The Red Shoes

The Red Shoes has always been one of the most visually ravishing films, even in the slightly faded, slightly scuffed form that has been in circulation for as long as most of us can remember. We should all be thankful that it's Scorcese's favourite movie as the sparkling restoration he initiated is truly a thing of beauty. The reds pop from the screen and the blues are almost too lovely, while Moira Shearer's hair would make anyone want to be a redhead. Only Powell and Pressburger could have made such a film in 1940s Britain. It combines intense theatricality with vivid location shooting without ever feeling like two halves have been stitched together. It weaves high melodrama around the kernel of a fairy tale, and dares to spend 20 minutes on The Red Shoes ballet itself. It doesn't matter that the latter, as we see it, could *never* happen on stage: it starts and ends within the proscenium arch but inbetween every trick in the cinematic book is used as the dance becomes more surreal and disturbing (shadows worthy of Nosferatu clutch at the girl; dancers become first flowers then white birds; a man-shaped piece of newspaper transforms into a newsprint-covered man) Vicky's whole dilemma is encapsulated within that sequence and her subsequent jump from the railway bridge ironically echoes the elegant shape of the dancers as they are lifted by their partners. Torn between the demands of her husband (to leave the ballet company and make a life with him) and Lermontov (to give her life to dance) she suffers the same fate as in her most famous role.
The performances have to carry the weight of what could have been an extremely silly premise. The fact that real dancers are used immediately sells both the ballet scenes as well as the behind the scenes glimpses of a company in rehearsal and on the move. There's a simple joy in watching professionals hone their craft. The main burden though is shouldered by the mighty, multi-lingual Anton Walbrook, here a million miles away from his gallant Theo in The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (anyone who doubts his range should watch the scene here where he explains why he wants to leave Germany to come to live in England) Lermontov is a monster but one whose motives the audience totally understands. Creating art is the be-all-and-end-all for him and he expects his collaborators to be equally driven. Anyone so foolish enough to cross him, or worse, fall in love, is cut loose - and yet he's willing to woo back both Irina and Vicky after their marriages, and both are equally willing to return to this alternate family. The hints of the conflicting emotions raging beneath his outwardly calm facade make Lermontov one of the great Powell and Pressburger characters, while his final speech (starting loud, as though the emotion is finally bursting out, but gradually quietening as he becomes more human than he ever has previously) invariably reduces me to tears. One of the great, great films of world cinema and yet not even the best film that Powell and Pressburger made (that would be A Matter of Life and Death). They were THAT good.

Henri-Georges Clouzot's L'Enfer

Not exactly a lost film, more a fleeting glimpse of what could have been one of the great films of the 1960s. Even though the soundtrack for these remaining fragments is missing, the images more than speak for themselves. The plan was for the "real world" scenes to be in black and white and the jealous husband's fantasies and torments in colour. This only paints half the picture though. The cans of test footage reveal a sequence of awe-inspiring visual experiments, designed to emphasise Marcel's distorted view of the world. Makeup and lighting combine to create an eerie effect of ever-changing expressions on his wife's face (A Scanner Darkly in live action) and the colour inversion sequences show the women with striking blue lipstick and a lake turning blood red. It's a tantalising glance at what could have been but as the documentary makes clear, Clouzot's perfectionism seemed to become an end in itself. Shooting slowed to a crawl; he pushed everyone to the edge of their limits; and finally the leading man walked off set, never to return. Even while plans were being made to find a replacement, the end finally came when the director himself had a heart attack. The interviewees and on-set photos give a vivid impression of events (I admit to a happy surge of excitement when Costa Gavras popped up, as articulate as ever) complemented by clips from the surviving footage. Although it's only there in fragmentary form, it still makes a powerful impression and one can safely say that it would have been a far more interesting version of the script than the one that eventutally surfaced 30 years later under the guidance of Chabrol. Yes, it might have been very much of it's time but it would still have been astonishing.

Moctezuma

It's always interesting what exhibit in a show captures the attention. It's not necessarily the most famous or the most flashy. There's much to excite the imagination at the British Museum: the sculptures of figures have a pleasing simplicity combined with an attention to detail; carvings on stone are impressively vivid (with helpful diagrams to assist the identification of important elements); ceramics have flowing shapes and colourful decoration; and the various turquoise-encrusted objects show remarkable workmanship. But the item I was drawn to repeatedly was a 5 ft high wooden drum, covered with beautiful carvings of Eagle and Jaguar warriors. Even from a cursory glance, the skill is obvious, and it's hard to believe it's 500 years old. As with many of the objects, it's associated with the rituals of the Aztecs and the exhibition does a good job of contextualizing. Several pieces bear Moctezuma's name glyph and the various year glyphs are also highlighted. There's not much ghoulishness, apart from the mask made from a skull covered with turquoise and lignite. The culture is undeniably alien to our eyes (sacrificial rites, feathered serpents) but it exerts a powerful fascination.

Where The Wild Things Are

I have no idea whether children will enjoy, or even get, this film, but for adults it's a total delight. It's never saccharine or sentimental, instead brimming with youthful exuberence while retaining an admirable edge. There's tremendous fun to be had with Max and the Wild Things, for instance when they hurl clods of mud at each other, or charge around yelling but there's always an underlying sense of danger. We don't forget (nor does Max) that his crown is retrieved from among the skeletal remains of previous kings of the Wild Things (eaten by their subjects for presumably not keeping the sadness away) and his essential vulnerability is emphasised by the way he is dwarfed by his new friends, who come complete with sharp teeth and even sharper claws.
The events on the island spring logically from the framing story: the clodfight itself refers back to the snowball fight with his sister's friends, while the wonderful fort that Max and the Wild Things construct echoes both the igloo carelessly destroyed as a result of the snowball fight (further emphasised when Carol threatens to tear down the structure) and the "spaceship" Max constructs in his room, complete with the stuffed toys that will be saved (and who subsequently mutate into the Wild Things in his imagination). Meanwhile, the heart-shaped gift to his sister, which Max rips to pieces in a fit of rage, is echoed twice on the island.
The Wild Things themselves represent various facets of Max's personality but it's not done in a heavy-handed way. Carol's creativity and temper remind us of Max, but so does Alexander's lack of confidence. It works because the framing story has given us such a vivid impression of this boy in such a short space of time. Max feels very much like a real child as opposed to the Hollywood idea of what a child is like. One particularly lovely grace note is the scene where Max curls up under his mother's work desk and plucks at the toe of her stockings as she works, while the later scene of Carol's model of the island makes one catch one's breath. Carol's destruction of this work of art produces the same emotional pang as did Max's tearing his sister's present to pieces. The damage has been done and can't be repaired. It's not exactly the book but it's a lovely film. And never underestimate the appeal of men in (furry) monster suits ...

Tales from the Golden Age

Portmanteau films are notoriously uneven. There always seems to be at least one weak link, and the more segments, the more chance of duff parts. Luckily Tales from the Golden Age maintains an impressively high standard, with perhaps only the Legend of the Chicken Driver meandering to little purpose. Taken together the pieces give a typically absurdist view of life under Ceausecu, sometimes comic and bordering on the tragic. Possibly the best sections are the first, where the preparations for an on/off motorcade through a small village culminate with eveyone spinning on a carousel, including the person supposed to operate it, and the Legend of the Greedy Policeman, where a relative's promise of pork comes in the form of a live pig delivered to a block of flats, and the subsequent attempt to kill the animal without anyone noticing. As you can imagine, it doesn't go quite according to plan...

The White Ribbon

By the end of The White Ribbon, Germany is about to be plunged into the horror of World War I (to be followed a generation later by the unimaginable cruelties of World Word II) The villagers gather in their church, with the first volunteers proudly sitting in the front row. As the children's choir begins to sing, the image very slowly fades to black. History is about to devour a way of life and it is, appallingly, the logical conclusion to everything we've been watching - cruelty (both psychological and physical), hypocrisy, vengeance, suicide.
The adult males are patriarchal monsters, regardless of class. They don't hesitate to hit or otherwise punish their children. The women have some indications of tenderness but are cowed and unable to effectively protest. As one character says, this is a place dominated by "malice, envy, apathy and brutality". Even worse, those in positions of power refuse to accept the only possible answer to the mystery of who is terrorising the village. The pastor, of all people, rejects what is right under his nose, present within the walls of his own house. The only solution appears to be to leave, as the Baroness intends, and as the schoolteacher and his bride will do after the war.
It's never explained, and the narrator admits some of what he relates is hearsay, but the gathering of children quickly becomes a sinister image. They don't play; they lurk outside doors and windows; they observe silently and sullenly. Hindsight is impossible to ignore. These blonde children bring to mind pictures of the Hitler Youth (perhaps their own children 20 years later), though a couple of the youngest still retain their innocence - the pastor's son offering his rescued bird to replace the one killed by his sister. Erna meanwhile tearfully confesses to "dreams" that come true, which may be an attempt to prevent terrible things happening. The acts directed against adults are more easily understood than those inflicted upon other children. A boy opens a window in an attempt to kill his new-born brother. The Baron's son Sigi and later poor, handicapped Karli are both savagely beaten. Is it because of class? Prejudice? It's all the more disturbing because we don't know.
All of this would be unbearably gruelling if it wasn't for the sweet courtship between the narrator and Eva, the nanny. Perhaps it's because they are both outsiders but both seem free from the oppression weighing down the other villagers, and there's a gently comic scene with Eva's family when the schoolteacher goes to ask for her hand in marriage. It's a little spark of hope amid the gathering darkness, yet even these two will ultimately be caught up in their country's catastrophes.

Me and Orson Welles

Someone needs to tell Zac Efron now that pouting and squinting does not equal acting, never mind expressing emotional turbulence. He might be the leading man here but he's totally overshadowed - as one might hope - by Christian McKay's Orson Welles. The very definition of larger than life, Welles is brilliant, maddening and utterly ruthless, winning over people by sheer force of personality but always using them for his own ends (watch how he takes over the radio broadcast with no regard for his fellow actors) That makes his whispered, unheard, "thank you" to the retreating John Houseman all the more touching. He's had full scale rows with his producer, hurling insults at him, and yet deep down he *does* appreciate all his hard work - even if he can't admit publically. Unfortunately there's far too much time spent on Zac and the immensely annoying Clare Danes and nowhere near enough on the Mercury Theatre company and their groundbreaking production of Julius Caesar. Even in snapshop this comes across as far more interesting than the callow leads' relationship (Joseph Cotten is absolutely spot-on for a start) We're told how innovative this production will be but it's all so fragmentary that it has to be taken on trust, though McKay-as-Welles-as-Brutus gives some indication of the power of the interpretation. This was what I wanted to see. Alas, too much "Me" and not enough "Orson Welles"...

Beatles to Bowie

This is a great exhibition to bring out nostalgia even in people who don't remember the 1960s. Did Bowie *really* once look that boyish? And Shirley Bassey somehow doesn't look like Shirley Bassey when she was a mere girl. And for a real shock to the system, there's The Rolling Stones, with not a wrinkle in sight. Balance that with the likes of Jimi Hendrix, forever young, gazing at the viewer, framed by leaves. The other understandable reaction is sheer horror at some of the ghastly fashions on show. John Entwhistle and Pete Townshend seem to be swapping the same hideous jacket in a series of photographs and the less said about the bright floral trousers sported by other males the better (throughout the chronological exhibition, The Beatles transcend whatever's hip and end up looking timeless) Well worth a look for anyone who loves music or portrait photography or simply just wants to relive their past.

Paranormal Activity

"The scariest film ever made"? Hmm, I think not, though admittedly fear can be a rather subjective matter. Having said that, Paranormal Activity is undeniably chilling, even for hardened horror fans, and it's such a relief to have a film that relies on suggestion rather than gore for its effect. The fixed-camera night-time scenes are little masterpieces of creeping dread, each segment increasing ever-so-slightly the paranormal incidents (noises, lights switching on and off, footprints ...) so that by the last few, the viewer is anxiously scanning that cunningly composed frame for anything untoward. These parts work because they are interspersed with the domestic scenes bewteen Micah and Katie (motion-sickness inducing camerwork included) Once he gets the camera in his hand, Micah slips into alpha male mode. At first he seems to regard it all as a bit of fun, in contrast to the increasing worried Katie (he tellingly uses the word "cool") and even stops to grab the camera before investigating why his girlfriend is screaming (she reacts with understandable disbelief) It doesn't matter what anyone else says, Micah is convinced that he can solve the problem. Either he doesn't understand how terrified Katie feels or he doesn't really care. Their arguments settle into the same pattern: she accuses him of not understanding what's happening and he accuses her of bringing *this* into the house. Inevitably Micah's actions make matters worse. Rule no. 1 - if an expert tells you NOT to film/antagonize/try to contact the demon that's taken up residence in your house, then don't. By the time Micah truly appreciates the gravity of the situation, it's way, way too late.

A Serious Man

The blackly comic new Coen film brought home just how disappointing Burn After Reading actually was: broad, loud and populated by dislikeable idiots (with the odd flash of hilarity) This time round there's no big names, no manic gurning. Low key and one of the Coens' more inscrutable efforts, A Serious Man begins - in Yiddish (fair weather fans leave now!) - in a 19th century shtetl, with an encounter between a married couple and an elderly man who may, or may not, be a dybbuk. It gets steadily stranger. In the 1960s Larry Gopnik seems a nice enought guy, though placid to a fault, when suddenly he finds himself assailed on all sides (by God? fate? pure coincidence?) The unctuous Sy Ableman steals his wife, and in a late discreet aside it's suggested he's also responsible for sending poisonous letters to Larry's faculty; Larry's oddball brother (and his cyst) has taken up semi-permanent residence in the bathroom, much to the annoyance of Larry's daughter who clearly wants that position for herself and her endless hair washing; and the Columbia Record Club keep hounding him for money for records *he* has never received, though it turns out his son is far more devious than himself. The only purposes in Larry's life seem to be to provide money upon demand. no matter how unreasonable the request, and to fix the TV aerial so his son can watch F Troop. Oh, and throw in a trio of variously unhelpful rabbis. All of which eventually provokes even the infuriatingly docile Larry to exasperation and tears. It could have felt horribly cruel if it wasn't for the sympathy we feel for Larry, surrounded as he is by a world out to get him (a hilarious nightmare sees his redneck neighbours out hunting Jews instead of the usual wildlife). The filmmaking contrasts with the chaos afflicting Larry. It's calm and controlled, with pyrotechnics saved for moments like a stoned boy's experience of his bar mitzvah. And how does all this relate to the opening? Who knows? You could view Larry and his wife as extensions of the couple in the prologue (easygoing and skeptical husband, forceful and brutally pragmatic wife) but no concrete answers - to anything - are forthcoming, and the double whammy of doctor's phonecall and approaching tornado that ends the film hardly ties up loose ends. Definitely a Coen film to mull over during those many repeat viewings.