(500) Words Review: Hugo

For a great director, Martin Scorsese finds himself pigeonholed. His 90s crime sagas Goodfellas and Casino, are endearing and enduring pictures, despite the latter feeling like a remake of the former. Perhaps mindful of his marvellous monotony, he is occasionally impelled to move left-field. So now he has embraced 3D.

Far from the last bastion of the three-dimensional resistance, it is nevertheless a drastic departure for the Queens-born New Yorker. Hugo is an explicit family film, with Scorsese playing the little kid whose eyes witness a romanticised 1930s Paris.

Orphan Hugo Cabaret (Asa Butterfield) lives within the walls of a train station and is vexed by the enigma of an unfinished automaton, which is linked to his late father. Suspicion is then aroused when the station’s cantankerous toy stall owner Georges Méliès (Sir Ben Kingsley) becomes disturbed by the boy’s pictorial notebook of the contraption. Recruiting Georges’ loquacious goddaughter Isabelle (Chloë Grace Moretz), Hugo ventures to seek the clues to unlock the mystery.

Although a love letter to cinema, this is also a lecture that feels both pretentious and pushy. ‘You’ve never been to the movies?’ Hugo sneers at Isabelle. Not every child, impoverished or not, ventured to the cinema in the 1920s – its place in culture then was insignificant and interrupted by the Great War.

Treated to a brief history of early film’s power and majesty, it would be interesting to know how this will chime with younger viewers. Even many adults will find the filmmakers’ nostalgia of esoteric cinema too high-brow.

Butterfield himself is part of the problem with his haughtiness. Deeply affecting in 2008s The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, he struggles to be likable despite the usually certified sympathy-inducing issue of being an orphan. He delivers lines starchily and while this is expected thanks to Hugo’s miserable circumstances, he discovers happiness recurrently yet is unable to set hearts leaping.

Everyone is however handicapped by what is a deeply underwhelming story. The reveal behind the mystique is part of the sermon, and rarely do you care whether Hugo finally discovers the secret behind his father’s parting gift.

Detachment to the emotion is briefly quelled by the brilliance of Kingsley, who radiates the screen with his enigmatic façade and complexity. He and on-screen wife Helen McCrory are an inspired pair, offering palpable poignancy as they return to the past and its pleasures.

Fleshing out the characters is troublesome because it is unnecessary. Scorsese has assembled a talented British cast which is superfluous; their inclusions are a poor effort in adding meat to a thin bone. Sacha Baron Cohen, a not-very-sinister villain, is another character tagged with ‘sympathetic upbringing’ in a forceful bid for redemption.

Unfortunately engaging human elements and thrill factors are rare. Scorsese’s dissolving effects, mise-en-scène and camerawork are virtuoso, but limited to the confines of a train station. An unnatural and gratuitous set-piece occurs for the sake of the format, and thereby lets the cat out of the sack; a tale becomes stumped for magical moments.

British Independent Film Awards: When can we see the films?

British film has experienced a remarkable revival this calendar year. On a commercial scale, the top three films at the UK box office are The King’s Speech, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 and The Inbetweeners. Although the middle film is produced by Warner Bros., it is an unmistakably British franchise.

The quantity of cash raked in by the aforementioned trio is complemented by quality too. Although as someone who hasn’t seen The Inbetweeners film I can’t pass judgement on how it translated on to the cinema screen. But aside from the money-makers, the smaller films have also made it a vintage year for Blighty’s previously ailing and clichéd industry.

It was at the British Independent Film awards on Sunday night where the quality was keenly felt. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, Tyrannosaur, Shame, We Need to Talk About Kevin and Senna were the best picture nominees and could (or is that should) have the same accolade bestowed upon them Stateside. (Unfathomably, the American Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences have not shortlisted Senna for best documentary, let alone best picture though.)

Unfortunately the quandary is that the public hasn’t seen some of them. This is not by virtue of laziness but via the lack of screens showing British films, which answers the question why British pictures were getting marginalised.

TTSS is an exception because it was a British blockbuster. There was palpable zeal ahead of its release thanks to the starry and home-grown cast blending the old (Gary Oldman and Colin Firth) and the young (Tom Hardy and Benedict Cumberbatch) as well as two blinding trailers. That’s without mentioning that it is based on an international bestseller and the memory of its revered 1979 BBC series.

Asif Kapadia’s Senna excelled because it innovatively used archive footage to tell the journey of a force of nature who tragically met his demise far too early. But because it was a documentary, it was allotted a limited release – and yet it still set a UK box office record for a documentary of £375,000 on its opening weekend.

Such success should provide ample evidence that the British cinema-goer is not that shallow or vacuous. And yet both Tyrannosaur and We Need to Talk About Kevin, two films which received immense buzz prior to their opening day, were only screened at selected cinemas. The majority of the public cannot justify forking out money on transport to see a film.

Last week I could not find a single cinema in my county (Kent) showing Terrence Davies’ The Deep Blue Sea – another British film. It is not a micro-budget production; it features Rachel Weisz and Tom Hiddleston in what has been likened to David Lean’s sweeping classic Brief Encounter (1946). Mercifully Lean is not directing in this era, otherwise we may never have known his grandiose gems.

Shame is exempted because it has yet to be released (it played at the London Film Festival, hence why it qualifies for accolades in 2011). Yet that too will inevitably appear only in selected cinemas because it's about a sex addict, played by Michael Fassbender, and acquired the dreaded NC-17 certificate in the US.

Nevertheless, Britain’s own residents are being starved of their own films because presumably we have to engage our brains. Maybe if producers attempted to communicate with their demographic they would allow extended releases. Film in the 21^st century is not in rude health, yet on the rare exception when genuine quality arrives, it has already left the platform after a fleeting stay.

Bracketing different cultures into one demographic is ignorant and punishing. Even English-speakers’ attitudes are different. Britain is a much smaller country than America, so its thought process will inevitably differ to those across the Atlantic.

Plenty of cinephiles would happily see a Michael Bay flick receive the transitory time on screen as has befallen Paddy Considine’s directorial debut or Lynne Ramsay’s return after almost a decade. Mark Kermode, on his popular Radio 5 Live podcast, listed Ramsay’s We Need to Talk About Kevin as his film of the year in October. The problem was nobody could see it.

Not that anyone should choose to, but you can’t holler ‘The British are coming!’ because how great do we know Britain has become again?

(500) Words Review: The Rum Diary

For those perturbed by the dysfunctional nature of The Rum Diary, the clue lies in the title. The original book itself is a fictional serialisation by Hunter S Thompson of his stint at the San Juan Star in 1960, in between unabashed hedonism. If you seek a coherent story, look elsewhere.

But here’s the irony: it’s not incoherent. Not nearly enough. Johnny Depp’s Paul Kemp consumes 161 miniatures from the mini bar, necks 470 proof alcohol and takes a haunting trip (‘Your tongue is like an accusatory giblet’), but the madness is tame. And the alcohol seems diluted.

Already the film has tanked in the US, indicating a growing weariness with Depp’s career path the past decade. It’s also a symptom of not countenancing atypical storytelling, courtesy of Withnail and I writer and director Bruce Robinson’s return to cinema. The clash of cultures doesn’t appease the sensitive souls across the Atlantic – this is Robinson’s first film since 1992’s Jennifer Eight – an experience he found so horrific that he swore never to direct again. A promise he held for 17 years before accepting Depp’s offer to return to the chair.

Robinson admitted that he used just two lines from the novel and preferred to imbue the screenplay with his own surrogate imagination of Thompson’s. As a task, he succeeds, however rather than utilise a discombobulating Gonzo-inspired narrative, the film’s intentions become muddled. Various tones are meshed to such arid proportions that all the steam on the Thompson Express is spent within the first hour.

And again Depp’s Pirates shtick re-emerges in what is becoming laziness on his behalf. It backfired spectacularly in Alice in Wonderland and here the monotony to which audiences have grown accustomed to fails once more. He awakes in his trashed hotel room, hungover and eyes bloodshot, but his enviably toned torso and floppy hair obliterates the shock factor. In fact, he has rarely looked more like his in Cry-Baby (1990) greaser.

The support is insufficient too. Amber Heard’s vivacious eye candy is just that whilst Aaron Eckhart, still attracted to crooked roles, has also succumbed to the boredom that Depp invariably induces. Michael Rispoli (Sala) and Giovanni Ribisi (Moburg) energise proceedings and understand the Thompson ethos as Kemp’s debauched cohorts yet Richard Jenkins, a gifted comic actor, is utterly miscast.

Easy targets such as the American Dream, although an interesting subject matter when handled deftly, act as a redundant cliché taking up too much of the running time. Possibly a comment on the modern state of journalism and its ostensible impotence, it is nevertheless an incongruous inclusion.

Sharp dialogue and raucous set-pieces lift the 16mm retro image of Puerto Rico, but the rum has been spiked with pretentiousness.

(500) Words Review: The Adventures of Tintin

The last time audiences flocked to a Steven Spielberg-directed flick, they trudged out disconsolate at the soul-shattering shambles that was Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Although occupied with producing commitments, he hasn’t been this profligate since a well-deserved four-year sojourn after 1993’s Schindler’s List. Maybe he was soul-searching.

But as the old adage goes, form is temporary and class is permanent. Spielberg began shooting The Adventures of Tintin: The Secret of the Unicorn two-and-a-half-years ago, which possibly illustrates his determination to settle back into the director’s chair. And in the long-awaited big-screen adaptation of Hergé’s roving Belgian reporter (Spielberg purchased the rights 18 years ago), the hallmarks have returned, but all too blatantly.

An amalgamation of the tales The Crab with the Golden Claws and the two-parter The Secret of the Unicorn and Red Rackham's Treasure, Tintin (Jamie Bell) and faithful dog Snowy investigate Ivanovich Sakharine (Daniel Craig)’s fascination with a model of the Unicorn ship. Swiftly embroiled in danger, the intrepid duo collaborate with the quaffed and grizzled Haddock (Andy Serkis) to unravel the mystique and mystery behind the 17^th century vessel.

Hergé commented before his death in 1983 that Spielberg was the only director who could do justice to his comic creation. Evidently citing Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), that film is a recurring presence in a motion-capture adventure 30 years later. An escape sequence on a tramp steamer and a chase through African territory, although enjoyable, are animated rehashes benefitting from Michael Kahn’s rip-roaring editing.

Significantly, the latter two acts never hit the heights of the opening half hour. The noirish lighting, in what is assumed to be Brussels, sprinkles an element of danger upon proceedings as the story gathers momentum with balance and dexterity. But this isn’t matched by the globe-trotting travails in the continental heat, further handicapped by imbalanced recollections of Haddock’s ancestor.

One caveat with the motion-capture gimmick is that it is devoid of emotion-capture. And it is no coincidence that the sole actor who excels at this is the seasoned Serkis. Craig adopts a menacing tone as Sakharine but his nefariousness is limited to a couple of obligatory gestures that are deliberate prerequisites at the behest of 3-D; which is superfluous.

Serkis is the chief humourist too in comparison to the dry Tintin. Despite eponymous billing, the quiff plays second fiddle to Haddock, who showcases swash and buckle. Simon Pegg and Nick Frost are supposed to be funny as bumbling detectives Thomson and Thompson but are anything but. They even look uncomfortable behind their unrecognisable facet.

Visually, it is not the treat one would expect its creators to provide (Peter Jackson supervised and will direct the sequel) when they have both pushed the cinematic boundaries time and again. Although Super 8 was an antidote was retro chic, it was a spiritual remake of ET, and now Tintin flirts with donning a fedora. Influences are essential and homages are nostalgic, providing you’re Quentin Tarantino. Not if you’re Steven Spielberg.

George Lucas is still ruining our childhood

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away… a scriptwriter defined the childhood of a generation of beguiled youths with his planetary World War II-inspired saga that revolutionised the sci-fi genre. The original Star Wars trilogy shot George Lucas into the A list stratosphere after respectable indie efforts THX 1138 (1971) and American Graffiti (1973), but then he came crashing back down to Earth.

For children of the second Star Wars generation, it’s not been as happy an intergalactic childhood. In 1999 the first of the prequels, The Phantom Menace, shattered the hopes of adults returning to the theatre in giddy anticipation and baffled their kids who had been schooled on one of film’s most beloved franchises.

Proving that Yazz weren’t always right, along then came Episode II: Attack of the Clones. As wooden as a Trojan Horse and beset with wretched dialogue that made Phantom Menace a work of Harold Pinter, something was afoot. Fans and critics still extended an invite for redemption after the first episode’s flaws (Jar Jar Binks) but as Oscar Wilde may have said, ‘To script one bad film would be an accident. To script two would seem like carelessness.’

Despite improvement with the series’ finale Revenge of the Sith, it was another lacklustre addition to one of pop culture’s biggest phenomenon's. Lucas had actually ended the original trilogy on a whimper with Return of the Jedi’s ‘Muppets in Space’ premise as a plethora of teddy bears toppled a nefarious empire. So although there was a 16-year gap between number six and number one, was it that shocking that Lucas had exhibited more hopeless storytelling?

An imaginative visionary he may be, but the evidence is damning, and he should not be allowed to inflict more misery on passionate film-goers. Yet three years on from the underwhelming end to Star Wars came Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, and this time yours truly could gauge how the 80s Star Wars aficionados felt when trudging out from Phantom Menace.

In one foul swoop, another much-loved John Williams theme would be tainted with nightmarish visions, this time of Shia LaBeouf swinging from trees with monkeys. Now the Indiana Jones films are a case of two good, two bad after the dull MacGuffin (a plot element that drives the plot), shrieking incessancy of Kate Capshaw and irritating kid sidekick Short Round in 1984s Temple of Doom. But soon the bad might outweigh the good.

Steven Spielberg, who has directed all four instalments, confirmed recently that Lucas was working on the script for a fifth outing. The worldwide ambivalence veers from demanding a fitting finale to compensate for the KOTCS catastrophe to dreading another 21^st century Lucas film, with a side order of LaBeouf.

Justly, Spielberg is largely immune from criticism over Indy’s two failed excursions. His desire to delight new generations with their own Jaws or ET or Raiders of the Lost Ark seals his faith with fans, and his back catalogue ensures he is cut a thick slice of slack rather than the wafer thin wedge placed on Lucas’ plate. Heartening too were his recent comments over Lucas and KOTCS.

‘George is in charge of breaking the stories. He's done it on all four movies. Whether I like the stories or not, George has broken all the stories,’ he said in Empire. That’s both a compliment (Raiders and The Last Crusade) but most tellingly, a criticism of his best friend. And the friendship appears to be the problem.

‘George and I had big arguments about the MacGuffin. I didn't want these things to be either aliens or inter-dimensional beings,’ he added. ‘But I am loyal to my best friend. When he writes a story he believes in - even if I don't believe in it - I'm going to shoot the movie the way George envisaged it.’

That’s arguably a blotch on Spielberg’s copybook because the audience should be of paramount importance in the process of movie-making. If he and Lucas aren’t pulling in the same direction, even two of cinema’s 70s sensations can cook up a bona fide disaster and will consequently lose trust in the audience.

LaBeouf, although reviled by the fedora following, was candid enough to share his discomfort with the finished product: ‘I feel like I dropped the ball on the legacy that people loved and cherished. Harrison (Ford) wasn’t happy with it either.’ Ford however dubbed his castmate a ‘fucking idiot’ for his retrospective comments, another example of blinded loyalty within the Lucas circle.

Even with a lucrative project brimming with a talented ensemble Lucas causes chaos before, during and after. The recent release of Star Wars on Blu-ray has angered many disenchanted with the digitalised tinkering that betrays the ethos of why the films were originally made. An undeniably creative filmmaker, Lucas' stubbornness over his babies needs another step-parent so that another bastard isn’t born.

(500) Words Review: Midnight in Paris

Every other Woody Allen film the past decade has been billed a ‘return to form’; however that theory has altered in the last six years. His last two films Whatever Works (2009) and You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger (2010) both underwhelmed critics and although Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008) was an irreverent success, its predecessors Scoop (2006) and Cassandra’s Dream (2007) were certainly not after the excellent Match Point (2005).

By de facto law then, Midnight in Paris had to triumph and thanks to its punchy premise it does, underlining again how Allen is just as skilled a filmmaker on foreign shores as he is in his beloved New York. The romance and the comedy is intact without veering into the banality of a rom-com, but nostalgia fuels the reverence for his latest picture thanks to the charming time-travel aspect, as Owen Wilson’s downtrodden Hollywood writer Gil winds up in 1920s Paris when the bell chimes at midnight.

Stultified by his fiancée (Rachel McAdams)’s pushiness and the pedantry of her ubiquitous college pal Michael Sheen, a nocturnal stroll leads to a Peugeot Landaulet whisking Gil into the Golden Age of La Ville-Lumière where he meets F. Scott Fitzgerald (Tom Hiddleston), Ernest Hemingway (Corey Stoll) and Salvador Dalí (a flamboyant Adrien Brody) amongst others, to the soundtrack of Cole Porter, played by Cole Porter. It is during his wistful ventures that he becomes smitten with Marion Cotillard’s alluring Adriana when he finds himself in a quandary.

Allen revealed that this is his first film to go through a digital intermediate instead of being colour timed in the traditional photochemical way, as he explores whether to deploy the method on future films. His timing is impeccable as Paris is presented beautifully by Se7en’s atmospheric cinematographer Darius Khondji, aided by seasoned French cameraman Johanne Debas, with an immersive panache whether it’s the city’s past or present, day or night.

Performances come secondary to the grandeur of not only Paris but a grandiose cameo by Versailles, although Wilson, prone to monotony, excels in a more sophisticated comedy that recalls his early performances under Wes Anderson. Cotillard’s magnetism is intensified by her 20s garments while McAdams and on-screen Republican parents Mimi Kennedy and Kurt Fuller fence with Wilson’s left-wing idealist in a couple of wry exchanges.

The romantic element is diluted by its hackneyed inexorableness in the present but the fish out of water facet is charming and light. Paris sizzles.

Bond's ultimatum

During a news day last year, a story suggestion yours truly offered to cover which would be breaking in the afternoon was of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) edging closer to a sale after a period of uncertainty. To add weight to the story’s appeal, it was re-affirmed to our female editor that Leo the Lion’s roar had preceded much loved films such as West Side Story, The Magnificent Seven, the Pink Panther series, Annie Hall and distributed one of Great Britain’s greatest institutions, James Bond. Her response was disapproving.

‘Does anyone care about James Bond anymore?’

Well yes, they do. Millions actually. But her snooty retort is a view shared by many since the period from 1989 to 1995, when 007 endured his longest sabbatical away from the silver screen. As time elapsed, the Berlin Wall collapsed and Cold War paranoia was vanquished, so why did the new world need a relic who was originally created against the backdrop of the post-World War II era? Producer Michael G Wilson, however, was of the opinion that ‘The world is more in need of James Bond than ever.’

Goldeneye (1995) quashed any notion that because communists were no longer deemed a viable threat, it wasn’t still business as usual for Mr Bond. Pierce Brosnan, silver-tongued and clad in Brioni, faced off against Sean Bean’s rugged Alec Trevelyan in a politically aware yet Bondian picture that resuscitated the franchise and contemporised it into a phenomenal cash cow. The Nintendo 64 game, idolised to this day, was at the forefront of a new merchandise drive.

Thursday 6 October marked the 49^th anniversary of the Bond film franchise, and number 23 is forthcoming next year that MGM’s studio uncertainty has been quelled by Sony. Sony this week registered URL domains including 'skyfallthemovie.com', 'skyfallfilm.com' and even 'jamesbondskyfall.com’, ahead of next year’s 50^th anniversary film. At times it has felt like the sky would fall on the future of Bond on film, but Daniel Craig will be slipping back into the tuxedo and desirable Tom Ford suits for a third time, while Oscar-winning director Sam Mendes is at the helm with shooting to start next month.

Yet Bond is experiencing a new identity crisis as the challenge now is to tailor the agent through the ages in the post-9/11 era. Once this has succeeded, with Craig’s superlative debut in 2006’s Casino Royale, but twice it has floundered via the ignorantly absurd Die Another Day (2002) and the straight-to-video fare of Quantum of Solace (2008). Disregarding Brosnan’s final appearance, Craig’s Bond has not so much taken a few leaves out of Jason Bourne’s handbook, as plagiarised it.

This was effectively portrayed in Royale because the director, Martin Campbell, had experienced guiding Brosnan through his first assignment 11 years previously, and his filming encapsulated Bondian grandeur. The post-credit chase sequence through Madagascar (although filmed in Nassau) features several frames that could adorn the walls of the Tate Modern.

But sandwiched in between Royale and Quantum was The Bourne Ultimatum (2007). Paul Greengrass had achieved the remarkable feat of performing on The Bourne Supremacy (2004) and its predecessor, the electric The Bourne Identity (2002), to conclude a trilogy that flirts with perfection and includes, aptly, its own identity.

Banally though, Quantum followed the blueprints of Ultimatum and discombobulated its audience with excessive cutting in a rushed and incomprehensible 100 minutes. Emotion was sapped in the absence of a worthy female successor to Eva Green’s Vesper Lynd, an airborne dogfight was tedious and sadly, we didn’t care about Bond, as striking as Craig was.

It is uncanny how Craig’s opening two films as Bond resemble Brosnan’s auspicious start and hasty follow-up (Tomorrow Never Dies). Marc Forster, a director with aesthetic qualities at heart, was an incongruous choice for Quantum, patent since although the second unit boasted Dan Bradley (he of Bourne fame), the director didn’t have the nous to make it cinematic rather than Steven Seagal hash.

Sam Mendes is inarguably more Forster than Campbell. His CV boasts a theatrical background, American Beauty, Road to Perdition and Jarhead ­– a Gulf War film minus the fighting – amongst others. The aforementioned films and remark are not criticism, but evidence that, as an auteur, he is a left-field choice despite his British citizenship. He has nevertheless been attached to the project for close to two years now, and his working relationship with Craig – as divulged by the latter – is heartening. The pair have re-read Ian Fleming’s books, and speaking to Hollywood Outlook, Craig stated: ‘Sam (Mendes) is a huge, huge Bond fan and has been all his life. He and I both said at the beginning to each other that the only thing we want to do is make the best James Bond movie we can. So therefore, we have to go back to what we know about the books, what we know about the movies and what we know about all of that... And improve upon it.’

Enticingly, Javier Bardem (No Country for Old Men) and Ralph Fiennes (In Bruges) are both locked in for roles, with the former touted as the villain and the latter’s character described as a ‘darkly complex role’, that requires ‘only an actor of great ability and dexterity’. The prospect of the pair facing off with Craig almost certainly guarantees similar character development which bolstered Royale so terrifically.

It was compelling to witness Bond get hurt, appear vulnerable and be devoid of Q Branch gadgets in Craig’s first effort, but the caveat is that the fun is being extracted from the series. Mendes’ greatest challenge is to strike the perfect Bond concoction of humour, grit and gimmicks – the benchmark of perfection to aspire to is perhaps Terence Young’s From Russia with Love (1963).

The franchise’s films up until 1989’s License to Kill would end the credits with the uplifting promise that MI6’s finest would return in one of Fleming’s revered titles. Insecurity has since re-emanated and whereas 12 films were released in the 20 years beginning in 1962, just six have been made following Timothy Dalton’s last fire of a Walther PPK. But rest assured, James Bond will return. On October 26 2012.