Somnopolis

One of my favourite films is the quirky Jump Tomorrow, a multi-lingual road trip across America. It features a scene with a Frenchman and an Englishman (Gosford Park’s James Whilby) arguing over the relevance of the French language. All the great Gallic thinkers and writers are dead, whereas English thrives thanks to the dominance of America.

You can see a similar smugness with regard to Russian culture. All those tolstoys and dostoyevskys had been buried by fukuyamism, relics of a dead culture, historical artifacts of the conflict between ‘freedom’ and despotism.

Except of course that’s nonsense. Russian letters are alive and well. In fact they are thriving on the fallout from the same conflict that buried the Soviet Empire. In Sergei Lukyanenko’s Nightwatch series the protagonist is caught in a century’s old conflict between the forces of good and evil – but takes the time to list the songs on his walkman as he wanders down a street. Lukyanenko’s novel was adapted into a film, which annihilated the Russian box office, inevitably drawing the attention of Hollywood. Some weighty handshakes later and the Night Watch books have been translated into English and a second sequel to the film set in America is due soon. Headcrusher by Alexander Garros and Aleksi Evdokimov reads like a post-Soviet Fight Club, as a highly educated young Latvian becomes increasingly disillusioned by the free market, realizing he is just another corporate drone. The cathartic diversions of Western culture, violent video games and movies, provide him with the inspiration to escape his fate, with bloody results.

I find it appropriate that the plot of Wanted, directed by Nightwatch’s Timur Bakmambetov, is very similar to Headcrusher. Stripped of the excesses of Mark Millar’s comic, it embraces the decadence of Western cinema violence, while also exploding a bomb beneath the drudgery of corporate neo-feudalism that its audience is subject to.

All of this is prelude to the clown prince Victor Pelevin. Like Slavoj Zizek, I am left unsure after each of his books just where the margin between parody and insight lies. Babylon focuses on the psychological conditioning of modern-day advertising by having its main character enter a state of drug-induced free-association, with commercial logos becoming transformed into ever-present Jungian archetypes. The Helmet of Horror appears to be inspired by Jean-Paul Sartre’s Huis Clos, though it also appears to be a satire on philosophical wankery.

Just last week I finished The Sacred Book of the Werewolf, which cites its primary source as Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. The main character is a boyish prostitute, although Pelevin mines Eastern mythology by having her also be a shapeshifting fox named A Hu-Li. After a series of events almost lead to her exposure as an immortal shapeshifter, she encounters an intelligence officer who is also a were-creature named Alexander. The FSB officer is based on yet another literary character from the Russian canon and himself acknowledges this when A Hu-Li mentions Bulgakov’s Heart of a Dog. The were-foxes it is revealed feed on human desire, whereas the were-wolves are in the service of the Russian government as oil-diviners.  The book is an attempt by A Hu-Li to describe her path to enlightenment, but as foxes are essentially imitative, she may only be imagining that she is experiencing such.

In the end the book is a satire on modern Russia and a pastiche of its literary and philosophical legacy. The fox A Hu-Li is tragic character frustrated that the long winter of the Cold War has not thawed enough, fondly reminiscing upon her former life in Asia. Alexander is plagued by loyalist fervour and machismo. He serves as Pelevin’s critique of Russian men and like the protagonist of Headcrusher finds himself out of place in a post-Communist world. The English translations of his books cannot come soon enough for me. I find it sad that the market sees fit to promote him as a ‘Russian Will Self’, whereas I find he shares little of the Englishman’s detached cynicism. He is to my mind a pop-literate tolstoyan, seeking the traces of the human condition among PSP games and blockbuster movies.

Tis the season to deck the halls, pinch Rudolph’s nose and……write best-of lists fit to make Nick Hornby’s eyes bleed! Open any of the broadsheets, tabloids or magazines on the shop shelves and have a look at the  best of the Noughties lists therein (and why consensus settled on that moniker for the decade….I don’t really know).

So here’s my humble attempt, a list of the top ten films from the past decade in my opinion. Obviously this is a list of the films I have seen that I consider note-worthy. There were many releases I did not see, such as Downfall, Crash, Million Dollar Baby and 2046. I am not a professional film critic. Also cinematic re-releases such as Jodorowsky’s El Topo or Robert Aldrich’s Whatever Happened to Baby Jane are not included, or classic films I only saw myself for the first time between 2000 – 2009. Otherwise the list below would be as follows. Bringing Up Baby, Bringing Up Baby, Bringing Up Baby and finally Bringing Up Baby.

My criteria was to select films that I felt changed me in some way, altered my thinking on a particular subject, or expanded my understanding of what cinema can achieve. Believe it or not, as pretentious as that sounds, Anchorman almost made it to the final cut. “I love lamp!” Some other almost-finalists included the controversial Battle Royale; one of the most astonishing documentaries of the post-9/11 era The Revolution Will Not Be Televised directed by Irish film-makers Kim Bartley and Donncha O’Brien, capturing on film the attempted US backed coup against Hugo Chavez; Donnie Darko, the appeal of which has been damaged by Richard Kelly’s subsequent director’s cut; and finally The Fantastic Mr Fox, which I wrote about here.

Finally so, here is my list of the ten films from the last decade that I enjoyed the most:

Moon – what an incredible debut. Duncan Jones flawlessly interweaves an impressive acting showcase from Sam Rockwell into a science fiction plot detailed enough to stand beside Stanley Kubrick’s 2001, Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris and the haunting The Quiet Earth by Geoff Murray and writer/star Bruno Lawrence. All of these films expose our frailty as humans in the face of total isolation and question what is it that makes us who we are when we are separated from family, friends and society. Rockwell’s lunar miner is a cog in a corporate machine, reduced to a purely functional relationship with the machinery on the Moon’s surface, seemingly abandoned by his callous employers on Earth. To say more would spoil what can only be described as a heartbreakingly sad, yet exhilarating cinematic experience.

Uzumaki – The so-called J-Horror genre that started with Hideo Nakata’s exemplary riff on Koji Suzuki’s novel Ringu opened up the Western market for weird oddities such as this Japanese horror flick. We have had haunted video tapes, phones and even a wig(!), but this film based on Junji Ito’s manga goes a step further and associates circles with a dark, corruptive force for evil. Yes circles. And they’re everywhere, from household machinery, to school-room educational tools – even your ear, or finger tips. An episodic plot that lends itself to weirdness for its own sake, gives me some hope for the long awaited Black Hole adaptation.

Save The Green Planet – what a shame that Douglas Adams died two years before this South Korean film achieved what the numerous adaptations of his Hitch-Hiker’s series have failed to do. Capture the casual absurdity of aliens threatening the destruction of the Earth. The plot concerns itself with an apparently mentally ill worker kidnapping his boss, whom he is convinced is an alien invader. The terrified victim is interrogated and tortured, but continues to protest his innocence. Finally it emerges that our hero Lee Byeong-gu is still traumatised by the death of his mother, who was also employed by the man’s company. Is this all a delusional response to the tragedy of his childhood, or could his boss really be an alien? Hilarious, sad, thrilling and finally blissfully absurd, this is the film Adams deserved.

The Devil and Daniel Johnston – As noted above, I wanted to include a documentary in this list. The Revolution Will Not Be Televised radicalized me; My Country, My Country confronted the lies of the Iraqi regime change; and Slavoj Zizek’s Pervert’s Guide to Cinema was a fascinating riff on the hidden meanings we attach to film. Only Jeff Feuerzeig’s documentary on the life of Daniel Johnston broke my heart though. Its subject is a bipolar outsider artist from Austin, Texas, who has achieved limited cult fame due to his numerous recordings (mastered on tape in his parent’s basement) and cartoonish art. Obsessed with the Beatles, plagued by delusions of possession by Satan and devoted to the memory of a girl he met many years ago, his music is the sole remaining fragile thread of sanity that he can cling to. Feted by figures such as Tom Waits, Kurt Cobain, Yo La Tengo and Sonic Youth, he has survived the debilitating effects of his disorder and though heavily medicated, even travelled to play a gig in Dublin two years ago, which I attended. To all the alienated and disaffected poseurs of the grunge era complaining of how tortuous existence is – this is the real deal.

Spirited Away – Some people cry when Bambi’s mother is shot. I cry during this film’s scene set on a ghostly train. No one dies. Nothing really happens actually. The music swells and my eyes leak salt-water. Every time. This is a special movie, from the master of Japanese animation Hayao Miyazaki.

Let The Right One In – Horror has an unusual relationship with cinema. Gore hounds despaired at Kubrick’s coldly austere adap of The Shining, avoiding Stephen King’s blood and grue for the most part in favour of quiet, creeping unease and existential disquiet. Vampires were catapulted onto the big screen by the double whammy of  Murnau’s Nosferatu and Tod Browning’s Dracula (what’s the hell is that armadillo doing in that shot!), but the subtext and spiritual horror of Stoker’s novel were quickly lost. Fangsters were soon biting and gnawing their way through cinematic middle America, with only occasional relief such as George Romero’s disturbing Martin. Let The Right One In follows the Pittsburgh native’s lead in focusing more on the relationships of ordinary people confronted by the undead. Are Oscar and Eli in love? Or is the elderly soul trapped in a child’s body grooming the young boy to become her next Renfield? I dread the oncoming remake.

24 Hour Party People – Michael Winterbottom is quite simply the most interesting young director in Britain today. Kinetic, wildly improvisational and fearless in his love of experimentation, here he marries the origins of the British punk scene to the later rise and demise of Madchester rave culture that was born in the Haçienda club. Following the efforts of television presenter Tony Wilson to bring the music to the people of Manchester, this anarchic film eschews reverence for its muso subjects, such as Ian Curtis, Shaun Ryder and the Happy Mondays. Steve Coogan plays the Yeats quoting would-be impresario as a neurotic, self-obsessed intellectual manqué, with a habit of addressing the camera during proceedings: “I’m a minor character in my own story”. It is also made clear that most of what we are being told is invented for the purposes of the film, but as Wilson himself declares “Given the choice between the truth and legend, print the legend”. Mad, fun and too clever by half.

Zatoichi – The eponymous blind ronin is a standard figure in Japanese cinema, a Robin Hood of ancient Japan, helping ordinary folk fight the corrupt land-owners and vicious gangs that plague the countryside. Beat Takeshi’s film is both a homage to the movies of his childhood and a thrilling innovation. Music builds throughout the picture, with labourers in a field digging the earth in time to the soundtrack, Zatoichi’s stick chiming in as he walks the treacherous country roads. The plot is traditional in its confrontation between the hero and a powerful local crimelord, yet Takeshi fashions out of this a witty, romantic fable, that is both intimate and thrilling.

Shortbus – Winterbottom’s 9 Songs was much derided on its release for attempting to take porn and open it up for mainstream cinema. The act of sex on film has been for too long the lone province of exploitative pornographers. The depiction of it heavily censured and hidden away. Where Winterbottom failed though, John Cameron Mitchell, fresh from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, triumphs. Shortbus is a polysexual celebration of the act, funny, winning and finally heart-warming. Porn? Definitely. But also sweet-natured and in search of a kind of truth.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind – Michel Gondry and Charlie Kaufman. A match made in heaven. Another ‘unfunny’, Jim Carrey vehicle (some might sneer they all are), Eternal Sunshine… is a surreal Annie Hall for the 21c. A relationship drama courtesy of Salvador Dali.

So that’s it! The ten films I have most enjoyed over the last decade.

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article1613657.ece

It’s bugged me for many a year. What exactly is my problem with Mr. Appleyard? Why do I dislike his writing so? Is it his smug superiority? His beloved hackery for the Sunday Times? If anything, the above review for Christopher Tolkien’s edition of J.R.R.’s The Children of Hurin was the straw that broke the donkey’s back.

The book is edited together from the author’s poems and writings regarding the fates of Turin’s children. Most of this has already been told in an abbreviated form in the Silmarillion, but this iteration is by most accounts a far more definitive retelling. Appleyard relates all of this in the review above, but only after admitting he hasn’t read the two better known books – the Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. Then he goes on to compare Tolkien to Harry Potter and D&D.

I read the Sunday Times while growing up because it was the only weekend paper my family bought with a ‘Culture’, section. Which effectively meant I overdosed on Julie Burchill, Cosmo Landesman and Appleyard at a very impressionable age. Thankfully I found myself quickly judging these three writers as over-rated, repetitive and lazy respectively. Appleyard specialises in writing on ‘pop-culture’, which typically means he ejaculates ink on such things as Kylie Minogue, Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Bob Dylan. He has a wonderful talent for talking around a subject, so that by the end you feel like you’ve just eaten a McDonald’s Happy Meal. You’re fairly sure you’re full – after all you’re tired after all that print – but you’re still unsatisfied. Not Oscar’s ‘perfect pleasure’, of being left wanting more, rather a hollow sense of somehow having been cheated. ‘Words, words, words’ – and that’s all his writing for me amounts to. No wonder he can spit them out week on week.

One of my favourite writers is Slavoj Zizek, precisely because he achieves what Appleyard is obviously desperately striving for. He writes on popular culture with a sense of joy and a simultaneously penetrating analysis. His “Perverts Guide to Cinema”* is a classic piece of entertaining insights on film and how we as an audience view the shapes projected onto the screen. Zizek’s approach works, because he can identify his methodology himself succinctly:
Is not one of the most effective critical procedures to cross wires that do not usually touch:
to take a major classic (text, author, notion), and read it in a short-circuiting way, through
the lens of a “minor” author, text, or conceptual apparatus (“minor” should be understood..[as]
not “of lesser quality,” but marginalized, disavowed by the hegemonic ideology, or dealing
with a “lower,” less dignified topic)? If the minor reference is well chosen, such a procedure
can lead to insights which completely shatter and undermine our common perceptions.

So while discussing Lacan, Zizek will employ Hitchcock films to illustrate his point. When talking of Christian morality, which descends from a notion of being ‘like Christ’, fallen into the world, he will refer to Edith Wharton’s “The Age of Innocence”. There is no hierarchy to him of which reference has the greater importance. They are all texts, available for plundering.

This is the essential difference between Appleyard and those he would emulate. Our Sunday Times critic is desperate to be on top of what is young, what is ‘now’, whereas Zizek gleefully renders all such distinction moot. Pop-culture and post-modernism cannot be too concerned with the ‘now’, because surely they represent a recognition of temporality in culture, an attempt to arrest analysis of passing movements so as to define them objectively by relating them between media as ‘just another text’. Poor Appleyard – he just wants to be hip.

*http://youtube.com/watch?v=oJYSL3Syu6w