Three Monkeys

This is a brooding tale of moral failure that won't be to everyone's taste. It's slow and quiet, with the key moments happening offscreen. We only hear the opening car accident and never see the culminating murder, nor the incident that results in Ismail's battered face. We are unsure about the precise moment the affair between Hacer (Ismail's mother) and Servet (responsible for the accident) begins. In a way, it's fitting as characters throught seek to avoid responsibility or ignore what's happening. It's not only the culprit who flees the scene of the car accident. A couple who subsequently arrive don't actually bother to check whether the victim is alive, but drive on with the intention of phoning the police. Servet pays Eyup (Hacer's husband) to take the blame, and action later echoed when Eyup himself tries to persuade a friend to admit to committing a murder. On a more mundane level, people at the railway station studiously pretend not to notice Ismail's vomitting fit. The muted colour palette of this morally ambivalent world is only enlivened by the flashes of red that appear in Hacer's outfits once she begins the affair. This is offset by the impressive sound design, where the sound of breathing is as important as dialogue, and which culminates in the onset of a thunderstorm as Eyup stands alone on the rooftop at the end. It serves to not only break the suffocating heat of the town, but also reflects the troubles that have befallen this family unit.

A Christmas Tale

Marxists would have terrific fun with this film. All the physical and mental deterioration on show would point to the inherent weakness and decline of the haute bourgeoisie, as would the incessant bickering and fighting. It certainly lends itself to such an interpretation but it also works as a family melodrama, albeit one full of visual flourishes and nods to cinema history. It's also the sort of the film that only the French ever seem to carry off. The cast is top notch and the attention is evenly spread. Juno, the mother, not only has a potentially fatal illness that may be alleviated by a bone marrow transplant from a family member, but it turns out has never really loved her children. Elizabeth, the eldest, is aloof, bitter and overprotective of her son. She has also in effect banished middle child Henri from her presence. When Henri isn't causing a drunken scene, he seems to be involved in fights with everyone else (his brother-in-law beats him up almost immediately upon arrival) and enjoys telling everyone how much he *doesn't* love his mother. The youngest child Ivan had a breakdown at 15 but now seems to be the most well-adjusted of the lot. Paul, Elizabeth's teenage son, also appears to be suffering a breakdown but her reaction is very different to that offered to the young Ivan. Even Ivan's lively little boys have a worryingly hollow-eyed look. This is clearly not a "healthy" family on any level, certainly not in comparison to Henri's pragmatic, cheerful, Jewish girlfriend (who wisely departs before the Christmas celebration itself). Throw in secret love, a long-dead son and a family Christmas and it's an extremely entertaining experience.

Exhibitions

Miracle of miracles, the Circle Line was running so I seized the opportunity to finally catch up with a couple of exhibitions. First up was Picasso : Challenging the Past at the National Gallery. I think it's fair to say that I am NOT a fan of Picasso. I find a lot of his paintings downright ugly and don't "get" them at all, apart from the Cubist works. What's intriguing about this exhibition is the way it highlights the way Picasso's art is in dialogue with the great works of the past. This is most obvious in the Variations, where Las meninas or Le dejeuner sur l'herbe are reinterpreted in true Picasso style but are still recognizable. It's also there in the way a portrait or a still life has absorbed the style of El Greco or Cezanne. The thing that impressed me most however was the vivacity of the colour, especially in the Women of Algiers variations, although the monochrome works are equally striking. Having said that, my favourite painting was the portrait of Fernande Olivier in a mantilla, all in shades of brown, with the background paint seeming to run down the canvas. It give a sense of spontaneity, while also being very much a likeness.
From one extreme to the other. Off to the Queen's Gallery for Breugel to Rubens, which is much more my sort of thing. The centerpiece is Breugel's Massacre of the Innocents, with it's multitude of events. The eye wanders across it, looking at small groups, or the distant buildings. You could spend hours picking up details. What I didn't realize was that many of the infants had been painted over on the order of Rudolph II, which is why a family seem so distressed at a farm animal being dragged away or why soldiers are gleefully stabbing at poultry. There are also some fine portraits: Erasmus, Joos van Cleve and his wife, Hans Memling's Portrait of a Man, a clutch of Van Dykes and Rubens' wonderful self-portrait. The landscapes are maybe less impressive though David Teniers the Younger's group all feature stunning still life observation: fish, armour, vegetables, while Jan Breughel the Elder populates one of his with a wonderful array of animals. defy anyone not to indulge in a game of spot-the-animal.

Il Divo

It's tempting to say that a degree in Italian politics is essential before seeing Il Divo. The plot is so complex that one feels that every scathing comment ever made about the Italian political system was entirely justified. Corruption; collusion with the Mafia; rampant political cynicism; the unhealthy involvement of the Church - it's all here. Captions introduce the multitude of characters that pass across the screen but trying to keep who is who sorted is well-night impossible. Identifying faces is one thing but once names start flying around (especially during a barvura "confession" montage) helpless bewilderment takes hold. I suspect numerous viewings, accompanied by a crib sheet, are the only way a foreigner can hope to work out precisely what is (or not) going on.
Canny cross-cutting associates Andreotti with numerous assassinations and meetings with the Mafia but never with concrete certainty. Andreotti himself bears more than a passing resemblance to Nosferatu (are his ears *really* like that?), even down to the rigid movement, with as little bodily expression as facial. Luckily the film, in contrast, is fleet of foot, with long flowing single takes, roaming through both the halls of power and domestic spaces. There are a couple of brilliant montages: the above-mentioned "confession" and, right at the start, a series of assassinations of key figures which will resonate throughout the film. It grabs the attention immediately and, despite the overwhelming density of information, the film never relinquishes it. Not the easiest film to follow then, but one that is worth the effort.

Che Part 2

As stand-alone films, Che Parts 1 and 2 are less than enlightening. Part 2 suffers from the same problems as it's predecessor. It's still almost impossible to distinguish one bearded character from the next; the viewer is still kept at a distance from the main character; the guerrillas still trek endlessly to and fro while the spectator wonders just what the hell is actually happening. Basically as individual films, the two parts are deeply unsatsfying. However, viewed as a pair, they become reflections of each other. Whereas the peasants in Cuba support the guerrillas, in Bolivia they are deeply mistrustful (especially of the foreigners amongst them) and refuse to help. Che's group in Cuba were, on the whole, determined and loyal, but in Bolivia there's arguments and a lack of enthusiasm, men drift away. Che's asthma is far worse and the number of dead start to pile up. There's no glorious culminating pitched battle, and rather than taking the initiative, the guerrillas are forever on the back foot, the ones being pursued. Then of course there's the ending. Part 1 ends with victory, part 2 with defeat and death. The viewer can only appreciate the full impact of the latter having seen the joy of the former.

Magnificence of the Tsars

For a long time I didn't have any intention of going to see this exhibition but the joy of an Art Fund card is that the reduced admission price makes one more willing to take a chance. I'm very pleased that I did. It's a relatively small exhibition, focussing on ceremonial male dress at the Russian court, from the reign of Peter II to that of Nicholas II. As always, the first thing to notice is the comparatively small size of the clothing, though this is less surprising in the case of the adolescent Peter II. You can see the growth of the boy through the changing size of the outfits. By far the most beautiful (and well-preserved) item of clothing in is this section: a nightgown, which is actually much more like a kimono, in embroidered French silk which still shimmers in the light. The chasuble and coronation mantle from Nicholas II's reign are far more gaudy, and considered alongside various coronation herald's tabards they provide a vivid impression of the sumptuousness of that last coronation. The costume worn by Nicholas II at the 1903 Russian Ball meanwhile indicates the unbelievable luxury of the court, as do the heavily bejewelled boxes, buckles and swords. Dozens of diamonds, emeralds and rubies adorn these items. It's almost enough to make you weep when you think of the grinding poverty of the vast majority of the Tsars' subjects. The rulers could afford the finest craftsmanship from Europe and it shows. What we really need now is a complementary exhibition for the women's clothing at court.

The Young Victoria

The Young Victoria tries hard not to be the stereotypical British costume film, but unlike it's central character, it can't quite escape from the restrictions. There's an awful lot of letter-writing/reading, the constant bane of such films. Heavy-handed imagery rears it's head early on, as images of imprisonment, such as gates shutting, pepper the opening scenes - just in case we weren't aware of Victoria's stifling lack of freedom. There's also a thumpingly obvious use of chess as Victoria and Albert struggle to evade the machinations of their relatives. Ironically, the pair do marry but that's more despite the political manoeuvring than because of it. What King Leopold and the Duchess of Kent failed to take into account was the possibility of true love taking precedence over familial loyalty. The film probably works best showing two essentially lonely and manipulated young people unexpectedly finding their soul mate, and tha's it really. There's not much dramatic tension and it's left to the supporting actors such as Paul Bettany and Mark Strong to provide any residual interest.

British Museum

There were a couple of things that I wanted to see at the British Museum. I have to admit to being rather disappointed with the Babylon exhibition. I'd have liked more artefacts from Babylon itself. The glazed brick reliefs of lions and a dragon from the Processional Way give an indication of the physical splendour of the city but there was little about the lives of the occupants, and to be honest, cuneiform tablets don't exactly grip in the same way as other ancient written sources. The idea of Babylon may have inspired the imagination down the centuries but I'm afraid the exhibition didn't do much for me. However, it was salutary to be reminded of the damage the site has suffered since the American invasion of Iraq.
Personally I was far more entranced by the fragmentary wallpaintings from Nebamun's tomb-chapel in one of the Egyptian rooms. The details of the natural world are astonishing (a cat catching birds, different coloured cattle suggesting movement, hares and deer brought as offerings, fish in a pond) and one wishes that more paintings had survived. Even this handful of fragments though give an indication of how beautiful the tomb itself must have been.
The other unexpected delight was the exhibition Treasures of Shanghai: ancient Chinese bronzes and jades. Among the items are axes, wine and food vessels and even a drum support. My favourite was a vessel in the shape of a buffalo, from 13-11th century BC, where the elaborate decoration on the body contrasted with the simple, rather sweet, features of the face (actually part of the lid) The technique used in all the bronzes is astonishing, some of the later ones featuring silver inlay. Even the ceremonial jade axe heads are things of beauty, despite their simplicity. Later artists were inspired by the ancient vessels, copying the forms and decoration and it's easy to see why.

The Class

Aspiring teachers should give this film a wide berth if they don't want to be unutterably depressed about their chosen profession. Lessons are an endless battle of wills and the teachers aren't always victorious. Pointing out that 15 minutes of every lesson are lost while everyone settles down merely leads to yet more wasted time as pupils argue abouth whether lessons actually run an hour or less. There are endless debates about the most seemingly inocuous matters: the choice of name used in a grammar exercise, being asked to read aloud. What's surprising is that we don't see more frustrated outbursts by the teachers. there's one impressive meltdown in the staff room, but mostly it's a war of attrition. Small victories are almost immediately overturned. Not that the pupils are monotonously predictable. Esmeralda, class rep and all-round loudmouth, wants to be a policewoman; Souleymane, the main disruptive influence, actually engages with the self-portrait project. This is partly what makes the classroom so volatile. Khoumba can suddenly become insolent and uncooperative for no apparent reason and then swing back to her former attitude with no warning. On the other hand Wey maintains his cheerful enthusiasm despite his lack of French and is clearly on the path to being a star student. One mother complains that the teachers don't push the more gifted students hard enough, but it's clear that in the circumstances that is impossible. By the end of the school year, most of the class feel that they've learned something (though interestingly not in French), but depressingly, one girl admits to the teacher that she's understood nothing, while Souleymane has finally been expelled. It's not an optimistic picture of the education system ...