Juste la fin du monde (2016)

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Aka It’s Only the End of the World. On a peur du temps. Louis (Gaspard Ulliel) est un dramaturge qui rentre dans sa maison familiale pour la première fois depuis de nombreuses années pour les informer qu’il est en phase terminale. Il arrive à un psychodrame qu’il aurait pu créer lui-même et regarde de son côté alors que sa mère glamourpuse (Nathalie Baye) sèche ses ongles et agit comme une reine du théâtre, sa petite soeur Suzanne (Lea Seydoux) jette des propos caustiques de l’écart et son plus âgé frère Antoine (Vincent Cassel) se moque de tout le monde, sa superbe femme Catherine (Marion Cotillard) surtout. Alors que Louis parle à peine – faire des remarques de deux et trois mots à la mode de ces cartes postales qu’il a envoyées au cours des années – personne d’autre ne peut se taire. De l’ouverture hystérique aux rencontres plus calmes de la maison, tout le monde parle à Louis à son tour les tensions autour de son arrivée sont mises à nu. Ils ne sont brisés que par l’appel téléphonique qu’il prend dans lequel il admet à l’appelant qu’il n’a pas encore réussi à révéler son état. Sa belle-sœur vient de le rencontrer pour la première fois et elle semble se sentir en train de mourir. Au cours d’un repas tendu, tout le monde commence à exploser avec anxiété. Un retour à leur ancienne maison avec Antoine déclenche l’explosion finale. Tout ce que Louis transpirent, incapable d’admettre qu’il est en train de mourir. Adapté de la pièce de Jean-Luc Lagarce par l’écrivain / réalisateur Xavier Dolan, l’humeur défavorable se déroule pour raconter dans les flashbacks du passé un moment plus heureux, quand Louis était un enfant. Mais il transpire les conversations qui s’intéressent toujours à son absence et à ce que les gens ressentent à son sujet. La plus grande absence est la mention d’un père et il semble que sa mère, sa soeur et son frère projettent leur colère contre sa perte sur Louis. On ne l’explique jamais, comme un trou noir dans lequel les craintes de chacun sont déversées. Un mot gênant est le mot. Bien organisé par Dolan, cela a remporté plusieurs prix et est basé sur des performances fantastiques. Si on a une famille, on comprend tout.

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Back to the Future (1985)

 

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Are you telling me you made a time machine out of a DeLorean?! Simply great storytelling here in a knotty, brilliantly constructed time travel-adventure-comedy that has a great big throbbing heart bursting with love at its centre. When you consider it came from the wickedly funny minds of Roberts Gale and Zemeckis – remember the amazing Used Cars?! – it seems an even bigger achievement. Marty McFly (Michael J. Fox) is an average teenager in Twin Pines, a small town with a nice square boasting a clock that hasn’t worked since 1955, a cinema running soft porn, and screwed up parents with an alkie mom (Lea Thompson), a meek dad (Crispin Glover), loser sister and a thirty year old brother in a MacJob. He has a cute girlfriend, a skateboard and an eccentric friend called Doc (Christopher Lloyd) a scientist who has wasted his family’s fortune making a ‘flux capacitor’ fuelled by plutonium. Just when the nutty professor manages to prove he can travel back in time with an Eighties sports car (to die for!) the Libyans come calling and when Doc is mown down in a hail of gunfire Marty guns the engines of the DeLorean and at 88mph is catapulted back to the week the town clock stopped working in a lightning storm. He’s initially mistaken for a spaceman and finds that his housing estate is only just being constructed.  He needs to ensure that his parents get together in high school or the future will look very different as he and his siblings’ images begin to disappear from the family photo back in 1985 and Marty’s mom begins to fall for him in one of the more brilliant takes on incest in film history!  Plus he has to get back to 1985 to save Doc’s life in what is literally a race against time! … Fast, sharp-witted and brilliantly inventive, this has the kind of gleaming detail (skateboards, digital watches, Diet Pepsi, puffa jackets for 1985;  Davy Crockett, sci-fi comics, a classic diner, a Barbara Stanwyck oater at the movie theatre for 1955) that makes it almost documentary-like in resonance and relatability. The organisation of the narrative is mind-boggling when you consider the complexity of the story elements. Add in hugely likeable stars, great one-liners, and a genuine sense of fun,  this is proof that you can rewrite history and even get some very subtle revenge on the school bully!  One of the cinema’s evergreen classics, this is tonally perfect:  it just sings with joy. Brilliant.

Donnie Darko (2001)

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This came out right after 9/11 which was its misfortune. It has a rather extraordinary plane crash and it wasn’t that that made me relate to it entirely but it was a factor – one of my most vivid and disturbing dreams concerned a crash in my neighbourhood but that was in the aftermath of the Avianca crash on Long Island in 1990 and I remember afterwards reading in a column that nobody should eat bluefish for rather obvious reasons…. I digress. This begins with one of two songs by two of my favourite bands because there are two versions of the edit. So you see Jake Gyllenhaal cycling through his suburban neighbourhood either to Echo and the Bunnymen’s Killing Moon or INXS’s Never Tear Us Apart:  both forever songs, in my book. He’s a teen who’s off his meds and talks to Frank, a man dressed as a  giant rabbit in the bathroom mirror. Problem is, the rabbit can control him and as he searches for the meaning of life and his big sister (Maggie Gyllenhaal) bugs him and his little sister pursues her dancing ambition and everyone quarrels about voting for Michael Dukakis (because it’s 1988), he starts tampering with the water main flooding his school, a plane crashes into their house and he resents the motivational speaker (Patrick Swayze) who enters the students’ lives while the inspiring Graham Greene story The Destructors is being censored by the PTA.  He burns down the man’s house and the police find a stash of kiddie porn and arrest him. Donnie’s interest in time travel leads him to the former science teacher (Patience Cleveland) aka Grandma Death but his friendship with her leads the school bullies to follow him and she is run down – by Frank. Donnie shoots him.  When he returns to his house a vortex is forming and a plane is overhead and things go into reverse … and Donnie is in bed, just as he was 28 days earlier, when the story starts … Extraordinary, complex, nostalgic, blackly funny and startlingly true to teenage behaviour and perception and life in the burbs, I know there are websites dedicated to explaining this but I don’t care about that. Just watch it. And wonder how Richard Kelly could possibly make anything this good again. Stunning.

Ever After: A Cinderella Story (1998)

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The post-feminist take on Cinderella, or how you can get your man and still retain your dignity and read Utopia without feeling guilty. Susannah Grant is a sassy screenwriter and this fairytale is plonked right into history as the Queen of France (Jeanne Moreau) regales the Brothers Grimm the story of Danielle, the unfortunate girl whose father has married a right cow (Anjelica Huston) with two daughters (Megan Dodds and Melanie Lynskey) and then he goes and dies and leaves her in their terrible hands. Drew Barrymore is the girl who loses her shoe after making it to the ball, Dougray Scott is the well-read but out of control prince who doesn’t want to settle down in organised matrimony to the dismay of his parents. This is smart and witty without the pantomime that usually accompanies the story and Barrymore is just about perfect as you’d expect in a gorgeous looking outing shot on location in France.  The final twist is but well deserved! Great fun. Directed by Andy Tennant.

Inferno (2016)

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Humanity is the disease, inferno is the cure. The second sequel to The Da Vinci Code begins horribly. By which I mean it looks like one of those cheapo knockoffs you see on The Horror Channel in the wee small hours (and otherwise). A lecturer (Ben Foster) throws himself off a tower after being chased. Robert Langdon (Tom Hanks, returning for the third entry in the series) wakes up in a hospital being tended by a doctor with an enormous overbite (Felicity Jones) – frightening in itself. She tells him he’s been shot while he has terrible hallucinations with blood pouring in torrents and people with faces back to front (you can see how that might happen given the company and a presumed brain injury). He’s lost his memory and has no idea how he’s wound up in Italy. Then some woman pretending to be police murders another doctor and the pair make away from the gunfire with some difficulty given he’s hooked up to IVs all over the shop. He’s been given a painting that depicts The Inferno but his copy contains elements that don’t belong in the original. And so we set off on a chase around the Uffizi and then we’re off to Istanbul and a rather interesting ending in a cave with shades of The Man Who Knew Too Much with some visits to the World Health Organisation in between. The visual palette is awful. It looks just like a brown below-par giallo. There is nothing to indicate that this is any good but its place in the Dan Brown symbology behemoth is typically humourless (despite the presence of the hilarious Paul Ritter) and unimaginative – let’s face it, we’re in Florence with a doctor called Sienna, which would indicate a left/right brain issue and not just Langdon’s. And so it goes. The lecturer though is revealed to be a billionaire keen to solve a global issue. We can all read the legal judgments on where Mr Brown got his stories:  I’ve read Lewis Perdue’s novels so I’ve a pretty good idea. However this is tampering with Dante. I know David Koepp is the rather gifted screenwriter entrusted with the book (and I must put my cards on the table and admit I’ve not read this one) and he’s not responsible for the choices of director Ron Howard (him again) or any aesthetic decisions. Hey – it’s an action thriller with Tom Hanks (paired again with Sidse Babett Knudsen after their desert romp …) and the world overpopulation problem. If you can find those old rose-tinted spectacles (literally) you might quite enjoy some of the incendiary scenes and a somewhat tantalising villain. And some running. Ho. Hum.

The Day of the Jackal (1973)

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Frederick Forsyth was my gateway drug to faction:  novels based more or less truly on historical incident. You could trust him because he had a long history as a respected and conscientious journalist. And what a way with plot! This story of a 1960s assassination attempt on the despised French President Charles de Gaulle by disgruntled members of the exiled OAS (the militant underground) would seem to have nothing much going for it on the surface:  the outcome, for one. But the trick here is brilliant.  These patriots hire a British hitman (Edward Fox) who is completely unknown to the authorities. And as he gathers the materiel required for such an audacious once-in-a-lifetime evenement and removes all the human obstacles in his path, we realise, at the foregone but nail-biting conclusion, that we know absolutely nothing about him at all.  This is narrative sleight of hand at its best. And it is crucial to the tension that the ruthless professional Jackal remains a complete enigma, a mystery at the heart of a brilliantly staged action thriller with a great supporting cast. His nemesis proves to be a Parisian police detective (Michael Lonsdale) determined to root out this threat to democracy.  Adapted by Scottish-American screenwriter Kenneth Ross who would perform the same miracle with The Odessa File. Gripping outing by director Fred Zinnemann who meshes his predilection for documentary-style realism with all the tricks of a cinema of attractions. Flawlessly executed.

Barry Norman 08/21/1933-06/30/2017

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Movie criticism on TV died a death in 1998 when the great Barry Norman migrated to Sky following Birtian treatment at the austerity-driven BBC:  his show was screened irrregularly at variable times approaching midnight and after 26 years of nonsense he’d had enough. Frankly, so did myself and his band of dedicated viewers. This, after all, was the world’s only important movie critic on the small screen outside of Roger Ebert in the US and he was treated shambolically. The fact remains that I remember more about his thoughts on any given film released in the 80s and 90s than anything I’ve actually sat through at the cinema in the past ten weeks. Or years. Let’s call it a disintegration of film quality and a hatred for the paying moviegoer, shall we? He was fearless but charming, incisive and fair, witty and wise. Partly that was due to his sardonic disposition and his satirical gifts, but also the facts of his upbringing. His father was a producer and director and his mother an editor, so the stars didn’t faze him because he’d met most of them. He trained in shipping management and was a jobbing journalist, writing everything from gossip to cartoons, bridge columns to leaders. He had a knack for the witty phrase.  From 1972 onwards, and with a brief sabbatical (1982) he was the must-see  movie critic on TV in the BBC’s Film slot, the doyen, the reliable, the guy you trusted. His reports from the Cannes Film Festival were a particular joy. He understood the compromises behind films but he didn’t necessarily trust the business. He had spats with everyone from Robert De Niro to John Wayne but he had a crush on Michelle Pfeiffer. The downgrading of the critic is everywhere visible;  the lack of serious film appreciation on the small screen is not just an appalling vista it’s a telling sign of the general view held by programme controllers that the citizenry are moronic and lacking in discernment. The revolving presenter’s door at BBC’s Film show (on for just a handful of weeks in any given year) and its round-midnight screening time and use of EPK montages instead of actual film clips just shows what they think of us. It’s a bad time for film buffs but it’s been like that for two decades now – horrifying and sad. Barry Norman was Generation X’s critical saviour. And why not?

A Bridge Too Far (1977)

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Fool’s courage. Operation Market Garden was the code name for the failed attempt to take the bridges around Arnhem in Holland as winter drew in during 1944. The Allies led by Montgomery and Eisenhower had the idea to power through to the damaged German factories on the Ruhr – and a combination of bloody mindedness, poor planning, bad luck and bad weather made it a pretty disastrous sortie and certainly did not end WW2 as anticipated.  The great Irish writer Cornelius Ryan’s stonking blockbuster books about the era yielded this (published in 1974) and Darryl F. Zanuck’s independent production The Longest Day (1962) and his brilliance as a journalist and investigative historian have cleared up a lot of myths about certain WW2 events, this not being the least of them. Both films have an A-Z list of stars in common but Richard Attenborough was the sole helmer here and William Goldman adapted the book, published in 1974.  General Browning (Dirk Bogarde, a real life WW2 soldier) is the man poised to lead Montgomery’s plan but when a doubting Private Wicks (Paul Copley) carries out an extra recce and supplies him with photos of concealed armoured German tanks in the area where the landing is planned he has him put out on sick leave. Bad idea. With seven days’ notice the paratroopers, infantry and air service both US and UK are sent in. It’s well set up with the Dutch underground – a father and son carry out some spying for the Brits on the Nazis assembled in the area – and the putting together of a team of doubting Thomas Allies with Sean Connery in particular being given some great moments as General Urquhart – confessing to air sickness before takeoff;  landing in a forest where the lunatics from the local asylum are literally laughing at him;  and in a lovely touch and a symmetrical moment after the disaster has happened, arriving at Browning’s Dutch HQ being greeted by geese – who are clearly laughing at him too. That’s good writing. Never mind the naysayers, and there have been a lot over the years amongst the critical posse, who probably wish this had had a very different outcome (don’t we all):  this is fiercely exciting, mordantly funny and has memorable moments of sheer bloody minded bravery, not least when James Caan pilots a jeep through a Nazi regiment with the body of a young captain he has promised he wouldn’t let die. If you’re not cheering at this then you’re not breathing, mate. Maximillian Schell is terrific as the German General who applauds his opponents’ courage and hands Anthony Hopkins a bar of chocolate upon capture. After he’s given the order to raze Arnhem. Thrilling, splendid and a history lesson we still need to learn – bad project management, not heeding early warnings and then stopping the Poles from parachuting in because of fog when it was too late to rescue those poor men who were being slaughtered by the thousand. And those bloody radio crystals. Why’d they bring the wrong ones when the drop zone was eight miles from the river? Sheesh. Exciting as hell. And with a bigger body count. Fantastic, with every Seventies star you could wish for, be they given ever so little but with a special mention to little known Paul Maxwell and Erik Van’t Wout. There is an absolutely iconic score by the great John Addison:  hear it and you know exactly where you are. What a shame Ryan didn’t live long enough to see it:  he died two months after the book was published. What a gentleman and scholar he was. His contribution to our knowledge is immense. Just the thing for a rainy summer’s day when you should be watching Wimbledon but they shunted it back by a fortnight. Again.

Michael Bond 01/13/1926-06/27/2017

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I’ll never be like other people, but that’s alright, because I’m a bear. The man responsible for most of my first reading and the reason why my life has been dominated by bears of the plush variety has died. The name is Bond. Michael Bond. He wrote the Paddington books and filled my head with the very real possibility that animals were just as interesting as humans and probably a good deal more reasonable. The BBC TV animation was on constant repeat growing up so it became the go-to right before teatime every night and a few years ago there was a (thankfully) wonderful big screen interpretation. He also scripted The Herbs (remember Parsley the Lion?!) for the BBC, the place he had worked as cameraman for a number of years. He finally quit after a decade of successful book sales and created other protagonists for children and adults.  His writing drew on his wartime experiences and his memories of his father, a terribly polite man who always wore a hat. No word on the marmalade though. My own sweet Paddington is quite posh, having arrived via Harrods. He was originally designed by Shirley Clarkson who made the toy for her son Jeremy. With the recent deaths of John Noakes, Brian Cant, and now Bond, it’s looking like I’ll finally have to draw a veil over my childhood. Perhaps. That little bear who remains a hopeful optimist is the best part of all of us. Rest in peace.