Sunday, October 30, 2005
The London Film Festival is well under way; somehow more subdued this year - I can't say why, perhaps because I've got other things on my mind at the moment.
After the usual scuffle (I'm not sure why, since all seats are numbered anyway) to get into the cinema and delayed by a special screening of the new Harry Potter thing, I was today treated to Walk the Line, the Johnny Cash biopic that is already generating Oscar-buzz.
Bad news first: this is not an unusual story (listen to the sound of hard-core Cash fans collectively posting me death threats and setting fire to their hard drives). I am not a hardened fan, although I appreciate the voice and the iconic stature of the ultimate Alpha male. I have seen this story in different guises many times before. Man experiences childhood trauma, man has a dream, man neglects family in order to realise dream, the gift becomes a curse, drink and drugs take over, redemption or at least rescue turns up, end on high note.
What is spectacular about this film is not so much the story of J R Cash - it is the charting of the relationship between John & June Carter and the extraordinary chemistry between Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon. Singing each and every song themselves - very well, I might add. From afar, it looks like a made for TV special, but it is incredibly moving, all the way through. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, so whenever it opens (States November, here January) try to give it a go. And Joaquin, if you are reading this (and I don't see why you wouldn't) - I am open to suggestions, I am really very nice and my husband needs never know.
Last week was a different kettle of fish, what with the Belgian Dardenne brothers' lastest film L'Enfant. As per usual something rather gritty and handheld and slightly depressing - plenty of black humour giggled over mainly by Belgians and genuinely scary parts - mainly scary because it all seems so real. However it is incredibly engaging and again, like Walk the Line, extraordinarily moving.
Tuesday I'm off to see Colin Firth make out with Kevin Bacon (or so I've been lured) in the new Atom Egoyan which should be no less interesting than the Cash biopic or the Belgian realist extravaganza, although Colin touching Kevin's bits (and vice versa) doesn't promise to be quite so moving.
After the usual scuffle (I'm not sure why, since all seats are numbered anyway) to get into the cinema and delayed by a special screening of the new Harry Potter thing, I was today treated to Walk the Line, the Johnny Cash biopic that is already generating Oscar-buzz.
Bad news first: this is not an unusual story (listen to the sound of hard-core Cash fans collectively posting me death threats and setting fire to their hard drives). I am not a hardened fan, although I appreciate the voice and the iconic stature of the ultimate Alpha male. I have seen this story in different guises many times before. Man experiences childhood trauma, man has a dream, man neglects family in order to realise dream, the gift becomes a curse, drink and drugs take over, redemption or at least rescue turns up, end on high note.
What is spectacular about this film is not so much the story of J R Cash - it is the charting of the relationship between John & June Carter and the extraordinary chemistry between Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon. Singing each and every song themselves - very well, I might add. From afar, it looks like a made for TV special, but it is incredibly moving, all the way through. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, so whenever it opens (States November, here January) try to give it a go. And Joaquin, if you are reading this (and I don't see why you wouldn't) - I am open to suggestions, I am really very nice and my husband needs never know.
Last week was a different kettle of fish, what with the Belgian Dardenne brothers' lastest film L'Enfant. As per usual something rather gritty and handheld and slightly depressing - plenty of black humour giggled over mainly by Belgians and genuinely scary parts - mainly scary because it all seems so real. However it is incredibly engaging and again, like Walk the Line, extraordinarily moving.
Tuesday I'm off to see Colin Firth make out with Kevin Bacon (or so I've been lured) in the new Atom Egoyan which should be no less interesting than the Cash biopic or the Belgian realist extravaganza, although Colin touching Kevin's bits (and vice versa) doesn't promise to be quite so moving.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
On the eve that John Banville was awarded the Booker Prize, I and hundreds of others went for a talk by Bret Easton Ellis at the Royal Festival Hall. Not that I missed the vital news; the minute the winner was announced, Easton Ellis' British Random House representative (or whatever) sprang up and announced her glee. But I am jumping ahead of myself.
I was always fond of Bret Easton Ellis' writing, especially in my twenties, where his tales of hedonism and disconnection struck a chord which had previously be struck only by punk music and the Copenhagen squatters in the '80ies. For all the accusations of misogyny, spoiled-brat-antics, arrogance and plain degeneration, I never gave a shit, because in my minds eye, that was never what it was about. In the centre of all the kerfuffel was the truth and the truth was that he was a very skilled writer.
Later, in this century, I have been less interested, Glamorama disappointed, other writers caught my eye.
And yet, Bret Easton Ellis kept occupying a special place in my heart. My husband and I went on our first date to the cinema for a screening of American Psycho.
So I was still undecided about Lunar Park. Never mind liking, I didn't even know if I could be bothered reading it. And yet.
The talk was advertised and suddenly tickets were bought and anticipation high. Reviews started rolling in; Newsnight Review reviewers were collectively moved to tears, whilst Radio 4 was underwhelmed.
In person, Bret Easton Ellis is slightly uncomfortable and yet perfectly poised - this is clearly a man whose social skills are honed without him being slick and superficial. He is full of charm and wit and arrogance and clearly suffers no fools. He is thoroughly pleasant company (although the woman, who dared asking him what the meaning of American Psycho really was, would probably beg to differ) and the audience was raptuous at the end of the evening.
And then there was a book signing which I decided to queue for, and it went on and on - everyone wanted to shake his hand, have a few words, give him their number. And throughout the entire seance he stayed pleasant and graceful.
So now I am the lucky owner of a hardcopy of Lunar Park, signed to me with best wishes from the big man himself (even though I beforehand found that very cheesy) and I think I love him on a completely platonic level, of course.
And I've got a cold. So if Bret Easton Ellis is struck down by pneumonia shortly, it could very well be down to me.
As for the Booker? Who cares? I've only just started reading Hollinghurst, for pete's sake!
I was always fond of Bret Easton Ellis' writing, especially in my twenties, where his tales of hedonism and disconnection struck a chord which had previously be struck only by punk music and the Copenhagen squatters in the '80ies. For all the accusations of misogyny, spoiled-brat-antics, arrogance and plain degeneration, I never gave a shit, because in my minds eye, that was never what it was about. In the centre of all the kerfuffel was the truth and the truth was that he was a very skilled writer.
Later, in this century, I have been less interested, Glamorama disappointed, other writers caught my eye.
And yet, Bret Easton Ellis kept occupying a special place in my heart. My husband and I went on our first date to the cinema for a screening of American Psycho.
So I was still undecided about Lunar Park. Never mind liking, I didn't even know if I could be bothered reading it. And yet.
The talk was advertised and suddenly tickets were bought and anticipation high. Reviews started rolling in; Newsnight Review reviewers were collectively moved to tears, whilst Radio 4 was underwhelmed.
In person, Bret Easton Ellis is slightly uncomfortable and yet perfectly poised - this is clearly a man whose social skills are honed without him being slick and superficial. He is full of charm and wit and arrogance and clearly suffers no fools. He is thoroughly pleasant company (although the woman, who dared asking him what the meaning of American Psycho really was, would probably beg to differ) and the audience was raptuous at the end of the evening.
And then there was a book signing which I decided to queue for, and it went on and on - everyone wanted to shake his hand, have a few words, give him their number. And throughout the entire seance he stayed pleasant and graceful.
So now I am the lucky owner of a hardcopy of Lunar Park, signed to me with best wishes from the big man himself (even though I beforehand found that very cheesy) and I think I love him on a completely platonic level, of course.
And I've got a cold. So if Bret Easton Ellis is struck down by pneumonia shortly, it could very well be down to me.
As for the Booker? Who cares? I've only just started reading Hollinghurst, for pete's sake!
Sunday, October 02, 2005
The weekend started with Guy X at the Raindance Festival. Now, the Raindance is a funny, poor, black sheepish relative to the London Film Festival; everything is always a bit ad hoc - the makeshift queues, the delays, the relatively small, intimate screens. Elliot Grove usually hangs out, talking to the punters, cracking a joke, plugging something or other.
The programme is much more exctiting than one should think, given my choice of movie to see, and there's still another week left, so go see.
Guy X was by all means not a bad film. On the other hand, it was not a particularly exciting film. It starts off beautiful, intriguing (and interestingly, these first couple of minutes, according to director Saul Metzstein, were what attracted him to the script) - almost a perfection, especially compared to the rest of the movie. Obviously I could not stop thinking about M*A*S*H, Catch 22, Three Kings, Buffalo Soldiers, all of which are better than Guy X. My date mentioned Kafka, which is true; the story has got much potential to be kafkaesque, but lets this promise down halfways through the movie. Jason Biggs does well (insert own pie joke here) and he is a likeable actor. Guy X is not a wast of time by all means - should you come across it you may find lots of enjoyment there, but, alas, you probably don't need to go out of your way to see it.
Last night was the interesting business of RESFEST and more importantly, the Director Keynote Address from Anton Corbijn. This was really a talk/interview/conversation with Corbijn and Paul Morley, interspersed with Corbijn's music videos.
This is a much hipper and thus much more tiresome festival; there are fantastic showings and really useful information to be had but the audience would be better off...no, I would be better off would the audience not ask any questions. In the words of Pharrell Williams; fucking posers.
However, back to an energetic and interested evening - it started with music by U2 and a slideshow of Corbijn's photographs, all fantastically beautiful, poignant and hysterically funny. Corbijn's English is not fantastic but he has buckets of charm and warmth and everything is so effortless and friendly and the evening runs so smoothly that suddenly 2 1/2 hours have breezed past and its time to go home.
Btw, Anton Corbijn was plugging his new Director's Label DVD of which there are seven all in all, and if the new batch (the other directors being Mark Romanek, Stephane Sednaoui and Jonathan Glazer) is half as good as the first three of the series (Spike Jonze, Chris Cunningham and Michel Gondry) they are definitely worth splashing out on.
The programme is much more exctiting than one should think, given my choice of movie to see, and there's still another week left, so go see.
Guy X was by all means not a bad film. On the other hand, it was not a particularly exciting film. It starts off beautiful, intriguing (and interestingly, these first couple of minutes, according to director Saul Metzstein, were what attracted him to the script) - almost a perfection, especially compared to the rest of the movie. Obviously I could not stop thinking about M*A*S*H, Catch 22, Three Kings, Buffalo Soldiers, all of which are better than Guy X. My date mentioned Kafka, which is true; the story has got much potential to be kafkaesque, but lets this promise down halfways through the movie. Jason Biggs does well (insert own pie joke here) and he is a likeable actor. Guy X is not a wast of time by all means - should you come across it you may find lots of enjoyment there, but, alas, you probably don't need to go out of your way to see it.
Last night was the interesting business of RESFEST and more importantly, the Director Keynote Address from Anton Corbijn. This was really a talk/interview/conversation with Corbijn and Paul Morley, interspersed with Corbijn's music videos.
This is a much hipper and thus much more tiresome festival; there are fantastic showings and really useful information to be had but the audience would be better off...no, I would be better off would the audience not ask any questions. In the words of Pharrell Williams; fucking posers.
However, back to an energetic and interested evening - it started with music by U2 and a slideshow of Corbijn's photographs, all fantastically beautiful, poignant and hysterically funny. Corbijn's English is not fantastic but he has buckets of charm and warmth and everything is so effortless and friendly and the evening runs so smoothly that suddenly 2 1/2 hours have breezed past and its time to go home.
Btw, Anton Corbijn was plugging his new Director's Label DVD of which there are seven all in all, and if the new batch (the other directors being Mark Romanek, Stephane Sednaoui and Jonathan Glazer) is half as good as the first three of the series (Spike Jonze, Chris Cunningham and Michel Gondry) they are definitely worth splashing out on.
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