Losing Yourself: A Review of 'Franklyn'

'It's not you it's me' - Franklyn depicts four very different world views, all of them fantastical and embellished in their own way.

A little over an hour into Franklyn, things start to becomes clearer, if not entirely make sense; strands which seemed disparate unexpectedly link up, and earlier events which seemed disconnected turn out to have everything in the world to do with each other. It’s a rewarding moment, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place, but it also carries with it the whiff of screenwriter contrivance: in the world which has been presented to us, it seems a far more honest conclusion would involve those links remaining tantalisingly out of reach.

The four story-strands themselves are all interesting in their own right: a father looking for his lost son, a suicidal college student trying to communicate to herself, a yuppie having a jab of nostalgia after being ditched at the altar, and a masked vigilante in a strange metropolis of religious zeal and towering church spires called Meanwhile City.

The latter is certainly the most immediately arresting, gothic visual clutter lifted from Terry Gilliam’s Brazil mixing with what seems like a semi-parody of Wachowski vigilantism. Ryan Phillippe also manages to sketch deeper insight into his character than the bizarre facial accessory and ornate production design around him would seem to allow.

It is part of the success of Franklyn that this nether-world becomes less captivating in comparison with the other, seemingly more mundane stories the more they are all fleshed out. Eva Green’s frustratingly egocentric Emilia becomes increasingly sympathetic despite the odds being stacked against her, before Bernard Hill’s seemingly dead-end story evolves into a quiet tragedy all of its own. It’s a shame, then, that Mark Riley’s pining romantic never quite convinces, his part in the dramatic crux of the film edging too close to mawkish astrological pre-ordainment.

The director describes the film as a ‘modern fairytale for cynical times,’ and it certainly carries a hard edge to it. Dealing with abandoned, abused, and psychologically unhinged individuals, it is successful for the most part in pulling an audience into four different visions of the world, all of them seriously skewed and – in their own way – shockingly self-involved. Whilst the conclusion suggests that such egocentrism can be all too obliquely solved by external agents of unknown origin, Franklyn nonetheless deals with some compelling themes and, if not transcends then certainly side-steps being overly derivative.

Faithless Hearts: A Review of 'Appaloosa'

Shooting the breeze: Appaloosa plays by its own rules, but, if challenged to, probably couldn't tell you what those were.

What on earth is ‘Appaloosa’? This difficult question concerns the viewer long after the opening moments of the film, which establish Appaloosa to be the name of a small town of 1881 in dire need of some law and order to counter the bathetic violence of local tradesmen Mr Bragg, and it lingers into the closing credits, with their strange whiskey-advert aesthetics of soft American rock over tactile, almost haptic images of Western lore. This film both stars and is directed by the great actor Ed Harris, and it’s everything one would expect the man not to be: quirky, inconsistent, and overly concerned with matters of the heart.

Appaloosa gets the heroes it deserves in the shape of Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch, who immediately begin to shoot any man not conforming to the new laws they have themselves put into affect. However, their arrival is concurrent with that of Ali, a prettily formed widow who catches the eye of the steady-handed and inexpressive Cole. Whilst her presence could never be described as the linchpin of the drama (no matter what the final voiceover tries to convince us) it is from her that the film seems to harvest all its most striking ideas. Though it is Bragg’s arrest by Hitch and Cole and his inevitable escape which forms the backbone of the story, Ali’s responses to the ebbing and flowing of this masculine tide leave the strongest mark.

Ignorant to the blunt social portraiture of James Mangold’s 3.10 To Yuma recent remake, the single-minded methodology of Kevin Costner’s Open Range or even – and most unexpectedly – the moral mire of Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven, Appaloosa begins a strange beast and only becomes more odd as it goes on, edging dangerously close to absurdist parody at times. This ever-present sense of humour is by turns spiky and soft, simple and high-minded, and reminds one at times of Sergio Leone’s cock-eyed view of the American frontier. Almost upended by these laughs, the film is nonetheless able to sneakily express a deeply unsettling image of American humanity and a highly cogent undercutting of Western mythos: corruption is endemic, genderless, and such a part of human character that it lugs around no sombre somnambulism nor visual viciousness, instead being a rarely negotiable and ever-present obstacle to one’s own advancement.

Despite this agenda, the film is certainly not immune to providing some of the expected generic pleasures, albeit with twists: the one gunfight of any substance is thrillingly built-up to in a beautiful Mexican town, a saxophone stretching itself out on the soundtrack in anticipation: although, when the shooting happens, it lasts the blink of an eye (Hitch comments ‘that was fast,’ Cole laconically replies ‘yeah, they could shoot.’) White picket fences and references to European trade make an appearance, but the most affecting expression of the suppression and taming of the frontier occurs on a verbal level, as characters vie with each other to express themselves with as much circumlocution as possible and ensure that laws, no matter how hastily assembled, are written down before they are enacted (even though, as Cole says, legality is just a way of making him feel better about what he would likely do anyway).

What is Appaloosa, then? It is an experience which, for the most part, absolves Renée Zellweger of her cinematic crimes to date, as she delivers an earthy and air-headed yet somehow gracious performance as the widow Ali. It is also a perilously complex re-evaluation of Western cliché which remains, for much of its running time, regrettably uninvolving, despite its strengths. Finally, Appaloosa (the town and the film) is a literate place in which expediency, companionship and consistency are all examined, and seen to be as bafflingly absurd as each other.

Anarchy Loves Company: A Review of 'The Dark Knight'

The Hollywood Blockbuster equivalent of James Joyce in narrative style, The Dark Knight is a mad, free-association assemblage of moral quandaries and spectacular destruction.

In superhero fashion, dark is the new black. Mood and introspection are the accessories of the now. The backlash has already begun, and films like Hancock and Iron Man actually appear ‘niche’ because of their insistence of lightweight fun. It’s tempting to blame Tim Burton for all of this, his Batman and Batman Returns revelling in the demented grotesquery of the circus freaks who populated a wildly over-conceived and dangerously top-heavy Gotham City, itself an ornate architrave beneath which combatants duelled theatrically. Burton’s films fed upon the yuppie consumer malaise of Reaganomics, depicting a fear subverted by fetishism and all but eliminated by societal apathy; in Christopher Nolan’s fresh take on the franchise the fear, like the hallucinogen in Batman Begins, has infiltrated the bloodstream of the social body and is ready to explode at the flick of a switch.

That 2005 reboot told the story of a simple billion-heir punishing himself in various ways in order to understand why bad things happen to good benefactors: Bruce Wayne, his parents killed, learns lessons both martial and moral, then unleashes both on a cabal of assassins attempting to destroy the city. Batman Began, but seemed unsure how he was going to get to wherever it was that he was going: the plotting could only be considered anything other than a complete mess if one read the film as an externalised Jungian nightmare, which was a stretch at the best of times. The same confusion affects the sequel, only this time reveals itself to be an intention rather than a vice – in The Dark Knight, the word to spread is most certainly panic, but it spreads beyond the schemes of the villains and the reactions of the citizens, infecting the performances of the actors, the composition of shots, the musical score; the very texture of the film.

Gotham City, evolved from a composition of urban environs into a Chicago-inspired (and shot) dystopia of political aspiration and mob rule, is attempting to haul itself out of the mire of corruption and depression. Hot-shot D.A. Harvey Dent is giving the ordinary people hope against an empowered criminal underclass. Newly-minted Batman is thwarting drug deals and gaining co-operation from the police, particularly Major Crime Unit commander Jim Gordon. Bruce Wayne remains a pompous, over-sexed jerk. Before any of these elements are established, however, Christopher Nolan and his co-writer (and sibling) Jonathon Nolan have introduced the match-head which threatens to burn down this particular urban forest: standing half-hunchbacked on an intersection in the sunlight, clown mask in his hand, the Joker begins his reign of terror.

Cut loose from the time-shifting opening acts of Batman Begins and The Prestige Nolan initially seems to be floundering, his drifting narrative lacking the excuse of warped chronology. Events in this first act notably fail to cohere to one another, creating less a plot and more an incredibly high-sheen superhero soap opera. This fractured, shard-like style never lets up; where its predecessor eventually jettisoned the fragments for a linear roller-coaster (the frenziedly elliptical editing notwithstanding), The Dark Knight has no choice but to revel in its own chaos, sub-plot proliferation and jaunts to Hong Kong abound. The Joker arrives as an almost extra-textual element to the film, a demented punter setting fire to the auditorium, causing the performers on screen to desperately utilise celluloid means to extinguish a corporeal flame.

And what a flame it turns out to be. Not since Robert Duvall turned the volume up on Ride of Valkyries has so much destruction been wrought over such a wide area with such panache. Like the characters of Michael Crichton’s Sphere, the Joker seems to need only to conceive of some malevolence than the barrels of gasoline appear and the clock starts ticking. The gleeful nature with which Nolan instantaneously manifests such chaos puts shame to Batman’s silent appearances and vanishings. These moments begin to transcend their earlier incarnation as plot-holes, following as they do the logic of a nightmare. The Dark Knight is in awe of such power: even composers James Newton Howard and Hans Zimmer seem cowed by the Joker’s mere presence onscreen, their normally bombastically ominous score becoming nothing but a shrill whine as some fresh horror of his making unfolds.

The destruction mounts, and Nolan stages particular sequences with a verve and tension that at times beggar belief. A three-way cross-cut sequence leading to an assassination (but whose?) is edge of the seat stuff, despite two of the imperilled characters being mere bit-parts. The most cohesive fifteen-minute stretch – a street-chase involving an armoured convoy, a bazooka-wielding Joker, some monumental stunt-work, and very little music – makes the film worth the price of admission no matter what the cost, playing out with vintage Michael Mann precision rather than comic book bedlam.

This sequence aside, the film suffers the similar (albeit enviable) fate as its forbearer and remains a collection of grand and fantastic ideas under-executed and swiftly departed from. Floated relatively early is the plot-point that the Joker’s reign of terror will cease only when Batman reveals his true identity; a few scenes later this is effectively dropped, so that later still when the two come face-to-face the Joker fails to even suggest that the bat has an alter ego. While this is an intriguing way of suggesting the growing synergy between the two characters (i.e. as the Joker has no past or alter ego, neither does the man in black), it flits past so quickly, and is surrounded by so much flying debris, that it is in danger of being lost to the cacophony. So too is the concept of an ontological sonar-based CCTV system which Batman uses to hunt down his nemesis, the thrill and danger of one man being able to map in real-time the movements of an entire populace becoming just another piece of visual bombast in a sequence already full of it. The most resonant idea being heard above the din is that there is just no point to it all, and that if – as the final act suggests – the expected moral norm that an individual is more ethically sound than an endangered mob can be inverted, then anything is fair game and the very concept of heroism is meaningless.

The Joker’s schemes affect not only other characters within the film, but the very texture of the film itself.

With the vision of a city in chaos, hospitals exploding and bound hostages being used to deliver messages via the nightly news, The Dark Knight is at pains to be fiercely contemporary. It becomes impossible to speak of the plot in a vernacular that does not reflect Western political anxiety; even the characters within the drama give up halfway through and identify the Joker as the terrorist that he is. Beyond these aesthetic lifts the most original expression of the new normal within the film is the uncertainty which grows with every minute. Every character can be killed, every building can be destroyed, and every good man can become a ruthless murderer. Beyond this, the Joker’s insanity infects even the plotting: whatever framework of control the characters or the audience attempt to impose (It’s the story of a superhero in crisis! It’s a love triangle! It’s about an imperilled political operator! It’s the story of an alliance between the mob and a madman!) is literally blown to smithereens almost in the very moment at which it is conceived.

The cast, for the most part, are as unhinged by this randomness as the viewer. While the aforementioned lighter summer films of Hancock et al were designed around central star personalities, Christian Bale’s Bruce Wayne neglects to command such control, ceding it instantaneously to Heath Ledger’s fluttering psychotic. Much praise will be given to Ledger’s performance (much of it entirely deserved) and all I would attempt to add here is that – for all his violent audacity – the character is beautifully anchored in some miniscule way by a bittersweet sense of something lost (sanity? history?) which could never be regained. Bale himself deserves praise for making his Bruce Wayne as casually dislikeable as possible, and his dark Knight as monotonous as possible – just as Wayne himself would play the Bat. Other actors seem pleasingly frazzled by the chaos around them, Gary Oldman being a particular stand-out, elevating his Jim Gordon from the one-note idealism of the first film into a living, breathing, middle-aged criminal investigator seemingly way out his depth in this particular sea of madness. The casting of the bit-parts, meanwhile, goes beyond the mere stunt and into an inexplicably euphemistic realm – witness Eric Roberts playing, effectively, Eric Roberts, and the in-joke casting of former ‘Batmanuel’ Nestor Carbonell as the new Mayor of Gotham.

At two-and-a-half hours the film is certainly long, and with its extended third act and constant state of frenzy, it is easy to feel wearied. However, the brilliance of the craftsmanship (the brooding score, Lee Smith’s flash-point editing, Wally Pfister’s granite-like cinematography) makes the elongated running time welcome. While others have termed it the greatest superhero film of all time, I hesitate to apply that label, for the principal reason that I do not feel it is a superhero or comic book film: the pleasures on display are for the most part divorced from the sorts of thrills that are contained within that generic label. The Dark Knight is far more notable for its social theory, emotional tone, and (most of all) the originality of the narrative-style than for its duels or its scenes of caped crusaders flying through the air. As such, it represents a director pushing the boundaries of his craft in the most literal way possible, and demands viewing on the biggest screen you can find.

Down From The Mountain: A Review of 'Seraphim Falls'

Coming to us courtesy of a director whose experience has been limited so far to television cop shows of varying repute, Seraphim Falls has far more to offer an audience that simply a name that needs to be spoken twice to anyone who asks it. Firstly, it gives Pierce Brosnan another chance to bring his brand of business-like charisma to the screen, something which is always welcome, and delivers some fantastic photography in addition to a surprisingly engaging story.

‘Never turn your back on the past’ is the tagline for the film, which is presumably an attempt at irony on the part of writer-director David Von Ancken, as the film-making seems resolutely against giving any additional information other than the presently-occurring facts: Brosnan, name unknown, is being pursued through the wintry climbs of some mountains in the American south-west in the years following the civil war by a band of calmly calculating gruffians, led by Liam Neeson, name unknown. The one man flees from the rest, getting shot, injured, submersed in ice cold water; all the while the film staves off an explanatory flashback in the same way that Brosnan’s character keeps one step ahead of those after him; when the past seems to catch him, it is but a fleeting glimpse, the chase resumes, and the audience stays in the dark.

I am sure that Ancken was pressured to put some kind of explanatory titles at the start of the film; that he has not caved makes him worthy of real credit. It is a rare pleasure to simply watch events unfold without repeated overtures made to what led everyone here. It lends the film an urgency and excitement that it is able to maintain for much of its lean-feeling two-hour running time. When the details begin to trickle through it feels natural, not forced: Brosnan introducing himself as Gideon, and the dropping of Neeson’s character’s name being Carver. These are not introductions, they are overheard snippets.

In lieu of back-story, we get to watch Brosnan repeatedly mumble and wince in pain as he is put through several tortures, which suggest the makers recently viewed Die Another Day. His character is described as one ‘who doesn’t speak much’, and it is indeed half an hour before he says a word. It is hard to see why Brosnan was cast in the role (the involvement of Mel Gibson’s Production Company Icon and the near-constant infliction of pain suggest the erstwhile lethal weapon was previously drawn to the part), but it works a treat, as does Neeson’s quietly venomous but ultimately human portrayal of a man out to catch another man.

Moving from icy primitivism through familial concern and towards the corporate civilization of the railroad (via Christian missionaries, of course), the various stocks-in-trade of the American Frontier myth are addressed and subtly manipulated. Having thus crafted a state-of-the-nation circa 1868, the film then veers towards the surreal, in the last reel moving unexpectedly into David Lynch territory (although one suspects even he would have had second thoughts about Wes Studie cameoing as a character in charge of a watering hole called Charon.) This is not entirely unwelcome; indeed, it brings a new slant to the story, as does the movement from the top of the mountains, through an autumnal pine landscape, and onto the boiling heat of a featureless salt flat. One might criticise that the visceral energy presented, however mutely, in the first hour begins to ebb away from the piece, but if this slight remove gives off the whiff of intellectualism, surely that is a far sight more interesting than another town-based gun battle, no matter how confidently staged? The film demands a second watch, not because of any plot twists or character revelations, but because it conjures up the sights, smells and atmosphere of its locales in a way that few other films, let alone Westerns, manage so confidently.

In the final reckoning – having mixed a tweaked Outlaw’s Progress tale with various elements of Greek tragedy, biblical emotions, and historical cliché – Seraphim Falls is oddly able to walk into the sunset with head held high.

Arms and the Entrepreneur: A Review of 'Iron Man'

'I was in an Elton John video? When did this happen?'

It’s a curious comic book adaptation that opens with the abduction of a wealthy American in Afghanistan, centres on a character who is essentially an asshole, and co-stars Gwyneth Paltrow. Iron Man performs all these feats, while ticking every box on the origin-story template that’s been banging around for forty years, and giving Robert Downey Jr. the role, if not of a lifetime, then certainly of the season.

He plays Tony Stark, head of a massive weapons manufacturing company currently hocking its latest product to the US army. He has the ingenuity to build a bunker-busting missile, the spiky energy to set off any party, and the rakish charm to disarm even the most good-looking investigative reporter. In short, he is a man due for a comeuppance – which duly comes when he is forced at gunpoint to assemble a WMD for Arab terrorists. He capitulates, but constructs his own method of escape: a one-man war-machine of wrought iron and flamethrowers, powered by a quasi-hydrogen battery. In doing so, and slaughtering countless gibbering captors, he learns that helping people is better than building things that kill them. Helping white people, that is.

The plot thickens on his return to America, but I shan’t go into that here, as one needs to take all the surprises one can (unless you’re a fan, in which case you already have a fair idea of how the third sequel is going to pan out). There are romantic entanglements with secretaries, predictable double-crosses, and shit-gets-built montages aplenty, the whole thing occurring in a universe which has never experienced The Incredibles, let alone Frank Miller or Alan Moore. It could all be quite wearisome, were it not for the first-rate cast and the manner in which they have been directed.

Jon Favreau, perhaps best known for his starring role in Doug Liman’s indie-comedy Swingers (and here providing a cameo as, very appropriately, Stark’s bodyguard and bag-handler) shows a surprisingly strong hand, and a welcome willingness to allow his cast to improvise and generally piss around. It isn’t Altman, but it does grab your attention. While there might be some to claims that Downey Jr. wheels out the same mannered, drug-spun bundle of ticks in all his recent performances, his Stark is an entertaining mixture of charm, idiocy, and muscle somewhere between Jack Sparrow and Batman. It is a credit to the actor that he makes no effort to alter the essential attitude of the man post-abduction, a move which forces the sceptical among us to question the ethical veracity of those who have been part of his inner circle all along, including the perpetually placid Terrence Howard and the alarmingly not-terrible Paltrow. Then there’s Jeff Bridges, playing the ridiculously titled Obadiah Stane, who – though he is the obligatory grizzled old guy – invests his character with some pathos and psychology, even if his plotline is underdeveloped. (I guess there’s a reason he’s named after the shortest book in the Old Testament.)

In these $100 a barrel times the cyber-dream of flawless man-machine integration cannot be that simple: Stark’s suit is a sleek exhaust-free number which literally runs on the power of his own heart, whereas his nemesis’ bulky Hummer-parody belches exhaust fumes. The latter is a personification of the outdated mechanised armoury of the pre-Cold War period; Iron Man on the other hand is an example of contemporary military tactics, even at one point being mistaken for an UAV. This American playboy – whose father literally invented the Atomic bomb – at one point launches at whim into a middle-eastern war zone, overcomes the villains with his absurdly advanced artillery, then exits as soon as he has brought about peace, leaving the natives to happily sort out the mess. All this happens bloodlessly of course, Favreau showing a marked aversion to killing, always cutting away at the moment the trigger is pulled. Still, considering the fetid morality of films such as Jumper, these sidesteps cannot be entirely condemned.

It is by no means a masterpiece, but in the modern blockbuster environment, when the best James Cameron we can come up with is Michael Bay, it certainly entertains for a couple of cheerful hours, and we can only hope it makes absurdly sculpted goatees 2008’s must have facial accessory.

22 Things I Learned From ‘The Incredible Hulk'

'I'm not looking at it, it's just that it's at my eye-level, that's all.'

1. All it takes is a fancily edited title sequence and the addition of the words 'The Incredible' to rewrite filmic history.

2. The quality control in South American bottling plants is sub-par at best.

3. A dose of gamma radiation turns you into a cross between Shrek, David Hasselhoff, and Rafael Nadal.

4. Helicopters are always disembarked from in slow motion.

5. It is possible to get Lou Ferrigno to do anything for you if you give him pizza. (He is, also, the man.)

6. Director Louis Leterrier has a rather surprising interest in the weather.

7. The killing of U.S. army personnel en mass is acceptable if they are attacking you just for being who you are.

8. When fleeing the bad guys you’re always going to run into the obnoxious bald guy whose cock you earlier blocked.

9. William Hurt is no Sam Elliott.

10. Injections of bio-serum help you trim those extra pounds and make you feel great, but result in nasty, scaly, mood-damaging side effects. So, a lot like heroin then.

11. Bigger Stan Lee cameos aren’t necessarily better.

12. Tim Roth manages to sound as if he is swearing even when he isn’t.

13. Tim Blake Nelson is rather superb.

14. A lime tinct deflects all projectiles.

15. Brazalian favelas, New England university campuses, Harlem: nowhere is safe from shock-and-awe occupation by the U.S. military.

16. A non-stop musical score can be aggravating and unnecessary, like someone telling you how much fun you’re both having during sex.

17. Ang Lee probably saw this film and muttered ‘I coulda done that but I didn’t wanna.’

18. It is now a legal requirement that any film star a lead actor from The Wire, even if they only feature as an extra fleeing a fireball.

19. A massive green man with stretchy pants remains unfilmable.

20. It’s hard not to enjoy a movie in which a police car is utilised as a pair of boxing gloves.

21. A relentlessly forward-moving narrative can be an effective distraction from increasingly incomprehensible plotting.

22. Marvel Studios are on their way to making rather a lot of money, and not entirely undeservedly.

22 Things I Learned From ‘Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull’

"Looks like he died waiting for the magic to happen."

1. Elvis songs, CGI prairie dogs, Soviet spies, area 51 and drag races do not sit well beside one another. And that’s just the first five minutes.

2. The effects of the Holy Grail have been greatly exaggerated. Downright lied about, it turns out.

3. FBI agents wear matching ties. And, once laboriously introduced, vanish into bureaucratic air.

4. Man-gets-hit-in-the-crotch-by-fast-moving-foliage jokes are funny.

5. By climbing inside a fridge you can survive a … no, I’m not writing that down, it’s just too silly.

6. It’s been a while since Karen Allen worked for a reason.

7. South American sanatoriums are really quite spacious, and the management take a relaxed view to in-room vandalism.

8. Russians keep rocket-propelled grenade launchers (loaded, of course) in the same place as highly dangerous captives.

9. It takes but one burly extra to sate an entire colony of flesh-eating ants.

10. Ray Winstone knows a place to get lighters which work after having been submerged in water several dozen times.

11. A been-there-done-that archaeologist has trouble identifying a rapier.

12. The Amazon is full of parallel roads.

13. Cate-Blanchett-gets-a-magnetic-erection jokes are really, really funny, and probably unintended.

14. That is the janitor from Scrubs.

15. John Hurt needs a new dentist.

16. Shia LaBeouf needs a new hairdresser.

17. Jim Broadbent needs to learn how to say no.

18. The mythical city of El Dorado was actually … no, I’m not writing that down, it’s just too silly.

19. George Lucas is a toxic human being lacking any creative idea which doesn’t involve moving vehicles, jumping, clanging scenery, jumping, swarms of things, and jumping.

20. The desire for knowledge is punishable by unpleasant immolation; the desire for material wealth is an admirable, rakish pursuit.

21. Some franchises retire for a reason.

22. This movie will result in neither fortune nor glory for anyone involved.