Micmacs

Do the events that comprise the bulk of Micmacs actually happen or are they merely the imaginings of a dying man? There are certainly indications that it could be the former: the transition from the end credits of The Big Sleep to the opening credits of Micmacs itself; the noticeable shift to a distinctly more stylized world; and the sudden emergence of the typical Jeunet quirky humour. Either way, the film's a paean to comradeship, cooperation and the power of the imagination. The bunch of eccentrics who adopt Bazil (jobless, homeless and with a bullet lodged in his brain) exude a warmth and humanity distinctly lacking in "normal" society, especially the two rival arms dealers responsible for Bazil's woes. They are arrogant, selfish, paranoid and completely unscrupulous. The film also manages some direct hits against Sarkozy's government. He's never named but that's him with De Fenouollet in the photo that has pride of place on the arms dealer's desk, while Marconi is rumoured to be having an affair with the Prime Minister's wife. All of which is encased in a proliferation of sight gags, a delight in mime, and a production design bursting at the seams. It's probably not to everyone's taste but at least it's not as toe-curlingly twee as Amelie thank heavens.

The Last Station

It's entirely understandable why the revered Leo Tolstoy wishes to spend his final days in peace and quiet. His wife and his acolytes are warring over the possibility of a new will with both sides enlisting others to both support their cause and spy on the other side. Chertkov, the Tolstoyan, uses surreptitious methods (which at least are mostly quiet) whereas Sofya tends towards the loudly melodramatic. Who's right? The man who wants the copyright of Tolstoy's works to be given to the Russian people? Or the wife who's trying to protect her family? The film wisely doesn't take sides but it can certainly see the follies of both. It's all so lively that you don't really notice just how little actually happens or how much dialogue there is. It even makes a virtue of that bugbear of heritage cinema: the act of writing. Tolstoy is surrounded by people who write down everything that happens - for posterity, for evidence against the enemy - while he himself conspicuously isn't seen writing (the one occasion we see him with pen in hand he's rudely interrupted by Sofya) Sofya might be increasingly exasperated by the presence of notebooks but it doesn't stop her from giving Bulgakov a diary so that *he* can record events. In fact, she's doing exactly the same as her arch enemy Chertkov. Bulgakov is caught in the middle of this battle and traverses the opposing philosophies during the course of the film. An irreverent streak brings characters vividly to life: Tolstoy is wryly aware that he doesn't live up to the lofty ideals of the movement established in his name; Sofya isn't above clambering over balconies to eavesdrop. And all in the public eye of the media who camp outside the Tolstoys' estate and later flock to the railway station en masse. It might be early 20th century Russia but there's an awful lot that's totally recognisable.

A Single Man

How would you spend your last day? Perhaps you'd indulge in a final burst of hedonism. Or maybe, like George, you'd be considerate enough to put your worldly affairs in order (documents, keys, letters) George is saying his goodbye to the world without the world really noticing - apart from perhaps one unexpected person. The prevalence of clocks in the first half of the film countdown the time to what is the *really* important event of his day. Work and socializing are now just waystations on the journey towards death. He's a man so practised at presenting a facade that most people don't think that anything is amiss.
As one of an "invisible minority", he hides in plain sight. If he was a bereaved man who'd lost his wife, society would be rushing forward with tea and sympathy. Instead he's lost his boyfriend and it doesn't matter that their relationship had lasted longer than friends' marriages, a point brought crushingly home home when George's oldest friend Charley drunkenly describes it as a substitute for a "real" (heterosexual) relationship. George's reaction here is very different to that seen in flashback when he first received the news of Jim's death, his numbed, grief-stricken response only heightened by the information that it's a family-only funeral (clearly loving someone for 16 years doesn't make you "family") The gulf in understanding and compassion is etched across George's expression as he struggles to maintain control. Yet the warmly-lit, comfortable domestic scene we witness - George and Jim on the sofa, reading amusingly opposite books, with the dogs dozing close by - illustrates both the love they share and precisely why George feels he can no longer live. Grief has overwhelmed his perception of life, to the extent that a warning sign in the early signs is completely overlooked.
It's undeniably slow, though not without humour - George has some nicely sardonic lines and Julianne Moore is always great value - and designed to within an inch of its life, yet it gets inside George's mindset without making him come across as self-pitying, and it saves the most bitter irony for last.

Tulpan

Tulpan is one of those films that turns out to be an unexpected delight. A family live in a yurt on the steppe, with their flock of sheep and assorted other animals. The first joy is that, despite being in the middle of nowhere, there's more noise than in any city: from the children (the daughter's singing, much to her father's intense irritation; the toddler's yelling) and from the animals, who produce an endless cacophony. Then there's Asa, the young brother-in-law. Just returned from the navy, he needs a wife before he has any hope of getting a flock of his own, and the only eligible female is the eponymous Tulpan (who we never actually see) Alas, she's less than impressed with her suitor and declares his ears are too large, resulting in several amusing scenes as Asa tries to correct this perceived fault. The real reason though is that Tulpan wants to go to college and is fully supported in this by her formidable mother. You can understand why she wants her daughter to have a different life.
It's a hard, precarious existence, and the elements don't help. Dust devils appear out of nowhere; storms fill the sky, and the parched landscape offers no sustenance for the flock, with lambs dying with worrying frequency. The boss won't allow the family to move yet, and Asa is singularly useless (you can't help but think Tulpan makes the right decision when she leaves) And yet it's actually a very funny film. Asa's brother-in-law Ondas fixes all and sundry with withering glances, while his friend Boni is obsessed with girls, sports a mighty impressive set of gold teeth and incongruously plays Boney M's Rivers of Babylon the minute he starts his truck. The comic highlight begins with the surreal sight of a camel, swathed in bandages, sitting in the sidecar of a battered motorbike (which turns out to belong to the vet) while clever camera moves and offscreen sound reveal the momma camel who's been following and terrorising the vet. The attempt to get a head start fails miserably when the bike won't start and the vet, boss and patient are hotly pursued into the distance by momma. The scene manages to be both hilarious and wonderfully endearing. It's matched by the emotional peak when Asa storms off in a sulk after another row with Ondas (actually he just heads deeper into the middle of nowhere ...) and finds the missing pregnant sheep, about to give birth. In an earlier scene Asa had been no help whatsoever but now, on his own, he not only assists but manages to resuscitate the lamb. It's completely gripping because we've seen numerous dead lambs as well as Asa's own incompetence so the chances of success aren't high. Against all the odds Asa might make a life on the steppe after all.

Medea: Northern Broadsides (Oxford Playhouse)

The fascinating thing about the Greek plays is that even after 2000 years, they still possess deeply powerful moments that shake the viewer's soul. Even when a particular interpretation has underlying problems, those moments somehow survive. Medea is a case in point. The blues might be a logical choice of music on paper but in practice it doesn't always work, and the seriously distracting electric guitar at one key point made it feel more like the 1970s than ancient Greece. Some of the performances are worringly strident, and yet the play itself remains deeply disturbing ("the gods themselves turn pale when we kill our children") On one level Medea is a synpathetic character - a strong woman but a wronged wife - but this is constantly undercut by her own jealousy, pride and uncontrollable anger, not to mention her skill in murderous sorcery. The true victims are the unseen children, pawns in her plan of revenge. The exchanges between Medea and Jason keep the audience's sympathy swinging between the two (his arrogance and ungratefulness, her self-pity and ruthlessness) but ultimately we wonder: did his new wife and her father *really* deserve such hideous deaths? did his children *really* deserve to die in order to make him suffer? These acts go unpunished and Medea is able to glory in her triumph while the gods - maybe - get what they want. It's not a comforting thought.

Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll

No one could accuse Sex and Drugs ... of gazing at its subject through rose-tinted spectacles. The Ian Dury portrayed here isn't a particularly nice person and doesn't really even qualify as a loveable rogue. "Difficult" is one word that springs to mind. In fact, it's a bit perplexing that he can string along the women in his life for so long. He's volatile, self-indulgent and manipulative, discarding people with barely a second thought. In fact, it's a relief to see a biography that doesn't come across as a hagiography and actually takes an inventive approach to the narrative. A hyper-stylised performance onstage provides the impetus for fragmentary glimpses of Dury's past, troubled childhood and chaotic adulthood bouncing off each other in the way that memories do. Occasionally it gets a bit too frenetic (and dear God, why the day-glo titles?) but Andy Serkis is brilliant as the man himself and the music still sounds great.

Invictus

These days you know what to expect from a Clint Eastwood film: a seemingly effortless, well-made film containing first-rate performances, but probably not the most challenging, cutting edge cinema-outing of the year (he can leave that to others) Invictus fits the pattern, focussing on Nelson Mandela's plan to unite his divided nation behind the Springboks at the 1995 World Cup, in the face of opposition from his supporters and the lingering fall-out from apartheid.
Eastwood cannily constructs the film around a series of oppositions - at the most basic, black v. white; the formers' love of soccer v. the latters' love of rugby; the old regime and the new; the demands of the country and the demands of the personal. Both serious and humorous points emerge through these contrasts: the Afrikaaner Presidential staff packing up because they assume they will be sacked because a) they're white and b) they worked for De Klerk; the black bodyguards' horror when Mandela assigns a group of white security veterans to increase their numbers (this scene also contains some priceless macho bristling as the two groups try to stare down each other); the township kids who hate rugby but adore Chester, the one black Springbok. As Mandela's plan takes shape and he enlists the beleagured rugby captain to his cause, these divisions slowly begin to dissolve. The security detail are spotted playing touch rugny on the lawn, and the black contingent even get caught up in the World Cup excitement almost despite themselves; the Springboks township coaching sessions progress from sullen reluctance by the players to a joyous satisfaction; the rugby crowds that gave Mandela a decidely mixed reception at the beginning are roundly cheering by the end.
The film also nicely gets those perennials such as being stuck somewhere doing something when an important match is taking place (only here it's the President meeting a Taiwanese trade delegation) or filling in a World Cup wallchart (although this one's in the Presidential office) or the way fans will try to watch or listen to that vital match any way they can. Even non-rugby fans understand these things. The humour luckily keeps portentousness at bay although some truly awful music occasionally makes it all feel a bit mawkish. Freeman twinkles above the steely core, Damon sensibly underplays and the fun comes from Mandela's put-upon staff, especially the security detail (Jason repeatedly telling people how much he hates rugby, the Afrikaaners trying to remember to smile at the public) The outcome is hardly a surprise but it's all very uplifting and even non-sports fans will smile at the all-encompassing celebration of the final victory.