Two Psychopaths and a Wide Eye

 The Great Gatsby *** (out of five)

The new, hugely publicized (and hugely expensive) Great Gatsby has a beautiful dedication to the source novel, and an artificial look: the exhaustive use of computer-generated or supplemented backdrops, the digitally enhanced colors, the extensive post-production manipulation of imagery, and the over-abundance of ADR (automated dialogue replacement, or “looping”, or having the actors re-say their lines in a studio months after their scenes were shot) give the enterprise, at times, the feel of a cartoon, and, when such levels of digital manipulation are combined with the flavour of music the film embraces (which I love), it (sensually) resembles no recent film more closely than Zack Snyder’s Sucker Punch. This is not the insult it may sound like: there is no doubt that Snyder has seen Moulin Rouge, the previous film of Baz Luhrmann’s that The Great Gatsby most resembles, and I reckon Snyder is hugely influenced by Lurhmann’s style. The concept of Lurhmann being in turn influenced by Snyder seems to fit both of their profiles as the pre-eminent post-modern filmmakers who are completely embraced by, and only work within, the Hollywood system at the very heights of the budget game.

The first five minutes are so dunderheaded, so obsessed with 3D effect, rapid editing, over-use of voice-over narration, and Tobey Maguire acting wide-eyed that I became very, very worried, and, indeed, the first hour is ludicrous and uninvolving, composed of a series of parties that are obsessed with 3D effect, rapid editing, Tobey Maguire acting wide-eyed and iOta, given so many “swoop-ins” as he does a quick jazz-hands shimmy-shake in the middle of a dance-floor pool that you think he’s going to get to have a real character arc (he does not).

What’s interesting is that the second hour and a bit of this hundred and forty-two minute film becomes involving and engaging. The absurdly-paced cutting slows down to dramatic, rather than bombastic, levels; the actors are allowed to act (including Tobey Maguire being allowed to drop his eyes down to normal, narrower levels); and, as the source novel dictates, the parties stop, and with them, the excess.

Well, not quite. The race into town looks like it’s out of The Phantom Menace and the servants of both houses are still choreographed – in movement and acting style – to resemble robots in a Busby Berkeley flick (all dancing, no thinking!) But the novel’s most dramatic scenes, starting with the scene at the Plaza Hotel and continuing through you-know-what-all-else, are exceptionally well done, and achieve a dramatic power that really sucks you in.

This is an interpretation of Gatsby (minor spoiler alert) that revels in the idea of Gatsby and Daisy as two psychopaths (or at least social sociopaths), lovers whose disregard for others, as they pursue their own twisted desires, is bonkers. Leonardo DiCaprio and Carey Mulligan get this aspect of their personalities across well, particularly DiCaprio, who is completely unafraid here to play an extremely unhinged and unlikeable man (and for her part, Mulligan plays Daisy as someone you definitely don’t want to be obsessed with). What’s never clear, in the slightest, is why these two are obsessed with each other – but perhaps that’s the nature of obsession.

After the hardest first hour, Maguire does his best with the second, and makes Nick Carraway at least somewhat acceptable as a lead character. But the film’s standout performance without a doubt is that of Joel Edgerton, who, let’s face it, gets the best material, both in book and film, as Daisy’s husband Tom. Combustible, despicable / noble and perhaps the closest to believable in this universe of bygone weirdos, Edgerton also seems best to understand how to act for Luhrmann’s mise-en-scene: he’s Bluto to DiCaprio’s insane Popeye, but in his hands, Bluto knows he’s in a cartoon.

In the end, is the film entertaining? Bizarrely, that’s the hardest question. It isn’t, and then it is, despite the fact that it’s structured the opposite way (to be ludicrously entertaining, then dramatically involving, which in the world of this film’s grammar kind of means “boring”). The best scene in the film, which was also the best scene in the book, and the best scene in Elevator Repair Service’s theatrical World-Wide smash Gatz, is the Plaza Hotel scene. Some stuff is so good, even when you go all bells and whistles around it, if you play the main melody right, the rest, she just falls into place.

This Ain’t Doco As You Know It

This Ain’t California ***1/2 (out of five)

Marten Persiel’s elaborate ruse This Ain’t California purports to be a documentary about the birth and growth of the skateboarding scene in the GDR and East Berlin in the 1980s, particularly following its most dynamic member, “Panik”, through huge amounts of contemporary Super 8 footage, archival propaganda and television material from the period, and new interviews with Panik’s old crew. The thing of it is, Panik never existed, the old crew are actors, and, most impressively – most impressively – the Super 8 footage is mainly, or entirely, deliberately shot for this film. It’s a fiction, but one that illuminates a period and a scene, supplying footage – and a mythical leader – where there wasn’t either.

Marten Persiel

As a style of storytelling, the film’s grandparent would be Zelig, Woody Allen’s excellent and very funny story of a “human chameleon”, which similarly faked old footage to blend in with footage from the time. (Interestingly, the recent film No also uses very outdated video camera technology to match its shots with footage from Pinochet’s plebiscite in Chilé in the 1980s). As a “fake” documentary, it got me. I saw it believing I was seeing a “true” documentary, and I fell for it hook, line and sinker, telling some skateboarding friends about how extraordinary it was that one of these skaters had a father who was a diplomat, who was thus able to supply him with so much Super 8 film that the entire rise and fall of this East Berlin scene was documented so thoroughly. It seemed to be too good to be true, and it was.

Nevertheless, and even knowing the artifice, it’s an excellent and extremely enjoyable film. Indeed, knowing the artifice, it’s way more impressive. Persiel also uses beautiful hand-drawn animations to tell his story in what amounts to a kaleidoscope. It speaks to the last days of the GDR, the heady rush of skater rebellion, and myth-making in equal measure. However true it isn’t, it’s a lovely evocation of what might have been.

This Ain’t California plays as part of the Festival Of German Films from Friday 3rd May. Details http://www.goethe.de/ins/au/lp/prj/fia/ffg/fil/thi/enindex.htm

You can hear my interview with Marten Persiel on MOVIELAND on Saturday 11th May at 5pm on your local ABC radio station around Australia or here: http://www.abc.net.au/sydney/programs/webcam_radio.htm?ref=listenliveradio

Revenge of the Ewoks

IRON MAN 3 **1/2 (out of five)

Here comes Iron Man 3. You’re ready. You’ve been primed, having enjoyed Iron Man and Iron Man 2, almost entirely on the back of Robert Downy Jr.’s performance as Tony Stark (and if you don’t think that’s why, tell me the plot of Iron Man 2). You loved The Avengers, particularly Tony Stark’s zingers, as delivered by Robert Downey Jr. Indeed, we all know, the reason the Iron Man franchise is better than the others all comes down to the casting: it’s Downey’s show, all the way.

A shame, then, that Iron Man 3 only seemingly capitalizes on its main… capital. Thanks to Shane Black’s script, Stark gets a bunch of zingers, but they’re not as sharp as those of the other three flicks in which Stark’s been allowed to quip. Gweneth Paltrow, who plays love interest Pepper Potts (and in a much bigger showing here) said in an interview I heard recently (with Simon Mayo) that Downey improvised hugely in the first two films but stuck more to the script here. They should have let him flow. Obviously, Marvel Studios wasn’t just hiring the actor, but the improvising writer within him, and Stark is simply not as fun this time around, glued to a script that insists on some form, rather than free-form. The Iron Man franchise now resembles the first trilogy of Star Wars flicks: the first was a revelation, the second was actually better, and the third was just a little tired. And had Ewoks.

Certain lackluster choices make one scratch the old head: with the entire universe of possibility, and decades and decades worth of comics to mine, why have Tony’s other home ruined (after the decorative deconstruction toward the end of The Avengers); why confine the villain structure to the by-now-clichéd “in the third installment, you get TWO villains!” model (in this case, portrayed by Ben Kingsley and Guy Pearce, both very at ease, and very adept, at this sort of thing by now). Why even have the thing come down to classic displays of physical power, of a fight? We like Tony Stark because of his wit and intelligence, and there is no reason this character could not have been taken in a James Bond / Jason Bourne-like direction, where his brain ultimately (not just in the creation of the Iron Suits) is much more intrinsic to his heroism than his metallic brawn.

It’s not just the lines, it’s the delivery of them, that aren’t quite up to the sharpness of the first two films. I get a sense Downey, who has become a gazillionaire thanks to this series, has grown bored with the sheer infrastructure of such a role, where your job is to be in at least eighty percent of the scenes and sequences, which means almost untold stretches of waiting around until everything’s finally ready for you. Downey famously declared once this franchise hired him that he was “never going back” – ie to small, independent films. I really suspect he’ll break that assertion. An actor’s got to act, after all, and the Iron Man franchise has now become exactly the same, to him, as the Iron Suit is to Tony Stark: a heavy burden, denying him the nimble movement he once enjoyed.

Jagten (The Hunt) ****1/2 (out of five)

Thomas Vinterberg is a supremely gifted storyteller. His 1998 Dogma film Festen remains, for me, a perfect movie, and that film’s screenplay is, I believe, up there amongst the bet ever written. His new film Jagten (The Hunt) is more measuredly paced than that frenetic masterpiece, but it is no less gripping. And at the end of the day it is perhaps even more gut-wrenching.

It helps when one of the world’s best actors is your lead. Mads Mikkelsen plays Lucas, a divorced kindergarten teacher in a small town in Denmark, who is falsely accused of inappropriate behavior by a girl in his charge, Klara. As the population turns against him, his life unravels. It’s like the Twilight Zone episode where nuclear panic turns a town into a mob, except here it’s told with realism and a seriously honed eye for the behavior of modern adults (Vinterberg wrote the original screenplay with Tobias Lindholm).

Thomas Vinterberg

It is never remotely suggested (or intended) that Lucas is guilty, which is the right choice: the movie is not concerned with “did he or didn’t he?” (and if the inevitable Hollywood remake is, I’m going to rip it apart). This frees Mikkelsen from having to play that false mystery; knowing he’s innocent, he plays it as an innocent man would – the huge caveat being that even innocent men, when faced with inconceivable and life-altering unfairness – can behave in ways that don’t necessarily help their own cause.

While no longer adhering to Dogma’s strict rules of engagement, Vinterberg is still an austere filmmaker: there’s no score for this film – no music at all, as far as I recall – and he has a knack for making gorgeous locations feel cold and threatening. But he utilizes, in a profound and novel way, the zoom lens, to underline significant moments that, in lesser hands, may have seemed verbose; here, it is revelatory.

Part of the movie’s intense modes of engagement rest with its absolute accessibility: few films in my recent memory have prompted me to ask myself the classic “What would I do?”  The falsely accused man of limited means is weirdly bound by his stuff: his home, his family (here represented by his son), his dog, his surroundings that make up his life. I thought, quite early, “Well, I’d just run.” But where? And how? And, most importantly, how would that look?

To call The Hunt gripping would be like calling Annie Hall funny. It is, but it’s also so much more than that. In some ways it’s a horror movie, but the horror is simply a real-life mistake, told realistically, and played out as it might actually play out, with literally terrifying results. I was shattered by this superb, impeccably crafted, brilliantly acted, and emotionally devastating film.

 

Manor Porn

Cheerful Weather for the Wedding ** (out of five)

England, a country manor, the 1930s: Downstairs, the guests gather for a wedding; upstairs, Dolly (the astonishingly beautiful Felicity Jones) frets and drinks, remembering the summer she fell in love with Joseph (Luke Treadaway), who is not the boy she’s about to marry.

It’s hard to understand why this movie exists, except to cash in on the astounding popularity of Downton Abbey; it’s not funny (and I’m not sure it’s meant to be a comedy), barely dramatic, and its ponderous basic story has been told more richly many times before. At a scant 93 minutes, it feels long; it could easily have been told as a short film (it’s adapted from a 1932 novel, which probably should have been a short story).

The estate and surrounds, and most of the people, are very beautiful to look at, the costumes are fine, and there’s so nice old motors; it’s all very English and proper and tasteful, but it doesn’t tug at your heartstrings, just at your patience. If you’re seriously white-knuckling for a dose of English Period Countryside Romanticism while you wait for Downton’s next season to roll, Cheerful Weather for the Wedding will be like methadone: it’s not going to satisfy you, but it may relieve your itch.

Terrorism Porn

Olympus Has Fallen * (out of five stars)

An action flick about an assault on the White House by a group of terrorists sympathetic to North Korea, Olympus Has Fallen revels in, and offers up for our entertainment, all the images that have most disturbed us since September 11, 2001, and which completely and very unfortunately include images from the Marathon Bombings. Thus we watch as the Washington Monument collapses into itself – in slow motion, from many angles, and spectacularly done – in an incredibly deliberate evocation of the collapse of the World Trade Center’s Twin Towers. This is very quickly followed by a suicide bomber blowing himself up – we see his head and chest separate in fine detail – which leads us, lovingly, into images of dead children and innocent (when are they not?) civilians with limbs blown off. Having just seen the real version of this from Boston, surely I must be dying to see it all again, better shot and in high definition, at my local cinema?

Obviously, the filmmakers involved (and I’m not going to name them, because I’m sure, individually, all are capable of better, and that this turgid film is just a weird collaborative disaster) could not possibly have known that their film would lend in cinemas just when North Korea was saber-rattling and Boston was getting its dose of deadly terrorism. Why they ever thought that this film could be considered entertaining is the really troubling question. It’s the opposite of entertaining. Having just watched real scrolling updates relentlessly regurgitating themselves under the images of real news people who are all doing their job against the obstructions of sleeplessness, inaccurate information and in-ear pieces and autocues being spoken and programmed with the slap-dashery that accompanies a true disaster, the imagined, pathetic conceit of how those elements would go down in a situation like the one imagined by this movie are stupid and insulting.

Later in the film, there are further explosions, creating a “shock moment” – and facial and verbal reactions to those explosions, and that moment – that are once again specifically designed to evoke the shock and terror we all felt during the days of September 11th. This is not simply emotional manipulation, it’s terrorism porn, preying on our darkest memories to sell movie tickets, the deep problem being the movie we’ve paid to see is devoid of any entertainment value whatsoever.

The acting is atrocious across the board. Gerard Butler – who should have, with the career boost given to him by 300, at least tried to emulate Russell Crowe (who got a similar boost with Gladiator) and do adult thrillers – instead has chosen to be a run-with-a-gun man, and he’s even terrible at that; he’s the worst leading man in memory, gritting his teeth and chewing his lines like I did when I was seven years old, copying Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry, except I was better. Morgan Freeman does not play the President until – spoiler! – the President (Aaron Eckart, slumming) gets taken hostage and all of a sudden, whoa and behold, Morgan Freeman is once again playing the (acting) President. So can we just get it over with, please, and elect Morgan Freeman the actual President? ( Also, why in the world did Oscar-winner Melissa Leo accept her role as a crying, screaming “terrified woman”?) The musical score (again, I will not name names, as I assume everything about this film is a compromise, and a bad one) is possibly the worst score I can ever remember, but it does have to underline – or overstate – lines such as “He just opened the gates of Hell.”

Spoiler alert, sort of: towards the end of the film, Butler’s character does a “cheer moment”. But no-one in the (proper, paid, Saturday afternoon) audience I saw it with cheered. They were stone-cold silent. Why? Because it just felt horribly racist.

It even got worse from there, in the downhill slide towards the ostentatious, self-important credits. The film ends – spoiler alert? - in applause for the hero. This morning, I saw the residents of Watertown applaud the police officers who caught Suspect Two. That was real. Olympus Has Fallen isn’t just a fiction, falsehood or even fantasy: it’s just fake. In the end, it was The Cops, collectively, who caught Suspect 2 in Watertown. According to Olympus Has Fallen, all that was needed instead, then, on September 11th 2001, and probably on D-Day, was just One Man With a Gun.

Mad Men Versus Bad Men

No **** (out of five)

No is not the fastest-paced modern-historical-political thriller you will have seen in a while; that prize will surely belong to Argo, and can sit next to that film’s many Oscars. But there’s a reason that Pablo Larrain’s film, set amongst the plebiscite for Pinochet in Chilé in 1988, was nominated for the Best Foreign Language Film at the 2012 Oscars, and that’s because it’s incredible filmmaking on an incredible subject. It’s not easy material but it’s truly fascinating, and expertly done, albeit not in a way that could even pretend to absorb a massive world-wide audience.

How much do you actually know about Chilé? How much do you seriously know about Pinochet? If, like me, your answer is “Not enough”, this is the film for you — but wait! Essentially, your history lessen will be filtered through a Mad Men lens: how the Plebiscite on Pinochet was fought through Television Advertising. And yes — this is a fascinating inherent concept for a Feature Film.

Larrain’s huge conceit is to shoot the film – in its entirety – on the same videotape system that was available to his actual subjects in Chilé in the late eighties, which is to say, crappy visuals all around. The genius of this approach is that when he combines his footage with the actual footage – meaning crappy videotape – of his subjects, it blends together seamlessly. Beyond seamlessly. It’s like you’re watching someone go back in time and make the cinema verité documentary of real history, with the technology of the day. It’s an astounding illusion. Gael Garcia Bernal gives an excellent performance as the ad man trying to sell the country the end of a dictator, but all the cast are completely believable.

The less you know about Chilé’s modern history, the better for your experience of watching this remarkable film; I didn’t know how things were going to turn out, and the suspense had me clutching my armrests like I wanted to strangle them. Along the way, No, eschewing music, traditional pacing, pretty images, and what we might think of structure, can, at times, feel a little slow and meandering; stay with it. It’s intensely rewarding.