Memoirs of an Invisible Man (1992)

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Cosmologies. I love ’em. One of my favourite ologies. Bored businessman Nick Halloway (Chevy Chase) gets an unexpected jolt of excitement when, nursing a hangover, he’s the only one not to evacuate an office building that becomes a disaster area after a mishap involving nuclear testing equipment. An unexpected by-product of the accident is that it turns the molecules of the building, as well as Nick and the clothes he’s wearing, transparent. When a team of shady CIA agents, led by David Jenkins (Sam Neill), notices that a human has been turned invisible, they try to take him into custody, planning to use him as the most dangerous secret intelligence agent the world has ever known. Frantic and confused Nick escapes, and quickly begins learning new information about his unusual condition, such pragmatic details as trying to sleep when he can see through his eyelids and any unprocessed food he eats will give him away. Soon, however, he discovers that the scientist in charge of the experiments (Jim Norton) has no idea how to return him to normal, and begins plotting how best to live a semblance of a normal life while steering clear of his pursuers. Nick involves a beautiful documentary filmmaker Alice Monroe (Daryl Hannah) he met the night before the accident in his dilemma, and soon she too becomes a target … That’s what I love about Marin County – you get a much better class of burglar. Adapted by Robert Collector & Dana Olsen and William Goldman from H.F. Saint’s 1987 novel, this was originally slated to be directed by Ivan Reitman but following disagreements with star Chase the baton was taken up by John Carpenter (who plays a helicopter pilot). The film falls uneasily between fantasy drama and sci-fi comedy with uneven results. Never as surefooted with the material as you’d like, Carpenter mainly has fun with the special effects which don’t kick into the story proper until more than halfway;  the serious voiceover by Chase doesn’t help things. You expect his established screen persona to assert itself in its genial sardonic and witty fashion but it never does, a disappointment if you’re anticipating the equivalent of Fletch. As a result, the tone never feels right and there are scenes that feel downright mean, never a good look, even when you can see right through Chase. The good lines are left to Michael McKean as his friend George Talbot, who makes a meal of them. Mostly of course the flaws are down to the unfocused writing, the overall misconception and a downright ill-judged score by Shirley Walker which comes over all John Williams when it should be John Addison, nailing the film’s charmlessness with precision. Leave it alone – you didn’t see, you didn’t hear – any of this

Borg Vs McEnroe (2017)

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Aka Borg McEnroe.  You can’t be serious! You can not be serious! The ball was on the line! The greatest tennis match of all time is played in July 1980 at Wimbledon Men’s Singles Final, a gladiatorial destination for the biggest figures in the sport – the cool and enigmatic 24-year old Swede Bjorn Borg who is the ranking World No. 1 and reigns supreme on Centre Court with four titles under his belt; and the angry rude 21-year old New Yorker John McEnroe. Or so the British journalists of the era would have us think. Their rivalry transforms into a friendship – but only after they’ve played the match of their lives. Flashbacks take us back to Borg’s working class upbringing as a child and teen terror (played by Borg’s own son Leo) in which he encounters the snobbery of the Swedish tennis élite and meets the man who changes his life, Lennart Berglin (Stellan Skarsgård), manipulating him into making his volcanic temper work for him rather than against him. This is a Swedish production and the drama is tilted in Borg’s favour. Middle class McEnroe is under pressure from a tricky father-son relationship as well as his own volatility. In contrast to the match itself, which is played from an hour into the running time, this is then a rather one-sided drama. While Gudnason bears an uncanny resemblance to Borg, the psychodrama that constitutes his early years is muted in favour of an adult whose morose expressions amount to sullen indifference rather than the charming mystery presumably intended. His relationship and forthcoming marriage to fellow player Mariana Simionescu (Tuva Novotny) are handled in a financial framework where his sponsors seem to dictate his every move. We are watching the way in which media and advertising encroached on the old gentlemanly sport, making Borg a very isolated and lonely figure, running from autograph hunters in his Monaco tax haven home to get a coffee only to discover he has no cash and the barista has no idea who he is and makes him clean up to pay for the drink. LaBeouf on the other hand is genuinely attractive as a young man who feels unjustly maligned by the British press and finds himself at the centre of a media storm, constantly being asked to justify his existence never mind his magical way with a racquet. So, one conceals, the other reveals, while McEnroe becomes obsessed with Borg. The psychology is fascinating but the flashback structure and the poor cutting of the match (a thrilling ordeal in reality) combine to congeal. There is a marvellous scene between McEnroe and Vitas Gerulaitis (Robert Emms) at a London nightclub on the eve of the encounter where Borg is explained to his opponent (Gerulaits was very close to Borg and lost to him at Wimbledon in 1977). This is a story about two very similar characters who are different only in their public behaviour. If you don’t know the result of the match, well, the rather unfulfilling coda is a meeting between the two men afterwards at the airport in which they have a rudimentary exchange followed by titles helpfully informing us that they became close friends. An opportunity missed and a frustrating experience. Directed by Danish documentary-maker Janus Metz Pedersen from a screenplay by Ronnie Sandahl. They say he’s an iceberg, but he’s really a volcano keeping it all in, until . . . boom!

Annie Hall (1977)

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Boy I wish real life was like this. Neurotic NYC comic and TV gag writer Alvy Singer (Woody Allen) looks back on his relationship with insecure aspiring club singer Annie Hall (Diane Keaton) and wonders where it all went wrong. He recalls how they first met playing tennis with his actor friend Rob (Tony Roberts) who moves to LA;  his first marriage to Allison (Carol Kane); and his second to Robin (Janet Margolin);  and how when Annie moved in with him he became totally paranoid and thought everything she did spoke to infidelity. When they visit Rob in LA she meets music producer Tony Lacey (Paul Simon) at a party and on the couple’s return flight to NYC they agree they should split up and she returns to LA to be with Tony … That sex was the most fun I’ve ever had without laughing. Co-written with Marshall Brickman, this collage-like film is episodic, digressive, farcical, filled with running jokes, surreal flashbacks and pieces to camera on subjects as diverse as masturbation and being Jewish and Marshall McLuhan (who shows up in a line at the movies). Alvy’s whole problem is a premise derived from the great philosopher Groucho Marx – he can’t be with any woman who would want to be with him. In this battle of the sexes territory there are only departures and very few arrivals. It’s a breezy affair that exists on a tightrope of suspended disbelief and charming performances and Keaton’s is a delight. The supporting cast is outstanding and Jonathan Munk as the flame-haired kid Alvy constantly kissing girls in class is hilarious with adult Alvy moving through these flashbacks as though he’s in Wild Strawberries. Roberts is great as Alvy’s grasping sidekick. And Allen? Well it’s quintessential Woody and at least partly autobiographical. Hall is Keaton’s birth name while he calls himself ‘Singer’:  Freud is never too far away in a film which coasts on psychoanalytic concepts. Hey, don’t knock masturbation. It’s sex with someone I love. Elsewhere there’s Shelley Duvall, Colleen Dewhurst, Christopher Walken as Annie’s brother and for real nerds that’s Sigourney Weaver meeting Alvy at the movies in the last shot. The film’s surprisingly delicate piecemeal structure is held together by Alvy’s narration and according to editor Ralph Rosenblum was put together in post-production:  when Alvy is speaking to camera he’s making up the story that isn’t shot.  Allen is one of the best writers around though and these addresses don’t just fill gaps, they create allusions and deepen the theme. It’s a landmark Seventies film.  A relationship, I think, is like a shark. You know? It has to constantly move forward or it dies. And I think what we got on our hands is a dead shark

The Tribes of Palos Verdes (2017)

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I can’t believe we moved to a town where women wear green tennis dresses on purpose. When the Mason family moves to idyllic Palos Verdes, California, heart surgeon father, Phil (Justin Kirk) loves it but stay at home mom Sandy (Jennifer Garner) feels out of place among the fake tans and tennis skirts. Teenage daughter Medina (Maika Monroe), is a loner and outcast at school, while her charismatic twin brother Jim (Cody Fern) is effortlessly popular. When Medina and Jim take up surfing, they must prove their right to share the waves with the tough Bayboys gang that monopolises their stretch of beach but when their father announces that he’s going to shack up with his lover, their realtor Ava (Alicia Silverstone) and her son Adrian (Noah Silver), the family is left reeling without him …  They don’t own the waves. Adapted by Karen Croner from Joy Nicholson’s 1997 novel, this is a movie that wears its heart on its very gorgeous sleeve. It’s jarringly true about relationships, rivalries and the difficulties of growing up in a family centred on a depressive narcissistic mother (hands up if this is familiar…) whose fragile ecosystem falls apart when her husband’s philandering finally results in an irreparable schism. Her overdependence on Jim leads to tragedy. Australian actor Fern is tremendous as the outwardly social guy: he is overwhelmed by anxiety and vulnerability, stunningly exposed when Medina falls for Adrian. Monroe and Garner are tender and pensive, unhinged and dangerous, respectively, in this revelatory film about how people affect each other and lives fall apart without anyone caring about the impact of their selfishness. Moving? Hell yeah. But the satirical undertow strengthens the narrative with its depiction of the social setting, Medina’s voiceover and the upwardly mobile tropes hinting at the inevitable outcome. Star spotters will be interested to know that surf dude Chad is played by Mel Gibson’s son Milo; while another Aussie, Thomas Cocquerel plays his mate Mildew –  anyone looking for a new Bond? Look no further than this cast! Directed by Brendan Malloy and Emmett Malloy and beautifully shot by Giles Dunning. Everybody doesn’t get to go bonkers

Quartet (1948)

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An anthology film adapted from stories by W. Somerset Maugham, with four episodes: The Facts of Life.  Mr. and Mrs. Garnet (Basil Radford and Angela Baddeley) allow their promising tennis player son, nineteen-year-old Nicky (Jack Watling) to travel by himself to Monte Carlo to compete in a tournament. Mr. Garnet gives him some advice: never gamble, never lend money, and don’t have anything to do with women. Naturally, Nicky ignores it all … Directed by Ralph Smart. The Alien Corn. On George Bland’s (Dirk Bogarde) twenty-first birthday, his aristocratic father (Raymond Lovell) asks him what he intends to do with his life. George’s answer is incomprehensible to his entire family: he wants to become a concert pianist and he goes to Paris to train for two years … Directed by Harold French. The Kite. Herbert Sunbury (George Cole) marries Betty (Susan Shaw), despite his overly involved mother’s (Hermione Baddeley) dislike for the woman. The newlyweds are happy, except for Herbert’s lifelong enthusiasm for flying kites … Directed by Arthur Crabtree. The Colonel’s Lady. A colonel’s (Cecil Parker) mousy wife (Nora Swinburne) writes a book of poetry under a pseudonym, but is unmasked by the papers and his mistress tells him that the saucy work must have been inspired by his wife’s real-life affair … Directed by Ken Annakin… The strength of this compendium of post-war stories lies in Maugham’s usual powers – themes of morality and irony unravelled in tales of poor parenting and lack of communication within marriage. There are some amusing and tragic incidents performed by a terrific cast of great British names with Maugham himself introducing each segment. Adapted by R.C. Sheriff. A classic of its kind.

Nobody Runs Forever (1968)

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Aka The High Commissioner. He’s got to back to Australia and straighten a few things out. Australian outback police detective Scobie Malone (Rod Taylor) arrives in London to arrest the Australian High Commissioner Sir James Quentin (Christopher Plummer) for the murder of his first wife and return him to Sydney, but his task does not go as planned. The lawman finds himself acting as a bodyguard when assassins start to appear with alarming regularity in this world of international men of mystery.  Quentin’s foreign-born wife Sheila (Lili Palmer) is curious about why Malone is there, while Dutch secretary Lisa Pretorius (Camilla Sparv) is protective of the man she respects above all but it’s beautiful Madame Cholon (Daliah Lavi) who entices him into her bed … Use your own passport and get out. I don’t know you. Taylor produced and did some writing on this adaptation of Jon Cleary’s novel The High Commissioner which is attributed to Wilfred Greatorex. Presumably it’s an attempt to get in on the Bond craze and the settings in London are splendid – all that neon and nightlife and a shootout at Wimbledon and we don’t mean tennis (rather, we do), albeit director Ralph Thomas hardly brings Hitchcockian technique to a scenario reminiscent of The Man Who Knew Too Much. The fish out of water situation is nicely set up – we meet Scobie in the midst of a sheep farm only for him to be swiftly deposited in London to do the political will of the Prime Minister of New South Wales, Flannery (an uncredited Leo McKern) widely believed to be based on real-life politico Sir Robert Askin.  He soon figures this is a setup of sorts and develops a quick empathy with Quentin – triggered by an assassination attempt as soon as they set foot outside the embassy’s front door. His character occupies a position oddly close to a spoof, emphasising his difference from anyone in the diplomatic scene, from his Aussie deadpanning to the beatings he takes and the jibes at London bobbies; while the number of beautiful European ladies points us in their direction even if we don’t know precisely what anyone is spying about or why anyone would try to kill Quentin, who seems to be brokering discussions at a peace conference. Quite why the final scene is left for Quentin to get there first is anyone’s guess. It’s good to see Burt Kwouk in a supporting role and it all makes for some pretty pictures and there’s a good score by Georges Delerue. Produced by Betty Box.

On Chesil Beach (2017)

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We’re not two old queers living in secret on Beaumont Street. We’re man and wife!  It’s 1962.  New graduates historian Edward Mayhew (Billy Howle) and musician Florence Ponting (Saoirse Ronan) are nervously about to consummate their marriage in a seaside hotel in Dorset.  The waiters bring a roast dinner to their suite and make fun of them, practically sniffing the virginity in the ether. As the couple prepare to disrobe and attempt foreplay they recall the moments that brought them to this situation:  his chaotic home where his headmaster father (Adrian Scarborough) has to deal with a brain injured wife (Ann Marie Duff) and two twin girls;  her engineering company owner father (Samuel West) and academic mother (Emily Watson) who are on the one hand consumed with matters of class and on the other distracted, the wife looking down on her husband rather! Edward and Florence recall their first meeting at Oxford, when he had nobody to tell about his first in History from UCL and she’s the stranger at the CND gathering who lets him know she got a First too, but in music;  when she walked seven miles from the train to meet him at the cricket club where he works; when she got his mother to paint a ‘forgery’ of her favourite painter, Uccello. The memories come rushing in as she lies on the bed issuing instructions and he fumbles and then she rejects him and rushes to the beach … Ian McEwan’s novella was never going to be simple to adapt.  Part of its bittersweet sting lies in the acute choice of words which cannot be replicated on screen.  It’s a romance lacking in passion and the flashback structure literally interrupts the non-coitus. The suggestion that Florence has endured abuse at the hands of her nasty father on a boating trip is skilfully and subtly worked into the story but still doesn’t fully explain her frigidity. (The tennis match she observes between Edward and her father clues us in a little more.)  Her disgust at the contents of a sex manual suggests that of a child not a grown woman and isn’t sufficiently elaborated considering the company she and her family keep (her mother is a friend of Iris Murdoch) and her deep emotionality performing music in a quartet is surely not that of someone who doesn’t understand desire. The book does something extraordinary in demonstrating in just a few pages how Edward’s life pans out and it is utterly devastating, elaborating directly how this single night has sabotaged his life. This melancholy adaptation works on some levels:  for one,  the production design whose attention to period detail gives us an innate sense of the era’s propriety and indicators of class and behaviour.  There are brave performances too:  Ann Marie Duff spends half of hers topless, brain damaged from being hit by a train door on the local platform;  Ronan and Howle do very well in suggesting the naivete that seemingly plagued newlyweds of the era. In essence the relationship fails because of Edward’s pride and Florence’s prejudice and it’s hard to dramatise although his taste in music (jazz, rock and roll) versus hers (strictly classical) sums it up – together however they lack erotic obsession or straightforward lust and this tentative attempt flounders for the same reason as their wedding night:  nobody just goes for it and Florence just won’t shut up. But unsatisfying as this is there’s a porno shot you won’t forget in a hurry. Adapted by McEwan and directed by Dominic Cooke.

Strokes of Genius: Federer v Nadal (2018)

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The true story lying behind the epic battle of the Wimbledon Men’s Final in 2008 between the sport’s titanic champion, grass court genius Roger Federer, and his recent rival, clay court overlord Rafa Nadal. It took place over five hours under darkening skies with lightning strikes and two rain breaks. Nadal took the first two sets, Federer the next two. Nadal says one of Federer’s passing shots in the fourth was the worst feeling he had ever experienced in tennis. The narration spins us back to their upbringing, born five years apart. You wouldn’t think it now but Federer had a vicious temper and frequently broke racquets on court. He had to learn to control his mind and co-ordinate his actions. He says he became surprised by his own creativity. You would think it was the Spaniard who had the fiery nature but he is sweetness itself. Nadal and Federer both became pro at 16 but Nadal needed to build up his strength. His vulnerability inadvertently gave him his greatest weapon – he returned late with a raised arm. It’s the greatest return since Jimmy Connors was playing. Both men come from close-knit families:  Nadal is most at home on the island of his birth, Mallorca, cooking, sailing, fishing; Federer has a happy home life in Switzerland with wife and fellow tennis player Miroslava (or Mirka), and now, their four children. Their coaches and parents and that match’s umpire stress both men’s humanity and their desire to evolve:  they make each other better. They also work hard.  While Federer seems to look effortless he trains relentlessly. One amusing shot prior to their entering the court for one French Open final shows Nadal warming up like a prize fighter while Federer looks on, hands in pockets. It’s a misleading image. One commentator suggests that it was as though the tennis gods got together and made Nadal to compete with Federer – their games are utterly opposite, yet complementary. Federer is an artist who fights;  Nadal is a fighter who also happens to be an artist.  They are two strands of tennis DNA. The one is right-handed, the other a leftie. Nadal had lost the Wimbledon final the previous 2 years;  Federer had been thrashed by him in Paris a month earlier, in three, the last set to love. Devastating.  Home movies and interviews with both men and those around them and other players makes this illuminating and the footage of the 2008 match and others compel all over again as the differences between the merely brilliant players and the champions are teased out.  Other great tennis rivalries are explored in passing:  Evert/Navratilova, Borg/McEnroe – remember 1980?!  When Borg retired McEnroe was not the same, Borg made him better. Navratilova makes the observation that those two guys are happiest in each other’s company;  Evert says she and Navratilova made each other greater players. The true greats of the sport enjoy rarefied air and are the only other people on the planet to understand what it’s like up there. We are now living in what is probably the twilight of the greatest tennis era:  this documentary shows us why.  Directed by Andrew Douglas and based on material from Jon Wertheim’s book.

Love Means Zero (2017)

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Nick loves the buildup. When things crash or don’t go the way he wants, Nick moves on.  A startling insight into famed – and infamous – tennis coach Nick Bollettieri, whose Florida tennis academy is associated mostly with Andre Agassi, who refused to have anything to do with this film. Interviewed on camera and frequently referring to himself in the third person, Bollettieri created his persona out of necessity, primarily financial, when he needed money for some of his eight wives and families and already in his forties. Intense, volatile, passionate and driven, he managed what seems to have been a mix of juvenile detention centre and luxury hotel, with his favoured students living in the nice bit, the other kids in cramped dorms and doing menial work to earn their keep. It became a kind of feeder for the tennis tour and he did everything to encourage students to attend. Some of them appear in staggeringly revealing interviews. Agassi was part of a Vegas contingent and Jim Courier was a contemporary they despised who worked harder and they eventually faced each other in the 1989 French Open where Bollettieri sided with Agassi which just made Courier determined to win. At the break for rain Bollettieri was doing a TV interview instead of helping his charge. When Courier got the victory, he split with his coach.  The hurt he experienced when Bollettieri was cheering Agassi and staying silent on his own points is clear. When Agassi won at Wimbledon in 1992, Bollettieri split with him after years of using him to gain publicity. Agassi found out in USA Today. He had asked Bollettieri never to coach his rivals but when Boris Becker approached Bollettieri he took him on and Becker faced Agassi at Wimbledon in the 1995 semi-finals and beat him. Bollettieri is remarkably unconscious of his behaviour on camera and claims to remember very little. However Kathy Horvath, a teen prodigy whom he sidelined in favour of pretty Carling Bassett (of the brewing dynasty), remains bitter to this day, while Bassett acknowledges it and suffered herself when her egomaniac father took over from Bollettieri:  she got an eating disorder, which she admits on camera.  Her father died in 1986 and her career disappeared.  She’s been yesterday’s news for a long time and I last read about her after she got pregnant by another player while still a teenager and a story ran that she was cutting coupons for groceries. She believes if she had been allowed to stick with Bollettieri she would have been a great player. Becker maintains that Bollettieri is a life coach whose chosen communication vehicle is tennis:  Nick Bollettieri never won a game of tennis in his life. Courier made his peace with the man years ago. He sold the academy to IMG sports agency and became incredibly wealthy, not that he shared it with his co-workers as they make clear yet they claim they’d do it all over given half a chance. This is a fascinating piece of work, rather like its subject and a very timely screening mid-Wimbledon with wonderful footage and some truly shocking stories of what he inflicted on kids rich and poor alike. Directed by Jason Kohn.

Nous irons tous au Paradis (1977)

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Aka Pardon mon Affaire, Too. Étienne (Jean Rochefort), Bouly (Victor Lanoux), Simon (Guy Bedos) et Daniel (Claude Brasseur) sont encore dans la quarantaine. Les affaires vont bien et il y a de nouvelles femmes qui leur causent des problèmes. Étienne imagine Marthe (Danièle Delorme) a acquis un amant. Lui et ses amis ont acheté ensemble une maison de week-end pour poursuivre des vies loin de leurs épouses et de leurs familles. Les complications habituelles de la romance, de l’adultère, de la jalousie, de l’amitié, des disputes et des rires surgissent chez les hommes d’âge moyen, accompagnées de complications typiques … Le réalisateur Yves Robert et le co-auteur Jean-Loup Dabadie revisitent la scène deux ans plus tôt, des personnages de Un éléphant ça trompe énormément jalonnent la narration d’Étienne. Simon est toujours dominé par sa mère, Bouly veut être un vrai papa mais on ne sait toujours pas si Daniel est gay. Plus ça change!