Review #585: 'Laura' (1944)

Laura was a project, based on a pulpy novel by Vera Caspery, that director Otto Preminger had to fight 20th Century Fox Mogul, Daryl Zanuck, to get made. It was a film that everyone else involved in did not believe in and assumed would be a failure. Yet the film went on to be a huge success and was a source of influence for countless film makers and endures as a classic of the golden era of Hollywood. On the face of it, Laura was in the mode of film noir, with the conventional detective investigating the murder of a glamorous and enthralling woman-as-femme-fatale; the film offers the usual twists in narrative structure and the dubious relationships and men surrounding the central figure, and their obsessions, or neuroses; but visually the film separates itself from the dark shadows and brooding atmosphere of the conventional noir films, and brings an obsessive, illuminating Freudian drama of sexual emasculation and the fundamental flaws of masculine desire.

Dana Andrews's investigating detective McPherson, is assigned to the murder case of Laura Hunt (Gene Tierney), an assured, successful woman, surrounded by seemingly rich and powerful men, who was gunned down in her apartment. As he uncovers information about Laura, helped by a portrait hanging on her living room wall, McPherson, like the men he interviews, becomes obsessed with the woman, as her delightful character, and her determined but innocent-like attractiveness envelops him. Clifton Webb's overtly dandy Waldo, a successful columnist, displays his love of Laura through his detailed recollections of their relationship, whilst the charming yet alarmingly vacant Shelby (Vincent Price), a man having affairs with noticeably more than one woman, is the more darkly sinister of the two, and often (perhaps innocently) implicates himself in the murder. About halfway through the film there is a huge narrative shift, which at first is jarring, as the audience is not sure if this is the fantasy or dream of McPherson, but the revelation shifts the story, questioning the reality of the two main suspects.

As McPherson is drawn into the elusive Laura's lifestyle, the central focus of much of the narrative is set in the presence of a painting of Laura hanging in her room. It is an idealisation of the woman - she appears dominating in the picture - an image that is captured not by Laura, but by the men around her. This image is easier to handle that the real thing, it is a passive version of the woman. Whilst a lot is put upon the sexual power that Laura has on these men, it is the neuroses and imbalanced psyches of the men. But Laura, as we discover, is a more individual, independent woman, who perhaps does not require the desire of others. So the fantasised painted version of her can be contained and controlled. A reading could suggest that the power that Laura has over these men somehow perpetuates the incitement to murder, but in fact it would be easier to read that it is the breakdown of the masculine that is the determining factor in murder, and not necessarily a woman who is unsure of her decisions when it comes to settling.

The performances are phenomenal here. Andrew's hard-boiled detective is excellent, with his proto-Columbo style of investigation, playing games with the suspects, and forcing them into corners. Price and Webb are brilliantly over-the-top - Price giving a sinister performance through the disguise of charisma. But, inevitably, the titular character, through the mysterious, seductive beauty of Tierney, is awesome in a tricksy way. She is not necessarily the traditional femme fatale, she is not consciously playing these men, yet at times the audience is unsure. Is she twisting the delusions of these men to her will? Or is she as sweet as she sometimes appears? It is an almost perfect performance.

The influence of this film is undisputed. The James Elroy novel, The Black Dahlia, whilst loosely based on a true-life crime, was undoubtedly broadened by Laura's influence. The Black Dahlia has the central theme of the obsession by an investigator of a dead woman. These themes of obsession must have been directly correlated by David Lynch and Mark Frost when they wrote and conceived of Twin Peaks which began with the death of a high school girl, and the subsequent investigation unravels levels of obsession in a small community, much of which extended from this one girl. It's a wonderful, twisty, and often surprising story that illustrates that the power of women is not always a product of feminine knowing, but the failures and compulsions of weak, lonely men.


Directed by: Otto Preminger
Starring: Gene Tierney, Dana Andrews, Clifton Webb, Vincent Price
Country: USA

Rating: *****

Marc Ivamy

Review #584: 'The Black Klansman' (1966)

It was a rare occasion in 1960's American cinema that the screen would reflect the social turbulence surrounding the civil rights movement, or the fundamentally tense race relations in particularly in the southern states. The white supremacist organisation, the Ku Klux Klan, was a dominant and violent presence which was largely controlled and operated by the local powers of small towns and cities. Whilst the subject was on the surface of the film adaptation of Harper Lee's Pulitzer prize winning novel, To Kill a Mocking Bird (1962), but the cinema mainstream was hardly representative of social conscience until Stanley Kramer's Guess Who's Coming to Dinner (1967). But a few low budget b-movies in the early '60's did attempt to tackle the subject. Roger Corman's under-seen William Shatner starer, The Intruder (1962), or Carl Lerner's Black Like Me (1964), whilst unsuccessful, at least attempted an intelligent, left-field approach. So it seems almost astounding with hindsight, that Ted V. Mikels, shlock director of later atrocities like The Astro-Zombies (1968) or The Doll Squad (1973), would produce a film that would formulate a narrative that is both sensitive and intelligent about the deep-seated racism within southern state America.

The film opens in the small town of Turnersville, a young, dumb kid walks into an all white diner, upsetting the patrons of the establishment by being the wrong colour. This small act leads to the local faction of the KKK to "retaliate" by shooting the boy then throwing Molotov cocktails at a congregation of a black church. This, along with the burning crucifix, was a reality in these small-minded towns. However, on throwing the fiery bottle at the doorway, the perpetrator witnesses a very young girl being hit directly with the weapon. The father of the girl, travelling musician Jerry Ellsworth (also notably of mixed race - but played by a white actor), heads to the town on hearing the news. Jerry takes himself to a hair salon and transfers himself into a white man (for all intents and purposes). He charms his way into the life of KKK head, and infiltrates the organisation, biding his time to reap revenge on the evil that killed his daughter.

It is of course a ludicrous concept, but the film offers quite emotional and sometimes dramatic scenes. Jerry is also accompanied by a white woman, Andrea (Rima Kutner), who is in love with him and wants a baby with him (something that an alternative title for the film overly focused on, I Crossed the Color Line). This alone would have been a controversial inclusion to the film, but it also balanced this with a more critical commentary on vigilante justice, and mob organisation (particularly on the black group formed in reaction to the attack). The opening scenes where the KKK shoot the young black boy are truly shocking for its time and budget, a scene that resembles the later opening scenes of Mississippi Burning (1989), which are shot quite similarly, staring starkly in the face of the victim. This is not to say that the film is wholly satisfactory, in true Mikels style the film is technically horrific; bad editing, uninspired camera work, the inevitable bad arrangement of scenes and characters. But, at its heart is something quite remarkable. Not revelatory, or even particularly exciting, but nonetheless, the central theme of social segregation is still relevant today (shockingly), and surprisingly some of the acting ain't too bad.


Directed by: Ted V. Mikels
Starring: Richard Gilden, Rima Kutner, Harry Lovejoy
Country: USA

Rating: **

Marc Ivamy

Review #583: 'Taken' (2008)

In an age where mainstream action heroes could do with a little one-on-one time with a psychiatrist, this hugely successful French-American crossover brings back the ethics of a Seagal or Stallone - break an arm in three places first, ask questions later. Whereas now I can look back at the 1980's action genre with a semi guilt-ridden smirk and amuse myself at the questionable politics, Taken takes itself very seriously, trying to disguise it's straight-to-DVD credentials as something cleaner, more 'topical'. The topic is people trafficking, but there are too many stubbly, tattooed foreign bad guys to torture and kill for it to become anything profound. He just wants his daughter back.

Forced into retirement from the CIA to be closer to his daughter Kim (Maggie Grace), Bryan Mills (Liam Neeson) earns his money from security jobs with his fellow retirees. His ex-wife Lenore (Famke Janssen) is now shacked up with her millionaire husband, and announces that Kim wants to travel to Paris with her fellow 17 year old friend. Mills, having seen the evil in the world due to his job, opposes the trip, but eventually agrees under some strict guidelines. Naturally, upon arrival, Kim and her friend are kidnapped while Kim is on the phone to her father, who takes various clues from the phone call to aid him on his quest to get her back.

This was my second viewing of Taken, as I felt like I needed to watch it again after being perplexed by the almost universal praise this received from audiences. I was amazed the first time around at the sheer audacity of the film's racial stereotypes, and the shake-the-camera-a-lot approach to the action scenes. The second time, I enjoyed it a lot more - but as a comedy. There is simply too many plot-holes and general laziness for it to be taken remotely seriously, and the now infamous phone call scene spouting some classic lines. When talking to the kidnapper - "if you're looking for a ransom, I can tell you I don't have any money. But what I do have are a particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career." It's almost too bad to comprehend.

What confused me most is the message behind this movie, as it seems that Mills' overprotective, almost racist (in context of his views of any countries outside of America) father is proven to be correct when Kim gets kidnapped by some sleazy French people. Yes, yes I know this was made by French people, but even they are portrayed in a stereotypical manner, with Mills' police contact, um, Jean-Claude (Olivier Rabourdin), looking like he's stepped straight out of a Jean-Luc Godard movie and is looking for his baguette, beret and necklace of onions. Then there's the sleazy Albanians, smoking cigarettes in string vests, and the sleazy Middle-Easterners, including a grossly fat sheikh who looks like he's wandered off the set of The Thief of Bagdad. Of course the Americans aren't sleazy, just spoilt and bullying.

How this is so highly-praised is beyond me, as every aspect of the film is awful. I could understand people warming to it's cheddar-caked charm and quotable script ("this is not the time for dick-measuring!"), but other reviews I've read on IMDb take this film seriously, as if it was some kind of stepping-stone in action cinema. Well it's not, it's a steaming pile of unoriginal turd, returning to an oh-so-simple tale of revenge set in the modern-world of continental tension and American interference. A minor plus-point is Neeson, who gets through this surprisingly unscathed, given the bilge he has to work with, and manages to re-invent himself as an action star (he went on to star in The Grey and Taken 2 - both 2012). But I think I've finally understood the moral of this story, and it's one I can agree with - don't go to France.


Directed by: Pierre Morel
Starring: Liam Neeson, Maggie Grace, Famke Janssen
Country: France/USA/UK

Rating: *

Tom Gillespie

Review #582: 'The Party's Over' (1965)

Somewhere around the middle of the 1950's the teenager became an autonomous commodity in the west, garnering their own, distinctive "movements". In Britain - before The Beatles - the majority of youth identities were extracted from American sub-cultures. In Guy Hamilton's The Party's Over, the youthful group, or gang, are heavily influenced by the beat generation whose poetry and writing confronted political and social change through nihilistic, non-conformist characters and ideologies. Known in popular culture and the media as Beatniks (the "niks" added later in America to codify the group with communist affiliations - the nik was taken from the Sputnik, the Russian satellite that was launched in 1957), Oliver Reed's gang leader, Moise, guides his group through the hedonistic party scene of early 1960's London, opening with a shot of the Albert bridge in the early morning as the partied-out gang mope zombie-like, with Annie Ross's dour theme tune playing on their mournful souls. But what the film seems to focus the majority of its attentions on is the damaging consequences of both group mentality and heavy, prolonged partying. It's a moral tone that both reflects British society.

Along with the iconography of youth gang, with the tribal costuming - contrary to the idea of individuality and non-conformity, it's ironic that these ideas are scuppered by the entourage to the central trend-setting leader, - the film is about the changing political and social setting of Britain. In the still war-torn London of the early 1960's, an American businessman, Carson (Cifford David), has been sent over the Atlantic in search of his fiancee, Melina (Louise Sorel), who has been enveloped by the Chelsea set gang. Carson has been sent over by her father, a rich and powerful businessman himself. The gang, co-ordinated by Moise, send Carson on a cat and mouse chase around London, in search of the girl whom seems to be either an enigma or a skillful evader. It seems to be no accident that the American character is suave, sophisticated, smart and in control of his life, whilst the gang members are rough and without moral values. Britain was losing its Empire, and America was becoming the dominant super-power. The juxtaposition of the two transatlantic male central characters shows the parallel between the optimism of the new power and the degrading attitudes of the dying empire. As Carson begins to move deeper into the gangs secrets and situations, the dark and jarring truth changes everyone around them.

The Party's Over was an incredibly controversial film at the time, and inevitably, the film was problematic for the British Board of Film Censors. At the centre of this contention was a particular scene at a party. Melina is seen laying at the edges of the dance floor. Members of the gang stand over her, mocking her, claiming that she is unable to handle her drink. The scene quickly turns to sinister and depraved areas, which become even harder to swallow once we discover that Melina was in fact dead. The gang, like vultures, dive onto her, pulling her clothes off. A young member of the gang, Phillip (Jonathan Burn), mounts Melina in this scene, kissing and fondling her - an action that he later fatefully regrets. This scene is shown from different perspectives, much like Akira Kurosawa's Rashomon (1950). Unfortunately, due to its very suggestive nature, the British censors cut around 18 minutes from the film, and was overlooked on its release. In the cut released in 1965, the power of the film is totally lost, as these scenes are central to both the films themes and narrative. These cuts also lead to director Guy Hamilton (who would later make his name on several Bond films) and producer Anthony Perry removing their names from the credits.

But it is Reed's central performance that dominates the screen. It is not a large step away from a previous role in Joseph Losey's The Damned (1963), but his brooding, antagonistic presence is illuminating. He mocks and berates at those sycophants around him, bleating at them like a sheep, laughing at their following natures. He does however, respect those who defy him, despite his later moral maturity. In one sense the film offers an insight into the decay of post-Empire Britain, and a glimpse into the moralising of the newly dominant America. But also the film highlights what many youth films tend to forget. These youth movements (particularly in the 1960's - including the later "Hippie" movement) are fundamentally entrenched in privilege. Therefore, whilst the films young characters are rough, violent, self-absorbed, these are the future Representatives of the British class system. Perhaps more the reason for the BBFC's attack on the film: it may well have been a different release if the gang members were from the other side of London, the East-end, as opposed the West.


Directed by: Guy Hamilton
Starring: Oliver Reed, Clifford David, Louise Sorel
Country: UK

Rating: ***

Marc Ivamy

Review #581: 'Stranger on the Third Floor' (1940)

After discovering a dead man with his throat slit, reporter Mike Ward (John McGuire) proves to be the key witness in the murder trial, putting away the accused to face the death penalty. His fiancée Jane (Margaret Tillachet) harbours doubts about the man's guilt, causing Ward to question himself and what he really saw. Returning to his apartment, he has a brief encounter with a strange man (Peter Lorre) who he sees lurking around the building, and after finding his neighbour murdered in the same way, he cowers into a paranoid and disillusioned state. When Ward is arrested on suspicion of the murder, Jane wanders the streets searching for this strange man with bulging eyes, thick lips, and a white scarf.

Although it wasn't released until after similar films of the genre, Stranger on the Third Floor is considered to be the first 'true' film noir. The classic tale of an innocent man out to prove his innocence is given a slight spin with a short central section depicting Ward's descent into panic. This is punctured with a quite strange dream sequence that is filmed quite nicely given the obvious budget limitations. These limitations tend to damage the film's potential impact, with McGuire's quite outlandish performance making it disappointing that director Boris Ingster couldn't afford a better lead. With very literal narration, he flails around as if locked in an operatic Russian silent, feeling it important to inform the audience "I'm tired," after yawning and stretching.

The extremely dull first two-thirds of the film spend most of the time tip-toeing around the strongest plot thread, which is Jane's search for Peter Lorre's creepy stranger. Lorre saves the film, having been a veteran of German Expressionism, is perfectly suited to the film's overwrought, dramatic style. His soft voice and small stature make him barely imposing, but subtly unnerving. Running at just over an hour, Stranger was never intended to be challenging, but a simple thriller, and that's exactly what it is. But it's also frightfully pedestrian, offering none of the sleaze or sweat I usually love from B-grade noirs. It certainly had a key role to play in the development of one of the most successful genres in American cinema history, but this, combined with Lorre's memorable but sadly brief appearance, are the only reasons why this film is fleetingly remembered.


Directed by: Boris Ingster
Starring: Peter Lorre, John McGuire, Margaret Tallichet
Country: USA

Rating: ***

Tom Gillespie

Review #580: 'Wreck-It Ralph' (2012)

With 'retro' very much in fashion these days, and the children of the late 1980's and 1990's now reaching an age where one can get nostalgic about one's childhood, it is the perfect time for there to be a film that harks back to early games consoles. After all, consoles such as the NES, Sega Mega Drive and the SNES, although now very amateur when compared to recent incarnations, were the godfathers of mass mainstream gaming, and a key form of entertainment growing up for the likes of me (I was born in 1984). Wreck-It Ralph, Disney's latest colourful crowd-pleaser, portrays both the demise of blocky finger-bashers, as well as celebrating their retro appeal. It's hook is that its main character, Ralph (voiced by John C. Reilly), is a bad guy. He spends his days destroying an apartment block with his over-sized hands, while the hero of the game, Fix-It Felix, Jr. (Jack McBrayer), uses his magic hammer to fix Ralph's destruction, and therefore winning the game.

Fix-It Felix, Jr. is an old-school arcade game in a similar vein to Donkey Kong, a simple premise, existing solely for it's retro charm amongst modern shoot 'em-ups and dance-mat games. Treated badly by the game's inhabitants due to being the thug of the game, Ralph decides to leave to win a golden coin, cementing himself as a hero. He sneaks into a Halo-like alien shooter called Hero's Duty in which a tough female commander Calhoun (Jane Lynch) narrates to the player, but gets himself into trouble by accidentally taking an alien into another game during his escape with a golden coin. He lands in Candy Land, a colourful racing game with a similar sickeningly sweet feel to Mario Party, where glitch outcast Vanellope von Schweetz (Sarah Silverman) steals his coin and uses it to buy an entry into the main race. Seeing potential disaster for his game, the ruling King Candy (Alan Tudyk), tries to put an end to Vanellope's entry, but Ralph wants his coin back, and the only way to do that is to help her win.

Like the majority of Pixar's, sorry, Disney's output (John Lasseter acts as executive producer), Wreck-It Ralph has the ability to appeal to adults, as well as giving the squirts enough colourful imagery to keep their minds busy between whatever they get up to these days. Although it derives much of its humour from a reliance on the audiences' knowledge of retro computer games, the film has enough playful adult humour to appeal to a wider audience, and is most importantly sweet enough to engage the audiences emotions. Yet for people like me, who grew up on the likes of Super Mario World, Street Fighter II and Duck Hunt, Wreck-It Ralph proves to be an oddly touching lament of a time when games generally had a very basic premise, but were executed with such a charm and addictive quality, that they were entirely endearing.

An early scene that borders on genius sees Ralph in an AA-style meeting for computer game bad guys, with Bowser, Zangief and Clyde from Pac-Man offering support for our titular hero. Upon revealing himself as longing to play the hero, the group erupts, with Clyde going into panic mode the same way he did in Pac-Man. It's a celebration of computer game ticks, with the apartment-folk from Ralph's game moving in a sudden, glitchy fashion, and Felix making a boing sound when he jumps. In fact, it's this ingenuity that leads to the tragic story of Vanellope, who is a glitch in the system, who's potential participation in Candy Land could lead to the player's giving up on the game, causing it to go out-of-order and entering arcade obscurity. Facing this catastrophe, the games inhabitants can at least escape with their lives before the power switch is flipped, but Vanellope cannot exist outside the game, and will die with it.

It's this gentle sentimentality that makes Wreck-It Ralph so enjoyable. Pursuing Ralph is Calhoun and Felix, two contrasting game characters from two entirely different generations (Felix is smitten with her hi-def look), and start a bizarre love story that is as ridiculous as it is oddly touching. Thankfully, it is these types of moments and characters that you take away from the film, and not the overly familiar themes and narrative. Although the setting is unfamiliar and exciting, the plot shares a lot with the likes of Monsters, Inc. (2001) and Toy Story 3 (2010), and climaxes with a staple car-chase, something that seems to plague kiddie-film these days. But Wreck-It Ralph is undeniably irresistible and really quite clever, and although I would have liked to see more game-hopping ingenuity, there is enough here to sustain until the inevitable sequel comes along.


Directed by: Rich Moore
Voices: John C. Reilly, Sarah Silverman, Jack McBrayer, Jane Lynch, Alan Tudyk
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

"Henson: The Felt Magician"

Having been born in the mid-1970's, I was introduced at a very early age to the eccentric, colourful Muppet characters that frequently occupied the television screen through Sesame Street (1969 - Present) and The Muppet Show (1976 - 1981). It would be safe to say that I was slightly obsessed with these elaborate sock puppets, but I also became aware at an early age of the driving force behind these endearing creations, Jim Henson. Although he used puppets simply as a way to get into the burgeoning medium of television, throughout his career he would revolutionise puppetry, innovating the performance-based art form, and developing a style that would transfer to the cinema screen in a variety of ways. He pushed himself and the medium into a formula that was fantastic, anarchic, satirical and self-reflexive, but that also radiated a wholesome and sweet outlook, with a value system that at times seems naive, but imagines a world in peace.

During the early 1950's, Henson, a shy, softly spoken young man still in high school, took up hand puppetry as a means of getting work on the local Washington DC television network. Puppetry on children's morning television was very common at the time, but largely the medium had never really been explored before on TV or in the cinema. The films of German animator/puppeteer Lotte Reiniger (The Adventures of Prince Achmed (1926) and the many traditional fairy tale films) used the simple silhouette puppets against lit backdrops which were some of the first puppet-oriented moving images. Before television puppets were largely seen in vaudeville in the form of ventriloquists dummy's, or on the seaside with Punch and Judy. Stage work would use walls in which the puppets perform from behind, but what Henson saw with television (and later film) was that the frame of the screen/camera could represent that wall, freeing the puppet performer. By 1955 Henson was given his own five minute slot on late-night television. He created the satirical Sam & Friends, which played with the form of television, often using the then contemporary comedic style of "sick" humour (incomparable from today's darker comedy, but nonetheless funny).

Sam & Friends ran for several years and saw the introduction of Henson's most iconic character, Kermit (the Frog was added later).  Whilst the programme gathered a cult following in the Washington DC area, Henson felt that his creations (the Muppet, Inc company was formed in 1958) could expand and appeal to larger audiences. Under the newly formed company, Henson could use his puppets for television commercials, and therefore bring in money for other, more innovative projects. During the 1960's the Muppets would make appearances on TV specials, variety shows and talk shows such as The Ed Sullivan Show, and his name and artistry started to become recognisable to the general population.  What this period fundamentally resulted in was Henson's reputation as a master craftsman. His dedication to the art form was unsurpassed, using the simple tools of foam rubber and cloth, and the subtle movements of hand and fingers, he (along with his Muppeteer colleagues) developed a style of puppeteering that gave such a range of emotions. This talent inevitably led to him being brought into a new, experimental form of television aimed at pre-schoolers.

With an idea to revolutionise young children's television, The Children's Television Workshop, with producer Joan Ganz Cooney heading, had the idea of teaching toddlers simple letters and numbers in the same format that commercials use to sell products. It was a clever idea, but the show required something else, and the decision was to use puppets. However, if they were unable to get Henson to provide the performers and his own puppet creations, they would not do it at all - this shows how significant his work was in the industry. In 1969 Sesame Street first aired and whilst the educational "adverts" were successful and memorable, it was the Muppet characters that raised the profile of the show, elevating it to international acclaim. Like so many of his creations, the Muppet characters occupying the magical, but very real urban environment of the street, are incredibly enduring. From the naive, awkward Big Bird, the miserable Oscar the Grouch, the clumsy Grover, these characters are embedded deeply into the global consciousness, instantly recognisable to practically every human on the planet. That's quite an achievement in itself. But to Henson, this format was too marginalised, too specialised. He felt that the Muppet creations could bridge the gap between young and old, and wanted to transfer puppet performance to prime-time television.

After taking his Muppet variety format to all of the American television networks who flatly rejected the idea, preferring to think that puppets were exclusively for children. Even after some sketches on the first season of the now world famous comedy show, Saturday Night Live in 1975 and '76, Henson's unique brand of comedy was not considered by executives (traditionally known as money-men as opposed to creatives). This was until British film and television producer, (Lord) Lou Grade, who supported and funded what would become the hugely successful The Muppet Show that ran for five years. It gave Kermit the Frog, Rowlf the Dog (who had been previously used in commercials and in sketches on The Jimmy Dean Show), and all the newly created Muppets (you probably know most of them: Fozzie Bear, Miss Piggy, Gonzo, Scooter, Animal, et al), international recognition, and literally became household names.

The show was a brickolage of ideas and concepts. It has references to old vaudeville theatre, it is charming but anarchic. It is proper, chaotic variety, and including special guests was a clever way to keep the show fresh. The Muppet Show looked to the past, but also had a contemporary feel, the progressive, hippie-like band, Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, were perfect facsimiles of the extravagant rock shows of the time, with such groups as Yes or Pink Floyd. It was a perfect package that had the desired effect of working on a number of levels, much like the films of Pixar have done over the last couple of decades. The show displayed a verve for slapstick humour, but balanced this with wit, and often innuendo. Like the characters on Sesame Street, these characters are enduring, because they are so well developed, and allowed to develop their own idiosyncrasies. The relationships with the characters were so important. Without them, along with the subtle movements of the puppeteers hand movements, it would not work.

It would be impossible to write something about Jim Henson without including his working associate, Frank Oz. Working together since the early 1960's, their relationship and their own characters could be seen in the characters they played together. Some of the most memorable relationships are Henson and Oz: Ernie and Bert, Kermit and Miss Piggy. As performer and Puppet manipulator, Oz was incredible. Henson himself called Oz the best Puppeteer in the business. He brought a feminine tenacity to Miss Piggy, a naive, vulnerable charm to Fozzie, and a primal, guttural angst to the drummer based on Keith Moon, Animal. Their combined talents and ambition would lead them to transfer their puppet ingenuity to the medium of film. Their first use of film came in 1979 when they released the first film to feature The Muppets. At the time this was a bit of a gamble. The Muppets work well on television, and perform well with humans in a studio, but would the transition from the false setting of a set to real world surrounding work?

The Muppet Movie (1979) showed that puppets were a believable possibility on film. Henson made some innovations on the film also, including a wondrous technical achievement involving Kermit riding a bicycle. The nature of cinema, with its use of editing, Henson could create different mechanical puppets that could perform a particular function in a scene. These progressions in special effects continued through the following two Muppet films (The Great Muppet Caper (1981) and The Muppets Take Manhatten (1984)) that Henson was involved in. But it was a film that Frank Oz was involved in that showed that a puppet character could work in a believable, human-led film. After turning down an offer to work on The Empire Strikes Back (1980), Henson told George Lucas that he should ask Oz. Frank's Yoda puppet was thoroughly accepted, and was a successful film character, and Henson, never missing the chance to evolve his chosen art form, took on a monumental challenge. What became The Dark Crystal (1982) was the first film to use an all-puppet cast.

The fantasy film was a prevailing genre after the business changing success of Star Wars (1977), so in hindsight it was inevitable that Henson could utilise this trend and create a unique world that would illustrate his themes, philosophies and ideologies. Collaborating with British illustrator and conceptual designer, Brian Froud, The Dark Crystal was a visual feast, and no doubt a designers dream project. It was a Tolkien-esque fantasy world with the quintessential themes of mysticism and spirituality. Like all of Henson's projects, Crystal was filled with innovations in puppetry and special effects. Whilst the film was not a huge success (financially at least), Henson wanted to further explore fantasy landscapes, archetypes and characters again with the more playful, and comedic Labyrinth (1986) who's screenplay was written by ex-Python Terry Jones. Clearly enjoying the creation of other worlds, Henson would later return to fantasy on the television series The StoryTeller (1988), which again delved into mythology, fairy tales and folklore to create a lush series of episodes introduced by John Hurt.

Most famous for his Muppet creations, Henson shows further complexity in the form of two particular, non-puppet films that he produced and directed in the 1960's. The first, Time Piece (1965), which was nominated for an Oscar, was a short experimental film starring Henson as a man running from time, and the various obstacles that get in his way. More interestingly to the oeuvre of his career, and the themes that run through his work, was a tele-play for the hour-long show, Experiment in Television, The Cube (1969). The Cube was a kind of avant-garde concept, Kafka-esque in the frustration of a character trapped in a cube, having various members of society play games or invade his personal space. The film shows an acute awareness and fear or paranoia about the societal structures surrounding us. It is self-reflexive, like much of Henson's work, his characters are always aware that they do not occupy the real-world, but are in fact, in the case of The Cube, in a Tele-Play. The film is not perfect, and has faults. But in its essence, the themes are strong, and thought provoking. That's the genius of Henson. Even in the later, "fluffy" (on the surface at least) concepts, his ideas and view of the world is there.

With Henson's themes of anti-establishment, and his awareness of the political and social problems in the world, he also perpetuates his ideologies. The Muppets have strong values to communicate to the viewer. Underneath the crazy, satirical, anarchic mannerisms of puppets, is a heart that is so sweet and innocent. Henson appeared like a hippie, the bushy beard and calm exterior. When he proposed the idea for the television series Fraggle Rock (1983 - 1987), he simply said, "We should create a children's show that brings peace to the world". It's a beautiful statement; naive, but to the point. This seems to have been his way. He was creative, and understood the complexities of humanity, but he also had a pure, almost innocent side that strived to communicate a beautiful exploration on the nature of love and community. The Muppets were dysfunctional, but gathered round the driving force of Kermit (i.e. Henson). The signature song of Henson's alter-ego, Kermit, is an incredible song about race and belonging. Bein' Green speaks of Kermit's dismay at being the colour "of so many ordinary things." It is such a simple piece, but incredibly powerful - particularly in the performance Kermit had with Ray Charles.

It was a sad day in May 1990 when I heard the news of Henson's early death (he was only 53). I secretly lamented (I was fourteen and was unwilling to express myself socially). Fortunately, the characters he left behind could exist beyond him. He left behind a legacy, including companies Muppets, Inc and The Jim Henson Creature Workshop. These companies still exist. Like so many other film franchises, The Walt Disney Company owns the rights to the Muppet characters, but in 2011 the new Muppet film, The Muppets, showed that the generation that grew up with them, were willing and able to continue the characters with a similar sense of humour as their creator, certainly the film was more successful than some of the appalling films produced in the 1990's. The child inside me continues to be endeared by the Muppets, still enjoy the beauty and imagination of The Dark Crystal, and wished he'd tried to become a puppeteer. As Henson has said about his early career, he thought that using puppets in TV would combine his great loves in life which was film , television and art. The technical achievements are great, but absolute to this is the creativity and character, but also the sweetness and optimism of the work. So I'll end as The Muppet Movie did, with a song. Kermit: "Life's like a movie, write your own ending. Keep Believing. Keep pretending. We done just what we set out to do. Thanks to the lovers, the dreamers, and you."

Marc Ivamy

Review #579: 'City Lights' (1931)

By 1930, the silent era was coming to a rapid end. All doubters thinking that the 'talkie' craze would not last were having a wake-up call, and silent geniuses such as Buster Keaton, Douglas Fairbanks, and Charlie Chaplin, were potentially seeing their highly successful careers melting away. Chaplin began work on City Lights back in 1928, yet a troubled and stressful shoot caused production to run until 1931, when Hollywood had all but given itself over to the new talkie era. Refusing to let go of his most famous creation, The Tramp, Chaplin endured with his vision and kept City Lights silent, seeing no hope for his beloved character in sound pictures. Chaplin shot sporadically, seemingly around one central, and very simple, idea, and managed to create his greatest work, and undoubtedly one of the greatest films of all time.

After a chance encounter with a poor, blind and humble flower girl (Virginia Cherrill), The Tramp falls in love. Smitten, he sits down by the sea where a drunk and eccentric millionaire (Harry Myers) is trying to commit suicide. The Tramp opens the millionaire's eyes to life's simple wonders, so the millionaire treats him to life's luxuries, getting him extremely drunk in the process. After a memorable night, the millionaire sobers up and throws the Tramp out, where he spies the flower girl being visited by a doctor. Desperate to make money for her, he takes a job a street sweeper and gets involved in a winner-takes-all boxing match. Yet everywhere he goes, the drunk millionaire is there ready to whisk him off on another wild night.

The juxtaposition of the two central stories in City Nights is relatively strange in terms of relevance to the narrative. The film is clearly a romantic one, which makes it peculiar when it repeatedly cuts to the Tramp's escapades with the millionaire. But Chaplin seems to have incorporated this for two reasons, and two aspects that Chaplin is remembered and adored for - comedy and social commentary. This is Chaplin's most laugh-out-loud film, with the standout being the scene in which the Tramp and millionaire, both highly intoxicated, arrive at a formal party. The Tramp walks across the dance floor, slipping in unfamiliar shoes, trying desperately to stay on his feet. It's a five-second gag, but for me it incorporated all of Chaplin's breathtaking physical ability and subtle energy. Every moment seems like an endless maze of possibilities for Chaplin, squeezing instants of virtuoso out of simple things like lighting a cigar or eating spaghetti.

The Great Depression had recently struck the country, and Chaplin uses City Lights as a gloomy insight to the lives of the people hit by poverty. The blind flower girl seems to have nothing, yet is rich in soul and spirit that the Tramp is uncontrollably drawn to. The millionaire is emotionally vacated - miserable, angry and intolerable when sober, yet boisterous and care-free when drunk. By contrasting the poor girl with the empty millionaire in his lonely mansion, Chaplin is championing the human spirit over material wealth, a beautiful sentiment brought to life by some fine scenes of comedy, and a profound statement given the harsh, demoralising times. This no doubt was one of the key factors that led to the film's surprising commercial success, with a hungry and unemployed audience given a sense of hope through Chaplin's magic.

It is the most satisfying cinematic experience I've ever had - frequently hilarious, awe-inspiring and exquisitely moving. Although Chaplin would carry on making movies and make another masterpiece in  Modern Times (1936), this is the last great 'true' Chaplin, his farewell to the era that served him so well. The final scene is the work of a true craftsman, a moment of sheer beauty. Without ruining anything for those who haven't seen it, the close-up of the Tramp's face overcome with emotion is one of the finest displays of acting I've ever come across, and it is easy to see why this scene is now so widely celebrated. A simply magical experience.


Directed by: Charles Chaplin
Starring: Charles Chaplin, Virginia Cherrill, Harry Myers, Florence Lee
Country: USA

Rating: *****

Tom Gillespie

Review #578: 'Days of Wine and Roses' (1962)

The 1960's saw a change in American cinema. Producers seemed to be moving away from the conventional approach of ham-fisted delivery and super fast-talking, and going for something altogether more realistic. The Hays Code was losing power with the influx of foreign films that weren't bound by any strict ruling, and audiences were obviously striving for something more challenging and confrontational. Blake Edward's Days of Wine and Roses, a powerful portrayal of a marriage crumbling beneath alcoholism, is a clear example of this. Alcoholism had been depicted before of course, but never in such a downright distressing manner. Billy Wilder's The Lost Weekend followed writer Don Birnam (played by Ray Milland) as alcohol destroyed his very soul. But that was back in 1945, when the Hays Code was at the height of its power, so it would always be restrained. It is undoubtedly an excellent film, but Days of Wine and Roses gets under the skin of the 'disease', and although it is ultimately a poorer film in comparison to The Lost Weekend, it is certainly more profound and powerful.

Public relations man Joe Clay (Jack Lemmon) meets and falls in love with teetotal secretary Kirsten (Lee Remick), and after a whirlwind romance, the couple quickly marry. Skip forward a year, and Joe has turned into a full-blown alcoholic, frequently returning home late from work and behaving erratically. When his drinking starts to effect his job, Joe is demoted, causing a strain on home life. The couple slump into addiction, sharing the joys and struggles of succumbing entirely to the bottle. After Joe loses his job, they quit drinking, identifying it as the reason their marriage is struggling and potentially losing custody of their daughter. But unbeknownst to them, they are locked in a three-way marriage, and a drink is always around the corner.

Based on screenwriter J.P. Miller's own teleplay, Days of Wine and Roses is shot in stark yet beautiful  black-and-white, pulling no punches and avoiding romantic sentimentality. Jack Lemmon is superb as Joe, a man who confronts his problem yet also sees it as the glue that binds his marriage together. It is the only thing they can share equal joy with, yet for their marriage to work, they simply must get sober. But Kirsten (an equally superb performance from Remick) refuses to let go, lost in her addiction so much she is willing to lose her husband and daughter to it. The film is depressing yet emotional, complex yet simple, clinically done by Edwards, who engages with unfussy and suitably minimalistic direction. Although it does to get a little bit too stagey sometimes, it is a joy to behold, leaving you an ironically sober feeling.


Directed by: Blake Edwards
Starring: Jack Lemmon, Lee Remick, Charles Bickford, Jack Klugman
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #577: 'Chronicle' (2012)

Barely a week goes by these days without another superhero film. They are no longer simply movies for pale-skinned nerds still living with their mothers, but complex, emotional character studies, complete with high-octane action and some of the best special-effects that money can buy. Yet for every The Dark Knight Rises (2012), there's a Jonah Hex (2009), proving that such a luxury in abundance is not necessarily a good thing. You can not simply give a character powers, dress him in a silly suit, and expect box-office millions - something that especially Marvel have realised, who place serious consideration into their output and making some left-field production choices in terms of cast and crew. Clearly aware of this, director Josh Trank and screenwriter Max Landis created a superhero film with a twist, incorporating that other popular sub-genre, the found-footage movie, and with Chronicle, we have something very familiar, yet deceptively fresh.

Teenager Andrew (Dane DeHaan), starts to videotape his life, documenting everything from the domestic abuse he suffers from the hands of his father, his dying mother, and his unhappy school life. His only real friend is his cousin Matt (Alex Russell), who he was close to growing up, but drifted away from as they both got older. After being attacked and thrown out of a party, Andrew is approached by the popular Steve (Michael B. Jordan), who asks Andrew to capture something strange he and Matt have found, which turns out to be a tunnel hiding a glowing crystalline object. As a result, the trio start to develop telekinetic abilities that cause their noses to bleed when they overreach themselves, but working like a muscle, getting stronger with practice. But after Andrew pushes a rude driver into a ditch, almost killing him, they agree to limit the use of their powers, especially when used against other humans, which proves difficult as Andrew's psychological unbalance begins to reveal itself.

Chronicle's plot naturally put a lot of faith into the character of Andrew. Everything is viewed through his 'eyes', with his ever-present camera placing a psychological boundary between him and the real world. He is an often pathetic, unlikeable protagonist, but in the hands of Dane DeHaan, Andrew is simply fascinating to watch - an unconventional, multi-dimensional anti-hero. I predicted big things for DeHaan after his portrayal of gay, angry teenager Jessie in HBO's excellent In Treatment, where he even managed to overshadow Gabriel Byrne, and his terrific performance here will surely allow him to go on to bigger and better things (although so far I have only seen him in small roles in Lawless and Lincoln (both 2012)). Watching Andrew slowly lose his grip on reality and lose himself in the idea that he is an apex predator is like watching the birth of a great comic-book villain.

The found-footage approach works surprisingly well, giving a realism to the various scenes of (often brutal) violence, and some entertaining light-touches as they record themselves playing with their powers in Youtube style. The 'problem' with someone having to hold the camera is rectified when Andrew realises he can use his telekinetic abilities to operate the camera, leading to an inspired scene where the trio play football in the clouds, having discovered they can fly. The slightly underwhelming climax over-reaches itself, abandoning the found-footage technique completely and losing itself amongst all the special effects and the film doesn't have anything new to say about the damning effects of power, but this is a minor quibble in what is an exciting, well-acted, and strangely believable superhero film.


Directed by: Josh Trank
Starring: Dane DeHaan, Alex Russell, Michael B. Jordan
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #576: 'Quiz Show' (1994)

The line between reality and fiction in television has always been a blur. Before every household had their furniture pointed at the TV, news reels in cinemas were a medium in which governments filled people's heads with propaganda, quite easily manipulating viewers into believing that what they were seeing was fact - after all, back then, it was the only way to see what was happening outside of your own country, without actually leaving it yourself. As soon as studio heads realised how gullible audiences were, they seized the opportunity to rake in the cash. With the explosion of the Internet making the world relatively tiny, you would think people would be more aware of the dangers of believing what they see. Yet reality TV, a sickening creation that quite obviously plays out scripted scenes in natural environments, still has people duped. It seemed a fitting time to re-visit Robert Redford's thoroughly underrated Quiz Show, a meditation on the unrivalled power of television, and the hold it can have over a nation.

In 1950's America, Twenty One contestant Herb Stempel (John Turturro) wows audiences every week with his encyclopaedic general knowledge. With his approval ratings wavering, the big studio heads decide America is tired of cheering for the underdog, and order Herb to be removed from the show. Producers Dan Enright (David Paymer) and Albert Freedman (Hank Azaria) seek out a poster-boy, a figurehead that would give American someone to look up to, and ultimately aspire to be. Freedman spots Charles Van Doren (Ralph Fiennes) auditioning for another show, and immediately snaps him up, offering the chance to win big money with relative ease - he will be given the answers. Van Doren is handsome, well-spoken, highly intellectual - the complete opposite to the mentally unstable Herb, who is paid off to lose to Van Doren. With Van Doren becoming a national treasure, Herb is appalled and takes his claims to the Grand Jury, catching the eye of young Congressional lawyer Dick Goodwin (Rob Morrow), who takes a special interest in the case.

Artistic license was obviously taken with Quiz Show, but Redford uses his directorial skill to create a crime story with no crime and no criminals, and no mystery given that the audience are in on the rigging from the start. So, the film is left as a damning portrayal of naivety, and a disturbing insight into the machinations of the most powerful corporation in the world - television itself. Goodwin, the "Uncle Tom of the Jews" is an outcast Harvard graduate, a small man in stature and societal hierarchy, believing that exposing this manipulation with cripple television and ultimately cause it to re-evaluate itself. Of course, it is Stempel and Van Doren - the pawns (albeit guilty pawns) - that suffer the most, being humiliated and having their reputations rocked, while studio head Robert Knitner (Allan Rich) and the executive of show sponsor Geritol, Mark Rittenhome (Martin Scorsese), emerging unscathed. Hanging Enright and Freedman out to dry, Rittenhome explains to an appalled Goodwin that "audiences forget, corporations don't". The footnotes at the end of the film explain that Enright and Freedman returned from their exile a few years later, becoming millionaires in the process.

Quiz Show is also a fine character piece, and while Rob Morrow grabs the majority of the screen time, it is Ralph Fiennes who truly impresses. Van Doren could be viewed as a rather despicable character; a man who sells his soul for money he doesn't really need, and for fame it brings him. Yet in Fiennes' hands, Van Doren becomes undeniably human, causing you to truly evaluate your own ethics, and what you would do if placed in a similar situation. This feeling is shared by Goodwin, who befriends Van Doren despite investigating him. He sees Van Doren as a victim who has been swept up in a tide of money and fame, manipulated in the same way as the people watching him, and it is the friendship between the two that is the beating heart of the film.

What makes Quiz Show so enjoyable and enthralling is the fact that it never lets its weighty issues get in the way of the emotional drama, and is a quite fascinating story to boot. Redford depicts Goodwin's struggle through legal bureaucracy, juxtaposing it with his refreshingly stable home life with wife Sandra (Mira Sorvino), a factor that can often be intrusive in movies about real events. We also witness Van Doren's guilt-ridden relationship with his famous father Mark (an excellent Paul Scofield), and Herb's strained marriage to Toby (Johann Carlo). But it is Goodwin's reaction to the events that ultimately linger in the mind, with his resigned realisation that television is simply to powerful to fight proving a rather depressing sentiment. Perhaps more people need to see this film before they completely succumb to escapism, and we become a nation of red-eyed zombies.


Directed by: Robert Redford
Starring: Rob Morrow, Ralph Fiennes, John Turturro, Paul Scofield, David Paymer, Hank Azaria
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #575: 'A Nightmare on Elm Street' (1984)

By 1983 the horror sub-genre of slasher films were dwindling, offering largely imitations of the hugely successful Friday the 13th series (in 1984 Friday had it's 'Final Chapter' that proved to be eventually false), with films such as Curtains, The Forest or Sleepaway Camp. Whilst the majority of these films expressed the vapid nature of teenagers as throwaway avatars for murder, they continued with the conventions set out by John Carpenter's Halloween (1978), but added very little in originality or invention. Of course, Wes Craven's A Nightmare on Elm Street was not the first slasher to involve a supernatural villain - Uli Lommel's ridiculous The Boogeyman (1980) - along with Halloween's Michael Myers - had utilised these elements before, but Craven's nightmare hook turned what could have been a standard early-'80's horror film into something quite original and filled with socio-political ideas.

Wes Craven at this point in his career had made the notorious (and still quite shocking) debut, The Last House on the Left (1972), the mediocre, yet well known The Hills Have Eyes (1977) and the failed mystery, Deadly Blessing (1981) - amongst other inferior projects. He had yet to display his intelligent subversion of horror conventions that are now well known though the Scream franchise (1996 - 2011), but within the foundation of his slasher screenplay, was a concept inspired by a real-life mystery that he embellished, creating what is now an icon of the genre. Craven read in the newspapers about a young Asian boy who was fearful of sleep, telling his parents that someone was after him in his dreams. One night his physician father gave him sleeping pills, and the boy violently died in his sleep. So, what if there was someone attempting to kill a group of teenagers in their sleep? Well, it would surely make for an interesting narrative, and one that would equally be frightening, smart and original.

On the surface, Nightmare is a straight forward story about revenge. Krueger hunts the teenage children of the parents who had burned him alive. A child molester and killer (the molestation angle was diluted for the film due to the McMartin pre-school trial that was breaking in the media at the time), Krueger had escaped imprisonment due to a technicality, so the parents of Springwood created a vigilante mob to track him down and deal out justice on their own terms. As Nancy (Heather Langenkamp) and her friends begin to describe the razor-fingered, red-and-green-sweater-wearing figure invading their dreams, the conspiracy surrounding him, and the secrecy kept by the parents begins to unravel. Elm Street is a place where the parents (or the forefathers of the United States) hide the sins of the "father" from the younger generation. Like the omni-present rise of a new conservatism in Reagan-era politics, America desperately felt the need to hide the fundamental violence that created the nation.

In this context, Krueger represents America's violent past, from the decimation of native Indians, through the depravity of civil war, to the embarrassment of the failed war in Vietnam. Reagan wanted to present the nation as a clean-cut, progressive society, and with the religious right now on his side (before 1980, state and religion were separated by the constitution, until Republicans realised the number of voters that could be gained by "preaching" god and country into their policies). In the first real introduction of Krueger proper in the film, the young Tina (Amanda Wyss) stands in an alleyway, and he enters at the other side, his Fedora hat in silhouette, he stands like a figure from the old western frontier, the music suggests the genre conventions of a John Ford film. But this is an outlaw figure twisted to reveal to the youth of the '80's that they are no longer able to believe the lies and deceits of parent and government. But Krueger is also a spectre of the past, who will correct the wrongs by eliminating the future, tearing apart the fabric of the fallacy created to whitewash any infractions of history.

Aside from subtextual concepts that run through the film, there is ample room for inventive, bloody deaths. The supernatural infuses the script and lets fantasy become overindulged. From the horrific death of Tina, whose body, slashed with the finger knives, is dragged onto the ceiling where she screams for life, to Johnny Depp's screen debut, where his body is pulled into his bed, gushing out blood at an impossible rate, the bloodletting is both horrifying and informatively original. In Nancy we have the standard final girl of the sub-genre, but she is far more intelligent than previous girls. Langenkamp portrays the strong-willed female with confidence. But fundamentally, unlike films such as Friday the 13th or Halloween, the "monster" seems to have purpose, his vengeance almost justified by the legality of his murder; legitimised by a troubled past. In a way, Krueger looks over the teenagers, like the incredibly effective scene where his claws and face push through the wall above the sleeping Nancy, he peeks into the wrong bedroom, but he wants to expose the fabrication of history.

I first saw A Nightmare on Elm Street on video in 1985 (a friends brother rented it for us - I was 9), and it was one of the first modern horror films I was introduced to. To be honest it was a bit of a revelation, and I can easily state that it probably changed my life, in the sense that I saw a film that played with film form, and presented the concept and atmosphere of a dream/nightmare in such a primal and effective way. It is certainly a film that has stayed in my sub-conscious ever since. The impact of the film, and its central, monstrous conceit (Krueger), has been watered down with seven inferior sequels (which will be reviewed on The Wrath of Blog over the next few months), and has therefore lost the thing that made it work on so many levels. But, watching this film as a stand alone narrative, it still has a powerful, deeply disturbing idea - we all sleep, we all dream. What if that activity that we all need to survive could kill you? The only real failure of this first movie is the multiple, farcical endings that time has been unkind to. It seems that director and producer, Robert Shaye, were unable to agree on a suitable end, but resolved to use them all. But it is still a film of interesting beauty and mood, and a film that I will no doubt return to in the future.


Directed by: Wes Craven
Starring: John Saxon, Ronee Blakley, Heather Langenkamp, Johnny Depp, Robert Englund
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Marc Ivamy

Review #574: 'The Master' (2012)

Paul Thomas Anderson's The Master, his first film since 2007's spectacular There Will Be Blood, explores many of the themes of alienation, dysfunction within family and individual, that he has engaged with throughout his filmography. But where his previous film focused on the desperation for power in an increasingly Capitalistic, but almost primitively savage landscape, his latest probes and juxtaposes ideas of control and chaos within a substitute family.  The surrogate family that drunk, chaotic Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix) enters serendipitously, headed by "writer" Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman), is a representation of a cult, incredibly loosely based on science fiction writer, L. Ron Hubbard's religious invention, Scientology. No doubt the allusions within the screenplay to this increasingly clandestine and insidious organisation (with powerful Hollywood membership from Tom Cruise and John Travolta), have been eradicated to avoid any problems - Scientologists are secretive, and appear aggressive and paranoid (I'm just goading, but it's true!).

The Master opens in the closing moments of World War Two, the drunken and isolated Freddie, winging his way on a Navy ship. He seems awkward in the presence of these men, iconographically like the muscular, homoerotic imagery of Kenneth Anger or Jean-Paul Gaultier. On a sun kissed beach, the sailors watch in bemusement as Freddie mock-fucks a woman made of sand, leg akimbo, the audience full of laughter, until the misogynist display goes on, becoming increasingly uncomfortable. In subsequent scenes Freddie shows his infantile, possessive obsession with sex and female genitalia, and the drunken fantasy that drifts in and out of his consciousness. He's a drifter with no place to go, a fractured family life, with no skills but a dangerous ability to make alcohol. In the chaos of his intoxicated mind, he wants a father figure, and after an accidental poisoning with his alcoholic concoctions, of a man he told looked like his father, Freddie stumbles upon a ship sailing sailing from San Francisco to New York through the Panama canal, and meets leader of The Cause, Dodd.

Like Hubbard, Hoffman's Dodd is a publisher of a book who's ideas create a loyal, devoted following in 1950's America, where religious movements separated from traditional ones were beginning to surface in greater numbers. The ideas within this quasi-religion, The Cause, are differing in many ways to Scientology (it does however include the idea that humans have existed for trillions of years), and Dodd confidently states that our spirits live for millennia, living through different physical vessels - not unlike the concepts in what is now called past life regression. But here, Dodd claims that through confronting past demons the subject can return to an emotional state of "perfect". It's a flimsy concept, and one which Dodd even has difficulty in defending or explaining when confronted with challengers to his philosophies. His son, Val (Jesse Plemens), tells Freddie that his father makes this stuff up as he goes along; this is not a stable functioning family, let alone a legitimate, or cohesive cult, where all followers agree with every alteration, or frivolous concept that The Master orates.

The film is not clear about the full nature of Lancaster and Freddie's relationship; at times it is like a father/son  dynamic, then a homoerotic tinge is suggested, but they almost always seem at odds, battling even when calm and collected. But the real chaos that Freddie brings is juxtaposing the more secretive chaos behind the doors of the cult. On the surface Lancaster is jovial and accommodating, but as with Freddie, his demons, his complications, and his occasional inability to explain his wild theories, at times highlights his own chaotic psychology. In the time that Freddie stays with The Cause, Dodd is preparing his second book, 'The Split Sabre', and it seems that cracks are perhaps appearing in the "congregation", and Dodd is desperately attempting to cling to his followers, and with it continue leading with false ideas, and often ludicrous practises. The Master is about the destructive nature of these two characters, who often provoke each other into obscure and dangerous behaviour.

It would be impossible to write about this film without mentioning the two central roles. Hoffman plays Lancaster with a cool charisma, and he must have been intended for the role (he has worked with Anderson before). With simple motions he captures the belief of power in the character, he approaches other men, dramatically swinging his hand to slap against their hand. Dodd is in control of these people, he holds the power, but he is playful, a possessor of humour used as psychological warfare. In a scene at the end of his daughters wedding reception, he leaves, grabbing the audiences attention, announcing to not rise for his departure, whilst laughing but waving his hands up, in a motion to stand. Phoenix is also quite exceptional as the tortured cheat, his eyes saying more about anxiety and pain than any words could achieve, so an Oscar nomination was inevitable. He probably won't win due to another nominee having portrayed an American icon. Hoffman also received a nomination for Best Supporting Actor.

Anderson again displays his incredible mastery of cinematic form. The images are astounding, Mihai Malamare Jr's cinematography and Jack Fisk's (along with David Crank's) production design, complement beautifully Anderson's almost constantly moving camera, with small moments of dark, Film Noir lighting, contrasted with the sun drenched, saturated images outside. In a second collaboration with Radiohead guitarist, Jonny Greenwood, the soundtrack almost counters some of the scenes, lending the film a jarring, uncomfortable feeling. It could be seen as a total musical score of the psyche. The scatological nature of these two unhinged men, fit the more abstract and psychologically oppressive soundtrack to insanity - after all, it is easy to argue that Dodd and Freddie are insane to the eyes of government and society.

The post-war rise of psycho-analysis, particularly in the United States, could be seen as another tool of control. Civilisation determines what sanity and insanity are, or what it looks like. In The Master, these two men are both sane and insane simultaneously, and they may represent that change in culture and society after such a monumental war, with realities that even now are difficult to comprehend (yet they still happen today). Something that struck me whilst watching this film was the central idea of past lives. I was overwhelmed with the profound nature of death, and this somehow explains why people attach themselves to religion, and other ideas of the continuation of existence. It is difficult to comprehend death as the end. It may simply be easier to cling onto a seemingly ridiculous idea than confront the possibility of an absolute end to life. Whilst Anderson's film is not perfect in fully committing to the many, often erratic, ideas that permeate the film, the combination of the performances, the beauty of the image and the music, create an experience that is incredibly rewarding.


Directed by: Paul Thomas Anderson
Starring: Joaquin Phoenix, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Amy Adams
Country: USA

Rating: *****

Marc Ivamy