Welcome

Now there's an ironic title if ever there was one. The illegal immigrants arriving in Calais get no welcome from the French and are even less welcome in their ultimate destination: England. No surprise there. However unlike the British films In This World and Ghosts, the attention isn't solely on the plight of the immigrants themselves. The opening introduces us to Bilal and his failed first attempt to cross the Channel in a truck (the plastic bag he has to keep over his head to ward off carbon monoxide fumes reminds him of his treatment at the hand of the Turkish police after he crossed from Iraq) but the focus switches to his relationship with swimming instructor - and former champion swimmer -Simon. His reasons for helping Bilal are opaque: is it to impress his soon-to-be-ex-wife, and activist herself? to give himself some purpose now that he's on his own? or does the childless Simon start to view Bilal as a surrogate son? It could be any or all or something else entirely. The determination of Bilal to reach his girlfriend by any means necessary also appeals to this lovelorn man. Deep down he realizes that Bilal's plans are hopelessly impractical - to become a professional footballer, to reach England by swimming the Channel - but he finds himself supporting the teenager as much as discouraging him. Needless to say, this doesn't get wholehearted approval from anyone because what is most surprising about the story is the rampant surveillance and persecution of anyone who remotely helps the illegals (readers of the Daily Mail might like to know that the French don't just escort them onto the nearest lorry) Townsfolk inform on anyone they suspect giving aid, the charity that runs a soup kitchen is harrassed, activists are arrested. It feels a million miles away from a democratic, civilized society - and of course it doesn't deter the immigarnts one iota.

Tate Modern

I have a sneaking suspicion that I've seen more exhibitions at Tate Modern in recent years than anywhere else - despite claiming to not actually like modern art! Clearly I need to reassess that statement. The tentative footsteps into this strange new world *have* broadened my horizons a little without ever replacing my existing preferences. Of the 2 shows that I saw on Saturday I expected to like the Arshile Gorky one the most, but as it turned out Van Doesburg and the International Avant-Garde was far more enjoyable. In the Gorky exhibition there were a few nice "spot the influence" moments (Cezanne in Pears, Peaches and Pitcher, Picasso and Miro elsewhere) but there rapidly came a point where the doodlings became infuriatingly formless, repetative and apparently meaningless. Oddly, the preponderance of grid-like squares and rectangles in the Van Doesburg managed not to have the same effect. Admittedly they were merely part of the numerous De Stijl-influenced architectural drawings and models, furniture, typography, film and art on display but they didn't become monotonous. In some respects the architectural exhibits were the most fascinating: the geometric shapes and primary colours working surprisingly well both inside and out. And then there's the stained glass, again geometric in design in a limited palette but with an undeniable beauty as the light shines through.

Treeless Mountain

There are some images that emphasise huge cultural divides and the sight of impaled still-living grasshoppers being, in effect, roasted alive is one of them (actually more like four of five of them) These delicacies are a money-making scheme to enable young Jin and Bin to fill the large pink piggy bank given to them by their mother. She tells them that by the time it's full she will have returned to them. Little Bin briefly wonders whether the grasshoppers are in pain but the overwhelming desire to fill Piggy and magically bring their mother back is the overriding concern. The casual callousness of the children pales into insignificance compared to the neglectful behaviour of most of the adults. The mother abruptly uproots them from home and school and leaves them with her sister-in-law, Big Aunt, while she goes off to find their father. Big Aunt is far from maternal and it becomes clear that she drinks too much. The hungry children clamour for food (occasionally fed by the kindly woman next door, whose retarded son plays with Bin), don't go to school and seemingly wear the same clothes every day. Delightedly Bin discovers the miracle of receiving change in a shop and the girls eagerly exchange large coins for lots of small ones. Piggy is full but the mother doesn't return. The simple shots of the sisters, Jin clutching Piggy, waiting at the bus stop and scanning every passenger amply convey the descent from hope to disappointment. Big Aunt eventually shows them the letter from their mother, saying that she can't afford to support them. Another upheaval follows, to their grandparents' farm. Despite the hard life and the apparent reluctance of the grandfather, this is ironically the place where they are happiest and cared for the most. Granny takes an interest in them, involves them with her work and ensures they are fed. The children meanwhile offer up the precious piggy bank so she can replace her delapidated shoes. The light softens and the images are suffused with a warm hue by the end. It's unclear what the future holds but the children have shown themselves to be resilient in the fact of adversity.

Father Of My Children

When we watch an independent/low budget/foreign film, do we give a thought about how it came into being? (do we actually care?) Maybe we should, especially after watching Father of My Children inspired as it is by the suicide of European producer Humbert Balsan. His fictional counterpart Gregoire is a charming, cultured family man, delighting his children with the history of the Templars or elucidating the meaning of a Ravenna mosaic ceiling. He's also a man forever on his mobile phone whether he's at home, on holiday or driving in his car (worringly he can juggle two cigarettes *and* a phone and drive using no hands at all) It's no suprise either that he gets stopped for both speeding and not wearing a seatbelt and then informed that he has no points left to lose on his license. One has the impression these minor details simply don't register amid the larger picture of being a film producer. Movie making fills almost every waking hour: the financing, organization, trouble-shooting and nurturing of projects. However, it soon becomes clear that Moon Films is in deep trouble. It's heavily in debt and struggling to finish existing productions, particularly a Swedish film helmed by an egomaniac "genius". The first half of the film is fascinating in its portrayal of the high pressure world of a small film company, and builds towards a point of no return for both man and company. The second half deals with the aftermath. Widow and children have to come to terms with their grief, while Sylvia also has to deal with the winding up of her husband's beloved Moon Films. In some ways this is as tragic as the human loss - the films never to be made, the careers never to flourish. The clear implication is that international cinema will be poorer without it, despite the films not being financially successful and only finding limited audiences. Those who connect with such films connect with a passion equal to Gregoire's and ironically after his death one film *does* become a hit, but it's too little, too late. Admittedly this is probably a film for film lovers i.e. the sort who might enjoy the films Gregoire produced but it's beautifully and affectingly acted and any film that starts with Jonathan Richman's Egyptian Reggae gets my vote every time.

Green Zone

One day a filmmaker will finally crack that most tricky of cinematic problems: how to get an audience for an Iraq-themed movie. It doesn't matter how many Oscars were won by The Hurt Locker, or how good the film is, it wasn't seen by many people at the cinema and judging by Green Zone's opening weekend even the Damon-Greengrass combination can't entice a large audience. Clearly the attempt to portray Iraq via the mechanism of an action thriller didn't fool people. It's a shame as it works perfectly well on its own terms. It's a more political film than The Hurt Locker (which was very much about the psychology of the men on the ground) but then again any film centred around those pesky WMDs will inevitably be political. At least the issue is crucial to the plot rather than just shoehorned in to score points.
The Iraqis might be split into factions but so are the Americans, to equally deadly effect (bizarrely, a CIA officer becomes the voice of reason) but that's as far as the similarities go. While the locals desperately search for water and loot whatever they can find, the American authorities and their allies lounge by the pool in the Green Zone. It's a world away from the situation on the ground and the position of the soldiers doing the actual fighting. No wonder such catastrophic decisions were made. Just as bad is the servile complicity of the press, serving up unsubstantiated "exclusives" at the behest of the government. By far the most sympathetic character is Freddy, whose attempt to do the right thing (let the Americans know that high-ranking wanted Iraqis are meeting close by) illustrates the maxim that no good deed goes unpunished. His final exasperated outburst to Miller expresses the anger and frustration of a population whose ability to make decisions about their own destiny has been removed.

Crazy Heart

Imagine the Dude totally run to seed and with a liking for more than the occasional White Russian. That's country singer Bad Blake. He may be an alcoholic but he's inevitably a rather likeable bear of a man purely because he's played by Jeff Bridges. That's crucial for our understanding of why single mother Jean succumbs to the charms of a man old enough to be her father, with a history of broken marriages and a drink problem. He might be suffering from creative block but it's clear he's talented and he prides himself on never mising a gig, no matter the circumstances. There's nothing particularly new here although the trajectory doesn't go *quite* as we might expect: Bad's estranged son, who he hasn't seen since he was 4, doesn't even want to talk to him let alone reconcile; his protegee Tommy is still fond of his mentor and goes out of his way to help him; Bad and Jean meet again at the end but it's obvious she's moved on; Bad does indeed seem to have cleaned up his life and begun to write again. It makes for a bittersweet ending but a curiously hopeful one. And then there's the music. I don't like country music but I was tapping my feet to these tunes, and Bridges makes a wonderfully growly singer. It might not be his best performance but at least it got him a long overdue Oscar.

The Blind Side

It might be based on a true story but The Blind Side nevertheless conforms to the typical Hollywood sports movie template. The triumph against adversity is never in doubt (because we know the outcome) while the black footballer himself is a supporting character in his own story (and so inarticulate you want to shake him to get some kind of response) The attention is focussed instead on Leanne, the wealthy white Christian Republican fairy godmother. She's a woman who, you sense, has never - and will never - take no for an answer and is used to getting her own way (her husband's wry responses suggest as much) The film implies that Christian charity was her overwhelming motive although a mildly dissenting opinion is raised towards the end without receiving too much credence. Either way it patronisingly suggests that the only way for poor black children to make a better life for themselves is through the agency of enlightened white folk.

Shutter Island

This is a film that practically demands a second viewing, to be watched again but this time with the benefit of hindsight. OK, so the viewer realizes early on that all is not as it seems but the "why" takes a little longer to work out. Is Teddy Daniels correct when he suspects there's a conspiracy to cover up events on Shutter Island? Or is it his own mental instability and paranoia that are warping his perceptions? And if we don't have complete faith in our hero, how much of what we see through his eyes can we trust? The paranoia starts to spread outwards to the audience. Right from the start something doesn't feel quite right. Both the mise en scene and the music verge on the overwrought, and Teddy's dreams have a disconcertingly concrete vividness that breeds further mistrust in the stability of the image and what is "real". Likewise, Mark Ruffalo's performance as Teddy's partner feels ever so slightly off but it's difficult to say why (is it the slight smile? the clumsiness with his gun? the way he calls him "boss"?) And are the psychiatrists as sinister as Teddy suspects or is that just his paranoia and loathing of Germans? When the penny finally drops and the normal world comes back into focus, the urge to reassess everything we've seen so far is irresistible. The ending contains one final enigma but it's one that almost gets lost in the flood.

The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo

The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo is a scathing critique of male violence and misogyny cunningly disguised as a gripping thriller. The world of the film, and by extension Swedish society as a whole, is permeated by the psychological, physical and sexual violence committed against women and it doesn't flinch from portraying some disturbing moments. Nor is it merely the fascist-inclined elites who are the perpetrators. The yobs that hacker Lisbeth encounters at the station are equally quick to go on the attack. In these circumstances it seems that the only option is to to completely erase one's identity (as both Harriet and Lisbeth, via her hacker identity, do) Those who fight back are immediately labelled as in some way psychotic: the thugs call Lisbeth a "crazy bitch" when she gives them a taste of their own medicine (what does that make them?) and she has already been classed as mentally unstable after taking revenge on her abusive father. Yet despite their suffering both Lisbeth and Harriet prove to be survivors, and in a glorious reversal of cliche - almost making up for those thousands of films where heroines stupidly get themselves kidnapped or otherwise put in harm's way - it's Lisbeth who literally rides to the rescue of her fellow investigator Mikael when he inadvertently stumbles into the killer's clutches.
The film also distinctively combines what we might call high and low technology in its investigative framework. Lisbeth and Mikael take their laptops everywhere but for a 40 year old mystery they also have to wade through files of papers and boxes of photographic negatives, leaf through diaries and Bibles and generally be able to analyze all that raw data. The cabin's walls gradually disappear under a mosaic of photos and printouts as the pair tease out links. At various times both Mikael and the elderly Hendrik misinterpet what's in front of them whereas Lisbeth has a photographic memory and immediately knows when someone has been in the cabin. She also has an unerring instinct for the key breakthrough (she solves the code in Harriet's diary and applies the results to unsolved murders) and it's she who realizes that they've been - partly - looking at the wrong culprit.
It's a cracking thriller, a disturbing portrayal of violence, and a film that generates a real sense of anger if you're a female viewer. You don't leave the cinema with any feeling of goodwill towards men.

The Real Van Gogh

It has to be said that the crowds, even at 10.20 in the morning, were formidable (the queue even more so) but the exhibition is well worth the effort. A few pragmatic decisions helped. The letters containing the sketches were the main cause of bottlenecks so I decided that if I could sneak a peak I would, but if not, well, that was OK) and I knew I would be buying a catalogue so I dispensed with the information boards (another area where movement ground to a halt) In fact, once past the first couple of rooms, it wasn't too bad.
The first impression is awe at the sheer productivity of Van Gogh: the small sketches in the letters; the larger pen and ink or chalk drawings; and the paintings themselves, some of which I never knew existed. Secondly you begin to appreciate his skill at drawing. With a handful of lines the sketches take shape while the larger preliminary works stand on their own merits. And then there's the paintings themselves. Vibrant colours leap from the canvas - a field of wheat positively glows with gold, the sea is a luxuriant blue - while it's fascinating to see up close the brushstrokes. It brings on an impulse to actually touch the paintings as well as, of course, conveying a strong sense of both movement and structure - you can feel the breeze blowing that field of wheat, the trees swaying in the wind, the rise and fall of the waves and the strength of the mountains. The paintings flow and the eye follows.
It's even the case that some of the works no longer look as they would have done originally, with various pigments fading. You wouldn't know if you weren't told and does it actually make a difference to the beauty of the painting? That stunning vase of white roses was originally pink, so the contrast with the background would have been different but would it have been any more striking? perhaps not. The portraits meanwhile could never be described as naturalistic but, with their odd use of colour, nevertheless give a strong sense of character. A person could happily gaze at the poplars, cypresses, olive trees wheatfields and orchards for ages (and trust me, some do) wondering at the alchemy that converts those broad brushstrokes into such wondrous results.

The Crazies

The new version of Romero's The Crazies is far better than the vast majority of the current crop of horror remakes (though not quite on a par with Dawn of the Dead) It helps of course that the original deals with adult characters rather than the vacuous, annoying teenagers of the endless run of slasher remakes. The details might be changed but the characters - sheriff, deputy, doctor - are mostly sympathetic and behave in an understandable manner. Nor has the film entirely lost the savage view of the authorities, especially the military. As one character points out, the biological weapon was supposed to turn a community against itself "just not this community". In time honoured fashion, rather than admit guilt a brutal and ruthless coverup is launched (think large scale collateral damage) Amidst the clutch of creepy setpieces one of the most unsettling is the track back through a truck full of charred corpses - last seen as uninfected townsfolk being bussed to "safety".
The film as a whole is admirably restrained: no gushing geysers of blood or severed limbs flying all over the place, and minimal CGI pyrotechnics. There might be some inconsistency in the behaviour of the infected (mostly uncommunicative, one pair manage what counts as a short conversation when the plot - or a forgetful audience - requires it) but the vacant expressions of the crazies in the early scenes are in some ways more unnerving than their murderous acts. A man is calmly unconcerned at burning his family to death ("he was mowing the lawn" the sheriff's told), and another sits staring into space at the sportsfield where an earlier incident occurred. These scenes fit into the bleakness permeating the film.
Nor is our hero indestructible. Resilient, yes; intelligent, yes; but he also needs to be saved no less than three times by his deputy, which actually sets up a rather bittersweet moment later on. And it's always asking for trouble to wander alone into a morgue - the audience knows those shrouded bodies are never as still and silent as they appear. Full marks though for using a car wash as a scene of unexpected terror, and the scene where one of the crazies (with pitchfork) wanders into a ward containing strapped-down infected townsfolk is a cracker.