Reviews

It seems that `Saving Private Ryan' is casting a long shadow over war films. Once again, audiences are having the dubious pleasure of experiencing the `gross-out' opening battle sequence. In the case of `Enemy at the Gates' it certainly makes the point that the director, writer and cast think that war is a Bad Thing in general. After this, it seems the film would like to raise more complex moral questions about patriotism and propaganda, and most importantly whether we can ever sublimate individual desires to one collective goal. Indeed, Joseph Fiennes' multi-faceted performance as the Political Officer, militarily inept but skilled in creating a dream to motivate the citizens of Stalingrad portrays well the anguish of a small but perceptive cog in a very large system.

By contrast, Jude Law's bluff unpolished depiction of Vassily, the proletarian `Hero of the Revolution' who is incapable of really seeing the wider picture presents a remarkably unsophisticated answer to the questions raised by the immorality of the entire Soviet hierarchy (brilliantly portrayed by Bob Hoskins as an archetypally ruthless Nikita Krushchev before he learnt some skills of political diplomacy). This results in confusion for the sort of film-goer (like me) who likes either to clearly sort out in his or her mind who are the `goodies' and the `baddies' or to treat everyone on a level playing field. The problem was compounded by the fact that the crack German marksman (Ed Harris) recruited to duel with Vassily seemed equally charismatic and his superiors appeared equally amoral. But the German aristocrat's one act of appalling cruelty jars with the other hints that are dropped about his character (for example, the fate of his son) and certainly gave the impression that the writer felt that some clear red water was needed to distinguish nice Vassily from the nasty Nazi, with Joseph Fiennes' character acting as an unhappy medium. Yet the `happy ending' seemed forced too; are we really supposed to be pleased that Vassily was decorated for services to Stalin's state and helped indirectly to preserved the web of evil that nourished people like Krushchev?

However, if we do not delve too deeply into the moral justifications for the characters, `Enemy at the Gates' can be enjoyed as a directly told, well acted series of exciting set-piece duels in the great tradition of Hector and Achilles, Aeneas and Turnus and quite possibly Tom and Jerry- for I certainly wasn't meditating on the futility of warfare by the end of the film but cheering on Vassily by the end and hoping he would take out the horrible Kraut.

A note on the vexed question of accents: although Jude Law's Sarf Lundun twang gave me a surprise (especially as I had watched him play Lord Alfred Douglas in Wilde the previous night!) I don't see why it is alvayz necessary for Germanz to talk like zis in films simply to allow to slow-witted viewers to work out which country each character comes from. And yes, Bob Hoskins' amazing variable Moscow/Walthamstow dialect was a little off-putting. No doubt DVD on the box stood for Dick Van Dyke on this occasion. But isn't it far more important to have acting of good quality per se than to worry about whether an actor can pronounce the letter `v' as `w' and vice versa (or even wice wersa)?

Overall: B+++

Jeunet and Caro, with the help of their familiar repertory of actors, create a deeply disturbing and violent world where only a few shreds of conventional social mores remain. These scraps of morality only serve to delineate more clearly the overall decline and collapse of their dystopia. We see a butcher's shop; the proprietor, played by Jean-Claude Dreyfus, is evil almost to the point of caricature. He only manages to survive by killing his lodgers when they get behind with the rent and selling them as meat. However, the situation is given an added twist when we learn that all the lodgers are aware of this; a woman who is sold a joint of mother sheds a couple of stifled tears and mutters she would have liked to have said goodbye. Similarly, the butcher is most apologetic when he accidentally chops off the foot of one of his clients who has paid his rent in full.

Into this hellish world is placed someone with his moral values relatively intact. In this case, it is a circus performer played by the marvellously rubber-faced Dominique Pinon. A less engaging actor might have made this character seem two-dimensional, as he appears to have no faults whatsoever (except a set of over-mobile lips). He enthrals the lodgers' children with his games, is immensely chivalrous to the butcher's daughter and plays the musical saw. Finally, an old edition of his act is broadcast on the flickering black-and-white television, and even the most bloodthirsty lodgers are amazed and delighted. The butcher's jealousy is roused; Good and Innocence is forced to fight Evil and Hatred.

As such, the plot is relatively straightforward. It is the sheer surrealistic imagination that Jeunet and Caro bring to their films that prevent them being unremittingly bleak or simple morality tales. They display a brilliant sense of musical timing- the whole building frequently becomes an orchestra of creaking bed-springs, croaking frogs, and crackling radios; above all this soars a love-duet of a cello and a musical saw. The faded `look' of the film complements this. With the exception of a single television remote control, nothing here would be out of place in in a exhibition of 40s and 50s design. In `The City of Lost Children' the exuberance of the design threatens to swamp the slender storyline on occasions; here, the more `grown-up' themes and less fantastic design go hand in hand.

(A word of warning about the video release- the subtitles appear to have been written be a couple of Frenchmen who really ought to have concentrated harder in their English classes at school. Apart from that, I wholeheartedly recommend this joyously grotesque film.)

It would have been very easy for this film to degenerate into a series of beautiful static images. Luckily, the unpretentious qualities of the production and the compellingly direct plot mean that a wholly believable picture is built up of an almost totally foreign society.

The only possible hint as to the time-period of the film is a bottle of gin which surreptitiously turns up in a character's pocket- even this could come from any time in the last hundred years. In this way, the picture acquires a sense of timelessness which serves to highlight perennial themes and values of the family and all societies.

The ordinary people of Tibet seemed to be a vast undifferentiated mass in Kundun, acting as a backdrop to the actions of individuals like Mao and the Dalai Lama. Here we see the neighbouring society of Nepal from the bottom-up, with political events entirely irrelevant to the story of the struggle against nature.

Go and see it if you can!

I Claudius is quite possible the supreme example of television drama. It is limited in budget and studio-bound, yet freed from the shackles of a 90-minute theatre slot it can encompass an entire dynasty of rulers and seventy years.

It is sustained by a succession of brilliant performances. Brian Blessed as Augustus combines pathos with violent outbursts that dominate the stage, Sian Phillips as Livia shows us just how charismatic a murderer can be, and over the whole series hangs the shadow of Derek Jacobi as Claudius, fighting against senility and plotting to the last, under the cover of being "Clau-Clau-Claudius the Idiot".

The series mingles comedy with horror and tragedy, and ends with a profoundly pessimistic note about humanity- understandable, given that the reign of Nero, Claudius' successor arguably proved even more bestial and savage than any of his predecessors. Write no more, Claudius, write no more. We have learned no lessons.

The last twitch of the silent film industry. Certainly Erich von Stroheim knew he wouldn't ever be able to make 20-hour epics any more, and the parallels of his character and that of "Norma Desmond" make this film doubly poignant. Even Cecil B. de Mille manages to put in a passable performance as himself (has any other director managed to do this?).

L'Arroseur Arrosé is a cry from the depths of the proletariat for social emancipation, whereby the disenfranchised masses represented in a life-justifying performance as the Boy can only find justice through subversion and revolution. Indeed, the conclusion of this epic drama can been seen as a confirmation of the inherent violence in a Hegelian dialectic of class conflict; the chilling figure of the Gardener (a possible reference to ecclesiastical authority?) viciously suppresses the rights of the Boy to self-expression. The perennial nature of this conflict is undermined when both parties rush out of the "garden"; no resolution is possible except mutual annihilation.

Or, it could be a piece of light-hearted fun, as Lumiere recognised that the novelty of seeing pictures of factory workers and trains moving was wearing thin, and needed to be backed up with plot. It'll raise a smile for a few seconds, as a memento of an age with less demanding audiences.

"Aawks-furrd". According to the introductory voice-over, this is where True Blue is set. It seems this was a token attempt not to completely alienate an American audience. For this is a story where poor misguided Oxford rowers draft in wicked Americans to help beat the apparently unstoppable Force Of Nature that is Cambridge University, which has been so unsporting as to actually win the last Boat Race. We are thus drawn into a picturesque but insane world where the motto is "six months' torture for a lifetime's pride". Unfortunately, we have to take part in some of the torture as rowers and coaches bitch at each other about training too much.

If the film could impart some of the ambition and dedication of top athletes to an ideal of winning (as does the book True Blue), then it would be exciting and disturbing. Similarly, if it could give an impression of their personal sacrifices it would remind us of how remarkable the Boat Race actually is in the sport of rowing. Unfortunately, the film falls between the two stools. It fails to show the personal lives of the squad beyond caricatures where bitterness and childish pranks are the norm, and therefore fails to create any sympathy with the characters; yet it also fails to do justice to the sport, showing us actors desperately trying to row as they bat up and down the boat, failing to make any impression on the boat speed except throwing up a lot of water at the camera. Rowing should be a sport that is smooth and beautiful, not rushed and convulsive.

It is only when the film stops using actors and hires real rowers, drops the clunky script (who could forget such lines as "That's unconscionable!"?) and shows us an actual race that the director's skill can come through. He has been spending the rest of the film showing us beautiful but pointless shots of the sun rising over the dreaming spires of Oxford. In this way, the portrayal of the Boat Race itself almost makes up for the excruciating moroseness of the Blue Boat squad that has been flung at us for the last hour.

In the end, if you want to see some nice shots of Oxford, see some well-built rowers in Lycra and hear a pseudo-"Chariots of Fire" soundtrack, you could watch this film. Or you could do a ten-thousand metre work session on a rowing machine, which would be shorter and less painful.

The Ten Commandments is one of the biggest films ever made. Whether it is one of the greatest or the best is another matter.

Certainly its scale is still breathtaking; the scenes involving the construction of Seti's city are a good example. They do not serve to advance plot or character; we know that Moses is building a city, is a dutiful son, and we have already seen plenty of Hebrews groaning away at ropes too. However, De Mille allows us to share in the terror and excitement of the city's construction as the vast basalt pillar topples into place, reminding us that his business is constructing cities of dreams on the screen.

At the same time as these magnificent set-pieces, the film has an epic structure, aiming to do justice not only to the whole of Exodus but a large degree of pseudo-historical reconstruction about Moses' life. It is here that the greatest weakness of the film lies; De Mille has enough material here to make three films. Would it be unkind to say that the mark of a film "epic" in the worst sense of the word is that it contains at least three "endings"?

Here, we have Moses' early life brought to a triumphant conclusion as he meets God and returns to Egypt- and another film about the Ten Plagues starts. This is concluded by a superb procession of Israelites down the Avenue of the Sphinxes- then again, we have another grand conclusion as the waters of the Red Sea close over the Egyptian army. "His God... is God!" says Yul Brynner, utterly defeated, and we wait for the credits to roll. No- we suddenly remember the title of the film which we saw in the opening about a thousand years ago (well, three hours) is "The Ten Commandments". Now, film no.3 starts... By the time the Israelites have wandered for forty years in the wilderness and you have sat for four hours on the sofa, you can sympathise with their plight.

In this respect, this film strains at the boundaries of its medium; it is simply too unwieldy a subject for a single sitting. It is far more effective if watched in around three or four hour-long portions. Then, you can understand not only the religious vision which underpinned the whole enterprise, but also the remarkable message of freedom and justice which runs through it.

Can art come out of evil? This film is a powerful example of the insidious effect of an artistic cloak for a totalitarian regime.

It is difficult not to feel drawn along by the film's message; the faces of the people in 1930s Nuremburg are much the same as those of 1990s London, and they share the same aspirations and fears. When the film shows us a saviour-figure descending from the clouds after the privations of the Depression, it is possible to understand how the Nazi regime became so ingrained in German life. It was not through oppression; it was because the people welcomed a new dawn.

Only a few moments in The Triumph of the Will allow us to regain a sense of the innate absurdity at the heart of all totalitarian regimes. These are due to the staging of the Nuremberg rallies, with their emphasis on a militaristic agricultural life taken to a ridiculous degree. The command rings out across a field of identically brown-shirted farmers: "Shoulder... Spades!".

In sum, this film may awaken emotions in you which seem disturbing or even repulsive, as a mass-murderer is venerated by an adoring people. Yet to understand the darker side of the human character, it is necessary to recognise it first. No other film shows the depths to which Man may sink.