Before Sunrise and Before Sunset

Before Sunrise (1995) and Before Sunset (2004) are the first two parts in Richard Linklater’s romantic trilogy – with the third Before Midnight in cinemas right now, though I have yet to see it. They are set in the evocatively baroque alleyways of Vienna and Paris and follow the same two characters at nine year intervals, showing how they met then lost contact and reconvened. Both are moving stories and utterly convincing, largely due to the quality of the writing, far removed the damp schmaltz of most romance flicks.

The three stories concern the idiosyncratic conversations between an American man, Jesse (Ethan Hawke), and a French woman, Céline (Julie Delpy) – both in their early twenties – and their spontaneous descent into rapturous love. In the first, Before Sunrise, they are strangers on a train to Paris who simply strike up a conversation then, despite knowing very little about each other, impulsively get off together at the Austrian capital and wander through its aesthetic majesty all night, utterly beguiled by one another. They establish a quixotic agreement to spend only the single night together, forgoing all the disappointments that would inevitably arise from a haphazard long-distance relationship (he in America, she in France). It’s a saturatingly romantic decision made in the full optimistic bloom of youth, and sort of mirrors the concept set down by Villiers de l’Isle-Adam in his play ‘Axel’: two beautiful people enjoy only one blissful night in each other’s arms, before collectively drinking poison so as to preserve their perfection forever more. Before Sunrise shifts away from the Symbolist idealism of ‘Axel’ though because Linklater and Kim Krizan (the other writer) want to ground Jesse and Céline in the compromising realism of human susceptibility – they agree to waive their lovelorn pact and meet on the same platform in the Vienna train station in precisely six months. The film ends without a true resolution, without the audience knowing whether they meet again or not. It ends with the elusive hope that heralds all potential love affairs, and it’s stunning.

Before Sunrise resonates deeply as a piece of escapist cinema. The idea of spontaneity is quite an alien concept in the conservative modern world of ours, where fastidiousness is championed and organisation sought for. The notion of jumping off a train with an unknown entity without definite plans is so refreshingly dashing, an enthralling example of carpe diem, of unpredictability and excitement – something that we all crave, but are usually too anxious to seize – and the type of brashness that only the young are audacious enough to attempt.

 Nine years pass between the first film and its sequel Before Sunset, both in real and fictional time. Hawke and Delpy reprise the two central characters but with a more mature outlook on life’s mundanity. Without wishing to give too much away, Jesse and Parisienne Céline meet in ‘La Ville-Lumière’ after their failure to convene in Vienna nine years previously and smoothly reconnect with the same unerring chemistry. The structure of the sequel is altered slightly from Before Sunrise: the dialogue is one long conversation and operates in real time, with a multitude of long extended takes that follow the duo around the pretty streets and waterways of Paris. Yet the script retains the emotional depth and jarring authenticity of the first and continues to explore the psyche of both characters in such an organic and tender way that is captivating to an audience already poignantly invested in Jesse and Céline after the first instalment (and it is necessary to see the films chronologically).

Hawke and Delpy are also credited as co-writers along with Linklater and Krizan for Before Sunset. Evidently they care a great deal about their own characters and in what direction their personalities have matured; the personal attachment that the actors themselves have for Jesse and Céline lends an extra layer of plausibility and emotional weight. This rather sums up the two films: beautiful works with wads of convincing sentimentality.

The Great Gatsby

Baz Luhrmann is one of those directors whose l’art pour l’art stylistic modus operandi always splits opinion; when he took on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, one of the great American novels, the result was bound to draw some and repel others. It was never going to be as loyal to the book as the 1974 adaptation was (directed by Jack Clayton and written by Francis Ford Coppola), so the sumptuously lavish outcome should perhaps come as little surprise.

The story deviates only slightly away from that which is set down in the book; the background is altered however with the narrator Nick Carraway (Tobey Maguire) noting his experiences down initially to a psychologist, as a man suffering from the alcoholic and emotional excesses of a summer spent in Twenties New York City. He recounts the events after his 1922 move to West Egg, and specifically, his dealings with the enigmatic millionaire Jay Gatsby (Leonardo DiCaprio) and the latter’s tragic romance with Carraway’s seraphim cousin Daisy Buchanan (Carey Mulligan). DiCaprio’s performance is, as always, enticing. He furnishes the titular character with an emotional rawness that seems to course just beneath the courteous façade and yet, crucially, retains that quintessential Gatsby civility. Nonetheless he is outshone by Joel Edgerton who plays Daisy’s staunchly conservative husband Tom Buchanan in such a gloriously distasteful way, fully realising the malicious hypocrisy at the heart of the character.

One of the central tenets of the book – the emotional emptiness that entails wealth – is finely executed in the film, though without the subtlety that Fitzgerald conveyed. Cinematic ostentatiousness is the biggest issue with The Great Gatsby: the visual emblems that symbolise each character’s essence (Gatsby and that green dock light of jealousy) are ruthlessly exploited by Luhrmann, wrenched from the delicate background that Fitzgerald put them in and brusquely thrust into the foreground. By doing this the film sheds the allure of implication that gave the book such longevity – the latter is entirely based on the memories and experiences of Carraway, thus the reader is present at none of the private moments between Gatsby and Daisy. That Luhrmann fills these voids with his own imagination is controversial, but perhaps indicative of the difference between the written word and cinema.

Another aspect of the film that has drawn sharp intakes of breaths is the soundtrack. Produced by Jay-Z and featuring pop princesses like Beyonce and Lana Del Rey, indie acts The xx and even Bryan Ferry it initially felt like an over-indulgent exercise in orgiastic celebrity excess. But no: the music is far less intrusive than at first feared, and successfully lends the contemporary veneer of relevance that Luhrmann must have been aiming for when he commissioned the work. It adds an extra layer of unfamiliarity and foreignness to Gatsby’s hedonistic parties yet allows a modern audience to immediately tap into the prevailing spirit of decadence. That is perhaps a metaphor for the picture as a whole: despite The Great Gatsby’s visual opulence it stands accused of holding the audiences hand, not trusting in their intelligence to keep abreast of the complex themes. It’s a shame but then this is Baz Luhrmann, the same guy who made those other scintillatingly bloated spectacles Romeo + Juliet (1996) and Moulin Rouge (2001) – so what were we expecting?

Behind The Candelabra

America is not ready for this film. That was the opinion of the many Hollywood production companies who refused to fund Steven Soderbergh’s Behind The Candelabra, a biographical picture about the great entertainer and pianist Liberace – who was, between the Fifties and Seventies, one of the highest paid entertainers in the world. Despite the presence of Soderbergh, a reliable director with a history of box office success, and two high-profile actors, Michael Douglas and Matt Damon, those companies still considered anything to do with Liberace as ‘too gay’, a damning indictment of risk averse corporations and the regressive values they perceive Americans to hold. Based on Scott Thorson’s memoir Behind The Candelabra: My Life With Liberace, the story – eventually financed by HBO as a television film – delves into the debauched depths of the relationship between Liberace and Thorson, his lover and companion. Liberace’s dazzling flamboyance and foppishly camp aesthetic pioneered the preening on stage persona that musical performers David Bowie, Freddie Mercury and even Lady Gaga would make more famous. Suffice to say any actor trying to play Liberace had a large mink coat to fill.

And yet, Douglas fits remarkably snugly into that coat. Truly his performance as Liberace is brilliant, from the lurid voice and eccentric narcissism to the piano playing – an aspect of the character that Douglas learnt himself, without recourse to CGI or a pianist double. The hours of study that must have gone into the single scene in which he plays the piano is admirable, and telling of the caliber and dedication of the actor – particularly in light of his recent health problems. In a recent interview with Simon Mayo of BBC Radio 5, Douglas stressed that he found the role of Liberace to be inspirational after his successful battle with throat cancer. It’s stories and performances like these that usually warrant Academy Award attention, but unfortunately that will not be forthcoming because of Behind The Candelabra’s release as a television movie (rendering it ineligible for the Oscars). But Douglas’ splendour shouldn’t diminish Matt Damon’s portrayal of Thorson. Damon is an actor who continues to confound with his versatility and the commendably varied roles he chooses for himself. His Thorson is a malleable character that shares an absorbing synergy with Douglas’ Liberace – including, amusingly, a bona fide Brazilian tan line.

Although primarily a drama, Behind The Candelabra is touching and warm because of the pervading spirit of joviality; hilariously symbolised by the startlingly memorable appearance of Rob Lowe as an ersatz plastic surgeon. Still there is a litigious undertone present but because of the intelligence of Richard LaGravenese’s screenplay the humour doesn’t detract from the serious message. This was especially prescient at the movie’s premiere in Cannes, with France debating the fiery topic of gay marriage in the days leading up to the film festival.

Without being an expert on American culture or what its citizens think at a grassroots level, it seems that those production companies have lost out on an absorbingly tasteful insight into an important piece of twentieth century cultural history: A piece of which America should be ready for.

by Lewis Fraser

The Stone Roses: Made of Stone

As Shane Meadows (This Is England) himself says near the start of The Stone Roses: Made of Stone, the Mancunian quartet are his favourite band; and that is abundantly clear in the ensuing 96 minutes of rockumentary. The Stone Roses were a psychedelic rock band of the late Eighties and early Nineties who released one stunning album then lost it, becoming completely overwhelmed by incessant popularity, media pressure and creative inertia. This picture was filmed before and during the Roses’ long-awaited comeback tour of 2012 that culminated in massive shows at Heaton Park in Manchester; it’s an affectionate look at a quintessentially English band and the unique characters contained within – singer Ian Brown, guitarist John Squire, bassist Mani and volatile drummer Reni.

This film is really about that reunion and the weeks and months preceding those Heaton Park shows – including the European warm-up tour and an eventful gig in Amsterdam – and not an exploration into the bands history like Cameron Crowe’s Pearl Jam Twenty, which the trailer seemed to imply. A study into the rise and fall of the Roses before their comeback redemption (or resurrection) would have been fascinating though a narrative arc like that can feel contrived or inauthentic, something that Meadows was probably desperate to avoid. There is archive footage and stills of some very young Browns and Squires, and some of the issues they had with management and the music press but these segues are supplementary to Made of Stone’s primary purpose: showing the absorbing backstage scenes from the 2012 shows. Like Crowe’s homage to Pearl Jam the tone is fawning rather than journalistically incisive – this is a tribute rather than a documentary – with precious little time given to the reasons for their original disbandment or whether the issues have been genuinely resolved. One-on-one interviews were conspicuously absent. Though the members are notoriously resistant to that kind of exposure, it does feel like a missed opportunity to really delve into the individuals psyche. Meadows is loath to really interfere with the fragile internal mechanics of the band – when the European tour takes a turn for the worse for instance, he pulls back from his observational role as filmmaker rather than press for details. It’s understandable that he had no wish to upset the delicate harmony that precipitated the comeback by heaving up once more some of the hidden ghosts of yesteryear, but nevertheless it is somewhat frustrating.

For many people – and most of the fans featured in the film – the Roses are a nostalgia band. Interviews are conducted with ordinary middle aged people harking back rose-tintedly to the debauched world of their youth in the early 90s. That may sound like the snooty cynicism of one brought up in the glossy world of the 00s but it isn’t intended to be. Those bits are really heartfelt beautiful moments – particularly the shots of the queue lining up for the free Warrington gig (which included an ecstatic Liam Gallagher). Those were people who had been waiting decades to see their favourite band play live again, and the sentimental heft was tangible even to those far removed,  watching in a cinema one year on – also a testament to the editing and cinematographic skills of Meadows himself.

Made of Stone ultimately lives or dies on the quality of the music which, because it’s the Stone Roses, is never going to disappoint. It may be a little light in some areas – like the length, because it was only 96 minutes long (15 of which were a Heaton Park live version of song ‘Fool’s Gold’) – but it will be a winner for fans, just maybe not quite as intriguing as it could have been for the unconverted.

Star Trek Into Darkness

Star Trek Into Darkness – or Star Trek 2 in lay parlance – is the latest shiny sci-fi to come out from behind JJ Abrams horn-rimmed glasses. As a sequel to the surprisingly adept 2009 reboot it’s another delicious slice of action-thriller pie, this time with even greater scope and ambition. Indeed, critical consensus tells of a riotously vibrant picture pertaining to Abrams and cinematographer Daniel Mindel’s stylish aesthete and bountiful use of unjarring CGI – and any film that relies so resolutely on visual effects and turns out not to be a completely shallow, emotionless sinkhole is an achievement to be praised.

The audience join Kirk, Spock et al half way through a mission, with the crew trying to defuse an angry volcano without alerting the indigenous alien tribes to their presence. It’s a thoughtful beginning: by furnishing the Enterprise with an aura of continuity it feels as if the plotline of this film is only one of their numerous adventures through space – the same veneer of authenticity that the TV series used to have in bucketloads. And then Benedict Cumberbatch appears as ‘John Harrison’, the villain. Cumberbatch is the latest graduate of the Hollywood school of English bad guys and proves he is another worthy addition to that fine tradition with disdainful aplomb, sporting the same stern face and cheekbones that Alan Rickman (Die Hard, Robin Hood) and Peter Cushing (Star Wars IV) have done so memorably in the past. Although the Sherlock star steals all the scenes he’s present in, the origins of his character are so mired in esoteric Trekkie mystique that it’s difficult for those – like myself – who aren’t familiar with Star Trek canon to understand why he does the things he does.

A brief attempt is made to explain the existence of ‘Harrison’, but in truth the relentless pacing doesn’t really allow for detailed explanations. It rips along from location to location, set piece to set piece, never at anything less than a manic breakneck speed – leaving pitifully little time for the half-baked romantic sub-plots to evolve into anything more than tokenistic segues. There are other elements of the script that are baffling or frustrating too. Spock (unerringly played by Zachary Quinto again) undermines the entire thriller/suspense genre by asking his older, parallel universe self for the cheat codes to defeat ‘Harrison’ – a contrivance that seems to have been solely motivated to give Leonard Nimoy another cameo role. But then peculiar plot contortions always seem to accompany scripts co-written by Damian Lindelof (creator of those head-mangling, thought-wrenching storylines of TV series Lost), Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman (who, as a duo, penned the Transformers trilogy).

The relationship that becomes central to both the central plotline and individual character development is the one between Kirk (Chris Pine) and Spock, and it’s a feature that is regularly elaborated on particularly at the end when they realise that there is a great platonic love between them – and there are some amusing interchanges between human laid-back languidity and Vulcan conservativeness. The slick nature of their bromance is symbolic of the film as a whole: a highly polished, technically accomplished piece of Hollywood fun but not thought provoking nor edgy enough – nothing beyond the controversial gratuitous Alive Eve underwear scene – to become a real classic.

Post Tenebras Lux

‘Beyond the Light’ is at times a delicate drama film with some really poignant scenes, and elsewhere an exercise in baffling surrealism. Carlos Reygadas is considered by many to be one of the most unpredictable directors around at the moment, and Post Tenebras Lux certainly lives up to that reputation.

Reygadas himself said in an interview with the New York Times that accompanied the film’s distribution that Post Tenebras Lux is a semi auto-biographical work that blurs the boundary between events that actually occurred in his life and the fantasies he entertained during those experiences. This is an aspect that simply isn’t at all obvious to any audience member outside of Reygadas’ head – it is neither explored nor explained by any narrative or cinematographic technique, but left to stew behind a thick allegorical veil. And so what we are left with is just a groundless juxtaposing stream of sometimes provocative, sometimes comical images. Naturally this led to some confusion at its premiere in Cannes last year, and succinctly explains the booing that accompanied its premiere.

Although the concept of reality and fantasy can be deliberately hazy in an artistically progressive way, Post Tenebras Lux jumps from alternate universes and time frames, completely messing with chronology with no indication of why and what it is supposed to symbolise – or indeed if it is meant to symbolise anything at all. In many ways it is an abstract exploration of Reygadas’ creative mind, and how his own life may have affected, or been affected by, the types of movies he makes. And that’s fine. But he doesn’t seem entirely convinced that those ideas are in themselves enough to sustain the film, because many of the scenes actually play out in a conventional way – the life of a wealthy family and how they communicate with the poorer local population in pastoral Mexico. There are some very interesting aspects of social commentary here, but they are hidden beneath the layers of absurdist psychosis as if the director is intentionally trying to draw his audience’s eye away from anything that could be construed as substantial. That is a shame because a study on Mexican rural class divide would have been something far more appealing to me.

Nevertheless there are some startlingly brilliant scenes, handled with emotional care and refined subtlety. The Neil Young/piano bit is certainly one of the most memorable, saturated with melancholia, sadness and childhood naivety. It’s all the more touching because Nathalia Acevedo’s (who’s admirable performance is charged with talent and gumption) cover is so badly sung, choked and garbled on tears. There are also wads of Malickian and Sokurov-esque cinematographic flair – and I’m a complete sucker for it. A mesmerising distortion effect is employed almost throughout the film, smudging the edges of the picture and leaving the middle untainted, a technique that Reygadas attributes to Impressionist painters of the late nineteenth century.

This is such a peculiar picture, completely impossible to pin down, perching inconveniently (for the critic at least) between a multitude of different genres – which is in no way a bad thing. It’s filled with so many thematic and stylistic elements, and yet it is such a personal film for Reygadas (his own children feature heavily, and his wife is credited as the films editor) because it makes sense only to him.

To The Wonder

To The Wonder is the latest cinematographic masterpiece of Emmanuel Lebezki and director Terrence Malick, further developing the abstract style that made their Tree Of Life so memorable back in 2011. Let’s make no mistake about it, this is an art film. And it’s an art film that requires considerable patience because of the ubiquity of its style: emotions and character traits are all conveyed with movement and facial expressions only, with minimal dialogue and maximum insinuation. It does raise an interesting question as to what we, the audience, consider a movie to be or even art – if great art is supposed to challenge accepted conventions, then this surely succeeds. Although that kind of thinking is usually dismissed as pretentious twaddle, it is certainly a visionary avenue of filmmaking that Malick is heading down.

The story itself focusses on Neil (Ben Affleck) and his love triangle with Marina (Olga Kurylenko) and Jane (Rachel McAdams). Marina is the playful French sophisticate that Neil meets on his European travels, ultra feminine in profile and laissez-faire in attitude; and Jane, the all-American country gal and Neil’s former beau. He spends the film flitting between the two without ever saying much at all, playing the gruff silent male type. Tensions and passions steadily build up until everything fractures around a sensuous infidelity scene – something that Malick’s style is particularly adept at evoking – between Marina and a rough handyman/carpenter. The central theme is Neil’s personal confusion, a man trying to rediscover his identity. Does he prefer the mystical wintry charms of Paris and Mont Saint-Michel or the sun-kissed horizons of rural and suburban Texas? The loss of identity is a trait shared by Marina after her move to America, and Father Quintana the priest (Javier Bardem), but they are questions that are never truly resolved and all suffer in their own personal maelstroms of loneliness. The character of Quintana, and the whole religious element in this film, seems conspicuous by its incongruity amongst the tender folds of romantic drama that unfolds in every other scene. As good an actor as Bardem certainly is, his scenes do rather distract from the central plotline and elongate the film unnecessarily – this frustrates. Indeed there could be heard, so the story goes, titters of laughter at the film’s premier showing at Venice when Quintana first appeared.

In truth though there is something cold about To The Wonder, an emotional vacuum that isn’t present in The Tree Of Life. The same visual techniques are used, perfected even, but the trail of filmic metaphor breadcrumbs that Malick leaves for his audience to collect are simply not as vivid or as interesting as they were in the picture of 2011. For example: The Tree Of Life puts love in the context of the formation of planets, waterfalls and the universe; To The Wonder sees Olga Kurylenko moodily flouncing around in a forest tediously touched by autumn, or a generic field of long grass. There’s no contest there surely. By the final few scenes, the conjunction between emotion and nature becomes tiresome – YouTube is screaming out for some bright spark to mercilessly parody Malick’s directorial use of body language – and after almost two hours it can become a little trying. Despite the grievances Terrence Malick’s enigmatic persona and mercurial artistic talent will always draw the critical eye; and in this period of uncharacteristically Malickian productivity (two further projects are expected in the next couple of years, which compares favourably to the 20 year wait from Days of Heaven to The Thin Red Line) the question of how he will develop his style will soon be answered.