La Môme, a.k.a. La Vie en Rose

Another biopic about a larger-than-life 20th-century musician, which I was only really tempted to watch because it is viewed not (ironically) through Hollywood's rosy lens, but with the French eye that generally leads the audience to spiral as deep as possible into despair. I like that, as a rule.

But it must be said at the outset: this film is all about Marion Cotillard. I’m sure I first saw her in the Luc Besson Taxi franchise, but I must admit I don’t remember. It wasn’t until 2003’s Jeux d’Enfants (Love me if you dare) and Big Fish that I thought she was Someone Worth Watching.

In La Môme, she is completely transformed for the title rôle: the hair, the face, the voice, the gait! Cotillard appears to be channelling Piaf, and there’s something magnetic about her performance that recalls Piaf’s legendary stage presence. She bravely manages to present a rather flawed Piaf, injecting an at-times-unlikeable character with admirable pathos.

It’s a shame the film, directed by the relatively inexperienced Olivier Dahan, doesn’t provide the proper setting for such a towering interpretation of one of France’s best-loved singers. The narrative structure is unnecessarily complex, flitting from era to era with no discernible logic. To an extent, this exposes the workings of the artifice: it is hard to suspend one’s disbelief when one is constantly trying to orient oneself in the schizochronic world.

Therefore we lose to an extent the proper development of the character, and the attendant emotional journey. Indeed, it is only in the film’s final moments that we learn one of the most important elements of Piaf’s real-life character arc. This is curious choice, matched by the decision to dwell lengthily on Piaf’s 20s, and skip the war.

Nevertheless, I have to rate this as my second-favourite film of the year so far. Admittedly, this goes against the grain of my general scepticism of French cinema, but Cotillard’s tour de force really won me over.

28 Weeks Later

I've never made a secret of my eclecticism: I'm happy to discuss my appreciation of Sterne and Wittgenstein, along with my addiction to Neighbours.

One of my guiltier pulp pleasures is horror movies. I'm not talking about the new crop of sickening gorno, nor about the B-grade schlock of most 80s slashers. But, much like sci-fi, horror done right is a genre that confronts humanity with an unflattering self-reflection: as we peer into horror's glass, we recoil at the sight of Caliban leering back.

2002's 28 Days Later was a very intelligent piece of horror. It was part-Prometheus, part-Triffids, and a thorough thrill. (I'd recommend watching it on DVD, then getting the full experience of the sequel in the cinema!)

While folks may once have shivered at the sight of powerful brain-sucking zombies lumbering largo into view, Garland and Boyle delivered creatures far more likely to terrify the cynical young: humans infected with the Rage virus — hyperkinetic, acid-fuelled, with a nasty tendency to projectile-vomit blood and, er, bite. Hard.

Despite a complete change of personnel, 28 Weeks Later is a fitting follow-up. Since 2002, there has been quite adequate horror in the real world: the SARS virus threatened (threatens?) not just an isolated island, but the whole globe; the West has been plunged deeper into an unending conflict with Bush's unseen 'Enemy'.

And American hubris is neatly needled in this film: the US military is sent to clean up the ruins of Britain, but merely manages to live up to its real-world track-record. Happily, this also gives occasion for the addition of some serious hardware, not to mention what is surely the best helicopter-related splatter yet committed to celluloid.

Some of the acting is not quite on par with that of its lower-budget forebear, but the tension still runs high, and we're treated to the same frenetic editing, rich make-up, and thumping, screaming, squelching soundtrack. More haunting images of an abandoned London are still moving, despite losing some of the wow-factor of the first film.

Most satisfyingly, the sequel also shies away from the saccharine or melodramatic coda that sours most American horror. The stage is set: we shall see if the concept can be stretched to 28 Months Later.

The Science of Sleep

It irks me that I don't have time to review this properly, but let me say that this is hands-down my favourite film of the year! (Of course, Transformers isn't out yet.)

This is Michel Gondry's follow-up feature to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind — one of my favs of 2004 (despite the fact that it became cool to say so). Gondry also wrote the film, so it's no surprise that he has created for himself in a series of dream sequences the perfect opportunity to showcase his trippy imagination, which he brings to life through stop-motion and other animation techniques. (The French title is La science des rêves — the science of dreams.) The art in the film is so much a magical presence that the art department is rightly billed in the credits immediately after the cast.

The plot that tenuously holds it all together is a love story between Stéphane (Gael García Bernal) and Stéphanie (Charlotte Gainsbourg), both of whom I'd be happy to watch for a couple of hours, even if they were just mowing their lawn. Gainsbourg in particular does a believable, affecting job with the unusual subject-matter, and with a character about whom we're not quite sure how to feel. Indeed, the ambiguity of the characterization of both protagonists plays with our sympathies, and sets up what I think is simply a perfect ending.

It's a film that demands multiple viewings for a full appreciation, and I shall be anxious to watch it again when it comes out on DVD (unless I can get to the cinema again between now and Thursday). I beg you, though, watch it now, before it disappears from cinemas all together, and before it gains a cult following as the next hip thing!

300

Released: April 5, 2007
Rated: MA
Director: Zack Snyder
Writers: Zack Snyder, Kurt Johnstad, and Michael Gordon, from the graphic novel by Frank Miller
Starring: Gerard Butler, Lena Headey, Dominic West, David Wenham, Rodrigo Santoro
Running time: 116 minutes

Plot: It is 480 BC. The Persian emperor Xerxes (Santoro) has assembled a huge army and stands poised to invade those Greek city states that have not yet submitted to him. The Spartan king Leonidas (Butler) leads his eponymous three hundred hoplites north to intercept Xerxes at the pass of Thermopylae in central Greece, hoping to hold out for reinforcements from Sparta and the rest of the Greeks.

The Battle of Thermopylae is one of those rare historical events that, simply by virtue of its grandeur, requires no fictitious augmentation to establish its own mythos. It has become a byword for courage in the face of insurmountable odds, for patriotic sacrifice, and for sheer bloody-mindedness. At Thermopylae, Leonidas saw a golden opportunity for immortality, and he grasped it.

The Spartan king (along with several thousand free Greeks and slaves) held out long enough for Athens’ navy to be mobilized; Xerxes was eventually repelled; the major Greek states remained free of Persian rule, and, most importantly for the history of the West, came to ally themselves more closely, thereby creating the conditions for the establishment of Alexander’s empire. It is so extraordinary a story that it is surprising that Hollywood has not portrayed it more often.

Frank Miller’s graphic novel, 300, takes the bones of Herodotus’s account and fleshes out the mythology. Miller’s Spartans take off their clothes and take on a pathologically disciplined belligerence. The near-nude warriors are obscenely muscle-bound, but the homoeroticism that should inhere in their Herculean physiques is dampened by their tendency to hack their opponents to bloody bits. It seems like the perfect source for a film, so one wonders why the project didn’t attract a more hefty budget, or a bigger-name director than Zack Snyder.

Snyder’s 2004 Dawn of the Dead remake was one of my favourite films of that year, and he brings the same music-vid-honed skills to bear on the style of 300. Shot almost entirely against blue- and green-screen, the film’s extraordinary (and source-faithful) visuals lend it an otherworldly feel that only increases our distance from the historical Thermopylae.

Regrettably, however, the desire to ‘go mythic’ also distances us from the men at the centre of the film. Dilios's (Wenham) irritating voice-over makes much of the Spartan camaraderie, claiming that, “Although few Spartans fell, each one who fell was a friend.” We need the voice-over to tell us, because we don’t feel it. When mythic-histories work (think Braveheart or Gladiator), it’s because the world-changing events simply provide the dramatic backdrop for very human stories. With 300, however, there’s scant incentive to care for the characters, despite the insistence of the overbearing score that we really should.

The actors are solid (as thesps, not just physically), but the Spartans they play are mere types, spouting worthy and overblown dialogue, in between bouts of stylised and claret-soaked hack-and-slash. 2005’s adaptation of Miller’s Sin City should have been instructive here: the film worked because the characters were as skilfully drawn as the visuals.

There are some awesome moments in 300, as the freaks that populate the ranks of Xerxes’ army — some of whom would seem more at home in Middle-Earth — come out to test the Spartans’ mettle. (Xerxes himself is a giant, androgynous aberration.) But even the fight scenes are somewhat diminished by Snyder’s incessant ramping up and down of the film speed: there’s simply too much slo-mo. For mine, the whole thing is a slightly messy fumble of a golden opportunity.

Verdict: Granted, it’s not a monstrosity like Troy or Alexander, but it’s no Gladiator, either. Still, the look of it probably warrants the trip to the cinema, provided you can cope with the highest number of involuntary amputations since the showdown at the House of Blue Leaves.

TMNT

Released: April 5, 2007
Rated: PG
Writer/Director: Kevin Munroe
Voices of: Chris Evans, Sarah-Michelle Gellar, Mako, Patrick Stewart, Zhang Ziyi
Running time: 87 minutes

Plot: An unspeakably convoluted set-up sees an immortal-warrior-turned-nabob Max Winters (Stewart) raise to life four petrified former generals whom he recruits along with the Foot Clan to capture thirteen monsters. Sending these beasts through an interdimensional portal will somehow save the world and restore Winters’ mortality, or something. Meanwhile, The Shredder’s defeat has left the Turtles directionless, and their familial bond is weakening, being particularly frayed by rivalry between Leonardo and Raphael.

It is almost inevitable that this film fall foul of the success of its pre- decessors. In the late 80s and early 90s, there was nothing more hip than a bunch of wise-cracking mutant anthro-turtles whose penchant for whooping bad-guy-ninja butt was exceeded only by their lust for pizza. Now irresponsible teenagers could be heroes too; their dorky cool (it was the 80s, people!) changed the way we spoke, the way we thought of authority figures, and the way we fought in the playground.

But the franchise that launched a million lunchboxes was really a product of its time, and TMNT doesn’t quite manage to translate the concept into the dark world of the noughties’ New York.

This is the Turtles’ first CG outing, and with the new technology has come a new look and feel. Winters and the Foot warriors are huge, flexible triangular shapes, as if pizza slices were the animators’ anatomical guide; April (Gellar) borrows a little too much from the later incarnations of Lara Croft. The Turtles themselves look and move more than ever like frogs, while their thirteen beastly nemeses resemble absurdly out-of-place rejects from Monsters, Inc. Against a distinctly un-comic-like cityscape, these characters form an uneasy pastiche that makes it difficult to believe in the remodelled Turtles universe. This is exacerbated by some terrible lip-synching and bored-sounding voice-work on April and Casey (Evans).

Nevertheless, the few times we see the Turtles in butt-kicking action, their movement is enjoyable and fluid enough. It still seems, however, that some opportunities for awesome set-pieces are missed, particularly as the film builds towards its climax. It feels like some violence has been excised to preserve a US PG rating. (One can only hope that the video game (for which the film might well be a long advertisement) allows for more bloodletting!)

More irritatingly, the film never ceases to flog the staples of American kid-flicks. At the movie’s heart is a sickeningly didactic refrain about the importance of family: Splinter (Mako) forbids the Turtles to fight the baddies until they have resolved the conflict between themselves; a showdown between Leo and Raph results in the former being captured and imprisoned. Obviously the remaining Turtles must band together to save him. Cue repentance, forgiveness, reconciliation, group high-fives, and schmaltz à gogo.

It is clear, therefore, that this is film is squarely aimed at children; it’s a shame there’s so little on offer for their parents. I’ve no doubt that kids will overlook the tortuous plot and the animation shortcomings, and that parents will be pestered to shell out for a fresh round of Turtles merchandise come the new school term. For mine, though, TMNT fails to recapture the original’s magic. Dare I say it? Oh, all right. “Cowabungle, dudes.”

Verdict: An overly clean and didactic take on the Turtles. If you have happy memories of the 80s series, it might be best to steer clear.

Becoming Jane

Released: March 29, 2007
Rated: PG
Director: Julian Jarrold
Screenwriters: Kevin Hood, Sarah Williams
Starring: James McAvoy, Anne Hathaway, Ian Richardson, James Cromwell, Maggie Smith
Running time: 116 minutes

Plot: The humble financial circumstances of Jane Austen’s (Hathaway) family are at odds with her ideal that marriage should issue from affection rather than from pecuniary interest. This creates tension when the penniless rascal Tom Lefroy (McAvoy) arrives in the Hampshire countryside and begins an illicit romance with Jane: will the pair face poverty and public opprobrium as they follow their hearts, or will sense prevail as they find wealthy spouses?

Like Austen herself — variously described as a genius of English literature, and as “a very incomplete and rather insensible (not senseless) woman” (so Charlotte Brontë) — Becoming Jane will likely polarize viewers. Austen purists shall probably dismiss the film as speculative nonsense, an inexpert reshaping of the author’s life into the image of her own creatures. Those who are willing to treat it as a largely fictive romcom, however, shall enjoy a very diverting couple of hours.

The film appears to be set in the same kind of timeless utopia as Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility: the leads are too beautiful to be true; the sets are sumptuously lit; the costumes belong to no definable era, and are seemingly impervious to dirt, however much their wearers traipse through the shiny streets of town, or even the sodden Hampshire woodlands. Television (and Kinky Boots) director Jarrold handles well his wider frame, and we’re treated to some beautiful exteriors, as well as to some close-up details: a lingering look at the period transport; a disorienting contemplation of raindrops on a window.

The screenwriters are clearly fans of Austen’s work, and have fashioned for their Jane a life less ordinary than the one that history records for the enigmatic author. The superb support cast do the excellent job one might expect with their characters, who are slightly less grotesque caricatures of early 19th-century English society than those who populate Austen’s literary world. The film is carried, however, by Hathaway and McAvoy: ultimately the viewer’s assessment will rest on how they view this pair’s romance.

Hathaway I found surprisingly sympathetic, despite my incredulity that an American should be chosen for the rôle. Her Jane is witty and forthright, yet naïve enough to be vulnerable. In her insistence that she might “live by her pen”, however, she does fall victim to an anachronistic hint of proto-feminist ideology, which seems curiously out-of-place against the backdrop of the central conceit of both Austen’s novels and of the film itself, namely, that marriage to a wealthy man is a highly desirable state.

There’s no denying her chemistry with the deliciously charming McAvoy, but I for one found Lefroy a thoroughly unappealing character — much more Wickham than Darcy. We first encounter him in London, frequenting bars, boxing clubs, and bordellos, before he is ‘exiled’ to the country. His boorish contempt for the society he finds there, and not least for Jane herself (whom he seems to be seeking to corrupt, through both his salacious talk and his recommendation of the scandalous Tom Jones), hardly commends him to the audience’s affections. Indeed, I came to long for Jane to respond rather more favourably to the attentions of the dull — but wealthy and respectable — Mr Wisley (Laurence Fox). We learn belatedly of Lefroy’s commitment to his family, but this is not quite enough to redeem him.

Thankfully, however, history is on our side: we know that Austen will die single, happily better off without Lefroy, whatever the deceptions of her heart. This fortunate outcome is only slightly marred by the film’s endeavour at this point to reconnect with the historical Jane: it suggests that the painful experience of this failed romance became a wellspring for Austen’s prodigious insight and creativity. To object to such things, however, is to ask too much of the biopic genre: we know the history must be squeezed and snipped to fit a filmic arc and keep us entertained. Becoming Jane manages this quite admirably.

Verdict: An enjoyable, above-average romcom. Who wouldn’t want to spend a couple of hours with Hathaway and McAvoy in pretty costumes?

The Departed wins Best Picture

What the?

Did I get this so wrong? Or is it finally the sympathy win, perhaps? Still no such luck for Kevin O'Connell.