Back-B-Log: Catch-Up: New Forest Film Festival 2011 Wrap Up
I've gotten around to finishing all articles relating to the 2011 New Forest Film Festival, a series of events at which I both volunteered and puntered and more. I love the idea of having this Film Festival on my doorstep in the forest, and want to help it succeed. After an excellent taster evening in 2010, the 2011 Festival was the first with a full program, and it is an encouraging building block for the future.
It was immediately before my three week trip to the States, and much of the time since has been devoted to preparing then caring for the litter of puppies who are now four months old and, except for the lovely Anya, have gone to wonderful and loving homes (Anya has stayed in our wonderful and loving home) -- which is why this job lot are so late for completion, the puppies ate my homework.
If you've ended up here because you Googled the Festival, be warned, I do go on a bit. Of course, whether you care for my self referential musings is your problem. Feel free to dip in and out of them as you wish.
I also was short listed (1 of 2) for this years New Forest Film Festival Critic of the Year (over 18). Here's my review as entered for The Brothers Bloom, as well as two other essays I considered submitting, a clip of the awards presentation, and my Critic's Cut of my review (including the bits that were over the submission's 500 word limit).
Here's a couple of tangentially related pieces, the strangely negative effect of Richard O'Brien on my existence, and why you shouldn't disabuse people of their love for a film that you patently know is wrong (which casually mentions my role in the winning team at the NFFF Film Quiz)
As I perversely prefer them to be posted to the dates when either I started writing them, or more relevantly chose to post them, this means they don't show up as the latest thing in the arbitrarily chronological feed of this blog, hence this catch up round up. If any of you gluttons for punishment particularly enjoy the above, you may be interested in my former festival experience, when, as a young IT consultant, I crashed the Cannes Film Festival, starting with Back-B-log
1990: Cannes - Dread And Victory (I.a.To Cannes (and hell)).
My Life in the Movies: Richard O'Brien , Unintentionally My Nemesis
The 2011 New Forest Film Festival featured a showing of the "cult" film Shock Treatment. Cult, by virtue of the fact that it is little seen, an obscurity, from the author behind the "cult" film The Rocky Horror Picture Show, cult by virtue of its emergence from the midnight movie phenomenon with a large devoted following fetishizing characters and performing a one-sided call and response with the preserved celluloid performance. The festival added value with a personal appearance and Q&A with the author and performer Richard O'Brien. Shortlisted for an award to be presented by O'Brien at the screening, I reflected on my chequered history with his work, and whether I would again be subjected to his unwitting malevolence.
Rocky Horror Picture Show
Summer of 1983. One of the hottest, most humid summers in the swampy urban heatsink known as Philly. W.C. Fields is known to have said, "I spent a lifetime in Philadelphia, one summer...." A quote I used as an epigram for an essay titled Another Summer in Hell, in which I described Philly summer as "one of God's early drafts for hell."
I've nearly bombed out of my first year at Penn, with a plethora of incompletes on the back of a season of emotional turmoil. I'd hid in my high-school years behind the relative safety of a humoungous unrequited crush on a beautiful and artistic genius who'd graduated two years early. Now I'd made up for lost time with the theatrics of my first girlfriend. a petulant narcissist, and a middling crush on a friend, a geek goddess, probably just to keep my apparent unrequited addiction going. Cracks were forming in my delusion that I could get through university without hard work when I'd previously skated through school on my creative charisma and smarts. On top of this were repercussions of my father's advancing Parkinson's.
I spend the summer trying to finish off the incompletes and pile on some summer school courses, despite my iffy academic record, I still have the hubris to imagine that I can pull off a dual major so I can add the Annenberg School of Communication (and its film courses) on top of my normal Penn BA. I’ve moved into the geek house frat I joined in spring, in a strange back room that has its own shower. I share the room with a guy whose only memorable influence on my life is that he lets me borrow his Tom Tom Club albums. One of my coping mechanisms with the swelter is to wake in the middle of the night, sleepwalk to the shower for a minute long cool down, then back to bed.
I get a part time job at one of the two on campus movie theaters, both triplexes. The Walnut Mall 1 2 3, I’m not sure which chain owned it at the time, as it went from GCC or AMC or Budco. Unlike the SamEric triplex around the corner, we run two screens as normal, and the third one as a rep with different films every day or other, sometimes double features. A few years ago, when my brother doing his Masters at Penn, he brought me here for a George Pal double, Forbidden Planet and The Time Machine. One of the up sides of the job is that I talk the manager into letting me catalog the poster room in return for a share of the spares.
We have a weekly midnight movie showing of Rocky Horror, my previous experience of which had been limited to the scenes in Fame where the kids go to a screening. We try to operate a no props policy, vetting people’s bags as they enter. This proves ineffective as people will hide the very things we’re looking for, and low paid young people are not very good at challenging their peers. Most of the things get through. Our regulars indulge in water pistols and newspaper during the rain scene at the beginning, hurling rolls of Scott brand toilet paper when “Great Scot!” is exclaimed, and toss rice at a wedding. They also have their own cast of performers, sweet transvestites, teeny boppers and a straight couple all in fishnets.
The regular Magenta, or was it Columbia? was a really cute artsy fartsy girl, who’d spend half the film out in the lobby flirting with me. My spidey sense suggested that she was possibly still in high school, which kept me in an unanswerable dilemma. A high school student would just be too young, even though I'm only a year out, it's just a bit creepy for my ick factor. The wrong answer, I’d put full brakes on, but if the answer is right, the perversely thornier problem of testing the interest behind the flirt. Leaving the question unanswered allowed the pleasant flirtation to continue, even if it merely added to the quantum of my sexual frustration. My ersatz control freak girlfriend was in Brooklyn for the summer, or possibly forever. She visited once and came to Rocky Horror, then chided me afterwards for my acquaintance, her jealousy, in retrospect, suggests maybe she detected substance behind the interest. If I had not been at best lazy at worst a coward, I might have a different attitude to Rocky Horror. Instead I’ve since had a slight aversion to relationships with younger women, but that’s not the worst of it, the worst was that I had to clean up after the bastard.
Let’s just say that on top of the traditional theater floor grue, spilled soda and popcorn, and chewing gum, the extra ingredients of wet newspaper and toilet roll and rice, create a sludge which most likely has at least one military application. So in addition to my ordinary box office and concession stand duties, I’m drafted in as additional janitorial staff, the only upside is a smattering of overtime, which at the minimum wage is negligible. At least once we were there until dawn, I think the latest we finished was 10 am. at about 2 am the a/c cuts out, the house lights they use are always dimmed, so you are in poorly lit increasingly hot room for hours scooping up crap off the floor. You would think that this would make you nauseous as well, but the sleep deprivation takes care of that.
I’ve had worse jobs. I sold encyclopedia for two weeks. I held a job that required me to work 60 hour weeks plus up to 25 hours of commuting. Cleaning up after Rocky Horror in the humid Philadelphia stink for between 4 and 8 hours, was the single worst working experience of my life. Add to that the self-thwarted desires of my attenuated adolescence, and a regimen of cold showers and exhaustion, and you have one of the few visions of hell I've actually visited.
The Time Warp
It's 1989. I'm working freelance as a computer database wrangler for Kraft Dairy Group while still taking occasional classes at Penn as I haven't quite sorted out my degree yet. As I'm still student, barely, and living in West Philadelphia, I go out for student amdram productions. I score a minor, fun, but strangely demanding part (I'm on stage almost continuously) in Carey Mazer's production of Richard II for U Penn's English Department. His concept for the play was a fairly prescient take, the royals are sound biting politicians whilst their advisers are spin doctors. The meta conceit places much of the action in a TV studio, I played the hapless on stage propmaster, occasionally stepping awkwardly into the shoes of minor characters, such as Berkeley as a spear carrying extra. Unfortunately I had flu the first weekend the play went up, and one of my friends misinterpreted my attempts not to cough throughout as the stifling of my grief as one of Richard's vassals seeing him deposed and murdered.
After the second and final weekend of performances a cast party was held at the yuppie hangout for the Wharton students, the Gold Standard Bar in the middle of campus. Although I lack confidence and coordination as a dancer, I enjoy it when the fog of disco, or a strobe light nullifies the visibility of my gracelessness. So when they start playing out the Time Warp, Rocky Horror's built in dance craze song complete with instructional chorus, I am uninhibited enough to join in.
I still don't remember whether it was the jump to the left, or the step to the right, but part of me went in the wrong direction, and the bit below my left knee disagreed. The knee in the middle of this argument contorted into a tantrum. I'm not sure if I actually fell over or not, but I was suddenly in searing pain from that taken for granted evenly distributing weight standing still thing. Stupidly valuing my social survival over actual survival, I decide to deny offers of help to get me to the University Hospital. I don't want to be a buzz kill and I somehow manage to make my way out of the bar unassisted. I don't have health insurance, so I'm not heading to the Hospital either. It's late, the campus is mostly deserted, and I have a half a city block to walk to the nearest street where I might be able to hail a cab to get me home.
The main logistical problem at this point is that I cannot put even an ounce of weight on my left leg. It's a bitterly cold icy February night, so hopping is out of the question, if I fall over I won't be able to get up. The answer is simply to walk slowly, waiting for each wave of pain to subside from a weight on left leg as right leg forward step. Then repeat. The cold is somewhat helpful, providing a small amount of numbness.
One of Penn's neighbours in West Philly was the VA Hospital, and the area also had half way houses some of whose tenants would go off their meds and wind up homeless. ATM's had just been introduced and some were installed in small purpose built enclosures, the size of six phonebooths stuck together, and some of these homeless denizens would wind up sleeping rough in the ATMs. One of the ATM regulars, a bit far from this habitual home, found me carefully walking toward Walnut Street. It had taken half an hour for me to walk 30 yards, I'm about half way to my destination.
I recognized the homeless guy from his usual spot. He watched my progress for a few minutes before attempting to engage me in conversation. He wants to know if I want a hug. I try to put him off, but he insists that a hug will make me feel better.
I'm in no position to refuse him. He hugs me, and I take it. Luckily either he adds no more weight to my left leg, or the sheer weird freakiness of wondering whether he will escalate to assault causes me no additional physical pain. The cold wind also prevents his smell from knocking me out.
He asserts that he loves me. He wants to know if I love him.
I decide to generalize. I love all mankind, I assure him. This seems enough to placate him. He releases me and continues on his pathetic way, now that he has found someone he can pity. Pain usually focusses me so that I get on with it and don't indulge in self pity of which, if I'd even a dint of it before this hug, would have evaporated. I have a future that may involve pain, but at least includes a warm room and a bed.
Another half hour later I make it to the street, manage to hail the first of two cabs (one to the city limits, another to my parent's condo in the 'butbs which I have to myself as they are snowbirds ensconced in Florida's retort to the borscht belt). I can finally attempt the most basic treatments, analgesics and ice. Ironically the bed I'd looked forward to does not provide the support to keep the knee stable in sleep so I eventually doss on the floor a couple of hours before dawn.
I'm on crutches for a week, but able to walk afterwards. When I eventually pay for diagnosis and a nearly bankrupting MRI, I'm told that I've completely torn cartilage in my knee, and indeed a piece of it floats uselessly next to my kneecap, The doctor offers to do keyhole surgery to remove it despite my protestations that I will be back-packing around Europe between job interviews in the UK a few weeks later. I get a second opinion which is a) first doctor is a surgeon he only wants to solve my problem through surgery, b) if I have knee surgery now, I will likely need it every 5 to 10 years for the rest of my life c) physio may be a better approach. I ask the first doctor if by doing the surgery to remove the detached cartilage, he will restore any of the lost functionality to my knee. He says he doesn't know, but he'll "have a look around when he's in there." At which point I follow the second opinion.
The knee is permanently damaged and will require management for the rest of my life.
Shock Treatment
The email that delivered the news on 11th September 2011, that I had been shortlisted for the 2011 New Forest Film Festival's Critic of the Year had left me walking on air. An amateur competition may not seem like much, but most of my writing is subjected to perfectionist privacy that won't be seen until it's nearly done, this blog being my sporadic scratchpad outlet barely seen outside of a small circle of friends. I don't get much feedback about my writing, and friends are kind about what you write.
In quick succession I got a more personal email, congratulating me specifically and instructing me:
We'd like
you to reserve the time and date: 7pm on Saturday 17th September 2011 at
Brockenhurst College when you (or a person you nominate) and a guest of your
choice are invited to attend the New Forest Film Critic Of The Year award
ceremony at which the overall winner will be announced by none other than
Richard O'Brien, creator of the Rocky Horror Show.
We'll be on
contact shortly with further information.
I contacted Tempeste, the budding events planner tasked with the logistics of the Festival. As one of the volunteers for the Festival, I was down to be at Shock Treatment anyway, helping with set-up, parking and tickets. She offers to give me a pass from those responsibilities, but I want to still do what I can, as long as I'm free to be in the audience for the awards and the film. I cheekily request that my comps be used to allow my wife to attend both Shock Treatment, and if Finuala manages to make time available (she's getting the garden ready to be invaded by our annual BBQ for the progeny of our canines, and their owners), the Sing-a-long-a Mary Poppins earlier in the day (I'm a bit loathe to purchase a ticket which might not get used). Nice, despite her ethereal prettiness (like an even thinner waif clawed her way out of Keira Knightley), Tempeste agreed.
On Tuesday, at the screening of Project Nim, I'm approached and congratulated by Simon Miller, one of the festival organizers, to whom I'd yet to be introduced. I'd met his other half, Jo Cockwell, at last year's inaugural Festival event, a sort of ideas open house during a Dodge Brothers gig at the Thomas Tripp pub. I'm suddenly slightly on a paranoid back foot: am I allowed to talk to the judges about my entry? aren't the entries judged "blind"? How does he know I'm the guy who wrote that? If he's talking to me, is it because they've already decided the winner, and so there's no harm to be done? If they've already decided, is he being kind to me because he already knows I've lost?
Of course he knows of me as a volunteer, and a couple of evenings hence he'll be instructing me to hide behind a tree in a dark wood making scary noises and spraying our ghost ride participants with giant water pistols. I wonder if my volunteer status might complicate things, would a win seem an inside job. I have enough sense to doubt my paranoia, my overthinking including the recursive admission that I'm overthinking.
I'm trying, despite my natural social inept, not to be standoffish. I'd like to become a known and respected part of the Festival team although I appreciate the organizers top tier may turn out to be a closed shop. Prof. Linda Ruth Williams, who I'd talked to last year at the Thomas Tripp, then again on the hop at the sister New Forest Festival's Minstead music, storytelling and crafty day, is leading the Nim Q&A. She congratulates me, which puts me at ease. I resist the urge to ask if her name's hyphenate Ruth-Williams or Linda-Ruth, and the consequent observation that the latter sounds like the Southern Belle that becomes a scold by the fourth reel and the former a star of Harold and Maude. Rather than subject her to my irrelevant weird attempts at humour, I admit how pleased I am to be short listed: after all, your friends have to like what you write, strangers don't have to be nice about it.
Actually I'm a bit nonplussed about winning. There's 50 quid in it and the prestige of having won, but the boost I had from finding myself on the short list so enervated me about my writing, it seems less important. I, of course, think that mine is a better piece of writing than my rival's, though not necessarily a better piece of criticism. So I can see there's not much in it
Saturday we had mostly fine weather. The Mary Poppins screening went well and Finuala was able to come out. Some changes mean I actually have unexpected time to run home for dinner before returning to Brock College for Shock prep. The weather is starting to turn slightly a drizzle to light rain, naturally I get handed car park duty. Some of the signs I put up earlier need sorting out, and then when the punters arrive they need to be waved in the right direction as they may be incapable of following the signs.
By the time the cars start arriving there's intermittent downpours, and I find a well situated doorway to stand in. Mark Kermode, a top film critic here in the UK and the best known of the festival organizers strolls past purposefully. I give him a nod which he mistakes as an attempt to communicate. I do feel I should introduce myself as one of the finalists, but don't want to hold him up, so I just give a what is it like silent film shrug and mug and say something inconsequential about the weather so he can continue on.
Cars parked, comment forms on seats, I can go from volunteer to punter and join Finuala for the evening's entertainment. We settle into some seats in the second row behind some fans of Shock Treatment who like their Rocky Horror counterparts are in character costume and clearly up for it. We make sure I'm on the aisle, in the event I actually need to accept an award.
It seems that Richard O'Brien is running late, so the program begins with a run down of the film competition finalists. Then it is time to announce the winners of the Film Critic Competition. It turns out that Mark Kermode not Richard O'Brien who will now present these. I can see that my tangent to O'Brien has again proved a bad omen. O'Brien then turns up in time to present the awards to the short films, he's flamboyant, knows how to project an actorly voice when the sound system acts up, and is genuinely funny and lovely. He's very abashed about the faults of Shock Treatment but in conjunction with his Q&A, the screening of the film, the whole event is very entertaining amusing and enjoyable.
Oh, and I didn't win. Ah well....
Epilogue
Do I blame Richard O'Brien for any of this?
No. I could have confronted him with these dire tales of his unwitting damage to my psyche and body. I could have posed for a photo with him as the queue of Rocky Horror fans did (or perhaps to illustrate this piece). I could at least have told him of my usher experience and had a self-deprecating laugh, or, at the risk of sounding the litigious yank, told him of my knee wrenching injury, or the third time unlucky portent of his untimely arrival but, perhaps it's best that he not know his crimes.
I don't think that Richard Wagner should be held accountable for what his fellow German nationalists and antisemites, the Nazis did, as they embraced his musical canon as the soundtrack for their Reich. Artists create what they create, they can't possibly be mindful of all the consequences.
[For the O'Brien-free presentation of the Film Critic of the year award: New Forest Film Festival: And the Winner...
or my review of Shock Treatment do what that mouse wants to do and click.
As for my knee. varying encasements of neoprene, some
sporadic physio, allowed me to take up horseriding. Now, it's started to tell me when it's about to rain.]
My Life in the Movies: There Are Some Arguments You Don't Want to Win
OR being a social and
critical dilemma: should you try to change someone's mind about a film they love, but you hate.
"Do not do unto others as you
would
that they should do unto you.
Their tastes may not be the same."
-- George Bernard Shaw,
Man and Superman (1903),
Maxims for Revolutionists
On the 30th of April 2011 I was part of the winning team at the New Forest Film Festival's Fundraising Film Quiz. My wife and I were put with three other couples who had come on their own. While most of the other teams were made up of friends who were merely after a night out, we were four couples, with at least one film obsessive in each pair. Our mix of ages and knowledge worked greatly to our advantage, and we quickly became respectful of each other's expertise and where we had to guess, we'd cede to whomever's was most educated. The quiz was well balanced and had questions for all levels of interest. Even my wife's canine expertise came into play on a Lassie question. A soft spoken but sharp as a tack woman who'd come with her partner all the way from Winchester absolutely nailed the music round (an ingenious identify the movie theme based on the tunes as covered by the festival's resident skiffle band).
So a good time was had by all, and we managed to come out on top by one point. (we would have won by two, but I allowed my team and my middle aged memory self doubt to shake my conviction that the first Royal Premier had been A Matter of Life and Death - despite, in retrospect, having seen footage of that exact event a mere week before in Cameraman: The Life and Work of Jack Cardiff).
We won a grab bag of recent release DVD's, which, in a grass is always greener fashion, couldn't have been as good as the runner ups grab bag of "foreign" films. Unless they were all sub standard actioners produced by Luc Besson, they had to beat the likes of The Hangover and Sex in The City 2, with Made in Dagenham the not terribly high point. In the battle to be the most polite on the divvy we ended up with Nowhere Boy, a good film, but not one I was desperate to own, and the last disc left which was Public Enemies, a film I absolutely hated, for being thuddingly dull, and abrasively ugly (particularly unforgiveable for a Michael Mann film with cinematographer Dante Spinotti, a real argument against digital videography). I did cheekily and perhaps ungratefully note on the feedback form, that 1st prize merited a better treasure trove than 2nd. The arguably better half of the prize was a voucher towards a slap up pizza meal at a local pub favoured by the festival organizers, the tentatively happy upshot was that our impromptu band of usual suspects would have a brief reunion.
My wife set about organizing the meal the way a mother with a socially marginal child might arrange a geeky playdate. Things began convivially at the pub, it was early on a slow Saturday evening, and our meal party were put on our own in the narrow sidebar area. We determined which of us were the film obsessives and which were the long suffering other halves. Backgrounds were traded. One was a teacher of media studies, another couple had lived in LA for some time in the 70's and had frequented the club where Harry Dean Stanton regularly did music gigs. For some reason one of them thought I actually worked in the industry, which uncomfortably marked me out as another lifelong wanna be.
Tastes in film became a subject.
Now it should be noted that although I can normally talk about film until the cows wrap for the day, I usually suppress this urge, I don't want to be a film bore. I have a handful of filmy friends, unfortunately I see infrequently so I can indulge. Suddenly I was surrounded by reasonably like minded individuals, floodgates opened. I should further note that, with new acquaintances, especially amongst the British, I tend to be more circumspect, but, though sober, my tongue became more unhinged than a drunken sailor's.
They made the key mistake of asking my opinion.
We'd stumbled upon the customarily divisive topic of screen violence, as the lines that get drawn are so varied and erratic that a Jackson Pollock painting would suffice as a social graph of the phenomenon. After a pit stop to agree to abhor the Scorsese remake of Cape Fear, we landed on one of my bugbears, Natural Born Killers.
NBK as it was cheesily marketed, is the overrated nadir of Oliver Stone's canon. It is all too knowingly self-conscious stylized violence serves to make a single point about the collision between America's obsessions with celebrity and serial killers as an expression of our society's desensitization of violence. A point made over and over again, very very loudly. It continually uses bravura presentation, camera moves angles and editing akin to cartoons music videos and popular media, to continually wink at the audience, "you're alright with this because we're being so entertaining." I hate it particularly because for all of Oliver Stone's cleverness, his obvious mastery of the filmic art, he is using it here in the service of a sophomoric, would be satire of such hollowness, that the obviousness of its slim message is lost in the first ten minutes.
Only I probably wasn't that eloquent about it. I probably said it was an empty movie with one idea that it shouted at the audience repeatedly for its running time. I couldn't be shaken from this conviction. There were at least two on the team who clearly felt that NBK was a great film, and they fell back on arguing about its technique. I probably failed at that moment to express that it is precisely that it is full to the brim with technique, but devoid of value, that makes it a hateful exercise. Luckily our prize pizzas arrived before it got any more awkward. Although we hung out chatting in the pub afterwards for a couple of hours, to the point where my brain and throat ran dry, and we had to make our excuses, I still had the feeling I'd broken the bonhomie with my pompous, if correct, ass act.
A few years ago I did half a day of lounging around and shopping in pretty market cathedral town with a friend. Over lunch she told me that her favourite film was Hook, Speilberg's exercise in displaying all of his and Robin Williams worst excesses. While time has served to lower our expectations of the latter and appreciate the weak points of the former, at the time it seemed a missed opportunity, galling because it was built around the kernel of a great idea, Peter Pan grows up, but then is forced to go back to Neverland, potentially a dark idea, experience confronts innocence. Instead we got Dustin Hoffman playing flamboyant (something he should never do), action sequences akin to videogames, and the lost boys skate boarding and playing baseball. A panto colliding with a theme park ride. Frustratingly there were moments when the darker possibilities peeked through, but the disappointment has rankled ever since.
Naturally, I was unable to contain my disgust for the film, despite my then friend's obvious affection. I proceeded to obliterate it. There was probably a moment when wisdom belatedly prevailed, and I held back, but the damage was done. It was probably still her favourite film, but I was less than a favourite person.
You would think I'd know better. There was this guy at uni who'd tagged along when we went to movies, the jerk against whom we'd often profit by comparison. He loudly complained immediately afterwards how he'd hated Brazil and Blue Velvet, seriously marring the ecstatic bliss I'd entered by the end of each of those films. The rest had all loved them, but he wouldn't shut up. I came close to punching the guy.
I developed a terseness immediately after seeing a film with friends, not wanting to spoil that post coital glow from a film well enjoyed, even if I'd felt differently. You put out feelers towards a consensus, relief when you realize agreement, you aren't alone in your reaction. In the cold light of day, I will happily scrap over opinions of films. I am a relativist most of the time, I know when some of my favorites are "not for every one", or "an acquired taste". I'll proseletize for films I love, but won't budge on those I hate.
Personal taste is something I guard quite jealously. Good taste, which everyone believes they have, is all you have. They can take everything else away from you. But however well argued your stance may be, when you are trying to disabuse people of what they love, you are on a hiding to nothing. There are only three possible outcomes:
They
will just punch you, if you’re lucky.
They
will resist your every salient and carefully crafted point.
They will think you’re an asshole.
They
will concede your well presented and thought out argument. They will acknowledge the folly of their
opinion, the depths of the flaws in their devotion to, as you most kindly put it, “that piece of shit” and how badly their championing of “that cinematic
turd” reflects upon them.
They will hate you forever for robbing them of what they love.
There are some arguments you just don’t want to
win.
New Forest Film Festival: The Brothers Bloom Review = The Critic's Cut
[Author's Note: I submitted a shorter version of this Review to the New Forest Film Festival's New Forest Film Critic of the Year 2011 Competition. It was short listed in the Senior Category (over eighteen), and then was runner up. At the awards presentation Mark Kermode described it as "really, worryingly good".
To meet the 500 word limit for the competition, I chopped about 40% out of my first draft, and it was a valuable lesson in self sub editing. The version below only restores bits that I really regretted taking out, particularly the penultimate section discussing the faux literary trend. ]
I. Prologue
Rian Johnson's new movie The Brothers Bloom seems to be answering several obtuse questions:
1. If Wes Anderson did not exist, would it be necessary to invent him?
2. Why did they stop making those new-wave inflected, insouciant caper comedies from the 1960's?
3. Is Mark Ruffalo a great actor, but with zero charisma?
4. When will Rachel Weisz requite my love for her?
5. Can you like something with vague literary pretentions, without being literally vaguely pretentious?
II. The Tale
The Brothers Bloom are conmen - their cons so exquisite that they do not merely dupe the rubes, but provide their victim with a deeply thematic cathartic experience. Con as performance art. Younger brother, Bloom (Adrien Brody) feels trapped by brother Stephen's (Mark Ruffalo) machinations, but is convinced to do one last job, tricking a wealthy recluse Penelope (Rachel Weisz).
III. The Acting
Rachel Weisz starts stilted, sporting a withdrawn, self-conscious demeanor (was she playing Gwyneth Paltrow playing a Royal Tennenbaum?). When her character comes out of her shell, joyful exuberance develops. From then on Rachel can do no wrong. You just want to make her happy, smile that smile with her oh-so-bright eyes. She even made me forget about that other conmen movie she was in. Sigh.
I once thought Mark Ruffalo was stuck in that charisma vacuum which is the epitome of Matthew McConaughey. A stand out in Fincher's Zodiac, I've warmed to him; here he does a great job as the flamboyant svengali. Adrien Brody, stuck with the Pinocchio dilemma, yearning to be real, wisely plays the turmoil under his passivity overshadowed by his brother. Rincho Kikuchi appears as a delightfully Harpo-esque explosives expert. Robbie Coltrane and Maximilian Schell are by turns eccentric and sinister Europeans.
IV. The Direction
I was impressed with Rian Johnson's debut, the high-school noir, Brick. A film which managed to make Lukas Haas seem menacing. It evoked noir through twisty plot, sleazy characters and snappy dialogue, but steered clear of pastiche.
This is a bigger challenge: A rococo concoction. juggling styles - John Irving prologue, romantic heist flicks, Mamet gamesmanship and Fellini exotica along with a breezy patina of misdirection. I found myself charmed and wowed by a series of sight gags, visual ticks, and bits of business, that liberally pepper the opening sequences. Luckily, the style calms down, leaving room for ruminations on storytelling, reflecting the conmen's ambition "to tell a story so well it becomes real".
V. A Literary Problem
In the last decade there have been a slew of films like this, that to varying degrees of implementation, success and self consciousness, use distinctly literary devices. Whether it's the chapter headings, and omniscient voice over of a Royal Tennenbaum, the annoying self pitying introspection of a Noah Baumbach or the if JD Salinger won't allow Catcher to be filmed, then someone was bound to do an Igby, not to mention those John Irving adaptations and rip offs....
Are these affectations necessary?
It’s not whether films should borrow devices from other artforms, some are just inherent to all forms of storytelling. The supposed problem with these self conscious devices is that
they point out the artifice of film, alienating the viewer
and detracting from the suspension of disbelief. This couldn't be
further from the truth. True storytelling does not rely on realism,
but engagement with the listener. No neolithic people looked at a cave
painting and thought "there's no way only five hunters could take down
that mastodon"; Homer's audience didn't dismiss one
eyed giants, sirens or gods; and Dickens plausibility is not obliterated by his
cringeworthy reliance on coincidence.
Storytelling contains a contract with its audience: in exchange for your attention and the willing
suspension of disbelief, a tale will be spun that actively entertains
you through its combination of plot and character and engaging detail.
Foreshadowing, those inbuilt intentional spoilers exist to reward the
listener by paying off details related earlier and the attention paid to
them. Titles and headings create expectations that leave suspense in how they may be met. Narrators of many ilks and styles act as mediators between the story and the told.
Perhaps the recent trend is the result of a generation of film makers which spent their formative years when rabid academia subjected all elements of our culture to deconstructive criticism. If their uber-Styles threaten to eclipse substance, it is only a result of weak storytelling as the melody does not suit the lyric (or when the metaphor changes genres mid thought). When these showy affectations aren't useful to their stories, your enjoyment may be dependent on whether your taste forgives the literary flavour of these films.
The Brothers Bloom's style is in keeping with
the elevated storytelling and artifice of the confidence tricksters.
VI. The Verdict
In the wake of other literary affected films, The Brothers Bloom might be secondary post-modern, but for me it pulls off its heady mixture of stylized reality, genuine fakery and smoky mirrors. Sure, it does seem to end a few extra times, but always to payoff earlier foreshadowing in a satisfying manner. If you find this contrived, like the chapter headings in this review, you may want to avoid, but even those who are irked by Wes Anderson will like The Brothers Bloom.
OK, sure, it's a con, but for all that, some of us enjoy being taken in.
[Author's Note: I suspected that the deleted section may have been a separate essay, but in marshalling a somewhat sloppy pile of ideas from the first draft for inclusion here, I think it merits it's present form.
I balked at making a final paean to Rachel Weisz, I'll just patiently wait for her to tire of Daniel Craig.
New Forest Film Festival: The Ghost That Never Returns
I'm in the middle of a busy week:
Postered Lymington and Lyndhurst for the lower profile screenings of the New Forest Film Festival's Love Bites shorts, and Project Nim.
Had the sadly last minute brainwave that perhaps the ecologists of the Forestry Commission, Hants and IOW Wildlife Trust and the New Forest National Park might be interested in something like Project Nim, so dashed around some of their New Forest sites waving flyers and talking up the show.
furtively fit in a search for a book in shops in Brockenhurst and Southampton
Saw The Ghost That Never Returns a silent soviet film with live musical accompaniment and projection powered by a bank of bicycles
Went to the Festival participant wrap drink at the Rose & Crown in Brockenhurst
participated in a workshop to support the establishment of a New Forest Nature Improvement Area
rebuilt a PC
installed a Netbook for the first time
shopped and packed for the trip, not sleeping for 32+ hours before travel, and perhaps having less than 16 hours shut eye in total all week.
Attempted to watch Terry Gilliam’s Tideland for the first time on no sleep
... whilst formatting a 2 terabyte hard drive
In the middle of all this, my impending trip to the states the rare chance to reconnect with my nearest and dearest though usually most distant, the need to bear gifts prompted a particularly problematic mission.
Chuck is the kind of friend who’d give you the shirt off his back even if you’re likely to wipe your ass with it. He is so generous to a fault that it hurts. At least once, when we’ve both been on our uppers we’ve battled over ownership of the bill, each insisting on paying. It’s an upmanship of niceness.
Because Chuck is even more of cinema obsessive than I am, he indulges my inner film geek like no other friend I’ve ever had. I’m not sure what he gets out of the equation.
Chuck is an able guide to genre cinema and if you need to know the best films in which computers are possessed by evil spirits, or feature flying sentient disembodied body parts, or a slasher with a particularly poignant back story (or some unearthly combination of the above), Chuck’s yer man. Chuck brought Mark Kermode’s weekly podcast to my attention. Although stateside, Chuck knew Kermode’s writing in Fangoria the horror and schlock cinema magazine. So when Mark did a signing tour for his first book I got a copy signed for Chuck, after I mentioned the Fangoria connection, Mark quoted Cronenberg “Long Live the New Flesh” with his sigil. Naturally by the time I saw Chuck, he’d already bought an imported copy, but just vanilla, unsigned. Kermode’s second book was coming out just before the festival and I’m off to the states just after, I stand a better chance of getting a freshly signed copy to Chuck before his internet browsing finger gets itchy, but the book signing tour doesn’t come to the cinema near us until I’m actually in the States. The mission : to try to hit up Mark Kermode for the signature at one of the festival events, but without being a pest or coming off as a demented fan boy.
Before the Sing A Long a Mary Poppins screening I pop into Best Sellers, the book shop in Brock, I interrupt a conversation between the shop owner and one of the forest keepers I know. They don’t have the book in yet, despite the author being local, but find a way to both talk to me at length about its absence and to discuss the festival enough that it becomes a chore to extricate myself politely so that I can get to my volunteer duties on time. Even if I happen to win the critic competition tonight, I won’t have the book for Kermode to sign. I’ll have to hope I can get it tomorrow.
Most of Sunday is taken up walking masses of dogs and feeding their masses of humans, our annual bbq and dog walk. I rise early to start on the fresh potato salad. The downpour which luckily held off during the walk nearly drowns the barbecue. We fetch out a small marquee for the garden, but everyone huddles indoors. A kind guest provides golf umbrella cover as I ferry food to and fro in the gale, I get soaked but the vittles remain dry.
I have a short window between the farewell of our last guest and tonight’s show. I pop into one of the Southampton Waterstones, hoping they’ll have the book. They do, but under a 3 for 2 offer, I want a copy for myself, so it seems stupid not to get a third book. Stella Duffy, who’d I’d seen in the flesh for the first time in a couple of years at Thursday’s Improbable symposium (a great teacher, we very occasionally Facebook banter) has her first foray into historical fiction, Theodora in paperback. It was under offer, but Waterstones don’t have it now. Pressed for time I grab Philip Pullman’s take on the gospel The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ as a present for another stateside friend and methodist minister, Mark Young, playful antagonism is an element of our friendship.
Finuala is humouring me by coming along to tonight’s screening, as she did at last year’s inaugural film festival event. Without that novelty factor she’s along to bolster me at the post fest drink up. In social situations she’s literally my better half. Since I left London my confidence has waned, particularly with any new crowd. Even amongst my oldest friends I half suspect that they prefer her to me, it's just that she's that lovely.
The film washes over me, my attention shifting lazily between watching the film and listening to the live score provided by the Dodge Brothers and Neil Brand. I’m really impressed by the scale and shooting of the prison riot scene, a beautiful textbook example of soviet montage, the cutting getting more rhythmic and faster paced as the riot reaches its climax. The live band match this nicely with a grinding theme that drives toward a sense of urgency. As the film progresses I zone out a bit. The score is quite listenable on its own. And whether it was my inatttention, or something lacking in the film, but I didn’t quite get why the hero spends most of the film trying to get home to his wife and family, only to blow them off at the last minute to lead the revolution.
The print of the film that had arrived had French intertitles, so Simon Miller had had to edit them out and edit in internet generated translations with very little time to spare. He admitted that he thought at least one came out with the opposite sense than intended. This led to some having the syntax of a technical manual written in Korea for a product manufactured in Taiwan for the Greek market. At one point in the film when the company detective is tailing the rabble rouser through a bleak landscape, he is approached by a native who warns him “It is forbidden to hunt human here.” This led to my mind pulling a Fudd/Bugs riff:
F: Wabbit Season!
B: Human Season!
F: Wabbit Season!
B: Human Season!
F: Wabbit Season!
B: Wabbit Season!
F: Human Season! (Elmer turns gun and shoots self).
It’s a shame Chuck Jones and Sergei Eisenstein never collaborated.
After the film I briefly touch base with affable botanist and former Chair of the New Forest National Park Authority Clive Chatters who I know through our work for the New Forest Association's Land Management Committee. He and his wife Catherine both work for the Hampshire and IOW Wildlife Trust. When he's not dealing with local ecological policy, Clive, it turns out, is a Neil Brand and silent film fan, he was also at last year's screening as well as the other New Forest Festival's fundraising screening of The Gypsy Cavalier which featured Neil Brand solo.
Then we're off to the pub, I get a chance to catch up with the other volunteers, we all seem a bit buzzed but exhausted. Finuala ends up chatting with Sarah Kelly who I hadn't shared any volunteer events with, but who I already know from her work for the National Park as their landscape architect. I spitball future festival ideas with Simon Miller, turns out he would be interested in possibly having a comedy festival as well, I trot out my obtuse connection to comedy (from my former life in impro including London Theatresports and others).
I briefly check in with Jo Cockwell who indulged my sense of humor (and my pitiful attempts at east end accents) whilst we put out viewer questionnaires for Mary Poppins. I proposed an updated cast with Ray Winstone as ... "The Sweep" and Ben Kingsley as ... "The Poppins". She was also forced, when the Sing A Long print didn't show up, to gamely manually display the lines of lyrics on an overhead projector on a bit of wall next to the screen, keeping pace as they were sung. She's lovely and approachable, and although I don't know either of them well enough to suppose so, I wonder if she's Simon's Finuala, the woman who takes the edges off the film geek.
After an aborted attempt to offer Mark Kermode some help bringing drinks back from the bar, I’m sidelined by a conversation between Finuala and another volunteer. I feel the time slipping away as my energy runs out So I awkwardly dive in, sidling up to Mark’s table and cutting straight to asking him for the favour of signing a copy of his book, explaining the circumstance of my being away for his signing tour. He almost offers me one of his copies, but I reveal the Waterstones bag, and fish them out. I’m so abashed I only get him to sign Chuck’s copy, but not mine.
I then get around to introducing myself as the guy who was the runner up in the film critic competition. I should have led with this. Mark says some nice things about what I wrote and I trot out my glad to be nominated bit. We discuss the promotion of silent film events a bit, I pitch my half baked battle of the silent film bands idea, which doesn’t fly, and we divert into alternate soundtracks and I cite the Philip Glass score for Todd Browning’s Dracula, which he’s not up on.
I mention that I had talked comedy festival with Simon, and suggest I could put together a matinée themed improvisation show. I'm so used to the queasy reaction that often greets impro, the comedy format that varies wildly from sublime tight rope walking hilarity to unfunny self indulgence, that I suddenly feel beset by real or imagined eye rolling at its mention. I probably have a pained look on my face and I catch a glance from Linda Ruth Williams, either pity or compassion, like Juliette Binoche in a Kieslowski.
A tactical mistake now, changing subject to the pieces I almost submitted for competition Mamma Mia! as directed by Michael Haneke and The
Last Picture Show as Reviewed By A Critic With an Axe To Grind Over This Gimmick of Black and White, explaining the former is not easy in a noisy pub, and the latter inadvisable, a piss take of critics who waste more time in their reviews whinging about formats than they take to discuss the films, Mark might think I was specifically targeting him.... he’s not the only one (and in good greatly respected Ebert shaped company). He kindly offers to read them, which instantly makes me feel like I’m the asshole who asked him to read my fucking script (or *). Even more excruciating, he produces his smart phone and I now realize the great inconvenience of having an impenetrably longwinded blog name as he attempts to type it into the phone. For a moment he wonders if I’ve said “The Vegas Idea” and I think it better not to ask if he knows the very obscure Martin Mull song of that name, which would point to a level of novelty music geekery which would be embarrassing if not shared. Mostly I’m wishing I hadn’t brought it up in the first place.
Luckily by now Finuala was looking at me like she was willing my head to explode. My film mania had invaded more of her weekend than normal, and while she’d enjoyed it up to a point, she wanted to get home to dogs and rest before hitting Monday work. I beat my strungout retreat.
I’m socially awkward at the best of times. I lack awareness of some of the social cues that tell how things are going, I’m kind of clueless. I don’t think it went well, which is OK. I just don’t want the organizers of my local film festival which I’d enjoy being a part of in the future thinking I’m a prat. At least not on that evidence. Hopefully they were as tired as I, and will have no or little recollection I’ve either gained a clean slate or made the stupendous error of posting this all here for any of them to review should ennui or Google guide them here.
The main thing is that I’ve got the signed book to give to Chuck, but I also risked possible humiliation and the eternal distaste of the Festival crowd to get it. Chuck was pleased enough with the gift (although he hinted it would have been cooler if I’d accepted the impromptu offer to cadge one of the author’s own copies), and turned round and gave me his brand new imported copy of the revised edition of Kim Newman’s Nightmare Movies.
As a way of psyching myself up for all the volunteering and screening for this year's New Forest Film Festival, I did several playlists themed around some of the screenings, as virtual foyer music, completely for my own enjoyment. I suppose early on, I did half fancy suggesting to the organizers that they consider playing out some of this stuff as part of the ambience for some of the screenings, but a few of them are actual musicians, have their own tastes, etc., and I quickly realized that if I went so far as suggesting this sort of thing, I'd mark myself out as an annoying weirdo. I may have found other ways to do just that, unfortunately. Time will tell, and if any of them cross the street when they see me coming, I'll bravely take the hint.
But, for those of you who just enjoy lists, you might like a look at what I put together.
Musicalia
Just Go to the Movies
Cast
A Day in Hollywood, A Night in The Ukraine
As Time Goes By (complete vocal)
Max Steiner
Casablanca- Original Motion Picture Soundtrack
They All Laughed
Fred Astaire
Fred Astaire Sings
Broadway Ballet
Gene Kelly
Singin' In The Rain
Manic Depressive Presents Lobby Number (Parts 1&2)
Danny Kaye
The Best Of Danny Kaye
If I Were a Bell
Holly Cole Trio
Blame It On My Youth
Pennies From Heaven
Arthur Tracy
Pennies From Heaven
Comedy Tonight
Stephen Sondheim
A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum [OBC]
Did You Ever See A Dream Walking
Bing Crosby
Pennies From Heaven
Make 'Em Laugh
Donald O'Connor
Singin' In The Rain-ST
Tchaikovsky And Other Russians
Danny Kaye
Entertainer Extraordinary
That's Entertainment
FAstaire NFabray JBuchanan IAdams
The Band Wagon
Too Darn Hot
Ann Miller
Kiss Me Kate Cole Porter
Doin' the Production Code
Cast
A Day in Hollywood, A Night in The Ukraine
Could I Leave You
Stephen Sondheim
Follies
I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair
Mitzi Gaynor
South Pacific - Original Film Soundtrack Rogers & Hammerstein
On the Street Where You Live
Holly Cole Trio
Blame It On My Youth
I Love a Film Cliche
Cast
A Day in Hollywood, A Night in The Ukraine
UKnowFerKids
Life Could Not Better Be
Danny Kaye
The Court Jester
Little Boy Blue
Holly Cole Trio
Temptation
I Don't Want To Grow Up
Petra Haden & Bill Frisell
Petra Haden & Bill Frisell
I Won't Grow Up
Rickie Lee Jones
Pop Pop
I Wan'na Be Like You (The Monkey Song)
Los Lobos
Stay Awake, Hal Wilner's Disney Tribute
If I Were King Of The Forest
Nathan Lane
The Wizard Of Oz In Concert: Dreams Come True
Stay Awake
Innocence Mission, The
Now The Day Is Over
LiliHi Lili, Hi Lo
Leslie Caron
Lili
Super-Cali-Fragil-Istic-Expi-Ali-Docious
Supremes, The
Trust In Me
Siouxsie & the Banshees
Through The Looking Glass
The Merry Old Land Of Oz
Cast
Wizard Of Oz Harold Arlen & E.Y. Harburg
Stupidcarelessfictional-nonsensicalverboseness
Forbidden Broadway
Forbidden Hollywood
Selectie Mary Poppins
The Postelfonia's BmG 223
Eerste Bestelling (First Delivery)
Foreign Novelty Smash
The Credibility Gap
The Rhino Brothers Present The Worlds Worst Records Vol. 2
Siamese Cat Song
Dave Stewart & Barbara Gaskin
Up from the Dark
The Allosaurus Chorus
Evergreen Choir, The
Triplets
Fred Astaire w/NFabray JBuchanan
The Band Wagon Great MGM Stars
Mad Dogs And Englishmen
Danny Kaye
The Best Of Danny Kaye
Cinephile
Exit Music (For A Film)
Miranda Sex Garden
Anyone Can Play Radiohead
The Invisible Man
Elvis Costello &Attractions
Punch The Clock
I Love a Film Cliche
Cast
A Day in Hollywood, A Night in The Ukraine
Everyone's Gone to the Movies
Steely Dan
Citizen Steely Dan
If I Saw You In A Movie
Heather Nova
South
If You Were In My Movie
Suzanne Vega
Close Up-Love Songs
Movies Of Myself
Rufus Wainwright
Want One
Road Movie To Berlin
They Might Be Giants
Flood
The Good, The Bad and The Ugly
John Zorn
Filmworks 1986-1990
Kung Fu
Ash
1977
Lust In The Movies
Long Blondes, The
Someone To Drive You Home
Mysteries Of Love
Antony and the Johnsons
I Fell in Love with a Dead Boy
Calling You
Holly Cole Trio
Blame It On My Youth
When The Lights Go Out All Over Europe
Divine Comedy, The
Promenade
The Man With The Golden Gun
Emiliana Torrini
Crouie d'o l
Tomorrow Never Dies
Uwe Kröger
From Broadway to Hollywood
This Is Not America
Juliette Lewis
Hollywood, Mon Amour
B Movie
Elvis Costello &Attractions
Get Happy!!
Exit Music (for a film)
Brad Mehldau
Vehicle of Horror
Drive-In Movie
Commercial Recording Corporation
The Money Maker
Weird Nightmare
Elvis Costello & Bill Frisell
Deep Dead Blue - Live At Meltdown
Exquisite Dead Guy
They Might Be Giants
Factory Showroom
I Fell In Love With A Dead Boy
Antony and the Johnsons
I Fell in Love with a Dead Boy
Friend of the Devil
Lyle Lovett
Deadicated - A Tribute to Grateful Dead
Black Christmas
Trailer
My Wife and My Dead Wife
Robyn Hitchcock (& the Egyptians)
Catalog Sampler
Unsolved Child Murder
The Auteurs
Volume 17 (Disc 2)
Bela Lugosi's Dead (Bauhaus)
Nouvelle Vague
Bande A Part (UK Ltd. Edition)
Dinner With Leatherface
3D Invisibles
Jump Off the Screen
Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner
Warren Zevon
Excitable Boy
Tania
Camper Van Beethoven
Our Beloved Revolutionary Swee
6ix
Lemonheads, The
Car button cloth (all of these things sank)
Silent Night Bloody Night
Trailer
Beware of the Blob
Blob, The
The Golden Turkey Award Album-The Best Songs From The Worst Movies
The Thing That Only Eats Hippies
Dead Milkmen, The
Death Rides a Pale Cow
Silent Night Deadly Night II
Trailer
Human Fly (The Cramps)
Nouvelle Vague
Bande A Part (UK Ltd. Edition)
Death Cab For Cutie
Bonzo Dog Band
Gorilla
Down in the Ground Where the Deadmen Go
Pogues, the
Red Roses for Me
Robert E. Lee Broke His Musket on his Knee
2,000 Maniacs
The Golden Turkey Award Album- The Best Songs From The Worst Movies
The Legend of Guan Di
McCain Brothers, The
My name is Bruce ST
Where The Wild Roses Grow
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
Murder Ballads
The Homecoming Queen's Got A Gun
Julie Brown
Dr Demento 20th Anniversary Collection-Disc 2
Plan 9 from Outer Space
3D Invisibles
Jump Off the Screen
I hadn't done a list for the silent film screening, after all it had live musical accompaniment from the Dodge Brothers and film music genius Neil Brand (perhaps the 5th Dodge Brother). I presumed they'd play out recordings of their own stuff, or something similar. Mike Hammond of the Dodge Brothers (film historian at Southampton Uni, in his spare time), said in his intro that the film The Ghost That Never Returns was a perfect project for the Dodge Brothers as they shared the themes of Transportation and Homicide (now there's an album title, if I ever 'eard one). So, I've done this list in tribute, post facto. I may do a "Transportation" one, but every time I think of it, I never get past the excellent Laura Cantrell's EP Planes and Boats and Trains, featuring a great cover of the titular Bacharach song, along with other transportation themed tunes.
On 11th September 2011, when most attention was paid to the coincidence of the Earth's position in its orbit to that ten orbits previous, I was disproportionately pleased with another piece of news. I had been named as one of two on the shortlist for the 2011 New Forest Film Festival's Critic of the Year.
Your friends have to be kind about what you write. You can never be sure whether praise reflects quality, or supportiveness. The five festival organizers had enjoyed my work, and were supposedly busy trying to work out whether they liked mine a little more or less than the entry by some other guy.
There were a couple of ill omens. One of the judges, to whom I'd not been introduced, congratulated me on being shortlisted at the screening of Project Nim, leaving me with that residue of paranoia over, wasn't it judged "blind", and should I really be talking to someone who, allegedly, has yet to determine the fate of my entry. I also had that feeling, that as I volunteer for the festival, the organizers might strategically shy from claims of nepotism.
The other short listed piece in my category, Senior (Over 18), Meek’s Cutoff (2011) by Rob Munday is a great solid straightfoward review. On the other hand, my self-referential essay about The Brothers Bloom may be too clever for it's own good in describing a film which may be too clever (and self-referential) for it's own good. So, the judging may come down more on taste, as I admit we may have a dead heat on quality. Still, although the £50 prize would be welcome, it's a rare bump for my writing, which makes the outcome seem immaterial. Clearly my writer's ego is needier than my wallet.
The Festival website announced:
Congratulations to the finalists who will be invited a special award ceremony ahead of the film Shock Treatment at Brockenhurst College on Saturday 17th September at 7:00pm where our special guest Richard O’Brien will announce the winner in each category with a cash prize of £50.
In the end it was Mark Kermode, not Richard O'Brien who aptly announced the winners of the Critic Competition. This change in plan serving as the final bad omen, which was also the third strike in the theory that Richard O'Brien is unintentionally my nemesis. Here's the award presentation in its brief glory:
Be that as it may, I was still chuffed to bits, and perhaps it was for the best as I now have it on record that Mark Kermode, 'im off the Radio and Telly, described my film criticism as "really worryingly good." Even if that does open up left handed compliment speculation over what constitutes "worryingly good" (a tasty but cholesterol filled treat? the Neutron Bomb? sex in any position that looks ridiculous and unrepeatable when inadvertently glimpsed in a mirror?), and despite my insecurities, I can accept it in the generous spirit in which it was offered. Five complete strangers liked something I wrote and admitted it in public.
When Shock Treatment came out, I considered avoiding it on principle.
As much as I enjoyed the lopsided delights of Rocky Horror, I have had a fractious relationship with it. I spent a summer as an usher assisting janitors with the toxic post RHPS cleanup into the wee hours, and then a couple of years later permanently damaged a knee doing the Time Warp. (the whole sordid tale is here: ) As it was hyped, Shock Treatment seemed like a tacky attempt to cash in instantly on the eventual success of Rocky Horror Picture Show. I was wary that a new Rocky Horror, without a developed fan interactive script to prop up the saggy parts might be pretty tedious (try watching the last 3rd of RHPS on video -- alone).
Then a friend who actually saw it told me it was rubbish, so I left it.
Then came the New Forest Film Festival, not just the chance to see the movie, but to Q&A Richard O'Brien, the impish chrome dome creator. By now there was an air of mystery and nostalgia to the film. Would it benefit by today's lowered standards? Would it be charmingly retro? Would it just be good enough to have a half decent musical with some of the outré sensibilities of Rocky Horror?
It sounded like something that my wife might enjoy. Then I was short listed for the Festival's Critic of the Year competition, with the winners revealed at the Shock Treatment screening and awards presented by Richard O'Brien himself. Along with comp tickets for the short listees. It had become a must see.
O'Brien was a bit late, so Mark Kermode aptly presented the critics award. O'Brien makes an entrance and uses his full on lovey actorly projection to present the film competition awards. The subsequent Q&A covers the film, about which O'Brien issues a pre-emptive apologia, and some of his other mostly theatrical projects. He's really sweet, he maybe went on a bit too mea culpa about Shock Treatment. He calls it deeply flawed, he's very self-deprecating about his own performance in it, and he hints about an unhappy shoot during which familiarity had bred contempt, the director had become unapproachable and others became lost in their own ego trips. He does rate the songs which he touts as "better than Rocky Horror."
There were some enthusiastic fans of the film who came in
full mufti. An oddity to the rest of the audience, unfamiliar with the
characters, and not really geared up for their interactive script, ala
Rocky Horror. They soldiered on with their responses for a few minutes,
but abandon their attempt either through embarrassment, or kindness to
the bewildered majority as there is too much going on, the film is hard enough to tune into without the added backchat. It was hard not to feel sorry them with their sincere earnestness, but I was glad they shut up.
Shock Treatment is by any estimation, a mess. It throws you in the deep end, there's a lot to take in, a soap opera's worth of characters and plot strands, and the film doesn't really give you any time to do it. The satirical and fantastical conceit, that a small town, obsessed with fame, exists within a television studio, not in a hidden camera fake town like the Truman Show way, but literally with cameras, lights, sets, townspeople as studio audience, social luminaries and wannabe climbers as talk show celebrities way, is all done with such breathless bravura that it doesn't pause to flesh itself out in a sensible fashion. Just when it finally starts to make sense
and give you some reasons to care about the characters, it ends.
Having had my originally low expectations lowered even further, by Richard O'Brien himself, I actually enjoyed it. Despite his protestations, his performance is fine, but there's not much to his character. O'Brien had said he was proud of the score, and on only one listen, I'd say he has
every right to be.
It might have been more workable if it had something to make the "Brad" and "Janet" characters sympathetic, something more than sharing names with RHPS characters. Maybe a single number at the beginning introducing them at a happier time and showing how they end up in TV hell. As it stands it doesn't
really have clear protagonists, and the outstanding ensemble, Jessica Harper, Cliff De Young, Barry Humphries, Ruby Wax and RHPS alums Patricia Quinn and Charles Gray with minor turns by Rik Mayall and Sinitta, aren't given much more to do than to be loud and hit their marks.
To suggest that it's prescient about reality TV and today's celebrity
culture is stretching the point a bit, its satirical barbs are aimed in
that direction, but it's unclear what it wants to say about it. The scattershot verve does manage to carry it along most of the way, although it does run out of steam a couple of times. Once you forgive the lulls and other obvious flaws, it's enjoyable. and the best musical film I'm likely to see this year, this side of The Muppets.
It is drenched in visual style and striking production design. Along with the songs it's perhaps best enjoyed as a collection of vintage music videos. MTV in the '80's glory days. Nice song, Nice video, Shame about the Plot.
[For good measure here's a YouTube clip someone else made of the beginning of Mark's Q&A with Richard O'Brien:
New Forest Film Festival: The Americanization of Mary
When I first met my wife Finuala, I would describe her to friends and family stateside as Barbara Wodehouse crossed with Julie Andrews. The former is way off base, although Wodehouse was known in the States and her style of dog training has been much discredited, (and spoofed in an early Simpsons), I used it as shorthand for Finuala's devotion to her Welsh Springer Spaniels. Finuala is more mystified than offended by her comparison to the latter, which I feel is spot on. She has the fair perfect complexion, the sweet non-regional middle class accent which manages to fall the right side between both cut glass and received pronunciation. And she sparkles when she smiles. I did not know then the depth of her fondness for the film Mary Poppins, although she had boasted that she knew how to say Supercalifragilisticsexpialidocious.... backwards.
I spent as much of the film watching Finuala enjoying it. She was channelling Julie Andrews. Forget the makeshift autocue, she knew all the songs, even Mr. Banks' half-sung half Rex Harrison recitativo, declaiming the virtues of finance (well, she was an accountant). Even though many of our tastes our mutually exclusive, I love Finuala's passions even when I don't share them (gardening and dog showing for example). She doesn't share my obsession with movies, but to see her savouring a film that I love as well is some kind of double happiness.
Since my expatriation I've often come across Brits who seem baffled by my choice, more than in a self-deprecating way, to them America may be a land devoid of culture, but with a higher standard of living, bigger cheaper portions, and more space. I often wonder about the number of Brits who've only been to Orlando in the States; they've only seen America filtered through the Disney vision. Disney had a very strong aesthetic, a particular colour palette, certain clean lines in the design of anything between an American homestead, a futuristic Epcot or an European castle. There was a time when the only beards you'd find on the chinny chin chins at Disneyland/world were on the dwarves and the pirates. This Imperial American template of Disneyfied mediocrity has even found echoes in the Prince Charles helmed vision of the olde style newtown of Poundbury in Dorset.
Back when I performed comedy impro, I was fearful that I would be put on the spot and made to do a British accent. I have some theatrical friends back in the States who rather fancy they can do a British accent, and I like them can do a passable "stage" Brit for an American audience. Finuala has helped me disabuse them of the notion that they are any better than that with a cruel to be kind deadpan stare at their attempts. Living in the UK, and aware of the true plethora of accents along with regional dialects and vocabulary, I've no delusion that I'm up to the task. I've always been good at funny voices, and there are some Brits amongst these, but endowed on the fly by a fellow performer or audience member, as Yorkshireman, Cornishman, a Geordie, or a Glaswegian, I'd be truly screwed.
Except for the fact that I can thank god for Dick Van Dyke as Bert the Cockney Chimney Sweep in Mary Poppins. His fabulous distorted rendering of the lingo of the subjects of all the Pearly Kings and Queens born within the sound of Bow Bells, is laughably famous and a great go-to gag for a performer in my position. My replication of 'is over-h-emphisized dropped 'h'aitches, 'is syllable by syla-babble diction and jaundiced jauntiness, may not be luver-ly, but it's adequate. And most importantly takes the fear off the prospect, 'cause the worse you do it, the better it is.
However, bad that accent may be, there is a certain Disney intent to it. There's no need for subtitles or subtlety to sell Van Dyke's chimney sweep to the American ear. It doesn't stop at Dick Van Dyke's cockney, erm, cock-er-ney accent. Ed Wynn doesn't attempt an accent at all; as helium infused hysteric, Uncle Albert, he relies on mere eccentricity to convey that British stereotype. Julie Andrews is so upbeat and energetic, she has the resolve of a Brit, but without the stiffness to her upper lip, she is scrubbed of all notions of the class system with her understandable unspecific accent and good teeth, this makes her practically American. Even the "robin feathering his nest" from A Spoon Full of Sugar is an American Robin, a thrush that bears no resemblance to the British resident European Robin, a smaller flycatcher.
American Robin
European Robin
Perhaps it's directly in keeping with the fantastical nature of P.L. Travers creation, as amped up by Disney, that not only are linguistic conventions, but the nature of nature itself is imprinted with the stamp of American familiarity and forced pronunciation. Even David Lynch caps off his "happy ending" to Blue Velvet with an animatronic cameo of Poppins' avian duet partner.
It is telling that when Disney tried to play much the same game again in Bedknobs and Broomsticks, special effects including live action within animation, leaving more of its Britishness intact, the result was much more humdrum and less successful. And David Tomlinson was given far less to do, even if he received higher billing.
In fact it was on this viewing that I really appreciated that Tomlinson's turn is really the emotional core of the film. His Mr. Banks is the only character that has any kind of arc, his conversion from a stuffy walking bowler hat rack to devil may care kite flyer with a run of wooden leg jokes is the wind changing payoff to the whole film. He hasn't found his inner child as much as submitted to his optimistic inner-American. He is ultimately rewarded by being accepted back into the bosom of his beloved banking establishment. That this invitation to breezily irresponsible banking from the once safe as houses Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, has inevitably destroyed the soundness of the British economy, is a metaphor which I have clearly stretched beyond its breaking point.
Like Disney, I have warped reality to suit my purposes. I'm American, that's what we do.
All things to all people and nothing to everybody. A celebration of the warm and fuzzy, or perhaps the cold and indistinct. Lowered responsibilities and diminished expectations. If you haven't the vaguest..... I do! And that's all I will ever assert with certainty. I hope we're unclear about this......
Ex Pat 32 years +, conservation campaigner, film projectionist and critic, unfinished novelist, dog walker, improviser, and obscure database programmer.
