*MAJOR SPOILERS, SO TAKE CARE*
CINEMA: Searching for Sugar Man (Malik Bendjelloul, 2012) - In the early '70s, Rodriguez, a singer-songwriter from Detroit, made two folksy political records that flopped upon release, before disappearing off the face of the planet. But in Apartheid-era South Africa, his music took on a life of its own, inspiring a whole generation of activists and musicians. In every white, liberal household there were said to be three records: Abbey Road, Bridge Over Troubled Water and Rodriguez's Cold Fact. The myths around this mysterious figure were legion - largely due to South Africa's heavily-regulated media - and so a group of dedicated musicologist "detectives" decided to find out what had happened to their hero - and whether he had really died after setting himself alight on stage following a disastrous comeback gig. It's a riveting tale, very well-told, with a fine selection of talking heads - whose infectious enthusiasm and eulogising of the subject provides the movie with much of its pathos, heart and humour - intelligent use of Rodriguez's songs and even some nice snippets of animation, which feed cleverly into the film's later chapters. And what begins as an eerie, ominous and apparently sad story is flipped on its head at the halfway point, becoming an unexpected, uplifting story about nice things happening to nice people. It really is a very affecting, appealing film, similar in some regards to Anvil, and only undermined by lingering city-scape shots that occasionally feel like padding and a series of false endings in which the chronology seems a little off. Some critics have questioned the film's decision to ignore a parallel story concerning the singer's links to Australia but, while you can see their point, you can also understand why it was excluded: after all, the movie is about the way Rodriguez's music about oppressed peoples resonated in South Africa. Highly recommended. (3.5)
***
This next one screened in York the other week, to mark the 50th anniversary of Jamaican independence.
*SOME SPOILERS*
CINEMA: The Harder They Come (Perry Henzell, 1972) - Jimmy Cliff is a jobless singer who moves to the city in search of a break, cuts a nifty reggae record, but can't buck the studio head's stranglehold on the industry. Then someone nicks his bike, so he stabs them repeatedly in the eyes. The movie that brought reggae to big chunks of the globe has some sensational music, a charismatic performance from Cliff and a trio of genuinely great sequences: footage of poverty accompanied by his spellbinding Many Rivers to Cross, the neat photoshoot sequence that gave the film its one truly iconic image, and a classic, vital performance of the title track (which ultimately gets played to death). But it can never get over its completely ridiculous story, the generally abysmal acting and some of the most incompetently staged scenes I've ever seen. Every so often there's a well-constructed set piece - like the gospel choir's concert - or a clever gimmick, such as the camera itself being shot off its bike; but then the film will confound you with 20 minutes of the most unintelligible nonsense you've ever seen, sequences that look like they were shot by mistake and then edited in a garage. The story could have been a hard-hitting piece about Jamaican society in the '70s, and does offer a borderline-insightful portrait of the country in its opening reels, but ultimately emerges as a series of barely-connected scenes in which characters do things for apparently no reason. Like shooting a policeman. Or the eye thing. Cliff, who can't deliver dialogue but has undeniable star power, is kind of cool, but that's the only reason to like his character, who goes from amiable drifter to gun-toting fugitive in as much time as it takes to say: "Uhfuhfuhfuhfuhfuhfuh, man." Because, yes, this movie has a supporting cast who make Bane sound like Alec Guinness. There is also some spectacularly gratuitous nudity, in the Blaxploitation tradition. If I'm about to be shot, I always make sure I'm naked first. The film is a fairly interesting period piece and worth seeing for the sounds - which also include You Can Get It If You Really Want and Limbo - but ultimately it's too tawdry, silly and incoherent to actually be any good. (2)
***
"I'm a very manly Muppet..."
The Muppets (James Bobin, 2011) – I saw this in a cinema room on a boat. It was very noisy and I missed a couple of little bits (what happens with Gonzo’s act on the show?) as they were flashing up announcements, but I really, really enjoyed it. The narrative is framed in a remarkably effective, nostalgic, heart-tugging way – even for someone who didn’t previously feel quite the same warmth for these characters that the filmmakers clearly do – Segel is great (as is his Muppet alter-ego), the new songs are uncharacteristically superb and there are a lot of laughs (Walter sprinting out of Muppet Studios screaming had me in hysterics). A few scenes drag a little and the meta elements of the script only work about half the time – it’s an easy, slightly lazy way of writing – but this is still a very fine, very entertaining piece of work, and the Muppets’ best feature so far. If proof were needed, the film takes the idea of a Beaker-led barbershop quartet performing Smells Like Teen Spirit, and makes it work. Brilliantly. (3.5)
***
A Cat in Paris (Jean-Loup Felicioli and Alain Gagnol, 2010) - A young girl, struck mute after her father's death, is aided by a jewel thief and their mutual cat after a psychotic gangster threatens her life, in this attractive hand-drawn animation. The first thing to note is that, like Kung Fu Panda 2, this is a lot better than Rango, which hilariously won the Best Animated Feature Oscar. The second is that while most animations are either aimed at five or six-year-old kids, aimed at five or six-year-old kids but with enough gags for grown-ups, or made by Pixar, this one's a little different, ideally suited for nine or 10-year-olds, with more adult themes and a touch of artiness about its slinky, distinctive, slightly skewed visuals. Let's just say it, it looks really French. I especially like the way our Lupin-esque looter spins in a circular whirl as he leaps between improvised platforms on another of his exciteable Parkour runs. The story is agreeably straightforward and entertaining, with strong comic relief from some typically incompetent criminal goons - every one of the villain's henchmen seems to be an idiot of some description - and an exciting, imaginative climax. Many Paris-set films, particularly the thrillers, conclude with their characters legging it up the Eiffel Tower, but this one does what only an animated film can (unless of course a live-action production constructed a large replica of the Notre-Dame Cathedral), by having its hero and villain duke it out at - well, I suppose I spoiled that with the parentheses. Notre-Dame Cathedral. That's where they have a fight. If there are criticisms, and there are usually a couple, it's that the characters' faces appear too simplistic (and curiously hairy) when contrasted with the sometimes spectacular settings, while the film is a little short on that intangible movie magic that its premise promises. It's good solid entertainment, though, with a streak of style. (3)
***
*SOME SPOILERS*
Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist (Peter Sollett, 2008) - I imagine some people will find this unbearable: a twee romantic comedy starring Marmite's Michael Cera, in which his burgeoning relationship with gobby Kat Dennings is built on a shared love of indie rock. It's actually not bad, benefiting from Cera's doe-eyed sentimentality and fine comic timing, and emerging as a contemporary, neon-lit spin on John Hughes's Sixteen Candles, right down to the tiresome gross-out excesses. One could argue that it'd be nice if Cera did something a bit different, but then he did that in Scott Pilgrim (unless his annoying, self-centred character was supposed to be attractive from the off, which I don't think he was), and I didn't like it. He plays high-school student Nick. Still unable to climb out of a slump after being dumped by vacuous, scheming Tris (Alexis Dziena), he insists on bombarding her with mix CDs in which the likes of Bishop Allen rub shoulders with the likes of him moaning about how he was dumped. Then he meets Tris's arch nemesis (Dennings), a lonely, smart-mouthed music fan who's been admiring him from afar - or at least his mix CDs. And across one long, sometimes interesting night, they fall in lurve. The film starts off funnily, introduces a lot of mediocre archetypes (nowadays Cera is usually equipped with at least one witty, unapologetic gay friend - here he has three), goes on too long and then somehow manages to have an abrupt ending, but there are some nice moments along the way (I'm thinking of Cera's whining CD interlude, rather than the public toilet filled with vomit) and it's lifted by the leads. Cera and Dennings are hardly Nick and Nora, but he's a very nice actor - within his apparent limitations - and they work well together. That's despite the discrepancy in their head size - when they kiss it's like a T-Rex (Dennings) getting off with someone who's inadvisedly annoyed a tribe in the rainforest (Cera). (2.5)
***
Lucky Partners (Lewis Milestone, 1940) – A penniless, smooth-talking and “lucky” artist (Ronald Colman) goes halfsies on a lottery ticket with the bookseller across the street (Ginger Rogers). The deal? If they win, she has to join him on a horizon-expanding “honeymoon”, before her wedding to bespectacled, suspicious insurance agent Jack Carson. The film starts off stagily but winningly, stumbles through some erratic farce and then winds up, as per usual, with everyone in the courtroom; though here they spend a whopping 16 minutes trying to untangle the plot threads. Lucky Partners flirts with philosophy and fantasy, but doesn’t go far enough along either of those intriguing avenues, preferring instead to keep things on the romcom straight-and-narrow. Colman, with his creamy upper-class English tones, could be utterly charming or overly smug – here he’s largely leaning towards the former. Rogers is her usual inconsistent self: nailing some gags, over-selling others and offering the odd glimpse of sentimental brilliance. Carson doesn’t have as much to do as in later, better comedies like The Male Animal or It's a Great Feeling, but he’s always good value. It’s a slightly frustrating film, as you can see how it could have been so much better, but it’s diverting enough and Milestone’s skilful direction incorporates some delicious door gags worthy of Lubitsch: including a hilarious running joke about Rogers inadvertently terrorising a hotel maid. (2.5)
***
Prizzi’s Honour (John Huston, 1985) – A “straight arrow” Mafia fixer (Jack Nicholson) falls in love with a hitwoman (Kathleen Turner), who may or may not have been ripping off the family, in this twisty-turny black comedy. Huston creates a credible, slyly subverted world of Sicilian gangsterism, from the throaty, chalk-faced Don apparently on the brink of death (William Hickey), through the outwardly officious consigliere (Lee Richardson) to Anjelica Huston’s scheming, sad-eyed Maerose, spurned first by Nicholson and then by her entire family. It’s a knowing and exaggerated universe, without degenerating into the broad parody of something like The Freshman, and helped tremendously by Alex North’s majestic score. Richard Condon’s script, adapted from his own novel, is never clever, funny or precise enough to give the film a shot at greatness - there's an endlessly repeated joke about Nicholson and Turner taking the plane that is almost insultingly useless - though its often understated sense of humour does build in effectiveness towards the close and there are a smattering of very funny lines (“If Moxy’s so fucking clever, then why’s he so fucking dead?”). The film also features that strange ‘80s cinematography with the glowing whites, as if the DP has let too much light into the shot. The performances are variable. Turner is OK and Nicholson has a couple of good scenes – his phone call near the end is nicely played – but like John Barrymore before him, he largely retired from acting to become a star, relying on an arsenal of lazy tics. In this instance, he also displays an alarming propensity for woodenness. Thank goodness then for Anjelica Huston (the director’s daughter), whose sad, wicked and romantic characterisation lifts the film onto a whole other level whenever she’s on screen. What a fantastic actress she is, and always was. Richardson, John Randolph – playing Nicholson’s sympathetic father – and Hickey are also strong in support, giving the film some much needed pathos and menace. This is hardly among Huston’s classics, of which there are many, but it’s interesting and moderately entertaining, despite its many shortcomings. The director would re-team with Anjelica for his final and finest film, an adaptation of James Joyce’s The Dead. (2.5)
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