucker but it doesn’t half get the ol’ creative juices going. Some should definitely be avoided in certain circumstances(recent dumpings, a relationship hanging on by a thread etc) but they may be just what you need right now and will almost definitely be better for you, mental health wise, than going down your local and acting like Michael Fassbender in Shame. Revolutionary Road(2008) Speaking of things that should be avoided in certain circumstances, I think “watching Revolutionary Road at the cinema on Valentine’s Day with the long distance boyfriend you’re constantly arguing and definitely on the rocks with” would be a prime example. Way back in 2009, I was very much in love with my uni boyfriend who lived in Liverpool while I had taken my first job in Bristol. We were doing the long distance thing and arguing about it literally every day. He was training to be a teacher so he had the whole of February half term off to come down and stay with me and essentially sort things out. We’d booked a table in a cheesy, local Italian(what do you want from me, I was 22?) and decided to go to the pictures first. When we got there the choice was limited and all I knew about this film was that it was the first time Kate and Leo had been on screen together since Titanic. “A period romance piece will do, whatevs..” was pretty much the thought process and in we went like lambs to the fucking slaughter. WELL. In case you’re as unacquainted with the film as I was, it’s based on a Yates novel of the same name about a 1950s couple who fancy themselves as very kooky and subversive when they first meet only to end up tied to the American suburbs, suffocated by its drab and oppressive conformity, their bohemian dreams and youth fading as they saddle themselves with children and commitments they never really wanted. It essentially charts a couple falling in love and not only falling out of love but beginning to LOATHE each other in the process. It is horrendously close to the bone and depressing with approximately 45 thousand scenes featuring increasingly bitter arguments. Seriously, some of the scenes make Tony and Carmella’s break up in The Sopranos argument look like Titanic. What was so jarring about it for me personally, a precocious 22-year-old who had always romanticized arguing with your spouse as some sort of display of passion and a fiery personality(I mean, see my blog last year on goodfellas ffs..) was how this wasn’t about romance or passion. It was nasty and disturbing and very sad. I remember getting uncomfortable shivers as Rose DeWitt Bukater manially told poor Jack Dawson “I hate you. You were just some boy who made me laugh at a party once, and now I loathe the sight of you.” At that moment I honestly think I’d rather have been flanked by my dad and my Grandpa watching Baise Moi. We weren’t the only poor sods who’d made the “Titanic reunion” mistake, as I saw several bewildered couples get up and leave half-way through. But we stayed till the bitter end(an apt metaphor..) and as the credits finally rolled, my ex said “Good choice there, Elle” before we walked to the bus stop, shell shocked and mute. In a scene I would come to know well over the years, that was our “well, this is fucking over..” moment. The exact moment you both feel it, know the other one does too but don’t acknowledge it. We drank far too much wine at the local Italian and tried to ignore the other 'dining dead' around us, the GIANT elephant in the room and joke about how Revolutionary Road was like the argument we’d had on New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t funny and of course we broke up about a month later. It turned out to, eventually, be a blessing in disguise and when I was finally brave enough to re-watch RR years later I realised so was the film. It’s beautifully shot, with the Mad Men esque aesthetic contrasting and masking all the batshit dysfunction lurking under the surface. Kate and Leo’s on screen chemistry is fucking phenomenal and it has great cameos from the likes of Kathy Bates(Molly Brown!) I’d highly recommend it to anyone single who needs a swift and brutal reminder that the grass is NOT always greener on the other side. Or perhaps to someone too cowardly to cut the cord on an expired coupling. Stick this on and they’ll soon be moving their shit out of your house. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind(2004) How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd?” About six months after the Revolutionary Road inspired break up, I was STILL heartbroken, the skinniest I’ve ever and will most likely ever be in my life, and generally in shock that break ups hurt as much as every song, film and TV show had told me they did all my life. Who bloody knew? So when I sat down to watch a dvd with a friend one night, she got fed up of my thousand yard stare every time she tried to enlist my help in choosing a title and stuck this on. I cried virtually from start to finish, but I’m so glad she did(not sure that feeling was mutual, however.) They were good tears, the tears of catharsis and recognising your pain, that feels so unique in that narcissistic way, represented in fiction(there’s probably a German word for that..). Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is the best portrayal of the pain of break ups I’ve ever seen. Fight me. But it’s a pretty bizarre film. For a start it definitely also slots into the Science Fiction genre as it's from the brain of Charlie Kauffman of Being John Malckovich, Adaptation et al fame-so god only knows where he comes up with this stuff. It also features Jim Carey in a rare serious role so the first few minutes you're waiting for him to start chewing the scenery and gurning his tits off. Anyway in short, Joel Barish(Carey) is horrified when he realises his ex Clementine Kruczynski (Kate Winslet, AGAIN) has undergone a procedure to have him 'erased' from her memory and sets out to get the same thing done himself out of spite and to get even. Something goes a bit wrong with his, though. He's technically awake, but trapped in his own mind as the memories unfold in reverse chronological order- meaning we get to watch him lucid dream his way through the relationship from end back to beginning. As he experiences the memories again he begins to regret the procedure and tries to fight it. Now, this film takes a littttle getting into. Ie you'll be thinking "what the fuck is going on?" for about twenty minutes. But if you can ride through the initial bumpiness it settles into something so beautiful and poignant I could cry now just thinking about it. I could also gush about it all day but in the interests of space and your attention span, I'll whittle its appeal down some. What really makes it for me is the way it nails the little in-jokes and otherwise unremarkable events that truly make a relationship intimate and thus painful as fuck when it ends. At the same time, the intimate pain of these moments is usually impossible to convey to outsiders. I mean, think of one couple you know whose pet nicknames or in jokes you don't find nauseating and odd? Yeah, you can't. But when it's you it feels like your everything and your whole being. So to get us to care about this extremely run of the mill couple's little pillow talk moments and quirks is no easy feat. One sequence that comes to mind is the part where Clementine and Joel are watching a circus parade of elephants through the streets. Joel is messing around pretending to be an elephant with his coat over his head and she is sort of play-fighting with him saying "I want to be an elephant.." as he lifts her onto his back. Absolutely nonsense conversation and the sort of thing I'd roll my eyes at in public and cross the street. All the while, interspersed is Kirsten Dunst quoting the titular Pope Alexander quote over the top, in the present day helping with the procedure, (yeah I know but it makes sense if you watch it..) It's weird, goose bump inducing and haunting cos you know exactly the sort of little moment it is invoking- and that he's saying goodbye to it. It hurts so much to remember these things when you're heartbroken but is it worth getting rid of every nice memory? Of course, they broke up for a reason so we also get to see some good bickering scenes(seriously, Kate Winslet loves a fucking barney) that are relatable and well done, too. And eventually we land on when and how they met, at which point I completely lose the plot. The first time I saw this bit, I couldn't put my finger on what was SO sad about it. I mean yeah I'd recently been through my first break up, I'm not that fucking dense. But it felt like my subconscious knew what the scene was getting at before my conscious brain did, if that makes ANY sense at all? Like it got me right in some primal part of my gut. Basically, we see them have that break-up, relationship 'debrief' you sometimes have when you've both accepted the end, any shouting and anger has dissipated and you're both sort of just sat there picking over things- often even laughing, ruefully. It's their goodbye but it's at their beginning, where they met. Impulsive Clementine was trying to make Joel break into a rich person's summer house on a beach in Montauk after a party and Joel bottled it and left(fair play, tbh) But present in the memory he says "Now I wish I stayed. I wish I did a lot of things.." Absolute kudos to Carey for the pathos and regret in that one line. Coupled with the most bittersweet little, plinky piano score it absolutely finished me off. I won't spoil the actual ending in so many words(like I have done with the rest of the film) but its overriding message is that love is horrendously painful but most of us never give up trying to find it , even when we know the most likely outcome is hurt and sorrow at some point. And when you think about it that's actually way less cynical than it sounds. In fact I'd say it's stupidly hopeful. Blue is the warmest colour(2013) Now it may seem that I'm including this title for its double whammy foreign language and LGBT representation, but that's only partly true. J'adore this film(that's French..) but I know it's is a bit of a marmite one and currently has some #metoo issues surrounding the director and how he achieved some of those exceptionally gratuitous, twelve year long sex scenes. So it definitely won't be to everyone's taste. However, I found it a really powerful 'coming of age'(hate that term but it really does apply here) story about a young high school student Adele (Adèle Exarchopoulos) meeting slightly older lesbian, Emma, and falling madly in love, before getting her heart absolutely smashed to bits. The falling in love bit is great, and it totally resonates as I too fell a bit in love with Léa Seydoux(now of Bond girl fame, I believe) and her bright blue pixie crop, all cocky and French and worldly-wise. But the real kicker is the falling out of love bit(because I'm bitter). It's three hours long so by my estimate it's 2/3rds of love and 1/3rd heatbreak. Emma is a bohemian and confident artist and Adele a shy, relatively unambitious wallflower. There's also clearly some sort of class conflict between the two as we see both girls meet the others' parents to show the contrast between their backgrounds. Adele's family serve simple spaghetti and talk about getting good paying jobs while Emma's parents serve seafood and discuss art and philosophy. In all seriousness though, I needed hitting over the head with this point a bit harder as working class French people still seem like classy Parisians to me and I was sat there watching it like Homer Simpson not really seeing the distinction. Anyway, their differences eventually force Adele to cheat out of neglect and loneliness and they have an almighty brawl(couple brawling sounds ace in French) and split. Adele basically just never gets over it and mopes around all beautiful and heartbroken for like years afterwards. Adele mate, I feel vous. There's this absolutely gut wrenching scene where they agree to meet for a drink and Emma has totally moved on and tries to tell her this straight for some tough love but they end up having this really weird, angry neck in public. (which is basically a PSA about why you should never meet up with any ex for "a drink") Adele then says resignedly ,all pride and fucks about dignity out the window, "I want you. All the time. No-one else." And again, Adele I feel vous. One of the simplest lines to sum up unrequited love, I ever heard. (Or read, as she said it in French and I read the subtitles obvs). It's a lovely, universal story and worth watching for several reasons but not least of which to remind yourself, if needed, that even stunning, chic French girls get their heartbroken royally from time to time. C'est la vie.
0 Comments
Hello again, everyone! Due to a combination of absolutely dreadful summer films, draining commutes to London and a random bout of pneumonia for a laugh, it looked like my beloved little film blog had died a predictable death. But as F Scott Fitzgerald said, life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall. And thus my film blog is resurrected for my favourite time of year, in the lovely Midlands metropolis of Nottingham where I now reside. So without much further ado, I am going to give you a round up of my favourite Halloween appropriate horror films. Now, an important caveat I should probably make is that I have a rather low threshold for gore or torture porn. I don’t mind being a bit freaked, made to jump out of my skin or watch something through my fingers but if you want something genuinely disturbing go and watch an ISIS video or something(or seek help, preferably). My collection is solidly in the mainstream, Hollywood range. So wrap up warm, carve up a jack o' lantern, don some tights and vampy lipstick and make the most of the only decent imported American "holiday" before we all have to suffer through shitmas again. *cue Michael Myers music..* The Blair Witch Project (1999) This first one is a total marmite of a film. It either scared the living shit out of you or you thought it was shit. I've never met anyone on the fence about it. Well, I might have- I don't immediately ask everyone I meet for their opinion on this late 90s classic but everyone I have spoke to seems to be firmly in one camp or the other. I'm in the former. It came out when I was in year eight of high school and I still remember the-early-days-of-the-internet, viral "buzz" it generated. It was the scariest thing EVER, people had fainted at screenings of it, the legend was REAL etc etc. I even vividly recall Jon Snow talking about it on Channel 4 news in that weird period of history between Bill Clinton getting a nosh and September 11th when something like that would make the news agenda. Simpler times, eh? So when it finally rolled around to cinemas in the UK, my anticipation was at fever pitch. It was rated 15, but seeing as I insisted on dressing and acting like I was 25, I was sure I'd get in. It turns out I was right, but a couple of mates I'd roped along for the ride had the audacity to look their actual age and as an ensemble we didn't pass the test. After lording it over them and guilting them for "embarrassing" me for months afterwards like the Regina George little asshole I was at that age, you'll be pleased to know I got my just deserts(it's not desserts, I just checked) when we later watched it on VHS at a dimly lit sleepover and I nearly had a stroke from fear. Especially at that bit where they all bail from the tent and set off running through the woods with something chasing them in the middle of the night. Gah. Actually just freaked myself out a bit typing that. The backstory and the (completely fabricated) mythology struck a creepy chord with me and I totally bought into it. Yet I still maintain what actually made it work, despite a lot of people at the time thinking it was an anti-climactic dick move, was the decision to never unveil the titular witch. When I've spoken to people before about what they imagine the witch to look like, and even what they really think is going on, everyone has a distinctly different idea that works for them. By keeping it vague and suggestive, everyone is forced to project their own personal, worst fear and imagery onto the unseen evil. Another complaint I often hear levelled at it, is that the ad-libbed arguments and the characters in general are really annoying. Granted, head-strong and ambitious Heather getting me lost would have got right on my tits and by the time Mike admits he threw the map in the stream I would have disembowelled him myself. But the way they progress from slightly unnerved but mostly tired and pissed off bickering, the "not being able to get a taxi home pissed and cold after New Year's Eve" type we can all relate to, to all out terror, despair and desperation always felt chillingly realistic to me. People are annoying and don't talk or argue like a Hollywood script. Hell, take the fucking witch out of the picture and I'd still be annoying in that scenario. Despite the fact that from most accounts the actors were starving, knackered, cold and lost I still think they did a fantastic job. So good in fact, that according to a Broadly article I read recently, they barely worked again as no-one could dissociate them from the film. I'm definitely guilty of that as I remember seeing Heather Donohue pop up as a bit part in some inoffensive romantic comedy a few years later and I had to change the channel because her face was giving me a right whitey. I hear the 2016 sequel was actually not half bad, which is surprising and slightly intriguing but I'm still sticking with the 90s original. Even though the "found footage" shtick has been to death by now, Blair Witch stands the test of time, for me. It's understated, it's retro grungy and 90s, the woods are autumnal and creepy and it's finally been long enough since Heather's infamous, snot covered to camera monologue was parodied that you can take it seriously again. "We're gonna die out here..." GULP. Give it another watch. The Shining (1980) A pretty obvious(or even lazy) addition to the list, admittedly, but I'm a basic bitch at heart. Having said that, The Shining is a weird one because as much as I love to quote it, reference it without fail when I'm writing a dissertation/article/on deadline and generally pull Jack Nicholson faces when drunk, in all honestly I haven't a fucking clue what is going on in it for the most part. Having never read the book(yeah, yeah Stephen King fans wind it in) there's definitely some gaps in my understanding. But as was seemingly the way for a lot of horror films adapted from books in the 70s and 80s (I'm looking at you, The Exorcist) the filmmakers apparently thought it was fine to leave essential plot points from the book, out of the film- so I feel like this is not entirely my fault. Obviously I get the general gist, I'm not that dense, but I have no idea why or how Jack has "always been the caretaker.." and probably never will. Anyway, only understanding roughly 60% of the plot has never stopped me from enjoying this ridiculously OTT Kubrick fest. I adore the screechy, eerie score and the way it cuts in to seemingly innocuous scenes at absolutely deafening volume, I have to watch that mesmerising opening credits sequence every time and I even love Shelley Duvall. It's old school, unapologetically campy horror. But even though it's regarded as something of a classic now, it was pretty much panned by critics on its release. It took flak for being too long (which is funny as I once sat through the director's cut at a special Halloween screening after a long day at work with a boyfriend I hated and was like Kubrick, MATE, please wrap this shit up..THAT was long) for Shelley Duvall's performance(sexist 80s Hollywood, whatevs) and perhaps most interestingly for the casting of Jack Nicholson himself. Several critics, including King who HATED the film, pointed out that Jack Nicholson always seems fucking batshit(in so many words). The premise of the film- an all American man slowly going insane- would have been better carried by someone who could at least seem vaguely normal at the start, they argued. I think Harrison Ford was even floated as a more suitable Jack Torrance. Can you imagine? As much as I think with regards to the source material, they probably have a point, it is surely Nicholson's gurning, scenery chewing performance that makes the film such a favourite today. It just couldn't be anyone else. It also looks great, still. The dated, geometric patterns of the hotel carpets, the huge imposing rooms with the simultaneously chintzy and creepy interiors, the ballroom, the slow-mo crimson blood from the elevators and the snow in the maze- it all looks really intense and eerie. You could watch it on mute and it would still be freaky, it's such a visual film. On the contrary, I never found it that scary. I always maintain that I could probably watch it last thing before bed and be ok, whereas with say, The Blair Witch Project, I'd need at least 4 episode of FRIENDS or something equally twee to calm me down. Which is why if you're one of the few people who are even more chicken shit than I am, I really do recommend The Shining as a "not that scary, scary film". It's all subjective of course, but without wanting to give too many spoilers away, nothing really horrible ends up happening. So be a big boy and give it a go, if you haven't already. And don't forget to tell me "How do you like it?" *Maniacal Jack Nicholson grin* Rosemary's Baby (1968) Oh man, this is going to be hard to write well as I actually just love this film too much. So much so that it's difficult to articulate without being like "WATCHITRIGHTNOWIFYOUHAVEN'TITSFUCKINGACE". Rosemary's Baby is hands down one of my favourite films ever, Halloween and horror and all that stuff aside. It's a bloody masterpiece. I love the era and the aesthetic, like Mad Men the horror film. For the uninitiated, Rosemary and Guy Woodhouse are a young, married couple in 60s New York. They move into the fictional Bramford building(basically supposed to be the Dakota building) Rosemary gets pregnant in mysterious circumstances(it basically seems like Guy raped her in her sleep because it's the 60s and she is just like "oh..") and from there on out shit starts to get weird. There's something not quite right with her pregnancy, the baby she's carrying and the eccentric, elderly neighbour couple who have taken them under their wing. She becomes paranoid about everyone and their intentions towards her unborn child. But we, as the audience, only see what she sees so we're as in the dark as she is. Strangely, for a film made by unrepentant rapist and all-round scumbag Roman Polanski, it has a definite, subversive feminist undertone to it. Rosemary doesn't know whether to trust her (male) doctors and they, heartbreakingly, don't trust her- assuming that her paranoia is some form of hormonally induced hysteria. Seemingly harmless busybody neighbour, Minnie(played amazingly by the late, great Ruth Gordon) is constantly interfering in Rosemary's life and pregnancy in a way I'm sure plenty of women who have been pregnant can relate to. Basically, it all boils down to this idea that we're still very much wrestling with today, that a body ceases to be your own once you're pregnant-that your body and your pregnancy are everybody's business and that you, essentially, become a human incubator. Obviously this is a horror film so it takes that idea to an extreme, but with or without Lucifer's involvement it illustrates the struggles of 60s women well. Rosemary is alone in a city she is not from with an increasingly distant husband and no-one to take her seriously or help her. It's the ultimate lack of agency. Mia Farrow is brilliant as the naive and almost childlike Rosemary while still giving her enough guts and strength of character that you really root for her. Unlike the previous two films, set in the woods and a haunted, abandoned hotel respectively, Rosemary's Baby never leaves New York. But just as there is a natural eerieness to deserted places there is horror to be found in the most densely populated and Polanski plays New York itself as an extra villain in this film. The city that never sleeps has never looked creepier, more claustrophobic or indifferent. The opening shot of the Dakota building, with that freaky, freaky lullaby (sung by Farrow herself) over the credits sets the scene for this perfectly. Now I'm not one for ever buying into "X film was cursed because the boom guy's ex girlfriend died in a fiery car crash three years later" but there is something sinister and foreboding about the film given what came later both for Polanski's wife Sharon Tate and the general shift of the times toward a weird satanist/Manson family/generally freaky end to the 1960s in the US. Not because I would remotely suggest one thing had anything to do with the other, but because you cannot help but watch this ,very old, film now with the knowledge of what was to come. Despite my three picks for fave horror films all being about the occult, I've always said that films about blokes breaking in your house with a massive knife for no reason are scarier because, well.... read the paper, that happens. But for some reason stuff about the devil taps into some sort of latent, genetic Catholicism in me. By my reckoning Rosemary's Baby is the first, and by far the best, in that era of films obsessed with the devil. The film, like the book, is actually set in 1965-66 and even features the(real) famous Time cover "Is God dead?" It was clearly an era ripe for a bit of Satanism. God knows we all know the fuss our Catholic mums made about seeing The Exorcist, but for me this is so so much better. I guarantee you'll love it. Roman Polanski should be in jail but sadly, he can't half make a good film...Hail Satan. So for once, I’m going to be bang on time for a film review and I’m feeling pretty smug about it. I had the privilege of seeing Get Out in the US while I was there, a good fortnight before it was due to land over here. Not only that but I got to see it in a gorgeous old cinema in LA with Jessica and a bunch of her friends. And privilege is an apt to use in this context as I don’t think I’ve seen a film that felt so current and relevant to the time it was released- maybe ever…White privilege, racism, white feminism, coastal elites, American liberals, cultural appropriation, police brutality… it’s all here in a genre defining comedy, horror, thriller mash up. And it’s simultaneously smart and less dry and academic than a project that ambitious sounds! It’s a difficult review to write as the twist or sort of hook the whole film rests on is so important, it makes it exceptionally tricky to discuss without spoiling it. A couple of people who have seen the trailer have asked me like , “yeah but what actually happens?” and I felt the same going in. Just watch it, don’t ask. To be honest, I wouldn’t even watch the trailers as there’s a rogue one doing the rounds that gives far too much away. Having said that, I’ll do my best to sell it to the Brits while keeping my gob shut about the surprise. Young, black photographer Christopher Washington(Daniel Kaluuya) has been seeing his white girlfriend Rose Armitage (Girls’ Allison Williams) for several months and is at the ‘meet the parents’ stage. He expresses trepidation about meeting her white family, wondering if she has told them he is black and she quickly reassures him that her parents are not racist, and that she hasn’t told them as it wouldn’t be an issue. So he sets off to a deliberately unnamed, upper- middle class suburb from the also unnamed city where the pair live. We meet her family as Chris does, seeing the whole daunting experience from his perspective. Dad, Dean(Bradley Whitford) and ‘Mom’ Missy(Catherine Keener) are your archetypal, New York Times reading, ‘coastal elite’ liberals. Call ‘em what you will. Dad would even have ‘voted for Obama a third time if he could..’ or so he clumsily tells Chris in an attempt to display how NOT racist he is. The dynamics of this class of family and people in the US was absolutely bloody spot on. Strangely, I have spent more time in the company of upper-middle class Americans and their parents than I ever have done with their counterparts across the pond! I don’t know anyone particularly posh in the UK(you big bunch of scrotes) but having spent a year at Wellesley College, I have been invited into the family homes of people whose parents are doctors, lawyers, even bloody judges etc. And while ,you’ll be surprised to know, I’ve never spent any time with these people as a black man, I certainly recognised the ostensible set up. And that is one of the approximately 8 thousand things that is so great about this film. This is not Mississippi Burning. It is not designed for white liberals to go in, tut tut about racist southern rednecks in a bygone era, pat themselves on the back and go home. It’s well-meaning, white liberals, the stupid shit they say and the constant micro-aggressions black people experience while interacting with them over time. It’s your Obama voting parents. And yes, it’s you. Hollywood has let liberals off the racism hook for far too long and this felt very different. Even so, so far so Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner 2017, right? Well, no. Things steadily start to seem very off and very weird about the Armitage family, the place they live and the behaviour of the black staff members they have in their house. As Chris struggles to figure out whether he simply feels uncomfortable being fetishized as a black man in predominantly white company or whether something more sinister is at play, the film moves neatly into full-on thriller mode. Chris needs to Get Out. Now I’m not gonna lie, I found it pretty scary. It’s mainly a feeling of creeping dread and tension but there was also a cardigan over my head part and a “OHMYGOD!” shouted at full volume. But even with my very low tolerance for horror I could still handle it, so don’t let the ‘horror movie’ label put you off if that’s not normally your bag. Jordan Peele deserves all the praise for getting the tone absolutely bang on in terms of comedy and horror. I can’t think of any other ‘horror comedy’ I’ve really enjoyed. Maybe Scream?(!) And that basically just had a really scary first 20 minutes and then an unfunny and un-scary couple of hours. In a promotional interview, Peele said the film had a “satirical note in the premise” but that they then “take it very seriously as a thriller.” And I think that nails it, really. This is a scary film. It’s also a film you definitely need to see twice, which Peele also admits to being a deliberate move on his behalf. Once you know the twist you want to go back and see the bits where you didn’t know the twist again to see how you missed it, basically! You’ll also want to go back for the music. Wow, was it well scored. The opening theme was an incredible kind of mash up of a guitar, country v American style backing that could easily have been used in, say True Detective, but with Swahili singing and lyrics over the top. Being the film music geek I am, I tracked it down and discovered the lyrics Sikiliza Kwa Wahenga roughly translate to: “listen to your ancestors,” which is perfect and gave me serious shivers. So, I’ll definitely be going back for a second viewing this side of the pond. But also because I think it will be very interesting to see how it plays over here. This is a very American film. Yet there’s a tendency, which god knows I’m also guilty of, to write the issues this film deals with off as purely American. Smug Guardian reading liberals like myself know there is endemic racism in the UK but it’s not as bad as the US, right? We can always console ourselves with that, eh? We read articles on Black Lives Matter and know the names of people killed by the US police but we don’t know the names Joy Gardner, Sheku Bayoh and Sarah Reed. All of whom died in recent memory in UK police custody under suspicious circumstances. (I had to google all three). Many white, young people in this country, myself included, are from a generation with vastly improved social awareness compared to their parents and certainly their grandparents. This means we cringe and smugly put our parents right with their outdated lexicons and assumptions while often failing to see it in ourselves and bristling when we're pulled up on it. We desperately want to be savvy, cosmopolitan and in the know. Having our ignorance pointed out is, basically, our biggest fear. I went to see this film with a group of black and mixed Americans in downtown LA. On my way into the theatre, I had a smug moment of thinking ‘wow, look at me. I’m so 21st century and American.’ Does this make me racist? I don’t think so. I hope not. But it makes me a bit of a fucking berk and essentially no better than Rose’s “I’d vote for Obama three times if I could” Dad. This film is so important because you see the entire thing unfold from the black protagonist's perspective. You see the awkwardness of white people in your presence, the personal questions, the questions directed solely at you, the arrival of law enforcement signalling more bad news rather than rescue from your peril- just one of many horror tropes that are flipped so cleverly. For black people I imagine this must be incredibly refreshing and for white people it's an eye-opener. So, white Brits who follow this blog, go and see it. I cannot recommend it enough and It’ll probably be the best film you see this year. The performances are brilliant(Daniel Kaluuya is, incidentally, a brit- banging American accent), the tension is incredible and the twist is gut-dropping. You’ll most likely also laugh out loud at several points. Just, hey...don’t forget the joke's on you. They’d been talking about doing a Trainspotting sequel for so long that I just sort of got used to it as background noise- a nice idea but something that would clearly never happen. So when the trailer finally dropped last year and I realised it was happening, I felt a sense of anxiety. Like when one of your mates has a really bad idea and you want to be supportive but deep down you worry they’ll make a right tit of themselves. I mean, we all know sequels are shit. They’re largely cooked up by greedy Hollywood execs, desperate to cash in on the success of the first film. The two rare exceptions to this rule, according to conventional film buff wisdom, are Godfather part 2(banger, better than the first) and Terminator 2(Fair). My sister likes to add Grease 2 to that list but she’s off her head. Speaking of my elder sibling, it was through the prism of her 'teenage cool' that Trainspotting first filtered through into my 9-year-old consciousness back in 1996. As a pre-teen in Major’s Britain, drugs were BAD. Leah Betts died from ONE ecstasy tablet. If anyone asked you if you wanted drugs you were to say NO. If you saw a needle(as you often did in those days) in the park opposite our house you were to IMMEDIATELY go home and tell an adult, not touch it. This last commandment was drilled into me so vehemently that I once got stuck midway down a fireman’s pole on the park climbing frame, shrieking because I’d seen a needle at the bottom, a good two metres away, and refused to carry on sliding down. I couldn’t shimmy back up either so was really fucked. So when Faye was reading a book about drugs I couldn’t bloody believe it. She kept laughing at it too! Imagine! Naturally, one day while she was out, curiosity got the better of me and I had a quick glance at the page she was on. The first word I saw was ‘cunt’ which I’d certainly never heard before but instinctively knew was off the charts in terms of the swear words I already knew. I quickly shut it and didn’t open it again till years later when it, ironically, became one of my favourite books. And while It’s never been one of my favourite films, I think it’s a pretty damn good adaptation that has essentially become a British institution. And given that the average Daily Mail reader in the mid-90s probably had the life experience and emotional intelligence of 9-year-old me, it’s not hard to see why the original film was so subversive and controversial. But those were much simpler times. Is a sequel remotely relevant today? I mean an evil billionaire has essentially taken over the world and we all live in fear of Armaggeden because of an ill-thought out tweet. We’re a pretty jaded bunch. When I went down to the cinema to find out I was surprised to see one of the roughest, rowdiest crowds I’ve seen at a film for a good while! Basically every aging ,former mad head and (quite possibly) skag head from Brighton had decided to indulge in some 90s nostalgia that night. People were pissed, whooping, going out to the toilet like a bunch of fucking kids on a school trip and, I shit you not, DANCING. It was like one of those nights they put on for Rocky Horror Picture show or something. So you’ll have to forgive me if the finer nuances went over my head as I was struggling to fucking concentrate most of the time. Having said that, let me just save you the suspense and say that I really enjoyed it. It was a very, very good film. Despite my apprehensions, about ten minutes in, I breathed a sigh of relief as I realised like ‘yeah, you’ve got this..’ and relaxed to enjoy it. Because of the aforementioned drugs climate of the 90s etc, the first film is often seen, somewhat reductively, as the ‘heroin movie’. But the sequel makes the wise choice, like nearly all of the film’s characters twenty years later, to pretty much eskew heroin. Instead it focuses on the deeper themes of the books; friendship, loyalty, home, belonging etc, all with a hefty dose of nostalgia. This really worked for me as I am ridiculously nostalgic but I can totally appreciate why others might find it slightly heavy handed. Several times when the characters were reminiscing or referencing the first film, a sepia tinted flash back of it would cut in. A couple of times it worked but at others I was like “YEAH I KNOW, I REMEMBER- the reference was enough.” Tough shit if people can’t remember the first film, they shouldn’t be watching the sequel. The childhood shots worked for the most part too, I’d say, but wouldn’t argue with anyone who thought they didn’t. Horses for courses. However, the slowed down, eerie snippets of Born Slippy that were used sparingly really floated my boat. Oof, shivers. Performance wise, everyone really showed up and gave it their fucking all. It was really clear to see that everyone involved had a lot of respect for the original source material, the film that made most of them and the reasons for doing this sequel. No-one had that ‘I got fucking roped into this years ago and am now contractually obliged to phone it in’ air about them. Ewan MacGregor’s updated ‘Choose Life’ monologue felt surprisingly powerful and heartfelt and, most importantly, very relevant. The contrast between the two eras felt stark and unsettling and you could really get and feel Renton’s bewilderment at the change in Edinburgh- something I’m sure plenty of people who avoid their home town can relate to. Johnny Lee Miller’s Sick Boy got, by my calculations, a lot more screen time than he did in the original. And it certainly wasn’t wasted on him as he’s great at playing the a smarmy, sexy, sociopathic scum bag you still root for. Top marks for his ‘your blood runs in my veins, Mark’ scene (to both him and Macgregor).I thought I noticed his Scottish accent slip a couple of times but I’ll let him off because... fuck me. Literally, RADA boy. Ewen Bremner had me in tears a couple of times with his tragic portrayal of Spud who has,not surprisingly, had the worst trajectory of the gang since the first film. And last but certainly not fucking least, Begbie. Robert Carlyle clearly went full 'method' to get back into Francis Begbie’s psyche as he looked fucking terrible and had a seemingly unending level of psychopathic energy. Having said that, I am still unsure how I feel about his story arc and how he was used in the film. Do I believe that a man like Begbie would still want to kill Renton after the events of the first film, twenty years later? Absolutely. But honestly at some points, he seemed a bit Michael Myers about it. The terrifying thing about the Begbie from the first film was his ‘normal-bloke-down- the-pub’ psychopathy, the local nasty. In the update he felt a bit like the villain in a horror film and I’m sure there were more plausible reasons for him to be back in Edinburgh than the far- fetched storyline used. I managed to put those believability issues aside for the scene when they are finally reunited, though. It was just fucking genius. I was laughing while also hiding under my scarf, terrified! It kind of felt like being tickled, when you’re laughing but really not enjoying it. Danny Boyle, Macgregor and Carlyle clearly knew that people had been waiting twenty years for that moment and it was a real fan pay-off. Thanks, guys! Now that’s all well and good but it’s time for a brief intermission for a minor feminist rant. The film adaptation has always been about a group of men. I get that and the two minor female characters from the first film did re-appear, albeit very briefly. But given Gail’s relevance in Spud’s storyline and the fact Diane was a very interesting character in the first, I felt like we could have sacrificed a few of the music video-esque, trailer-baity, filler scenes for more of them. Also, we then have a love triangle with two middle aged, good for nothing, petty criminal ex heroin addicts and a woman who is 21 if a day and beautiful! Nothing against the actress, she certainly gave a good performance and is stunningly gorgeous but come on… The subtext was that Diane, 14 and underage at the time of the first film is now too old for Renton at 34.(Good Will Hunting over here with the maths). And they think that by acknowledging this with a joke from Diane about Veronika being ‘too young’ for Renton, they’ve got away with it! A major theme of the film is the passage of time and the absolute shitter that is getting old but apparently only men are given that level of introspection. Grr, do better. There was also a smattering of slightly duff scenes that I thought didn't work but whoever edited it deserves credit for keeping it just about in check and reasonably well paced. As much as I love Danny Boyle(my hometown hero) I feel like he is so stylistically brilliant in terms of gimicky, surreal effects and music that he can sometimes give in to style over substance. Certainly with the first Trainspotting and The Beach, certain scenes feel more like a trailer for the films rather than the films themselves. If that makes any sense at all. But in this outing, I feel like that was reigned in a bit and I actually enjoyed most of the typical Boyle sequences, particularly the cocaine session between Renton and Sick boy with them both fighting over who got to chose the next nostalgic song, football clip or film scene on the tele, blathering to Veronika about their brilliance. Very realistic. He has a perhaps unparalleled ability to capture a time period; the aesthetics, the feel, the fads and the trends very well. And just as the original feels unmistakably of its time, so does its successor. As a result, they compliment each other well. Twenty years is a long time and a lot has fucking happened. To everyone who has lived through it and to western society. I can remember 1996 pretty well but if I'd been in my 20s then, I can only imagine how hard the nostalgia must hit now. Well, I don't have to imagine actually as I witnessed it first hand when one of the 40 odd year old reprobates I was in the screening with got up to do the dance with Renton to Iggy Pop lust for Life to the closing credits while everyone cheered him on! A British fucking institution, indeed. As far back as I can remember I always loved Goodfellas… ha, nah even I’m not that lazy a writer and that is actually not true. I accidentally saw the horrifically violent opening scene at about age seven or eight when my Dad made the ill-advised decision to send me to bed ‘once it started getting nasty’. Yeah that’s in about three seconds, Dad. I think he was busy fumbling about for a VHS tape to record it on in the standard ‘SHIT A GOOD FILM HAS UNEXPECTEDLY COME ON TELE’ 90s way so couldn’t even get it off in time, either. Once that trauma had subsided, I then saw it alone as a teenager of about 15 and thought it was the coolest fucking thing I’d ever sat through. I remember getting really annoyed when the Channel 4 voiceover women had the fucking nerve to speak over the ending credits about what was coming up next as I was still taking it all in. I then spent the next few years making sure everyone knew it was my favourite film regardless of whether they had enquired, finding out what all the 60s/70s soundtrack songs were(no easy feat pre-internet!) and buying giant posters of it from shitty market shops to put up in case anyone didn’t already know that I BUMMED it. But, of course, there are a lot of things that seem cool to you at that age that you eventually realise are pretty naff and drop by the wayside. Including films. I used to think aggressively liking Pulp Fiction made me ,by default, 25-years-old and as cool as Uma Thurman. Now I’m just like 'meh'. And don’t get me started on Fight Club. But with Goodfellas, I am still instantly that try too hard teenager again. You know why?(it was out of respect..) Because it’s fucking cool AND an excellent film. It has well and truly stood the test of time, as I found out when I went to see it at the BFI last week- on the big screen for the first time. I took my mate Claire McAteer who'd never seen it before but knew it was a classic. (I think she might have regretted the decision, initially, when I was flapping about trying to co-ordinate buying wine, picking up our tickets and getting into our seats before it started once I found out there were no trailers). Thankfully, we were comfortably seated ,with large glasses of red, in time for the child-traumatising opening sequence. McAteer was definitely the only person in there who hadn’t seen it before as while me and a bunch of middle aged blokes tried to out ‘knowingly laugh’ each other, Claire flinched, gasped and put her hands up to her face every time someone unexpectedly got ‘whacked’ or an ostensibly funny scene suddenly descended into graphic violence. I knew she was enjoying it though, as the only time she remotely broke concentration was to share a quick ‘phwoar’ nod with me when we first see Ray Liotta as grown up Henry Hill and to agree that I take one for the team and sprint to the bar for more wine after the Billy Batts scene. (I was seconds from shouting “EXCUSE ME EVERYONE I AM BALLS DEEP IN GOODFELLAS” when I wasn’t getting served, instantly. Think most people would have understood and stepped aside..) But I knew it had really resonated when she literally didn’t move from her seat or look away until the last strains of Layla had finished playing out the credits! Even I was like fidgeting with my coat like, ‘ok, that’s Goodfellas then..’. When she’d eventually come out of her trance we re-located to the bar and had Newsnight fucking review for about two hours over how good it was. You might think there's nothing strange about two women chatting about how fantastic Goodfellas is. But apparently SOME men do. A year ago or so, I had the misfortune to see THIS article. It argues that women are not capable of understanding Goodfellas. When I first read it, I actually morphed into Joe Pesci's Tommy, such was the level of anger it set off in me. Aside from the obvious troll sexism, what really pissed me off about it was that HE clearly hadn't fucking understood Goodfellas, his so-called favourite film. He argues that its a 'male fantasy' a la fucking Entourage or 'the brat pack minus tuxedos'. This motherfucking mutt continues that the characters are "exactly what guys want to be: lazy but powerful, deadly but funny, tough, unsentimental and devoted above all to their brothers — a small group of guys who will always have your back. Women sense that they are irrelevant to this fantasy, and it bothers them." (I just had to re-read it to get that quote and am now FUMING again.) Has he ever even watched it all the way through? NONE of them have each other's backs. That is literally the fucking point of the movie; that the mafioso code of honour they all quote with reverence is total bollocks. They're greedy, ruthless and out for themselves and you can't trust them even if they claim to be your friend. I had a better reading of the thing as a FIFTEEN-year-old woman. Another crucial element that seemingly went completely over his head is that these men AREN'T the fucking brat pack. They're 'blue collar guys' *Lorraine Bracco voice* at the bottom rung of organised crime, not even part of a mafia 'family'. The foot soldiers, not the Don Corleones. Of course, as a viewer you can't help but be seduced by Ray Liotta's voiceover selling the lifestyle to you. It indulges everyone's basest desire to be powerful, respected and threatening sometimes. That facet of the human experience is not exclusive to men. It also explores the intoxicating desire to be someone like that's significant other- me and Claire both had to take a moment for Lorraine Bracco's Karen VO-ing "I know there are women, like my best friends, who would have gotten out of there the minute their boyfriend gave them a gun to hide. But I didn't. I got to admit the truth. It turned me on." (Oy Vey) And lest we fucking overlook Lorranine Bracco.. wow. The fact that this relatively unknown actor, in 1990 no less, appeared in a gangster film alongside Robert bloody DeNiro and Joe Pesci and practically stole the show, bears remembering every day. Simpering Dianne Keaton in Godfather she was not. Anyway(sorry, this is starting to sound as coherent Henry's coked up voiceover by the end of the film) most people will admit that sociopathic criminals and the lifestyle they lead can be very seductive and alluring. Yet scratch just a millimetre under the surface and it's as fake as the tacky furniture and clothes their women spend their ill gotten gains on. Goodfellas is cool, sure. But it's gritty, working class New York cool, people who are "somebody in a neighbourhood full of nobodies.." And if you can't appreciate that pretty fucking obvious theme and think the story is supposed to be aspirational, then you're either as morally bankrupt as the characters in the film or the film is as unsuitable for you as it was for me aged seven. Perhaps another reason stupid bro-y Americans such as the author of that bag of shite get caught up in the style rather than the substance of the film is the absolutely BANGING soundtrack. Like with all Scorsese's films, he scores it solely with sourced material from the time, meaning in the earlier scenes you get lots of cheesy, crooner numbers and by its paranoid, frantic last third you get 70s, cocaine guitar rock. But what always takes my breath away is his UNCANNY ability to pair totally unremarkable, sometimes almost twee, songs with an incongruous scene and trigger something really weird in you. For example, what is going on in the Pink Cadillac/dead bodies scene set to Derek and the Dominoes? How do you come up with something like that? Every time I watch that bit, I feel like I've just dropped an e; goosebumps and the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. But I can never really identify what emotion I'm experiencing. I'm not sad that any of them are dead, I'm not happy, I'm just weirdly exhilarated. It's almost kind of uncomfortable. Genius. I swear the man could set a scene to Agadoo and get an Oscar. Goodfellas, and a bunch of other Scorsese films, are out at cinemas again through February- although I think Goodfellas is now only out at the BFI and the ICA for a couple more days. Soz about me and my shit blogging speed. If you can get to a screening, even if you've seen it a million times before, I highly recommend you do. It was the perfect anecdote to the current state of affairs and I didn't think of Donald Trump once. Except for maybe subconsciously while Billy Batts was getting his head kicked in. NB If you've never seen it before, a word of warning, you will be STARVING by the end of it. Food is basically a character in its own right. My mate Bryanna is in a radge because it's not showing anywhere near her in Liverpool and she wants to see it again. So we've decided next I go up for a visit we're going to stick it on the tele and watch it with an Italian fest. She cooks Italian food as well as Paulie does in the can so if you want to follow suit, she recommends these dishes So despite what I said when I started the blog, this week I’m actually going to review two films that are currently out at the cinema. My new flat is round the corner from a tiny cinema in Brighton and twice in as many weeks I have found myself drawn in from the cold when walking past. I love going to the cinema alone- but there’s generally a small window of time when you can do this without looking tragic. Friday and Saturday nights are obviously pushing the ‘independent woman’ thing, for me anyway. But this cinema is full of Brighton loners and ‘freelancers’ and more importantly, wine. So I forsee it becoming a regular haunt. Now, going to see a film on your own is one thing. But going and CRYING hysterically is another. And I managed to pick two of the saddest films going, the last couple of weeks; A Monster Calls and Manchester By the Sea. The former was a recommendation from my friend Claire McAteer who said it was good for a cathartic cry. That was pretty much my only information going in, except for the fact it was ostensibly a kids film that had parallels with Pan’s Labryinth. I’m glad I didn’t know that it was a ‘cancer film’ as I think this would have put me off. Now, I don’t know anyone(at least I hope I don’t) who finds cancer hilarious, but I’ve always found the topic either uncomfortably sentimental or relentlessly depressing when put on celluloid. And it’s not like I don’t enjoy a depressing film, it’s just a unique kind of depressing. Maybe because there’s something strangely mundane about cancer, despite its devastation. Most people will be touched by it at one point or another and perhaps it doesn’t slot well into my Hollywood universe. Anyway, I digress. 12-year-old Connor O’ Malley’s mum(Felicity Jones) is clearly fighting a losing battle with the disease when the film starts, he’s being bullied by a right nasty bastard at his (geographically non-distinct)English High School, his Grandma(eternal badass Sigourney Weaver) is uptight and cold and his biological father has a new family in the US. All in all, he’s having a shitter. To make things even worse, a giant tree monster voiced by Liam Neeson keeps coming and visiting him at night and demanding he tell him a story(hate it when that happens). Turns out the tree monster is trying to help him by telling him ancient stories about the area that he’s somehow supposed to apply to his 21st century problems, and there’s some gorgeously animated gothic fantasy sequences that deliberately jar with Connor’s physical reality, ending abruptly and plonking him back to earth. It’s based on a book by Patrick Ness, which I didn’t know upon entering but soon clocked after a few minutes, mainly due to the really poetic language used- and not just by the tree. By the climax, I was already stifling an actual sob so when his mother utters the book’s line: “I wish I had a hundred years. A hundred years I could give to you” all hell broke bloody loose, face wise. I was a snivelling, gasping, that- weird- noise you- make when –trying-not to- cry-that-actually-sounds-weirder-than- just crying MESS. But here’s the thing. It still left me feeling a bit…. flat. I can still ‘get there’ on the right day with Titanic, so me crying at something is never really a good indicator of a film’s quality. It was a good film. I’d even say a very good film. But it’s not good enough for any awards, really. Something is definitely missing. Everyone turns in good performances, Sigourney Weaver’s English accent is totally passable and Liam Neeson plays a great tree. Lewis MacDougal is the perfect Connor, and it’s always a huge gamble letting a kid that young carry a film. But it’s probably too bleak for kids Connor’s age, yet it doesn’t really offer much specifically for adults either. Consequently, it straddles a bit of a weird divide. Even though I haven’t read it, I get the impression it works better as a book. But go see it if you need to cry your eyes out- it’s definitely worth a watch. Also Liam Neeson’s ‘tree ass’ is weirdly hot. There, I said it. If cancer isn’t your bag, then there’s plenty more DEATH doing the round pre-Oscars at the moment as I found out when I followed A Monster Calls up a week later with, Manchester by the sea. I’d seen the trailer for this a couple of times and thought, in my arrogant way, that I totally had its number. I don’t know exactly when this shift in trailer style took place but it now seems that the point of the trailer is to tell you a condensed version of the film, spoilers and everything. So by the time you go to see the bloody thing, any marginally amusing scenes have been advertised to death and you end up with a longer, more boring version of the trailer. Also, what happened to gravelly voiced trailer man? (THIS SUMMER…) However, the trailer for this threw me off the scent massively. It came across as ‘Troubled loner is forced to move back to his home town to be reluctant guardian to his brother’s kid after he dies. In the process they save each other yada yada.’ But in truth, it is something far darker and grown up. The titular ‘Manchester by the sea’ is a small Massachusetts town so I was also expecting another clusterfuck of Hollywood stars hamming up the working class New England accent- trend that seems to have been steadily building to absurd parody since Good Will Hunting, 20 fucking years ago. Dialect coaches who can teach that Southie drawl must have been making a bloody killing in Hollywood, the last two decades. And as the Afflecks are two of the worst offenders in this regard, I was braced for being hit over the head with dropped rs and ‘wicked pisser’s. Luckily, Marky Mark presumably sent a Hollywood wide memo out after ‘Black Mass’ telling everyone to take it down SEVERAL notches. And everyone listens to him because he actually is a Boston thug. So you get the lilt but it’s restrained, for once. And the Massachusetts setting is basically a character within its own right. It’s absolute New England scenery porn; just gorgeous. Until this film, Casey Affleck was stuck as ‘the annoying one out of Good Will Hunting’ in my subconscious. But he deserves every accolade for this role, as he’s really come into his own- his brother must be fuming. Yes, he has to return to his home town to take care of his bereaved nephew, but the reason he has avoided his home town for so long is the real crux of the story and is not revealed until about the half way mark of the movie, in flashback form. And, bugger me, is it a sucker punch. I think I was crying at this point, but I was also doing a really exaggerated hands over your mouth ‘I’m shocked’ face, like fellas in the crowd at a football match when their team is getting slaughtered. It took my breath away. After that revelation, I was waiting for the big ‘breakdown’, Oscar-baity scene where he finally confronts his demons- a la the ‘I never learned to read!’ Wayne’s World bit. But, perhaps more satisfyingly, it never actually comes. The closest we get is a confrontation between him and his ex-wife, Michelle Williams, which is just pure, unadulterated heartbreak put to the big screen. God knows what my face looked like at that bit. It rang really true as whenever a similar situation happens in real life, you rarely get to pull a Hollywood zinger out of your arse. Instead you just say half sentences, trail off, look at them with pain and sadness and tears. So I’ve heard, anyway. I’m not naïve enough to think this wasn’t an equally cynical, Oscar-baity move on the film- makers behalf but I also don’t care because it worked and I felt like Michelle Williams was thinking about Heath Ledger and then I cried some more. It also gets bonus points for shoe-horning in some fairly big actors in very small roles which always screams to me that everyone in tinesltown read this script and was happy to take any role just to be involved. Ferris Bueller turns up as the young lad’s reformed alcoholic mum’s creepy Christian partner for approximately five seconds of screen time. And Tate Donovan milks every line as the local Ice Hockey coach. Sadly, he clearly didn’t get Marky Mark’s memo as his accent sounds like he’s seconds away from ripping his shirt off and singing ‘Good vibrations’. You can’t win em all, I guess. I can’t recommend Manchester by the Sea enough, I might even go again. You think I’d be embarrassed about constantly walking around the really small cinema with a blotchy tear stained face, but as the credits rolled for that depression-fest I noticed I certainly wasn’t the only one. We all basically stayed till the very last name just to get our shit together. I could cheer myself up this week and go and see La La land, I suppose. But I’m currently on a man ban(a self-imposed one, I’m not on a register or anything) so I don’t think I could handle Ryan Gosling right now. After all, we saw how I reacted to an animated TREE ass… I’m loath to have my first post be a bout Christmas films, as I am Ebeneezer, the Grinch and Lietenant Dan combined regarding the festive season. My first post was actually going to be my favourite Halloween films, but as we all know, Halloween occurs in October- so its serves my procrastinating arse right. Christmas is a weird ‘thing’, it’s one of those things that some people manage to take personal offence at you not liking. Like weddings or.. the Royal Family. And while I’m a fan of any month of the year where its socially acceptable to be half cut 18 out of 24 hours a day, I don’t think it would do any of us any harm to spare a thought for why it’s also very difficult time of year for some people(I’d actually guess a silent majority) so maybe just skull your mince pies and wind it in. As I've always said, film is great for escaping your reality and what better time for a movie marathon than Christmas when there is usually endless amounts of time to sit on your arse ?And if you do feel like indulging in a couple of Christmas themed titles, here's my pick of the best of a bad lot. Scrooged 1988 Apparently there have been 135 film adaptations of A Christmas Carol since Dickens wrote the book back in 1843(as if I didn’t just totally google that) . Don’t get me wrong, I like a Christmas Carol but that seems a little bit like overkill. Even Dickens would probably be like; “Steady on guys, it wasn’t that good.” Yet this eighties-tastic interpretation with Bill Murray at his cynical best was worth the rehash, in my opinion. The 1980s was probably the ripest decade for re-imagining the Victorian fable, as much of the personality traits Ebeneezer Scrooge was known negatively for had since been embraced as Reganism. In fact, it probably took audiences at the time a while to cotton on that Scrooge was supposed to be a prick. Murray’s Scrooge is a ruthless cable TV exec, his long lost love a bleeding heart liberal working for a charity taking care of New York’s dire homeless problem, his Bob Cratchett a black single mother with a tiny Tim traumatised from the death of his father. It’s so eighties it's basically American Psycho with less murdered sex workers and more ghosts. But it’s also genuinely funny, suprisingly touching and really nails that timeless ‘reflecting on everything you fucked up in your life’ feeling that seems to hit like a brick some Christmases and make it such a bittersweet, melancholy time. Unfortunately it completely shits the bed in the last act by having an all-out American sentimental- off complete with musical number and breaking of the 4th wall(when the actors start addressing the fucking audience). They just can’t bloody help themselves. But if you can just roll your eyes and enjoy Bill Murray personally talking to you from 1988, it’s definitely worth a boozy watch. Home Alone 1990 Firmly into the optimistic 1990s now and what list would be complete without this ode to the American suburbs? I have a really vivid memory of seeing this film on the front row of the cinema, meaning I must have been three years old and that we must have gone there with our ‘cool neighbours’ who let us get popcorn and sit on the front row( unlike my mingey guardians) I don’t remember much of the film from that first viewing except the opening credits with that banging John Williams score followed by the exterior shot of the house. And even, at three years old, like British kids everywhere (and probably plenty of American ones) suddenly thinking: “Why do we live in a tiny, shit house and not that absolutely MASSIVE festive, playtime heaven?” It really was the American dream for kids. Everything was bigger, the beds, the cars, the PIZZAS, the toys, the amount of snow..snow full stop. It’s easy to forget now, that in the 90s we didn’t really have anywhere near as much exposure to American culture. There were no Starbucks coffee shops on the corner of provincial market towns, no pizza delivery. Most people watched British television, ate very British food and unless it looked like they were about to nuke someone, paid very little attention to the Americans. We spoke the same language, but in 1990 the UK and the US were two very different countries. I know I’m not alone when I say this was my baptism in the American way. I did a year abroad in the states at 19 at a college full of some very affluent yanks(a decision that was at least partly influenced by having seen films like this as a child) One of them took me to her family home in Winnetka, Illinois for Thanksgiving. Unbeknownst to me this was the suburb where Home Alone was filmed. When I found out that we were staying just a few blocks over from THE house, I absolutely lost the plot and demanded we go immediately while my baffled friend was probably regretting the invite. It was crazy to me that someone had actually grown up in that lifestyle, that neighbourhood and just thought it was normal, not Hollywood. There’s a meme doing the rounds along the lines of ‘The older I get the more I wonder what the hell Kevin McAllister’s Dad did to afford that house and a holiday to Paris for nine people.’ Quite. I mean if I saw this film for the first time as an adult, I wouldn’t last five minutes. I’d be like who are these negligent, upper middle class stress-heads and absolutely abysmal burglars? Uncle Frank is a twat, the mum looks like a South London hipster and you get the slightly uncomfortable sensation of watching Tommy from Goodfellas terrorise an eight- year-old child around an empty house. Yet if you saw it as a kid, somehow that’s how you’ll always see it. And even I wasn’t cynical as a child. It’s a wonderful life 1946 This classic is worth watching for Jimmy Stewart’s voice alone. Seriously, why did actors have those brilliant drawls back in the day? You don’t get anyone like that now. The urge to shout ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS MR POTTER!’ after watching it aside, this black and white oldie always goes down well. But it’s only recently occurred to me that it’s essentially the same plot as A Christmas Carol. Small town, family man George Bailey is on the verge of suicide on Christmas eve when he is visited by his guardian Angel, Clarence. Claiming he wishes he’d never been born he is shown an alternative universe where he wasn’t leading to all sorts of misery and.. voila teaching him that it is,indeed, a wonderful life. Alright so George Bailey was actually a nice guy to start with unlike Scrooge but this theme of feeling shite at Christmas time until a supernatural presence shows you sentimental things from your past that sort you right out. I guess it's that theme again of getting all maudlin and reflective at this time of year, that resonates with everyone. Even little Kevin McAllister had 'learned' the same lesson by the end of Home Alone. Despite being older than anyone I know, or pretty much older than anyone at this point, the film is actually pretty bleak in parts. I'm always reminded of that Friends episode where Monica lends Phoebe some films with happy endings to cheer her up and Phoebe doesn't last the whole film before turning it off, upset! So its' certainly not the cheese fest it's often assumed to be. There's also something really strangely soothing about watching films this old, knowing everyone involved is now dead, life has gone on but the themes remain timeless and universal. So there we have it. My first entry about a genre of films I'm generally adverse to. You're welcome. Do let me know what your faves are and why in the comments. Except Love Actually. If that's your favourite then you need a bloody ghost/angel to come along and have a word with you about your life this Christmas, quite frankly.
Join me for my next blog post when, judging from my current speed of updating, it'll be Valentines day. And if you think this entry was bitter.... So hello and welcome to my little film blog, sofa spud. I’d just like to clarify straight off the bat that while I fancy myself as a bit of a film buff, most of the films I intend to feature you will most likely have heard of, if not have already seen yourself. I’m under no illusions as to what this blog will achieve or the impact it will have on film studies or the film industry. It’ll be more ‘I know this really cool, indie gem about a massive ship ploughing into an iceberg’ than ruminations about the third wave of Argentinian horror, or anything like that. Having said that, I take film REALLY fucking seriously, as anyone who has had the audacity to glance at their iphone while being cajoled into watching one of my favourite titles with me will attest. And I’m really happy to be writing about it, even if only three people (and two of them are Niall and Bryanna) read it. It’s really strange that in actual real life, I am one of the least observant people in existence. My best mate could turn up to meet me wearing a gimp suit and I’d probably not even notice. But when I’m watching a film, I notice and remember every single little thing-sights ,sounds and the feelings they invoke. I sometimes even find that a completely inconsequential line of dialogue or a few chords from the score of a film I watched once in the 90s will come back to me out of nowhere. (Next time you get on the circle line, tell me the ‘doors opening’ noise doesn’t sound like the theme from Hook). For some reason that stuff has always got under my skin, I don't know why. I had to get hold of my long dead Irish Grandad’s birth certificate to get Irish citizenship recently(fuck Brexit) and was delighted to learn that my great-grandfather was a projectionist in a Dublin cinema in the 1920s. I’m sure in twenties Ireland you took any bloody job you could get, but I like to think that it was his desired trade and that the passion has seeped down the gene pool. I pride myself on being good at picking films for the mood, sort of like a DJ or a…Sommelier if you will. So I’m really evangelical about giving someone a good recommendation when they’re heartbroken, or want to forget they live in the 21st century for a little bit, need a good cry or are just insanely hungover and need soothing. Therefore, I’m hoping that as the blog gets going and you're get tired of swiping through Netflix and its weird, non-categories ,passive aggressively saying “I don’t mind, you pick…” for the 300th time that hour to your flatmates/fella- you might consult some of my recommendations. Film has helped me get through some of the darkest times of my life, so if it can get just one of you through Sunday blues, it’ll be worth it. I’m a creature of habit, so most of the films will be ones I love that I’m revisiting. I might also devote a couple of entries to titles I think are horrendously overrated, just to be an argumentative bell-end and I might occasionally go to the cinema and review something new- but I’ll mainly leave that to Mark Kemode, I think. Don't want to steal his gig, or anything. Hope you enjoy! MGN lion roar |
Archives
February 2018
Categories |