The Other Side of Hope - Review

In these tumultuous, uncertain times of political upheaval and economic instability, there are few things can be relied upon. It would seem fortunately though that the precisely crafted deadpan absurdism of Aki Kaurismäki is one thing that will remain constant. Much like a Brian De Palma set piece or a Robert Altman long take, Kaurismäki's comedy is one of those things that makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside, safe in the knowledge that you're in an able pair of hands. 

In The Other Side of Hope, the second film in his planned dockyard trilogy, we once again find ourselves in the odd world that is Kaurismäki's Helsinki. Full of retro 50's props, blank, expressionless faces, and characters who barely stop smoking and drinking enough to deliver the deadest of deadpan lines you can imagine, it is a cold, bleak place. As usual though, Kaurismäki manages to create some warmth via his masterful capacity to find comedy in the strange places that other directors wouldn't think of looking. 

Kaurismäki follows in the vein of Le Havre (the first in the trilogy), throwing a typical Kaurismäki loser into a more politically charged story that attempts to tackle the plight of refugees. The loser in question (and the star of the show in my opinion) is restaurateur Wikström - played  by the doughy faced, impassive Sakari Kuosmanen - his curiously charming performance is punctuated by the occasional hint of a smile that betrays a man not as tough as he would like to seem. The refugee that Wikström takes under his wing is Khaled, a very likeable, well put together Syrian played by Sherwan Haji whose politeness in the face of I, Daniel Blake style bureaucracy is very endearing.

As one would of course expect, this one is littered with some very amusing moments. Amongst the highlights were a great sequence when Wikström decided that sushi was the right way forward for his restaurant and a brilliantly dour game of poker. What struck me above all though was how much of this comedy relied upon Kaurismäki's idiosyncratic visual style. With his satirically theatrical lighting, stubbornly static camera, and meticulously composed mise-en-scène, somewhat reminiscent of a toned down Wes Anderson, he is able to create a bizarre atmosphere that elevates the deadpan delivery of the characters. In a different setting this style of writing would risk completely alienating, but coupled with these visuals, Kaurismäki finds a strange combination that works.   

In addition to this, there are also some harrowing sequences surrounding Khaled's circumstances which mesh rather oddly with the moments of comedy. Most notable amongst these is a scene where we see Khaled playing a haunting tune on a string instrument that seems to transport other immigrants to some fond, almost forgotten memories. Combined with the absurdist comedy, Kaurismäki certainly risks undermining the emotional heft of these moments, however it often works surprisingly well. In fact, one of the best scenes in the film is also an example of the marriage of his unique brand of comedy and the political subject matter. We see Khaled and another immigrant discussing life in Finland, when Khaled is advised to smile as much as possible, "all melancholics are sent home".

Here, Kaurismäki has created a film of surprising combinations, full of as much classic Kaurismäki cynicism as sentimentalism, he shows us a world at once purposeless and kind, brimming with both melancholia and mirth, this is a likeably good natured, laconic tragicomedy. It would be fair to say that I'm looking forward to number three in the trilogy. 

Ali: Fear Eats the Soul - Review

The prolific exponent of New German Cinema Rainer Werner Fassbinder is back on the big screen thanks to a BFI retrospective.

Fassbinder's super low budget reworking of Douglas Sirk's 50's melodrama All That Heaven Allows, is a simple uncluttered film that, perhaps as a product of the lo-fi approach taken by Fassbinder, achieves remarkable clarity. The film tells the tale of an unlikely relationship between a Moroccan immigrant and an older German cleaner whose straightforward, singleminded commitment to one another is summed up nicely by Ali's warning, "much thinking, much crying". This is a film all about them against everyone else; they love one another and that is all that matters.     

Although the two at times seem worlds apart, they are united by one thing: their status as outsiders. Ali doesn't feel at home in Germany for obvious reasons, spending all his time in a bar with other Arabs, he feels undervalued by German society. To put it his way, "German masters, Arab dogs". The xenophobia directed towards Emmi is less overt but also present; her Polish surname "Kurowski" leads to questioning of her legitimacy as a "proper German". Fassbinder is well equipped to deal with these themes of isolation and discrimination as a man who was always an outsider in some way. Here, he treats his characters with brutal honesty, capturing something of the very human yearning for companionship.

Throughout the film, Fassbinder uses visuals adeptly to emphasise the changing dynamics of Emmi and Ali's relationship. In their first encounter in a bar, the manifest sociopolitical boundaries that separate them are highlighted by the physical distance that Fassbinder places between the characters when he positions Ali at the far end of the bar. Later, when they are in Emmi's small apartment, we see them almost huddled around the table, captured in an intimate domestic light. Fassbinder also often alternates close involved shots of the two with long ones of onlooking strangers, illustrating their exclusion from the rest of society. 

Also worthy of considerable praise are the central performances of Brigitte Mira and El Hedi ben Salem whose apparent discomfort in their own skin fosters a delightfully awkward chemistry. Emmi is painfully aware of her old age, running her fingers across her wrinkled face when looking at her reflection in one particularly raw sequence, she is convincing as a woman who had almost given up on love. Ali seems similarly uncomfortable, but for different reasons; throughout the film, he looks stiff and out of place, never seeming at ease with his surroundings in a manner apt for a man who hasn't been accepted as a part of Germany. 

In Fear Eats the Soul, Fassbinder does something not often done right: create a polemic with pathos, as scathingly political as it is tenderly romantic. It is a film about the all-consuming courage that love can inspire, imbued with a fiercely brazen anti-xenophobic message. The titular words of Ali, "Fear eats the soul", make for a very fitting title; it is both a reflection of the fearlessness of the lovers and a warning against the erosive influence of bigotry.

Italian neorealism season - Umberto D.

These "Seasons" effectively constitute an excuse for me watch/rewatch then write about a series of films, connected by a particular genre, movement, era, theme, director or actor (anything really). I'm going to start off with everybody's favourite cinematic movement: Italian neorealsim.

Umberto D., directed by Vittorio De Sica and written by Cesare Zavattini, is a film that is no doubt rooted in the neorealist tradition, depicting faithfully the hardships of the life of the working class. This film does differ from some neorealist films though. Here, the tragedy of the consequences of insufficient support from the state is shown through the lens of nothing more extreme than the gradual degradation of a man's dignity. However, nothing more extreme than the straightforward, goodnatured candour of Umberto is needed to communicate the story; every mundane detail of his life is shown, summing up with beautiful simplicity the struggles of the Italian working class. As is often the case in films such as this, professional actors were not cast in the main roles; Umberto is played by a university lecturer named Carlo Battisti here whose proud proper look works perfectly. Much like the film, his performance is uncomplicated yet heartrending, full of mournful stares and humble indignation, his understated manner compliments the forthright sincerity of the film well. One final note: this is one of the better dog movies you're likely to come across, I'd definitely take it over Marley & Me.

UKGFF - Silent Running - Review

As a part of the UK Green Film Festival, Silent Running was shown at the Glasgow Film Theatre, preceded by some interesting words from clever biologist man, Professor Roger Downie.

The remarkable thing about Silent Running, directed by Douglas Trumbull of 2001: A Space Odyssey special effects fame, is the personal, tranquil tone that it manages to achieve despite the significant magnitude of the themes being explored. The fate of all of the Earth's surviving plant life is at risk, yet this is not married with the high octane drama that one might expect given such high stakes. Instead it is treated in an, in my opinion, more appropriate, low-key wistful manner that underpins events with a sorrowful political stance, perhaps more potent now than it has ever been.  

The drama plays out in a dystopian future where all the Earth's remaining plant life is looked after on a spaceship by the quiet, almost messianic figure of Freeman Lowell who is played by Bruce Dern. When, his ship is commanded to destroy the last of the plant life, Lowell (with the conservationist's pledge in mind) takes extreme measures to try to save the precious botany. From this point, Lowell finds himself alone with the plants and two very sweet droids that he names Huey and Dewey where he puts in an impressively engaging performance given how little he has to play off. 

For obvious reasons, the film is often compared to Kubrick's all the more epic 2001: A Space Odyssey. The two certainly share some impressive special effects that hold up very well, but here, imposing shots of ships drifting through space are accompanied by the warblings of Joan Baez and psychedelic light sequences are grounded in a more traditional narrative. The presence of artificial intelligence in both films is also notable, however it has to be said that 2001's HAL is a little more sinister than the loyal Huey and Dewey who replace murderous treachery with loyal companionship. It's fair to say that Lowell doesn't have the same problems with the opening of pod bay doors.   

Silent Running is a likeably sentimental film, imbued with a refreshing optimism that when coupled with the dark events that pass, works powerfully as a cautionary tale. This feeling is summed up pretty well by the tragically bitter-sweet ending. I don't want to spoil too much (it has been out since 1972) so I will just say that I didn't know that there could be so much packed up in one shot of a drone with a watering can. It's a brilliant little ending, as hopeful as it is mournful.

The Transfiguration - Review

The protagonist, Milo, in Michael O'Shea's directorial debut, The Transfiguration, lines his shelves with classic vampire films; we hear him rave about Martin and Let the Right One In, and he even goes to a screening of Nosferatu. Now, straight up references to heavyweights of the genre in which you are working are always a bold choice (one that can pay off, Scream for example), unfortunately, here it backfires slightly, serving only to remind me of the many other excellent films I'd probably rather have been watching at that point. 

Anyway, the sort of vampire tale that we see centres on the teenage Milo, played with a steely yet vulnerable reticence by Eric Ruffin, who lives with his older brother in the kind of Queens housing project that makes the proximity of Noah Baumbach and Greta Gerwig's Brooklyn surprising. The world which our characters inhabit is a harsh, brutal one - devoid of any romantic whimsy - it is one of the highlights of the show. This "urban jungle" (yes I'm going to say that) also serves as an apt setting for the story of isolation which follows - smartly reflecting the relationship between Milo and his situation - we see countless shots of him, cornered by featureless blocks of concrete, literally belittled by his environment.
  
It is in these moments, as a portrait of the devastating effects of economic deprivation, that I found the film most interesting, capturing something of the loneliness felt by those left behind by society. In one conversation Milo responds to the question, "Do people ever tell you that you don't talk a lot?", "No one ever speaks to me."; a simple yet affecting line, it gets to the heart of the isolation central to Milo's character. Throughout the film, O'Shea uses this powerlessness quite smartly to present his protagonist Milo as a product of these circumstances, establishing a link between his murderous tendencies and the tragic situation in which he finds himself, he gives the film an engaging socially aware edge.

Unfortunately, the film fell down for me in the moments of horror which were rendered quite unimaginatively. Each of Milo's kills was captured with a detached, observational tone that brought to mind a nature documentary more than anything else, with the only real change in tone being caused by a pulsating synth score, which swelled to deafening levels. The lack of excitement created by these sequences ultimately led to a rather monotonous, dour atmosphere, so cold that I found the film hard to engage with. In The Transfiguration, O'shea has created something that lacks the scary moments to interest you on a straight up horror level, but that also doesn't quite have the poignancy to captivate emotionally. To summarise, it's not scary enough to be a horror, but not sufficiently emotionally engaging to work simply as a character study.

Mulholland Drive - Review

Mulholland Dr. has been re-released in a shiny new 4K restoration. I took the opportunity to see it on the big screen, in all its cinematic glory.

Mulholland Drive, what many would consider to be David Lynch's pièce de résistance, is Lynch at absolutely peak Lynch; caked in the nightmarish intrigue in which he specialises, it is a truly bizarre exploration of the dark labyrinthine world, hidden beneath the glamour of Hollywood. As we are plunged deep into this surreal dreamscape version of LA, he twists us this way and that, ultimately leaving us with an undeniably potent enigma of a film, as compelling as it is disorienting. 

Perhaps the most brazenly unconventional choice of all the brazenly unconventional choices in Mulholland Drive is the way Lynch plays with narrative. The film's plot does not make sense in any traditional sense of a plot making sense. As the film progresses, there are a number of scenes that are left to drift without the resolution one would expect and if they didn't have you confused, the later sections are packed with obvious contradictions that are sure to complete the job. However, the plot is not just one big mess. In fact, Lynch toys very deliberately with the expectations of the audience - using Heat-esque cityscapes to establish a somewhat noirish setting, he hints at a resolution that never materialises - leaving various strands of the story lingering enigmatically, ready to be untangled, before tangling them further. By deftly alluding to unforeseen connections in the later portion of the film - a blue key, a name tag, a man looking scared - we are made to feel lost, grasping at some answer that lies just beyond our reach.        

Beyond the obviously eye-catching plot, there is much more to be enjoyed (not that the plot is terribly enjoyable to be involved with), namely, Lynch's impressive aptitude for the creation of unease and tension. Throughout the film, he blurs the line between reality and dreams; by playing with the fears that lie at the deepest corners of our thoughts, he is able to lace unexpected moments with an atmosphere of unquantifiable disquiet. This is perhaps exemplified best by one of my favourite scenes where we are introduced to two men in a diner. When their conversation turns from the mundane to the more macabre, the monotonous rumbling of Angelo Badalamenti's score and a quietly wandering camera are coupled to chilling effect, warning us of some peripheral threat. It's moments such as this that Mulholland Drive is at its disconcerting best.

Also notable are the two leads who both give performances more nuanced than the surface may suggest. Laura Harring is the amnesiac Rita/Camilla Rhodes and Naomi Watts is the small town Hollywood hopeful cliché Betty/Diane Selwyn (the plot is such that it's hard to give any definitive names), who descend into an increasingly odd Persona style relationship when they stumble across each other. Harring is Liv Ullmann in the analogy, full of a similar languidly beguiling charm, her initial facade of innocence is replaced by a pleasingly sinister confidence as the film progresses. The Persona comparison also works pretty well with Watts and Bibi Andersson whose warm-hearted perkiness is once again turned on its head in the final scenes, when her aspirations of stardom seem to crumble.

Above all though, Mulholland Drive works as an evocation of the shadowy underside of Hollywood, all faded glory, forgotten dreams, and lurking menace, Lynch provides a commentary on the perhaps corrosive influence of Hollywood with the uniquely unsettling style that only he could. This tone is epitomised by the strangely captivating "Club Silencio" scene; as the presenter flourishes his hand and we get a close up of his intense features, he cries "It is... an illusion!", words that in the moment are deeply impactful but whose meaning on further reflection, is a mystery to me. This is what is exciting about Mulholland Drive, it is a film that sweeps you up, appealing directly to your emotions not logic, every inexplicably heady moment feels viscerally involving.