An Albert Lewin Tribute – on the anniversary of his birth – 23rd September 1894

 

A Hollywood man with unusual dedication to intellectualism and the arts, Albert Lewin wrote more than directed, but his 6 completed films as director betray a pleasingly antagonistic thorn that pushed through philosophical, painterly, literary, spiritual and archaeological themes right under the noses of strict studio types to achieve some highly original and fascinating work.

The Moon and Sixpence (1942)

An astounding debut and as perfect a piece of filmmaking as Lewin achieved alongside The Private Affairs of Bel Ami, both of which star silky voiced George Sanders, although his performance here is particularly brilliant. In both he is cast as ‘the unmitigated cad’, a character type that he would become indelibly linked with throughout his career and life and, as Strickland the stockbroker who leaves his wife and child to become a painter (based on Somerset Maugham’s loose depiction of Paul Gaugin), he certainly earns the reputation with his utterly callous disregard for all humanity – especially women. The film is bookended by text that tentatively defends the unleashing of such an unabashedly amoral character as a hero but, as would continue to be the case with Lewin protagonists, there is far more complexity at hand than the controversial behaviours and statements would simplistically bind them to. Sanders performs this complexity beautifully, with the depths of his talent revealed in the moments when Strickland finds his very Lewin form of redemption – true love is his unexpected salvation and is seen in his expression, a softening, along with regret and fear at the prospect of losing something that finally means something to him.

The Picture of Dorian Gray (1945)

A wonderful adaptation and Lewin’s darkest film, the director continued to push through scandalous events and characters in to mainstream cinema in a manner that may well have delighted Oscar Wilde. Hurd Hatfield is chilling as the icily beautiful Dorian and George Sanders appears again as the cad (Lord Wotton), but this time as one whose self-satisfaction is tolerated in a high society populated by other individuals who are not much better. Regrettably for Dorian and his victims, the young man adopts Wotton’s philosophy of pursuing self pleasure at all costs and obsession with the armour of youth against consequences for one’s actions, to the point that a painting absorbs his corruption while he engages in wicked deeds and remains visibly youthful – and therefore superficially innocent to those around him. The titular painting is revealed in all its horror in colour, and an excellent representation of Wilde’s dastardly vision of human corruption it is. This would be one of many recurring motifs, seen before in The Moon and Sixpence and after in The Private Affairs of Bel Ami. Significant also is the destruction of painted artworks, linking indelibly the power of art with life and death.

The Private Affairs of Bel Ami (1947)

Perhaps Lewin’s most flawless filmic construction, The Private Affairs of Bel Ami is a delight, even as it once again features a ‘hero’ whose actions are relentlessly condemnable. Sanders is our dreadful man again, but continues to be compelling enough to capture our attention and even dare us to pity him in the end. This is owed as much however, to the clever and captivating women around him as anything, who fall in love with him, tolerate him and hate him in his journey to assert himself with power, influence and wealth in late 19th century Paris. Angela Lansbury reappears from The Picture of Dorian Gray and is phenomenal as Clodette, a witty, beautiful and whole-hearted woman who would be Bel Ami’s salvation if he wasn’t so greedy and ambitious as to not allow himself to accept it – before it’s too late.

Pandora and the Flying Dutchman (1951)

Beautiful, mystical, sensuous madness sumptuously photographed by Jack Cardiff, Pandora and the Flying Dutchman is a beguiling artefact of movie history and what could be done with a 1950s screen goddess and a darkly romantic surreal fantasy. Although seemingly a leap from the elaborate parlour games, wicked male objects of desire, and black and white photography of Lewin’s first three films, the lavish Technicolor and mystical women that would mark the difference between them and his latter three are minor diversions from what would still clearly be an autueristic continuance. Entering 1950s Hollywood with a colourful and passionate bang there are nevertheless recognisable themes of love, fate and death uniting to guide our flawed characters to their inevitable destiny. Again a painted portrait and it’s ‘destruction’ features, and although Lewin was accused of overly wordy dialogue, his love of silent film is in effect. This we understand better when we consider his use of voiceover narration, an element employed to allow visuals to play out uninterrupted and to provide significant depth to the actors’ performances.

Saadia (1953)

Superficially, Saadia could be mistaken for standard Hollywood fare, revolving as it does around a love triangle and episodes of adventure in an exotic land, but this is perhaps more to do with the foregrounding of certain elements against the original wishes of Lewin. More interesting are the finer details, recurring themes from Lewin’s previous films, and the regrettably diminished part of a sorceress who has a disturbing obsession with the lead character. This part was cut down by the studio to foreground the love triangle, leaving the film unbalanced in terms of plot and character. As a result, the views of the two male characters hold sway when they otherwise would have provided an interestingly repressed counterpoint to the feverish and startling performance by Wanda Rotha as Fatima the sorceress, and also Rita Gam’s charismatic turn as Saadia, whose bravery and skill that is directly related to her Berber heritage is as crucial to events as the French doctor’s medicine and the Caid’s power as a respected local authority. Patience is required for some of the stilted performances and dialogue, but it is well worth seeing for another spirited and inspiring female performance, some beguilingly beautiful cinematography, and authentic celebration of traditional Moroccan culture. It also features a resolution to romantic complications that, without compromising Lewin’s sensitivity to complex human relations, is more happily worked through.

The Living Idol (1957)

Lewin’s latter films have been regrettably dismissed, even by his fans and the man himself. However, Saadia and The Living Idol are not nearly so bad – at the least, they continue to be intriguingly unusual diversions from the norm, and they are in fact quite entertaining and feature Lewin’s characteristic attention to female characters that are vulnerable to outside forces but that demonstrate great fortitude and resilience in the face of it. As in his previous films, there are two characters that debate and tussle over one realm that would appear to deal solely with the emotional and fantastical, the selfish and the willful, against the pragmatic, the scientific and the political, while meanwhile in their midst is one who brings it all together through their very being, unintentionally or deliberately. All are pawns (chess and marionettes are other consistent recurring motifs), but Juanita shares with Strickland, Dorian, Bel Ami, Pandora and Saadia the proof of natural – or supernatural? – beings that are propelled upon a journey of destiny, linked to art, symbolism and culture that is universal, if realised in seemingly unique ways. Juanita is guided to repeat the rituals of her ancestors in order to face her demons, much as she and others repeat the actions of former Lewin characters, uniting a fascinating little group of films that deserve more attention than they have been assigned.

Conclusion - Lewin’s sometimes seemingly flippant address to what is deemed most serious in life – predominantly death – was occasionally dismissed as an irony that let down the profound points he was trying to integrate in to his Hollywood films. I would argue that in misunderstanding the style, the point is inevitably misunderstood. Lewin addressed the inevitability of death, as well as the complacent value placed in life, and linked it to the power of the visual and to objects loaded with symbolism. He also depicted some of the most passionate tributes to love ever seen on screen, which in itself would appear to counter any argument that he was only dispassionately ironic. Instead, one of the many things that Lewin seemed to understand, was that appreciation of love and life in its deepest sense could perhaps only be truly understood by its momentous place next to the triviality of death.

The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004)

 

The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004)

Director: Wes Anderson

Stars: Bill Murray, Owen Wilson, Anjelica Huston, Cate Blanchett, Willem Dafoe

Short Review, no spoilers

Wry postmodern kitsch is the dressing over a fond and nostalgic tribute to awe-inspired TV childhood memory, as Wes Anderson presents a flawed American version of oceanographer Jacques Cousteau in the character of Steve Zissou. Zissou also has fans and a legacy but one that is as rusty and in danger of sinking for good as the Belafonte research vessel he and his crew use to career from one rickety adventure to another. 20 years old now and worthy of an anniversary celebration.

Full Review (spoilers)

Diversity of public opinion is an important thing however, sometimes the way in which it is divided is like a space oddity. For one who has never been a member of the Wes Anderson fan club, this critic is nevertheless a long-time lover of his 2004 film The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou starring Bill Murray. This apparently flies in the faces of those normally more dedicated to Anderson output, with The Life Aquatic tending to be the least favoured and ugly duckling of his oeuvre. Stranger still though, what alienates this critic from appreciating Anderson’s style generally appears to correspond exactly with what Anderson fans don’t like about The Life Aquatic, namely that the film is burdened with arch, mannered acting and a style of whimsical idiosyncrasy that is at best, hard to get, and at worst, annoying. Aquatic has been accused of having no heart (?!), and yet this is precisely what I think sets it apart.

Even Anderson regular Owen Wilson is gently likeable in a performance that works well with Murray’s - as Ned, the potentially long-lost son of Zissou, and half of a relationship that is strangely affecting and ultimately even heartbreaking. Likewise is Ned’s romance with Cate Blanchett’s Jane - another actor I have admittedly struggled to warm to until her turn in Todd Haynes’ beautiful film, Carol - and there are yet more deftly performed layers brought to bear by Anjelica Huston, her usual dignified and subtly complex self in a role that hovers over all of the above and guides what goes on between them. Here we can see the point of large, all-star casts performing an intricate family set-up – actors successfully playing their parts in a complex menagerie of related people – and less so a predictable roll call that looks impressive on a movie poster.

The ever-versatile Willem Dafoe is hilarious in a rare comedy role, and Bill Murray’s performance is a key one in his renaissance of the late 20^th century and in to the early 2000s. This era saw Murray as more nuanced and less obvious; here he is the fool but one situated as a post hippy Reaganite, a human hangover of a crossover period and now left for dust. But for all his outdated flaws, Zissou is himself – maybe a pot-smoking relic who can’t understand why journalist Jane won’t go to bed with him, but nevertheless endearing, even inspirational, in his fallibility.

Overall, The Life Aquatic is a comedy with touches of dry wit balanced with colours of retro and genuine sentiment, set design of creative and loving detail, and action that features some surprising adventures. Oh and a sublime soundtrack of David Bowie sung in Portuguese.

Sometimes I Think About Dying (2023)

 

Sometimes I Think About Dying (2023)

Director: Rachel Lambert

Stars: Daisy Ridley, Dave Merheje, Parvesh Cheena, Marcia DeBonis

Short Review, no spoilers

Delightfully offbeat piece with some of the perceptive irony of Todd Solondz minus his searing cynicism. Quietly powerful, inspiring and cathartic, the performances are understated and well-drawn including an excellent demonstration of versatility from Daisy Ridley. Beautifully shot and scored, it’s a bleakly heart-wrenching but also very funny portrait of average desperation and loneliness.

Full Review (spoilers)

“Mediocrity never goes away – but neither, I hope, do those who are willing
to challenge it.” – Miloš Forman*

The 1975 classic One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, directed by Milos Forman, opens with a dreamy view of the mountains followed by shots of psychiatric inpatients emerging slowly in to their average day. In one shot we see a US flag, situating it in America but could it be anywhere? Czech New Wave directors like Forman understood the potential to make statements about oppression in society with stories about ordinary people filmed in melancholically humorous ways. Fellow New Waver Ivan Passer describes making a list with Milos Forman of ways to make films that could be released under Communist party rule, one of which was to make comedies.** Sometimes I Think About Dying similarly opens with delicate images of an early morning on sleepy streets as a deer tentatively emerges from a garden and apples are seen rotting in a road drain. There’s something about the wistful imagery here and throughout, along with an ironically playful, haunting music score, that resonates with One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The latter was also made in Oregon with some scenes filmed in a similarly coastal region of Depoe Bay less than a 3-hour drive from Astoria. Differently however, Sometimes I Think About Dying is shot in a coolly muted light with the sense of off-peak seaside towns in England, while the coastal scenes in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest are grainy but more sunnily presented. Whereas in one film the environment and climate reflect our hero’s bleak state of mind, in the other it is one of many stages for optimistic rebellion led by the iconic character of R.P. McMurphy, played with furiously infectious energy by Jack Nicholson in one of his most outstanding performances.

In both films a European sensibility trickles through a distinctly American setting – in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, it is via the direction of Czech pioneer Forman. But in Sometimes I Think About Dying, the humorous banality resonates with a traditionally wry English dreariness. Monotony and petty grievances characterise the ‘events’ that take place in both institutions: a psychiatric hospital and office workplace respectively. And in both films, it takes the arrival of a newcomer to shake things up, although it’s the receptivity of the currently institutionalised residents/workers that also create actual change.

In Sometimes I Think About Dying, jolly retiree Carol – known mostly from heroine Fran’s point of view by the back of her head – is replaced by Robert, a sociable and easy-going guy who secretly confides to Fran that he’s never really had a job before. Via email (naturally, even though they are about a metre or so away from each other), Fran warns him to keep that to himself, one of several hints at office politics that lurk behind the apparently friendly unity of a workplace. Another is the phony camaraderie during Robert’s introduction to the team when we realise that the manager is young, doughnut loving Isobel in subtler but nevertheless classic David Brent character mode with probably deluded visions of themselves as a ‘chilled-out’ boss. There are two funny moments in this scene that signal how little any of them actually know each other despite Isobel’s presentation of familiarity. The team are momentarily embarrassed when colleague Garrett has to remind them that he’s a vegetarian (a ‘fact’ that he later reveals was ironically faked for his own amusement), and even more so when oddball Rich contradicts assumptions that he loves fishing based on a photograph seen of him holding a big fish. The awkwardness of these moments lay bare what it is to know people beyond basic signifiers, the status quo being disturbed by unexpected ‘honesty’. Funnily enough, there is a comparable moment in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest - the same kind of fish catching photo is noticed by McMurphy in the head psychiatrist’s office however, McMurphy provocatively questions the validity of this photo from the get-go.

Indeed, McMurphy questions everything in front of him, even as he is questionable himself. His being in the hospital in the first place is up for scrutiny throughout, however, after seeing Nurse Ratched in action for a while, he tells the evaluating shrinks in a review that Ratched ‘ain’t honest.’ They defend the long-standing, well respected matron of the ward but McMurphy sees the passive aggression behind her apparent care and professionalism. There’s no Nurse Ratched in Sometimes I Think About Dying but a less fascistic dishonesty is shared by all, preventing people knowing each other better and thus truly unifying as a result. The office workers are patronised as much as the psychiatric patients are infantilised. And the benign mask of Isobel isn’t a front for such devastating power as that held by Nurse Ratched however, the false familiarity does obscure Fran’s utter alienation in a team that she has apparently been a part of for some time.

Completely opposite to McMurphy - a rebel who immediately explodes in to the story as a charismatically disruptive outsider - Fran clearly engages in a well-established role by which she goes out of her way to sustain the most limited presence possible. Similarly to McMurphy however, people around our central character respond accordingly, with the patients in the asylum stirred by this electric new presence while Fran’s co-workers can’t see to make any effort in including the quiet young lady already in their midst. Those with impatience for shyness may struggle to understand, but the conflicting agonies in yearning to be acknowledged one moment and wishing to fade away in another is made exquisitely visual with brilliant perception and empathy by Ridley. It is both painful and endearingly funny, particularly when Fran literally squirms away from Robert’s casual friendliness, made poignant by the fact that he’s unaware of her non-status in the office so tries to get to know her like everybody else – the pure non-judgementalism from a group newbie. This is also a significant aspect of McMurphy’s arrival – not knowing the system, he treats the patients like men and not just like a bunch of ‘nuts’. (In another way, Fran is like Chief in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, in that she is virtually silent and dismissively ignored until the gregarious newcomer arrives and affords her opportunity for recognition).

It might seem strange to compare a 1970s mental institution with a modern-day office workplace, but they are after all two such places where disparate people are put together and from which weird group dynamics evolve as a result. However, the soul-scraping of Nurse Ratched’s group therapy creates a situation whereby all of the men are overbearingly aware of each other’s various gripes, whereas the phoney façade of office camaraderie in Sometimes I Think About Dying oppresses expression of any meaningful internal issues at all. This is thrown in to a light outside of Fran’s experience when she bumps in to jolly Carol sometime after her leaving the office. Sat in a coffee shop, she confesses to Fran that her husband was taken ill before they could take their much-anticipated retirement cruise leaving her alone and sad. She speaks of ‘doing the right thing’, as in working hard her whole life and waiting for her opportunity to relax and leisure with her husband, only to get there and it be too late. Thus, even one who works hard and is socially engaged in an acceptable way can end up with suffering and isolation. There is empathetic comfort to be found in one who also knows pain and loneliness though, as Fran listens quietly to a woman who no longer exists to the group she recently left - in spite of the cake and good wishes.

Of the soundtrack to Sometimes I Think About Dying, creator Dabney Morris says this:

"Early in the pre-production stage of the film, [director] Rachel Lambert approached me with an idea that we treat Astoria, OR, as though it had the same escapist allure as a Hawaiian getaway. This ultimately took us down the seemingly endless rabbit hole of the often-eye-rolled-at genres of exotica and lounge. Pulling inspiration from Martin Denny, Les Baxter, Arthur Lyman, Henry Mancini, and the dreary, dull Pacific Northwest coast, we were able to imagine a score that was at once lush and enticing, yet dark with a sort of romantic macabre." ***

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest features an equally haunting music score that combines the easy listening mind fuzz from the asylum ward record player with the plaintive, wayward and sometimes heart-wrenching notes of a musical saw. There’s also irony in the track title ‘Bus to Paradise’ when McMurphy hijacks the patient outing bus to take the men fishing, and even Hawaiian influence in another track titled ‘Aloha Los Pescadores’ which I believe translates as ‘Hello Fishermen’. The recurring theme of fishing suggests the freedom of the sea contrasted with being caught and trapped – hook, line and sinker. Carol’s big holiday and well-earned freedom is also linked to the sea, only to be robbed of it and trapped when she thought she had earned her release. The main musical theme in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest bears close resemblance to easy listening classic ‘Please Release Me’, alluding to the thin line between escapism and desperation.

Fran’s escapism stops at the sea, instead manifesting itself in fantasies about dying either on a beach or in a forest. I was reminded of a controversial character’s similarly nihilistic visions in Todd Solondz’s Happiness. No one depicts irony – and of the darkest kind – much better than Solondz, who similarly played out images of human death in the normally soothing context of nature and relaxation in Happiness. The character involved is far more provocative to audience identification however, Fran’s inward-leaning preoccupation with death will still seem uncomfortably morbid to some. The irony at play though is that it is sometimes the embrace of death that can more profoundly bring a sense of life and living in to one’s existence. To Fran, death is a potentially liberating feeling of escaping her life. Not that she wants to die necessarily, as proven by the manner in which she seizes on her opportunity to make a relationship with Robert (whether she knows what to do with it once she has it or not). But, as Chief feels for McMurphy, to Fran, dying appeals more than living life lifelessly. Even the game that she finds herself engaging in at a party involves pretend murder, but again Fran finds it to be a successful way to be imaginative and part of a social gathering. Of course, when pretending to die is the challenge, no one is more spontaneously creative than Fran, showing that even being good at imagining death can be a positive. Her fellow partygoers are surprised and delighted and Fran feels the enjoyment of human interaction.

At the end, Fran finally breaks down her personal boundaries and also the modern societal rule of confessing face to face rather than through some sort of platform. When she tells Robert that sometimes she thinks about dying, he pauses and then, non-judgementally, without saying a word, hugs her, and then we see the forest floor from Fran’s death fantasy appear around them – now Fran is feeling through the understanding from another person rather than through the release of death.

The tragedy in Sometimes I Think About Dying trickles gently throughout but ultimately ends life-affirmingly, whereas One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest ends in tragedy after a spirited challenge to the misery of accepted routine and the endurance of societally ordained micro aggressions. Both explore the importance of taking risks - McMurphy’s actions are always inspiringly informed by throwing caution to the wind while Fran’s are by cautiously containing herself entirely - until that is, she seizes her opportunity to break down her own asylum walls. The arrival of Robert is that opportunity, but Fran has to make it happen before he maybe joins the rest of her colleagues in barely acknowledging her existence. In the world of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, an inspirational leader is crucial to positive disruption, and that disruption has clearer, wider societal implications. In Sometimes I Think About Dying, there are no inspirational leaders and, in a world increasingly focused on the individual, Fran’s microcosmic problem is one she has to take on herself.

Through alternative voices, we see that oppression can be present in any society at any time, but also that there is hope where it can be broken down, even in the most subtle ways. McMurphy is appalled when he finds out that most of the inpatients are voluntary, that individuals may choose to escape in to a prison because they can’t cope with what an apparently free society demands. In Sometimes I Think About Dying, Fran retreats in to herself and in to fantasy, while others are only loosely connected by the convenience of working together. Seemingly forever alienated until Robert arrives, Fran exists on the fringes of society. It might not seem like a world-beater, but if resistance to an assigned role begins with the individual, then this is perhaps one place to start.

 

*https://www.cbsnews.com/pictures/notable-deaths-in-2018/100/

** The filmmaker said, “I believe that the Party was worried when they saw ordinary people, with all their weaknesses and strengths, depicted on screen. I think they also preferred to be attacked directly rather than to be ignored completely.” https://www.filmcomment.com/blog/still-free-interview-ivan-passer/#:~:text=Before%20the%20clampdown%2C%20Milos%20and,were%20more%20tolerant%20with%20comedies.

***https://cinemacy.com/exclusive-dabney-morris-debuts-track-from-sometimes-i-think-about-dying/

Monkey Man (2024)

 

Monkey Man (2024)

Director: Dev Patel

Stars: Dev Patel, Pitobash, Vipin Sharma, Sikandar Kher

Short Review, no spoilers

Top marks for the style and spirit of Dev Patel’s action movie directorial debut. And for none-streamers, gratitude that Netflix apparently bottled the opportunity to buy up a movie with perhaps controversial themes, allowing Jordan Peele to scoop it up and send it to its rightful place at cinemas. Exhilarating, well shot, frenetic and well performed with a neat balance of violence and humour that is overlaid with a passionately colourful palate of cultural personality that dances with cheekily fighting spirit over the dried-up husk of the relentless John Wick franchise that inspires it.

Full Review (spoilers)

Until now, Dev Patel has floated wide-eyed around the arena of endearing, harmless dorkiness. With Monkey Man however, he arrives as a different kind of physical presence, not wholly alienated from his former image, but still demanding fresh attention to an approach that now utilises his facial innocence and gangliness to more aggressive effect. In applying what can be a wonderful source of inspiration – simply making what you want to see and isn’t there – Patel is fuelled by action movie fandom that takes in the influences of Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan and the aforementioned John Wick. The besuited revenge ultraviolence of the latter is clearly in effect, along with a sweet dog homage that seems to be going down exactly the same road before cleverly twisting in a way that supports this particular narrative. However, the political underdog spirit, cultural character and wit of both Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan is more entertainingly at play.

Kid – aka Monkey Man, his underground ring fighter persona – couldn’t be more underdog throughout the entire first half of the film. True to his alter ego, he is smart and cheeky in his infiltration of the genuinely intimidating realm of powerful wealth and politics that harbour the killers of his family, but he’s lacking in ultimate impact when his carefully laid plan drastically unravels. There is witty camerawork such as the subtle pan that takes in a bottle of bleach hinting at how Kid comes up with his alias, and the highlighting of everyday social injustices in the midst of a zany car chase when the mats of street sleepers are stirred by friend Alphonso’s tuk-tuk whizzing by, likewise the afterburners of the flashed-up vehicle fuelling a street food stove. And when the purse of Queenie – brutal madam of high-class prostitutes and potty-mouthed wife of the man who killed Kid’s beloved mother - is swiped by a rotund, phoney beggar before it is passed cannily through the hands of various ordinary street folk with swift, unassuming accuracy, there is a wry and admiring authenticity to Patel’s celebration of true slumdogs.

Unafraid to include moments of humour in the midst of serious action antics, Patel demonstrates Kid’s sub-superhero capabilities when he launches himself at a window during an escape but bounces off it in decent slapstick style. Impressively however, these moments are not out of place in what is predominantly a serious revenge thriller that takes in broad strokes of social injustice. Kid embodies the image of a young but haunted man and one obsessed by childhood trauma and a relentless drive to put right the suffering of him and his. After carefully inserting himself in to the world of his targets, things go well wrong however and he ends up most wanted by the police and lucky to be alive after a tumble underwater following numerous beatings. Waking up in a secret refuge of transgender outcasts however, Kid embarks on the next part of both his physical and spiritual rebirth.

Although perhaps sadly misidentified by some critics as another clumsy box ticker, the introduction of the transgender group (hijra) actually seems entirely in keeping with both the outsider element of the story and contemporary cultural injustices. Channelled through symbols that, although ancient, can be interpreted as diversity-embracing (perhaps to the surprise of some who believe that such ideas could only have occurred yesterday), and aligning Kid with a maligned community, Kid’s recovery and rebuilding sits alongside former warrior outcasts in a temple sanctuary that celebrates Ardhanarishvara, a deity that celebrates masculine and feminine energies working simultaneously in harmony. Alpha - the leader of the community as her name suggests, but without the traditional associations the word usually ascribes solely to masculinity – assists Kid to address the trauma of witnessing his mother’s murder, kickstarting real progress before opportunity for a playful break in proceedings. Legendary tabla drummer Zakir Hussain performs a male/female arrangement during a relaxed evening, but also goes on to form an integral part of Kid’s training when the young avenger embarks on the gradual destruction of a large sack of rice.

Things are kicked in to proper action again when a member of the community is beaten trying to take down a threatening notice from the door of the temple. Kid returns to the baying arena as Monkey Man, only this time he has confronted his demons and is ready to fight like Hanuman, the monkey deity that inspires his persona and the hero of the story his mother told him as a child. It’s an excellently wrought comeback with Monkey Man putting out his first rival instantaneously to the bewilderment of both audience and the sleazy organiser, Tiger, who all expect him to bomb as usual. Opponents then continue to roll out but we have a new unexpected hero. Further embodying the spirit of the simian, Monkey Man stalks loose-armed between bouts, his ape mask pointed unreadably at his opponent. This before he bursts in to the crouches and hops of a maddeningly agile animal, even banging his chest when victorious.

It might be considered unusual for action stars - especially one filming himself – that there should be as much humility as Patel demonstrates in Monkey Man. But by not allowing the novelty of himself overshadow the film as a whole there is no sense of showboating, and Patel shows us enough to entertain without descending in to any kind of ego trip. If anything, we are perhaps left wanting more but only in the best possible way. In combining the apparently opposite tendencies of intensity and looseness, Patel draws upon the taught physicality but flowing movements of Bruce Lee without attempting to reach that legend’s technical heights. This humility comes across cinematically also when a masked Kid merely glances over his shoulder at his stricken opponent and is filmed in murky blur - stoic ambivalence as opposed to macho fist-pumping.

As well as an emphatic dress rehearsal for Kid’s big-time revenge finale, his victories help finance both the beleaguered hijra and provide a valuable tip-off for old friend, Alphonso. On to the serious business now though and Kid isn’t messing around anymore. Fighting his way to the top of a building The Raid -style, the levels of gratuitous violence increase with each floor. There are some elegant fighting skills on display – at one point atop a bar and back-lit by the warm glow of alcohol display aesthetics – but gratefully nothing flashily phony. Patel doesn’t try to super-hero himself or irritate too much with wild camera/editing antics and adds more wry references (with a twist), such as when Kid is confronted by hordes of enemies from every doorway like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. However, here the cartoon aspect is lessened when the resolution to this dilemma appears in the form of his old hijra pals turning up armed and ready to assist rather than Kid having to take them all on himself.

Moving further up the echelons of classic combat homages as he continues upstairs, we see Kid initially distracted by disorientating reflections from dangling decorations in a reference to Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon. And again in classic fashion, after the dispatching of many minions and an intimidating top henchman, it’s time to take on the corrupt bastard that has been dwelling hidden at the top all along, in this case an apparent guru and modern saviour who is actually behind all the corruption and murder that has ruined the city in question as well as the lives of forest dwellers like Kid’s family. Interestingly in this case, Kid appears to die with his adversary …? Like Bruce Lee’s hero characters, they don’t always survive the end of the movie. Sure if there is anything decent for Patel et al to add from here on in then fine, but there would be something quite fresh if Patel left it here.

Beetlejuice (1988)

 

Beetlejuice (1988)

Director: Tim Burton

Stars: Michael Keaton, Geena Davis, Alec Baldwin, Winona Ryder, Catherine O’Hara

Short Review, no spoilers

There’s never a bad time to revisit one of Tim Burton’s best films, but no less so than when a 36 year later sequel is soon to be released.

Full Review (spoilers)

Beetlejuice is one of those peculiar films that were beloved by kids of the ‘80s that were actually pretty adult – certified 15 - but still recorded off the telly at whatever time of day and repeatedly watched thereafter. Naturally the few swears and adult moments of humour were cut out but this didn’t take much away from the experience and in fact, seeing the uncut version in later life only slightly upscaled what was already a blast of a movie.

Who knew Beetlejuice was Batman?! Micheal Keaton shows his capability to be darkly suave in one moment and a filthy nut in another - the ‘Let’s get nuts!’ moment in Batman is a hint – kudos to Tim Burton for recognising it as a director. In Beetlejuice, Keaton is unrecognisably costumed and made-up but unleashed to be at his most comedically manic. As the self-proclaimed ‘bio-exorcist’, he epitomises an excellent villain in a darkly cartoonish celebration of the dead and not quite – he’s rude, naughty, and chaotically rebellious. As fine foils to this however, is cult favourite Geena Davis and also Alec Baldwin - himself nearly unrecognisable by being fair-haired and a serious goof - as a loving couple who are desperate to remove some hideous yuppies from their house. They’re dead by the way, and stuck in some kind of weird purgatory, which is why it becomes an issue.

Another star is an original Burton muse in Winona Ryder, a dark-haired, doe-eyed sweetheart that nevertheless infiltrated Hollywood by way of a rare moment in the ’90s that was less interested in generically and sunnily attractive heroes and heroines. As Lydia, she’s charitably called a little girl by Davis’ character Barbara, even as she drifts gothically around in funereal dress and comments dryly on matters of death and her sense of self as ‘strange and unusual’. Performances are excellent all round, including Catherine O’Hara as Lydia’s stepmother, an ‘artist’ who is overwrought and megalomaniacal even as the commonly held opinion of her ‘work’ is that it is appalling. Husband Charles is in some ways more complex – seemingly desperate for a quieter life, it’s not long however before his own greed for wealth and validation emerges and he spies the opportunities for real estate development in the small town they land themselves in.

The fate of childless couple Adam and Barbara Maitland is really rather sad. We find them very much in love and embarking on a vacation to perfect their house in the country, however they die abruptly in a car accident and have to deal with all that apparently comes with it when you don’t simply go to heaven or hell. Nevertheless, Burton keeps the tempo up and never allows us to dwell too long on the downsides of mortality before charging on to the variously humourous misadventures of their new undead life. With playfully grim jokes and Burton at his creative best in terms of effects, we travel with the Maitlands on their journey through the complications of being ghosts who are sometimes seen but mostly ignored, even as the Deetz family move in and trample their dirty city feet all over the quaint life the couple were building before they were rudely interrupted.

Where the sequel will go narratively is yet to be seen however, any tale of dastardly gentrification by morons couldn’t be more relevant in today’s era as any other. As Charles Deetz declares to his former boss: ‘These people don't know the value of their property, I can buy the whole town‘. A joyful poke at these moneyed types is the wonderful scene when the Maitlands attempt a big scare by possessing the Deetz’s dinner party guests, accompanied by calypso music and a terrifying shrimp starter. Very funny but the cynicism of the invited guests ends up renewing the Deetz’s determination to scrape nothing but a full investment from their purchase. The true ghouls are revealed when the Deetz family and an idiotic hanger-on Otho rabble up the stairs to the attic and speculate on how the Maitlands’ deaths can be capitalised – any possibility of human empathy can just be hung out the window as far as they are concerned…

What none of them count on though is Beetlejuice’s ruthlessness when invited to the fold. They all end up attempting to rely on him to get what they want done however, this rancid, wild card pest turns out to be very difficult to contain. When the Deetz’s manage to get Charles’ ex-boss to the house, Otho performs a séance/exorcism which ends up nearly exterminating the Maitlands, so even Lydia herself turns to Beetlejuice in desperation. Henceforth, more delirious chaos and an almost marriage between the young girl and the fiendish, troublemaking ghost - a deal made to keep him permanently rampaging in the land of the living. After the yuppies are dispensed with circus-style, including Delia caged by her own hideous sculpture and Otho sent screaming in white-suited horror, the Maitlands recover and manage to intervene, rescuing Lydia and sending Beetlejuice to the bureaucratic purgatorial hell that is the living dead waiting room.

A settled compromise has come about by the end with the two families learning to live together in an arrangement that seems to suit everybody. Delia’s sculpting now has inspiration from their recent ordeal, Charles has something to read, and Lydia’s favourite kind of people – dead - take a heartfelt interest in her. In an original version of the script online, Charles reassures Lydia that in a couple of years, the town will be filled with people like them. Fortunately, their supernatural experience teaches them that they don’t have to destroy what came before them to suit their purposes, and can live harmoniously if they restrain their investment developing impulses. Sadly there will be many towns and cities the world over who will wish they had Beetlejuice to call on.

M3ghan (2022)

 

M3ghan (2022)

Director: Gerard Johnstone

Stars: Allison Williams, Violet McGraw, Amie Donald, Jenna Davis (voice)

Short Review, no spoilers

When M3ghan first came out at cinemas, it seemed to be sold as a straight-up horror movie in the sense of both another entry in the creepy doll genre and also the latest model from production company Blumhouse. However, it is actually a refreshingly dark and clever satire made with the kind of smart restraint that will frustrate anyone demanding only ‘how many killins’ and ’ooh how it made me jump’ thrills when the real chill factor is how insidiously and seductively the promotion of technology seems to promise the solution to all of our age-old human life problems.

Full Review (spoilers)

The opening scene of M3gan was perhaps the most horrifying for me when I first saw it at my local movie house. Thinking it was yet another bloody tacky advert after the millions I’d already watched, I was soothed and amused when I realised it was a satirical start to what is a very clever and critical film. Beginning with a cheesy and hilarious commercial much like Westworld - another robot-gone-wrong movie – here we are introduced to the competitive arena of toy-dom. There on in the threat of AI and its hurried, irresponsible use to make profit is again explored but here with the added complexities of modern era child-raising.

Thus, from the beginning, we are met with bolt after bolt of sometimes very darkly funny stabs at our increasing dependence on technology and how it seems to have overridden common sense in various scenarios. Even the tragic car accident that kills eight-year-old Cady’s parents at the beginning culminates after a conversation that reveals them to be typically modern, middle class and non-real world existing parents, believing that absence of an electronic device will cause their child to go postal, and reliance on a car that looks like a four-wheel drive will be enough to get them through a dangerous mountain drive through a blizzard.

Even more clueless is Cady’s aunt Gemma, who inherits her niece after the deaths of Cady’s parents. The film frankly depicts Gemma’s ineptitude as a guardian - despite being a toy designer, she barely knows how to communicate with a little girl, even her own niece. In another swipe at the inadequacy of technology as replacement for everything, Gemma has to wait for a bedtime story to download on her smartphone because she doesn’t have any books, but the film also refreshingly brings us an authentic depiction of a woman who is not at all maternal (yes, they do exist). What Gemma and Cady do end up bonding over is Cady’s own drawing efforts and interest in Gemma’s old college project, a robot called Bruce. This in turn inspires Gemma to abandon a less interesting deadline and nail down a prototype she is more passionate about. She works solidly on the life-size doll-robot to produce M3gan, in what she hopes to be a kill-two-birds-with-one-stone effort at driving through an ambitious project at work and also appease her bereaved niece.

M3gan is an instant hit, both with Cady and with Gemma’s boss. Even a sticky moment when Cady breaks down in tears during a display for the board is overcome in style. M3gan turns it around when she successfully consoles Cady and rescues the presentation, proving her/it-self to be even more valuable than anyone expected and sealing the bond even more with Cady.

If a toy being used as replacement for parenting was dubious enough, M3gan goes above and beyond, showing that she is able to do more than any parent. Herein lies a pertinent quandary facing all those responsible for children right now, as the temptation to allow them to learn everything they need to know via the internet can be all too easily given in to. M3gan is inextricably linked to the seductive but impersonal possibilities of the internet – she needs to know everything, always be one step ahead, and, like an algorithm, be constantly adapting to changing human interests. She proves to be hard to keep up with, performing one function one moment before switching to an entirely different one the next in a way that would be deemed psychopathic in a human.

But so goes what would seem to be a perfect arrangement, with Gemma unburdened of caring for her ward, and Cady seemingly flourishing with a new best friend. Linda Hamilton’s observations on Arnold Schwarzenegger’s android in Terminator 2 are called to mind, when she sees her son fall in love with the most reliable father figure a child could have. M3gan takes this role about 50 times further, providing Cady with a companion and tutor as well as a protector. The latter is where things get dangerous, as any harm visited upon Cady creates a major grudge in her new pal’s hard drive. The neighbour’s dog bites Cady so that’s the end of him. But when a hate-filled bully boy gets heavy with Cady at some dastardly open day for an alternative school, things get human-murderous.

Like all of the characters in the film, the over-indulged, violent misogynist in the making that is the bully boy is very well written. If you have been unfortunate enough to have encountered such a type, it will ring some very resonant bells. Left partnered and alone with the boy in the woods, Cady is soon exposed to his rough treatment until M3gan shows up and his attention is diverted. Turning his less than delicate touch on to the doll and lifting up her skirts, naturally he gets way more than he bargained for. The filmmakers don’t mind indulging us in some neatly dark retaliation, as M3gan displays some of her most deliciously deranged moves. From ominous stillness in the cold, misty light of the forest, she takes to all fours and gallops like a rabid animal, a similarly grotesque distortion of a sweet little girl in shades of Regan in The Exorcist.

As with Yul Brynner’s monstrous robot in Westworld, the film creators of M3gan understand the disturbing physicality of a fantasy object made odd by sophisticated physicality that is still visibly unnatural. M3gan is cute in theory but, as with the robots in Westworld, it’s the eyes that first give it away. As expertly as she has been designed, the creators still haven’t got past the dead glass eyes that even the most beloved dolls always have. In true uncanny fashion, M3gan is repeatedly viewed as acceptable and harmless from a distance but unnerving close up. And even when M3gan isn’t behaving badly but doing what she’s supposed to, she can be hilariously weird in a way that only children and fans of modern music will accept, as demonstrated when she comforts Cady with her saccharine rendition of popular song ‘Titanium’. Her perversity is explored to its fullest though when she dances provocatively like a child beauty pageant contestant in front of Gemma’s boss, before slaughtering him mercilessly with a paper cutter (this as well as M3gan’s physicality throughout the film are owed entirely to the exquisite choreography and smart dexterity of Amie Donald, cast to enact the body of M3gan).

Aside from all the fun though, M3gan has significant things to say about the dehumanising aspects of over reliance on technology. Even before she realises how dangerous M3gan is, Gemma recognises that the doll is not helping Cady deal with grief as she had hoped it would. Feeling better is important, but what M3gan and other forms of reality escaping would seem to advocate is an intolerance of suffering at all. In not dealing with the unfortunate essentialism of suffering, Cady finds herself struggling to relate to other human beings. It is also Cady’s prevention from confronting grief that feeds M3gan’s unwieldy impulses, as after all, M3gan is a reactive product that is fuelled by technologically bonding with a child, and said child hasn’t had the chance to develop a mature conception of psychological pain. So it goes, neither does M3gan …

Ultimately and even after the happy ending when all has been taken care of, the film ends with a pointed shot of Gemma’s virtual assistant voice service (something that a lot of people already use in the real world that begins with ‘A’ to give you a clue) as if to warn that we are already on the journey to such disastrous events if we’re not careful …

Westworld (1973)

 

Westworld (1973)

Director: Michael Crichton

Stars: Yul Brynner, Richard Benjamin, James Brolin

Short Review, no spoilers

A seminal science fiction film, Westworld came about during a nihilistic time for the genre before a more optimistic generation came crashing in with A New Hope. A stripped-down masterpiece with a hauntingly avant-garde portrayal of a robot from Yul Brynner, the film features groundbreaking effects and paved the way for a variety of influences in the future.

Full Review (spoilers)

Peter Martin : You talk too much.

Robot Gunslinger : You say something, boy?

Peter Martin : I said you talk too much.

Robot Gunslinger : Why don't you make me shut up?

There’s a pleasing irony in this rare piece of speech from Yul Brynner as the Gunslinger in Westworld pertaining to some acting advice Brynner shared with co-star Richard Benjamin. Brynner believed that the less said the better, giving what little is said more impact. This ethos could apply to the style of the film as a whole, which gives us no character detail and not much build up to the action, instead briskly running the viewer through a nightmare that begins satirically and ends violently. As stark and spare as this vision is however, it gave birth to several ideas that were developed in later films, three of which starred Arnold Schwarzenegger. Machines turning on humans in The Terminator is the most obvious, but the cheesy commercials for futuristic holiday thrills which involve customers taking on different personas is also very Total Recall. Then there is the visualisation of seeing through the digital eyes of a computer-assisted monster in both Predator and The Terminator. Also in Predator is the use of coloured heat detection to hunt down human prey, and, even in a quite different genre, orchestrated characters who wait frozen until scheduled to act out their false environment is seen very familiarly in The Truman Show.

For sheer ruthlessness in an android, see Brynner’s influence on Terminator 2 and T1000’s terrifyingly frozen expression and efficient body movements. In Westworld, the Gunslinger turns from obedient plaything to menacing assassin, the cowboy swagger with thumbs hitched to gun holster perversely maintained even as he transforms from laconic tough guy to demented hunter, stalking unstoppably after his prey.

If Brynner’s robot performance is successful however, it is also conversely because there are traces of something more than a machine or monster. The Gunslinger is at times somehow melancholic and pitiable - a picture of faded elegance, he’s shot down repeatedly by dumb tourists who ape the epic fantasy that was the Wild West. Brynner’s outfit is exactly the same as the one he wore in his iconic performance from the classic western The Magnificent Seven, a ghostly reminder of past glories. The star persona of Brynner and the robot co-mingle, with the Gunslinger’s wavering, not-quite-human manner of behaviour interacting intriguingly with the enigmatic persona of Brynner himself. All supports the postmodern acknowledgement of fantasy – and particularly, fantastic masculinity - as construct, but there is a sense of tragedy in this. Brynner is visibly older but still compelling, a strong physical presence, but one that is faded and dusty and part of a fake set that is trampled through by credit-card-in-the-air yuppies. It’s like romance dying, replayed over and over each time the Gunslinger is shot dead, something that seems to be confirmed by the director’s decision to film his deaths in slow motion. In giving these moments gravitas, they contrast distinctly with the delighted guffaws of the tourists as they enact the killings. The robots are exploited like slaves, as in Bladerunner. Indeed, there seems to be some reference to this in the name of the holiday park as Delos, the same as an island that in ancient times was the site of the largest slave market in the world.

With old-fashioned reverence for classic movie stars seemingly in the dust, things take a swift turn when the mechanics of the robots begin to malfunction. Refusing to be played back over and over again, the robots break out of the fantasy and destroy the consumers. Like all great sci-fi, it begs questions about humanity, morality, society and culture, and delivers warnings about developing technology too quickly, greedily and irresponsibly … So before AI enthusiasts get excited about sympathy for the robot-devil, see the following:  https://filmstories.co.uk/features/westworld-the-race-to-make-one-of-the-most-important-films-of-the-early-1970s/ - a succinct and fascinating summing up of the making of the film and Crichton’s real intention, which was not anti-technology as such, but anti-corporate greed and its abuses of technology for profit.