Saved by the Bell

This is the show that reminds me of having days off school, because it was always on at a point in the morning when I would usually be on the way in, so I could only see it when I was ill. That’s probably why I could smell Calpol, dry toast and Lucozade as I re-watched episodes on DVD. The nose never forgets.

The first season aired back in 1989, and it has got to be one of the most important kid’s sitcoms of my generation. And I mean important in the formative rather than the cultural sense. The jokes are deliberately goofy and the kids take a while to develop their acting talents beyond the wooden. But the costumes are amazing, Mr Belding is a hero and I like the idea of the feminist character of Jessie existing to counteract the mach male double-act of Zack and Slater. I also like the fact that teens are frequently sexualised in swimsuit and locker room scenes, proving that this kind of thing has been going on for years and has not yet destroyed society completely. Take that Aldous Huxley.

Saved by the Bell has managed to endure because some of its stars have had interesting lives off-screen. I am of course referring to the recent antics of Dustin Diamond, aka Screech. Mr Diamond was only 12 when he found fame, but now many people will remember him for the sex tape he produced to allegedly pay for his mortgage. Louis CK produced this NSFW sketch to promote his new show that is eerily reminiscent of what Mr Diamond probably had to go through. He has continued to destroy his reputation with appearances on various celeb-focused reality shows, and even wrote a book about his years working on the show that made him famous called ‘Behind the Bell’. Apparently none of the original cast is on speaking terms with him. I wonder how the cast of Boy Meets World are doing...

Street Hawk

If you hadn’t ever seen Knight Rider, or any other 80s action movie, you might think the concept for Street Hawk was moderately original. Rogue motorcycle cop sees his partner killed by baddies, and is nearly topped himself in the process. After his recovery and assignment to deskwork, he is approached by a mysterious government agency (which in this case consists of just one guy) and asked to become a loose cannon justice-dealer, working beyond the law to fight crime on a 300mph hyper bike. Enjoyable nonsense ensues. It’s no sillier than an episode of 24, I promise. And I imagine that in twenty five years all of Jack Bauer’s gadgets will look as outdated as the technology that is on offer here.

Sadly for Street Hawk, it came three years after Knight Rider had established itself, and so after one season it was canned. On the plus side, Christopher Lloyd makes an appearance in the first episode as a pretty convincing drug boss, and this cameo almost makes the whole thing worth a look.

It’s Garry Shandling’s Show

This sit-com is very similar to Saved by the Bell in many ways. Mr Shandling always addresses the audience, and spends most of his time getting into scrapes and ‘chasing tail’, as they say. It feels a little like Seinfeld mixed with Home Improvement and tons of other generic US personality-centred comedies that have come since. Mr Shandling was unknown to me until the DVD popped through my door, but a quick check of IMDB shows that he’s done pretty well for himself in the US. I suppose watching Garry Shandling’s show is the closes a UK citizen can ever come to experiencing what it must be like for foreigners to catch a rerun of Birds of a Feather.

In conclusion, the theme song is really good. Perhaps the show is a little too mediocre for this list.

Saved by the Bell: Season 1, Street Hawk and It’s Garry Shandling’s Show are all getting a full DVD release on the 22^nd of March.

*I refuse to acknowledge Channel 5 because we could never get good reception on it. Oh, and Sky or Cable don’t count either. Terrestrial all the way.

Original Queens of Noise, Joan Jett and Cherie Currie also rocked the red carpet for music video turned silver screen director, Floria Sigismondi’s highly anticipated new movie. Based on lead-singer, Cherie’s biography, Neon Angel the biopic shows the beginning and the end of the first all-girl rock band.

Although Michael Shannon - who plays the infamous industry legend, Kim Fowley - only made a quick appearance before running off for his current role on Broadway, Kristen, Dakota, Cherie and Floria took time to talk to the press – whilst Joan demonstrated her strong yet quiet persona to perfection.

Kristen looked every bit the perfect young Joan with her “jett” black hair and shy stance – answering questions along the press line, she was obviously a little taken back by such attention of a non-Twilight movie.

Wanting to take on the role of one of the most iconic female performers “as soon as someone said ‘There’s a Joan Jett movie’” Kristen explained how she admires how Joan is just herself:

“She is who is she is… there’s not some deep way to put it. If you said ‘You’re such a bad-ass. You’re so yourself all the time’ she’d be like ‘Really?’”. Kristen, in case you didn’t know, your legion of fans love you for just that reason - apparently she took more from the role than she even realized.

Blond “Cherry Bomb” Cherie, was as sweet as pie and could not speak highly enough of Dakota’s performance, gushing “there just aren’t words – Dakota is one of the most talented actresses who’s ever lived… I’m so proud of her” as the gal herself was rushed by, smiling at Cherie as she’d heard her praise.

Before dashing in to introduce the movie, Kristen, Dakota, Joan, Cherie, Floria and Riley Keogh – who plays Cherie’s twin-sister Marie (and grand-daughter to Elvis Presley – who knew?!) - faced the firing squad of group photo-call.

Even the camera shy Joan took the flash attack in her stride, whispering quiet encouragement to Kristen who was trying not to crack-up at the hysteria of it all, later laughing to Dakota “Man, how weird is this?”

Once inside the quieter atmosphere of the screening, legendary producer Kenny Laguna brought out director, composer and cast to introduce the film before heading off to after party hosted by Tommy Hilfiger and Quintessentially at the suitably iconic Bowery Hotel.

As for the flick? They rocked it – hard! Kristen’s embodiment of Joan is as convincing as it is bad-ass - from the Suzi Quatro shag to the leather and lyrics – whilst Dakota fills the silver platform shoes of Cherie as well as the iconic white corset.

As for whether the much speculated “kissing scene” between the two leading ladies is as hot as everyone hoped… well, you’ll have to go see for yourself!

Photos and video to follow as well as my exclusive interview with the original "Cherry Bomb", Cherie Currie!

This fine documentary opens with a simple but salient point: who do we pay to talk to us? Politicians? Perhaps. Pastors? Maybe sometimes… The answer is comics. Comedians are the only people to whom we offer our money and say, “please talk to me… make me laugh at myself and the things around me.” In an age of global hostility, fear, and repression of thought and individuality, the voice of the comic is more essential than ever. We need comedians to remind us how farcical life is; and to poke fun at the institutions and zeitgeists that too easily become writ.

Bill Hicks understood the importance of this role from an early age. As a restless teenager – trapped in his Southern Baptist Texan townhouse with his all-American, college-graduate family – Hicks would sneak out and head for the only comedy club within a million miles of his home… the Houston Comix Annex. Hicks quickly became renowned for his clean, ‘high-school-kid’ brand of comedy and was taken under the wing of Steve Epstein’s fast-talking, hard-drinking comedy troupe, ‘The Texas Outlaw Comics’.

By his early twenties Hicks was already a legend on the Texan comedy scene, but he knew that his comedy could reach greater heights and deal with much wider issues than growing up in a Texan Baptist household. He began experimenting with hallucinogenic mushrooms, and would sit by a remote lake with a few trusted friends and explore the infinite possibilities of philosophy, consciousness, and existence.

This might all sound a bit heavy for comedy, and it certainly took Hicks a long time (and an almost fatal battle with alcoholism) before he really learnt how to incorporate his esotericism and staunch criticism of American society into his comedy routines. These routines – which began around 1989 with ‘Sane Man’, when Hicks was at the ripe old age of 28 – should be immortalised and filed away in the library of Congress with the works of Whitman and Hemingway. The raw simplicity, the fervent passion, the searing love for his common man that forced him to criticise society with all the spit and power he could muster, make Bill Hicks one of the most important spokespersons for Reagan’s America.

Hicks was a product of a forgotten generation of Americans, growing up in the 1970s, who couldn’t understand what had happened to the gusto of Johnson’s ‘Great Society’ or the purity of spirit and love that inspired the cultural revolutions of the 1960s. Vietnam had killed the American spirit, and everything that came after it further distorted and twisted the American Dream into a dogmatic society of thoughtless and unquestioning pawns who were free to do whatever they wanted… just so long as they wanted to do what they were told.

But no matter how much energy Hicks threw at his performances, mainstream America was not ready to hear his message. He achieved international fame and was cherished and idolised in Canada and his spiritual home, the UK; but he was criminally unappreciated in his beloved homeland, and was left to perform in the same old clubs on the same old comedy routes that he had been peddling since his teen years.

In 1993, just as he was beginning to achieve the mainstream platform he so desperately desired (not because he wanted fame, but because he wanted people to hear him) Hicks was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and passed away within a year. He spent his final months touring, creating what many consider to be the finest and most passionate stand-up performances in the history of stand-up comedy. His friends could not understand why he had become such an unstoppable force; they didn’t realise it was simply the desperation of a great man to immortalise his message before he was dragged away from this earth.

Hicks’ last performance was, in his own opinion, the finest of his career. He was invited onto the David Letterman show (the only mainstream show to have shown him any support in his career) and delivered an extraordinary rebuke to America, largely based around the recent Waco massacre. The performance was cut from the final broadcast, and the network claimed that Hicks’ views were to ‘dangerous’ for mainstream broadcast.

Throughout his life Hicks was ignored and chastised as anti-American; but in fact, as with so many great insubordinates, it was his deep love for his country that inspired him to fight back against the forces of corruption and lethargy. It was too great a struggle in the 1980s, but in the 15 years since his death, the rise of the internet and a stuttering revival of American liberalism has allowed Hicks’ stock to rise. His fanbase is growing at an unprecedented rate, and DVD and CD sales have mushroomed inline with the growth of youtube and the revelation of previously unseen clips. The culmination of all this groundwork, and arguably the culmination of Hicks’ entire career, is this documentary.

In Hicks’ final days he returned to his family home and forced his mother to sit with him while he took her through his entire collection of photos and VHS recordings. When she asked him why he was doing this, he explained that someday, somebody might want to make a documentary about him.

15 years later, British TV producers Matt Harlock and Paul Thomas have graciously and expertly taken up the mantle. They have created an honest and simple documentary relying solely on the lucid and evocative memories of Hicks’ friends and family, and Hicks mountain of personal photos and video recordings. The Hicks estate have made it clear that this is the only time they will open up their lives to such a far-reaching project, and so this really is the final word on one of the most important men in the history of the American entertainment industry.

The film employs a revolutionary animation technique that allowed the filmmakers to animate old photographs, adding dimensions and colour and movement to them so that the viewer is transported into Bill’s world not just by the absorbing commentary, but also by the visceral images.

The live footage is also expertly blended into the narrative, so that Bill seems to jump out of the film and onto the stage to perform some of the material that has just been explored. This allows viewers to take a completely new perspective on material that may or may not be familiar to them. Hicks’ fans will surely relish becoming entangled in the trials and tribulations of his life while watching him rage against the dying of the American Dream, and they will feel so much closer to this complex and inspiring idol by the end of the film.

It is difficult to tell how this film will perform theatrically, but this critic certainly hopes that it will achieve the success that these filmmakers, and Bill Hicks, deserve. This wonderful film has recorded a life and immortalised a great man, and that is all one can ask of the cinema. ]]> American: The Bill Hicks Story http://www.t5m.com/nicholas-deigman/american-the-bill-hicks-story.html/feed http://www.t5m.com/mark-pilkington/game-anticipation-metro-2033-trailer.html http://www.t5m.com/mark-pilkington/game-anticipation-metro-2033-trailer.html#comments Wed, 17 Mar 2010 15:47:45 +0000 http://www.t5m.com/mark-pilkington/game-anticipation-metro-2033-trailer.html One of the most anticipated games of the year is almost here. Based upon the best-selling novel of the same name, this game places you in the role of a survivor of a nuclear fallout in Moscow, having only survived the devastation because you happened to be deep underground in the cities Metro system. Once you return to the surface, you find the world is a more dangerous, and horrific, place than you could ever imagine... Now be honest - is it me, or does this game look amazing?

Tim Key

Mr Key first came to my attention on Charlie Brooker’s Screen Wipe a couple of years ago, and his hilarious poetry, which on Wikipedia is referred to as ‘deliberately bad’, was refreshing in a market so full of repetitive, observational mainstream acts. Then the short run of the BBC sketch comedy Cowards showcased Key and three other young comics. Most of the show was excellent, and a welcome contrast to the beast that sketch comedy has become, with its otherwise universal reliance on poor impersonations of celebrities to get laughs (see Katy Brand and even, dare I say it, Harry and Paul). Most recently Key has been a much more visible personality, taking the role of question master in BBC4’s We Need Answers, as well as appearing on News Wipe from time to time.

Key’s latest one-man show, which happens to be called The Slutcracker, had a sell-out run at the Soho Theatre in London, and I managed to catch it one evening. Key’s style is not stand up in the traditional sense. There are no jokes, but there are definite punch lines. It’s almost performance art, but with an introspective and self-mocking tone that makes the excessive pretentions seem delightfully silly and very, very funny. Key reads his poems from small notebooks stuffed into the various pockets of his ill-fitting suit, and he uses a conductor’s baton to direct the audio and video elements that punctuate the five or so parts into which the hour long performance is divided. Poems are interspersed with almost stream of consciousness musings, coupled with occasional laddish outbursts that jar intentionally with the rest of his act. Keep an eye on Key, and see him live if you can. He lacks the kind of manner that is gradually turning fellow Cambridge graduate David Mitchell into a staple of the living room, but he is one of the most inventive comedy performers on the circuit today.

Ramona

Having not been to a gig for a while (I saw half of a Propagandhi gig in Sheffield last summer before a fire alarm cut it short) I was fairly excited to shake the cobwebs off my eardrums again. And the Portland Arms in Cambridge was the venue to help me with that task. Before talking about the band, I’d like to praise the venue itself. It is basically a pub, but with a small backroom for gigs. I’ve been to tons of tiny venues in the past, and in terms of atmosphere, and more importantly sound quality, this was one of the best. Every element of the groups on stage was evenly balanced, and even the vocals were not totally eclipsed in the miniature listening environment.

Now Ramona is a band at the beginning of its journey, and you could tell that each member was still in the process of finding their own place in the musical machine. Old pop punk is the driving influence here, and the ghost of Blondie floats over them. Lead singer Karen Anne has an impressive natural presence on the stage, holding herself somewhere between nonchalant cool and energetic emotion at all times, but never being overtaken by either. Her vocal is clean and flawlessly executed in technical terms. Lyrically the songs dwell on the typical teenage topics, though there are flashes of more adult themes that transcend the occasionally angsty but generally up-beat tunes.

Guitar, drums, bass and keys/synths complete the Ramona line-up. There are actually distinct personalities that define each band member, though like Karen Anne there is no overriding/distracting level of showmanship to detract from what is an assured group performance. It will be interesting to see how the band develops, and whether their sound will change over time. I believe an album is in the works at the moment, though you can check out good old Myspace for some previews.

I went to see your new film at the weekend. Alice in Wonderland. In 3D. With a Disney stamp on it and that lady who worked on Beauty and the Beast and The Lion King behind the writing desk.

Now, I’m not a 3D-sceptic Tim, let’s get that straightened out. I like the depth it gives to the images, and I like the clarity of picture you get with the digital projection it uses. But I don’t like the price hike and I don’t like having to wear the glasses over the top of my existing ones. Prescription 3D looks like it could be some way off. So I liked the use of 3D in your film, and you didn’t use it as a gimmick like certain sequences of Disney’s recent reimagining of A Christmas Carol did.

The attention to detail in the design of Underland was also good, Tim. Everyone was going on about how James Cameron had made ‘a whole new world’ in Avatar, when all he’d really done was copy/paste five or six animals with a few extra limbs into a rainforest. But there is more than enough imaginative power in the pages of Lewis Carroll’s novels to provide inspiration for a fairly deep onscreen environment, and you and your team have done a pretty good job of reimagining it. I could see that the first Disney version helped a bit as well.

What else is good? Oh yes, using the Jabberwocky poem as a foundation for the plot. I bloody love that poem Tim, and I also gather that you got some of the designs for the beast from old illustrations, which is faithful of you. Not sure you needed to make the beast talk though.

Right, I’ve been quite nice so far Tim, and you’ve deserved every word of encouragement, believe me. But I do have a couple of bones to pick with you. First, why did you cast Barbara Windsor and Matt Lucas? Distracting for a British audience, don’t you think? And a tiny bit irritating, at least for me. Second – Anne Hathaway...she’s awful, isn’t she? And didn’t she have that boyfriend who went to jail for massive fraud and money laundering? She’s not the sharpest of knives. Or whatever that saying is. Thirdly, why was Helena Bonham Carter doing an impression of Queen Elizabeth from series 2 of Blackadder? Frown.

Johnny Depp deserves his own paragraph. I do love Mr Depp, and have always appreciated his quirky roles. But you might have given him a little less control over this one. I don’t know why the Hatter had to become such a central character, and I don’t know why he was so endeared to Alice. I suppose you had to cement the plot to a couple of characters, and Depp is a massive star. But it didn’t work for me. I know you don’t know me Tim, but I think it’s time to put Johnny down. And never let him dance again. You managed to make your movie feel like Shrek in the closing seconds.

Despite criticising your casting a bit, I thought that Alice (Mia Wasikowska) was excellent, and I enjoyed Alan Rickman and Stephen Fry, both of whom managed to perform in an understated manner that didn’t damage the film in the same way that some of the other Brits did.

My biggest problem was that the film was too coherent, if that makes sense. It adhered to the same kind of story arc as other fantastic kid’s films of the past, and in doing so lost a lot of the lunacy and escapism of the source material. Apparently you told some journalist that you couldn’t attach yourself emotionally to the disjointed series of events that make up Carroll’s novels. But you’ve gone too far in the opposite direction with this one.

So you’ve not done too badly with this one Tim. I don’t think I want to see it again anytime soon, and I was a little bored and annoyed at the clichés during the showing. But kids will probably love it. The little girl sitting next to me was on the edge of her booster seat for quite a while.

Logan Lerman takes on the role of Percy Jackson, a teen with a troubled home life who learns that he is a demigod, with absentee dad Poseidon replaced by mortal slob Gabe (an under-used Joe Pantoliano). Turns out Zeus is cheesed off because he’s been told that Percy has stolen his master lightning bolt, and with a deadline for its return set, the newly deified youngster must train himself up, get his kidnapped mum back from Hades, and then find out who did steal the bolt before there is war amongst the inhabitants of Olympus.

His training takes place at Camp Half-breed (or ‘Hogwarts’ if you’re feeling nit-picky) though he is forced to duck out early and go on a quest to retrieve his mother and the bolt. This involves visiting three places in the US that are inexplicable inhabited by mythical monsters. He is accompanied by a love interest/ tough chick as well as a satyr/best buddy who acts as comic relief.

The main problem I have with the whole Percy Jackson concept is that it’s a little bit lazy. Copying and then pasting chunks of Greek myths into a 21^st century setting is not hard, and it seems that here the bare minimum has been done to make it all stick. Why is Olympus accessed from a lift built into the Empire State Building? It just is. Why is Medusa handing out in rural America? Stop asking questions! Perhaps the books upon which the film is based offer a little more, but I don’t think I’m going to be reading them myself. Please let me know if I’ve missed some salient point. The God of War video games do a much better job of recreating the violent, romantic mythologies of ancient civilisations than this boring film.

To read more from Joe West check out www.t5m.com/joe-west

Dir: Martin Scorsese 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.

To read more from Nicholas Deigman go to www.t5m.com/nicholas-deigman

Where James Toback’s 1978 drama Fingers was the inspiration for Jacques Audiard’s celebrated 2005 film The Beat That My Heart Skipped, for the pulsating, brutal and achingly tense prison drama A Prophet the French director has mined the likes of Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, Jules Dassin and Jean-Pierre Melville to create a instant genre classic and an audacious piece of cinematic story telling. It is the standout film of the last 12 months, quite possibly of the 12 to come, and places Audiard firmly in the pantheon of great European filmmakers. Indeed, there must be a claim that over the course of a career in which he has directed a comparatively bashful five films in 16 years (including, A Self Made Hero, Read My Lips and The Beat…), Audiard has assembled a beautifully refined collection of work to rival, or better, the notional cream of the cinematic world. In an industry that celebrates overindulgence and lavishes praise on creative gluttony, Audiard, much like that other inspired recluse Terence Malick, proves that sometimes less is almost certainly more.

In A Prophet he has created a complex but hugely rewarding film about growth and survival. It is the story of an illiterate young inmate rising through the ranks of the prison criminal classes, from nervous greenhorn to formidable player. It tells of his transformation, his manipulation and his shifting status under the (precarious) guidance of the prison kingpin until, armed with a new cunning and swagger, he ruthlessly and decisively acts to usurp his tutors-in-violence. It is moving, vicious, grimly cynical and entirely dispassionate, claustrophobic and elaborately constructed. It is also utterly absorbing.

The film’s star, Tahar Ramin, gives a beautifully nuanced performance as the enigmatic Malik, the cornered, wide-eyed innocent cast adrift into the fierce bear pit of blood-soaked prison hierarchies who grows in confidence, and influence, as he slowly unpicks the complex and nefarious web of tribal codes that underpin criminal life. While Niels Arestrup, as the toxic Corsican overlord, Cesar, who rules obdurately over the fate of others and commands Malik’s allegiance by ordering him to murder a fellow Arab inmate, is fearsome and convincing. The sequence in which Malik is trained and prepares for that assassination is one of the most tense and unsettling I have ever experienced and the murder itself, clumsily executed in cocktail of panic and naivety, is filmed with absolutely no concession to audience sensibilities. Cesar’s desperate decline, too, from tyrannical ogre to ineffectual bit-part player, coldly pushed aside in the unrelenting battle for a very tenuous kind of power, is perfectly played out.

Watching A Prophet I was reminded of another towering prison film of recent years, Steve McQueen’s Hunger (2008); but where that film played out almost serenely, just below the surface of prison life, A Prophet mines a far deeper seam of realism, one submerged in the shadowless spaces. Audiard disentangles the labyrinthine, poisonous realities of state captivity without sentimentality for the protagonist and with a dramatic momentum that underscores the survival-at-any-costs mentality required to endure, from lights-up to lockdown. It is an inevitable and gelatinous mire into which Malik is pulled but from which he emerges formidably schooled in a unique strain Darwinian darkness. At 2h30m this is a long film, but it is impeccably paced to capture this conversion in all its callous glory.

A Prophet throws up many intriguing questions about ethnicity, post-colonialism, loyalty and (im)morality, but first and foremost it is a wickedly compelling film. Its power derives from the density of its plot – one that requires absolute surrender to its numerous, interwoven strands – its uncommon refusal to pass judgement on any of its players and, aesthetically, on the stark juxtaposition between bleak realism and heightened fantasy, and all that it implies within the context of the narrative. The result is a triumphant film that demands viewing, and reviewing, and one that confirms, along the work of Micheal Haneke, Claire Denis and Andrea Arnold among others, quite what a strong year it has been for European filmmaking.

In the late 90s my family acquired around 50 movies on VHS from a friend’s infirm grandmother, who did nothing but watch incredibly violent films that she ordered from a catalogue. I never met this woman, but I imagine that she was an impressive lady. Amongst the titles available to us were various action movies from the 80s and 90s, mixed in with some softcore porn, which the woman in question must have ordered by mistake after reading the innuendo-laced blurbs. Or at least this is what I choose to believe.

Anyway, in amongst this mix were many films that came to shape my childhood, and probably make me the person that I am today. With that in mind, I present to you my next two selections to add to the (slowly) growing library of rubbish films that are actually really good. If you have a fairly broad understanding of that word.

The 13^th Warrior

Antonio Banderas has gone off the radar a little bit of late, but back in 1999 when The 13^th Warrior was released he was hot property. Kids nowadays will know him as ‘that bloke from Spy Kids’, or worse ‘the voice of Puss in Boots off of Shrek’. He takes the leading role as an Arab chap sent to be an ambassador to the Norse colonies because he angered his superiors. It’s basically the ancient equivalent of an FBI agent getting reassigned to Alaska. Based on a book by Michael ‘Jurassic Park’ Crichton, the plot hangs on factual accounts of ancient times with a bit of Beowulf fantasy thrown in for good measure. And it doesn’t really work. But quite a few of the individual elements are delightful.

One particularly bad bit, which is also brilliant, is the process by which Banderas learns the language of the Norsemen, with whom he embarks on a quest to protect a remote village from an unknown evil.* A short montage of Banderas sitting around the camp fires over the course of the journey to the village, listening to the gradually unfolding conversations and understanding a little more each time, is silly. And his final revelation that he has learnt their language and can understand the insults that they throw at him is sillier, if only because he retains his Hispanic/Arab accent throughout the movie. I get what they were trying to do, but I can’t help but find the result funny.

I also like the bit when Banderas cuts down one of the Norse broadswords to make himself a little scimitar.

The rest of the film is messy, forgettable and anticlimactic, but the violence and action are handled well. Apparently Crichton took on directing duties alongside Die Hard director John McTiernan, and whole thing was way over budget and a bit of a disaster during production. But I don’t care, because Banderas, man, you stole my heart on VHS.

The Specialist/Assassins

I’ve grouped these together because they came on a single VHS, as a kind of double feature of trashy filmmaking. The Specialist features Sylvester Stallone working as a master bomber man, lured by Sharon Stone’s lady of vengeance into a plot to kill some wise guys. This film is made worthy of a watch because of the presence of James Woods as a deranged CIA agent who is also looking for vengeance. There is also an excruciating sex scene followed by an even more gratuitous shower scene featuring the Italian Stallion and... Ms Stone. It’s about as appealing as watching a body builder grappling with a member of Mensa. Which is precisely what happens.

Assassins is similar to The Specialist in that Stallone seems to rely on everyone else to act for him, and in this case it is the hyperactive presence of Antonio Bandera’s rival assassin that brings some much needed energy to an otherwise ponderous opening section. This being a Richard Donner picture, it has some pretty decent bang bang moments, but the whole ‘assassin with a heart of gold’ role that Stallone lumbers along in makes for a film that feels less realistic than Avatar. There is an edge of techno-babble added by Julianne Moore’s appropriately named Electra, who doubles as the love interest, and all of the computing equipment is brilliantly archaic and rubbish by today’s standards. Which is always fun.

The best scene in Assassins occurs early on when Stallone gets assigned to kill a man at a funeral. He turns up in his mourning garb with an impossibly large cast on his arm. Inside the cast is a machine gun. He stands a little way away from the group of mourners, and takes aim with his poorly concealed weapon. But before he can pull the trigger, Antonio Banderas takes out the mark from the opposite side of the cemetery. Banderas is dressed as a janitor, and in his attempt to stroll casually away from the scene is spotted by Stallone, who initiates a pitched battle amongst the tombstones. The pair duke it out for a while, and then the cops come and arrest Banderas but miss out on taking Stallone down town for no apparent reason. Probably because he taped over the hole in the cast where the bullets come out with a plaster.

If you have any suggestions for rubbish classics to add to the list, let me know below.

*SPOILER – it turns out to be people dressed as bears, which is nice.

Kristen sweetly waved to us, was very smiley if a little tired – after such an epic round of promotion, it’s hardly surprising – and chatted away with Regis and Kelly about shooting New Moon.

They asked how she’s dealing with attention and especially the committed fans, which I almost took as my cue to whoop… but refrained myself as she answered “it’s amazing to be a part of something that people want to see – I’ll never be able to do anything like this again - ever!”

When they went to commercial, she quickly took a TwitPic with Kelly, who asked her where her boots are from, to which she replied “Um - Barneys… I think?” - that girl doesn’t style herself  and I heart her for it. Trust.

Then  she came over to the audience, happily signing books, magazines and photos, getting to as many people before being directed back to her chair. Sadly, in my attempt to not OD on girl-crush overload, I’d not brought anything to have signed – the most epic of fails.

The funniest moment came when they showed the “birthday scene” clip from New Moon – I watched her as they played it in front of Kristen, jigging in her seat, pulling a somewhat serious and scrutinizing face as she tried to shrug it off to Kelly explaining “this is a really big moment in the movie” before jokingly clutching at her face (think Home Alone) and gasping a mock “oh no!” as Bella gets the paper cut. Regis exclaimed “it’s like ringing a dinner bell!” as Jasper goes to lunge.

As soon as she was finished, Kristen was whisked out the door, waving and shyly smiling as she went – and then… we were told Ashley Greene was going to be pre-recording today too!

Ashley peeked around the corner and squeals of excitement erupted before Regis and Kelly introduced her and she strode on out. In a hot pink floaty mini-dress and peep-toe platforms with her newly extended long locks in shiny loose curls – too beautiful!

She chatted away with Regis and Kelly about how she got the role of Alice – having originally auditioned for Bella and being called back five times because the director saw something she liked – before which she was waitressing… or, more accurately, “reading the Twilight Saga whilst at her waitressing job”.

I only wish Anna Kendrick had turned up to complete the girl crush Twi-fecta – I may not survive the Kristen-a-thon of movies that are being released this spring – from Welcome to the Rileys, The Yellow Handkerchief and the (slightly too badass) The Runaways - I’m going to have to subject myself to a viewing (or five) of Remember Me just to balance out *sigh* a girl’s gotta do…!

Next week(ish), a Remember Me special - including photos from my trip to the set! That is, of course, unless I happen to stumble across Bel Ami filming around the corner in London ;)

Epic shout out to the awesome TwiSoup who photo-tagged my pics (Fooooooorks!) Edward <3s you! ]]> KStew, NYC, Morning TV & Me - Pics & Report (Fan-Girling Ensues) http://www.t5m.com/lorabell/kstew-nyc-morning-tv-me-pics-report-fan-girling-ensues.html/feed http://www.t5m.com/deadly-movies/romance-can-be-deadly.html http://www.t5m.com/deadly-movies/romance-can-be-deadly.html#comments Thu, 11 Feb 2010 18:27:48 +0000 http://www.t5m.com/deadly-movies/romance-can-be-deadly.html King Kong (1933): The ultimate beauty and the beast movie (a metaphor not used subtly by the filmmakers). The rather one-sided love affair between the 24 foot gorilla and ultimate damsel in distress Ann Darrow (Fay Wray) became not just a blueprint for creature features but a staple convention of the genre that filmmakers seldom stray from. When it comes to iconic cinema imagery King Kong holding Fay Wray's draped body atop the Empire State Building is perhaps the image of film's first 100 years. And although this romance started life as a kidnapping on a desert island it ended in emotional tragedy with both Anne and audience alike feeling a certain love and affection for the beast, a theme really ramped up in Peter Jackson's 2005 remake. The Bride of Frankenstein (1935): Such is the cultural penetration of 'Frankenstein's Monster' and 'The Bride' that it always comes as a surprise that the two share hardly any screen time together in the 1935 sequel to 'Frankenstein'. Try and get through a Halloween night without seeing a chap with a green flat-top and bolts through his neck, or a girl with lightning striped tower hair and pale skin. 'The Bride of Frankenstein' spends so long luring us into emotional investment in both The Monster and the idea of presenting him with a reanimated partner that when the reunion finally happens it breaks his and our hearts. Presented to The Monster, The Bride is as repulsed by the heart broken creature as the rest of the world. A crushing emotional tragedy that ranks this monster movie right up there with any overly celebrated Oscar porn. Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978): When everything and everyone you know is changing into something maniacal, the one you love becomes even more cherished. Fighting to save humanity from body and mind snatching aliens, Matthew (Donald Sutherland) and Elizabeth (Brook Adams) fight back the every growing threat by running, staying awake, and running again. The problem is this; fall asleep and your body dies. Swiftly you are replaced by your exact alien replica. Poor Matthew has always loved Elizabeth who, as ever, married the wrong man. When all is lost Elizabeth realises that Matthew is the one, only to fall asleep exhausted and weak. Then comes the gut-wrenching moment when Matthew loses the love of his life only for her to resurrect in front him, identical in every way, but where once there was love now there is only an unquenchable desire to end his human life. Tear jerking stuff indeed. The Fly (1986): The beauty and the beast tale is revisited with the ultimate expression of body horror. There's the age old romantic drama device of the love triangle at work in 'The Fly'. Magazine chief John loves reporter (and ex)Veronica, Veronica loves inventor extraordinaire Seth, and Seth loves Veronica..., and infamy (adding another corner to proceedings and making this something of a love square). The conundrum is which one Seth will chose? New love Veronica or the chance to become world famous as the man who invented teleportation? Teleportation, it would seem, is the only woman for Seth. Resulting in some pretty messed up body horror when Seth's DNA is spliced with that of a fly during teleportation. Now a horrible mutation with body parts and appendages dropping off left and right, Seth craves the one thing that reminds him of his humanity.., Veronica. A truly stomach wrenching exploration of the darker side of the beautiful body, child birth, and sex. Misery (1990): A skin crawling warning of the dangers of obsession. Annie's obsession is Paul, a famous author of romance novels. Imagine Annie's luck when Paul's car crashes near her home in an isolated part of Colorado, providing her with the chance to play nurse to the object of her fantasies. Patient soon becomes prisoner and Annie's love for Paul and his work takes on an extreme version of berserk fandom. When Annie's love is rejected by Paul he, or rather his ankles, suffer a particularly brutal consequence. In one of cinema's great scenes of violence, that's delivered with zero gore and minimum visuals, Annie (played by a never more on form Kathy Bates) calmly places a lump of timber between Paul's ankles and, with a nonchalance that puts most masked killers to shame, lifts a sledge hammer high above her head and furiously smashes Paul's ankles. These two take the notion of the odd couple to all new highs in a relationship that twists and turns on a knife edge. So there you have it, tainted love, forbidden love, rejection, and obsession. Staple conventions of any standard Valentines cinema release.., why not try something a little more deadly this year?]]> Romance can be Deadly http://www.t5m.com/deadly-movies/romance-can-be-deadly.html/feed http://www.t5m.com/uprising/mel-out-for-justice-edge-of-darkness-review.html http://www.t5m.com/uprising/mel-out-for-justice-edge-of-darkness-review.html#comments Thu, 11 Feb 2010 17:43:50 +0000 http://www.t5m.com/uprising/mel-out-for-justice-edge-of-darkness-review.html Behind the camera is Martin Campbell, responsible for updating James Bond not once but twice (first with Goldeneye, my favourite Bond film, and then again with Casino Royale 11 years later). My admiration for his work in the Bond franchise is one reason I looked forward to this thriller. Campbell also directed the original BBC television series of the same name back in 1985 (a show which I am admittedly too young to remember). Shortly after Craven’s daughter arrives at her father’s home she is gunned down on the doorstep after being violently ill at the dinner table. Was her death a random act or was there something more sinister behind it? It soon becomes clear that the answer is the latter. The story is certainly a gripping one and slickly directed by Campbell. The early murder scene slowly builds itself up and then occurs with shocking effect and efficiency. As Mel uncovers a web of complex lies there is a real sense of mystery regarding what exactly the daughter was involved in. The problems however lie largely in the supporting characters, which often look like they have come straight out of “Spy Thriller” school. Subsequently there is next to no subtlety. For instance when we first see Danny Huston as the shady owner of an organisation (complete with a slick suit), it is impossible not to instantly suspect him. Similarly Ray Winston’s character is another classic example of someone from a Spy Thriller. Meeting on park benches and in car parks at the dead of night is hardly something new. The dialogue is often delivered in a classically melodramatic manner (i.e. whispering very loudly), which, at times, seems clichéd in today’s cinema. Similarly one has to overlook the occasional lapses in creditability. The early discovery of a weapon by Gibson would surely have been discovered by the police beforehand? Couldn’t the sound of a speeding car be heard earlier than demonstrated here? Oh well. The performance by Mel himself is fine, although, like other members he is sometimes guilty of overacting, particularly as his main expression is the tense, serious ‘Mel’ face we have seen many times before.  On a side note I do not think I have ever seen Gibson appear so physically short in any other film. Whilst I may sound like I am being overly critical, I have to admit that I was never bored during the film and, despite all the above problems, I still found myself entertained.  As a straight forward revenge thriller, whilst not perfect, it does have an enjoyment factor... and Mad Mel is always watchable.]]> Mel out for Justice: Edge of Darkness Review http://www.t5m.com/uprising/mel-out-for-justice-edge-of-darkness-review.html/feed http://www.t5m.com/salty-or-sweet/the-wolfman-an-unoriginal-remake-that-will-have-you-squirming.html http://www.t5m.com/salty-or-sweet/the-wolfman-an-unoriginal-remake-that-will-have-you-squirming.html#comments Thu, 11 Feb 2010 11:05:48 +0000 http://www.t5m.com/salty-or-sweet/the-wolfman-an-unoriginal-remake-that-will-have-you-squirming.html

Dir: Joe Johnston    Cast: Benicio Del Toro, Emily Blunt, Anthony Hopkins, Hugo Weaving

Universal's spate of horror films in the 1930s are some of the most iconic and memorable films in Hollywood history. But while Hammer recreated Dracula and Frankenstein with more colour and gore in the 1960s; Lon Chaney Jr's Wolf Man was left to languish in black and white... until now.

Universal's remake of their 1941 classic The Wolf Man is not an attempt to 'redefine' horror films; but in the same way that Hammer revamped old films with colour and gore, so Joe Johnston has injected this old story with frenetic editing and gut-churning special effects.

The film follows Lawrence (Del Toro), the estranged son of Sir John Talbot, as he returns to his family's country seat to mourn his murdered brother. The local villagers blame the gypsies for the murder; but when the villagers approach the gypsy camp, a horrific creature attacks them all. Lawrence chases the creature and is bitten.

By the next full moon his wounds have completely healed, and Lawrence accepts that he has become a monster himself. He sends his brother's wife, Gwen (Blunt), to London to spare her a gruesome death; and goes on a murderous rampage that results in his arrest and internment in a well-guarded mental asylum. But the story does not end here... as Lawrence notices inconsistencies in his memories of his childhood and the nature of his mother's death, he begins to suspect that he is not the only 'Wolfman' in his bloodline.

This is a fairly straight 'Creature Feature', and all the real positives are to be found in its homages to early horror films. Hugo Weaving is superb as the moustache-twiddling, Peter Cushing-inspired Scotland Yard detective, who relishes his power in this backwards country village. And the Wolfman himself, once the transformation has occurred, is delightfully camp: he is gangly and awkward, like Lon Chaney Jr. in a hairy suit, and barely scary at all except for the fact that he is ripping people’s limbs off.

But unfortunately there is no way to truly recreate the eeriness of the grainy footage, cheap sets, and camp acting that defined those old horror films. This is a well-manicured hollywood film with a gigantic budget, and there is something far too comforting about that. Even after all the shocks and loud noises, you will feel cheapened by this experience and eager to watch Christopher Lee lurking in his colourful mansion drinking luminous blood out of a ditzy blonde.

The transformations themselves are far too smooth and weightless in that yet-to-be-truly-believable CGI way; but the bone-crunching sound effects and agonising roars really do get you wincing. Joe Johnston clearly has Clive Barker’s respect for the abject horror of the 'transformation'.

Del Toro should have been perfect for the Wolfman, and it is his involvement in the project that attracted most critics to it, but his performance is mostly disappointing. He is mundane as the grieving, troubled prodigal son, and barely even acting as the Wolfman; and it is only in the brief section between being bitten and first transforming that he is at his magnificent, terrifying and brooding best. Del Toro is not to be blamed for this failing though; the film lacks any substance or intrigue, and there was nothing for this extraordinary talent to sink his teeth into (no pun intended). He was also left stranded in a cast of irrelevant actors. Hopkins seems to enjoy playing the menacing and vacant patriarch; but you get the sense that he isn't really trying. And Emily Blunt is just a blank canvas, her role requires little, and she offers up just that.

A large print of Roman Polanski's Chinatown, sits above my fireplace at home. It's boldness, it's style and it's mystery complements the film beautifully. The famous "empty" statement at the climax almost lives in the empty space of it's composition. Faye Dunaway peers out of Gittes' cigarette smoke and a wave of water laps at Nicholson's coat, escaping from frame. In a nut shell the poster hints at the story of the film but, more importantly, uses elements of it to create something that stands apart.

But let's not get too "art-critic".

I flash back to Damon's face. In all of it's you-know-i-could-kick-your-ass-just-by-looking-at-you-ness. I like Damon, I admire Paul Greengrass' breakneck technique (though the editing is far too fast) and I'm looking forward to Green Zone, but, seriously, is this really all we have in the way of poster art to tantalize us into the cinema? Is this really what movie posters have become? Boring unimaginative standard A-lister masturbation?

Film campaigns  these days generally come with 3 built in layouts.

1. The “Romantic Comedy Layout” has a large Vince Vaughn type standing back to back with a Sarah Jessica Parker type on a white background. A bubbly colourful tag line above their heads, the pair, perhaps standing on the title.

2. “The Thriller Layout” usually comprises of Jason Statham or Gerard Butler's bucket shaped heads in a cloudy sky above an outline of the city in which the movie is set. Often other smaller faces will accompany them. Usually the character who dies first on the far left.

3. 80% of “The Horror Lay Out” advertising will consist of a grimacing off centre face,  peering from behind a shattered door under splatters of blood or an outline of a house in a corn field.

I've seen more creativity in lame cattle.

From the early 1900's to around 1980 the National Screen Service (NSS) was originally responsible for the creation and printing of film posters in America and, I believe, of distribution overseas. A considerable amount of the work would be done by freelance artists, usually a few individuals at a time. Unfortunately after the NSS dissipated during the eighties the studios handled the work themselves and the era of new cinema advertising, as we know it today, was born.

Not only did the cheap studio marketing techniques eradicate the possibility of a new great poster artists working independently but, after Jaws had set the pace for the summer blockbuster and as the mentality in film making itself began to shift to one slanting towards pure advertising, it inadvertently also changed the purpose and vitality of the poster. The dumbing down began...

As is always the case, of course some great artists managed to succeed within the studio in the 70's and 80's. In fact, some of our most iconic and most loved were hand drawn by the likes of illustrators like John Alvin (Blade Runner) Bob Peak (Apocalypse Now), Richard Arnsel (Chinatown) or crafted by the prolific Bill Gold (Dirty Harry).

But again, as film changed, as what was possible in film changed and as Hollywood lulled in storyline, so did a lot of beautiful posters.

Isn't beauty is in the eye of the beholder? I bet you're one of those people who yearn for tube amplifiers , reel to reel recording, film cameras and, whilst reading actual words from a second hand paperback, in an armchair not bought from Ikea, you think about the days when record stores were overflowing with stacks of good vinyl and the cobble stoned streets were filled with rosy cheeked women carrying handkerchiefs that smelled of lavender...

Well... look, I'm not a true technology disser. I'm not saying every film poster made after '90 and built Photoshop isn't even fit for a quick recycle and sent the way of the loo roll, let alone be allowed to adorn your local cinema foyer. Not at all. There are great works out there, I've managed to find some over the course of writing this, but they can't hide the almost savage laziness of bland film marketing or the fact that, rarely, do the best make it into our cinemas.

Take for example this classic poster for Sam Peckinpah's controversial Straw Dogs. An amazing image on any level, only intensified when looked at with even a little knowledge of the film. A vital film, definitely not loved by all but a definite landmark for the boundaries of cinema and an image which holds up even against Peckinpah's savage film making style. So when it finally got a DVD release in the UK in 2002 after being banned since the early 70's what adorned the cover of the DVD?

This complete eyesore.

No offense to whoever out there put this together, after all we all have briefs sometimes.

A few months ago I read an article which looked at the poster campaigns for Lars Von Trier's Antichrist. A film which on paper would seem perfect to design a poster for. It's beautiful to look at, has many interesting, dark and controversial themes and many varied artistic influences such as Hieronymus Bosch, Stephen King and Ingmar Bergman to name but a few. Maybe it was surprising then, maybe it wasn't, to see Antichrist marketed all over London with this blunt and ridiculous piece of type-setting.

"Wow, look how shocking this film is going to be!"

"What's it about?"

"Who cares!"

Things get worse; Have a look at the UK's blunt, blood splattered DVD. You can imagine the conversation in the video store in which some husband tries to convince his wife about cuddling up on the couch to watch a scary movie. "Ooh this looks good... like Saw III". If there's a film out there that isn't going to get you a cuddle fellas its this one. Things might be a different story (at least to begin with) for the same couple in Australia where Jeremy Saunders came up with this similar yet more subtle and far more fitting poster.

So are we forever destined to have films angled for mass sale at the detriment of something once designed so beautifully? After a lot of searching around I was finally happy to find poster artists, bloggers and illustrators from all industries similarly baffled at the situation. There are many wonderfully designed Criterion Edition discs and many fans of the company who, often rather beautifully, produce their own fantasy Criterion releases.

In my hunt I've also completely cemented my love for one countries frequently amazing designs. Poland has seen many of the greatest film artworks ever escape into it's mainstream. Sometimes having little, in regards to theme or mood, to do with the actual feature, the art works instead search for some metaphor within the the film itself and use it's plot ideas to create something entirely different but interestingly linked, none the less. Something inspiring.

The slightest hope that some of these gifted artists can make their way into the studios, where, as we speak, someone is once again placing Bold Helvetica font on Matt Damon's head, really makes me smile. So it's not all doom and gloom... More than anything it's interesting and exciting to have discovered a bubbling independent resurgence of wannabe poster artists and to have found other people who I think have a real appreciation of what once made (and what could make again) some classic poster artworks for our cinemas.

At the very least it would be beautiful to see what they could do to Matt Damon's face.

Thank you for reading. As a film poster fan it would be really interesting to hear from all of you. What is your favorite film poster of all time? Do you believe that film poster art has changed in style but not in a level of creativity? Am I an just an old fashioned romantic? I hope so... - Neil Innes

As you might have guessed, it is the presence of Michael Cera which makes the film. Though there are cameos from the likes of Ray Liotta and Zach Galifianakis, these are fairly muted. Cera shines, and I for one do not really care that he is constantly landing fairly similar roles. His sense of comic timing, his delivery of occasionally prosaic lines and his physical presence onscreen all mark him out as unique and oddly alluring. People wonder why he always gets the girl when he is clearly playing such a geek. Go and watch Youth in Revolt and see if you can resist his charms.

Cera plays Nick Twisp, a nervous teen virgin searching for physical satisfaction, love and intellectual stimulation. When he takes a brief trip to a trailer park he meets Sheeni Saunders (Portia Doubleday), a temptress with intensely religious parents who leads him into a romance which both seem gagging to consummate. Like any number of teen films, the aim here is to get laid. But this is nothing like American Pie. Cera is returned to his home far from Sheeni, and he realises that the only way to be near to her again is to engineer a situation in which he gets kicked out by his mother and is made to move in with his father. This involves getting into some serious trouble with the law. To force out his dark side, Twisp creates an alter-ego named Francois Dillinger. Whenever a push towards Sheeni is needed, Dillinger is always on hand to intervene. The schizophrenic nature of the two roles is handled well, and is never particularly gimmicky or distracting.

But.

For the first 45 minutes Youth in Revolt clips along nicely, and is undoubtedly funny in a slightly more reserved way than other teen comedies. However, if you don’t like Michael Cera, you will probably want to avoid this one. By the third act things are beginning to feel stilted and bland, with rebellion and meaning obscured by a rush to burn through various disjointed situations towards the films literal and metaphorical climax. The ride is enjoyable, but the execution is inconsistent.

The review is over now, but as a kind of afterthought, or perhaps a little homework assignment, I recommend you go away and watch both Youth in Revolt and the Seth Rogan vehicle Observe and Report. Then let me know if you think the two have anything in common.

Basically the crims are running drugs from Morocco through Spain and on into France, and they have found that the best method for avoiding apprehension is driving incredibly fast in speedboats and supercars. The titular ‘Go-fast’. Seems like that would draw more attention to the whole process.* But apparently not in Continental Europe.

Our dashing lead is a supremely capable detective with a chip on his shoulder (whose distinguished career echoes Hot Fuzz’s Nicholas Angel). Having had his mentor and friend killed by one of the drug runners early on, he gets a transfer to an undercover unit and then goes through a gruelling and hilarious training sequence involving push-ups, rally driving, swimming and being made to wake up early, to which he reacts like a grumpy teenager. The film proceeds, he joins the gang, he takes them down. Bish bash bosh.

Now if this was a Hollywood film it would be near unwatchable, I know. But the plot, dialogue and characters are stripped down to their bare essentials, and so there is very little time to get bored or frustrated with the clichés which litter the film. Transitions in time are instantaneous and deliberately jarring, which is refreshing in its way. Cutting to the chase shaves off the need for scenes that would have been otherwise wasted with boring character development and motive explanation. It’s almost as if the whole film is an extended montage mix-down of a much meatier work. Or a high budget trailer.

The audio is particularly impressive. The cars sound suitably throaty, but all of the gunfire is handled realistically, which is to say in a percussive, subtle manner. You are never beaten into submission with exaggerated gunshots, which paradoxically makes any shootings feel even more callous and arbitrary than in the average action movie. The presence of music is also used effectively. Songs are sparingly intermingled into what is an otherwise sparse aural experience, and are often produced by an identifiable onscreen source such as a radio or hi-fi. This allows the characters to mess about with the audio in real time. At one point a guy fast forwards a CD of classical music he is listening to in his mansion. I’ve never seen anyone fast forward a CD in a movie before. It made me smile.

If you fancy checking out Go Fast, it is out on DVD February 8^th. I think it’s worth a look if you are into your French films but accept that this one is fairly mindless fun. If you liked Taxi or District 13 then Go Fast will float your boat. It’s probably better than those two actually, even though it is far more generic. And a low-fi French action film is still superior to something like the US-produced John Cena vehicle 12 Rounds. Or the UK’s Dead Man Walking.

*To be fair, the film does throw in one cop car on the highways, but the criminals just slow down until it pulls off, then put the pedal to the metal again.

Looking like Yves Saint Laurent and often sounding like a mid 70's era Micheal Caine, Firth's smart debonair literature professor George Falconer is still quietly grieving the death of Jim (a very confident Mathew Goode), his lover of 16 years and trying to hide from the world in a designer wood and glass house within the normality and vicinity of 1960's suburbia. The house also comes complete with Aldous Huxley books, a maid and a stark homosexual repression subtext.

The film unfolds slowly and beautifully. Falconer wakes and readies himself for the day, watches (and perhaps secretly in some way, envies) his neighbors and their accepted lifestyle choices from his toilet, no less. We follow him to class while a specter of death in the form of the Cuban Missile crisis hangs over 1962 America, to see an intense turn in a lecture and, after a dangerous flirtation with a young male student (Thunderbird doll Nicholas Hoult) and some under the desk drinking, we begin to suspect that old Georgie boy might be a little further gone that we thought. As we learn that Falconer is seriously entertaining thoughts of suicide A Simple Man sets itself up well as a kind of morose but stylish one last fling.

His best friend and once hopeful lover Charlotte (a super duper poshed up Julianne Moore) seems to be the only real friend left in Georges life, and bar a handful of encounters with some random beautiful people straight of a Levis commercial, the plot darkens but strangely finds it's feet with some surprisingly funny moments. The lead's dinner date is particularly good and if Moore's weird little ya-ya accent doesn't grate you too much, stands out as the films high point.

Ford fixes his focus firmly on Firth for the film (woah... that's hard to read back) and delivers a solid work, attractive; but not without its problems. Firth's scenes with a pretty wooden Hoult occasionally put the film out of step and, though Falconer's lusting after younger men is handled well, openly and without derision, something which may leave some audiences cold, it also manages to sadly slow it down towards it's conclusion.

Ford's over use of heavy handed colour boosts from the film's purposely drab tones during moments where any hope springs, is basically the on screen equivalent of rising strings to tell an audience how they should be feeling and occasionally borders on patronising, but these are minor beefs with an assured, certainly pretty and rather affecting first effort with both Firth and Moore on great form.