“We ought to order tea or something if we’re going to stay here long…”
Based on the novel A Shilling for Candles by Josephine Tey, Hitchcock’s twenty third film takes some liberties with its source material, but manages to offer a reasonably engaging man-on-the-run thriller, of the kind beloved of Hitch. The version of Young and Innocent available on Britbox is also of remarkably pristine quality, so much so that the deep shadows and bright skies of summer really spring out of the screen, maybe more so due to the monochrome.
There’s also a pair of likeable and engaging lead performances from Nova Pilbeam and Derrick De Marney. Pilbeam put me in mind of Maxine Peake in appearance and on the strength of Young and Innocent you’d think that her expressive face would be better known, but as in common with many actresses of the ‘20s and ‘30s she had a relatively short screen career, perhaps with the contemporary attitude being to make hay while the sun shone and then retire gracefully. De Marney has the clipped British tones that really don’t sound like anybody British I’ve ever met, and I’ve lived here all my life, but still, a voice that exists in a certain era of cinema as the heroic everyman centre of films such as these (see also Robert Donat in The 39 Steps).
De Marney plays Robert Tisdall, who like many Hitchcock heroes, ends up having his day go to bollocks just because he innocently got involved in events bigger than himself. You have to wonder how absolutely incriminating the spectacle of him running away from the drowned body is, but those two young ladies do seem absolutely appalled and convinced of his guilt, so what’s a police officer going to do? Sorry Son, that’s enough evidence for me! Down the station with you! Meanwhile, we already know there is a jealous husband out there, who is likely the killer. The bloke has a really noticeable twitch. I’m talking proper full on face gymnastics here. He probably should have got someone else to do the dirty work for him, because with a facial performance like that you just know he’s going to be easy to find later. So, already there’s a plot forming that is likely to keep you committed, as long as you overlook the sillier aspects. While praising the film’s strengths, I also have to mention the miniature model work, which is exceptional. I’m never convinced how much these scenes are always necessary, but Hitchcock stages certain scenes exactly how he liked with visual trickery and it usually convinces very well. Bernard Knowles is the camera man, but not sure who supplied the model work. I’ll get back to you on that.
While the film certainly has its merits, it’s a far lesser offering from Hitchcock than would have been usual, even at this early stage. The stakes never feel high enough and like a less considered Columbo script, the motives and ultimate ‘gotcha’ don’t stand up to scrutiny. As with many Hitchcock films, the ending can catch you by surprise unless you’ve been checking the run time; everything is wrapped up very neatly and swiftly in a few minutes. Would finding the murderer under fraught circumstances really convince him to give himself up in maniacal, laughing declaration of guilt? Maybe, maybe not. Young and innocent is best enjoyed for the two leads and their character’s slowly blossoming affection. Having said that, there are times where the film gives over so much time to quiet, unhurried scenes of their romantic bonding that any sense of jeopardy is all but diffused. This makes Young and Innocent less of a nail biting race to prove a man’s innocence in the mould of The 39 Steps or North by Northwest (to name but two of many) and more of a leisurely holiday in the country with a few road blocks and half-hearted car chases. I felt that if the couple stopped off for cream teas, there would still be plenty of time to evade the police. A sort of To Catch a Thief, but without the colour, vistas and sense of intrigue.
The enduring feeling after watching The 39 Steps is that I’d watched a film with some very modern sensibilities. This can make it difficult, but not impossible, to imagine how an audience in 1935 would have reacted to it. Nearly thirty years before the first Bond film and nearly twenty five years before Hitchcock’s own North by Northwest, the genesis of the modern suspense thriller may be found in films like The 39 Steps. The 39 Steps is a film that, despite quite obviously being made in 1935, quite successfully transcends its time.
The trope of a man being falsely accused and going on the run, while frantically trying to clear his name, was not a new obsession for Hitchcock but it is here that it is probably first put to its most successful narrative use. Based on John Buchan’s 1915 novel, the film presents the most unfortunate case of a holiday gone to shit, as visiting Canadian Richard Hanney (played with everyman effortlessness by Robert Donat) becomes embroiled in a mysterious and dangerous espionage conflict after he unknowingly takes in a spy after a shooting in a London music hall. The spy, Annabella Smith, is played by Lucie Mannheim who makes enough of an impression that I would have welcomed her as the female lead. But this is a Hitchcock film, so don’t get too attached is all I will advise. Shortly before Smith makes her…er…exit, she entices Hanney with a mention of the titular ’39 Steps’. Are they a place? Actual steps? A set of instructions? Something else entirely? As a McGuffin, it’s one of Hitchcock’s more intriguing and their revelation in the final reel is, in true Hitchcock tradition, neither what most will expect or revealed in the way you would expect either.
Hitch racks up the suspense in a great anxiety fuelled train sequence, (much has been made of Hitchcock’s returning fascination with trains and tunnels, often seen as thinly veiled sexual metaphors). It’s here that we meet Madeleine Carroll as the actual female lead, Pamela, one of Hitchcock’s early ‘icy blondes’. To be fair she thaws pretty quickly once the two leads are reunited later in the picture. Carroll was big news in the mid ‘30s and Donat had started to make an impression in the US, so their casting made economic sense. Her first appearance is so brief that you could be excused for thinking you’ve identified the wrong actress; Hitchcock takes his time setting up the big players in his narrative. For a fairly economical running time, Hitchcock is in no rush to pull this steak off the grill too quickly. This is a slow cooking creation, and as ever with Hitch you have to wait and see how the different elements come together. Questions arise throughout. Who is the man with the missing finger? Is Pamela a help or hindrance to Hannay? You’ll get your answers. If you’re savvy, you’ll remember that Hitch will wrong step you very suddenly; and the answers can arrive unexpectedly.
Despite being a product of the mid ‘30s (the famous sequences where Hannay and Pamela are handcuffed together, traversing the Scottish Highlands and staying the night in an inn, are reminiscent of a ‘30s screwball comedy, likely influenced by the likes of It Happened One Night and its various imitators). But any fashionable tropes work and the chemistry between the leads is strong enough to carry the romantic humour, which never dilutes the jeopardy.
The closing scene is an early Hitchcock masterstroke. If you were paying attention, maybe you saw it coming from the beginning, but either way you won’t be robbed of the satisfaction of the final revelation and righting of wrongs. One enduring criticism of Hitchcock is that his films end suddenly. Perhaps a fair point, but there is rarely any excess, unwanted fat on this perfect steak, so enjoy; this is a superior serving of suspense by a master chef.
“…I’ll steer her away from those stage door tom cats if I can”.
Perhaps an unexpected place to continue a series of Hitchcock reviews, if I’m trying to attract thousands of avid readers, this second review in the series goes back to the very beginning. Well, almost the beginning, because the director’s first full feature (Number 13) no longer exists. The Pleasure Garden is Hitchcock’s second full length feature, but his first full length surviving film. While some films of the silent era can astound with their technological ingenuity and creative expression, it would be something of a lie to say The Pleasure Garden is one such film. While the likes of Vertigo, North by Northwest and Rear Window exist comfortably in modern culture as recognisably modern films (in the sense that they can be viewed alongside a new film and still come away looking comparable and sometimes even superior and also occasionally as a notable influence), The Pleasure Garden is from an era far removed. The progress in technology from the early days of cinema to the dawn of the sound era is often jarring when one isn’t viewing a bona fide masterpiece, and even then it can be a surprise to the uninitiated. The fact silent films were shot at around 16 frames per second (fps) can often cause the biggest deterrent to a modern viewer. When sound films came in that was changed to 24 fps. The projection of silent movies at a sound speed of 24 fps made them look faster than often intended, until recent times where such anomalies where corrected. So with regard to Hitchcock, if Vertigo glows with the colour and visual language that can still engage a modern audience and often make us work for the visual’s message, like a Picasso, then The Pleasure Garden is a cave painting. But cave paintings were often glorious, and even a master like Hitchcock has to start somewhere. Ironically, these observations apply doubly for Hitch’s first sound film Blackmail, more of which later,
The Pleasure Garden tells the story of Jill Cheyne, who arrives for her appointment at the theatre, to join the chorus line. Her invitation is stolen and she has to prove her worth as a dancer in front of the manager, the dance troupe and the orchestra. Jill succumbs to the temptations and vanities that accompany fame and fortune, while her friend Patsy (to whom she owes her break) are cast aside. There is a mild love triangle involved and a dastardly cad who promises much to Patsy, but is clearly having it off with this extra piece in Africa, where he has to go to work on ‘the plantations’. Add into the mix Hugh, Jill’s ostracised ex, and there is a story that while not complex, still manages to involve more complexity than some Netflix dramas.
Silent screen acting was obviously a somewhat different skill that that of a sound picture, and while always slightly over exaggerated and stagey, the leads offer relatively naturalistic performances, Virginia Valli is the lead as Patsy , and like many notable actors of the silent era did not have a long career after the dawn of the talkies. The beginning of the sound era was brutal for many stars, and even those than did transition to sound had their voices scrutinised, and often found lacking. Their natural voices were often not what the public expected and that too could play a part in their career demise. In Hollywood, Clara Bow was a prime example. For whatever reasons, Virginia Valli’s last picture came as early as 1931. Virginia Valli was quite a coup for Hitchcock in 1925, when The Pleasure Garden was made (it wasn’t released widely to cinemas until 1927), as was Carmelita Garaghty as Jill. Both were American, making this the only one of Hitch’s British films to have American actresses in the leads. John Stuart is serviceable as Hugh, but Miles Mander proves more entertaining as the oily, caddish villain of the piece (the kind of role Mander got stereotyped for).
The Pleasure Garden isn’t for everybody and I’ll include it here for completion’s sake (as with many of Hitch’s other early silents). There may, however, yet be readers who have interest enough to watch them. The Pleasure Garden is, on the surface, a run of the mill romantic drama and not untypical of the time. However, within the first few minutes we can already see some of Hitchcock’s enduring obsessions. We see the descending stairs (here winding down to the stage floor), the eyes of voyeur through spy glasses and the returned gaze of an icy and untouchable blonde. The Pleasure Garden is rudimentary Hitchcock perhaps, but it can still be thought of as Hitchcock’s true debut.
If it’s true that all films (so far), written or directed by Alex Garland go absolutely jaw droppingly crazy in their last third, then Men is no exception to the rule. Here Garland uses creative shock tactics to tackle the subject of misogyny and evokes both the trappings of Folk Horror (and the long influential shadow of The Wicker Man) and the extreme body horror often seen in the films of David Cronenberg.
Jessie Buckley is Harper, who has come to her rural village retreat as part of her recovery process, having survived an abusive relationship. The film has a dreamlike quality before we reach the country location, with the expositional scenes in London presented almost as a mildly surreal tableau, except that the characters do actually move, albeit slowly. There is symbolism that doesn’t hide in the shadows, of which there is much to observe: red apples, The Green Man and the lewd legs akimbo of the Sheela Na Gig. How much these symbols are presented as essential to the story or as happy afterthoughts, I can’t say, but we understand their meanings in the context of the story and that’s surely the point.
The titular men in the film are all (with a notable exception) portrayed by Rory Kinnear, whose abilities are such that it may take some a while to recognise that it’s just him in a variety of wigs, outfits and prosthetics. The suggestion being, presumably, that all men are the same, or at least Buckley sees it that way (a significant distinction)
Particular mention must go to the music score, which heightens the emerald green saturated cinematography; horror hidden in the lush leaves of the forest. The choral sounds from Ben Salisbury and Geoff Barrow elevate the pastoral, uneasy atmosphere and overall quality of the film, as do the strong central performances from Buckley and Kinnear. Kinnear’s uncanny representation of nature’s masculine form, and the emotive sounds around him, emphasise the film’s channelling of ancient natural forces. The overall message of Men may not be as clear as intended, despite the images often being unsubtle and increasingly unhinged, but as a reminder of what it means to be a woman in a society often dominated by certain kinds of men, it certainly isn’t an easy film to ignore.
Much of the notoriety of A Clockwork Orange comes from the film’s first forty or so minutes of nilistic sex and violence, with the notable exception of a certain eye watering scene. Yet, ironically, the second half of the film is sort of the whole point of it really, a satirical commentary on violence and societal decay. However, in the hands of Stanley Kubrick, writer Anthony Burgess’ original intentions become somewhat warped, with the protagonist of Alex being presented more as a hero than a villain. We are shown the horror of his actions, but that’s perhaps more to do with our (hopefully) moral compass pointing in the right direction than any suggestion from Kubrick that they are wrong. Kubrick shows us and he shows Alex and his ‘droogs’ having fun. There is an uneasy sense that we should be enjoying these actions as much as Alex does. A captivating central performance from Malcolm McDowell keeps me engaged, with the future youth speak (a sort of Russian meets cockney rhyming slang) handled as naturalistically as possible. He keeps me watching, even when tedium sets in, as it does towards the end. Disappointingly, as the film makes good on its aims, it becomes less aggressively captivating.
Due to its early ban, sanctioned by Kubrick himself (who may or may not have been interested in preserving the peace after some copycat incidents), A Clockwork Orange has achieved a fame it perhaps does not deserve. I still view it as one of Kubrick’s lesser efforts, looking like a rather cheaper and less considered entry into his often laboriously crafted back catalogue. Whereas his preceding film, 2001: A Space Odyssey was clean, white and space age, A Clockwork Orange, although set in the future, is grimy, unclean and grounded (whether equally by purpose or design, remains unclear). Its camera work lacks Kubrick’s usual polish, although his hallmarks are there, including engaging and distant static vignettes of interiors, which here are often blurred at the edges as if suggesting Alex’s distorted point of view. The film does often put the viewer in the uncomfortable position of experiencing Alex’s adventures as he would see them.
The idea of Alex’s violence being turned on him, in a karmically flavoured act of justice, leaves us in doubts as to whether we should sympathise with him or cheer on his punishment and possible retribution. As shocking as the film may have been in 1971, the violence of the story leads us to the last act of the character’s penalty, whereas in lesser films there would likely be violence for violence’s sake. Not that Kubrick doesn’t know how to mischievously evoke a reaction. His rape scenes are problematic because Kubrick is not adverse to gratuitously displaying the naked female form anyway, so the violently revealed sights of Adrienne Corri’s breasts and red pubic hair are given an almost tableau reverence in the background to Alex’s taunting of the incapacitated husband. Here, as is often the case with Kubrick, there feels like a detachment from what we’re seeing. A Clockwork Orange simultaneously benefits from this presentation, suggesting Alex’s view on his activities, while also keeping us from the real horror of what is unfolding. It looks bad, there is no doubt, but perhaps it never looks bad enough. Added to John Barry’s ‘60s gone to seed Modernist interiors and the film often looks like a deliberately transgressive cartoon, whose décor likely appeared unreal (if not yet dated) in 1971.
So yet, despite this not achieving the slick and expensive sheen of many of Kubrick’s other classics (it had a tenth of 2001’s budget and was made in a fraction of the time), it leaves us with as many iconic images as Kubrick’s other pictures. The opening pan out of Alex and his droogs in the Moloko Milk bar, unveiling their deliberately transgressive attire, remains a certain ‘sit up and pay attention’ moment. There are many such visual assaults which leave us in no doubt this is a Kubrick picture, with strong images imprinted on our retina in a similar way to how Alex experiences later in the film. There is real horror here, in ways perhaps Orwell would have utilised, but unlike Orwell there is less a suggestion that the protagonist has been reformed and contained. Our consideration that Alex should be made to revoke all his evils is challenged by the fact that he is being forced to give up everything, including his love of Beethoven, a love which surely indicates that he was not an entirely evil character to begin with. Also, his former friends’ amalgamation into the police force raises controversial questions as do the vengeful actions of his former victims. Are they justified? At their denouement are they no better than Alex?
Ultimately there are conflicts of thought like this which make the film worthwhile. Is Alex his own creation or the creation of the degenerated society around him? Other films have posed these questions but few have done it with as many potent images, whether it be a lesser work of a master or not.
Viva deliberately and self-consciously evokes the era of late ‘60s and early ‘70s sexploitation films, even down to the production design and music. As far as style is concerned, Viva is a resounding success, with even the film stock looking just right. I may stand to be corrected, but like director Anna Biller’s subsequent film The Love Witch, Viva was shot on 35mm film, and printed from an original cut negative. This lends the film a faux authenticity that further blurs the line between originality and homage. If this was on a television and you were channel surfing, you may well think it was from circa 1969. As a fan of that era and being happily willing to have nostalgic memories of other films and television evoked, this is an aesthetic I am very much on board with.
While I can appreciate that Viva may have something to say beyond the purely visual engagement (and I confess I was already aware of Biller’s work, her feminist stance and exploration of the ‘female gaze’, before I watched it), Viva is a comedy that simply isn’t funny. Its pacing is a leaden as the performances, which are deliberately lousy and any laughter will prove as false as the equally and deliberately hollow peals of laughter from the characters, who seem to exist in gaudy tableaus of consumerism and permissiveness, which is part of the message but also probably more to fulfil an aesthetic ideal than drive a narrative. And there is a narrative, of course, but it is a secondary concern to the nostalgia, subversion and exaggeration of stereotypes. Biller, boldly taking centre stage in her own film, plays a bored housewife who eventually embraces the permissive lifestyle of the counterculture. But, like the film as a whole, Biller’s mannered performance eventually lost my interest and patience. I understood it was a conscious choice, but like the day-glo interiors and fashions which appear from another era, my appearance of sustained attention would have been just as false.
At the time of writing, Viva is available to view on BFI’s online subscription service.
A new series, exploring the erotic, sexually subversive, and controversial in cinema.
If you took the sex out of revered Polish director Walerian Borowczyk’s 1975 film La Bête(The Beast), it would be a considerably duller film than it actually is. However, it would, no doubt, remain a presentation of pleasing composition. This is something Borowczyk is exceptionally good at. His earlier films, notably 1971’s Blanche, are testament to his attention to framing, with the aforementioned film presenting the characters as if in a medieval tableau.
There is nothing in La Bête that is quite as creatively remarkable as that, but it is at least an interesting film to view, in a purely aesthetic way. Where the film fails is in its attempt to be narratively engaging and it is here that it stumbles. The story concerns the death of a wealthy businessman, who leaves his estate to his daughter, Lucy, but only on the condition that she marries Mathurin, a Marquis’ son. A cast of potentially interesting characters occupy the house that Lucy visits, accompanied by her aunt, with a view to consolidating the union. A cardinal, the marquis Pierre, the brother of Pierre’s uncle (confined to a wheelchair) and Mathurin’s father, all vie for our attention. They are not, however, quite as engaging as the randy butler Ifany and his sexual partner, Pierre’s rebellious daughter Clarisse. Perhaps preparing us for the sexual audaciousness that is to follow, we are treated to semi-farcical scenes of coitus interruptus, hiding in cupboards and Ifany having to dress himself while answering his master’s call. Later, as Lucy attempts to sleep before her nuptials, the excuses to fully clothe the female on view are abandoned. She is as exposed in ‘real life’ as she is in her dreams, inspired by the 18th century legend of the family’s curse. Lucy ends up running around the house corridors with breasts and pubic hair in full view, with little direct comment from her aunt or the Marquis. It’s here that Lucy’s dreams and reality appear to overlap, although it’s debatable whether the reality is half as interesting as her imagined transgressions.
Somewhere, La Bête might be trying to make some statements about class and privilege and even clumsily touches on perceived white privilege and black equality, in an exchange between Ifany and Lucy’s chauffeur. It hints at the price of secrets and repression, encouraged by social conventions and desires. In the latter half of its run, it also transcends the comparative normality of its first half by becoming an erotic exercise in surrealism, and certainly proves itself a unique viewing experience. It treads a fine line between farce and erotica, and generally stays on the tight rope.
Despite its bold charms, La Bête was a step too far for many of Borowczyk’s earlier supporters, with the film’s audacious, (if vaguely ridiculous) sexual content proving too much for many. Lucy’s dreams of a sexually ravenous beast in the woods conclude with the randy monster ejaculating what looks like several years’ worth of semen in her direction. It’s this segment of the film that likely makes La Bête a far more notable film than would otherwise be the case. But, as this is a film that begins with graphic scenes of two copulating horses, I can’t complain that this was some kind of completely unexpected narrative direction. Yet, despite these elements, La Bête is never as crude as it is titillating and transcends its forays into the ridiculous and an uneven narrative, to be become an oddly erotic classic.
At the time of writing, La Bête is available to view as part of the BFI’s subscription service.
The first time I went to the cinema over Christmas I was thrilled, and no prizes for guessing which film that was. The second time, and I was stunned. Carol is an absolutely beautiful film, like an Edward Hopper painting come to life, with some astounding performances. I knew this had been brought to the screen by director Todd Hynes, and as I really enjoyed his fake ’70s glam rock biopic Velvet Goldmine, some years back now, I was keen to catch up with his work.
Carol exudes painstakingly recreated 1950s style and finesse, with the pent up emotions threatening to mess up the facade; the characters fighting against the neat established order with some restrained and touching performances from both Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara. The time and place is so exquisitely designed and photographed, and perhaps that is the film’s one true weakness; it can often feel like an exhibit, where everything is almost too perfectly staged. Still, the narrative and performances work and have made me keen to seek out the source material (Patricia Highsmith’s 1952 novel The Price of Salt).
By the time Blanchett utters the three most important words in the English language, I wasn’t sure if I was going to cry or cheer out loud (I came close to doing both). Yes, it’s just a film, but when a film can say so much about who we are and can be, it’s well worth watching. A film can also touch the viewer in more personal and uncomfortable ways, and I suppose it does that to, and what is art (and film in particular) unless it makes us feel?
Also, here’s a clip of the press conference, which is well worth watching:
Carol has been on general release in the UK from the 27th November 2015, and is still in cinemas at the time of writing.
Christmas is now almost upon us (or has been, if you’re late reading this), and I’m determined to experience some cheer and thought for my fellow man and woman, despite some of the horrors occurring elsewhere in the world. Sometimes, part of that approach can involve a little bit of escapism as well. You know, a good book or a film, transporting you to a world so well realised and self contained, for two hours you can forget. That was essentially the idea director, producer and writer George Lucas had in the mid ‘70s and the end result, of course, was his third film, Star Wars. A more escapist fantasy you would have struggled to find in 1977, when science fiction and fantasy fiction were not fashionable cinema draws, which may explain its huge success. After all, science fiction and fantasy comic books and novels had been selling huge quantities for years, but no one had had the guts to give a comic-book style fantasy film the time and money to make those ideas work on the big screen. Odd exceptions had dented the usual industry reserve about the science fiction and fantasy genres (2001: A Space Odyssey and Planet of the Apes both came out in 1968 and were both imaginative and cerebral. However, that year’s Barbarella, a comic-book style film done on the cheap, was perhaps more typical of what was expected and was often what we got, whatever its charms).
So, if the success of the new Star Wars film is partially due to nostalgia, and the love of a long standing fan base, it’s worth noting that Star Wars and its success was reliant on nostalgia from the beginning. 1977 audiences would have correctly recognised Star Wars as a deliberate reworking of the Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers serials of the ‘30s, but George Lucas made Star Wars more than just a vintage sci-fi pastiche. The original film practically remakes Korusawa’s 1958 film The Hidden Fortress and owes much in its content and structure to Joseph Campbell’s book Hero with a Thousand Faces, evoking every adventure archetype we’ve seen since storytelling began. Add spaghetti westerns, World War II dogfights and Ken Adam’s designs for various Bond villain bases to the mix and Star Wars was a mongrel mix of nostalgic influence from the very beginning.
My main concern about the new film, The Force Awakens, isn’t obviously related to nostalgia, but may still be rooted in it. My childhood love of the series may be the source of my adult argument. The argument I have is that this story (in what is now episode 7 of the saga) didn’t really need telling, but I’m hoping to be proved wrong, or specifically be shown a new story that was worth telling. We’ve been here before, of course, with the much maligned prequel trilogy (The Phantom Menace, Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith). Lucas had included an intriguing and inventive back story to his saga, as far back as the 1976 publication of the original novelisation (ghost written by the prolific Alan Dean Foster). “The old Republic was the Republic of legend”, wrote Foster, “no need to note where it was or whence it came, only to know that…it was the Republic”. He then detailed the protection of the mystical Jedi knights, who served the senate, the betrayal of a senator called Palpatine, whose Machiavellian pursuit of power led to his eventual election as Emperor. It was a grand, epic history, to serve this new fictitious universe. Did we need three films about it? That’s debatable, and while I know the films charted the fall of Anakin Skywalker and rise of Darth Vader, we could argue that the prequels failed to give either story its best showing.
Perhaps one well written preface and various expository dialogue was all we needed in the end, as the original trilogy gives us the memorable characters, action and strong narratives that the prequels tend to lack. The reality of showing us (instead of allowing us to use our imaginations) was a big let down in the prequels; none of it was as marvellous, grand and epic as the stories promised. Bogged down with concerns over trade federations, charmless robot armies and stiff political exchanges, the prequels floundered in their own self importance. Flash Gordon this wasn’t; more like Question Time, which for a fantasy adventure saga, isn’t such a good thing. The Phantom Menace looked great, for sure, but was it as great as Foster’s preface promised, all those years ago? Additionally, Star Wars was starting to look tired and uninspired, like a cynical marketing exercise. When the glorious masterpieces that are The Lord of the Rings films were released, Star Wars looked inconsequential and shallow in comparison, not the immersive fantasy world experience the Peter Jackson directed Rings films were. Two different entities, of course, and Tolkien’s Rings trilogy had been another nostalgic influence on Star Wars in the first place. Star Wars needed to get back to being Star Wars; not necessarily with the depth and grandeur of Tolkien, but rather back to the swashbuckling panache of the originals. To reclaim its rightful place in the general public’s affections, alongside the likes of Rings and Harry Potter. As director J.J . Abrams had helmed the last two Star Trek films, and invigorated that franchise, his choice as the new Star Wars director seemed a good portent.
Am I glad to see Star Wars back on the big screen? Yes, I am. But I ceased being a fan a long time ago, in the way I was when I was a kid or a teenager. The prequels admittedly sullied my memory and enjoyment of those originals. Now, with reports that this is perhaps the best Star Wars film since Return of the Jedi, in 1983, the bar has been raised very high. The Force may be strong in this one, but can it defeat the memory of the inferior prequels? Disney didn’t pay $4bn for Lucasfilm so they can dwell on the past; of course they want new product. But as I’ve said, I hope these are strong new stories, worth telling. The film is currently delivering commercially, but I’ll tell you what I think of it later.
To paraphrase Peter Cushing as Grand Moff Tarkin in the original film, “…they’re taking an awful risk here, this’d better work”.
I have a good feeling about this.
Star Wars: The Force Awakens opened at British cinemas on 18 December.
If you’ve ever seen and enjoyed Nicolas Roeg’s The Man Who Fell to Earth with David Bowie, or the work of Andrei Tarkovsky and Stanley Kubrick, you might like the film I saw last night. It was a last minute decision, as a Saturday night plan had fallen through; I ran over to the cinema and got a ticket for Under the Skin, starring Scarlett Johansson, and based on Michel Faber’s novel of the same name, published in 2000. It is a film from director Jonathan Glazer, whose only other two major cinema outings have been Sexy Beast and Birth. As Birth was released in 2003, you can see that Glazer spent a long time getting Under the Skin just right; apparently the final idea for the film came to him quite quickly and significantly late on, and is a much stripped back and intense vision than the one we may have got (which Brad Pitt was signed up for at one point, or so the story goes).
Under the Skin was the most intense cinema experience I’ve had in years. I’m still thinking about it. Some parts of the film are so genuinely uncanny, and really disturbing, that I did stop to wonder what I’d just spent my money on. Yet because of that, and not in spite of it, I was engaged throughout. Also, it looks marvellous; not pretty, but always coldly beautiful. The cinematography brings the bleak Scottish countryside into the film as almost a separate character, who dominates most scenes with her lonely presence. Every scene seemed to have something to say.
Johansson is presumably an extraterrestrial on some ambiguous mission to harvest humans (which she does in a siren-esque way, picking up blokes in her transit van). How they are transported to a surreal other world of blackness is never explained, sinking as they do into some form of preserving liquid, as Johansson’s succubus steps ever backwards, unaffected by the trap; leading the men trance like to their doom. Lust as a weapon. However, she appears to develop a conscience about half way through, and abandons her predatory assignment, disappearing into the Scottish countryside, with her ‘minder’ trying to find her, perhaps before she does anything stupid.
There is a lot I had to presume in Under the skin, as the film offers no certain answers. It does clearly present a creature sent to take advantage of us, who then becomes first fascinated by us and then eager to experience what it might be like to be us. Her attempt to eat Black Forest gateau in a roadside restaurant is amusing and strange; she cannot physically swallow the food and coughs it up. Here, as in her many moments of dispassionate blankness, Johansson is a marvel. Whatever being she is meant to be, and wherever she is from, I never loathed the character. Rather, her alien qualities, as a fish out of water, and the very fact she looks like Scarlett Johansson, seemed to make her all the more alluring; but surely that was the point. Who expects to see Johansson in Glasgow?
Honestly, it was brilliant, but a real mind messer. I’m still thinking about it today. The part where Johansson’s ‘alien’ takes her ‘human skin suit’ off is genuinely jolting; it is that not often experienced place between the visually captivating, and the simultaneously strange, that is actually slightly terrifying; a true moment of the uncanny. Throughout, Mika Levi’s minimalist and experimental score lifts the strangeness further, and is the other notable star of the film.
Under the Skin is not for everyone; at least two people left the auditorium long before the first hour was through. Essentially static images of snowfall and trees may not engage a more restless action seeking audience, and surreal existential imagery blending sex and death aren’t for everyone on a Saturday night, that is for sure. But it is bleakly beautiful and unnervingly fascinating, and stops us to ponder what it means to be human. It made me think and feel, and that’s as good a reason to see any film.
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