Holy hype – Avatar’s here. James Cameron’s story of the evil that imperialist military men do and rebels engaging in interspecies bonding (that old chestnut) had to wait 12 years to be made. Depending on which internet rumours are to be believed, this was because Cameron had to wait until the technology was right to make this futuristic spectacle; or because he discovered the script in a draw where it had been left years beforehand and forgotten about; or because he stole it from a time traveller from the future causing such a massive rift in the space-time continuum that we’re all doomed to obliteration in the year 2033. Whatever the case, Avatar is set to blow everything else out of the cinemas this Christmas and keep Cameron’s cellar-imprisoned, money-counting minions very, very busy.
A human base is located on the planet Pandora, populated by the Na’vi – a kind of rack-tortured collection of sexy long-smurfs. The film comes in 3 acts: the human characters are introduced; the alien natives are introduced; and the humans try to blow the living shit out of those pesky aliens who have the gall to inhabit this resource-rich land. The avatar refers to the creation of a group of scientists (headed by the always watchable Sigourney Weaver), who are trying to build a relationship with the Na’vi – the scientists have harnessed a technology that allows humans to take on the alien’s form and infiltrate their race in the hope of negotiation. Jake Sully, a soldier, is placed among these scientists in place of his deceased scientist brother so that they can continue to use his avatar. Sully is a paraplegic who through his avatar finds legs and love. With the power of these, he leads his adopted race into battle against his birth race. Hooray.
The plot is fairly basic and the muddled eco-nonsense is not worth discussing (trees as a life support mechanism for memories, life-bonding with flying lizards, etc.) in a story as unsubtle as this. Cameron keeps the narrative fairly compact to ensure everyone knows who to cheer for and avoids the trap Lucas fell into in his Star Wars prequels of misusing the Force to bore people towards the Dark Side (i.e. sleep).
However, it is in the second act where the film comes to cinematic life as we’re introduced to the Na’vi and their world. Here’s where the wow-factor comes into play as Cameron’s visual imagination and skilful direction take the viewer to places rarely realized in fantasy cinema. The CGI maintains a surprising naturalness and functions well to bring the viewer into the story rather than isolate them from it; as is so often the case with directors of fantasy who become onanist rich monkey-boys with their techie toys – and here Cameron blends all the elements together to create a stunning landscape, populated by a vast array of life beautifully realised.
Unfortunately, in the third act, it all descends into a sense-pounding overlong battle that beats you into submission. It’s a relief when it’s over. Yet, all in all, Avatar is an interesting experience and one people should just let themselves buckle up for.
James Cameron…in 2009…with a budget of $300 million. It could have all gone horribly wrong. It didn’t. In a world of downloading, watching films on ipods, and that evil filth-huckster Michael Bay on the loose; thankfully Cameron has given the masses a good reason to go to the cinema. And they will.
This is quite a dark, brooding little tale, made all the more affective by its simplicity. A young boy, Max (Max Records), disobeys his mother (Catherine Keener) and seeks refuge in a land of monsters who adopt him as their king. The film is directed by Spike Jonze and has been adapted from Maurice Sendak's classic children's story. But whereas Sendak's 1963 book, which was less than 350 words long, was a fable for children, Jonze’s film is more a reflection on childhood for adults.
In the world populated by Jim Henson’s overgrown, mondo muppet-monsters, Max learns valuable lessons about who he is and what he has. This is not a world populated by the usual collection of the cartoonish opposites of the good loveable creatures versus the bad evil pantomime ones. Here we have a mixed bunch of hulking hirsute creatures that you will neither cheer for nor boo. But you will listen to and be moved by them.
Not everyone will be enamoured with what happens in this other world. Most of what occurs on the island, with its dense forests, rolling sand dunes, and swooping cliffs, is random and inconclusive. The creatures, mostly somber and occasionally neurotic, are simply living their lives. In between nothing really happening, Max engages in some contemplable dialogue with the monsters (who all represents facets of himself) and gets the chance to play out his problems with aggression and fears of isolation.
Having said all that, Max is actually quite an irritating spoilt little blackguard at the best of times and there can be little sympathy for him as he rallies against his home life; after all it is quite normal and he has a cushy number there pushing the viewer to annoyance at what he has to rage against, and that really he should be disciplined by having his Wii taken off him and no cookies for a week. But he’s a kid – and kids don’t know if they have things easy or not, for their inexperienced egocentricity means that if something bad is happening to them it’s the worst thing in the whole wide world. And yes, it is a simple message he learns. And let’s not even start on the ending (cringe factor 9).
Yet despite this, the world that exists over Max’s rainbow is a sumptuous one to behold and the film is beautifully shot (in Australia) masterfully capturing both scenes of vast open spaces and claustrophobic tight spaces. Jonze treats it all with a low-key approach and uses a natural palette to bring this world to life.
Jonze has made Sendak’s book his own fleshing out its cerebral musings and opening it up to reinterpretation. Where the Wild Things Are is not what you might expect, as is often the case with Jonze. Nevertheless, it’s refreshing to see such a film that doesn’t feel the need to play for laughs or pander to cutesiness. A kid’s film you don’t have to bring kids to.
If you can forgive Steven Soderbergh the money-grubbing silliness that is Ocean’s Eleven (and counting); then one can only admire his list of achievements in American mainstream cinema. He seems to consciously move from one project to the next embracing their differences without feeling the need to stamp an auteurial brand on them. FromSex, Lies, and Videotape (made when he was 26) through films such as Erin Brockovich, the underrated The Limey and Traffic, to his adventurous, if flawed Che biopic, Soderbergh has consistently proved himself to be one of the most interesting (and prolific) directors around.
This time, Soderbergh returns to our screens with The Informant!, adapted from Kurt Eichenwald's 2000 novel of the same name (minus the exclamation mark!) The film tells the true story of whistle-blower Mark Whitacre, a high-flying executive for AMD, the major agri-business corporation in the American Midwest, and one of the largest companies in the world, commanding a billion-dollar-a-year market. From1992-1995, Whitacre worked undercover for the FBI providing inside information on his employer’s illegal tactics of worldwide price-fixing, which at one point was bringing in $2.5 million in profits in a month.
As the film develops, Whitacre reveals himself to be more than a mere informer as his schizoid storytelling begets a twisted web of intrigue. His initial reasoning for doing what he’s doing is that he wants ‘to do the right thing.’ It’s apparent soon enough that Whitacre’s understanding of ‘right’ is gymnastically flexible.
The film is billed as a comedy thriller, and there are certain funny moments, but The Informant! relies for its success on the ‘I can’t believe he’s doing that’ moments, as Whitacre digs himself deeper and deeper in duplicity as he seems to pursue his own agenda.
Matt Damon puts in a tremendous performance here (his best since 1999’s The Talented Mr. Ripley) as the complex main character, portraying all of Whitacre’s eccentricities without playing them for laughs or slipping into farce. Damon holds the whole thing together with skill and is only really upstaged by FBI agent Brian Shepard’s hair (brilliantly played by Scott Bakula’s hair). The stylish well-paced narrative is backed by a storming jazzy soundtrack, courtesy of Marvin Hamlisch, which matches the twists and turns of this engrossing story. The Informant! is an enjoyable romp made all the more entertaining by the fact that it’s based on some sort of insecure truth.
Lisa Mulcahy’s new Irish comedy film tells the stories of 3 young Dubliners and their problems with work and women. Jesus.
Dave (Diarmuid Noyes) lives with his mother and goes on a succession of white-collar interviews where his imaginative forays spill over into lies in an effort to secure a job and a girl. Vinny (Shaun Dunne) is an unqualified painter who accepts the challenge to get a girl. Tom (Sam Corry)is trapped in a loveless relationship and a dead-end job and bullied in both.
It’s impossible to warm to the central character Dave, who comes across as quite smug and the film falls flat as, by the end, it is difficult to care about him. Vinny’s character is likeable but is under written and one-dimensional, though he does come somewhat into his own at the end. Tom is the strongest of the three and is well played by Corry. His situation is by far the most interesting and shows the most comic potential, which, unfortunately is never realized; and perhaps, if it were developed, there could have been a much better film on offer here.
As it is, Situations Vacant suffers from an uninspired script, clunky dialogue, lightweight characters and an annoying, repetitive soundtrack. For the most part, it comes across like an undergraduate project.
The surrounding characters provide some relief from the narrative that drags along trying to piece its comic set-ups together – Dave’s mother, a creepy social welfare officer, the pub sage. Unfortunately it’s not enough to liven up the tiresome story line that staggers along. There are many problems with the film; the main one being that it’s just not funny.
How this project got any sort of green light beggars belief. The blame has to lie at the feet of the Irish Film Board who funded this muck. Who read this script and allowed it to be made? It seems that a clique is at work here, all thinking that what is going on is hilarious – it’s not. This is supposed to be a funny take on modern day Dublin – it’s not. It’s like someone dressing a dog up and trying to pass it off to you as your Granny.
It’s difficult to have a comedy without central comic figures or situations and the ‘one-of-the-lads’ set of characters cannot bring any light to this dull affair. It’s a shame when an Irish film gets a cinematic release and it’s as mediocre as this. There is plenty of talent out there – it just needs those with the money to get behind the right projects.
There is a current trend in Hollywood for ‘Kaufman-esque’ type films; that being screenplays based on strange fictionalized ‘facts’ that deal with metaphysical matters in a quirky manner – Kaufman having provided us with Adaption, Being John Malkovich, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Synecdoche, all of which blur the lines between physical reality and mental surreality. Stranger Than Fiction recently found itself being tagged as such, and now along comes the much-lauded Cold Souls – another “ ‘Kaufman-esque’ ” film.
Cold Souls posits a world in which it is possible for a person to have their soul extracted and replaced with another one. The company providing this service stores anonymous souls for those wishing to relieve themselves of the burden of their own. One such soul punter is Paul Giamatti, who, in true Kaufmann style, plays himself, an actor currently starring in a theatrical production of Checkov’s Uncle Vanya. Giamatti, struggling with the role and going through a difficult period in his life, decides to give the soul swap a try, which of course goes horribly wrong.
Giamatti’s soul gets mixed up in a soul trafficking enterprise and, as a result, finds its way to Russia, where it has been transplanted into the body of a Russian soap actress. Giamatti sets off in pursuit.
Now, obviously this film has been influenced by Kaufman’s work; but to what extent does influence become crafty inventive plagiarism? Cold Souls makes a magpie of Barthes as she steals Kaufman’s silver spoon. Unfortunately, with Cold Souls, she makes a wooden spoon of it. Whereas Kaufman’s ontological output plays clever games wielding the dice of existential angst and absurdist humour, Cold Souls lacks a sense of itself and fails to deal with its initial intriguing premise.
The writer/director Sophie Barthes has re-fashioned a quirky film that sounds more interesting than it actually is. It comes across like the result of a dinner-party conversation fuelled by wine and ‘what if…’ conversations, after philosophy 101 evening classes. The film could have been much better had the resulting plot been abandoned and the original idea fleshed out and exploited more. Metaphysics is ripe for humour! Cue Woody Allen joke…
On the plus side – at least Barthes has made a film that gets a mainstream cinema release which extends beyond the usual dumbed-down, teenage-marketed manure that fill our screens. And of course, it’s always fun to watch Paul Giamatti – he has a couple of scenes that allow his manic glazed look to get some laughs. But the novelty of the premise that lies behind the film rapidly runs out of steam before the movie even reaches halfway. Not as clever or as funny as it thinks it is, Cold Soulsis more damp squib.
Still though, better than two-thirds of the repugnant dross showing at the omniplex.
Sometimes cinema throws up works that are obviously a product of Satan’s workshop and stand as proof of his devilish means of killing us softly with his film. Couples Retreat is one such soul-destroying piece of vomited tripe.
Billed as a comedy; the only joke is the fact that this film was ever made in the first place. Written and produced by that bloated dunderheaded hog, Vince Vaughan, the film reunites him with his Swingers oafish half-witted sidekick, whose turgid chest looks as if it cannot contain his smugness. The plot is nothing more than an excuse for everyone involved to have a holiday in Bora Bora based as it is on 4 couples having a holiday in Bora Bora. Once there, they must immerse themselves in couple-bonding activities in an effort to save their marriages. What is supposed to ensue is hilarity; but instead the film throws up scene after scene of root canal guff.
The ridiculous premise of the film feels its need to be justified by the opening 20 minutes that seems to go out of its way to introduce the audience to a set of characters. The script is devoid of any semblance of wit or imagination and would appear to be the result of Vaughan repeatedly smashing his forehead against a keyboard. Here is proof against that argument that a room full of chimpanzees with typewriters could write Shakespeare – Couples Retreat is the end product.
Sitting through this mind-numbing collection of cobbled-together slop of malignant idiots on holiday could only be made better if suffering from a severe case of flaming haemorrhoids, the pain of which made it impossible to take in anything on screen.
Couples Retreat is a shameful exercise in megalomania and should be avoided at all costs. Everyone involved should have their foreheads tattooed with ‘I’m Sorry’. With films like this; ever feel like you’ve been had? Audiences Retreat.
At the height of their success, in the early ’60s, The Clancy brothers and Tommy Makem were being watched by 50 million TV viewers in the US, were outselling the Beatles, playing for JFK and had, in Liam Clancy, ‘the best ballad singer I’d ever met’ - according to Bob Dylan. Alan Gilsenan’s The Yellow Bittern is a well-structured documentary that captures the essence of Clancy describing, as he says himself in his own biography, ‘the countless nights on countless stages through forty years of acting, singing, and general foolishness.’
Much of the material here is Liam retracing that 2002 biography, Memoirs of an Irish Troubadour. Nevertheless, it is a great chance to hear Clancy himself telling these stories breaking out into poetry and song along the way. The memories are further brought to life through the use of some excellent archive footage; taking in along the way all the pain and pleasures of his public and personal life and the fascinating journey it took.
The DVD comes with an extras disk that includes interviews, Liam at home with friends and additional performances.
A man in his fifties is obsessed with Tony Manero – John Travolta’s strutting, extended-arm disco shuffler from Saturday Night Fever. He enters a TV contest in the hope to be the best Tony Manero impersonator and win a blender for his efforts. Sounds a laugh-a-minute romp. Well it isn’t. Because this particular mimic is a psychopathic killer, whose acts of violence and impotent attempts at seducing his girlfriend’s daughter are set against the backdrop of Pinochet’s reign of terror in Chile. And he defecates on other people’s clothes – of course.
Directed by Pablo Larrain, the film focuses on a few days in the life of Raúl Peralta (an understated yet ferocious performance from Alfredo Castro, who had a hand in the screenplay along with Larrain and fellow writer, Mateo Ibibarren). Raúl heads a dance troupe in his local cantina performing laboured sequences from Saturday Night Fever – the Riverdance of the late seventies. For Raúl though, it’s much more than the dance. Sitting alone in his local cinema day after day, he repeats lines from his beloved film. In essence, Raúl’s obsession drives his psychopathic need to escape his everyday life and take on the new heroic identity that Travolta’s Manero seems to provide. All the trappings of Manero’s world are sought by Raúl – to such an extent that not only does he don that suit, but also builds his own dancefloor based on the one Travolta struts across. In order to achieve this, Raúl resorts to horrific acts of violence to get what he wants.
Here we have the ‘killer on the dancefloor’ incarnate. Certain scenes are uncomfortable to watch and others produce nervous laughter and groans – when Raúl finds out his local cinema that has been showing Saturday Night Fever for so long has replaced it with Grease, it doesn’t take him long to bludgeon the cinema attendant who sold him his ticket. There are obvious links between Raúl’s actions and those of the dictatorial regime in place at that time in Chile; but this is woven subtly into the plot rather than stitched on for effect.
Tony Manero won the top prize at the 26th annual Torino Film Festival in 2008, as well as the FIPRESCI prize (the international federation of film critics) for best film, and Alfredo Castro was awarded best actor. The film was also Chile’s submission to the 81st Academy® Awards for Best Foreign Language Film. There are no lessons learnt here. No character arcs. No redemption. No happy ending. This shouldn’t deter people from seeing it though. Whoever does, will be rewarded by experiencing one of the better films to hit the screens this year.
Claire Denis is one in a long line of women that have been among the first rank of French directors. From Alice Guy-Blaché, through Agnès Varda and Marguerite Duras, to Nelly Kaplan and Diane Kurys, French cinema has continuously provided a space for female directors to bring their artistic merit to the fore. Denis returns to Irish screens this year with 35 Shots of Rum, an affectionate and tender portrait of Lionel (Alex Descas) and his daughter Joséphine (Mati Diop), who are at a transitional stage in their lives.
The film centres on their own particular relationship and that of two neighbours in the same apartment block, whose lives have become intertwined. Though the details of the characters’ lives are never made clear, the film elicits themes of letting go.
As in life, our encounters with these characters are, for the main part, mere glimpses into their lives. The film pulls the viewer into these people’s lives at a particular moment. Rather than spoon-feed a back story and character motivation in an effort to tell a complete story over the course of the film’s duration, Denis rests the camera on how things are, simply as they are, always maintaining a distance from the characters.
The film’s progress is marked by an elliptical naturalness that reflects life’s nature as moments of experience. As such, rather than being the sum of their narrative parts, the characters reveal themselves in subtle ways, culminating in a beautiful dialogue-free scene in a late-night café illuminated by music, when the four characters play out their pasts, presents and futures.
With restrained, affective performances and a beautiful score by Tindersticks, this is probably the only time the experience of 35 shots of rum will leave a sweet taste in your mouth.
