4321: Review

Following the release of 2006's Kidulthood, cinema mythology recounts that writer, director, actor and all-round thesp Noel Clarke was summoned to a meeting where it was put to him that his female characters were 'unrealistic' and 'very negative'. Granted, it was hard to find many positive representations of indeed anyone in that grimy street-yarn, but Clarke was incensed all the same. Compelled into 'speaking to women', Clarke scripted an ambitious and heavily stylised adventure-thriller focusing on the individual and collective misadventures of four young, aggressively empowered female friends. It's a whirlwind ride, flitting between London and New York as the girls get caught in the midst of an international diamond heist. The pace is relentless from the off and an expressive edit maintains this dirvish- but 4321 is ultimately a triumph of style over an appalling lack of substance.

Throughout each of their three days, our four leads experience all manners of impediments: back-story sourced from family issues, self-esteem, boyfriends and depression. Explication is a slow burn- due to the film's 'split-narrative' structure: four simultaneous accounts of each girl's story. As such, 4321 is content for ambiguity to enshrine it's character's motivations until it's narrative climax rounds these distinct threads together. Cassandra (Tamsin Egerton), a glamorous and suitably wealthy pianist, flies to the Big Apple in search of both entrance to a prestigious musical academy and (of far greater import) a mystery internet boyfriend. Shannon, portrayed by the smouldering Ophelia Lovibond, is a exercise in perpetual indie-angst, bearing the brunt of her parent's divorce. Kerrys (newcomer Shanika Warren-Markland) is a feisty and empowered sapphic with street-smarts and guile, but an overbearing family. Finally, Joanne (Emma Roberts) is a unassuming but 'take no shit' American ex-pat forced to begrudgingly wile her life away behind the tills in a convenience store co-managed by Tee (Clarke). You might have guessed: Clarke indulging that same 'sup blud?' line in British "Boyz N the hood" gangsta that he seemingly revels in.



Besides the seeming improbability of these four girls from totally disparate backgrounds and cultures finding common ground and striking up close bonds, there's more than a hint of unrealism both in the construction of their characters and in their respective portrayals. With exception of Lovibond (who could teach Twilight's Kristen Stewart a thing or two about pent-up trauma), the acting on display is deeply inexpressive. But Egerton looks fantastic as Cassandra and makes no bones in getting her kit off for a wonderfully voyeuristic camera (at the same time, masterfully, as the film offers a critique of voyeurism). Indeed, 4321 resonates with sex appeal- the pumping soundtrack and heavy edit complement both the casting and cinematography. Perhaps the whirlwind pace of the film's edit contributes, but little time is allowed for resonance to set in. In one particularly troublesome scene, Cassandra comes-to after being drugged in New York, her possessions stolen- and there is the briefest of instants between her tears welling up and her embarking for vengeance. Other films may portray similar scenarios with more sensitivity and grace; in 4321, Cassandra 'deals' by tying her tormentors to a post and kicking them between the legs. It's a literal kind of empowerment at best, most adeptly served through physical retribution. When characters falter, it's simply down to their naivity. And after overcoming adversity, it's all high fives for the girls.

If 4321 is Clarke's attempt at writing for women, it's a profoundly masculine perspective. From its glib recounting of secret abortions (used merely as a plot device) to steamy lesbian sex scenes (made for the DVD 'skip scene' button), there is a real danger that these four girls are merely caricatures spurred on by single moments which are, in Clarke's view, inherent to 'The Female Condition'. To pick out one example, it's a mystery how Shannon goes from one scene in which she very beautifully graffitis a touching ode to her aborted child, to then unthinkingly chasing the affections of a noteworthy playa (think N-Dubz Dappy). These two moments, frankly, just don't add up- and sadly leave each character feeling disappointingly one-dimensional. There's enough detail inherent in these characters to merit more reflective portrayals, yet 4321 skims the surface. "Oh, damn- you had an abortion? Riiiight, I get it now".

Similarly, whilst the narrative arcs around an ambitious format (that four-strain overlapping narrative split) and attempts to carry it through with well-edited montages which recount each girl's 3 days before moving on to the next- it's a fairly damp squib when one considers the implausibility of the plot itself. This narrative style, if nothing else, is a way of drawing intrigue into a story where little exists. However, rather than offering the kind of postmodern storytelling made hip by Christopher Nolan's Memento, Noel Clarke here provides nonlinearity for the Hollyoaks generation. It's not that Clarke holds back story elements for the sake of plot, rather that the film's narrative technique justifies itself by holding these facts back. This is a catch 22 situation where insistence on editing style has acheived greater prominence than finding the best way of telling a story: sadly reminiscent of Kiera Knightley's post-production wetdream Domino. Whereas classic nonlinear films like The Usual Suspects hold out it's big reveal after asking an initial question (who is Kaiser Soze?) and offer limitless re-viewing potential (embedded clues!), 4321 merely exhausts you by it's conclusion.

4321 is then, a quite remarkable film, despite- perhaps because of- it's vapid unremarkable-ness. Aspiring to create a stylish and zeitgeisty piece of contemporary British cinema, Clarke has instead created the polar opposite: a tragically missed opportunity for him to write compelling female leads. A patronisingly comic storyline with worryingly lifeless caricatures- the whole thing carried forward by insistence on style for style's sake, the director seemingly convinced of both the film's authenticity to it's subject and it's relevance and importance in a wider cultural context. 4321 deals with serious issues with all the profundity of a Skins episode. Whilst it may provide light entertainment, a few giggles (the rolling news graphic that Chelsea FC had been liquidated) and keep your interest up much in the same way sitting in front of E4 on a Sunday morning would- it's an ultimately tiring journey that doesn't go anywhere you hadn't been before.

Bad Lieutenant Port of Call New Orleans: Review

With his latest foray into dramatic storytelling, Werner Herzog seems intent on both insulting tradition and confounding expectation. Port of Call is, in essence, a narrative refranchising of the cult 1991 Abel Ferrara movie Bad Lieutenant; a guilt-trip in which Harvey Keitel's morally bankrupt policeman indulges most of the film by destroying his own humanity against a backdrop of Catholic imagery. Herzog's reimagining has irked many- Ferrara included, exclaiming that "It's like when you get robbed. It's just a horrible feeling and I don't understand why they would do it" - but perceived intellectual piracy aside, there is a great deal that is original and distinct about Port of Call.

This is a reimagining, rather than retelling- in the vein that one James Bond film does not replace a previous- instead, you take that central character and immerse them in new situations. With a degree of arrogance, Herzog claims not to have even seen the original. But rather than merely shifting the incidentals (Port of Call is set in a Katrina-stricken New Orleans, rather than Ferrara's New York) Herzog offers a tonally distinct Bad Lieutenant- and whilst the 1991 original can be considered a somewhat morbid portrayal of moral denigration, Herzog presents here a black comedy of some considerable whimsy.



In the role of our bad lieutenant, Terrence McDonagh- Nicolas Cage is a revelation. Following his award winning turn in 2002's Adaptation, you could argue that Cage made some bad decisions and was thrown into thesp's wilderness. The abysmal Wicker Man remake compounded the perception of Cage as a cult joke: comically overacting and doomed to be typecast in 2nd rate thrillers. But Cage is back and more himself than ever; last year's criminally underrated sci-fi opus Knowing and his star turn in surprise-film-of-the-year candidate Kick-Ass proudly showing off all that make Cage an uniquely engrossing force. Port of Call is a foil upon which his neurosis are allowed to shine, a script seemingly deigned for his rendition. McDonagh is one corrupt murder po-lice; hopelessly addicted to gambling, drugs, sex and violence: It's hard to imagine anyone else filling this role so adeptly.

Port of Call ambles through it's 2 hours with pace and intensity, never losing momentum or direction. It's comic overtones are reminiscent of the Coen brothers work, but rather than derive humour from plot- Herzog here employs character as the focus. Like much of Herzog's dramatic work, Port of Call works through the exposition of character. This is especially evident in the director's infamous and fraught collaborations with actor Klaus Kinski; a relationship that Cage is quick to allude to. As Herzog instilled in Cage throughout shooting, McDonagh exists through and revels in 'the bliss of evil'. The relationship between director and actor is never more apparent than in the scenes where Cage is given reign to fly off the handle and improvise. In one scene (no doubt to be revered in the expanding Herzog mythology), Cage unexpectedly pulls a gun on two elderly women and treats them to an ad-libbed shower of expletives. They were genuinely frightened.

It's this taught relationship between comedy and repulsion along which the central performance is posited. Although the film is overtly comedic in places, dialogue and situation combining to revel in the absurd (a masterfully surreal scene in which a whacked-out McDonagh hallucinates crooning iguanas at a crime scene comes to mind) - Cage was careful not to fetishise or glamourise the protagonist's indulgences. Extensive research into addict's tics (lip smacking, fast talking, poor attention spans, slurred speech) empowered Cage to portray the ugliness of rampant smack, coke and crack addictions- but this is in no way a treatise on drug-use. McDonagh is a maverick, a grotesque joker that, whether you like him or not, gets results. The pervasive horror of his descent is instilled as much to round his character with a sense of realism as it is to provide by-turns comedy. Much in the same way that Chris Morris' Four Lions employs absurdity to hack at the truth of the matter, Cage's over-the-top performance works in favour of a profound realism.

I found it hard to hold any firm expectations before seeing Port of Call. The combination of cult director, enigmatic lead, the controversy surrounding the 1991 original, the choice of politically 'in-vogue' New Orleans as location- all seemed to contribute towards a sense that 'this is going to be great'. And, in truth- Port of Call doesn't disappoint. It's a deeply engrossing character-led film that shirks the moral quest of Ferrara's original in place of a realist black-humour that is as relentless as it is shocking, as impressive as it is pitiful. And while it's directed with all the grace and humanity that one would commonly associate with Werner Herzog, it is perhaps Nicolas Cage's finest hour.

Ponyo: Review

It's an interesting crossroads for Hiyao Miyazaki. His films have charmed audiences worldwide and garnered critical acclaim- and in this case, earnt the distribution services of no less than Walt Disney. You could argue that Disney's been going through a kind of existential crisis post-Lion King, so jumping in bed with the world's "in vogue" animator is a by-numbers move. With previous films, notably Spirited Away and Princess Mononoke, Miyazaki has addressed a Japanese audience's history and tradition but with Ponyo, the themes are more universal.


We're introduced to Sosuke, an smart kid with a heart of gold. He lives with his (quite delectable- is it wrong to fancy cartoons?) mother, voiced by the infamous Tina Fey, in a town by the sea. Elsewhere, deep under the sea- a paranoid scientist is custodian to the oceans. His daughter, a magic-endowed fishgirl by the name of Ponyo, escapes in search of adventure only to be discovered and treasured by Sosuke. Therein follows a wonderful love story, full of innocence and charm. The film is visually beautiful, using a palette of simple watercolours. Similarly, the Western dub is spot on (and I didn't think I'd be saying that) with Liam Neeson providing real internal conflict as Fujimoto, and Cate Blanchett offering typically otherwordly tones as the Goddess of the sea.

This wouldn't be a Miyazaki film without the obligatory backdrop of mythology and 'end of the world' fable- however those expecting a subplot as profound as Princess Mononoke or Nausicaa: Valley of Winds may be disappointed: Ponyo is by design a light film, intended primarily for children. But even cast in this light, Ponyo offers a subtle politic, as ocean pollution and fishing-to-extinction are discussed in passing. A youthful audience may leave with a newfound appreciation for nature, without the film having been dogmatic or preachy. Ponyo is a beautifully simple kid's film, the kind anyone could appreciate- it's heart utterly in the right place.

Capitalism, A Love Story: Review

It's hard not to feel a little sorry for Michael Moore. Cue disquiet and confused stares. For all his earnestness, he's become the poster boy for an amorphous protest movement that is quick with relish but short on the detail. Moore finds himself a minor celebrity- a position which must sit uncomfortably with the supposedly egalitarian politics he espouses, but also of no surprise: Throughout his recent filmmaking, Moore has sought to put himself in the front line. These aren't one's 'conventional documentary'- where the filmmaker is but an invisible hand; Moore's films so consciously allow him a presence as to render his household name status something of a planned career aim. Perhaps that's cynical, but for better or worse his films have become common knowledge: even if one hasn't seen 'Bowling For Columbine', you'd be hard pressed to find someone who couldn't tell you which on side of the political fence Moore sits. This has arguably had it's benefits (publicising an oft-marginalised political discourse) but equally has not come without significant cost. Audiences will dismiss a Michael Moore film without a second thought due to the very notion of being so overtly preached at, coupled with the perceived factual inaccuracies of previous efforts. Moore's well-documented (no pun intended) selective myopia with regards to 'the facts' has even spurned a 'retort documentary', the cleverly titled 'Manufacturing Dissent' (Persistence of Vision Produtions, 2007)- a film which, ironically, was littered with as many errors as it accused Moore of.


With 'Capitalism: A Love Story', Moore is taking his broadest shot yet. Whereas previous films have aimed with specificity, 'Capitalism'- well, you can infer it's subject from the title. A brave move: Economics is hardly the world's most invigorating of conversation starters and yet 'Capitalism' is by some distancehis most affecting film of recent history. Previous endeavours have focused on dividing the audience along partisan lines but here, the inescapable truth is that the financial crisis hasn't discriminated. Recent events have so ordained that we're all affected (whether we know the difference between GDP and GNP or not). Irregardless of racial, ethnic, political or religious groupings, whether you supported Iraq or stood against it, if you believed in earnest that some gothy entertainer invoked Columbine- recent economics hasn't taken such trivialities into consideration. It's this very sense of far-reaching, bipartisan injustice that drives Moore's latest. For once, it's as if he's speaking for people rather than at them.

Opening with the philosophical preponderance: "What defines us?"- then seeking to demystify the myths of capitalism throughout both historical and contemporary example, it's a more basic approach than has been undertaken with earlier work but is no less polemical for it. We have the standard cocktail of investigative journalism, archive footage, interview material and stunt- Moore seeking throughout to play 'how things should be' against 'how they are'. There's the standard trope of letting a specific person act as telling of the whole (a journalistic practise made infamous by The Simpsons episode in which Bart gets his own news show entitled "Bart's People") - Moore continues to let his interviewees cry first before getting into the depth of the argument but regardless- the film's most successful moments should make you livid. We meet a former employee of Walmart, who left in acrimonious circumstance when his former employer cashed a secret life insurance cheque after the death of his co-worker wife, a sufferer of asthma. This shocking practice, referred to openly (if not affectionately) as 'dead peasant insurance policies' is apparently not uncommon these days.

Equally, the leaked memo from banking conglomerate Citigroup which states that the US can now be considered a 'plutonomy' (a society in which the majority of wealth is generated and consumed by the top 1%) displays an unsurprisingly elitist, and contentedly so, world-view. Moore uses these and other powerful examples to expose the fallacies in the free-market dogma that all shall benefit from competition, that such economic systems benefit society as a whole. But the most harrowing moments of the film come from his scrutiny of the $700 billion bailout orchestrated by perennial blame-figure Dubya, and former Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson. Through interviews with members of Congress and impassioned footage from the chamber itself, the entire act is presented as a financial coup d'etat, the biggest in history- an argument given credence when Moore asks the senator in charge of accounting for the bailout where she believes the money has gone. After some pause, she admits not knowing. A staggering moment for sure, but one only compounded when you read in the fine print that no accountability was demanded by Congress and review by a judiciary expressly prohibited. Furthermore, in drafting the legislation- Paulson (himself a former Goldman Sachs CEO) makes explicit his exemption from possibility of prosecution.


But while these moments may (perhaps should) evoke some small protest spirit within the audience, the film is equally riddled with flaws. In many regards, 'good documentary' (like a blog you return to) happens when the topics are specific. There is the realised fear in 'Capitalism: A Love Story" that Moore has bitten off more than he can chew- or more than could be dealt with reasonably in the film's already-overlong 127 minutes. The narrative is scattershot and flits between the bail-out, the wages of airline pilots, the marginalisation of unions, world economics, George Bush (he gives Obama the easiest of rides), 'good honest folk' being evicted, the ever widening disparity between rich and poor, advocating socialism and, of course (it wouldn't be a Michael Moore film without a trip to) Flint, Michigan.

Yet again, Moore strives to paint Flint as some microcosm for America's economic woes: he visits the former site of General Motors- articulating Flint's decline as endemic. Similarly, the moments where Moore takes centre stage prove the most trying, both in their placement and execution. After the exasperating details of the bailout are just settling in, the film cuts to a tongue-in-cheek action scene in which Moore is seen driving a security van to the banks, cornering them off with police 'crime scene' tape and, with a megaphone, somewhat impotently asking for 'our money back'. It's an unnecessary visual gag- the point of injustice having already been made. But Moore's earnestness, or ambition, necessitates that he indulges in the grandiose and entirely set-up faux-theatre performances. I would argue that there's a decent argument to be had about the legitimacy of sourcing protest movements as entertainment, or rather providing entertainment through protesting- but the overriding tone of this film is one that is deeply unfunny. Indeed, Moore forgoes the cartoons of previous films-and if there are jokes in this film, they're financial, and they're on us.

Early in the film, Moore narrates that when asked as a child, he stated that he wanted to grow up and get into the church, become a priest. Not for the fancy garb, he says, but for the community role they play. Conversely, a preacher is exactly what Michael Moore is. For even when the weight and substance of his arguments are irrefutable, Moore still allows room for theatrical showboating, for reminding the audience just who is making the case. Sadly, this- not the manipulative tone he takes in presenting said arguments (he never claimed to be objective), is his biggest and most valid criticism. Which is a shame, because by rights, this film should be a call to arms. We've been collectively duped, yet Moore can't just let the facts speak for themselves.

Capitalism: A Love Story is out Feb 26th via Overture Films

District 9: Review

The much anticipated debut feature from Neill Blomkamp, District 9, goes some distance to justifying the quiet hype it has generated. A sci-fi flick that promises to endear itself beyond the genre's partisan crowd, the buzz around it has been cleverly built up through virals, 'human only' signage in city centres and notably, a Peter Jackson endorsement. The movie itself is frequently entertaining and interesting - but is more conventional than it pretends and not as clever as it should be.


District 9 opens with faux-archive footage of an Alien mothership landing over Johannesburg. Rather than nefarious invaders, it's full of refugees who are doled out squalid shanty-town existences and segregated by the South African government- the allusions to apartheid are immediately obvious, but never overstated. There's xenophobic hostility but the aliens- referred to as 'prawns' are generally regarded with pity, despite hints of an formerly advanced civilisation. It's an interesting reversal of the standard UFO axiom- here, aliens have more to fear from us than vice versa. Historical particulars are glossed over- the plot is evoked initially through eye-witness interviews and scatterbrain archive footage- colluding to build a sense of place, rather than of story. As such, District 9's opening 10 minutes are utterly compelling, it's alternate present day rich and involving.

The film eventually focuses on anti-hero Wikus van der Merwe, an awkward security official charged with evicting the residents of District 9 and moving them to concentration camp District 10. Wikus' nervousness contributes to an encounter with an alien liquid, and he undergoes a genetic transformation in scenes reminiscent of The Fly. His own government turns on him, carrying out specious military experiments. Evading his captors with a running commentary of humourous expletives, an unlikely alliance is formed with an alien freedom fighter. This pairing up is conveyed well, but as this story emerges the more interesting narrative structures fall by the wayside in lieu of standard 'action-blockbuster' storytelling. Indeed, with only a single narrative arc, the second half of the film felt very much like a computer game. Go to a location, shoot things, acheive mission targets, next level. Tiring gunfights replace plot dynamic, and the many shots of soldiers blown apart with 'cool' alien weaponry quickly lose their novelty.

District 9 succeeds in establishing a fascinating hyper-reality- which is then compromised by it's linear story. Blomkamp's earlier short film 'Alive in Joberg' (upon which this is based) maintained a tense ambiguity, but District 9 becomes disappointingly conventional and confused about what it's trying to be. Visually, it's a treat- CG is used intelligently, well shot if not entirely 'cinematic' and edited with tightness. Anyone feeling alienated by the genre (groan) won't be convinced, but District 9 is an interesting if not profound addition to the sci-fi canon, full of charm, intrigue and promise.

First published in Planet Notion

The Yes Men Fix the World: Review

'The Yes Men Fix The World' is the sequel to 2003's 'The Yes Men': documentaries following two anti-corporate activists (Andy Bichlbaum and Mike Bonanno) as they stage a variety of stunts aimed at highlighting global injustice. Their primary weapon in this war is subterfuge- the filmmakers gain the trust of industry and media whilst masquerading as representatives from government or big business. It's a format we've grown accustomed to through the comic-doco style of Michael Moore and the pantomime spoofing of Sacha Baron Cohen's characters. But there's a precarious line between investigative journalism and getting your comedic kicks...


In the first section, the target is Dow Chemical and Union Carbide's refusal to accept responsibility for the Bhopal industrial disaster of 1984 - a tragedy estimated to have killed 25,000. This culminates in a BBC interview with a "Dow representative" promising 12 billion dollars of compensation to those affected. Audacious, yes- but there's little attention paid on the human tragedies of the story. It's used as a tool to rail more generally against the ambiguous 'greed' of 'big corporations'. When the two filmmakers do visit India, it's only to validate their position.

It's a self-congratulatory theme which informs the limp protests against ExxonMobil and Halliburton (soft targets for the protest movement) which are to follow. The film's most succesful argument comes later, and is also it's simplest: Thousands of New Orleans residents have been evicted from their homes in the wake of Katrina. The filmmakers reserve judgement here, letting the subjects speak for themselves- and it makes for convincing footage. But elsewhere, wistful acoustic guitars for background music and stoner-humour do little to validate their arguments, merely establishing that this is a film very much preaching to a partisan audience.

The Yes Men establish their raison d'etre as defenders of justice and the oppressed, patting each other on the back at regular intervals along the way. Whilst their stunts are impressive and their hearts in the right places, the film suffers from nonchalance toward it's subjects and arrogance in it's arguments. It's a tone which is self-defeating and wholly unneccesary when compared with peers of the genre. 'The Czech Dream' (2004) remains humble, whilst longtime comic/activist Mark Thomas is an expert in letting the facts hold centre stage. Occassionally funny but too frequently lightweight, 'The Yes Men Fix the World' raises serious questions, not about fostering social change through comedy, but about the legitimacy of using protest movements as a source of humour and entertainment.

First published in Planet Notion.

Broken Embraces: Review

Thank the heavens for Broken Embraces. In a summer that has been dominated by dismal Hollywood refranchising (Terminator, Wolverine, Transformers) and arthouse shock tatics and self-indulgence (Antichrist, Synecdoche New York), Pedro Almodovar's 17th film is a breath of fresh air. The trailer's wordless sequences give nothing away and to those not familiar with the director, I doubt it will invite your interest. But dare to be curious and you will be pleasantly surprised. This is a serious piece of filmmaking; it will reward both the cinephile and the casual viewer.


Penelope Cruz is the ostensible 'star' of the film, though the film is reticent to focus on a particular protagonist or narrative. The plot is embellished as the film jumps between 1994 and 2008: a complex web of storytelling that only reveals the particulars at the film's climax. We meet a blind cinematographer who lives under a pseudonym, an aspiring documentary filmmaker seeking to ruin his father's memory, a jealous financier and of course, Penelope Cruz herself- in the role of Magdelena: a typically passionate, but dissatisfied woman upon whom entire film turns. The film refuses to conform to type; allowing for a myriad of complex, often contradictory emotions.

A touch of self-referentialism never hurt anyone, and Broken Embraces boasts a 'film within a film' storyline that ties all the disparate elements together. Whereas other films have attempted this ad naseum (Synecdoche- to it's absolute limit), it never feels laboured or indulgent. Broken Embrace's characters carry heavy burdens- but the light hearted 60s romp 'Girls with suitcases' within the film is used as much to distract as embolden. It's subjects are dark, but the film's tone is brisk.

This is not a typical indie flick. It lacks the pace of genre-staples such as 'Y Tu Mama Tambien' or 'City of God'. But throughout the film are clues: A delicate scene with a television playing an Ingrid Bergmann film in the background. Casting agents instructing Magdelena to wear her hair 'like Hepburn'.This is classic cinematic storytelling, beautifully shot and acted, rooted in the style of 50s Hollywood.

First published in Planet Notion