Somnopolis

Director and writer Michael J. Bassett’s film of Solomon Kane has been seen and enjoyed. Part Hammer pastiche (in the model of Captain Kronos Vampire Hunter), part sincere update of Robert E. Howard’s pulp creation for modern audiences. It’s all lovingly presented on screen. Even the grime feels authentic and the actors wade through the purple prose as if their lives depended on it. There is a welcome lack of cynicism in this genre film, something unfortunately of a rarity these days. With an admirable level of detail (there are nods to the Puritanical movement and their escape to America; the English navy rules the waves, but the poor at home are impoverished and have dental hygiene issues; lonely corpses hanging from tree branches) this thankfully is not Van Helsing 2.

The Guardian review criticised the film for sticking to the over familiar ‘origins’ form. Personally I disagree. Given the lack of familiarity with Howard’s character, I think Bassett was correct to establish just where this Devonshire Puritan who is handy with a blade came from. FilmBuffOnline has a summation of the character’s journey from pulp novel to screen, which I am much indebted to.

Bassett happily does not condescend Howard’s hero by introducing sceptical notes as to his religious faith. Beginning in ‘darkest Africa’, evil is immediately shown to be a positive force in this story. The devil exists and immortal souls can be traded as currency. Encountering a creature known as The Devil’s Reaper during a ransack of a Moorish fortress, Kane just manages to escape physically and spiritually intact. The reason for his later fierce repentance is made clear in these early scenes. He is shown to delight in violence and death, smiling maliciously as he cuts down the defenders of the fortress.  When the demon tells him his soul is damned, Kane instantly responds that God will protect him. In this universe religion is not a matter of faith. Demons, vampires, sorcerers and witches are quite real. Belief in God is a talisman that the weak in body depend on.

Traumatized by the knowledge that the Devil is pursuing him, Kane tattoos himself with holy symbols and hides in a monastery. The monks eventually kick him out of the order, as his presence is like a giant cthonic neon sign that reads ‘DINNER!’ Offering cold comfort the head of the monastery advises him to ‘find his destiny’.  Bassett then allows Kane to discover another method of being a ‘man of god’. One that thankfully allows him to sever limbs.

After he meets the kindly Crowthorn family, fellow Puritans fleeing bigotry in England for America, Kane contemplates the settled life. Pete Postlethwaite and Alice Krige do fine work here as Mom and Pop Crowthorn, with daughter Meredith played by Wendy Darling from P.J. Hogan’s excellent Peter Pan (Rachel Hurd Wood). The Crowthorns offer Kane some small hope of a normal life and he sets about trying to protect them from the sudden rise in raiders abroad in the countryside. Little does he realize these marauding thugs are actually an organized army of demonically possessed warriors and following an encounter with a shape shifting witch, Meredith Crowthorn is marked by the evil sorceror Malachi (Jason Flemyng).

This draws the attention of the Masked Rider who leads the army sweeping the countryside. The Crowthorns are attacked and Meredith kidnapped. Kane is promised redemption if he succeeds in rescuing the girl from Malachi. This new purpose dislodges our hero’s funk and allows him to make use of those fighting skills (presumably learned by actor James Purefoy for his ill-fated casting in V for Vendetta).

Mention should be made of Purefoy’s efforts in the lead role. There was a danger, given his slight resemblance to Hugh Jackman, that audiences would once again think they are watching a prequel to Van Helsing. Purefoy’s efforts thankfully dispel any such notions. He gives the character a welcome injection of stoic humour, something of a relief after the legions of grim-faced vigilantes swamping the multiplexes of late (I’m looking at you Batman/Rorschach etc.). He also ably shares the screen with Postlethwaite and Max von Sydow, complimenting their performances. As I have said above, what I find most interesting about this film is the sincerity in its acting and writing, which combine to draw the audience into a story of devilry and swordplay. While there is a hint of the pantomime in Jason Flemyng’s Malachi – at one point he pounces on an innocent maiden with the relish of a moustache twirling villain – he never mugs for the camera in the style to which audiences have become accustomed. When the de rigueur CGI monster enters the fray it feels like a let-down. The flesh and blood actors have already done such a fine job of engaging the plot, that the Painkiller boss-fight is out of place in this surprisingly character-driven fantasy picture.

So a heart-felt genre picture that rescues Robert E. Howard’s canon from the steroidal musculature of the Governator. Bravo.

Misfits

Channel 4’s late 2009 yoof show Misfits arrived on screens in November under a hail of publicity. Twitter channels were created for five of the characters on the show. There were also Facebook profile pages and video blogs on youtube delivered by the respective actors. Produced by Clerkenwell Films, Misfits was said to be the new Skins, another show courting controversy by featuring teenage sex and  substance abuse. Oh, but with superpowers.

It’s so much more than that though. Howard Overman’s scripts (in keeping with the American television writing tradition, he is the lead writer for the show) do not fall into the trap of slavishly imitating yoof argot. The premise of young offenders on ASBOs gaining superpowers due to a freak storm, manages to combine the best traditions of classic comic book origins (cosmic rays, radioactive spiders, spaceships landing in Kansas) with a sharp comment on how teenagers are treated by British society today. Superhero comics once played with popular fears regarding the effects of radiation, or the dangers of the atomic bomb. Now teenagers themselves are treated like some dangerous element. Adolescent foul mouthed polonium.

Our ‘heroes’ are Simon (an introvert who gains the ability to turn invisible); Alisha (’gifted’, with the ability to make anyone desire her simply by touching their skin); Kelly (the stereotypical chav who can hear what people are thinking); and Curtis (an aspiring Olympian whose sporting career is in ruins and has the ability to turn back time).

You may have noticed that’s only four out of the five. There’s also gabby Irish lad Nathan, whose power is left unrevealed, much to his annoyance.

Every superhero origin needs a dose of tragedy thrown into the mix. The Misfits (as good a team name as we’re going to get, although thankfully never used in the show) are forced to kill their probation officer when the effects of the storm transform him into a rage-fuelled monster. The first six episodes of the show (with a second season promised in May 2010) deal with the consequences of the group’s decision to cover up the death. It soon becomes clear, however, that they were not the only ones changed by the storm.

Thankfully Misfits avoids the cliches of ‘freak of the week’, shows like The X-Files, or Smallville. Each episode is focused on a different member of the cast and while the script does sparkle with great one-liners (especially where Nathan is concerned), it also succeeds thanks to the talent of the actors featured. Antonia Thomas as Alisha has perhaps the most difficult character, given that her character’s ‘ability’, inevitably raises the issues of rape and the sexualisation of women in popular culture. Her relationship with Curtis evolves due to their coming to an arrangement that allows them to both equally express their desire for one another, without coercion (and isn’t it nice to have a teenage show that promotes mutual masturbation, instead of the be-all and end-all of genital sex?). As for the failed Olympian, because he is a young black male caught on a minor drugs charge, he is unfairly been made an example of. Curtis (Nathan Stewart Jarrett) has the weight of a whole community sitting on his young shoulders. His feelings of powerlessness in the face of this pressure even extend to his own ability, which can only be activated unconsciously when he is feeling deep emotional stress. This gives Overman something of a neat out, as otherwise Curtis would have become somewhat godlike. Much like Hiro in Heroes. Kelly ‘the chav’, presents an overly aggressive front, but her power forces her to hear what people really think. Even her dog has an inner monologue, supplied by Phil Daniels in a brief cameo. Finally Simon the true outcast realizes his greatest fear – he becomes truly invisible to the people in his life. His habit of filming everything on his camera phone allows him to distance himself (but also incriminate the gang in their crime).

While Nathan’s power is not revealed until late in the series, he presents as an almost meta-character, commenting on the action as it happens. In the final episode he insists on finding the right kind of music track to ‘tool up to’, when the group are about to march into danger. His romantic advice to Curtis turns out to be a quote from Spider-Man. Even when burying the corpses of their probation officer, and one of his axe-murder victims, Nathan feels he has to quip: ‘I’m pretty sure this breaches the terms of my Asbo’.

But the coup de grace is his true ‘origin’, the much hinted at theft of Pick ‘n’ Mix which landed him with an ASBO. It starts with a parody of The Big Lebowski, escalates into a riot and then features a cameo from British actor Dexter Fletcher as his estranged dad (who does uncannily resemble Sheehan).

Nathan is also refreshingly unsympathetic. He is aware that the ’script’, calls for him to find some kind of Breakfast Club-style redemption in his community service, but he refuses to bow to the John Hughesian logic of the situation. “This is a chance to network with other young offenders, we should be swapping tips, brainstorming!”

In the end Overman is not looking to ape Skins or Heroes as some of the press have tried to suggest. The failure of New Labour haunts the show, with the next generation being frog-marched into a right-wing future that will accept nothing less than complete obediance to the state. If anything Misfits is more reminiscent of early 2000AD, railing against the rise of Thatcherism and the government sanctioned attack on working class Britain, attracting the likes of Pat Mills, Robert Wagner, Alan Moore and Garth Ennis. This show is a call to arms if you like, eschewing yoof voyeurism in favour of genuine anger against a generation disenfranchised and abandoned on the shores of the 21c.

Oh it is something special.

Guardian LTD

….feckin’ Avatards….

Original photos here.

It’s always good to know where people’s priorities lie.

For example. The widespread destruction caused by last week’s earthquake in Haiti. Reading the reportage on this tragedy, I was surprised to discover that this is not a story about the suffering of thousands of Haitians and their incredible loss.

No this is in fact a story about how much of a dick Pat Robertson is. You may remember Pat, he also claimed that Hurricane Katrina was the result of gays hosting awards shows.

There’s a further comparative with Katrina here actually. Today’s Telegraph leads off with a headline about murder and looting on the island. The picture is of a Haitian man threatening another with a carving knife. Remember the stories of New Orleans becoming a hotbed of looting, rape and murder?

Whereas today’s Guardian headline leads with ‘No room in Haiti’s cemeteries but cruise ships still find a berth’, and carries a photo of a tourist vessel docked at a private pleasure beach.

It’s always nice to have a paper’s ideology nailed to the mast so prominently.

Euronews had an interesting moment when a Haitian/American woman described the earthquake as worse than 9/11, which she had also lived through as an aid-worker. So where’s the sympathy? A colleague angrily remarked that if Haitians are so poor (this was in relation to the Irish government providing aid) how could they afford that lavish presidential palace?

Oh you mean the proxy White House? That would be American money there. So little is known about Haiti in the West. So much is ignored.

Phelim O’Neill’s touching tribute to the late Dan O’Bannon reminded me just how much I enjoyed his work. A rather affable raconteur, with a certain raffish charm that he had in common with his collaborator John Carpenter, O’Bannon helped create some of the most indelible movie moments of the past thirty years.

Yet his contribution is often passed over in favour of those he worked with such as Carpenter, Jodorowsky, George Lucas (for whom he did some design work on Star Wars during a lean period), Ridley Scott and Paul Verhoeven.

He will never be remembered as a screenwriting mentor like William Goldman, but he often welcomed the interest of science fiction and horror fans, freely divulging anecdotes of his involvement in the genre cinema revolution of the 70s that followed Star Wars and Alien. O’Neill mentions that a book by the man himself, The Rules of Writing, is waiting in the wings. Could it rival Adventures in the Screen Trade?

Some of O’Bannon’s charm I believe came down to his admission that he had been incredibly lucky in his career. Swept away to Paris by the mercurial Jodorowsky to work on that great film that never was, an abortive adaptation of Frank Herbert’s Dune, he nevertheless was plunged into an inspiring artistic collective that included comic artist Moebius and the inscrutable H. R. Giger. Last year I saw a documentary on Moebius that included an interview with O’Bannon, ruefully looking back on the failure of Dune, that eventually returned him to L.A. broke and bewildered. Yet for all that, I feel working with Jodorowsky gave him the confidence to continue to pursue his inspiration.

After all the wreckage of Dune provided the body, guts and all, of haunted-house-cum-Freudian-nightmare Alien. The franchise that refuses to die started with a poorly titled script by O’Bannon called Star Beast. His work with Moebius in Metal Hurtlant also ‘inspired’ Blade Runner and The Fifth Element.  

But it’s Lifeforce, the comically bad ’space vampires’, film based on Colin Wilson’s novel that I think of with the most fondness. Strangely it begins in a similar manner to Alien, with a team of astronauts discovering a vessel adrift in space carrying three humanoid beings preserved in stasis pods surrounded by giant bat-like corpses. The space-shuttle returns to Earth with only one survivor, an American astronaut suffering from amnesia. Of course the three humanoids are revealed to be lifeforce draining vampires, hence the title, that soon turn the city of London into a zombie plagued warzone. With a surfeit of ambition and the budgetary efficiency of a Roger Corman production, the film rips along with the occasional wink at the camera. Patrick Stewart being possessed by the female space vampire, indicated by the Shakespearian thespian mincing it up with a curled lip, is a particular highlight for me. It is also fun, a quality that escapes many film-makers today.

O’Bannon’s legacy is secure. An American fantasist with a European sensibility. A horror and science fiction afficionado who brought the spectacular images of Metal Hurlant with him into the cineplexes of today. Without him the gamut run from Ridley Scott’s Alien to EA Games’ Dead Space would never have been.

Somone at the Grauniad is having a little fun at Shirley Bassey and Sean Connery’s expense.

The headline posted on the website reads ‘Shirley and Sean Beaver Bond’. Follow the link and the title is less naughty. The article goes on to say that the two entertainers will be performing together for the first time since Diamonds Are Forever, in an animated feature about a beaver and the vet caring for it titled Guardian of the Highlands. Connery is executive producing the film and providing dialogue for one of the characters, despite officially having retired (at least that was the reason offered by Spielberg for his not reprising the role of Dr. Jones Snr. Maybe he’d read the script?).

So someone in the newsroom decides to make a cheap joke at the expense of Connery and Bassey, right? Much like the headlines that greeted the news of Mel Gibson starring in Jodie Foster’s new film – Beaver.

Well maybe there’s more to it, as Mark Lawson reveals in this piece on the recent censorship clamp down on the BBC:

But publicly and privately, performers presented a different picture. I now hear at least one new example of excessive self-policing every day from a frustrated broadcaster, on the stairs or in the lift at Broadcasting House. In a recent Radio 2 interview with the lyricist Don Black, a section where the songwriter revealed that the words of Diamonds Are Forever originally referred to touching the genitals of a lover was cut: “Hold one up and then caress it/Touch it, stroke it and undress it.”

Curiouser and curiouser.

The Slate is carrying an excellent article on the latest brouhaha over Rupert Murdoch’s accusations that Google steals News Corp content. His solution? Charge users for access to The Sun and New York Post etc. websites.

Jack Shafer’s article is here.

Much of the commentary re: Murdoch’s pronouncements has been quick to presume the old bird is losing it. The Aussie ex-pat’s gone barmy, squaking about Google stealing from him. He’s an old man scared by the modern world.

That’s a big assumption. Murdoch is an adept player, always has been. He’s survived this long and acquired a powerful media empire through expert brinkmanship.

What’s more I don’t feel like I should be cheering on one corporate monolith against another. Google’s reach grows with every year. As a company they continue to reap profits, where others have drowned due to the global recession. There is an internal policy that discourages workers from using ‘google’, as a verb. That underscores just how essential a part of modern life Google has become. They have nothing to worry about.

So I don’t believe that Murdoch is actually taking them on. He is positioning his corporate holdings to take advantage of the growing debate re: commercial use of the internet though. There is no doubt that his real target is, as always, the BBC, funded by licence fees and developing a strong online presence with thanks to the iPlayer and their international service. Murdoch’s manouverings generally tend to provoke confusion and fear in his rivals. Intimidation is his key tactic, from Fox’s baiting of Obama, to the Sun giving Brown’s Labour government its marching orders (all the while glossing over the fact that the Murdoch press was a key supporter of Labour’s policies up until and including the illegal invasion of Iraq).

Rupert plays the long game. It would be wise not to forget this.

Years ago my good friend Brian regifted me Confessions of a Cineplex Heckler by Joe Queenan. Now some may frown upon the process of regifting, but personally I didn’t mind one bit. I know Brian’s ways and while we are the best of friends, our tastes run in entirely different directions when it comes to….well pretty much everything.

Hell the guy just got on to me the other week and complained that Let the Right One In felt like a Cecelia Ahern novel! Anyway…

As it turns out I had already read the book and was a fan of Queenan’s Joe Public style film criticism. His anecdote about refunding cinema-goers leaving the screening of subpar movies made me chuckle. I once worked as a cinema usher and would occasionally try and talk people out of going to certain pictures. Deeply ignorant, but I thought I was serving the public good here.

Anyhow, I re-read Queenan looking forward to enjoying his amusing piss-takes of Irish-American cinema and the pretentions of art-house pictures. Sadly I did not enjoy the book as much a second time.

Of course I figured I had moved on and anyway, having already read the book, there were no real surprises in store. Then again Nobody’s Perfect is a collection by Anthony Lane I can read over and over again. Peter Ackroyd’s collected criticism never fails to inspire me to seek out writers or film-makers I have yet to discover. Queenan on the other hand remains a dour, sarky sort, his appeal limited to the cheap laughs he can provoke on a first read-through.

Since  then Queenan has moved up in the world. He has written biography, criticism and humour. I am even convinced Martin Sheen’s character in The Departed is named after him. The Guardian has published a number of pieces by him on contemporary cinema and once again I am sad to report that the dreary tone remains. What’s more, he appears to have transformed into a kind of eminence grise, an anglophile Leonard Maltin more like, speaking from on high on American cinema.

This week’s piece ‘Why Does Hollywood keep making the same films’ feels like a piece that wouldn’t have made it to the final cut of ‘Confessions…’ A pithy rant on the repetitiveness of modern cinema (where has he been!?) the piece is even padded out by one Andrew Pulver with examples of films that Queenan is referring to. Is this criticism or just a vanity piece? Yeah Hollywood pumps out a lot of crap. It’s a business, the bell-curve swerved downwards before Birth of the Nation.

Why bother carping on about how much American films suck as if that will make some kind of difference? It’s not funny, it’s not insightful and it certainly does not speak to any kind of enthusiasm for cinema. Has Queenan lost it? I’m not sure if he ever even had it.

A relation of mine was recently married to a fellow who shares his name with a certain dour, American novelist. I briefly considered buying a selection of McCarthy’s work as a wedding gift, but thankfully was talked out of it as no one else would have got the joke.

Never having read much of his work, I am nevertheless excited to see the film adaptation of The Road, a bleak addition to the post-apocalypse genre. It stars Viggo Mortensen, Robert Duvall and Charlize Theron, looks to be visually stunning and given the story material emotionally draining. Mortensen plays the widower known only as ‘Man’, who together with his son travels across a tortured landscape towards the sea, where they hope to find sanctuary. Along the way they encounter maraudering gangs and cannibals. The world itself has suffered some unnamed catastrophic environmental collapse, with most forms of life now extinct.

Upon watching the trailer promoting a film which the Guardian’s Xan Brooks among others have lauded as a masterpiece in the tradition of Children of Men, I found myself thinking…..looks an awful lot like Fallout 3.

The game franchise inherited by Bethesda – currently involved in nasty arbitration against its original producers – also tells the story of a father/son relationship in a world ruined by disaster. Players enter the game as the son of a scientist who has wandered into the wilderness, leaving you to follow menaced by, you guessed it, cannibals and violent gangs. There is even a further echo of McCarthy’s book where you encounter a pleasant community composed of two seemingly normal families, still dressed in pre-cataclysm attire,  hiding a dark secret.

Have Mr McCarthy’s lawyers been made aware of this? I wonder if there is grounds. Although I don’t want to encourage especial litigiousness in the author, given the wonderful parody of his writing that features in The Royal Tenenbaums.

Perhaps I’ve said too much.

Peter Bradshaw’s review of Inglourious Basterds inspired this Guardian blog, hosting a thread that has Tarantino defenders and critics battling it out. In fact when I last blogged about Inglourious Basterds, I predicted just such an outcry.

Always fun to watch these things play out.

*SPOILERS*

Today I received a message from a Tarantino fan that read as follows:

“Hitler took a full magazine of slugs to the face. and for that Quentin, I shall be forever in your debt sir… or as aldo would say, ‘In Yo Debit suh’…”

This reveals one of the key aspects of Inglourious Basterds and one which is at least partly responsible for some of the criticism directed at the film.

Hitler gets killed by cinema.

Much like Mel Brooks transformed Nazism into a camp joke with a few funny one-liners (”Don’t be stupid/be a smarty/come and join/the Nazi party”), Tarantino has taken the tragedy of the Holocaust and Hitler’s rise to power and invented a fictional resolution to these events that could only take place in a schlocky B-movie. Which Inglourious Basterds most certainly is.

Whether that is the viewer’s cup of tea or not is a matter of opinion.

All that being said, there is something troubling in just how divorced from any sense of reality Tarantino’s vision is. Horrific violence is incidental, sex is momentary and dialogue unfolds during a scene without a care for the next set-up. The films themselves are atypically numb to such concerns, as they have become excessively glutted by cinema itself. Not pure cinema, or refined artistic examples of Cinema, but kitsch and camp exploitation movies. Grindhouse style, the term Tarantino helpfully popularised. Pulp Fiction/Kill Bill and the rest also appear to be stories occuring within a shared fictional universe, with occasional images and character names popping up as hints that we have never left.

There is something astonishingly adolescent about all this. There is even a trace of Asperger’s obsessiveness in the amount of detail given to parodies of films few have ever seen. It may be the case that to Tarantino this world is more ‘real’, than the one inhabited by his audience. The growing resentment and complaints of indulgence would seem to testify to that. Tarantino has left this world behind and is retreating further and further away, free to enjoy his Big Kahuna Burgers and Red Apple Cigarettes.