The Artist

For those who, like me, were yet to experience a silent film in the cinema, and were brought up on the dialogue-driven conventions of modern film, the first glimpse of The Artist, of black and white, wordless action played out on an almost perfectly square screen, is a profound one. In its departure from all we have come to blithely assume that cinema is, it is instead a fascinating depiction of what cinema can be and, thrillingly, at the same time some indication of what cinema was. Most striking perhaps is the overtly exaggerated nature of reality in silent film, as, without sound, emotion must be writ large across the faces of the protagonists and almost every action overblown and dramatic. Consequently, the film does not feel like cinema, or at least not the universal perception of what cinema is, often seeming more theatrical than anything else, the constant musical accompaniment giving the film the feel of a narrative-driven dance piece, every action on screen being choreographed perfectly to match the ever-present musical score. Perhaps the most apt comparison is to be drawn with ballet, an art form with a similarly exaggerated attitude to the portrayal of emotion, although it conveys this through symbolic physicality, whereas silent films such as The Artist are able to exploit techniques such as close-ups and can rely more heavily on facial expressions, although these films also often use physicality to depict the extremes of emotion.

The story played out on this oblong screen is that of George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) and Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo), he a towering silent movie actor characterised by a strange mix of narcissism and a desperate craving for attention, she an aspiring starlet whose chance encounter with Valentin catapults her into Hollywood glamour, fame and, ultimately, replacing the ageing leading man. Although this summary may seem to position Peppy as a fame-hungry sociopath willing to take advantage of anyone to achieve her goals, this is not really the case in practice. Rather, recognizing that it was Valentin who launched her star and used his influence to get her her first role, she is deeply indebted to him and his subsequent fall is heart-breaking not just for the audience, but also for Peppy, imbuing her rise with a bittersweet undertone. Ultimately, the film is an overblown melodramatic love story as Peppy and George seek to unite despite their different ages, sensibilities and directions, she soaring to the heights of stardom, he spiralling down into a cloud of booze, despair and anomie. Any potential of a union, however, is complicated by Valentin’s immense pride, one that refuses to admit how far he has sunk.

Reading the film as a mere love story, however, would be to ignore that, just as it tells the fall of Valentin and the rise of Peppy, it also tells the decline of silent cinema and the rise of ‘talkies’. In this context, the key scene in the film is when the self-inflated Valentin, fresh off the success of his latest silent picture, is ushered into a private room for a demonstration of the revolutionary sound recording technology that has just been developed. While the studio executives enthuse about how this is the future of cinema, Valentin, in a conversation reminiscent of Dick Emery turning down the Beatles, dismisses it, arguing that sound is not needed if he can thrill audiences with his expressions and gestures, the stock in trade of a silent movie star. This is, of course, Valentin’s hubristic pride on show once more and he pays dearly, finding the entire studio having shifted production to ‘talkies’ upon his next visit. Instead of forcing a rethink of his bold stance, his subsequent confrontation with the studio head encourages him to direct, star and even fund a new silent film entitled “Tears of Love”, an endeavour that ultimately bankrupts him, ends his rather loveless marriage, and is largely ignored by audiences now hooked on ‘talkies’. This decision is characteristic of Valentin, a man who seems unable to admit he is ever wrong, even when it would be the most sensible and beneficial course of action. His plight is beautifully displayed by a key scene in “Tears of Love”, where his character drowns in quicksand and his female companion, although reaching to pull him out, cannot. Just as the quicksand shifts and envelops his character, so Valentin stays in place as the world shifts beneath his feet, causing him to get sucked under even as Peppy, his ultimate female companion, tries desperately to save him. The promotion for “Tears of Love” also generates another clever visual metaphor, with a shot of a pedestrian trampling over a poster featuring the silent star’s classically smiling face. In this, the significance is clear, from having the world at his feet, Valentin is now at the feet of the world.

Despite being set in LA and featuring ostensibly American characters, The Artist is a French production, with a French director, Michel Hazanavicius; French stars, Dujardin and Bejo; and French money. Although this is a fact Harvey Weinstein is desperately trying to sneak under the noses of the Academy in a bid for Oscar success, the film’s Gallic origins are clear in the seam of broad inoffensive humour that is mined throughout the film and that is so rarely seen in mainstream American cinema and, perhaps appropriately, occasionally seems to belong to a bygone era. So often, when Hollywood attempts broad humour, it focuses on the scatological and the sexual, often becoming boorish and offensive as a result. In contrast there is nothing offensive about Valentin deliberately missing the door and hitting the wall when attempting to exit the stage, tomfoolery typical of The Artist’s humour and reminiscent of Inspector Clouseau’s antics in the Pink Panther series. Also French is the film’s score, by Ludovic Bource, a wonderful combination of irresistible swing melodies, brooding melodrama and epic orchestral compositions that is a vital element in the film’s admirable evocation of the silent era.

Ultimately though, the film’s success rests on the performances of its stars and, thankfully, Dujardin and Bejo excel, both turning in complex, emotional performances without saying a word and looking the picture of 1920s matinee idols. The clear lead, Dujardin’s performance has grabbed the headlines and it is remarkable, transferring effortlessly from a strutting, unshakable confidence to something close to a broken man, self-destructive and misguidedly destroying everything he holds dear. This even includes his film reels as, in a scene that could easily be comic but is actually heart-breaking, he rips them apart in a frenzy and sets them alight, laughing manically before the blaze. Without a strong Peppy to counteract Valentin’s brooding machismo though, the film would collapse, and Bejo provides this strength in abundance as, while her general interactions with the world are the epitome of smiling superficiality, in her scenes with Valentin, we can see her distress at how far he has fallen and, as he rejects her desperate attempts to help him adjust to a radically changed world, we can truly feel her pain. The leads’ efforts are also bolstered by a strong supporting cast with John Goodman as the studio head, and Penelope Lee Miller as Valentin’s erstwhile wife, performing their roles with particular aplomb. Finally, completing the cast is Uggie, a Jack Russell terrier that is Valentin’s only truly constant companion and who is a truly remarkable performing dog. Perhaps most importantly, his central role in the narrative has even resulted in some mock serious calls for a Best Supporting Actor nomination.

Overall, The Artist is an essentially brave film, attempting to use technical excellence, whole-hearted commitment and charm to overcome the widespread conception of silent film as outdated and old-fashioned. Its success in this admirable goal will rest on how many audiences are willing to give a chance to a near wordless, square screened, black and white film featuring virtually unknown leads. Giving a chance to The Artist, however, not only rewards viewers with an affectionate recreation of silent film, but also a beautifully told tale of life, love, and cinema.

Limitless

Eddie Morra (Bradley Cooper in full-on stubble, dirty denim shirt and vacant look around the eyes mode) is a loser. He hasn’t started the book he received an advance for, he’s divorced from a marriage that lasted all of five minutes, his flat’s a mess and he spends his days staring at a resolutely blank computer screen. Until, that is, he has a chance meeting with his ex-wife’s brother (and former drug dealer) Vernon Gant. Eddie fills Vernon in on his inauspicious fortunes and Vernon quickly offers him anew pill called NZT, yeah delete the former from “former drug dealer”. Eddie is initially ambivalent but after Vernon mumbles some rubbish about FDA approval and now being in “pharmaceutical consulting” the chance of a brief respite from the meaningless trudge his life has become is too much for Eddie to resist, and he swallows the pill, taken in by Vernon’s claim that it will let him use 100% of his brain power as opposed to the normal human 20%.

Against all the odds, the drug works, all of a sudden Eddie feels sharp, alert and now sees the world with a sudden clarity. He can remember every piece of information he’s ever heard and can think through situations at lightning speed, his brain is, in effect, super-powered. Gradually the effect wears off and he’s back to normal Eddie and of course, desperate for more. Soon though Vernon turns up with a bullet in his brain, Eddie steals his stash and fuelled by the pills Eddie finishes his book in four days and quickly morphs into, well into Bradley Cooper, smart, sophisticated and dressed to the nines. Even a wonder drug has its down sides however and Eddie finds himself in hock to a Russian gangster, in the employ of energy magnate Carl Van Loon (Robert De Niro), suffering blackouts and unable to keep up with his new dream life without that ever present little clear pill. His ex-girlfriend Lindy (Abbie Cornish) is struggling to equate this pharmaceutically powered hyper-male with the man she once fell in love with and there’s also the small matter of the disturbing number of Gant’s former clients that are either dead or on the way there and the strange unsettling presence of a man in a tan coat who seems to always be just around the corner.

Unsurprisingly Limitless is at its most immersive and entertaining when Eddie is on NZT, and an array of visual techniques are deployed in an attempt to make the viewer truly understand how he now operates and just why the drug is so irresistible. In these amped up sequences of hyper-accelerated reality the screen curves away like a Dali painting, we zoom from close up to close up and, most effectively, we fly into the screen, through a tunnel of film frames, a sequence that not only uncannily conveys the sped-up nature of Eddie’s NZT experience but also brings to mind Alice in Wonderland, after all Eddie is very quickly tumbling down his own rabbit hole, unable or unwilling to stop.

If Limitless’ arsenal of jump cuts, zooms and film frame tunnels do a good job of capturing the audience’s attention momentarily, it is Bradley Cooper’s cleverly balanced performance as Eddie that holds it and ensures we never lose touch with this complicated, almost oppositional character. It is no surprise that Cooper excels at what the film calls “enhanced Eddie”, in every high profile role so far he has been a magnetic screen presence, a veritable fountain of charisma. It is surprising therefore, to find that he is equally convincing off NZT, he stumbles over his words, is quite literally floored by the sight of a dead body and displays a perennial hangdog expression that suggests a life going nowhere fast. It is this almost Jekyll and Hyde dichotomy that powers the film and this is reflected in its visual style, off the drug the film is shot in muted, melancholy greys and blues while on it it’s a high powered riot of colour and speed. Abbie Cornish does well as ex-girlfriend Lindy with the limited supportive girlfriend role she is given and Robert De Niro is efficient as Van Loon, growling his way through business meetings and only really coming alive in one scene where he quite definitively puts the newly buoyed up Eddie in his place, the fire in his eyes reminding us of the compelling screen presence that made him a star in the first place.

Eddie’s character arc has something of Jekyll and Hyde about it too, just as the mild mannered Dr Jekyll was eventually powerless to stop himself turning into the evil Mr Hyde so Eddie is unable to resist NZT’s allure. In Limitless though, the distinction is not so sharp, on the drug Eddie is not exactly evil but is a somewhat insufferable ego-maniac and it also takes away some of his morality, after taking the pill Eddie is able to think situations through calmly and rationally but without any consideration for what might be the morally or ethically right thing to do. The pill, at least in part, takes away his humanity. A perfect example of this is when his ex-girlfriend Lindy, pursued by the man in the tan coat, has no option but to take the drug. She finds herself on the ice rink in Central Park and quickly locates a weapon, an ice skate, the fact that it’s still attached to a little girl’s foot is never considered. She swings the girl and cuts her attacker’s face with the skate allowing her to get away, the action is effective but gives no thought to the trauma the girl might suffer or the potential hazards it might pose to onlookers, it is a cold, almost inhuman decision.

 The development of Eddie’s character also has an interesting effect on the audience. Initially he is, as was mentioned before, a loser but a loser we can relate to, who after all hasn’t sat down to write only to have a blank screen stare back at them hours later or struggled to explain their idea to a chorus of disinterested acquaintances. We therefore can understand just why Eddie is so tempted by this miraculous little clear pill but the person he becomes subsequently distances us (say from what?), he is knowledgeable and successful, but also, and this has to be said, a bit of a prick. He is compelling to watch but difficult to like or even connect to and we end up closer to something like hate and pity than admiration and respect, off NZT he’s no better than any other desperate drug addict and on it life seems a bit too easy and there’s always the sneaking suspicion whether he actually deserves any of his new dream life. By the time Eddie contemplates suicide many viewers may be urging him to jump, partly because it would be a nicely un-Hollywood ending in what is often a very Hollywood film, but mostly because our innate sense of karmic balance demands it. Like Icarus Eddie has flown too close to the sun and now, surely, he must fall.

Boasting such a complex protagonist and questioning ideas like humanity and identity Limitless feels, for the most part, a world away from your average guns and gangsters flick. This only makes its sporadic slides into such territory all the more depressing and scenes like a fist fight in an underground car park (wasn’t it a subway station?) and, in particular, a rooftop shoot-out in a highly fortified apartment often seem like they’re from a different film altogether and feel distinctly out of place in such an an astute and perceptive film.

Despite these occasional missteps however, Limitless is a stylish, intelligent, thought provoking piece of film making and comes highly recommended.

The Lincoln Lawyer

There’s more than a trace of Phillip Marlowe, Raymond Chandler’s fast talking, chain-smoking private eye, in Mickey Haller, the silver-tongued defence attorney magnificently incarnated by Matthew McConaughey in The Lincoln Lawyer.

It’s there in the rapid-fire dialogue, it’s there in the unconventional working methods, it’s there in the fractured personal relationships and, most of all, it’s there in the tale of an effective if anti-social professional brought in to clean up the messes of LA’s high society and plumb ever murkier moral depths as a result. This striking resemblance is not exactly coincidental, the film is, after all, based on Michael Connelly’s novel of the same name and it was reading Chandler’s series of hard-boiled noirs that convinced him to realise his writing ambition.

McConaughey’s Haller is a middling defence attorney who operates out of his Lincoln town car (hence the film’s title) and unexpectedly lands a potentially life-changing case, defending spoilt rich kid Louis Roulet (Ryan Phillippe) who’s charged with the beating of a local prostitute. Roulet claims he’s being extorted but as Haller delves deeper a tangled web of lies emerges and the case starts to resemble that of Jesus Martinez, a past client of Haller’s who was put away for the murder of a prostitute, but has always maintained his innocence. Just as he starts getting close to the truth, those close to Haller are put in danger and the defence attorney is forced to confront the possibility that not only is he defending a guilty man (a habitual hazard for a defence lawyer) but that his client is also trying to ruin him. Throw in a strained relationship with prosecutor ex-wife Maggie McPherson (Marisa Tomei) and you have the recipe for a cracking neo-noir thriller that alternates effortlessly between the LA underworld and the courtroom.

Aside from the twists and turns of the film’s plot the main surprise of the film is seeing McConaughey hide his abdominals for two hours and actually act, imbuing Haller with bucketfuls of disreputable charisma and streetwise charm. Another stand-out performance is William H. Macy as Frank Levin, Haller’s investigator, his gruff, world-weary attitude contrasting well with McConaughey’s more polished tones. Macy and McConaughey have genuine chemistry and their scenes together are a real highlight. Tomei is also impressive, McPherson is the sort of strong female character she specialises in (see also The Fighter) and her performance manages to effectively balance Maggie’s power and passion. Phillippe gives a bland, vacuous performance that is initially disappointing until you realise that this is most likely deliberate, a satirical side-swipe at the anodyne, empty lives led by rich kids like Roulet.

Brad Furman’s direction keeps everything moving along at a fair clip and the film boasts some real visual highlights like the stylised effect used when the alleged beating is shown on screen, first from Roulet’s viewpoint and then from the prostitute’s. Aerial shots of Haller’s town car cruising around LA are combined with some vintage soul tunes to perfectly evoke California’s easygoing atmosphere and Haller’s laid-back demeanour.

Fittingly considering the film’s title, Haller’s car functions as much more than a minor detail, it is a dramatic device in its own right. Usually Haller is driven around by one of his former clients working off his legal fees, but when the action hots up and desperate night-time flights across the city are required, Haller takes the wheel himself and his usual relaxation evaporates. While being driven, Haller’s life is on auto-pilot, he organises his files in the back, sticking to his daily routine of court dates and meetings with his investigator. When things start to spiral however Haller must quite literally take control of his life, he is driving it forward and is no longer merely the passenger.

The Lincoln Lawyer’s LA setting, referred to in place names and reflected in the film’s style also underlines how few “Hollywood” films are set in Hollywood these days, with global settings and filming subsidies attracting producers it is refreshing to see a blockbuster shot and set within earshot of Hollywood.

With its unlikely combination of a hard-boiled noir style and reams of legal detail, The Lincoln Laywer often feels like Raymond Chandler meets The Good Wife and if, as some critics have noted, it often feels like a pilot for a hot new US series this is only because it takes back some of the ground that used to belong to cinema, focusing on dialogue and characterisation instead of flashy visuals and CGI. This is an engrossing and stylish thriller that manages to explore the murky morality of the courtroom, give Matthew McConaughey his best role in years and shoe-horn in a strong supporting cast. Needless to say, it comes highly recommended.

By Alec Hawley

Patrick Wolf @ Manchester Academy 2

The twenty-first century, technicolour troubadour rolls into town once more.

The rainbow wheel of hair colour settled on red tonight and the outfit went from a Burgundy suit to an embellished black shirt, these were, however, the only constants in a night of wilful musical experimentation, boundless enthusiasm and, somewhat surprisingly, self-deprecating humour.

Ostensibly in town to promote forthcoming (May 2011) album Lupercalia the copper-haired pixie tonight took the audience on something of a career retrospective, more recent tracks dominated but there was still room to indulge the audience with renditions of past favourites like “Accident & Emergency” and “Tristan”.

As always with Wolf an overall style is hard to discern, his music veering from romantic folk, to out and out pop, to electro to soul and everywhere in between. One thing that’s clear is Patrick’s passion for a complimentary cacophony, combining things that really shouldn’t work, like electric violins, pounding drums and a saxophone for example, and just seeing what happens. This approach creates music with an irresistible contrast at its heart, between the almost ethereal beauty of Patrick’s voice and the music that powers it along, tonight almost every song surged along on a powerful combination of booming, almost tribal drumming and dark, moody bass lines.

On stage Wolf cycled through instruments like other musicians cycle through guitars, playing everything from a Ukulele to a harp and accompanied by a similarly adventurous five-piece band who between them added clarinets, keyboards, flutes and saxophones to the mix, in the process creating music that was both unpredictable and entrancing.

All that was missing was the overt theatricality from previous Patrick Wolf performances, this was a stripped back show, focused on music and occasional drifts into nostalgia (the now defunct Club Suicide got a mention) and regional pandering. It was just a gig, no great insult for most but a little disappointing for those who have witnessed some of Wolf’s more outlandish live performances, that expertly blur the line between theatre and live music.

This minor complaint is however soon forgotten with a rousing rendition of “The Magic Position”, the perfect climax to any Patrick Wolf gig and a song that has joy and enthusiasm bursting from every orifice, it electrifies the crowd and ensures that this is one Wolf who will be howling well into the night.

By Alec Hawley

Photos courtesy of Luke Hannaford (www.luke-hannaford.co.uk)

A Brave New World

So, a blog then.

For years I have resisted this curious exercise in delusional ego boosting, always coming back to the same point of contention, why would anyone do this? What are the advantages, what can people hope to gain from wasting precious hours of their lives informing all and sundry of the latest gastronomic tastes of their pet cat or whatever other issues of ground shaking import clog up these digital notice boards.

The hype didn’t help of course, the endless column inches wasted twittering on about the “blogosphere” or “the digital revolution” or whatever other grand term bored journalists had dreamed up for aggrandising the keyboard bashing activities of bored teenagers the world over. Look back and those claims seem rather hollow, the world changing trend of “citizen journalism” has resulted in 24 hour news channels filling their time slots with shaky camphone footage and the blog’s revolutionary democracy has resulted in pages of rubbish no one pays attention to.

Working on a student paper with vague, half-formed notions of being a journalist or a writer, you are particularly exposed to this rubbish. Barely a month would go by without attending some careers talk or other where we were told “you’ll never get anywhere without a blog”. Right, so the way you’re going to show people how good a writer you are is by exposing them to every thought that you felt worthy enough to put online, rather than say the half a dozen pieces of any worth in your portfolio. When you apply for a normal job, you don’t send all seven drafts of your CV, only the decent one. In journalism however, the only way to get ahead is by letting the world see every piece of crap you’ve ever written. No, much better to let them realise you’re a blithering idiot after you’ve got the job.

And so why the hell is this blog here then, well three reasons really. Firstly I’m very, very, very, very bored at the moment and this seemed more productive than watching the raindrops drip down the window (it’s like watching paint dry but more eco), secondly it might make me feel better, well it seems to help delude everybody else and thirdly there’s always the outside chance that someone, somewhere might take an interest and this isn’t a complete waste of time.

If not, well this will be just another ignored and unloved corner of the internet, a backroad off the information superhighway.

Until the next time, goodbye