Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives

Probably the oddest film I've seen this year, Uncle Boonmee is paradoxically one of its director's more straightforward narratives. A dying man receives visits not only from flesh and blood family but also from spirits of those long gone. It's a simple story but it doesn't give any indication of the strange beauty of the film. The living barely bat an eyelid at these visitors from another realm. Instead they all gather around the table, catching up on events. Boonmee's dead wife materialises gradually and looks just as she did when she died. His son, who vanished some time after her death, is covered in fur, with glowing red eyes. It turns out he mated with a Monkey Ghost and has found happiness in this new form. Elsewhere a bizarre digression features a princess' erotic encounter with a talking catfish (it really shouldn't work but against all odds, it does) Like the opening sequence of an errant water buffalo, are we meant to interpret this as one of Boonmee's past lives, or is it something else entirely? Part of the joy of the film is that it's left up to use to decide. The boundary between worlds is as fluid as the narrative structure. There's no denying it's a slow film but for every longeur, there's a haunting image to take away with you: those glowing red eyes watching from deep in the forest, or the final journey of Boonmee, descending through a deep cavern, passing stalagtites, cave paintings and small pale fishes in a spring. By the time the group reach a stunning glittering cave, it feels like they've gone back through time, reaching the centre of the universe.

Of Gods And Men

"You'll outlive us all" Brother Luc tells the frail, elderly Amedee after a medical examination. In one of the numerous ironies peppering the film, he's ultimately proved correct. Although based on the true story of the murder of French monks in Algeria, that event itself is only related by an end title. The bulk of the film focusses on the daily lives of the monks and their harmonious interaction with the local villagers. The monastery provides a clinic, the monks sell honey at the market and they attend local festivities. There appears to be a mere handful of Christians who attend service so clearly conversion isn't a priority. The village elders express bewilderment and despair at the atrocities committed by militants in this unnamed country (the only act of violence we witness is the abrupt, brutal attack on a group of Croatian workmen, left with the throats slit) and the local government offers military protection to the monastery. It's really at the point that the film starts to reveal where its interest truly resides. Brother Christian refuses, only to later be rebuked by some of the other monks for making a decision that effects them all without consultation. The issue becomes: do the monks leave or do they remain? The national government wants the group to depart but the villagers want them to remain. As for the militants, the leader may or may not be protecting the monks after their encounter on Christmas Eve. The monks themselves are divided on the subject, and each must wrestle with his own conscience. Yet as Christian points out, they have all already given up their lives to God and it becomes clear that - despite family back in France - these men actually have no other life. There's no attempt at backstory though snatches appear here and there. Why should there be - that life is no longer important. The film homes in on their faces as they deliberate their individual fate, never more so than in the "Last Supper" sequence (another irony: the visiting monk from the diocese, who brings the supplies, will be in the wrong place, at the wrong time) It's not that they are portrayed as saints. No, it's clear they are very human, with all the quirks that involves: pride, doubt, fear, and yet they are also compassionate, intellectually curious, moderate. They have no wish to be martyrs but nor can they leave. That's the tragedy.

The American

Pleasingly downbeat and 3/4 a very good film indeed, The American is torpedoed by one of those male fantasy subplots where the protagonist falls in love with a beautiful prostitute (OK, this may be the fault of the book but it's not mitigated by the filming) It's like a DTV erotic drama has taken a wrong turn and ended up in the middle of an existential thriller. Hitman Jack is ruthless, taciturn and increasingly suspicious, bordering on paranoid (quite rightly it turns out) He's a stone-cold killer who is in turn hunted - for reasons unknown to the viewer - by "the Swedes". He's frequently isolated within the frame and Anton Corbijn is particularly good at evoking the threat lurking within open spaces. There's an air of foreboding throughout and we instinctively know that redemption will not be forthcoming. Not with those hard eyes, that grimly set mouth. Even that annoying romantic subplot has one benefit: in the final sequence George Clooney gets to convey Jack's growing sense of despairing desperation as he attempts to reach Clara. It's a terrific piece of acting: a man who knows he's doomed, realizing the future is slipping out of his grasp yet refusing to give up.

Monsters

This is not for you if you're expecting an Independence Day-style special effects extravaganza. For a start Monsters was made on a fraction of the budget of the average Hollywood blockbuster - though it makes that into a huge virtue. Rather than a cast of thousands who end up mere cannon fodder, this is basically a two-hander, and a road movie of sorts that is actually a love story at heart, set within a sci-fi framework. The emphasis is on character rather than spectacle, as cynical journalist reluctantly leads the boss's daughter to safety through the Infected Zone of Mexico. Expectations are subverted: it's the poor little rich girl who can speak Spanish (Andrew relies on her translating skills) and who empathises with the locals (the elusive prize for the journalist is a photo of a dead child) Their backstories get gradually sketched in and the development of the relationship doesn't feel forced.
In a similar manner, that title isn't all that it seems. Your interpretation of it changes over the course of the film. The creatures (never "monsters") can be incredibly destructive and chillingly deadly (see the night vision opening and the aftermath of the forest encounter) but as one of the locals comments, if you don't bother them, they don't bother you. Difficult to believe when the landscape is littered with the evidence of their power (vehicles of all kinds and sizes thrown into trees or dumped into the water) and yet proved to be completely accurate when Sam and Andrew watch entranced as two huge bioluminescent creatures entwine in a strangely beautiful mating ritual (the same description could be used to describe the glowing egg sacs on the trees) The creatures pay no heed to the two humans and leave without causing any damage to the truck stop. This isn't an invasion, it's the result of an accident - courtesy of NASA - but like in District 9, the two species can't peacefully co-exist, at least in the minds of the humans. Or to be more accurate, in the minds of the military and those north of the border. The local populace simply carry on with their daily lives, knowing the creatures' annual mating season requires extra caution. The Americans in contrast launch bombing raids on the Infected Zone and build a huge wall at the border - and just like District 9, you don't have to dig too far for allegorical readings. Yet the military are clearly fighting a losing battle, and the wall simply can't keep out the creatures. It's a war that can't be won although the Americans don't seem to have realized that yet. You suspect they never will.

Gauguin

I'll never be a fan of Gauguin (everything about the man brings out the latent feminist in me) but if nothing else, this exhibition has given me a new appreciation of his use of colour. There's a particular shade of orange that can stop you in your tracks and a soft mauve that almost begs to be touched. The landscapes are by far the most arresting part of the paintings, and the juxtaposition of colours - especially in the South Seas works -produce a vibrant effect. Looking at these exotic images you do indeed feel a million miles away from Europe.

Rare Exports: A Christmas Tale

Don't be mislead by that word in the title. This is as far from Hollywood yuletide schmaltz as one could wish (and that's a *very* long way) Nor is this Santa Claus anything like the jovial old fellow dressed in red who is inescapable at this time of year (although if you find him rather creepy anyway, you'll raise a smile). The starting point is the Santa of legend, a scary creature given to throwing bad children into boiling cauldrons. In the mythic past the Sami people trapped him and buried him under what is now a mountain. Of course, in the present day someone is trying to dig him out. Bad idea. (Clearly they never saw The Thing). It's not quite a horror film - in fact it's a feature-length prequel to 2 short films. Black humour coexists alongside an ominous tone (the new rules and regulations issued to the workmen at the dig; the reindeer carcasses strewn across the snow; the "dolls" left in the place of children) Nor are the elves anything like the green-clad little helpers of our jolly old chap. A nice bit of wrong-footing leads everyone to believe that the elderly man caught in the wolf pit is actually the released Santa. He's certainly feral but honestly, did we *really* think he was capable of wreaking such havoc?
What lifts the film out of being merely a clever concept is the gruff bond between Rauno and his son Pietari. The setting might be beautiful but there's no mistaking it's a hard life, with little room for sentiment. The slaughter of the reindeer means ruin for the village ($85,000 lost we're repeatedly told) and the threadbare Christmas tree propped up in the corner of Rauno's house along with the ragged hole in his jumper tell you everything you need to know about the family's poverty. Likewise, the (presumably) deceased mother is evoked via the baking of gingerbread - and a less successful roast - and the toy that Pietari carries everywhere like a beloved pet. Yet despite his inability to verbally express his affection, it's there in Rauno's protective instincts.
I suppose the one disappointment is that we don't get to see what's actually been dug out of the mountain, though the horns that protrude through the block of ice are suitably impressive, and it does finally tell us why a hair dryer and all those radiators were stolen. All in all, wonderfully bonkers.

Thomas Lawrence

One of the delights of this exhibition is the opportunities it provides to work out how some of the effects are achieved: the portrait of Elizabeth Farren for instance features a shimmering gown, courtesy of thickly applied brushstrokes of white paint. So simple, yet so effective. Not that the clothing dominates, impressive though it is. His drawings provide ample illustration of Lawrence's skills and the faces are what you most remember. Selina Meade and Rosamund Croker are impossibly beautiful, though not forbiddingly so, while the elderly Mary Digges shows how adept Lawrence was at portraying age. Likewise the oil sketch of Wilberforce is full of character, while the painting of Pius IV is a worthy descendant of Raphael's Julius II. Perhaps most charming of all are the portraits of children, whether on their own like the famous one of Charles William Lambton, or in groups. There's a real warmth to many of these that is singularly lacking in many other artistocratic portraits of the period.

The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets' Nest

The final part of the Millennium trilogy is a vast improvement on the previous one, even if it does require the viewer to have near-perfect recall of events and characters encountered so far (I literally had no memory of one person frequently mentioned) Our spiky, resourceful heroine is also in subdued mode for most of the film as she first recovers from the near fatal injuries sustained at the end of part 2, and then as she is put on trial for murder (her silence means her opponents underestimate her) However, this does throw into relief those rare moments when she permits herself a smile, the meanings of which are numerous (compare the one upon heraing of her father's death to that with which she greets an illicit pizza delivery) Like part 2, this film keeps Mikael and Lisbeth apart for most of the running time, although the plot strands are inextricably entwined, and avoids any romantic resolution. Another intriguing oddity is the sight of elderly spymasters carrying out the nefarious activities necessary to protect a decades-old conspiracy (one dies of a heart attack after an assassination while another needs weekly dialysis). Not that their frailty makes them any less deadly. The main gripe is the reappearance of the indestructible half-brother, though at least this time he's kept to the margins though he still feels like a renegade character from a 1970s Bond film.

Salvator Rosa

If ever an artist fit the description of Romantic, it's Salvator Rosa. His paintings might date from the 17th century but they would have fit perfectly into the later artistic movement. One painting in particular brought John Martin to mind, while the witches' sabbaths inevitably conjure up Goya. In addition there are bandits and hermits, usually set amid wild landscapes (again, the Romantics would have swooned) and sometimes cocooned in such darkness that it's difficult to distinguish details (this may or may not be intentional ...) Yet the brushwork is vibrant, the vision singular and the overall impression one of strange beauty.

Venice: Canaletto and His Rivals

Canaletto is an artist that I find is easy to admire but difficult to love. Yes, there's the undoubted technical skill on display (not to mention an insane attention to detail) but the overall effect often feels cold, especially in the later paintings which feel increasingly lifeless. Mind you, even these rather static figures are still miles ahead of the ones that populate the paintings of his rivals. Whereas Canaletto's people seem to inhabit the urban spaces, those in other works look like they are part of a tableau (these were usually painted by other artists in any case) Canaletto is head and shoulders above most of the others, although Marieschi's view of the courtyard of the Doge's Palace is terrific, with it's dramatic contrast of light and shade, and Bellotto clearly inherited some of his uncle's talent. However, it's Guardi who steals the show with his more impressionistic approach and muted palette. It's a breath of fresh air after the hyperdetailed onslaught of the previous rooms.