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From the Event Guide archive!
This article refers to an event which took place on, or until, 17 October 2006 Film Reviews THE DEPARTED Perhaps it’s the subject matter that brings out the best in young Marty, ‘The Departed’ being set amongst the cops and robbers of south Boston’s Irish. The coiled plot helps too, of course, as one of the mafia infiltrates the Massachusetts state police force whilst a young police cadet is placed in the murphia. From there, as both sides become aware that they’ve got a rat in their ranks, it’s pressure cooker time - blood, quips and conflicted souls abound. Pure Scorsese, in other words. At the heart of all good dramas is conflict, and ‘The Departed’ has that in spades. On the goodies side is Martin Sheen’s Captain Queenan and Mark Wahlberg’s Sergeant Dignam, the latter none-too-impressed with “lace curtain Irish pansy” Billy Costigan (Leonardo DiCaprio) being selected as their man to go undercover. On the baddies side, it’s all about crime king, father figure and “rock star” (as Queenan puts it) Frank Costello (Jack Nicholson), who has chosen a minion he’s been grooming since he first pressed money into his hand at a working class soda fountain many moons ago, Colin Sullivan (Matt Damon), to become a rising star of the enemy. As Costigan and Sullivan begin to feel the heat, their need to find a little love, peace and some much-needed understanding leads them both, ironically, to the same woman, Madolyn (Vera Farmiga – think Claire Forlani with career prospects), a shrink. In a film packed with wonderful and often hilarious dialogue (“I’m f**king Irish – I’ll deal with something being wrong the rest of my life”), and edge-of-the-seat dramatic twists, everyone here turns in something close to a performance of a lifetime. With a great script (by William Monahan, and based on 2002’s ‘Infernal Affairs’) and a great director, chances are everybody’s just having fun. In a performance that will most likely win him an Oscar next February, it’s Nicholson, though, who just about steals the show. – Paul Byrne Anne Hathaway – who I’m rather indifferent too but who is perfectly agreeable here – plays Andy Sachs, an idealistic journalist who arrives in New York hoping to write pieces about the politics of homelessness, but instead, ends up as second assistant at ‘Runway’ magazine, answering to the fearsome editor-in-chief Miranda Priestly (Streep, tapping her rarely-used but abundant comic talent). It might not be what she wants, but Andy is told that a year in the job will be enough to open every door for her. Andy’s blasé attitude to the industry – and will to live - is pushed to the max when the full extent of Miranda’s daily demands become clear: no toilet breaks, 3am calls, coffees at exactly the right time and temperature, endless personal and professional errands around the city, and, of course, obtaining copies of the next Harry Potter novel before it’s even published. Andy finds herself adapting to her role, despite the onerous duties, asking gay (of course) in-house stylist Nigel (Tucci) to give her a make-over to look the part. As Andy changes more and more, her relationships with her friends and her ‘real’ boyfriend (i.e. he’s a low-paid chef) begin to suffer, as Andy ponders if she’s sold her soul to get ahead. The plot of ‘Devil Wears Prada’ subscribes to the standard rom-com – some might say sit-com – shibboleths; not surprising seeing as director Frankel helmed many episodes of ‘Sex and the City’ and current cult hit ‘Entourage’. Yes, there are the inevitable treacly ‘staying true to yourself’ messages, endless product placement and some shocking gay stereotypes that are not even amusing in a post-post-post ironic kind of way. The flaws are worth it, however, just to behold Streep as the silver-coiffed Cruela DeVill of publishing, fashioning coats from the skins of young interns and tearing strips off minions with devastating put-downs. The last few years have seen Streep deliver some of her most interesting work, from the lust-crazed, drug-addled, homicidal author in ‘Adaptation’ to the middle-aged existential angst of ‘The Hours’ (arguably her finest ever performance). Here, La Streep devours the role of the haughty, withering, complex Miranda with a relish that only an actress aware of the dearth of decent roles for ladies of a certain vintage could understand. This is good fun. - Declan Cashin Acceptance is what school - and America - is all about but in this instance, likeable slacker Bartleby (Long, adopting the currently fashionable Robert Downey Jnr/Adam Brody 'geek chic' persona) finds himself unable to get accepted to any college worth its salt. In order to dupe his concerned parents, Bartleby enlists his other drop-out friends to create the fictional South Harmon Institute of Technology (create the acronym from the initials...there you go), rents a disused metal hospital to transform into the faux college, and hires a wacky, opinionated ex-professor (Black) to act as the Dean. However, an on-line snafu sees the college becoming a haven for every college reject, who all turn up on the doorstep looking for their third level experience. Cue all manner of improbable deceptions and, inevitably, life-lessons. ‘Accepted’ is completely cheesy, leave-your-brain-at-the-door material, with a plot so full of holes that it could double as a colander. But it probably will do well with its target audience – college newbies – and has a few decent laughs to recommend it. If for no other reason, it’s worth listening to the scene-stealing Black’s philosophies on education and working. ‘Accepted’ may be brain-dead, but it never aspires or claims to be anything other than what it is, and, for that reason, I’d take ten of these over dishonest, patronising dross like ‘World Trade Centre’ or ‘Trust the Man’ any day. Declan Cashin. The somewhat familiar, yet carefully drawn story centres around the experiences of two disenfranchised teenagers who, for various reasons, find themselves cut off from their families. As the film opens, fourteen-year-old Magdalene (Emily Rios) is attending the quinceanera of her older sister. Soon afterwards she is horrified to find herself pregnant, an anomaly considering she and her boyfriend Herman (J.R. Cruz) have been careful. When news of this apparent Immaculate Conception reaches the ears of her defiantly traditional father, she is summarily dismissed from the household, banished for sullying the family name. She goes to live with her sympathetic grandfather Tomas (Chalo Gonzalez), who is also providing sanctuary for her cousin Carlos (Jesse Garcia) who has been ostracised from the community on account of, allegedly, being a homosexual. The two outcasts, as is the way with such films, form a mutually supportive bond. Carlos begins experimenting with a gay couple living upstairs – the younger of the two being British, the older from the East coast - who also happen to be Tomas’s landlords. They are, in many respects, the most interesting characters in the movie, mirroring as they do the directors, themselves a couple, one British, one American. They have recently denied in interviews that the characters are in any way autobiographical, which is something of a mystery, given that they inhabit the same locality. The rejection of this rather obvious connection most likely stems from their portrayal of their onscreen counterparts as greedy, acquisitive property developers who are giddily sucking the life from a historic community with nary a thought for longstanding tenants. None of which does significant damage to the humble pleasures ‘Echo Park L.A.’ has to offer. – David O Mahony Thing is, quite a few of us (a show of hands now, don’t be shy) might find the idea of an Outkast musical rather appealing, especially one set in and around a stylish southern speakeasy during prohibition, where hard-drinking musicians rub shoulders with cold-eyed gangsters and ladies of low-moral fibre (and an agreeable lack of clothing). Benjamin and Patton take up roles tailor-made from their public musical personas – Percival (Andre) is the quiet, sensitive type, dutifully working for his undertaker father by day, while tinkling the ivories at local club, The Church, by night, alongside his more garrulous, bling-bling friend Rooster (Big Boi), who finds himself running the place after the untimely murder of the owner and his bootlegger uncle Spates (a very brief Ving Rhames). While Rooster must contend with the unwanted attentions of trigger-happy gangster Trumpy (Terrence Howard), Percival’s relationship with new club singer Angel (Paula Patton) encourages him to spread his creative wings. The two distinctly separate story threads (neither particularly original) are exemplified by the fact that Andre and Big Boi share surprisingly little screen-time together (shades of the Speakerboxx/Love Below double album?). A cross between ‘Moulin Rouge’ and ‘The Cotton Club’, ‘Idlewild’ doesn’t seem to really know or care what kind of musical (or film) it wants to be. Are the songs being performed (the choreographed dancing in The Church) dream-sequences (a wall of chorus-singing cuckoo clocks) or are they a natural evolution of the drama (Big Boi furiously rapping during a bullet-ridden car-chase, Andre crooning over the corpse he’s working on)? While Outkast fans will care little about such trifles (and why should they?), newcomers will regard the whole thing (an overlong 121 minutes) with polite bemusement, muttering: “Well, at least it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be” as they leave the cinema. - Jamie Hannigan 'Brothers of the Head' is Fulton and Pepe's first dramatic feature, adapted (from a novella by Brian Aldiss) and executive-produced by Tony Grisoni, best-known for his collaborations with Terry Gilliam (including the aforementioned 'Don Quixote'). Keeping the style within an arms-length of their last work, 'Brothers of the Head' is structured in a pseudo-documentary style in order to tell the story of the Howe brothers, a pair of English Siamese twins plucked from obscurity by an eccentric record producer and groomed to be rock stars in the glammed-out 1970s. Put all references to the phrase “mockumentary” out of your mind, however. Within the opening minutes (portraying a Gothic, film-within-a-film about the brothers and followed by an interview with the “director” Ken Russell), it becomes clear (well, not entirely, which is why I'm warning you now) that 'Brothers Of The Head' is no 'Spinal Tap' or 'The Mighty Wind'. Which isn't to say it's bad (it isn't) or unfunny, it's just that the humour and tone (as well as the whole sex-drugs and body-horror-punk-rock thing) is mined from a much, much darker seam than you might expect, the sort of place that Terry Gilliam, David Cronenberg and David Lynch might get their collective jollies at. The reaction to 'Brothers Of The Head' at this year's Dublin Film Festival was polite (and not-so polite) bafflement, yet the film went on to win Best New British Film at the Edinburgh Film Festival. Very eye-of-the-beholder and all that. Still, the original punk soundtrack is rather good, though whether that will sway your opinion or not is anyone's guess. - Jamie Hannigan John Lynch plays Dan, a struggling farmer in a remote, unspecified region of the country, who reluctantly allows a mad scientist (Letts) use his cattle for genetic mutation experiments. His ex, Orla (Davis), is employed as the vet to oversee the development of the science subject – a pregnant cow. When she’s bitten on the hand by the infant during a routine – and excruciatingly graphic - check-up, alarm bells trigger. When the calf is born, Dan realises that the infant itself was pregnant with a killer mutant, which has escaped into the farm. With the help of runaway Travellers Jamie (Harris) and Mary (Negga), Dan tries to contain the specimen but it proves more resourceful – and lethal – than anticipated… Director O’Brien skilfully builds up the tension in the first half, balancing the sci-fi element of the plot by grounding it in traditional agricultural rituals and an archetypal Irish setting. When the shocks come, they are the more effective for this reason. However, this level of suspense is not sustained, and the plot becomes cloudier as the film progresses, to the point where the viewer isn’t even sure what the monster is or even if it’s real. This is because we never really see it until the end, a ploy that work astonishingly well in ‘Alien’ but doesn’t fit here. Lynch makes for a sympathetic lead, deploying his hollow-eyed looks to great effect, but the other characters are not as engrossing, especially Mary, who takes on a crucial role as the film progresses. ‘Isolation’ is tough to watch but I found that it stayed with me for days afterwards. I don’t know if it was the warts n’ all birthing sequences or the underlying messages about fooling around with nature that got to me, but, flawed though it is, it turned out to be quite an unsettling experience. Declan Cashin. Finding a good director with an ear for dialogue is vital, and Nicholas Hytner certainly appears to have the pedigree for the job, considering the faithful, yet cinematic version of Arthur Miller’s ‘The Crucible’ he gave us in 1996. It is, too, a boon to have Richard Griffiths reprising his lead role as Hector, the romantic, slightly lugubrious literature professor. However, rather than coalescing into a creative force, these key factors, coupled with the raft of fine supporting turns from the cast of promising young actors, visibly coagulate on the screen in front of us, thickening into a maudlin mush which is about as appetising as a school dinner and every bit as drab. The setting is a boy’s grammar school in Northern England in the 1980s; a group of history students prepare for their Oxbridge entrance examinations under the guidance of two different teachers with conflicting styles. Mr Irwin (Stephen Campbell Moore) has been drafted in at the last minute by the grade-counting headmaster to boost the boy’s test scores and thus further their chances of securing a place. He is a young man, not much older than the charges he is assigned to lecture, and is initially an object of ridicule. His unconventional teaching methods are also less than popular; rejecting the traditional values and methods of Hector, his rival in the battle for the boy’s hearts and minds, he advocates lateral thinking and independent thought as opposed to book learning. Running parallel to this, and to the various sub-plots relating to the lads private lives, is the story of Hector the pederast. This might seem a shade strong, considering his crimes, as far as we know, never go further than the occasional clandestine grope while giving one of his students a lift home on his motorbike. The boy’s suffer his canoodling as one might a naughty child, upbraiding him when he crosses the line once too often. It is tolerated like a harmlessly irritating personality trait. This seems rather dubious to me; our sympathies are ever with lovable old Hector, he is the hero of the piece, even though he is sexually abusing his students. This contradiction alone would be enough to cast an anxious cloud over proceedings, but Hytner, with his stubborn insistence on remaining faithful to the classroom-bound text, has already drenched it in stifling gloom. This really is one of the most visually anodyne films I’ve seen in some time which, aided and abetted by the story’s recourse to sentimentality and contrivance, makes for uninspiring viewing. – David O Mahony The concept is sky-high: seventeen synchronised cameras, positioned throughout the Santiago Bernabeu stadium on April 23rd 2005, capture, from various clever angles, the Real Madrid star as he plays against Villareal. There is no investigation of the man, no analysis of his existence off the pitch; the film is simply a visual record of his movements through the course of one game, filmed in real time to the accompaniment of the really rather good Scottish post-rock outfit Mogwai, whose melodious melancholy is the most memorable aspect of this indulgence. The premise is governed, no doubt, by high-minded notions of observation and how the act itself is revelatory, which I’m sure has merit in the case of some works (most of which are hanging in art galleries), but here comes across as disingenuous. This is a transparent case of the Emperor’s new clothes. My engagement with this film reads like its own mini-narrative, a micro story-arc a la Robert McKee. My frustration even had the good common sense to divide itself up into three distinct phases, mirroring the three act structure enshrined in conventional populist cinema. The spirit of open-mindedness with which I began my viewing soon gave way to a species of bafflement. This occurred around twenty minutes into the running time, by the half way mark it had become abundantly clear that the filmmakers had no intention of straying beyond the limiting confines of their self-imposed parameters. The second half would, in all probability, play out in a similar vein to the first. And so, it was with a dull resignation that I forced myself to sit through this wedge of tedium to the bitter end. I suspect fans of the beautiful game will be less than happy. – David O Mahony |
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