Son, aunt and mother

Nowhere Boy, directed by Sam Taylor-Wood

© Mars Distribution

Nowhere Boy is bound to attract interest because of its subject; and hardened fans of John Lennon will of course love it. It's important to ask about a film like this, though, how interesting it would be were its central character not a famous personality. The answer, I'm afraid, is that Nowhere Boy would not be of great interest. It covers a key period of John Lennon's life, from when he was fifteen until his departure with the Beatles for Hamburg. But music is in the background. The writer Matt Greenhalgh chooses rightly to focus dramatically on Lennon's unusual family background: his being brought up by his Aunt Mimi, his rediscovery and then loss of his mother.

The story is well told, and the script is strong. Kristin Scott-Thomas, a good choice perhaps for this rather stiff role, makes Mimi human while Anne-Marie Duff is impressive as the wild, lush, unbalanced Julia. David Morrissey contributes strong support and while Aaron Johnson is unconvincing at first as Lennon, he grows on you. Lennon isn't an uncontroversially attractive character, and a certain self-absorption, selfishness even, comes across together with some charisma.

As far as Beatles history is concerned, Nowhere Boy goes through the motions somewhat. First Lennon is given a harmonica, then he's impressed by Elvis Presley in the cinema – more impressed by his effect on female fans perhaps – then we see him learn to play his first guitar (the only scene in which the Britart debut director indulges in anything overtly artsy). Here are the Quarrymen playing at the local fete; now he's introduced to Paul McCartney; and so on. That, it must be said, is formulaic and irritating. The film looks good, and so does Liverpool in it, but it's not a great work by an artist-director, an important historical piece or a major insight into Lennon the musician. In truth, it's a slight period family drama, well put together.

Bump, clunk, scream!

Paranormal Activity directed by Oren Peli

Blumhouse Productions/Icon

Katie and Micah, a young couple in San Diego, hear strange bumps in the night; Micah buys a fancy video camera to capture evidence in case something weird is happening in their home. And it is. We, the audience, see through the lens as the video evidence accumulates, the bumps get bumpier and the nights get both stranger and scarier.

Paranormal Activity isn't your normal cinematic experience - although obviously a lot of work and editing has gone into it, it's very proudly a low-budget Blair Witch-inspired film, shot over just seven days by a first-time filmmaker with just two assistants. There's no music and a very small cast. At 83 minutes, it's only just a feature film really, and it feels like a short. The atmosphere is also undermined by some comedy, not all of which I'm sure is intentional, an annoying character, Micah - he is seriously annoying, and will be particularly for British audiences I think - and some hilariously clunky storytelling.

But considering the budget, this is a pretty good film, and quite an achievement for the writer and director Oren Peli. It does build tension pretty well and it is quite scary in an old-fashioned unoriginal way. Katie Featherston is pretty good as Katie, while Micah Sloat is okay in his very irritating part, doubling as cameraman. I enjoyed it, and even the clunkiness and occasional laughs contribute to a potentially ironic cult appeal. It could do surprisingly well. It's a slight film, and the ending is a let-down. It says a lot, though, that I felt disappointed there wasn't another twenty or thirty minutes of tension and exploration. I was never bored, and left wishing there'd been more.

I wouldn't like to pay top whack in central London for it - but if you can do it as a local late-nighter after the pub, you'll have fun.

Chekhov and a chick-pea

Cold Souls directed by Sophie Barthes

Adam Bell | Samuel Goldwyn Films

Cold Souls is an entertaining watch, and amusing – though not hilarious, not especially satirical, and doing nothing very original. It's a bit like Being John Malkovich crossed with Eternal Sunshine, and not quite as interesting as either.

Paul Giamatti plays himself. Exhausted with anxiety during rehearsals of Uncle Vanya (there's a Woody Allenish feel about this, as about much of the film), he chances upon an article in the New Yorker about a new technique for lifting your psychic burdens through the extraction and storage of your soul. A soul which, in Paul Giamatti's case, is the shape and size of a chick pea. But what if lightness starts to feel like emptiness, and you feel the need to restore your inner self? The actor finds that's not as simple as advertised, in a world where anything can be trafficked. He must tangle with the Russian mafia in a literal struggle for his lost soul.

It's entertaining enough. I've no complaint with Paul Giamatti, the support is pretty good from David Strathairn as the creepy clinician and Dina Korzun as an exhausted soul-mule, and Emily Watson is good in it too, as Giamatti's wife. I think what makes Cold Souls a little disappointing, ultimately, is that it doesn't do all that much, imaginatively, with the idea of being soulless or in possession of someone else's soul. What would that be like? What would it do to you? There are jokes about losing your smell, and a good idea about the effect of trace fragments, but Cold Souls doesn't really get much deeper into any of this. A pity.

Cold Souls is a likeable, well made, reasonable comedy of New York angst. It compares unfavourably though to a similar sort of film from earlier this year - the wilder and baggier, less accessible, but more serious, satisfying and imaginative Synecdoche, New York

.

I’m scared, Harry

Harry Brown, directed by Daniel Barber

©Lionsgate

The director Daniel Barber and his cast and crew do well with this material. Harry Brown begins in a very artsy way – not that there's anything wrong with that - but becomes more straightforward as the action gets moving, while retaining some interest in visuals throughout. Performances are decent all round, Emily Mortimer and David Bradley I thought doing particularly well, she as the idealistic, perhaps naive Detective Inspector Frampton and he as Harry Brown's grumpy old mate Len - each making something of a part that is not, in truth, well written. Liam Cunningham is also strong, though in a stereotyped role, and Michael Caine is Michael Caine as an old codger. Dialogue is not Harry Brown's strong point, and the screenplay generally is predictable. But there are impressive things other than the acting.

First, this very familiar Deathwish-style tale with as I've said very predictable characters and plot does have a fair amount of fresh energy about it because of a credible, if very bleak, view of Britain today that will ring true with many people. Second, the way tension and anxiety (a word that fits the film well) are managed is excellent, and makes the comic-book proceedings very effective. The effect certainly isn't achieved by pure violence, either. I'm against violence as entertainment, but gritty and brutal though its vision is, I wouldn't criticise Harry Brown on that score.

The music is interesting, and the orchestral ending I think by Ruth Barrett and Martin Phipps, is outstanding - it helps prolong and deepen the impact and atmosphere of the film, and lends it a more serious mood than the script itself perhaps deserves.

I worry, though, about the social and political impact of this film. It gives such a very bleak, despairing, "broken Britain on smack" view of London today. And although I'm sure not intending to do so - one of the interesting things about Harry Brown is the way it seems careful to avoid the accusation that it racialises urban crime and angst (though not all agree it succeeds) - nonetheless it does I think risk confirming fears about society that may help serve political agendas including the mainstream, but also those of the far right. If I'd been involved in making or marketing Harry Brown, that would trouble me. Some gay people, too, may feel unease about the nasty, squalid nature of the film's one homosexual encounter. There is, finally, an intriguing use of the Northern Irish troubles as a sort of recurring metaphor. I wonder how it'll be received on the other side of the water.

There's real potential for this film to become controversial and politicised if a certain sort of politician sees it, or a certain sort of journalist writes a moral panic story about it. That inflammatory potential results at least in part from the film's sheer effectiveness. Worth seeing, then? Yes. Worth taking a reasonably long popcorn spoon, too.

You can see the trailer here.

The Pope’s English Gambit

An apostate's view

The Fire Window, Manchester Cathedral

We've heard a number of religious views about the Pope's extraordinary offer to allow Church of England priests who can't stomach women bishops to convert to Rome - even though some of them are married, and even being allowed to keep to some of their Anglican traditions. Some feminists have criticised it as predatory; some have predictably welcomed it, and some bishops look like taking it up. This is everybody's business, though, not just believers' business - just as much as private clubs' membership rules are in my view everyone's business, say, or political parties' candidate selection, or indeed political defections. Anyway, I've never noticed any reluctance on the part of Popes or Bishops to opine on non-religious matters. Here, then, is the view of an excommunicated apostate. Believers are more than welcome to correct me if there's anything I misunderstand.

I agree that the Pope is being predatory here, not to say wholly cynical: you have to admire the old man's chutzpah in trying to annex part of the C of E in advance of his state visit next year. Perhaps he hopes to Newmanise the whole of England.

What is most baffling about this affair though is how any Anglo-Catholic can see the issue of women bishops (perhaps together with a perceived liberal drift on homosexuality - one imperceptible to outsiders) as a reason to turn to Rome. Can any of them really, in conscience, now say they suddenly accept Catholic dogmas, having lived contrary to them all their vocations long?

Let's take the issue of whether scripture contains all things necessary for salvation, as we're told Anglicans believe. That's not Rome's position - it sees tradition as just as important. Do these Anglo-Catholic defectors claim to have changed their mind on this - or did they never agree with what seems the official Anglican doctrine in the first place?

Getting a bit closer to the bone, if the question of whether bishops can be women is so crucial, why do they attach so much less importance to the question whether priests can be married? Some of the potential defectors are themselves married - conduct in their own personal lives that is directly contrary to Roman Catholic belief about the nature of priesthood. And have they been living in accordance with Humanae Vitae? Do they propose to from now on?

Even closer to the bone, for some, is the issue of homosexuality. George Pitcher certainly thinks quite a few potential defectors are themselves gay. It's okay to be a gay priest in the C of E, so long as you don't practice it: as I understand it (from Issues in Human Sexuality, para. 5.19) clergy who come out as "homophile in orientation" but who accept abstinence are to be welcomed and employed; and candidates for ordination will not be quizzed about their celibacy unless there are strong reasons for doing so. But in the Pope's church, men presenting "deep seated homosexual tendencies" cannot be ordained at all, whether or not they practice their sexuality; and it is even prepared to use psychological tests to root out these tendencies. Again, therefore, to be conscious of ones homosexuality seems to this outsider just as contrary to the Catholic idea of priesthood as to be married. On reflection, some of these priests may be forced to conclude they are excluded from Rome just as they would exclude others from their own church. Only unmarried straight or effectively asexual Anglo-Catholics can, it seems to me, unashamedly aspire to be Catholic priests.

Most critically, though, potential defectors have, until now, been happy to be part of a church that rejects papal authority. Indeed, opposition to his authority was the rock on which the Church of England was founded almost five hundred years ago. How can these people now say that just because of women bishops that's all forgiven and forgotten - a little mistake - and that they're now happy to do as the Pope tells them? They may have convinced themselves that he's merely some sort of primus inter pares; but he certainly doesn't see things that way. The defectors have been happy to serve in a church that's at least partially democratic and to argue their case against reform; if they turn to Rome, they'll find they have no say whatever, for instance on whether offers like this should be made, or when some future Pope unilaterally decides priests can be married, or women, after all (as I predict he will within fifty, then within a hundred, years). The Pope in Rome may only rarely be infallible, but he's always the one who decides.

The gulf between Canterbury and Rome seems to me as wide as the Channel and as high as the Alps, and any Anglo-Catholic who defects now must explain why the prospect of women bishops has made him change his mind on other, more fundamental doctrines; or else, if he claims always to have accepted those doctrines, why he hasn't been a Catholic and lived by them before now.

Many atheists will, I think, conclude that in reality this is nothing to do with the details of the dogma of either denomination, and that theological disputation about it is just a thick cloud of incense. Isn't this really about some extremely conservative-minded people's deep-rooted commitment against women's equality - a commitment that transcends and overwhelms all other doctrinal, spiritual and ecclesiastical considerations and loyalties?

Dream no small dreams

Gordon Brown's conference speech

It wasn't the game-changer Labour was crying out for - but Gordon Brown's speech to the Labour conference today was a much better effort than many expected, and approaches, at least, the kind of argument and the kind of vision he needs to set out if next year's election is to be a contest.

He opened by talking of changing the world: it was good, for Labour supporters, to see him lift his vision. But the bread and butter of winning for Labour is to flesh out that vision in a programme. He followed up with a long, relentless, deliberately extended drumming out of Labour's many achievements in office. Labour does need to remind the public of this, but in a way that's heard instead of making people tune out with boredom. I don't know whether that'll work. More importantly, from early on and throughout his speech he focused on the clear choice Britain faces next year, and again and again he cast that choice in terms of opting to favour the interests of the majority or those of a privileged few - surely the right light for him to try to throw on Conservative policies. He came back to that attack at the end of his speech, too, showing a determination to get the message across.

I liked the way he explained how he had acted in the financial crisis and to stave off depression: I almost thought this passage was too quick, and that he could gain by taking more time to explain this, impressive part of his record to the public in more detail. He is really missing a trick on all this. He told an anecdote about a complacent bank chief, for instance, telling Brown his bank was in fine shape - only for the PM to discover than, in truth, it was shaky. A big problem for Brown is that he seems to be part of the financial establishment and to be on the side of bankers - he needs to reposition himself as the angry, parsimonious and grumpy champion of the taxpayer against the banks, and he could usefully express more astonishment about actions he has had to take and more anger about what some banks have done. Alistair Darling's planned legislation on bonuses is not nearly tough enough: it may not be morally admirable, but people want some of their anger taken out on rich bank employees, and Labour should be offering much tougher action. Anyway, if you believe in a fair society, huge bonuses aren't just wrong where the recipient has been negligent. And finally, he expressed determination to recover for the public all the money lent to support the banks - but I wanted to hear more of this, and for him to paint a grim, almost horrifying vision of Brown as the inexorable public bailiff-in-chief with a debt to collect over five years.

He made some good pledges - the one not to cut spending on schools but to raise it, for instance, was important. But there was, as last year, a bit too much schemery, with quite a few good and welcome but relatively small ideas that are too forgettable and cannot amount to a big vision in themselves. Examples were the skilled internships and green work placements he offered.

On fiscal responsibility I thought he was good. Last year I was impatient with his technique of setting medium and long terms goals by legislation - a target alone does nothing to reach itself. I can see the international credibility argument for a Fiscal Responsibility Bill, though, and he promised a similar approach to achieving a high and sustained level of overseas aid. Perhaps I was wrong and he is right - still, I'd like him to explain why this use of binding pre-commitments is not gimmickry but substantial policy. The best point he made though - and something I'd like to hear more of - was to remind conference he had squeezed spending before, after 1997, while still achieving important policies like the New Deal and minimum wage. To argue he can play the same trick again is a good argument he should make more often.

Half an hour in was when the speech began to get really serious. He made important policy pledges: that the minimum wage and working tax credits will go up every year under him. This is more like the substance he needs to produce.

Bravely, though, and impressively, he has dared take on and take forward some of Tony Blair's thinking with controversial proposals about housing for teenage parents - they will be given supervised accommodation and support, not simply the keys to a flat - and pledged the extension of Family Intervention Projects to Britain's 50,000 "most chaotic families". This is bold, interventionist talk that will displease much of the liberal left but that may offer a way to reconnect with core Labour voters. He hinted at applying the target-driven approach to improving public services more aggressively to community policing - an important idea that meets an increasing concern, especially after the Fiona Pilkington case.

Labour needs a really big idea, though - and Brown's proposed "National Care Service" may be the sort of thing required. Long term care is of course a massive social and financial problem that causes fear among many families and wipes out savings - the way illness and injury did before the NHS. If Brown can put real flesh on this idea and convince people he has a way forward on care, votes will follow. The challenge will be the detail, but his pledge of free personal care at home for those most in need of it is a decent start.

Finally, on the constitution, his proposals to allow recall of misbehaving MPs and to abolish the hereditary Lords were minor but welcome. His promise of a referendum on the alternative vote system was a real surprise, however. I'm not sure I'm in favour of it, and the move has a flavour of cynicism - almost all his cabinet and Labour critics seem to be behind electoral reform right now - but it is bold. It was the confirmation, to me, that he may now at least dimly "get" the need for him to offer much more daring plans for the next Parliament.

"Dream no small dreams," Brown said, quoting - well, I'm not sure yet whether it was Goethe or Victor Hugo. Warm, inspiring words for a Labour politician. More hard-headedly, they're good strategic advice over the next six months. He's finally offered some forward vision, and given some hope he can put forward big ideas. If this marks the start of a real change in Brown's approach, and he can work this sort of thinking up into a convincing manifesto platform - who knows? We could yet have a real election next year.

This post first appeared at The Wardman Wire

Blog break

You've not heard much from me recently - I've been taking advantage of the silly season to catch up on other things. And my blog break is going to continue for another week. I'm taking a complete break, getting away from everything, even the intarwebs thingy, and plan to recharge.

See you later in September.

Inglourious, stupid and objectionable

Inglourious Basterds, directed by Quentin Tarantino

© François Duhamel/The Weinstein Company

In this stupid and objectionable film, Brad Pitt plays Lieutenant Aldo Raine, a rhetorically and morally challenged Tennessee tough who, in advance of D-Day, recruits emigré German and Austrian Jews to form an irregular band of marauders to torture and murder German soldiers in occupied France. They plan to blow up Hitler and his Nazi high command at a film premiere in Paris: unfortunately, British intelligence has the same plan, as does the young, secretly Jewish woman who will welcome the Führer to her cinema. The plot is typical Tarantino, with everyone's plan of course going wrong, corpses piling up senselessly, and the plot resolving into an orgy of violence.

It's entertaining: there's no denying that. Inglorious Basterds is not dull, and many of the scenes build tension and suspense very effectively. It's also amusing at times, though not as funny as it seems to think it is. The performances, though overwhelmingly camp, are mostly pretty good (Mélanie Laurent is the best thing about it). But there are several things wrong. For a start, it's just the familiar Tarantino-world of guns, repartee and braggadocio we saw in Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction, with flashbacks, parallel plots intertwining and random occurrences, all reheated and transposed uncomfortably into wartime France. A pity the historical subject inspired no stylistic innovation whatever from Tarantino. Second, it's anachronistic in more ways than one, with a highly unsuitable post-fifties and partly western movie soundtrack that simply underline the silly cartoonishness of the war setting and the utterly revisionist view of the war the film gives, in which the holocaust is known of and avenged by allied troops. Third, it's self-indulgent, with tricks (text superimposed on freeze-frames, graffiti-like arrows and text superimposed on action) included just for their own sake and silly cameos by Mike Myers and, I'm sorry to say, Rod Taylor as a redundant Churchill. The British are of course upper-class idiots whose incompetence royally messes things up for the plucky Americans; the film's wartime clownishness is less funny than that of 'Allo 'Allo, which is comparison looks like the work of Sir Martin Gilbert.

But the main problem with Inglourious Basterds is the way it glorifies violence and cruelty. Just as in Pulp Fiction Tarantino invited us to sympathise with a brutal gang leader and rejoice at the prospect of extreme torture – in that case, “legitimised” by the fact that the victim had attempted a rape – here, the fact that we are dealing with “Nazis” (Germans are ignorantly and wrongly identified with Nazis throughout) impliedly legitimises the most barbaric cruelties. We see a German soldier killed by being beaten in the head with a baseball bat, and a number of men scalped – none of which is necessary of even helpful in terms of plot – and we are invited to find deliberate disfigurement funny and right. In truth the violence in this film is both shocking and sickening, and it's difficult to respect the film-maker who has chosen to present it as entertainment.

Inglorious Basterds parades the director's love of cinema, with continual reference to earlier films and directors, its “film within a film” device and its cinematic climax. But it suggests that humanity is a weakness, and that the identification with others art can inspire is a fraud. Some might argue that Tarantino is somehow criticising screen violence – that the presentation of Goebbels's film Nation's Pride is a sort of satire on “shoot-em up” cinema. I can't see it myself. All I see here is exploitation, amorality and pretext. Tarantino doesn't ask us to condemn them for it, but Aldo Raine and his men are clearly war criminals; he for his part is guilty of something of a film crime. I admired Jackie Brown, but it remains the only one of Tarantino's films I'd like to see again. If Inglorious Basterds is the kind of thing he aims at now, then I look forward to his retirement. 

Equality, not merit

The past decade has seen widening differences in income and wealth, which taxation and regulation have failed to address. When New Labour was first elected, it established the Low Pay Commission to measure the claims of workers for a higher minimum wage against the wider economic impact, particularly on employment. There is now a compelling case for a high pay commission to measure the claims of top earners that their rewards are justified and necessary, even if they offend natural justice and our sense of fairness.

So wrote Vince Cable in yesterday's Guardian, supporting Compass's call for a High Pay Commission to investigate pay at the top, and come forward with proposals to rein it in. Compass's initiative deserves backing - but Cable's words of support worry me.

By suggesting the highest paid should be made to justify their incomes, he implies individual desert is the issue, and indeed he goes on to make clear he's fine about Bill Gates being worth more than the £31.1 billion interest Britain pays on its national debt. It's rewards for failure and uselessness that he really objects to, as David Aaronovitch has rightly pointed out. But why be so timid - so narrowly, individualistically moral about it? The point isn't whether such and such a banker has properly "earned" his six-figure bonus, or whether a premiership footballer has "earned" his six-figure weekly pay (I think Vince is slightly out of date about football salaries, at least at the very top). The real question is whether in Britain today where many of those who are lucky enough to have work survive on the minimum wage or less and where average income (distorted upwards by Frank Lampard and Stephen Hester) is twenty thousand or so it's right that anyone should receive such vast revenues, regardless of what they've done to "earn" them. It's not about market or merit, but equality.

Much greater equality would be better for us all. The only serious question is how to achieve it, although the evidence suggests that doesn't matter. I'd be happy whether we tax or, as David Blackburn suggests, "regulate" (another word for 'legislate") big bonuses and pay out of existence. A commission to look into it would be a start but it should not be a tribunal before whom the rich are forced - or allowed - to defend their privileges. It should work out a mechanism to reduce the greatest incomes, as the minimum wage aims at raising the lowest.

A French folly

Les Demoiselles de Rochefort directed by Jacques Demy

Hélène Jeanbrau/Ciné Tamaris

Jacques Demy’s 1967 musical is sheer nonsense. Enjoyable nonsense, undoubtedly, but nonsense through and through. Catherine Deneuve and Françoise Dorléac, sisters in real life, play twins here. Delphine Garnier teaches ballet while Solange composes concerti at her piano. Each dreams of Paris, and meeting her dream man. We get to know them and their circle, inhabitants of Rochefort each with his or her sad story – until a fair comes to town and, with a romantic sailor and Gene Kelly thrown in, magical sparkly fate makes everything right for all.

This 1996 restored version has all Demy’s chocolate-box colours, and at times the clothes look fabulous. An unashamedly superficial film - a sort of hommage to Hollywood musicals – it’s also a study in ironic chic. Some of the director’s mannerisms are attractive (the sisters are at times photographed straight to camera) but I think a lack of visual sense mars the experience: a lot of effort goes into costumes but little, apparently, to screen composition - a major flaw particularly in some of the dance sequences. Why have Gene Kelly dance, then show only his top half? It happens too much in Les Demoiselles: the dance sequences are fun, but not well filmed. Compare the famous dance from Singin' in the Rain - in which Kelly's whole body is kept within shot except when his feet are still and the camera focuses on his face for special effect, and in which every cut is timed to match the musical phrasing - with this dance sequence with Françoise Dorléac in which his feet are often cut off and there's at least one unhappy cut across the music. And compare the start of West Side Story, where the camera does not cut into the dancers' bodies except to make striking compositions - freeze-frame at 1 minute 8 seconds and again at 3.40 to see what I mean - with this effort from Les Demoiselles which ends decently but starts with our being unable to see much of the dancers at all. I'm afraid that where Stanley Donen, Jerome Robbins and Robert Wise knew what they were doing, Jacques Demy didn't really seem to.

Why Solange falls for the empty Andy, I don’t know. Monsieur Dame would be a better bet, you sense, but Solange’s mother gets her hands on him. Delphine’s happy ending is an absurd anticlimax. There is a dark subplot, with a woman being murdered and hacked to pieces, and at times you wonder if the whole pastel surface must obscure a strange, dark anti-musical. But I’m not sure Les Demoiselles is as good or clever a film as that.

By far the best thing in it is Michel Legrand’s music; particularly Solange’s concerto and the sisters’ signature song, Soeurs Jumelles. Otherwise, it’s a very silly film indeed. 

It's on at the BFI until 27 August, then in October at the Gulbenkian Canterbury, the Riverside Studios Hammersmith and Watermans, Brentford. It's available on DVD too.

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