Reviews

One criticism that could easily have been levelled at The Blair Witch Project was that it seemed unrealistic that the film-makers would hold onto their cameras and keep filming rather than focus all of their attention on saving their own lives. Clearly though the extraordinary footage recorded in 9/11 proves that this would be an unfair criticism.

Is the documentary film-maker a freak of nature who has an innate desire to record and share his experiences at whatever cost, or a desperate, cynical journalist who will do what it takes to get a scoop? Whatever their motivation, we must be thankful to the two French cameraman who have provided us with this incredible document of the day that changed the world forever. What a shame though, that they handed it over to a production company who have proceeded to sensationalize it to an almost embarrassing extent.

Cliched or not, the statement "it was just like watching a film" was said by virtually everyone who saw the news on September 11th 2001. How ironic then, that this is exactly what this footage has become. The production team have gone to painstaking efforts to provide a narrative, to create drama and evoke emotion. If ever there was an occasion where this manipulation was not necessary then surely the attacks on the World Trade Center was it?

The importance and immediacy of the footage, its very status as a document of an event, is compromised by a variety of external, unnecessary factors : De Niro's narration ("Nothing could have prepared them for what was to happen next!"), obtrusive voiceovers, accompanying music, slo-mos (you never see the real time footage of the first plane hitting the tower) and camera confessions which, particularly in one case, seem scripted and forced. The more the footage is tweaked and fiddled with, the less dramatic and more manipulative it becomes.

The original plan of the French cameramen was to film a rookie fireman through training and his first few months on the job amongst New York's finest. A fairly interesting subject matter, but surely one that should have been scrapped when they eventually recorded unprecedented footage of the most important event in recent history. Yet we still follow Tony the fireman through training, we still hear his hopes and fears about his future, we still see him ingratiating himself with his new unit. Essentially we get to know Tony just so that a cliffhanger can be created - will Tony survive or won't he? We do not see any of his camera confessions until after it is confirmed that he is alive. It's not that I don't care about this (I was of course hoping that he would survive) but more that I shouldn't have had to worry about it. Why did they feel the need to purposely create drama? It really is quite perplexing.

Hence I spent as much time watching 9/11 sighing and shaking my head as I did crying and lamenting the terrible event that was passing before my eyes. I have never seen footage like it and possibly (and hopefully) never will. The terrified eyes of the people in the lobby looking up as human bodies land on the building will send a shiver down my spine until the day I die. I am thankful that I no longer live in ignorance of the true horror that people went through that day.

Warning: This review may spoil your enjoyment of the film if you have not seen it.

There is clear irony in a sign outside a gas station in ‘Monster's Ball' that reads ‘Georgia is just peachy.' The Georgia of Marc Forster's bleak and disturbing picture is anything but. It is a desperate and empty place inhabited by desperate and empty people.

The story concerns the build up to and aftermath of a state execution. We follow the life of Hank (Billy Bob Thornton), a prejudiced prison officer who is responsible for terminating the life of the condemned man. A potentially tricky but intriguing scenario arises when a tragic coincidence brings him together with Leticia (a sensational Halle Berry), the shattered widow whom the deceased criminal has left behind.

It is puzzling that the title indicates just one monster, as the film presents us with many characters who could arguably be labelled so. This is not only on account of their behaviour towards one another, which could often be described as inhuman interaction, but also because of the manner in which Forster chooses to frame them. In one memorable shot the female face is distorted by mirrors, giving it a warped, mutant-like appearance.

Indeed many scenes are permeated by weird and wonderful camera angles, which, whilst providing an aesthetic interest, often serve only to alienate the spectator. Forster, it seems, is in no rush to tell his story. Slow camera movements and long zoom-ins and zoom-outs characterise the film, or often a static frame will see people enter and exit the action. Racking focus is also employed frequently so that the viewer's gaze can be directed with the minimal amount of movement.

Whilst this is all fairly unexciting stuff, it is perhaps an attempt (and arguably a successful one) to capture the mundanity, boredom and feeling of insignificance that seem to pervade the lives of the film's characters.

Alienating, though, is a word that could not be used to describe the film's execution sequence, which arguably emulates the intensity of the equivalent scene in Lars Von Trier's ‘Dancer In The Dark'. Never, in my mind, has the point of view shot been used so poignantly as when we see the condemned man's final image of people behind a screen attending his demise. When a hood comes down to obscure his, and our, vision, only his terrified breathing provides the soundtrack to an entirely black screen until electricity is pumped through his body. It is a harrowing, disturbing, but breathtaking moment.

This is the high point (or low point, depending on your perspective) of a first act in which an atmosphere of misery successfully prevails. Almost perversely then, it is perhaps the ultimate failure of ‘Monster's Ball' that this atmosphere is not maintained. After an absolute bombardment of bleakness, the film does not quite have the guts to carry it through, and instead opts for a tone of optimism and hope that, frankly, is without any real foundation. The tone shifts with the unaccountable change in the attitude of Hank, who, from a bitter, hatred-fuelled racist suddenly becomes a sensitive humanitarian who will happily engage in a sexual relationship with a black woman. Of course, some reasons are implied, but they do not carry a lot of weight. It is a contrived and convenient transformation that only the foolish and naïve viewer will readily accept.

‘Monster's Ball' is ultimately a film of extreme contradictions. It is engaging yet alienating, daring yet contrived, bleak yet optimistic; a paradox that is perfectly demonstrated in the film's final scene.

As the two star-crossed lovers gaze at the nighttime Georgia sky, the heroic male remarks, ‘I think we're gonna be alright.' Straight out of the Hollywood textbook it seems. For all of this ideal optimism, however, ambiguity remains. We are left with an intriguing and unanswerable question: how does this woman feel that her husband's executioner is now her lover?

It is not very often that true originals are made. It is much more rare that one comes from British shores. But you categorically will not have seen a film like '24 Hour Party People' before.

Watching the film confirmed my suspicion that Michael Winterbottom is the most interesting, innovative and eclectic filmmaker working in Britain today. Here he takes on the story of Tony Wilson and Madchester (a far cry from Thomas Hardy adaptations), employing the shaky DV that served him so well in 'Wonderland'. Just as that magnificent film was an affectionate paean to London and Londoners, '24 Hour Party People' is the same to Manchester and Mancunians.

Wilson is the perfect character for the extraordinary talents of Steve Coogan; the kind of w****r-you-can't-quite-hate that British television audiences will be familiar with. Coogan plays him with just the right balance of affection and irony, as Wilson stumbles his way from disillusioned TV presenter to maker and breaker of Factory Records and pioneering rave club The Hacienda.

Indeed the film is a masterclass of both casting and acting. Some impersonations of British indie music icons are almost scary, especially Sean Harris as Joy Division's Ian Curtis. The allowance of improvisation and Winterbottom's natural handheld camera work give the film an almost documentary feel, but at the same time there is an important true (though probably massively contrived) story to be told.

There is a familiarity in '24 Hour Party People' with its romanticism and sense of nostalgia for a particular period in time and place, but what makes this film markedly different from, say 'Almost Famous' (or 'Spinal Tap' at the other extreme), are its nuances; its moments of surrealism, its Woody Allenesque camera engagement and its Godardian self-reference.

Whilst Sacha Baron Cohen is off p***ing about with willies, faeces and "punani", Britain's real creative juices are here, flowing together to produce what Tony Wilson would probably call the ultimate postmodern experience.

The synopsis of ‘You Can Count on Me' sounds like one of those daytime made-for-TV movies, but thanks to Kenneth Lonergan's wonderful script the result is a thoughtful, engaging and moving family drama.

The film opens with a car crash, which establishes the orphaning of brother and sister, Terry and Sammy. The siblings, twenty or so years on, are to be the films central characters: Sammy (Laura Linney) is a struggling single mother who has never left her parents' old house in Scotsville, somewhere in small-town America. Terry (Mark Ruffalo) is the returning prodigal son, seeking money from his estranged sister in order to finance his irresponsible, nomadic sensibilities.

When Terry decides to stay in Scotsville for longer than expected the drama starts to unfold and essentially the film is a study of the relationships between Terry, Sammy and her son Rudy (played by one of the Culkin clan, Rory). They are all very convenient for eac other in some ways, for all the happiness they bring to each other's lives there is an equal amount of vexation.

The winning turn however, comes from Matthew Broderick, an actor becoming more and more aware of his limitations and choosing great parts that lie within them. He's not really leading man material and staying away from the likes of ‘Inspector Gadget' and ‘Godzilla' would undoubtedly be a good move. His role as Sammy's adulterous lover and neurotic, overpowering but ultimately wimpish boss is impeccably observed, and makes for some truly funny moments.

There is nothing spectacular about this film. Its strengths lie in its characters and relationships, its everyday themes of belonging and disillusionment, its rich attention to detail and its steady, contemplative pace.

‘You Can Count on Me' is a great slice of small-town American life; think ‘Sling Blade' without the sinister undertones. Don't expect to be blown away, because you won't be. Do expect however, to be quietly satisfied by a wonderful piece of dramatic filmmaking.

For those of us who like Ali G (and those ignorant idiots who play the race card are just wrong to disregard him), what is it exactly that we like? For me, it is his power to fool people; his ability to present himself as someone he is not. The people he interviewed assumed him for an idiot and ultimately looked like idiots themselves through their responses. The beauty of it was that we the spectators knew he was not that idiot - we were in on the joke and what a joke it was.

Throw Ali G in a feature film however and this joke can not and does not exist. Ali G becomes the idiot that he so successfully parodies - an incredibly thick sexist, obsessed with his cock size, living with his mum and smoking a lot of dope in imaginary gangland suburbia.

To say that the original joke is lost however, is not to say that the film is not funny; it certainly has its moments. Much of the comedy relies on lewd, gross-out humour, which although far from sophisticated, is undoubtedly laugh-out-loud stuff. Mr G somehow finding himself being w***ed off by a blind street cleaner is surely the stuff of genius.

Ali's disillusionment with his identity and his culture also makes for some laughs and is surely some sort of commentary on today's youth; he is taking the p*** out of something but it is hard to pinpoint exactly what.

Still, for me, a lot of the jokes still fell flat. Making a human electricity chain in order to open a locked safe isn't funny; it's just stupid. The unfathomable plot which is fast becoming a motif of the British "slapstick" genre is also an annoyance.

I certainly wish I had waited for video, perhaps watching the film whilst enjoying some form of Ali-endorsed intoxication would help the jokes to push the right buttons.

Who am I, a meagre spectator and wannabe film critic, to suggest how this film could have been better? No one really, but given this film's promising premise, it is quite frustrating that the ultimate result is so full of avoidable flaws.

What this film could have been was an exploration of our capital's club and drug culture with the classical narrative of a detective movie. In this scenario, we happily discover, through the investigations of our central character, exactly what circumstances led to the sinister happenings at the film's outset.

Alas though, this does not happen. We start to find things out that our detective does not know, thus dispelling the sense of mystery that was (well) established earlier.

This frustration, added to the unfathomable casting and actual existence of the Tim Curry character, ultimately makes the film almost a chore to watch. How did this guy ever become an actor? His mere presence makes the skin crawl and his acting style redefines the word hammy.

Our hero also starts to make some strange and uncharacteristic decisions, like taking drugs with a woman he does not trust and immersing himself in the culture of which he knows his unfortunate brother was a victim.

Attempts at quirkiness, which are so typical of recent British fare, also fall flat and miss the tone of the film. Namely, the femme-fetale calling our hero by the name of his home town Scunthorpe throughout, and a martial arts "expert" inspired by the Streetfighter video games.

Whack on a farcical James Bond style ending and what you've got is a complete bodged job of a movie - a great shame when you consider what it might have been.