Last night, BBC Radio 3's Nightwaves discussed Verso's new book Winstanley: A Common Treasury, "one of the first true socialists" noted Labour politician Tony Benn. Winstanley's idea of the "perfect person unto themselves" must probably resonate through every discussion of worthy artistic endeavour. And it most certainly is the bedrock of this week's film releases.
Mahamat-Saleh Haroun's 4th feature A Screaming Man is cinema one is very unlikely to forget. And though set against the background of Chad's civil war, its rivers of human predicament run far deeper than disintegrating geographic environs. Adam is a 50ish ex-champ swimmer who retains his pride by being pool attendant at a luxury hotel. A new company broom sweeps clean and he is relegated to front gate keeper and worse, his own son is promoted to his pool job. Adam is both proud and resentful. What transpires is the most devastating act of war: the one we inflict upon ourselves and hence those around us. There is no-one else to blame; only the silence deafens.
Red Hill is an Australian movie that dares to champion aboriginal landrights whilst being a commercially viable product in its own right. Director (and everything else) Patrick Hughes has previously helmed award winning shorts and A-list commercials. This his first feature is so assured it's only a stone's throw from Hollywood's tried and tested rocky outcrops. Young 'rookie' cop Shane wafts from the big smoke into the country town rattle-snake lair of police lifers. Cue the murdering Jimmie who's escaped prison and is on the rampage. But his past meets the eye unflinchingly and is more than - as father-to-be Shane uncovers almost to his cost.
Though Hughes' direction uses every cliche of the Hollywood arsenal to great effect it's his pacing and restraint that marks Hughes as having an enormous cinematic future. One wishes Brit first feature Attack the Block had the same promise and in fairness that more Brit features had even half as much pizazz as it itself has. Whereas Red Hill's cinematography (Tim Hudson) is always subtle and unobtrusive, Attack the Block looks expert though rather laboured (Tom Townend). And one's never quite sure what tone director Joe Cornish is aiming for. Is it harking back to the sociological sci-fi 50s/60s school of the political 'other' or is it comedy trying to keep a straight face about social exclusion as the black hairy aliens with silvery glowing fangs leap about devouring both black and white council estate inmates? The white girl, mugged by the black teen 'hoodies', having now joined forces with her attackers. But the dialogue rings true even if the whole is never more than the sum of its parts. And the 'aliens' really aren't as naff as they sound despite their resemblance to gigantic wooly slippers.
Fire in Babylon is the untold documentary story of the West Indian cricketing greats. No need to be a fan to thoroughly enjoy this one.
A hit a last year's Cannes Director's Fortnight, Katell Quillévéré's first feature Love Like Poison (Un Poison violent- referring to Serge Gainsbourg's song) marks her out as an exciting new force majeure on the French cinema scene - casting and directing her teenage actors (newcomers) with consummate skill and never a mélodie of mawkish condescension. Quillévéré walks in the steps of Maurice Pialat (she acknowledges Cavalier's Thérèse) but is sure to stealthily tread her own path. Astute use of music,too, with a cover of Radiohead's Creep as the playout.
Take Me Home Tonight shows the American adults who've never seemed able to move beyond kidulthood. And it's nigh impossible to find one halfway good review of this film. So far be it from my destiny to add to the critical fraternity of cheese appreciation, but to my nose, the film's perfumes were redolent of sweet nostalgia. Or as the Portuguese say, saudade: a longing for something you know not quite is what. It's the summer of 1988 and Matt Franklin (Topher Grace) having failed to fulfill the American dreams of his LAPD dad opted for the video store clerk. In breezes aspirant financier Tori Fredreking (Teresa Palmer), unbeknownst to her she was Matt's high school crush. Not letting on that he works there (now a Goldman Sachs man) she invites him to a school reunion party.
Judd Apatow territory this thankfully isn't (nothing wrong with that country of old young men I hasten to add). Reviews of the film have either felt that its historical view is jaundiced or rather unfairly, were disappointed with its lack of American capitalism critique. But Matt Franklin seems to be the ultimate absurd Richard Linklater slacker, nay soothsayer of Western civilisation's decline. He has an incredible head for figures that pulls him through, and the wool over the eyes, of the Beverly Hills party banker host - where they've all ended up later in the evening. Matt is the only one of his buddies/budettes who hasn't aspired. And as with the recent Arthur, I defy anyone to prove that the film's characters don't still exist. In spades! Matt Franklin could make a good President; he listens but with an uncanny ability to filter out all the deafening white noise. And just because he flannels with the best of them doesn't mean he's inept at tailoring an argument. Certainly no worse than...
Emilio Estevez's The Way doesn't plumb our depths either to quite the extent some would prefer. But it's the porous spiritual nature of Tom's (Martin Sheen) Camino de Santiago walk (with his three companions) that ushers us the audience into a Stendhal Syndrome state of collapsing under the awe of thought and beauty. Tom makes the trek as an epitaph to his son who died without finishing the Pyrenees-Spain voyage. And of course the film resonates with the Estevez-Sheen family trials and tribulations itself. There are some creaky politically correct moments such as when Tom's backpack gets nicked by a teen gypsy and the kid's father reacts as if inviting the European Union for breakfast. But for the mostpart the film's 'much ado about nothing and yet much about everything as we wrestle with that centrifuge denying us our still point in the turning world.
Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver (1976) hasn't dated a jot. Newly restored by the director, its luminescence of the human condition speaks for the world and yet couldn't have resonated from anywhere else but New York City. Bernard Herrmann's score with its quinine saxophone lullaby has been discussed ad infinitum and rarely bettered by his composing peers. De Niro's cab driver Travis doesn't do drugs though desperately craves something to numb the pain of existence. The greatness that is finally thrust upon him is ironically what cures this sick ignoble beast. "If the legend becomes truth...
...The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Photography Copyright Andrew Lucre 2011
