The Matrix Revolutions: A Haiku

"Recall a time when
The Jesus thing was subtle?
Now, duh, Neo is Christ."

This is an entry for the Best For Film Hollywood Haikus blogging competition. Enter now.

Just Something I Noticed #1

Is it me, or does the cover of the latest Mad Men boxset make it look like Don Draper is getting ready to have a sneaky wee out of his office window? Poor framing, or deliberate comment on the relationship of the 1960s ad man and his public below him?

Just something I noticed.

Musings on A Single Man

An introductory note:

Compared to some of the short and inconsequential text messages a person can read on a daily basis, it's fair to say that one I received recently did its best to stand out. "Finally worked out what that A Single Man film is about," my friend informed me, "It's about loneliness, romanticism, melancholy and the fragility and transitory nature of human connections. And the sadness inherent in that. The film's ending, coming shortly after Firth's character having made a new connection, exemplifies that." It was one heck of a text; especially considering that my friend and I had never previously discussed the film. He must have just assumed that I would be interested - and quite right too.

Though extracted from a piece that I originally wrote in August of last year which was about artists from other mediums trying their hand at film direction (and the effect this might be seen to have on their work), I still think that the description of A Single Man given below does go some way to expressing my analysis of the film. As such, I hope it will prove an interesting comparison. This one's for you, Will...

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Last year saw the release of Tom Ford’s debut feature, A Single Man (2009). Directed and co-written by Ford, previously known for his work as a fashion designer, some reviewers were keen to describe the film’s visual focus as little more than an outer covering – a well-cut suit worn by an otherwise unremarkable man. Writing for online publication, Trespass Magazine, Glenn Dunks argued that, although A Single Man may “look perfect”, Ford’s tendency for “preening, polishing and enhancing” means that it “resembles an excessively over-designed photo shoot rather than a film.” An easy claim to make, it is a harder one to support, seemingly having been employed solely to draw cynical comparison with the director’s previous endeavours. No doubt if Ford had been best renowned as a restaurateur reviews would have included wordplays about whether his work had enough ‘flavour’ to live up to its immaculate presentation.

In actuality, A Single Man’s aesthetics are far from vacuous. Using visual cues to represent the heightened senses of a suicidal man, Ford allows his film’s imagery to reinforce thematic content. Convinced that he’s spending his last day on Earth, college lecturer George Falconer (Colin Firth) – the eponymous single man – is beginning to see the world differently and it is through this altered perspective that we witness events unfold. The effect is immediately apparent. With the majority of the film dominated by brown and white – the sets, costumes and camerawork ensuring that George’s life is devoid of any real colour – one could assume that Ford is simply staying true to the story’s early 1960s setting. Yet even Firth’s face is made-up to be remarkably pale, a choice that, paired with his dark suit and white shirt, allows George to merge with his surroundings. Whilst this wan complexion could be seen as indicative of George’s anxiety regarding his imminent suicide attempt, it also serves to reinforce his view of how insubstantial his life seems without the company of his recently deceased lover (Matthew Goode). George’s sinking into the background is not simply a display of Ford’s finesse, but an illustration of the character’s worst fear.

Using this as a visual base, Ford allows sparse instances of colour to elevate otherwise everyday occurrences, emphasising their effect on George’s fragile state. One example of this comes through the film’s repeated close-ups of eyes. Usually adding a striking flash of green or blue to a given scene, they appear most commonly when George is acknowledging another character’s positive traits; “You always look beautiful. Really beautiful”, he tells his secretary on one occasion. Denoting the moments where George feels a rare emotional connection to the world, this focus on eyes again occurs in a scene where he accepts a cigarette from a handsome Spanish stranger. Reluctant at first, it is making eye contact with the man that encourages George to embrace the opportunity. As the pair smoke together, gazing toward a bright sunset, George’s normally drained face becomes illuminated in red. There is a sense during this – the film’s most uncharacteristically colourful moment – that George is experiencing true happiness for the first time since losing his partner. A superb blend of imagery and theme, these scenes demonstrate that Ford’s knowledge of style extends well beyond the realms of fashion.

When Criticism Needs To Be Criticised.

Christopher Nolan’s Inception (2010) was always liable to split critical opinion. Following hot on the heels of the immensely successful The Dark Knight (2008) – a film that rocketed into the IMDb top five within days of its release, going on to gross over a billion dollars – there were sure to be sceptics, just waiting for Nolan’s big fall. The hype was tangible even before the trailers hit and when they did arrive – filled to the brim with impressive special effects – it was clear where those Bruce Wayne millions had been spent. Marketed, perhaps misleadingly, as a mind-bending sci-fi where anything could happen, Inception had successfully given itself one more thing to live up to. Critics almost seemed to take it as a personal affront when the final product had more in common with James Bond than it did with Paprika (2006). Nolan had given them a visual tease that the results did not seem to match.

This view was exemplified in UK critic Jonathan Romney’s review for The Independent on Sunday, which argued that Inception’s template is not one of grand and immeasurable possibility, but one of instantly recognisable Hollywood templates. A conclusion as fair as any other; we all have opinions, and Romney is – of course – entitled to his. The problem with Romney’s writing, though, lies not with the verdict reached, but with the contradictions passed in order to get there. Claiming at one point that an early scene in which characters "watch calmly as Paris explodes around them [like the] the cleverest, glossiest sports car advert you've even seen...in a narrative film sticks out as gratuitous show-offery", he later goes on to comment that “dream, as seen [in Inception], is controlled, designed, pre-programmed, policed. Inception is not a hymn to the imagination so much as a militant oppression of it – a film that reduces dream to the mundane logic of the action movie." These, to my mind, seem to be two completely opposing criticisms. Does Romney want the dream sequences to be outlandish or not? The first comment suggests he believes Nolan was right to keep the realms of dream largely grounded, whilst the second seems to suggest that this was a disappointment. Further, Romney complains of the “mundane logic” of the latter dreams, seemingly without realising that he has already explained the reasons behind it – it is the “narrative” of Nolan’s film that dictates exactly why each dream plays out in the way that it does. The first sequence Romney dismisses is present in order for one character, Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio), to prove to another, Ariadne (Ellen Page), that they are experiencing a dream together. The latter ones he criticises are constructed with the exact opposite intention; so that the extraction/inception team can fool their target, Fischer (Cillian Murphy), into believing that he is awake. Creating a demented world of floating cheese monkeys probably wouldn’t quite have the desired effect.

Though Romney’s lack of clarity would be better described as clumsy rather than catastrophic, the slips were noticeable enough to get me thinking; does there come a point when criticism needs to be criticised? Romney’s descriptive errors were sloppy, but his main mistake is in believing that a film can be condemned simply for failing to be what you, the viewer, wanted it to be. In a recent blog entry charting the critical response to Inception, Roger Ebert summarised this excellently, writing that; “The last thing [the director] wanted was an untethered dream move. Nolan successfully made the film he had in mind, and shouldn't be faulted for failing to make someone else's.” Critics may not believe that Nolan’s logical approach to dream sequences is the most exciting, but since the film’s central conceit depends upon the idea that these worlds look and feel real, a well-written deconstruction needs to express where the film’s approach fails and not on how a different film may have been more pleasing.

In this light, Romney’s review may not have been the best, but at least he attempted to convey his experience of the film with specific complaints and examples, which – when compared to the abysmal critique provided by The New York Observer’s Rex Reed – seems like a blessing even more than it is a necessity. Reed’s approach consists of the three basic steps;

1) Use as many negative words as possible.

2) Avoiding talking about the film for as long as you can.

3) If you do describe the material, be sure to be inaccurate.

He starts by listing Nolan’s back catalogue, providing each film with a meaninglessly isolated adjective explaining why he doesn’t like it. Memento (2000), for example, is apparently “brainless”, whilst Batman Begins (2005) is “idiotic” and The Dark Knight (most curiously of all) is somehow both “mechanical” and “maniacally baffling”, something that would actually strike me as oddly impressive. Reed doesn’t think so though. “Is it clear that I have consistently hated his movies without exception, and I have yet to see one of them that makes a lick of sense”, he asks – or at least I think he does, it’s hard to tell since his sentence doesn’t actually end with a question mark. That last point may seem petty, almost like a delay tactic to avoid speaking about Reed’s actual description of Inception, but note that I’m describing a review that begins with three hundred and fifty words of name-calling (Reed even finding time to call Charlie Kaufman a “bottom feeder” for no apparent reason) before passing any notable comment on the actual film and it suddenly seems strangely appropriate.

When Reed does finally begin to talk about Nolan’s current release, it’s clear that he doesn’t like the film, but he gives no real impression as to why – other than the fact that he clearly didn’t understand it. I’m not being a smart aleck with that assertion. Reed literally states as much in the title of his review – “Could somebody please explain Inception to me?” His error, however, is to believe that this dictates we won’t understand it either. Keeping his terms derogatory yet vague, Reed assures us that Inception is “prattling drivel” without “one iota of cogent or convincing logic” whilst the frequent use of the second person ensures that this opinion is also put into the mouth of his readers. “You never know who anyone is, what their goals are, who they work for or what they’re doing”, he informs us. For somebody that thinks Nolan’s script is nonsense, Rex certainly has an intriguing ability to see inside our heads.

On the rare occasion that Reed does decide to provide direct reference to Inception’s content, his review is replete with basic factual errors. When describing DiCaprio’s character, for example, he misquotes Cobb as stating that he is “the most skilled extractor of dreams”, the last two words of which Reed has added himself. A small mistake on the surface, this is in fact enough to change the entire intention of Nolan’s script; a trend that continues when Reed describes the film’s central premise. “Inception”, Reed states, is a process in which “instead of stealing dreams, [Cobb’s team] must plant some.” This is entirely wrong. At no point in the film is it suggested that Nolan’s characters steal or plant their target’s dreams, rather it is made clear that they enter shared dreams with their target in order to access or manipulate their ideas. Even when providing the evidence needed to support his opinion then, Reed’s review is inaccurate. We can only hope that it was written in a dream state.

It is true of course that a critic – as with any filmgoer – may not understand every film they see upon first viewing. However, they must be well aware of their obligation to try and explain why. They cannot just provide a list of vague adjectives, supported only by selections of misinformation, and then assume that their readers will undoubtedly agree. Everybody has their own opinion, but in order to express theirs a reviewer must deal accurately and clearly with the material on display. Roger Ebert rightly praised fellow critic David Edelstein’s negative review of Inception, not because he agreed with it, but because it was well-written. Edelstein’s comparisons (“it lacks the nimbleness of Spielberg's Minority Report, or the Jungian-carnival bravado of Joseph Ruben's Dreamscape, or the eerily clean lines and stylized black-suited baddies of The Matrix”) were valid; his argument supported. His writing stands as evidence that – if a review is good – then the opinion given is irrefutable, even if it fails to persuade. If only they could always be like this. As things stand though, sometimes even criticism needs to be criticised.

Happily Ever After? The search for a perfect ending.

A note from the writer: this feature discusses endings in modern cinema and as such contains spoiler details regarding the conclusion of each film mentioned. All titles are written in bold so as to alert the reader, but if you don’t want to know the result, look away now...

At the end of Steven Spielberg’s War of the Worlds (2005), our hero Ray (Tom Cruise) arrives in Boston to find not only that his ex-wife’s neighbourhood has been completely untouched by the conflict, but that his son – last seen running toward certain death in an alien fire fight – has somehow both survived and made it there before him. It is a moment so out of kilter with what has occurred before that it immediately seems far less real than the film’s alien tripods. A narrative’s closing moments can have a great impact on our final view of it, making it essential to get things right. However, it is far too easy to mistake the best ending with the one that seems the most satisfying. Does every story need a “happily ever after”?

Log onto the IMDb.com message board for John Frankenheimer’s 1998 film Ronin and you might, as with any film, expect to find debates regarding minor plot holes and possible explanations thereof. Instead though, the page is dominated by posts deriding the feature’s inconclusive ending. “What was in the case?” This is the question repeated over and over. It would seem that in refusing to reveal the contents of a container pursued by Irish and Russian criminals throughout the film, Frankenheimer and his screenwriter (J.D. Zeik), have – in the eyes of many IMDb users – ended the story in an unsatisfactory manner. They have made use of what Alfred Hitchcock referred to as a ‘MacGuffin’ (a device that motivates the characters and advances the plot, but the details of which are of little or no relevance otherwise), but for some viewers human curiosity has allowed the particulars of this object to take up the position of central importance. In reality, the case is incidental. When the true motivations of Robert DeNiro’s undercover CIA agent are revealed, we discover that he doesn't want its contents and, due to his actions, neither the Irish nor the Russian gangs end up getting it. Perhaps this is all we need to know? At the film’s conclusion, Jean Reno’s character, Vincent, tells us in voiceover; “No questions. No answers. That's the business we're in. You just accept it and move on.” He is of course referring to the life of a mercenary, but it could also be seen as a comment on the film as a whole, or indeed aspects of life itself.

There will always be knowledge that we cannot access and, if art is designed to reflect something of life, then why have we come to expect more closure from it than we might get in reality? As children we are raised on fairytales with happy endings, but before that we listen to nursery rhymes where there is often no resolution. Humpty Dumpty cannot be put back together again, Jack and Jill never get their pail of water and it remains unclear as to whether Little Miss Muffet ever gets to finish her curds and whey. This is not to suggest that all stories must finish on a down note, but we should be aware from a young age that not every narrative has to end with all threads neatly tied-off.

Indeed, returning to cinema, it could be said that sometimes the themes of a film can be reinforced far more by an ending that refuses to compromise with what the audience may be expecting. Take, for example, Joel and Ethan Coen’s Fargo (1996). This is a film where, in the end, good people triumph and the greedy are punished for their crimes. It seems ironic then that the dedicated IMDb message board is littered with people lamenting the loss of the $920,000 that Steve Buscemi’s Carl leaves buried in the snow before his untimely demise. The story should be wrapped up, yet - by our very nature - many of us find ourselves wanting to know what happened to all that cash. In her monologue towards the film’s close, Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand) states that there’s more to life than “a little bit of money”. Of course, the audience are privy to the knowledge that there are much larger sums involved than she is aware, but the point remains; too many of us find ourselves focused on that fictional stash when there is so much more we should take away from this story. Far from problematic though, this can actually be viewed as the screenplay’s creative masterstroke. In leaving audience members debating the fate of the lost money, the Coens have left these viewers unwittingly aligned not with the story’s heroes, but instead with its villains, allowing the film to serve as a fictional parable that calls into question the materialistic priorities of our own lives.

The brothers proved themselves masters of such ‘unsatisfying’ endings with 2007’s No Country for Old Men. By the time of the film’s climax the character assumed to be the story’s hero has died off-screen, his innocent wife’s fate has been left uncertain, the villain has walked away alive and free, and an aging sheriff has been left questioning his worth in this increasingly violent society. Many who saw the feature were left wondering where the resolution was and, of course, there was none. In response to negative reactions to the film’s ending, star Josh Brolin (the aforementioned ‘hero’ of the piece) was quoted as saying:

I love that people leave the movie saying, “I hate the ending. I was so pissed.” Good, it was supposed to piss you off...You completely lend yourself to [my] character and then you’re completely raped of this character. I don’t find it manipulative at all. I find it to be a great homage to that kind of violence.

The film is about the opportunism, greed and violence that can take hold with increased intensity in each new generation born into a morally apathetic society. Aggression and avarice breed in kind and unfortunately it is unlikely that this will lead to a positive outcome. Ultimately the story is perhaps more about Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, as portrayed by Tommy Lee Jones, than it is about Brolin’s character. At the film’s close, Ed Tom describes a dream in which he sees his father “fixin’ to make a fire somewhere out there in all that dark and all that cold”. However, he says that - before he could witness the blaze - he “woke up”, forced to return to reality. Far from being ineffective, this conclusion reinforces what has been suggested by the events throughout. Society has been enveloped by dark, cold realities and those older generations who fail to adapt will find themselves left behind, unable to see or create any change in the situation. It is not the ending that anybody wants for these characters, but it is the ending that best suits the tale.

It could be falsely deduced from such observations that, in order to be effective, a film’s closing moments must set out to thwart audience desire. This is not true. The point of this article is not to suggest that it is essential for filmmakers to leave people confused or pondering loose ends, more that they should not shy away from doing so purely to create a resolution where one isn’t necessary. Sometimes the perfect ending can be conclusive and rewarding, but in other cases it can be uncertain, upsetting, perhaps even frustrating. For each story there is an appropriate denouement that will best compliment the events narrated and themes raised and filmmakers should never be afraid let the right conclusion show.

Perhaps though, to avoid accusations of scepticism, it is best to end this particular commentary with an example of a full resolution executed well. During the same months that No Country for Old Men graced our screens, another feature provided one of the finest endings in recent memory. This one, in contrast to those mentioned above, was brilliant through its conclusiveness. When the final words of Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood (2007) are uttered by aging oil-tycoon Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day-Lewis), they can be seen as carrying at least four different meanings, each firmly suggesting that an endpoint has been reached. As his butler approaches him, Plainview sits on the floor, food strewn across the room from the meal the servant left him eating. A man’s dead body lies nearby, his head caved in by Plainview moments before. Suddenly, speaking as if in answer to the most informal of questions his butler could possibly be thinking...

- Are you done with your meal, Sir?

- Are you through beating that young man to death?

- How do you think this situation will affect your future prospects?

- Do you think this story of your ever decreasing sanity has now run its course?

...Plainview blurts out a casual, two word sentence. It is the absurd yet perfect conclusion to a film that has shown how nonchalantly destructive a man can be when driven solely by power, and – for entirely different reasons – it is the perfect way to end this article. That sentence is simply this; “I’m finished”.

Film review: October (1928) ***1/2

“Peace, Land and Bread,” reads the Bolshevik slogan, pivotal in Sergei Eisenstein’s October (1928). The director visited these themes in 1925’s Battleship Potemkin and, despite moving the setting forward twelve years from 1905 to 1917, October suggests that little has changed. The similarities should not come as a surprise. It was due to Potemkin’s international success and representation of Soviet ideals that Eisenstein was commissioned by the Russian government to make this film; a 10^th Anniversary celebration of 1917’s October Revolution. What we see here then is a continued development of the director’s prior work, both in terms of the historical events shown and the methods employed to portray them.

Through his pioneering use of montage, Eisenstein juxtaposes shots in attempt to evoke an intellectual response. In one set-piece depicting the suppression of an anti-government protest, furiously paced cuts between the barrel of a machine-gun and the gunner’s manically smiling face are suggestive not only of the sound and workings of the gun itself, but also of the casual immorality of the establishment forces. As a series of bridges are raised to quell the resulting chaos by separating the workers’ district from the city, Eisenstein contrasts striking shots of a slain horse - hanging over the edge of a slowly rising bridge - with the image of a sphinx-like Egyptian statue. These images, unconnected on the surface, invite the audience to draw similarities with another society that was reliant upon, but wholly mistreated, its working class.

Expertly executed as such sequences are, the film often lacks the tension required to be suggestive of an imminent uprising. As a result, when the remarkable scenes do occur, they seem all too brief, none proving as enduringly memorable as Potemkin’s oft-referenced Odessa steps sequence. It is perhaps for these reasons that the film has never quite matched the acclaim of its predecessor, yet - despite this - October remains a landmark in the artistry of Eisenstein’s technique.

Film review: À ma soeur! (2001) ****

It is rare that anybody’s first sexual encounter occurs exactly as they imagined. Let’s face it; “the right time” with “the right person” hardly ever happens. À Ma Sœur! (2001) follows two adolescent French girls seeking to avoid this trend. Elena (Roxane Mesquida), a pretty 15 year-old, wishes to save herself for her true love. Anaïs though (Anaïs Reboux), Elena’s overweight 12 year-old sister, believes a true love deserves experience and so intends to give herself to a random partner. But on a family holiday to the South of France, Elena is seduced by a handsome Italian four years her senior (Libero de Rienzo) and is soon coerced into sexual experimentation much sooner than she anticipated - all whilst her sister lies awake and watching in the next bed.

Already holding a reputation for her frank meditations on sexuality, writer-director Catherine Breillat does not retreat from showing the uncomfortable results. During the awkward bedroom scenes, Anaïs looks on - attracted and horrified in equal measure - literally watching through her fingers. As the camera lingers steadily on her sister’s intimacy, seemingly invading an already unpleasant moment, this voyeurism is passed onto the audience, forcing them to either witness or recoil. Breillat carries these moments of emotional transference throughout the film. One unnerving sequence, showing a car journey that follows a family dispute, assaults with a visual and aural sense of danger. With each honking horn, high-speed lane change and roar of a passing truck the audience are made passengers, sitting in constant fear of an accident. Breillat’s frequent use of sustained shots and extended scenes ensures that nothing is cut short for emotional relief.

With an ending that comes out of leftfield, yet perfectly complements the story’s themes, this is a film that looks without blinkers at the complexities of familial ties and adolescent sexuality. The picture it paints is not pretty, but Breillat’s startling approach will not fail to make an impression.