It was with a strange uneasiness that I made my third annual pilgrimage to the Big Chill. My previous two festivals had both been fantastic experiences, but it was not simply the weight of expectation that troubled me this time around. The festival brand was sold last September to Festival Republic, who are perhaps best known as the organisers of Reading and Leeds festivals. In the light of this I had certain anxieties as to whether one of the finest and most vibrant bastions of trip hop and ambient counterculture could withstand the onward march of the indie machine. One festival featuring acts such as Massive Attack, Bonobo, Roots Manuva and Morcheeba was not enough to confirm my fears. But my enduring feelings after the event were that the reference to the event as a ‘Chill’ amounted to almost criminal false advertising, and that a better outcome might have been served in allowing the Eastnor deer to enjoy what for the rest of the year is their exclusive pasture.

Now, before I’m accused of being a misery, I’m not trying to suggest that there was no fun to be had at the festival this year. It remains an excellent weekend, with a fantastic line up, weather (the sun always shines on Eastnor on the first weekend of August) and the best balance between site size and capacity of any festival I have been to. The site and its surrounding are beautiful, with the arena nestled in a part-wooded valley within sight of the Malvern Hills, one of the oldest mountain ranges on the planet. The festival has a tradition of curious artistic installations that shows no signs of retreat: one side of the valley was dotted with enormous flashing balls; the Starburst stage faced onto a field of brightly lit towers of water containers; and on Sunday morning there was the mass naked photograph organised by Spencer Tunick, without which any festival is incomplete. Nor was this year’s event by any means devoid of those great unifying moments that festivals rely upon for survival – Thom Yorke’s harrowing rendition of ‘Reckoner’ and a stage invasion to the tune of M.I.A.’s ‘Paper Planes’ in particular come to mind. But even these were somewhat tainted by the festival management: no sooner had the party begun on the Deer Park stage than the sound was cut and the ravers escorted from the premises.

The essence of the problem with this year’s festival seems able to be reduced to one factor: Festival Republic. Given the fantastic endowment of site, scenery and history passed on with the rights to the festival brand, it would have been remarkable if the festival had actually become a bad one, though clearly every effort was made in this respect. Instead it appears that the changes made to the existing formula were exclusively malign, but thankfully there were not enough of them to completely spoil the event. A reorganisation of the arena access shut off a path with a wonderful panoramic view of the site and surrounding hills, discouraged lounging and sun-worshipping on the adjacent slope and also denied access to the woodland that usually provides such a welcome variety of landscape. Other minor annoyances included the absence of screens next to most stages, including the main stage, and the failure of the famous Big Chill sign to stand upright for longer than ten minutes at a time. However, the single most efficient enjoyment sap of the weekend undoubtedly was the security policy. New ownership meant a new security firm whose personnel, either from habit or on orders, enacted the most intrusive and least ‘chilled’ treatment of paying customers I have seen at any such event. Gainsborough Security insisted on checking every wristband at every gate, regardless of the direction of travel. This led to bottlenecks and long queues of very frustrated festivalgoers, only partly placated by the apologetic smiles of the friendly Oxfam stewards. The new addition of campsite CCTV was creepy at best, and the supposed criminal activities of individuals that it was claimed had been caught on camera seemed a pretext to search any tent within the postcode. Tobacco, cigarette papers and alcohol in containers that were permitted were all arbitrarily confiscated from those with adult wristbands and confirming identification, and the experience of a friend working as a steward confirmed that these confiscated goods were seen as bounty by the security personnel. Given the inevitability that drugs will be taken to festivals, it seems abundantly clear that resources should be focussed upon controlling the substances that pose the greatest risk to all of those present. Refusing somebody entry to the festival because of possession of a cannabis grinder, despite having no cannabis, is a completely inappropriate way to treat a person who has spent upwards of £120 on a ticket to the festival. It was this level of intrusion that left such a bitter taste in my mouth at this year’s festival.

I was searched comprehensively twice in two days, was party to a run in with two undercover policemen, and either witnessed or heard countless reports of needless aggression, often aimed at those under the age of eighteen, on the part of the security personnel. It may be unfair to blame Festival Republic for all of this; to some extent Gainsborough Security may be responsible, or else new restrictions put into place by Herefordshire Council. If the council is to blame, I hold little hope for the future.
It seems there is a race on, a race to destroy festivals as a cultural expression. On the one hand we have the monopoly power of the music promoters. Companies like Festival Republic cannot help but trample on the autonomy that is so necessary for festivals to coexist as independent and distinct entities. On the other hand we have the creeping parasite that is council and police regulation, which places stringent security demands upon organisers and offers little or no funding, making such policies difficult to execute, and impossible to do so with any subtlety. This approach was employed to a ridiculous degree in the case of Glade Festival by the local authorities, and many suspect quite reasonably that it was done deliberately to drive the festival into the ground. Until festivals are seen as something other than an excuse to traffic and deal lavish quantities of Class A drugs, I cannot see the Big Chill being able to live up to its name. And until Festival Republic relinquishes its monopoly grip on the festival market, I fear that Eastnor is sliding towards becoming the third Carling Weekend.

At the press conference for Edgar Wright’s new film, ‘Scott Pigrim vs. The World’, Jason Schwartzman walks into the room with black markered writing on his cheek, with something red underneath. He is joined by Michael Cera (who plays Scott), a beefy Brandon Routh (Evil Ex #3, the diabolical vegan Todd), and Satya Bhabha (Evil Ex #1, Matthew Patel).

Nearly fifteen minutes pass before anyone – okay, it was me – asks him about this. Schwartzman, who plays arch-villain Gideon Graves in the film, has clearly been longing to be asked, and reveals that Cera had autographed his face and planted a big kiss underneath. “It’s a symbol of the ‘Scott Pilgrim’ experience,” he explains with a half-sincere wistfulness, “the times we had… like smoke from a birthday candle that just got burnt out.” Riiiight. “Sorry, we’re on Moscow time,” he offers as a further non-explanation. Clearly, the boys have been enjoying their stint in London.

From there, the conversation turns to the actors’ preparation for their roles. To my complete non-surprise, none of them had read the comics previously, nor do any of them play video games, which may have something to do with the fact that they are interesting people with cool jobs. Cera notes that he “watched a lot of Cassius Clay” on YouTube to prepare for his fight scenes. As Brandon Routh talks about learning to play the bass for his role, all I can think about is how incredibly large his biceps are. Each is roughly the size of Cera’s head. I’ve never applied the words ‘brawny’ and ‘strapping’ to a member of the opposite sex without a heavy dose of sarcasm, but Routh fits the bill.

By all accounts there was little room for improvisation: the storyboards and dialogue were largely taken directly from the source material. Schwartzman notes that Wright had spent ‘six or seven years’ on the adaptation, and the effort to get every detail comes through in the film. The slightly defensive tone of his words and the solemn nods of the other panelists are the first oblique hint to the film’s lackluster performance in the States.

With blood in the water, the journos make their move: ‘Who’s the audience for this film?’ one asks. The actors laugh too loudly and shift in their seats when Cera responds with “People who like fun? People who like movies? If you hate movies, stay at home.” Bhabha takes up the ‘functional members of society don’t want to see a movie about video games’ issue head-on, adding “people don’t talk about ‘The Matrix’ like, ‘Oh, I can’t fly, I won’t enjoy it.” I find myself rooting for Bhabha, and wanting to lob my pencil onto the reporter’s bald spot and see a ‘Scott Pilgrim’-esque score float above when it sticks. The movie isn’t about video games at all – they’re just a source of visual inspiration.

The first half of the conference ends on this slightly wounded note, and the second panel – consisting of Edgar Wright, Mary Elizabeth Winstead (Ramona) Kieran Culkin (Scott’s roommate, Wallace), Anna Kendrick (Stacey Pilgrim), and Ellen Wong (Knives Chau, Scott’s other love interest) – enters the room. Gone is the fraternal group dynamic – Culkin spends much of the time twirling a loop of fabric around his hands, and Kendrick pulls her knees up to her chin and toys with her hair. Wright and Wong (an unintentional pun) get most of the attention.

Discussion turns to the casting process – Wright comments that he had a strict ‘no Brits’ policy for casting the film, but that Bhabha had put on a convincing North American accent and snuck through. Culkin, whose hair needs washing, speaks with a note of detectable irritation at having had to read for Wallace more than once. I find it difficult to stifle a laugh when he goes out of his way to insist that he’d never have wanted to play the lead. He’s hilarious in the film, but I don’t think he needs to worry about those pesky leading man roles being forced upon him.

Wong, the newcomer of the cast, is completely adorable and clearly ecstatic to be doing her First Big Publicity Tour. The younger male reporters throw her some easy ones just to hear her speak, and honestly, I don’t blame them. Sadly though, the questions never pick up much momentum. Toward the end of the session, a reporter asks Wright if he planned to use game-inspired visuals in future projects (see what I mean about the questions?). Wright immediately laughs it off, shaking his head and saying ‘Yeah, maybe the next one could be Jane Austen with Mario noises all the way through.’ He trails off, still laughing. But you could tell he was sort of considering it. Dude. I’m so there.

If I told you ‘Scott Pilgrim vs. The World’ was a romantic action-comedy based on a comic book with a lot of references to indie rock and video games, you probably wouldn’t go see it. But you should. It’s right up there with ‘Inception’ and ‘Toy Story 3’ as one of the best films of the summer.

Directed by Edgar Wright (‘Shaun of the Dead,’ ‘Hot Fuzz’) and based on the graphic novel series by Bryan Lee O’Malley, the film follows Scott Pilgrim (Michael Cera) in his quest to win the heart of Ramona Flowers (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) by defeating each of her Seven Evil Exes. The film blends tried-and-true teen comedy staples like battle of the bands and geek meets girl with a bit of ‘Kill Bill’, garnishing with a healthy sprinkling of ‘Street Fighter II’ and ‘Guitar Hero’.

The film’s quirkiness won’t appeal to all tastes, but it’s easy to find yourself sucked into its offbeat universe. Wright’s kaliedoscoping visuals draw inspiration from anime, comics and games meaning that ‘Scott Pilgrim’ feels much more like actually watching a comic book than say, ‘The Dark Knight’. Visually, it’s an incredibly rich film. Clever details like the moment when streetlights seen through a bus window blur into hearts as Scoot looks adoringly at Ramona give the film an endearingly handmade quality.

As with Wright’s other films, the pop culture references vary from mainstream (‘Seinfeld’) to unabashedly geeky (Scott’s dream sequence features goofy tunes from the old-school ‘Legend of Zelda’). The film has a cool, eclectic soundtrack – Fun Fact: Beck composed the music played by Scott’s band, Sex Bob-omb – and gets some good laughs out of playing with some of the stereotypes of the indie crowd.

The cast and dialogue are also strong, with secondary characters really stealing the show. Chris Evans oozes smugness as action hero Lucas Lee (Evil Ex #2), and Kieran Culkin is a loveable prick as Scott’s roommate. There are loads of clever girls in the cast, particularly Anna Kendrick as Scott’s gossipy sister, Stacey, and Mae Whitman (Cera’s girlfriend on ‘Arrested Development’) in a brief turn as Roxy Richter, Ramona’s “bi-furious” former girlfriend. However, Jason Schwartzman is underutilized as Scott’s ultimate nemesis, Gideon Graves. Gideon, who looks creepily like a more indie ‘MI:2’ Tom Cruise, gets some laughs, but any fan of ‘Rushmore’ can attest to Schwartzman’s far greater capacity for odiousness.

It’s a testament to Wright’s abilities that he can make legendary geeks like Cera and Schwartzman convincing as ’64-hit combo’-executing badasses. Even so, the film’s fight sequences are simultaneously its greatest strength and weakness; granted, they’re undeniably awesome but many are simply too long. Also, the story starts to feels rushed somewhere around Ex #3, as if Wright suddenly realizes he’s only got half an hour left to tell most of his story. This leaves some poorly developed loose ends, like the Katayanagi twins (Evil Exes #5 and #6), and Scott’s own Evil Ex, Envy Adams. One suspects these characters were a lot more interesting in the comic.

It’s a shame that ‘Scott Pilgrim vs. The World’ has already pretty much ‘bob-ombed’ in the States, recouping only $11 million of its reported $60 million budget on opening weekend. You don’t need to own a PS3 or even know how to pronounce ‘anime’ to enjoy the things which make this movie such silly fun; it’s visual style is truly unlike anything else, and its deadpan one-liners will easily stick in your brain.

Jen Glennon

Films based on video games have always been notoriously noxious in quality. From ‘Super Mario Bros.’ to ‘Lara Croft: Tomb Raider’, ‘Hitman’ to ‘Max Payne’, the interactivity that works so well on an Xbox has never translated onto the silver screen with any degree of success. With ‘Scott Pilgrim vs. the World’, director Edgar Wright seems to have come up with a solution: dispense with the video game altogether. Never has there been a more energetic, hyperactive and Nintendo-influenced film, and while its roots ostensibly lie with a cult comic book series of the same name, its biggest influences, for better and for worse, are video games.

The film follows Pilgrim (Michael Cera), the bass player for an inadequate band, Sex Bob-Omb, as he attempts to win the heart of the mysterious Ramona Flowers (Mary Elizabeth Winstead). There’s just one obstacle in his way. Well, seven, to be precise. He must defeat her past lovers, all seven of whom assemble against him as the League of Evil Exes, lead by Gideon Graves (Jason Schwartzman). As a set-up, it’s a fairly ingenious spin on the standard romantic vehicles that have begun to bog down Cera’s career, while the multiple turns that the plot takes aren’t exactly predictable.

In many ways, this film is the logical progression for Edgar Wright. He made his name back in 1999 by directing Simon Pegg and Jessica Hynes’ ‘Spaced’, where his direction ensured that the TV show’s multiple pop-culture references and rip-offs were made in a reverential and skilful style on a deceptively small budget. Then came the perfectly executed ‘Shaun of the Dead’ – still the high point of his short career – followed by the slightly overindulgent ‘Hot Fuzz’, which together allowed Wright to ascend to the A-List of Hollywood directors, rubbing shoulders with Tarantino and Spielberg.

Having proved his mettle with his first two features, Wright was given a larger budget to accommodate his growing ambitions, and the result is ‘Scott Pilgrim’. However, to the surprise and disappointment of this reviewer, it’s not a film that’s easy to embrace. From the first pixellated frame to the last, the experience of viewing the film is an utterly bewildering assault on at least two of your senses, and it never allows its audience time to adjust. Although the running time stretches to almost two hours, the film could not be more enthusiastically hyperactive as it jumps from one scene to the next with smooth, rapid cuts. The camera is continually restless, as if Wright is desperate to show us something new and terrified of boring his audience. This leads to words, usually onomatopoeic, filling the screen whenever possible – if a doorbell rings, it is unfailingly accompanied by a floating ‘ding-dong’ written in the font of a comic book.

Strangely, the cumulative effect of the film’s continual efforts to entertain and surprise render the movie, as a whole, rather sterile. Music plays at all times, as if the makers were afraid of silence; never mind if a pause is meaningful, for Wright it’s not entertaining enough. One longs for just a single scene containing a comprehensible and normally paced conversation, and for the camera to remain still for more than five seconds. It’s as if a perpetually teenage Wright is dashing around his cinematic bedroom, grabbing out his favourite records, comics, films and video games, desperate to show you excerpts from every single one, with the effect being one of bewilderment or even disaffection for the viewer. It’s a film composed of bits, and seems to have been edited in chunks, with little attention being paid to the overall picture. It lacks coherence, and as the film leaps from one cartoonish fight to another, one begins to feel the urge to shake Wright violently by the shoulders and plead with him to calm down. His enthusiasm isn’t infectious, it’s just tiresome.

If the kinetic and undeniably impressive visuals of ‘Scott Pilgrim’ concealed something more substantial, the film’s hyperactivity wouldn’t create such a problem. Yet underneath all the whip-pans, floating words and vanquished foes exploding into coins Mario-style, the film is curiously hollow. This imbalance comes as somewhat of a surprise, particularly considering Wright’s previous successes: beneath the flippant comedy of ‘Shaun of the Dead’ lay a genuine and moving romance, while even ‘Hot Fuzz’ was grounded in the believable bromance between Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. Here, there is none of that substance. As the film never pauses to breathe, it fails utterly to develop its characters – they remain ciphers, always playing second fiddle (or controller) to the flashily stylish visuals and pop-culture savvy dialogue. ‘Scott Pilgrim vs. the World’ is certainly a unique experience, and aims itself fairly effectively at those who grew up with a Nintendo 64 or Sega Megadrive, yet its overall effect is a fairly numbing one. Much like the culture of video games with which it is clearly enamoured, this is a technically stunning film, but one which is impossible to love.

Ben Kirby

One might wonder why we need two biopics about Coco Chanel, and I am still left wondering after watching the latest, Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky. Fortuitously, given that it’s completely separate from last year’s Coco Before Chanel, it begins where the latter film left off. It is, however, less a biography, more a speculation, based on Chris Greenhalgh’s novel, ‘Coco and Igor’, which suggests an affair between the hard-hearted designer and the tempestuous Russian composer. It’s not quite clear how Greenhalgh managed to fill 336 pages fleshing out this rumour; presumably in the same way that the film succeeds in stretching a myriad of loaded looks and minimal dialogue over 1 hour 18 minutes.

Perhaps this is too harsh, but I certainly preferred Coco Before Chanel, despite the fact I had the misfortune of watching it with several sceptical boys. After the opening credits, the boys either swiftly fell asleep or struggled to stay awake in order to grace us with their running critical commentary. I think I preferred the sleeping kind, despite the occasional snore during the most crucial moments. Things didn’t bode well for Coco & Igor either, as my friend and I managed to book tickets for it on the sunniest, warmest evening we’d had in weeks. So I needed this film to be good, and, I admit, it was, in parts.

The opening scenes, for example, are fantastic – a wonderful performance of Stravinsky’s Rites of Spring. The experimental dancing and discordant music causes a ruckus in the audience that conveys perfectly the upheavals being made in the modernist arts of the time, and the struggle to adapt to them. Yet, in this case, it does truly seem that music speaks louder than words, as the less-than-scintillating dialogue that follows fails to live up to the initial promise. Of course, the things which are consistently fabulous are the classic Chanel clothes, many of them original thanks to the collaboration of the House of Chanel, who made available their archives and even Chanel’s Parisian apartment. Karl Lagerfield also specially created the evening dress that Coco wears to The Rites of Spring. Chanel’s Art Deco house in Garches to which she moves the Stravinsky family, is also a beautiful treat for the eyes. Needless to say, it is not a boys’ film, unless, perhaps, they wish to fast-forward to the uncomfortably explicit sex scenes, which nonetheless show off Anna Mouglalis’s (Romanzo Criminale, Gainsbourg) gorgeous yet achingly thin body.

A few words on Mouglalis, who, poor thing, unexpectedly had to follow in the footsteps of the gamine Audrey Tautou, who only a year previously had been praised as ‘the perfect Coco’. In terms of looks, she more than holds her own, with immaculate lips, dark eyes and an inscrutable face; appropriate for a character that shows barely a hint of emotion during the film, and a wonderfully deep and Gîtane-roughened voice. In terms of performance, however, it quickly becomes apparent that she is definitely a model first, actress second. She doesn’t have the luck of Tautou either, in that she has to play a Coco Chanel rendered even more frosty and indifferent by grief at the loss of her one love, Boy Capel, the First World War, and runaway success in the Parisian fashion scene.

The truth is that Chanel was not a likeable woman, which renders the question of the need for two biopics about her even more pressing. She is utterly manipulative; her invitation to the Stravinskys to stay in her house, her dances with the children on their first night there, are all part of a cold-hearted plan to seduce Igor (Mads Mikkelsen, best known as’Le Chiffre’ in Casino Royale). She indeed succeeds in doing this, in front of his consumptive, and creepily eyebrow-less wife, no less. These two strong minds conduct an affair which nonetheless seems to lack strong emotion, apart from when they’re arguing – Igor notably calls Coco a “shopkeeper”. Indeed, this outburst constitutes one of the few moments in this film which involves more than minimum dialogue and a small helping of action. The rest meanders along with little storyline in sight, culminating in a fragmented, rushed ending that leaves us in the happy knowledge that both Coco and Igor died alone and, undoubtedly, miserable.

Come and watch this film for a gorgeous woman, stunning clothes, unbelievably chic interior design, a mixed French and Russian script, and the initial, superb ballet-scene. The kaleidoscope graphics that form the background to the opening credits are splendidly done too; although the fact that I remember them as a high-point would seem to reflect badly on the film itself. In the end, if you’re looking for substance or any kind of plot, you might want to take a look at the likes of Inception instead.