The Girl Who Played With Fire

The second part of the Millennium trilogy might be shorter in length than the first, but it contains far more plot and introduces several new characters and consequently feels far less satisfying. Details from The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo expand into vital plot points but bizarrely Lisbeth and Blomkvist spend the entire film apart, conducting parallel investigations into a trio of murders connected to sex trafficking. It probably couldn't be helped and will surely be rectified in the final part but it makes for a curiously structured film. What does continue from the first movie is the basic message that all men are sexual predators and/or murderers (the Swedish TV version of Wallander seems to subscribe to this POV as well) which doesn't say a lot for Swedish males. Again, though, the sex trafficking investigation that sets everything in motion gets left behind although it is clear that the corruption spreads right to the top of the establishment. It's Lisbeth's personal history that moves centre stage which unfortunately gives rise to several borderline-laughable revelations (the nigh-invincible half-brother being especially unfortunate) and ultimately distracts from the very serious issue at the heart of the trilogy so far: violence towards and exploitation of women by men.

The Refuge

It's sometimes difficult to believe that Francois Ozon was once the enfant terrible of French cinema. Gone are the days when he seemingly set out to shock bourgeois sensibilities. Nowadays he's more likely to provide top class roles for French actresses. The Refuge is reminiscent of both Under The Sand and Time to Leave in it's exploration of loss and the grieving process, as well as featuring some finely nuanced performances. Mousse, an addict, not only has to come to terms with her boyfriend Louis' overdose but also her unexpected pregnancy, giving rise to musings about the vagaries of fate (she survived taking the same contaminated heroin), the biological changes to her body (half embarrassed, half in awe), and burgeoning feelings for Louis' gay brother Paul. You sense that it's partly their status as outsiders that draws them together initially (he, it turns out, is adopted) while Mousse is perhaps attracted to Paul because of his familial relationship to Louis. Nothing is ever really clarified but it's all the better for that.
The scenes at the refuge by the sea are suffused with a warmth and colour distinctly lacking in the Parisian scenes. Mousse's life as an addict and icily perfect surroundings of Louis' wealthy family contrast with the relaxed atmosphere of village life, the roomily comfortable house and the tentative friendship that develops. Mousse's physical changes also reflect this. The sallow, lank-haired addict postively blooms during her pregnancy to a picture of vibrant health, but also develops emotionally. It's difficult to imagine the Mousse of the early scenes being able to make such a difficult decision as the women we see at the end.

The Illusionist

It's always a delight to watch a lovingly crafted hand-drawn animation. Miyazaki is obviously the main provider of such cinematic comfort but Sylvain Chomet is no slouch. After the glorious mayhem of Belleville Rendezvous, The Illusionist is an altogether more bittersweet experience. There are still plenty of laugh-out-loud moments (many courtesy of a wonderfully belligerent rabbit) and some terrific sight gags (the screen is so packed with detail it's difficult to know where to look) but the narrative itself is a poignant affair. The magician is a figure left behind by the new age of pop culture. Audiences for the traditional music hall acts dwindle while pop groups attract hordes of screaming fans. While the magician struggles to find work - battling with equipment at a garage or humiliatingly advertising goods in Jenners' window - his fellow guest house residents suffer an even worse decline. The clown is suicidal and the ventriloquist pawns his dummy (unsaleable, last seen going for "free") before descending into alcoholism. The young maid who naively believes in magic and who follows the magician to Edinburgh unwittingly pushes him towards poverty before finding romance with a young neighbour - after being transformed from ugly duckling to elegant swan via Tatischeff's kindness. The great glory of the film though is the animation itself. 1950s Edinburgh is beguilingly brought to life and the cityscape at night is a true thing of beauty. The line isn't as clinical as some digital animation can be and the rough edges make it somehow more engaging. And over it all hangs the spirit (and figure) of the mighty Jacques Tati. The film is based on his original script - with the expected lack of dialogue; the magician has a very Tati-like silhouette; and there's even a snippet of the fabulous Mon Oncle (source of some of the best sight gags in cinema). Not your usual animated film then but one not to be missed.

Rapt

To say Rapt is low-key is putting it mildly. Yes, there's a kidnapping and a very real threat of violence (the first act of the kidnappers is to cut off the victim's finger) but the film is mostly lacking in Hollywood-style action beats. There's the kidnapping itself and a ransom money drop-off but even these are more concerned with the mechanics of the events than providing an adrenaline rush. Even Graff, the victim, becomes an almost secondary figure in the narrative. His plight isn't exactly neglected but in many ways the main interest seems to be the manner in which his personal and professional life completely unravel during his absence. The police investigation and media attention unearths Graff's mistresses and his gambling debts, which in turn causes consternation among the board of his company and furious backtracking from his erstwhile political friends. The kidnappers meanwhile confuse the wealth of the company with Graff's personal wealth when they demand a 50 million ransom. As for Graff himself, the audience doesn't have a chance to know him before the kidnapping so for most of the time he's an ambivalent character, deserving of sympathy merely because of his status as victim. Once he attains freedom he becomes increasingly unsympathetic, appearing to have learned nothing from his ordeal and to value his dog more than his family - who can no longer view him as the same man. The effect is oddly distancing but nevertheless intriguing.

Camille Silvy

I suspect Camille Silvy is not a household name, despite his obvious fame during the 19th century. After leaving his native France and establishing a thriving studio in London, he had the patronage of Queen Victoria. What's most impressive though is the range: portraits, landscapes, artistic photography. In addition to his obvious skill he clearly also possessed a lively wit (see the portraits of his father-in-law looking through a frame designed like a postage stamp and of his wife leaning through an Old Master-style frame. Meanwhile his technical proficiency can be seen in the 360 degree panorama of an eerily deserted Champs Elysees, with a ghostly Arc de Triomphe just visible in the distance. You have to bear in mind this was the mid-1800s when the photographic process was very slow. This actually makes the multiple exposure artistic works even more impressive. The real treasure though is the collection of the studio's daybooks held by the National Portrait Gallery. They provide a photographic record of every sitting during those years. They could be opened at any page and would be fascinating. As it is, we get to see a rather ghoulish "momento mori" of a recently deceased child, 2 playful self-portraits of Silvy, and a group of photographs of a (black) Lago merchant and his wife (also black and a goddaughter of the Queen) Alongside the numerous cartes-de-visites of society and theatrical personalities, it all provides an intriguing window onto Victorian society.